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but never told me her name. Of course, I really only had one quick meeting with Melody about decorating Medusa Manor.”
    “You can bet that project’s on ice now,” said Ava. “Which means we’re out of a job.”
    “And it would have been fun,” said Carmela.
    “It would have been good money ,” said Ava. As small-business owners, both women were still slogging along the road to recovery, struggling to return business back to the level where it had been before Hurricane Katrina.
    Kimber Breeze’s face fairly glowed on the screen now. “Local scrapbook shop owner Carmela Bertrand, wife of Shamus Meechum of the Crescent City Bank chain, was first on
the scene to discover the murdered woman,” said Kimber. “It’s interesting to note that Ms. Bertrand was also involved in a previous murder this past Halloween.”
    “Oh, that’s gonna be helpful for your business,” muttered Ava.
    “Why did Kimber have to put that little factoid in her report?” asked a dumbfounded Carmela.
    “Kimber’s just yapping away and trying to score as much face time as possible,” said Ava. “She adores being on camera.”
    “But why did she have to mention my name?” fretted Carmela.
    “Maybe . . . maybe Kimber’s got an ax to grind,” said Ava.
    Carmela thought for a minute. “That’s what scares me.”

Chapter 4
    “W HEN I heard your name mentioned on the news last night,” said Gabby, “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, you were really there? You found the actual dead body?” Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s assistant and the wife of Stuart Mercer-Morris, the Toyota King of New Orleans, gaped at Carmela as she fidgeted nervously with the cashmere sweater knotted about her elegant neck. With flowing dark hair and luminous dark eyes, she was a beauty, though even more conservative in taste than Carmela. They’d both just arrived at Memory Mine to open the scrapbooking shop for the day. Of course, Carmela had been hoping to slip in for the day. Of course, Carmela had been hoping to slip in without a huge amount of fanfare, while Gabby was suddenly demanding to hear every single detail.
    “I didn’t exactly find Melody,” explained Carmela, biting her lower lip. “It was more a case of her finding us .”
    “They said she fell three stories,” said Gabby, in a hushed tone. “From that creepy tower room?”
    “Uh, yeah,” said Carmela. “Except she was dead first.”

    Gabby covered her mouth with her hand and let loose a muffled “Oh my.” Then her next question was, “Who do you . . . ?”
    Carmela shook her head. “No idea.”
    “You didn’t see anyone?” asked Gabby.
    “No.”
    “Hear anything?”
    Carmela didn’t really want to tell Gabby about the ungodly scream that still seemed to ring in her ears. Instead she said, “Not really.”
    Gabby slid into a high-backed wooden chair at the large table in the back of the shop, the one they’d dubbed “Craft Central.” She flattened both hands on the battered tabletop until they went white and said, “Wow.”
    “Yeah,” agreed Carmela. “I feel the same way.”
    “You must have really been shaken up,” said Gabby. “Probably still are.”
    “It’s been pretty awful,” admitted Carmela. “If there’s an upside to last night, it was that Edgar Babcock got the call.”
    “So your sweetie’s in charge of the homicide investigation,” said Gabby. “That’s good. Babcock’s really smart. Really tough.” Gabby loved the fact that Carmela seemed to have found romance again.
    The front door suddenly crashed open, and the silver bell hanging above it da-dinged in rapid succession.
    “We want details,” demanded Tandy Bliss as she flew toward them, carrying her craft bag slung across one shoulder like a pack animal. Tandy was skinny and hyperthyroidal, with a mop of curly red hair and a pair of red half-glasses perpetually dangling around her neck on a silver chain.
    Baby Fontaine was right behind her, drumming rapid clack-clacks on the