Bound For Murder (16 page)

“Glory,” said Carmela, deciding to grab the bull by the horns. “Why don’t you direct whatever inquest you’ve decided to launch directly at Shamus. He’s the one who’s been acting like a bad boy in all of this.” Carmela kept her voice even, being mindful not to appear challenging or threatening. Bad things happened when you challenged Glory.

“This isn’t about Shamus,” snapped Glory. “This is about
you.
”

“We’ve been through this before, Glory,” sighed Carmela. “I’ll be happy to grant Shamus a divorce.
He’s
the one who keeps dragging his size elevens when it comes to putting the paperwork in motion.”

Glory’s face, already set in a frown, switched to a glower.

Ah,
thought Carmela,
there’s that famous Meechum Seal of Disapproval again. The family could almost copyright it.

“Before you go off on a tangent,” said Glory, “perhaps you’d give me a chance to speak my peace?”

“Fine, Glory,” said Carmela. “What?”

Glory’s eyes shifted toward the back of the store where Wren was doling out paper samples to Tandy. “I want you to instruct that girl to sell her collection of moldy old books to Dunbar DesLauriers.”

“What!” said Carmela, stunned. Those were not the words she’d expected to come spewing out of Glory Meechum’s mouth.

“I know Dunbar will give her a fair price,” continued Glory in a naddering tone. “The girl could do a whole lot worse.”

“Will you stop calling her
the girl?
” said Carmela. “And why on earth are you remotely concerned with what happens to Wren or Biblios Booksellers?
Good grief, who’s going to crawl out of the woodwork next to take a bash at poor Wren?

“Not that it’s any business of yours,” said Glory. “But Dunbar DesLauriers is an extremely valuable customer at our bank. Which is why I’m willing to do almost anything in my power to keep the dear man happy.”

“Uh huh,” said Carmela, still stunned by this twist in the conversation.

Glory’s unplucked eyebrows former stormy arcs over hard, beady eyes. “I understand you’ve been giving the girl some
business
advice,” she said.

“Wren,” said Carmela. “Please say her name. Wren.”

“Wren,” snarled Glory.

“Thank you.”

Glory slammed her sensible black handbag onto the counter and glared at Carmela. “You think you’re a pretty tough cookie, don’t you? Well let me give you a word of warning: Don’t take me on. Because you’ll lose, Carmela.” She pronounced her name
Car-mel-la,
spitting out each syllable venomously hard.

“I wasn’t aware this was a contest,” said Carmela.
Just a contest of wills.

“You’ve visited the bookstore, correct?” said Glory.

“Sure,” said Carmela.

“And the girl . . . Wren . . . has expressed some interest in selling?”

“She’s still deciding,” said Carmela.

“Dunbar DesLauriers is prepared to pay seventy-five thousand dollars for the entire inventory,” said Glory. “He’ll write a check today, in fact.”

“You realize,” countered Carmela, “Wren hasn’t had a chance to bring an appraiser in yet.”

Glory shrugged. “A mere technicality in the face of such a generous offer.” She rearranged her frown into a friendly grimace. “I can’t impress upon you what a valuable customer Dunbar is. I see no reason to upset him with petty dickering.”

“That’s funny,” said Carmela. “Because the only person I’ve seen upset so far is Wren. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, seems to think they can come cowboying in and strong-arm her.”

“I certainly wouldn’t do that,” snapped Glory. She pulled a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose into it, letting loose a good, loud honk.

“Of course you would,” Carmela fired back. “You are.”

Glory stuffed her hanky back into her purse, then rubbed her large hand, palm down, across the top of the counter. When she turned it over, she stared at it for almost a full minute, then wiped it hard against the side of her splotchy print nylon dress.
Wshst wsht.

She’s off her meds again,
thought Carmela. Glory had been diagnosed with a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder and was supposed to be taking medicine to help control it.

Carmela let loose a deep sigh. “Tell Dunbar we’ll get back to him, Glory.”

“When?” demanded Glory, obviously intent on keeping the pressure on.

“I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Two or three weeks, maybe a month. Like I said, we’ll get back to him.”

Glory stared hard at Carmela and took a step closer to her. Closer than she’d ever come before, her anger overshadowing the OCD that always kept her a protective arm’s length away from everyone. “There are
debts,
” Glory murmured, her eyes glinting like hard marbles. “Outstanding
loans
that Jamie Redmond incurred. All this must be taken into account.”

“The debt you refer to is a mortgage,” said Carmela.

“A mortgage with
my
bank,” said Glory, her thin lips twitching upward slightly. “A variable-rate balloon mortgage that
I
control.”

“Don’t,” said Carmela, holding a finger up. “Don’t you dare threaten.”

But nothing could wipe the smile of satisfaction from Glory’s doughy face.

“WELL
THAT
WAS GOOD FOR BUSINESS,” REMARKED Gabby after Glory had finally stalked out, slamming the door behind her.

Carmela cringed. “Do you think everyone heard us?” They were standing at the front of the shop while most everyone else was grouped at the back.

Gabby shrugged. “Probably not. It was mostly your body language that gave away the tone of the argument. One petite bulldog . . . you. Up against one very large, immovable object . . . Glory.”

“She’s a fruitcake,” admitted Carmela as she and Gabby walked slowly back toward the craft table where Baby, Tandy, and Wren were gathered, heads bent over their various projects.

“And you’re a defender of the underdog,” said Gabby, her eyes shining brightly. Then, without warning, she gave Carmela a quick hug. “Thank you,” she told her.

Carmela nodded. It was flattering to be thought of as
Carmela, fearless defender of underdogs.
Even though her heart was beating like a fluttering dove.

And, of course, she
still
wasn’t sure how to break the rather shocking news to Wren about the Bogus Creek Boys news clipping she’d stumbled across. Or tell her about Dunbar DesLauriers’s seventy-five thousand dollar offer on the bookstore. Or tell her about Glory’s nasty threat.

Carmela wiggled her shoulders to dispel the tension, sucked in a deep breath. She’d find a way. She always did.

“
W
HY did I think you were making party invitations?” Carmela asked Baby.

Baby swiveled in her chair and adjusted the Chanel scarf draped around her patrician neck. Here blue eyes looked mischievous, her short blond hair artfully tousled. “Because that’s what I told you when I came in this morning. But, surprise surprise, things have changed.”

“I guess,” said Carmela, gazing over Baby’s shoulder at a marvelous array of colorful tags.

The women had sent out for salads from the French Quarter Deli an hour or so ago. Now, the salads munched and the debris cleared away, Tandy and Baby were back at their projects, while Gabby and Wren buzzed about, kibitzing and unpacking boxes of newly arrived scrapbooking supplies.

And while Tandy had made great progress on her bibelot box, Baby was indeed working on an entirely different project.

“Your little tags are gorgeous,” Wren told Baby. “But Carmela’s right, we all thought you started out with invitations.”

“You don’t like my photo tags?” asked Baby.

Now Tandy jumped in. “Are you kidding, sweetie? They’re
wonderful.
” Tandy was always big on unabashed enthusiasm.

And Baby’s photo tags were adorable. She had cut out individual faces from a number of color photos, then matted them with small bits of pebbled card stock so they looked like miniature portraits. Baby then sponge-dyed ink on large colorful tags to achieve a textured, marbleized surface, then mounted each “portrait” on one of the faux-finished tags.

“So now what?” asked Wren. “You’re going to put the tags on a scrapbook page?”

“I could do that,” said Baby. “But instead I’m going to make a front and back cover from this leather-looking paper, then bind all the tags together with a piece of silk ribbon twined with different fibers. So they become like pages in a book.”

“You’re creating a little memory book,” said Wren, obviously charmed by the craft project. “Very clever.”

“Wren,” said Tandy. “Show me your bibelot box again, will you? I want to see how you affixed the legs.”

Wren popped into Carmela’s office to grab her bibelot box while everyone gathered to admire Tandy’s handiwork.

Tandy had decoupaged a square tea tin with dark-red mulberry paper that had gold Japanese
kanji
writing on it. Then she had added several colorful postage stamps depicting Mount Fuji and cut-outs of Japanese family crests. Gold fish charms were glued on the sides of the box, and the top featured a lovely red tassel strung with pearls and Japanese blue and white beads.

“It’s gorgeous,” said Gabby. “Now I’m in the mood to make one.”

“Can you believe it started out as an ordinary tea tin?” asked Baby. “Now it looks like something you’d see in one of those expensive gift shops down on Magazine Street.”

“I think you should just add four more of those blue and white beads for feet,” suggested Gabby. “Right on the corners. Like Wren did on hers.”

“Here it is,” said Wren, as she set her little bibelot box covered with keys in the middle of the table. “My mystery key box, as I like to call it.”

Tandy slid her glasses onto her nose and peered at Wren’s bibelot box carefully. “I wouldn’t mind making one just like that. Lord knows, I’ve got a dusty jar filled with antique keys sitting on a shelf in my basement. There’s probably still a key in there for my dad’s old place over in Westwebo.”

 

 

“WREN,” SAID CARMELA IN A QUIET VOICE, ONCE things had settled down and everyone was busily working away. “A few things have come up that you need to know about. And some decisions need to be made.”

Wren turned toward Carmela. “Tell me.”

Carmela cleared her throat. “Ah . . . maybe it would be best if we went and sat in my office?”

“Do we have to?” asked Wren. “I feel like I’m definitely among friends here. In fact, I feel like I’m able to draw strength from everyone’s concern and support.”

“It’s just that one of the items we need to discuss is somewhat personal,” pressed Carmela.

Wren shook her head. “I don’t care. I can’t tell you how much I love and trust this group of women.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” said Tandy, reaching over to pat one of Wren’s hands.

“
She’s
the love,” said Baby, threading a piece of silk ribbon through her photo tags.

“Okay, then,” said Carmela, sitting down at the table and putting her hands flat. “There’s good and bad news.”

“Good news first,” said Wren, taking a deep breath.

“Dunbar DesLauriers has put a cash offer on the table for Biblios Booksellers,” said Carmela. She hoped this would be perceived as good news.

“Did he really?” exclaimed Gabby, suddenly excited. “How much?”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars,” replied Carmela.

“Not bad,” Tandy said. “That’d keep a girl in stickers and rubber stamps for a good long while.”

Carmela bit her lower lip. “I have to admit seventy-five thousand dollars doesn’t sound bad, but we don’t really have a handle on the value of the rare book inventory.” She looked over at Wren for confirmation.

“They’re not all rare,” offered Wren. “A lot of them are more like first editions.”

“So a first edition would sell for . . . what?” asked Gabby, obviously intrigued by Dunbar’s offer. “What would be a ballpark figure?”

Wren shrugged. “Depends. A first edition of, say,
Mosquitoes
by William Faulkner might be three . . . maybe four hundred dollars.”

“So Dunbar’s offer sounds fair?” asked Carmela. “Maybe even a bit on the high side?”

“It could be,” said Wren. “Again, I’d have to check the inventory price sheets that do exist. And maybe run an Internet search for comparables on the rarer books.”

“Do we know if Dunbar DesLauriers knows what he’s bidding on?” asked Baby. She’d been listening quietly, now she spoke up.

“What do you mean?” asked Wren.

“Dunbar DesLauriers is a rare book collector,” said Baby. “He may be just as familiar with the inventory as Jamie was. Or even
more
familiar.”

“You think he’s trying to put one over on me?” asked Wren.

Baby shrugged. “Don’t know.” Baby was no stranger to the competitive world of collecting. Her husband, Del, had amassed a spectacular collection of antique Japanese swords. And Baby herself collected miniature oil paintings and antique jewelry.

“I assume there’s some play in Dunbar’s number,” said Carmela. “I see his offer of seventy-five thousand dollars as more of a
suggested
retail price.”

“I like the way you think,” said Tandy. “Although seventy-five thousand does sound good.”

“Unfortunately,” said Carmela. “Nothing’s ever easy. There’s more to this deal than just a straight ahead offer of cash.”

Gabby looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Carmela sighed. “There’s also an implied threat,” she told them.

“Concerning what?” asked Wren.

“Your mortgage. The mortgage on the house on Julia Street,” said Carmela.

“The
mortgage?
” said Wren, clearly puzzled. “But Jamie put the house in my name, too, right? So all I have to do is make the monthly payments and I’m okay?” She stared at Carmela. “Right?”