Bound For Murder (11 page)

“I don’t think I could,” responded Wren.

“She can come back to my place,” offered Ava, who lived above the voodoo shop and across the courtyard from Carmela. “I’ve got one of those inflatable beds. You just pull the ripcord and the thing balloons up in about six seconds flat. Sweetmomma Pam ordered it off the TV last time she was in town.” Sweetmomma Pam was Ava’s granny, a feisty old gal who was addicted to infomercials and the shopping channels. Last they’d heard, Sweetmomma Pam had discovered eBay.

“And you’re going to wait here?” Carmela asked Blaine.

Blaine nodded. “I don’t mind. I’ll have ’em check out the whole house.” He stared pointedly at Wren. “Of course, it ain’t cheap.”

“Just do it,” said Carmela.

Blaine nodded. “Right. You never can tell what burrowed in during the hot summer months, then decided to snuggle in and take up residence now that it’s cooler. But if there are any more unwelcome guests, I know these guys will find ’em.”

“Good,” breathed Wren. “Great.”

“So you’ll call us with an
all-clear
in the morning?” asked Ava.

“You got it,” said Blaine. “No problem.”

 

 

BUT THERE WERE PROBLEMS. LOTS OF STRANGE coincidences and unanswered questions. And it was a long time before Carmela was able to drift off to sleep that night. Swirling images kept sparking her brain. The image of Jamie Redmond felled by a butcher knife seemed indelibly burned in her brain.

And she was haunted by other questions, too. Could Margot Butler have been angry at Jamie because he’d broken off their engagement? Why did the bull-in-a-china shop Dunbar DesLauriers suddenly have a burning desire to buy Jamie’s complete inventory of books? And just what the hell was Blaine Taylor doing outside Wren’s house on Julia street at nine o’clock at night?

Answers? She didn’t have any yet. But she would. God help her, she would.

T
HE meeting rooms at the Le Meridien New Orleans pulsed with activity. Dozens of Scrap Fest work-shops were underway, demonstrating such scrapping techniques as writing with wire, paper layering, stitching on scrapbook pages, and glitter dusting. Various scrapbook pages were being scrutinized and judged for originality and technique, and more than one competitive finalist bit her nails in anticipation of receiving a coveted purple ribbon.

In the main ballroom, exhibitor booths, most of them manned by manufacturers and suppliers, displayed the very latest in rubber stamps, cutting tools, albums, archival and scrapbook paper, templates, toppers, borders, and punch art.

It was, quite frankly, a scrapbookers heaven. And Carmela and Gabby were reveling in the excitement of it all. Scrapbook clubs from all over Louisiana, as well as Mississippi and Alabama, had descended upon this first-ever Scrap Fest. Manufacturers and suppliers had arrived with their newest and neatest products, which meant that Carmela and Gabby were not only busy manning their own booth, they also were buzzing around, snapping up the latest products to stock in Memory Mine.

“Did you see the new rubber stamps from Kinetic Creations?” asked Gabby breathlessly. She had just returned from a whirlwind tour around the convention floor and looked exhilarated but slightly discombobulated.

Carmela nodded as she rang up customers two at a time. “I already ordered the entire Romance and Renaissance series,” she said. “The stamps are absolutely gorgeous.”

“Have Baby, Byrle, and Tandy shown up yet?” asked Gabby, looking around.

“Baby and Byrle stuck their heads in the booth for a moment and then disappeared,” said Carmela. “They’re out making the rounds. And Tandy was just . . .” She glanced around, slightly perplexed. “Well she’s here
somewhere
.”

“Here I am,” screeched Tandy, pushing her way through the crowd and flashing a wide, slightly toothy grin. “I didn’t forget. My nimble fingers are poised and ready to dig in.”

Carmela checked her watch. In about two minutes, Gabby and Tandy were scheduled to preside over a “make and take.” This was a special hands-on demo at their booth where customers could sit down at the craft table and actually work on a project. In this case it was to be a scrapbooky-looking bookmark. Because seats were offered on a first-come basis, customers had already settled onto most of the folding chairs and now stared up at them expectantly.

Noting this, Gabby hurried to the head of the table to deliver a friendly welcome and quick introduction. Tandy hastily gathered up pre-cut paper, strands of fiber, and glue sticks for the actual “make” part.

Carmela knew she could breathe easy for a while; once Gabby started her demo, most of the booth traffic would gather round the table to watch.

“Okay,” said Gabby, as Tandy passed out card stock cut into bookmark-sized strips, “we’re going to start by stamping a series of designs.”

Carmela slid onto a tall stool and relaxed. From where she was perched she could keep an eye on their paper assortment, their rack of watercolor brush markers, and their huge display of faux finishes, embossing powders, ribbons, and tags.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said a voice at her elbow.

A smile was instantly on Carmela’s face, even though she didn’t immediately recognize the stocky, somewhat forceful-looking woman who’d suddenly materialized beside her.

“You’re Carmela, aren’t you?” asked the woman.

Carmela nodded. “Yes, I . . .”

“Pamela DesLauriers,” cut in the woman, extending her hand in a no-nonsense manner. “Dunbar’s better half.”

Good lord,
thought Carmela.
The woman’s a virtual clone of her overbearing husband
.
Right down to the florid complexion and tartan scarf wrapped around her neck.

“How can I help you?” Carmela asked pleasantly, slipping off the stool to face Pamela DesLauriers.

Pamela responded by dangling a large manila envelope in Carmela’s face. “Knock knock,” Pamela said, wobbling her head in a slightly ditzy manner. “
You’re
doing the scrapbooks for Gilt Trip?” With her expectant, crowing manner, yet slightly condescending gaze, Pamela looked like a cross between a cockateil and a Chinese lap dog.

“And
you’re
the owner of Happy Halls,” responded a surprised Carmela. “How wonderful.”
Crap,
Carmela thought to herself.
This is my other scrapbook project. Why do I suddenly have the feeling things are getting a little too complicated? I’ve been tapped to do a scrapbook for the wife of the man who’s making moves on Jamie’s bookstore. And,
she reminded herself,
who was present the night Jamie was murdered
.

“Margot Butler assured me you’d do a wonderful job,” gushed Pamela. “Of course,
she’s
the designer extraordinaire. Who else could come up with the concept of mixing damask and tulle? The woman’s got a brilliant eye. So iconic, so forward thinking.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about Margot’s work,” Carmela responded brightly, even as her mind flashed on the photo of Margot and Jamie that they’d stumbled upon last night.

“But back to the scrapbook,” said Pamela. “I wanted to bring the photos and fabric materials by personally so I could point out a few key concepts to you.” One chubby hand dug into the envelope as Pamela stared at Carmela with hard dark eyes and pencil-thin eyebrows raised in a question mark. “Do you mind?”

“Heavens, no,” said Carmela, wondering if the smile on her face looked as forced as it felt.

Pamela DesLauriers wasted no time in spreading out her photos, wallpaper pieces, and fabric swatches on top of Carmela’s vellum samples.

“You see,” said Pamela, fingering one of the photos. “This was the dining room
before
. Elegant, certainly, but perhaps lacking a certain transcendency.”

“Mmn,” said Carmela, not about to tell Pamela DesLauriers that her dining room looked pretty much like a dining room and that she had no idea what it was supposed to transcend.

“But
voilla,
” exclaimed Pamela grandly, pointing to the photograph that was, obviously, the
after
photo. “Look what I have now! Calls to mind the grand salon of an Italian villa, don’t you think?”

Carmela studied the photograph. It showed the same dining room, now with earth-toned faux finishing on the walls, a Mediterranean-style chandelier, and a sweep of gold damask drapery at the window. Pretty, but certainly nothing that would get the Medici family in a twist. “Great,” said Carmela. “I’ve got some nifty twelve-by-twelve paper that will pick up that same faux finished feel. Should make a perfect background.”

“I just knew you’d benefit from my input,” said Pamela, obviously pleased. “Of course, I’ll want to see your concepts before the scrapbook is finalized. Before you glue it or fuse it or whatever it is you people do.”

“We’re on a pretty tight schedule,” said Carmela slowly. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
And I am doing this as a Gilt Trip volunteer, not your personal employee
.

“Of course it’s possible, dear,” insisted Pamela in a saccharine tone. “Just give me a jingle and I’ll run down to your shop for a quick look-see.” Pamela swiveled her head, glancing around. “Is Gabby’s little cousin here today?” she asked.

“Wren is back at Memory Mine,” said Carmela. “She offered to watch the shop while Gabby and I worked here at Scrap Fest.”

“Such a dear, sweet girl,” said Pamela. “I know Dunbar always found her so helpful when he stopped by Biblios.”

“That sounds precisely like Wren,” said Carmela, wondering just what this was leading up to.

“You know,” said Pamela, “Dunbar has his heart set on buying Jamie’s collection of antique books.” She cocked her head and dangly earrings swung from her lobes, grazing her plump cheeks.

Bingo,
thought Carmela.
This is what Pamela is leading up to.

“I’m not sure the books are for sale,” said Carmela. “I’m not sure anything’s for sale.” She knew that if Jamie had also put the bookshop in Wren’s name, Wren might decide to keep it and run it. Biblios Booksellers was a viable business, after all. Wren might not feel like putting her heart into it right now, but things could certainly change. Wren had worked there for the past six months, so she already knew the ropes and was well-versed in the realm of antique books.

Pamela laughed out loud at Carmela’s words, however. “Honey,” she gushed, “the one thing I’ve learned is that
everything
has a price.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” cautioned Carmela.
Why is it rich folks always think everything has a price?
she wondered.
When the things that really matter
—
family, friends, tradition, loyalty
—
are clearly priceless
.

“But
I
am,” responded Pamela. “Besides, I can’t imagine that a bunch of dusty old books would fetch all that much money.”

“Depends on what they’ve been appraised at,” responded Carmela, thinking this might be the perfect project for Jekyl Hardy, her float-builder friend who was also a licensed art and antiques appraiser.

Pamela waved a chubby hand dismissively. “Honey, when Dunbar puts an offer on the table, people generally accept.”

Pamela DesLauriers’s visit left a bad taste in Carmela’s mouth. So after checking Gabby and Tandy’s progress with the demo, Carmela pulled out her cell phone and called Memory Mine. She’d been quite willing to close the store, but Wren had volunteered to work there and keep it open. Carmela said okay, partly because she didn’t think it would be terribly busy—all the truly manic scrapbookers would be here at Scrap Fest—and partly because it gave Wren something to do. Helped keep her mind off the fact that today was supposed to have been her wedding day.

Wren answered on the first ring. “Memory Mine. How can we help?”

“You’re not busy,” said Carmela.

“Oh, but we were,” said Wren, instantly recognizing Carmela’s voice. “Business has been good. We had a real rush maybe thirty minutes ago. Well . . .
you
had a rush.”

“The possessive
we
is just fine,” said Carmela, “because you are part of the family.”

“So you keep telling me,” said Wren. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Carmela hesitated. “You’ve been fielding calls okay? No problems?” She wondered if Dunbar DesLauriers had possibly tracked Wren down and dared to pester her.

“No problems,” said Wren. “A fellow by the name of Clark Berthume called for you. From the Click! Gallery.”

Oh oh.
“Did he leave a message?” asked Carmela.

“He said he was trying to fix a schedule for the gallery’s upcoming shows and he wanted to know when you were going to drop by with your portfolio.” Wren paused. “Carmela, I didn’t know you did photography, too. That’s wonderful! You’re a regular Renaissance woman!”

“No, I’m just a twenty-first century gal who’s completely over-booked like everyone else,” said Carmela. “But I’ll try to give him a call.
Try to call him off,
thought Carmela.

“And Blaine Taylor dropped by earlier,” added Wren. “He said the house received the all-clear. They caught the snake and, luckily, didn’t find anything else wiggling around.”

“Good,” said Carmela, still a little shaken, as they probably all were, by last night’s snake incident.

“Blaine said the Critter Gitter people told him this wasn’t at all uncommon. Apparently, snakes and lizards and stuff are often found crawling through pipes and up from basements.”

“Really,” said Carmela. She’d lived in and around New Orleans all her life and never experienced anything quite like that. “I guess that helps put some perspective on it.”

“I’m a little nervous about going home,” said Wren, “but I have to face the ordeal sometime.”

Poor Wren,
thought Carmela,
has to face a lot of tough ordeals
.

“Oh, and I asked Blaine about the software thing,” said Wren.