Gossamer Ghost by Laura Childs Page A

wildfire.
    â€œA piece like that would be a spectacular find,” said Stanger. “Especially if it was authentic.”
    â€œIt certainly sounds as if it was,” said Gabby. “I mean, if the death mask wasn’t real, why would someone go to all the trouble of murdering Marcus Joubert and then stealing it?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Stanger. “The thing is . . .” His voice trailed off.
    â€œWhat?” said Carmela.
    â€œThe thing is,” said Stanger, “I wouldn’t put it past Joubert to have stolen the mask himself.”
    â€œFrom that Texas collector,” said Carmela.
    â€œYes,” said Stanger. “You realize, Joubert wasn’t the most
upstanding
dealer in our Crescent City. He’s done his share of shady deals.”
    â€œBut apparently he had quite a following of customers,” said Carmela. She was recalling how Mavis Sweet had ranted on and on last night about all the prominent collectors who had relied on Joubert.
    â€œThere’s no accounting for taste,” snapped Stanger.
    â€œI’m curious,” said Carmela. “Would you have a customer for something like that? I mean, a death mask is quite a specialized piece.”
    â€œOh, absolutely I would,” said Stanger. “I have a list of customers,
international
collectors, in fact, who would be willing to pay a pretty penny for such a rare piece. No questions asked.”
    Carmela studied Stanger carefully. She’d always thought of him as sensitive but a bit pedantic. But now his persona was coming through as arrogant and caustic. Her eyes locked onto his and she said, “
Did
you have a customer for it?”
    Stanger jerked convulsively as if he’d been poked with a hot wire.
    â€œWhy would you ask a question like that?” he demanded.
    â€œCuriosity,” said Carmela. She couldn’t believe her words had elicited such a violent reaction.
    â€œYou know what they say about curiosity,” said Stanger. He lurched for the door and jerked it open. “It killed the cat!” he flung at her over his shoulder.
    â€œWow,” said Gabby, surprised at his violent response.
    â€œMeow,” said Carmela.

C ARMELA licked a drip of coleslaw off one finger as she took another bite of her po-boy sandwich. Gabby had run down to Pirate’s Alley Deli and brought back lunch, a roast beef po-boy for herself, a fried oyster po-boy for Carmela.
    â€œIt’s criminal how good these sandwiches are,” Carmela said. She nibbled judiciously at the ten-inch-long hunk of French bread that threatened to squirt bits of its delicious mixture every time she took a bite.
    Gabby laughed and wiped a glob of mayonnaise off the back craft table. “What’s criminal is that bottomless pit of a stomach you have. Honestly, fried oysters, tomatoes, mayo, and . . .”
    â€œWhat’s for dessert?” Carmela asked with a wicked smile. When she wanted to, she could devour food with the best of them—Ava, Babcock, her restaurateur friend, Quigg.
    Gabby smirked as she set out several spools of gossamer ribbon for their upcoming class. “Dessert depends entirely on what Baby and Tandy bring with them.”
    â€œHopefully something with chocolate,” Carmela said as she hastily cleaned up her sandwich debris.
    As if on cue, the doorbell
da-dinged
its high-pitched welcome and Baby and Tandy strolled in.
    â€œAre you ready for us?” Baby Fontaine called out.
    Gabby waggled a hand at them. “Come on back.”
    Baby Fontaine led the way, clutching her decadently expensive floral-print Dolce & Gabbana Miss Sicily Bag that she used as her craft keeper. In the other hand she held a platter covered with silver foil. Her pixie-cut blond hair bobbed up and down as she juggled the platter temptingly.
    â€œGuess what I brought,” Baby said as she placed the platter on the table.
    Tandy reached forward and