Bound For Murder (15 page)

A faded news clipping with the headline
Bogus Creek Boys Await Sentencing.

Bogus Creek Boys? The name had a funny, colorful ring to it. Old fashioned. Like the bank robbers who populated the American landscape during the twenties and thirties. Bonnie and Clyde. The Al Karpis Gang. Ma Barker and Al Capone.

So who were these Bogus Creek Boys?
she wondered.
And why had Jamie Redmond elected to save this particular clipping?

Carmela scanned down the narrow column, quickly absorbing the gist of the story. A ring of counterfeiters had set up shop near Boothville. In fact, they’d operated out of an abandoned camp house on the banks of Bogus Creek. Hence the moniker, Bogus Creek Boys. They’d been apprehended by a savvy local sheriff, but no printing plates had been recovered.

However, it was the final paragraph that riveted Carmela’s attention and caused a sharp intake of breath.

It said,
T.L. Walker and J. Redmond, two members of the counterfeiting gang, are slated for sentencing this Thursday.

Carmela stared at the clipping in her hands.

Carefully setting the snippet of paper on the table, Carmela tapped it gently with her index finger, as though trying to ascertain if the article were truly genuine.

Jamie Redmond a convicted criminal? A criminal who’d actually served time?
Carmela pursed her lips, thinking.

She turned the article over, looking for a date. There was nothing that lent a clue as to whether the article was ten years old or twenty-five years old.

So Jamie, or Jamie’s father, had a shady past. She wondered if that’s why Jamie had been so closed-mouthed about his life in Boothville. And Carmela also wondered if this strange link to a sordid past might hold an important clue as to why Jamie Redmond had been murdered.

Worse yet, could someone have been blackmailing Jamie? Extracting money from him in exchange for remaining quiet about his past?

Could it have been Blaine? Or Dunbar DesLauriers? Had Jamie finally cried
enough?
And been murdered because of it?

Had Margot Butler broken off her engagement because she learned of Jamie’s past?

Unanswered questions were piling up faster than broken beads and empty
geaux
cups after a Mardi Gras parade.

Carmela stood up, wandered into her kitchen, and plucked the lid off her cookie jar. She stood there nibbling one of her homemade Big Easy chocolate chip peanut butter cookies. She usually loved them, but tonight she didn’t seem to be getting her usual kick. Tonight she was just too upset.

“
T
HESE pumpkin muffins are heavenly,” raved Tandy as she helped herself to a second plump muffin drizzled with cream cheese frosting. “Is this your recipe, Carmela?”

“My momma’s,” said Carmela, as she sorted through one of her drawers of oversized sheets of paper. Last night, after her unsettling conversation with Shamus and her discovery of the news clipping about Jamie Redmond, she had whipped up a batch of pumpkin muffins to bring to Memory Mine. Baking was one of Carmela’s sure-fire ways to let off steam. Short of actually throtting someone to death.

“Well, I want your momma’s recipe,” declared Tandy. “I swear, I could probably get Darwin to balance on a rubber ball and bark like a seal if I dangled one of these muffins in front of him.” Darwin, Tandy’s husband of many years, was known for his incurable sweet tooth.

“If I let Stuart barely breathe the aroma from these muffins,” said Gabby, “he’d probably go into insulin shock. How much sugar does your recipe call for, anyway?” she asked, taking a nibble.

“Quite a bit,” admitted Carmela, glancing about her shop. For a Monday morning, Memory Mine was already pleasantly crowded. Gabby and Wren had shown up for work promptly at 9:00 AM, and Baby and Tandy had arrived some twenty minutes later. Baby was bound and determined to turn out her first batch of Mardi Gras party invitations, and Tandy had decided she wanted to make a second bibelot box for one of her daughters-in-law.

Six more customers had since wandered into Memory Mine and, wicker baskets in hand, were happily browsing the racks of paper and displays of albums, glitter glue, scissors, and oil pens as they tossed various scrapbooking must-haves into their baskets.

Carmela was delighted that Wren has seemingly jumped, feet first, into her new role at Memory Mine. In fact, when one of the customers inquired about scrapbook borders, Wren had quickly produced a book of border designs as well as several of their new adhesive-backed borders. And when another lady asked about embossed paper, Wren was immediately able to pull out a half-dozen samples.

Watching Wren work so diligently, Carmela felt anguished, knowing she’d ultimately have to share her discovery of Jamie’s sordid past with her. She had to tell Wren what she’d found because it was the honest thing to do. But she certainly wasn’t relishing the task.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” whispered Gabby. She had noticed Carmela watching Wren.

Carmela nodded. “Wren’s a natural. Like you.”

Gabby thought for a moment. “But I’m here because I’m a scrapbook fanatic. Whereas Wren seems to genuinely love working with people.”

Carmela playfully raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“It’s not that,” Gabby hastened to explain. “It’s simply that Wren seems to connect with them on a completely different level.”

“I know what you mean,” said Carmela. “We understand scrapbooking and rubber stamping backwards and forwards, but Wren seems to sense what customers need and knows when they could use a little help or encouragement.” She paused. “Or maybe not so much help as a gentle
nudge.
I don’t know how to explain it any better.”

“You just did,” said Gabby.

“Has Wren told you anything about Dunbar DesLauriers’s offer?” asked Carmela.

Gabby nodded. “Just that he offered to take the inventory off her hands. Nothing about price or anything like that.”

“I think Dunbar figures he can toss out any number he feels like and she’ll leap at it,” said Carmela. “That’s the problem with really wealthy people. They’re so focused on money that they think everyone else is, too.”

“Well,” said Gabby, “Wren was sure tickled that you took so much time with her yesterday, prowling through that old bookstore and giving her real-life business advice. For that I thank you, too. There aren’t a lot of female entrepreneurs around, in case you hadn’t noticed. Not many role models.”

“But more than there used to be,” said Carmela. “Which I take as a very positive sign.”

Gabby slid her velvet headband forward, shook her hair, then replaced the headband. “Do you really think Wren could run Biblios Booksellers?” she asked. “I thought for sure she’d be hot to unload it, but now she’s talking about maybe giving it a shot. Possibly re-opening the place sometime in March.”

“She could probably handle it,” said Carmela. “She’ll need help, of course, but there are lots of good people out there.”

Gabby smiled, aware that Carmela had just paid her another compliment. “So you don’t think she should just sell everything—lock, stock, and barrel? That’s what Stuart advised, you know.”

“That’s Stuart,” said Carmela. “No offense, but he’s a little hide-bound when it comes to women and business.”

“A little!” exclaimed Gabby. “He wasn’t all that keen about me working here. I think if Stuart were actually able to execute his master-of-the-universe plan, he’d have me staying home all day wearing a perfect little pink suit and a string of pearls, cultivating roses, and learning how to bake the perfect soufflé.”

“Hey,” said Carmela. “At least the guy has good taste and he cares.”

“Good point,” said Gabby, watching Wren ring up a customer at the front counter.

“When it comes to either selling or keeping the bookstore, she’ll make the right decision,” said Carmela, reaching for the telephone as it let off an insistent ring. “She’ll figure it out.” Carmela put the phone to her ear. “Good morning,” she said. “Memory Mine Scrapbooking.”

“Is Wren there?” asked a male caller.

Carmela watched as Wren handed a brown paper bag stuffed with scrapbook goodies over to her customer, then bid her good-bye. “She’s with a customer right now,” Carmela lied. She had just recognized the voice on the other end of the line “Perhaps I could take a message?”

“Is this Carmela?”

“Yes, it is,” she answered sweetly.

“Well, this is Blaine Taylor. And it’s imperative I speak with her.”

“Old B.T.,” said Carmela. “How are you, anyway?”

“Fine, fine, but I—”

“I imagine you’re pretty busy these days, anticipating all the money you’re going to make selling Jamie’s software program,” said Carmela.

There was a stunned silence, then a burst of angry static. “What are you talking about?” Blaine demanded.

“I’d love to see that so-called buy-sell agreement you and Jamie drew up,” continued Carmela. “You don’t have a copy handy, by any chance, do you?”

“That’s absolutely none of your business!” cried Blaine. “You have nothing to do with this.”

“Actually I’m making it my business,” said Carmela. “Wren’s asked for my help with a few loose ends. And guess what, pal? You’re one of them.”

Whether it was Carmela’s casual reference to him as a loose end or her bemused yet aggressive stance, Blaine Taylor was suddenly furious.

“You’re out of your league,” he warned. “Don’t even bother getting involved. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Here’s a grand idea,” continued Carmela, not allowing his blustering to faze her. “Why don’t you shoot a copy of that buy-sell agreement of yours over to the law firm of Leonard, Barstow, and Streeter,” she said, naming one of the top law firms in New Orleans. “In fact, send it to the attention of Seth Barstow, Senior Partner.”

“What?” said Blaine, his voice rising in a high squawk. “LBS is your counsel?” He sounded stunned.

“Yup,” said Carmela. “They sure are.” Of course that particular law firm wasn’t
exactly
her lawyer. But they
were
one of the law firms that did work for the chain of Crescent City Banks that Shamus’s family owned. And in her mind that was close enough for jazz. Plus, Leonard, Barstow, and Streeter had posh downtown offices and a reputation for pit-bull tenacity, so why not dangle them as a threat? Why not, indeed?

Blaine Taylor was still stuttering and stammering. “Perhaps we could work something out after all, Carmela. You know I don’t want to see Wren completely—”

“Do you actually have the software program?” asked Carmela, interrupting him. “Do you have a copy of Neutron?”

“Well, no,” stammered Blaine. “Not physically. Although Neutron exists as a
virtual
product.” Blaine was still babbling.

Good,
thought Carmela.
And it’s also a smart thing I made a virtual copy of everything on Jamie’s home computer. Just in case.

“Talk to you later, Blaine,” said Carmela. “Be sure to send a copy of that buy-sell to my attorney.” She paused. “Or you can drop it by my shop.”

“What was
that
about?” asked Gabby, eyeing Carmela suspiciously as she hung up the phone.

“Just that weirdo, Blaine Taylor,” grumbled Carmela. “I swear that old boy is trying to pull a fast one on Wren.”

Gabby’s smile suddenly crumpled. “What?” she said, shock morphing into anger. “What is this, anyway? Let’s see how badly we can bash Wren when she’s down? First Dunbar DesLauriers wants to ram through a quick sale, now Blaine Taylor, who was
supposed
to be Jamie’s good friend, is trying to screw her. Why is this happening?”

Carmela grabbed Gabby by the arm and pulled her into her office. “Take it easy,” she said. “Unfortunately for Wren, it’s business as usual.”

Carmela knew you couldn’t compete in business these days without running up against a few nasty, nefarious people. And having your teeth kicked in a time or two. Getting blind-sided was a hard-learned lesson for many business owners. But it was almost a right of passage. Something you couldn’t escape. And if you
did
stay under the radar, remain complacent, and play it safe—that seemed to be the kiss of death, too. As her daddy used to tell her, if you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta climb down off the porch.

But as Carmela was giving a whispered explanation to Gabby, Wren suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Wren told Carmela.

Carmela glanced past Wren and her heart sank.

Glory Meechum was Shamus’s big sister and the senior vice president of the Crescent City Bank chain. She was also hell on wheels. As matriarch and self-appointed leader of the snarling Meechum clan, it was she who’d pinned the blame for Carmela and Shamus’s break-up squarely on Carmela’s head. Even though Shamus had been the instigator, the one who’d tossed his tightie-whities into his Samsonite jet pack, grabbed his Nikon cameras, and skedaddled to the family camp house in the Baritaria Bayou. Go figure.

This can’t be good,
thought Carmela as she strode out to meet Glory Meechum.
Glory never just pops in for a fun, impromptu visit. She’s got to have something evil percolating in her strange brain.

“Carmela,” said Glory in a loud bray. “We need to talk.” Standing a husky five-feet-ten in her splotchy print dress, with a helmet of gray hair and a countenance reminiscent of an Easter Island statue, Glory presented a formidable figure.