Bound For Murder (12 page)

“What about the software thing?” asked Carmela.

“You know. Who owns Neutron Software.”

“What did he tell you?” asked Carmela, hating herself for having such a suspicious nature.

“That he and Jamie had drawn up a tentative buy-sell agreement,” said Wren, “based on book value of the business.”

“Uh huh,” said Carmela.

“But they also had a provision,” continued Wren, “that should one partner die, proprietary rights automatically revert to the surviving partner.”

“Is that a fact,” said Carmela.
Interesting little codicil. And oh-so-convenient for Blaine
. “We should get a copy of that agreement and take a look at it,” said Carmela. “Better yet, we should have a smart lawyer look at it.”

“I don’t know if Jamie had a lawyer,” said Wren.

“Well,” said Carmela, as a spatter of applause erupted from the table nearby and a dozen happy customers popped up with their completed bookmarks. “We’re just gonna have to do some snooping. And then we’ll find ourselves a good lawyer.”
One who isn’t tied to Blaine Taylor,
she added silently.

 

 

“HOT DIGGITY,” SAID TANDY TO CARMELA. “YOU sold a ton of rubber stamps and packages of that crinkley fiber.”

“Thanks to the terrific demo you and Gabby did,” said Carmela.

“Shoot, it was all Gabby’s doing,” said Tandy, waving a hand. “She’s sweet but so persuasive. Even
I’m
gonna buy some of those new stamps. I mean, I
love
that heritage series.”

“Tandy,” said Carmela, “can you help Gabby with the booth for about ten minutes?”

“Sure ’nuf,” said Tandy. “Whatcha gonna do? Take a spin around the hall again?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” declared Carmela. There was a new vendor who was selling templates for pop-ups and she wanted to place an order or at least grab one of their catalogs.

But twenty steps away from her booth Carmela ran smack dab into Margot Butler.

“How do, Carmela,” drawled Margot. Looking very much the
avant-garde
interior designer, Margot was dressed in a slinky black blouse, black leather slacks, and dark green leather boots.

“Margot!” said Carmela, surprised. Fresh in her mind was the photograph of Jamie Redmond with his arm around Margot’s waist, looking extremely amorous. And extremely engaged.

“Has Pamela dropped by yet?” asked Margot. “With the photos and such?”

“Maybe ten minutes ago,” said Carmela.

“Drat,” said Margot. “Looks like I missed her. Oh well . . .”

“Margot,” said Carmela, wondering how to phrase her question.

Carmela decided she was definitely a plunge-right-in type. “Margot,” said Carmela again, “I didn’t realize you and Jamie Redmond had been engaged.”

Margot didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, yeah.” She gave a dismissive shrug. “Jamie and I were quite the item for a while. But . . . well, things just didn’t work out.” She paused. “And now look what’s happened. Pity.”

“Are we talking ancient history, Margot?” asked Carmela, trying to keep her voice light.

But Margot was instantly suspicious. “Why are you asking, Carmela? What business is it of yours? And why this sudden inquisition?” she demanded. “You think
I
had something to do with Jamie’s death?”

“We came across an old photo last night,” explained Carmela. “At Wren’s house. We were just surprised.”

“Mnn,” said Margot. “Did she see it? Wren?”

“Yes, she did,” said Carmela.

Margot chewed at her lower lip. “I imagine it upset her.”

“I think it might have,” replied Carmela.
Is Margot enjoying this little exchange? Yes, I believe she is
.

“Too bad,” said Margot. “But like I said, it’s old news.”

“You mentioned that,” said Carmela. “But I’m still curious about timing. In other words, how long ago were you two an item?”

“Oh, let’s see,” said Margot, pretending to rack her brain. “Last year.”

Last year!
thought Carmela. Shamus had skipped out on her more than a year ago, and her wounds still hadn’t healed. Hadn’t even begun to heal. So, this was the question on the table—had Margot been carrying a torch for Jamie? Or worse yet, had she been nursing a nasty grudge? One that had stung and festered until she finally took matters into her own hands?

“You know,” said Margot, “we’re going to need those scrapbooks by next Wednesday at the latest. This is a very important fund raiser. A lot of people are counting on you.”

“They’ll be finished,” said Carmela. “One way or the other, they’ll be finished.”

“You’re such a pro, Carmela” murmured Margot as she edged away. “Well, toodles, dearie. See you later.”

“Margot,” said Carmela, just as the designer was about to dash off. “What kind of boots are you wearing? I mean the leather?”

Margot paused a few feet from Carmela and tipped a heel up to show her boots off. “Snake skin,” she purred. “Don’t you just love ’em?”

A
VA brushed back her frizzled mass of auburn hair and leaned over her Eggs Benedict. “Weird,” she murmured. “This Margot person really wore snakeskin boots?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Carmela. “Let’s hope she’s either a confirmed fashionista or she’s planning a guest appearance on the
Crocodile Hunter.
”

The two women were sitting on the broad front porch of the Columns Hotel. It was a magnificent structure originally designed by the architect Thomas Sully. In more recent years, giant Doric columns had been stuck onto the front to supposedly add charm and make the whole thing look even more like a Southern mansion.

As they nibbled at their Sunday brunch, Carmela had filled Ava in on some of the newer, stranger revelations. She’d related her encounter with the pushy Pamela DesLauriers who claimed husband Dunbar always got what he wanted. And she told Ava about Blaine Taylor’s purported buy-sell agreement with Jamie Redmond. An agreement that didn’t just give Blaine first dibs, but seemed to give him
carte blanche
to the entire Neutron computer program.

And then, of course, they’d rehashed their thoughts on Margot Butler with her broken-off engagement and snakeskin boots.

Ava had pretty much reserved comment until all of the strange news had been spilled out onto the table. Finally, she shook her head in amazement. “Honey, I hate to say it, but it sounds like any
one
of those folks might have had it in for Jamie Redmond.”

Carmela nodded slowly. She, too, was gradually coming to that same conclusion.

“Dunbar and Blaine were
there
that evening at Bon Tiempe,” said Ava, “so they’d be tops on my list.”

“But don’t forget,” said Carmela. “Margot of the snake skin boots knows her way around Bon Tiempe, too. I called Quigg last night and found out that Margot’s design firm sold him some of the chandeliers. The small crystal ones hanging in the bar, I think.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that Blaine Taylor showed up just in the nick of time Friday night?” asked Ava. “That really bothers me.”

Carmela sighed. “Me, too.”

“Is Wren suspicious about any of this?” asked Ava. “I mean, she knows about Margot being engaged to Jamie, but what about the rest?”

“I don’t think she’s put anything together yet,” said Carmela. “And I wasn’t planning to fan any flames, either. She’s got enough to worry about.”

“You’re a girl after my own heart,” said Ava. “One who knows how to keep her lips properly zipped.”

“Don’t you think?” asked Carmela. She was torn between protecting Wren and sharing—or rather spilling—her suspicions.

“A little discretion is always the best policy,” said Ava. “The question is, what are you going to do now?”

“Correction; what are
we
going to do,” said Carmela.

Ava watched the waiter refill her champagne flute, then picked it up, swirling the elegant golden liquor to release the bubbles. Taking a delicate sip, she contemplated the wine. “Terrific,” she finally proclaimed. “Nothing like a dry finish to roll your tongue up like a window shade.”

Every Sunday, the Columns Hotel hosted a lovely champagne brunch. However, the champagne they opted to serve was a domestic variety. Ava, claiming she was making a decided effort to expand her cosmic consciousness, had ordered a bottle of Perrier-Jouet, a rather fine French champagne. That’s what the two women were drinking now. And Carmela, who was also intrigued by the burst of tiny dry bubbles inside her mouth, had to admit the extra thirty dollars was probably well worth it.

“What if,” said Ava finally, “we called that nice detective and had a talk with him? The one that helped you out before. Edgar . . .”

“Babcock,” said Carmela, finishing Ava’s sentence. “Gabby and I talked about calling Lieutenant Babcock, but we really don’t have any concrete evidence to present to him. And we’re still pretty much going on hunches and theories.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “We need concrete evidence, huh? What about that photo of Margot and Jamie?”

“Doesn’t prove she murdered the guy,” said Carmela. “Just means she was in love with him. Or used to be in love with him.”

“I wonder,” said Ava. “I wonder which one of them broke it off. Margot or Jamie.”

“Don’t know,” said Carmela. “And I don’t think it’s likely we’re ever going to find out. Margot got very prickly when I asked a couple questions about her relationship with Jamie.”

“Sounds like a lady with something to hide,” said Ava.

Carmela shrugged. “Maybe. Or else she’s embarrassed because she got dumped.”

“The big D,” said Ava. “It can be an ego-crusher.”

And it can push some people over the edge,
thought Carmela. She knew there was a reason an awful lot of killings were dubbed “crimes of passion.”

“I wonder if Margot gave the ring back,” mused Ava. “I mean, is there a set protocol on that? I can see where if a woman dumps a guy, she’s morally obligated to return the ring.” Ava took another sip of champagne, enlivened by her train of thought. “But if a guy dumped me? I don’t think I’d be hopping up and down, eager to return my engagement ring like I was taking back a pair of bowling shoes or something. Especially if the ring was in the category of a two karat flawless, colorless stone. Say a marquis or princess cut.”

“What would you do with it?” asked Carmela, as her cell phone burped inside her purse and she leaned down to retrieve it.

“Have it reset as a fancy pendant,” said Ava promptly. She’d obviously given this careful thought.

“Hello,” Carmela murmured into her phone.

“Carmela? It’s Wren.”

Carmela mouthed
Wren
to Ava, who nodded as if she’d almost expected Wren to call.

“What’s wrong honey?” asked Carmela. She thought Wren sounded slightly panicky.

“Dunbar DesLauriers just called and made an offer on the inventory at Biblios. What do I do now?”

“Do you want to sell?” asked Carmela. “Providing we find out you really do own the inventory?”

“I don’t know,” said Wren. “I haven’t really thought about it, so I need some advice. You and Ava are the only business people I know.”

Carmela put her hand over the receiver. “She says we’re the only business people she knows,” said Carmela.

“God help her,” said Ava, rolling her eyes skyward.

“There’s Stuart,” suggested Carmela. Gabby’s husband, Stuart, who owned a chain of car dealerships, was forever being lauded by one or another business club or chamber of commerce. He was knowledgeable, but all his honorary titles, plaques, and pins also tended to make him a bit pompous and overbearing.

A long silence spun out.

“Right,” replied Wren finally, “there’s Stuart.”

“Okaaay,” said Carmela. “Let’s forget about old Stuart. What kind of advice do you need from me?”

“For one thing, I’m flat broke.”

“Explain please,” said Carmela.

“After I moved in with Jamie six months ago, I quit my job at the travel agency and was really just helping out at the bookstore.”

“You worked there full-time, but didn’t take a salary?” asked Carmela.

“Oh, she
does
need our help,” said Ava in a low voice.

Wren’s voice contained a hint of a quaver. “Yes,” she answered. “Do you think I should have taken a salary?”

“There’s no hard and fast rule, but . . . yeah, probably,” said Carmela. She thought for a moment. “What we need to do is poke around and see if there’s money left in the business checking account. If there is, that’s your back salary.”

“Wow,” breathed Wren. “We can do that?”

“Sure we can,” said Carmela. She didn’t know the legalities involved, but figured she’d find a way. She usually did.

“That’d be just great,” said Wren, sounding better already.

“Do you know where Jamie kept his checkbooks and ledgers and all that?” Carmela asked.

“Sure,” said Wren, “but I never had anything to do with them. The most I ever did was make change for cash purchases or take credit cards. And even then, all I did was take an impression, fill in the numbers, and file the flimsy.”

“Tell you what,” said Carmela, “Ava and I are just about finished with brunch, so I’ll meet you at Jamie’s store in . . .” she glanced at her watch, “let’s say an hour. We’ll see what we can figure out.”

“Is she okay?” asked Ava, after Carmela hung up.

“She sounded a little strung out,” admitted Carmela. The two of them sat and watched a cluster of tourists amble up the front sidewalk, cameras poised. The Columns Hotel, with its beveled-glass front door, spectacular main staircase, and stained glass windows, had been used as a location by filmmaker Louis Malle when he’d shot scenes for the movie,
Pretty Baby
. Just like the
Cat People
house over at Chartres and Esplanade, tourists were forever flocking to this real-life location.