Skeleton Letters

AVA had been so upset by Gabby’s harsh accusation of Drew Gaspar that Carmela Bertrand, booster of frayed egos, rescuer of stray dogs, and picker-upper of trounced self-esteem, had invited Ava over for dinner tonight. She’d been chopping, stirring, and sautéing for the last forty-five minutes, planning to serve drunken pecan chicken along with corn pancakes. That is, if Boo and Poobah didn’t storm the kitchen and snarf everything up first.

Ava stuck her head around the corner. “Guess the little darlings didn’t eat yet, huh? ’Cause their little pink tongues are lickin’ me to death.”

“They ate,” said Carmela, as she tossed an extra tablespoon of butter into the frying pan. “Enough for four Great Danes and a Portuguese water dog thrown in for good measure.” She watched the butter melt, then poured it over her mixture of sweet corn, red pepper, and onions.

“Boo, baby, stop it,” Ava giggled, as the wiggly little Shar-Pei snuffled around Ava’s bare ankles. “That tickles.”

“Try to ignore her,” said Carmela, as Ava held out a brown paper sack to her. “What’s this?” she said, accepting the gift.

“Did one of us break a treaty or something?” asked Carmela. She pulled a bottle of Beaujolais from the bag and nodded. “Because I sure don’t remember . . .”

“Oh, no problem,” said Carmela. She carried the wine into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out her corkscrew.

“I was just, you know, disappointed,” said Ava. “I thought I’d really scored a huge coup with the Voodoo Couture thing.”

“You did,” said Carmela. “So please don’t pass up this opportunity to be a fashion muse on my account. Or because Gabby suddenly has a suspicious mind.”

“I think you should,” said Carmela. She popped the cork and poured two glasses of wine.

“You don’t think my being a muse for Voodoo Couture would be a kind of... slap in the face? To you and Gabby?”

“Not at all,” said Carmela. She handed Ava a glass of wine, then took her by the arm and led her to the dining table. They sat down, knees touching. “All I’m asking,” said Carmela, “is for you to exercise caution.”

“I will,” said Ava, taking a sip of wine. “You know me, caution’s always been my thing.”

“Okay,” said Ava. “Okay.” She took another sip of wine. “Does this mean you’re going to be investigating Drew Gaspar now?”

“I’m not sure,” said Carmela. She moved her wineglass around in little circles on the table. “I don’t have that part figured out yet.”

“In that case, would you come with me Saturday afternoon to look at the Voodoo Couture clothes?”

Ava scratched her nose. “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. There’s this boutique on Magazine Street that’s carrying the first dozen or so pieces. I was supposed to try them on and then . . . I don’t know . . . think about the direction of the line, I guess.”

They were halfway through their drunken chicken when Carmela said, “I forgot to tell you. I talked to Johnny Otis today.”

“And you talked to him,” said Ava, dumbfounded. “A real-life career criminal. How did you manage that?”

“Not without some problems,” said Carmela. “First Kimber Breeze came storming into my shop, trying to do an interview . . .”

“Hold everything,” said Ava. “Please tell me you shagged her scrawny butt right out of there?”

“Actually, Gabby did the honors on that. But not before Kimber let slip what trucking company Johnny Otis worked for. So I called up his dispatcher, found out where he was making a delivery, and went over there to parlez-vous with him.”

Carmela thought for a few moments. “It sure seemed that way when I was talking to him. Or trying to talk to him.”

“There you go,” said Ava, flipping a hand up. “Johnny’s the guy you have to focus on.”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela, thinking about Norton Fried and his silver collection. Suddenly, a whole lot of folks were looking more and more suspicious.

“This is great coffee,” said Ava. She was relaxing on the couch, a pillow behind her head and her legs stretched out. “Makes me want to just laze the night away.” She raised her eyebrows and said, “What do you think? Should we order up a movie or something? A good, ten-tissue chick flick? Or maybe a comedy. Just not one of those goofy Pauly Shore or Harold and Kumar movies.”

Ava looked intrigued. “You want to hit some dance clubs? We haven’t been to Dr. Boogie’s since forever!”

“Oh man,” said Ava, holding the back of her hand to her head, “you want to go there and check them out? You believed Brother Paul?”

“Well . . . turtle poop,” said Ava. She blew out air and sucked in her cheeks, giving a look of general discontent.

“Change of plans, then,” said Carmela. “You stay here while I go snoop on my own.” And she meant it, too. She could go solo. Might even be easier if she went alone.

“No way,” said Ava, finally pushing herself up. “I’m not going to let you traipse around in the swamp all by your lonesome.”

“We look like ninjas!” Ava chortled, as they sped down Highway 45. Both women had changed into black leggings and black oversized sweaters. Ava had even added a wide black headband to corral her mass of dark curly hair.

“I’m not sure ninjas wear cowl-neck Michael Kors sweaters,” said Carmela, a smile twitching at her lips. For some reason, Ava had perked up considerably.

“They would if they were fashion-conscious ninjas,” said Ava. “And watched Project Runway.”

“You mean go to New York and take part in a design competition? Try to create an honest-to-gosh collection?”

They both fell silent then, watching the woods and fields disappear and the land turn more lush and verdant. Rain had lashed down earlier, but now it was barely sprinkling.

“We’re out in the bayou,” Ava observed as stands of tupelo trees flashed by, and blue-black stretches of brackish water.

Ava glanced nervously out the passenger window, as if a twenty-foot albino alligator might be huffing alongside the car, wanting to take a chomp. “Who in their right mind would build a church way out here in the middle of nowhere?” she asked.

“Oh, just off the top of my head,” said Carmela, as they breezed through the village of Mayport, “maybe . . . some sort of cult?”

“Possibly,” said Carmela. As they flashed past a dirt road with a leaning wooden signpost, she tapped her brakes and exclaimed, “Holy smokes, I think that was Trempeleau Road.”

“I think so.” Carmela eased her foot off the brake and coasted over to the side of the road. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” She K-turned her car, then headed down the narrow road.

“For one thing,” said Carmela, “the road pretty much ends here. She stared out the windshield at swaying trees. “For another . . . oh, just call it intuition? A hunch?”

As they climbed out of the car, Carmela said, “I left my keys in the ignition. Just in case.”

Carmela and Ava bushwhacked through a stand of gum trees and emerged in a low, swampy area. Long grass squished and overhanging branches swatted their faces.

Carmela backtracked a few steps, cut over to her left, then said, “Better here. There’s a kind of trail. The grass is knocked down, so probably somebody drove this way not so long ago.”

“Does that look like a church to you?” Carmela asked. Some two hundred yards ahead of them, a white building seemed to shimmer through a tangle of trees.

“If it’s a church,” said Ava, “then it came complete with a silo.” She hunkered down, hiding behind an overhanging tree branch. “See? It looks more like a barn. Where you’d keep cows and stuff.”

“Wait a minute,” said Carmela, crouching low, homing in on a small blaze that seemed to be growing brighter with every passing second. “I see people moving about now. See, over by that fire pit?”

“Robes,” finished Carmela. “Brown robes.” Just like the killer at St. Tristan’s had worn. Is this whack-a-doodle, or what?

“Oh man,” said Ava, looking spooked, “with the robes and flames and everything, this looks like something out of a John Carpenter movie. Like crazy devil worshippers. I mean, listen, do you hear that weird noise? They’re, like, chanting.”

“Yes, they are,” said Carmela, locking her jaw tightly. Was this some sort of evil cult that Brother Paul had been up against? If so, why didn’t he just launch a full-scale exposé? Take it to the media? Or make an appeal to local law enforcement?

“Holy shiitake mushrooms,” said Ava, as more cult members appeared. “They look like a cross between the Klan and a bunch of Ozark Mountain snake handlers.”

Carmela thought for a few moments. If she could ease herself a little closer, perhaps she could see what they were rallying around. Like maybe . . . a stolen crucifix?

“No way,” muttered Ava, “I’m tagging along. You’re not gonna leave me stranded in buckthorn and poison oak, or whatever this stuff is.”

They sneaked forward through the darkness, parting low branches as they went. The earth was cool, spongy, and wet underfoot, and Carmela could feel dampness seeping slowly through the soles of her shoes. Her shoes, great. Why had she worn Ferragamos tonight and not Keds? Or better yet, why hadn’t she pulled on rubber wellies?

To make matters worse, the rain had started up again and now it pattered down, weighing down branches even more and making forward progress difficult and downright uncomfortable.

Rain poured down with greater intensity. Overhead, shards of lightning streaked across the blue-black sky.

“Not good,” Carmela muttered as she crept forward. Thunder suddenly rumbled and roared, drowning out all night sounds.

Carmela used her sleeve to wipe rain from her eyes. If she could only get about ten feet closer . . . but first there was a clearing she had to wiggle across.

She tried to time her leap with the lightning. After the final crackle fizzled out, she dove from one sheltering clump of trees to the next.

Except it didn’t quite work out that way. Right in the middle of her leap, a second flash of lighting exploded overhead, like a transformer gone haywire.

And Carmela and Ava were suddenly illuminated. Caught in nature’s spotlight, like terrified actors on a stage!

Within moments, they were swarmed by robed figures. Two on either side of Ava, two more bookending Carmela. The robed figures didn’t exactly force them to walk forward, but they weren’t allowing a lot of other options, either.

“Hey, you goombahs,” Ava screamed, “don’t touch the merchandise!” She shrugged her shoulders and tried to pull away, but her guardians stuck tight as burs.

“This is ridiculous!” Ava shrilled. “What’s a bunch of guys like you doing in a dumb old swamp, anyway?” She tossed her head, trying to look coquettish. “I saw a cool roadhouse a couple miles back—Swamp Man Bobby’s? Whaddya guys say we blow this pop stand and go grab ourselves a cold one, huh?”

“I see that!” Ava fussed. “And, quite frankly, I’m shocked, since the two of us girls make a lovely combo platter.”

“Yeah?” said Ava, still struggling. “That’s just peachypoo.” Now her voice rose. “But will somebody please tell me exactly what it is they believe in!”

Carmela and Ava were marched inside the white barn and ordered to sit on a rough wooden bench. The place smelled of hay and goats, and, interestingly enough, freshly brewed coffee.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ava, giving a casual wave. But once the men had moved out of earshot, her fear exploded. “You don’t think they’re gonna drag us into the swamp and tie us to trees so crabs crawl all over us and pick us to death, are they?”

“Don’t worry,” Carmela said, locking onto Ava’s eyes, “nothing’s going to happen. We’re just . . . like . . . visitors.”

But Ava’s eyes had suddenly shifted elsewhere. “Who are you?” she demanded, gazing up at a tall man who’d pushed back his hood to reveal silvery-gray hair. A group of six more robed members stood behind him in a semicircle, like sentinels.

“I’m Frank Crowley,” the man told her. He was craggyfaced, with heavy lids and lips. He also had a kind of crazy light dancing in his gray eyes. The kind of light Carmela pretty much characterized as belonging to a religious zealot. Not that there was anything wrong with being a zealot, it was just that they tended to be on the fringe versus the mainstream.

Carmela jumped to her feet. “I’m afraid your merry little band of men got a little overanxious tonight,” she explained. “Forcibly hauling us down here.”

“That may be,” said Carmela, “but they were wrong to do so.” Carmela maintained a civil tone as she turned her palms upward, in a calm yet questioning gesture. Better, she decided, to remain peaceable and talk her way out.

Frank Crowley curled his lip and stuck his face a little too close to Carmela’s face. “What were you two doing crawling around in the woods?” he crooned.

Now Ava was on her feet, looking shocked and a little indignant. “Don’t get your undies in a twist! Because we . . . we came here in peace.”

Carmela glanced sharply at Ava. We what? Now what’s she up to? Where’s she going with this?

“That’s right,” said Ava, winging it like crazy now, “we came out here to join your group!”

Carmela held up a hand. Ava had tossed out a wild fish story, now she had to serve it up and make it palatable. “Here’s the thing. We heard about your group, all good things, of course. And we wanted to do a little investigating on our own.”

“A friend,” said Carmela, almost choking on her words. “A highly respectable man who’s, in fact, a member of another religious order.”

“Listen,” said Carmela, “we’re not here to start any sort of conflict or dispute. Truly. If anything, we’re looking for concordance.”

Frank Crowley stared at Carmela for a few more moments, as if mulling over her words. Then he said, in a low voice, “Go. You’re free to go.” He cocked his head to one side and held up an index finger. “But don’t come sneaking back here if you know what’s good for you.”

“Big threat,” Ava snarled. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so tough if you didn’t have the seven dwarves there, backing you up.”

But Carmela grabbed Ava’s arm in a stranglehold and jerked hard, and slowly the two of them edged their way out of the barn.

When Carmela finally climbed into her car, she let loose a shaky breath. “What a whacked-out scene.” She pulled her seat belt across and turned toward Ava. “And exactly what was that bit about ‘we come in peace’?”

Ava grimaced. “It was all I could come up with at the moment. But I guess it didn’t play too well.”

“Thank you,” said Ava, suddenly sounding pleased. “Because it was. I lifted it from The Day the Earth Stood Still. The original version, not the remake.”

“Know what I think?” said Carmela, as her engine turned over and she slammed her stick shift into first. “I think they’re all cuckaloo.”