Skeleton Letters

Author:Laura Childs [Childs, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2011-08-18T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 16

INSTEAD of heading for Memory Mine, Carmela dashed back to her apartment, jumped in her car, and sped off for the New Orleans Art Institute. Since she and Jekyl were official participants this coming Sunday, she’d put together some handouts that detailed the workings of the Children’s Art Association, and she wanted to drop them off with Angela Boynton, one of the organizing curators.

So, a quick trip, Carmela thought to herself, as she nosed her car into the small parking lot that adjoined the museum. If only she could find . . . ah, a white Lexus was just backing out. Perfect.

Moments later Carmela was breezing down the marble hallway, feeling upbeat and thrilled to sip the heady and intoxicating aura of oil paintings, sculpture, and fine drawings. When she reached a door marked Curatorial B, she knocked twice, then popped her head into the small office.

“Is Angie around?” she asked the occupant, a curator who worked in the textile division and shared the small office with Angie. An office that was bursting with posters, brochures, Japanese obis, small Buddhist sculptures, a wall of books, and another wall where a red-and-purple brocade wedding kimono hung from a bamboo rod.

“Down the hall,” said the woman. “She’s supervising a hanging in the Price Gallery.”

“Thanks.” Carmela pulled the door shut and continued down the main corridor. She slowed as she passed a glass display case filled with French antiques. It was truly gorgeous stuff: a pair of ornate cobalt-blue vases, a Napoleon III rosewood-and-maple jardinière, and a Falence charger.

She walked slowly to the next case, admiring a silver dagger and then a silver chalice.

And that was where Carmela’s progress suddenly ground to a halt. Because on the small white card in front of the chalice, way at the bottom, was a single line that caught her attention: Donated by Norton Fried.

What? Norton Fried donated this silver? What the . . . heck? Is he an actual collector or silver aficionado? And if so, isn’t this an interesting piece of information?

Carmela kicked it into high gear as she continued down the hallway and spun into the Price Gallery.

Angie was there, all right, giving advice to two museum interns who were trying to hang a large, splashy contemporary painting in a vast gallery with a thirty-foot-high ceiling.

“A little bit lower on the left,” Angie coached. The interns fussed, struggled, moved their ladder, then seemed to get it all figured out. When they’d made their final adjustment, Angie said, “Looks good to me.”

“Is there no end to your job description?” Carmela asked. Her voice was a hollow echo in the cavernous gallery.

Angie turned to greet her, and a smile flashed across her lovely face. “With budgets getting slashed every six months, I’m going to be taking out the trash pretty soon,” said Angie. She was a serious-looking woman in her midthirties, with shoulder-length light brown hair, green eyes, and a slight bump on her nose that made her look interesting and highly approachable. Today Angie

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