Bound For Murder (18 page)

Feeling old wire springs shift beneath her, Carmela flipped open the file folder and perused its contents.

More photos. Black-and-white photos mingled with a few color Polaroids. But these photos all had a collegiate feel to them. Guys partying, drinking beer, posturing with their arms slung about each other’s shoulders.

Boy’s bonding,
thought Carmela. Maybe from Jamie’s earlier days at Tulane?

A phrase Shamus used to toss around bubbled up in Carmela’s mind.
Shit-faced
. That’s what Shamus had called partying. Only it wasn’t really partying at all, but getting drunk. Binge drinking. An epidemic, apparently, on today’s college campuses.

Squinting in the dim light, Carmela quickly sifted through the rest of the photos until she came to a thick glob of papers. Here were more photos and papers, but they were all hopelessly stuck together. Pulling at one corner, she immediately tore a piece off. Oops. Not good. This was obviously going to require some careful work on her part. But nothing that she could do now.

Lost in thought, Carmela stared at the jumble of pillows sitting at her feet. Casually, mindlessly, she contemplated the nubby kilim fabric, with its Oriental design and colors of muted blue, green, and purple. And then she suddenly blinked hard.

She stared at them quizzically, knowing something wasn’t quite right. Felt a jittery “What’s wrong with this picture?” vibe suddenly run through her.

Then, sudden comprehension kicked in. And Carmela scrambled to her feet. Some time between late yesterday afternoon and right now, someone had been in the store!

How did she know that for sure? Because whoever this mysterious visitor had been, he or she had removed the cushions and piled them on the floor.

She knew it hadn’t been Wren who moved the pillows, because Wren had been working at Memory Mine all day. Could it have been Blaine Taylor? Searching for something that belonged to Jamie? Something that he desperately needed to find?

Or could it have been Dunbar DesLauriers? As a long-time customer, Dunbar DesLauriers might have known if Jamie had hidden a key somewhere. On a nail out back or under one of the back steps. If it had been Dunbar, maybe he’d come back to check on one of the precious antique books he wanted to buy.

But did that even make sense?
wondered Carmela.
If there were two or three books Dunbar specifically wanted, wouldn’t he just steal them?

Carmela gazed around. It was possible Dunbar had already stolen them. Maybe his big fat offer of seventy-five grand was just his version of a clever smoke screen.

And what about Margot Butler? Carmela wondered if she had a key to the bookstore. Or if Margot had visited the bookstore right before she’d dropped by Memory Mine earlier. Would that have accounted for her manic mood?

Carmela shivered. Margot’s snake fetish scared the bejeebers out of her. In Louisiana, snakes were generally given a wide berth.

A sudden scratching at the front door startled Carmela.

Putting a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart, Carmela realized someone was at the door. Probably a customer, wondering if the bookstore was open.

Carmela descended the few steps and hurried over to the front door where a dark shadow moved on the other side of the frosted window pane.

She pulled the door open, ready to tell whoever it was that the store was closed until further notice, and got the surprise of her life when the unexpected visitor turned out to be Shamus!

“Shamus!” she cried. “You scared me to death!”

Shamus looked totally unapologetic. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

“How did you know I was here?” she asked. She wasn’t sure if she was still angry at him or secretly relieved that he’d turned up like the proverbial bad penny. She’d been talking herself into a pretty good case of the willies.

Shamus shrugged. “When I stopped by the store and you weren’t there, I just put two and two together.”

“Did Glory send you?” Carmela asked, wary now. “Are you here because of her?”
There’s an old adage that warns against shooting the messenger, but I could certainly make an exception in this case
.

Shamus squinted at her. “What are you, loony or something? I’m here because of you.”

“Yeah right,” said Carmela.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked, pushing his way through the open door.

Carmela shrugged and retreated deeper into the store. Amazingly, the place didn’t seem nearly so gloomy or frightening now. Funny how another warm body can make things feel a whole lot safer.

“Call Glory off, Shamus,” said Carmela. “She’s been acting very badly. Threatening Wren and making wild assumptions.”

“It’s just business,” said Shamus. “That’s how Glory is. She takes everything very seriously.” He shook his head, assuming a look of bemused befuddlement. “You have no idea how tough banking is these days, Carmela. People think you’ve got millions to spread around when actually you’re dealing with extremely narrow margins. Banking has become a very demanding business. We’re constantly being pushed to our limits.”

Carmela folded her arms and threw him a wry glance. “Those pesky usury laws make it
so
hard to earn obscene profits these days, don’t they Shamus?” She knew that Louisiana’s banking laws were some of the most liberal in the country.

“Carmela,” said Shamus. “A word of warning. Glory is dead serious about helping Dunbar DesLauriers get his way. If you have
any
influence with this young lady at all, I think you should advise her to sell. For gosh sakes, wake up and smell the red ink! Small businesses are collapsing all around us. This isn’t the go-go nineties anymore. Times are lean. And from what I hear, Dunbar’s offer is more than fair.”

“Save the
strum und drang
for all the loan customers you give thumbs down to, Shamus,” snarled Carmela. “And by the way, when did
you
suddenly evolve into a wise old business sage? You watch maybe thirty minutes of CNN at best and catch a few installments of Lou Dobbs and you think you’re a whiz kid. Well you’re not, Shamus. Take some advice from someone who’s really
in
business. Climb down from your high horse and into the trenches. See what it’s
really
like.”

Shamus bristled and took a step forward just as a ball of brown and white fur shot through the door and swirled wildly about his knees.

“Holy shit!” shrieked Carmela. “What’s that?”

“A dog,” said Shamus, suddenly back in nonchalant mode.

Carmela peered at the creature who had, in fact, stopped swirling and was now sitting rather complacently beside Shamus. “I can
see
it’s a dog,” she huffed. “What’s it doing here?”

“It kind of followed me.”

“Followed you? Why would it do that?”

“Because I’m lovable?” proposed Shamus.

Carmela ignored his remark. “Followed you for how long?”

“The last few blocks,” said Shamus.

“And you just
let
it?” said Carmela, a critical tone creeping into her voice. “Jeez Shamus, the poor thing probably belongs to someone. You probably lured it away from its neighborhood. From its home.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Shamus. “See, Poobah isn’t even wearing a collar.”

“Then how do you know the dog’s name is Poobah?” asked Carmela, starting to get exasperated.

“Because I named him,” said Shamus, looking pleased.

“You named him Poobah,” said Carmela.
Obviously, Glory wasn’t the only fruitcake in the family.

Shamus reached down and rubbed the dog under its chin. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Poobah?” he crooned. “You’re kind of a scratch-and-dent guy, but you’ve got a big heart.”

Tail thumping like crazy, Poobah snuggled up against Shamus. Carmela rolled her eyes skyward.

“Bet you’re hungry, too,” said Shamus. He cast a meaningful gaze at Carmela. “This dog needs a decent meal.”

“Take him to the Humane Society,” advised Carmela. “I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to feed him. Probably even help locate his owner. This dog could have an ID chip imbedded under his skin somewhere, you never know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shamus slowly. “He’s clearly a stray.” Shamus squinted at Carmela. “What if he stayed with you for a couple days?”

“No,” said Carmela, always amazed by Shamus’s extraordinary chutzpah. “No way. Take him home with
you.
”

Shamus grimaced. “Can’t. I’m staying with Glory right now. That sublet over by Audubon Park didn’t work out.”

In what struck Carmela as a bizarre coincidence, Shamus and the dog both seemed to be gazing at her with the same sad, befuddled looks on their faces.

“Glory doesn’t like dogs,” continued Shamus. “But you do. In fact, you’re the best person I know with dogs. You’re kind . . . tender-hearted. Animals just naturally respond to you. They
love
you.”

“What if he’s got fleas?” asked Carmela, looking askance at Poobah. The poor guy really did look as though he’d logged some serious time on the mean streets of New Orleans. His fur was matted, one ear looked like it was partially ripped off. Her heart went out to him. “Boo could catch fleas from him,” Carmela continued, trying to resist the little stray’s charms.

“I’ll bet he’s just fine,” said Shamus.

Boo is extremely fastidious,” said Carmela. “It would just kill her if she got creepy-crawly fleas.”

“Jeez, Carmela,” laughed Shamus. “It’s not like we’re talking about a sexually transmitted disease or something. It’s a few lousy fleas!”

“Still . . .” said Carmela.

“Tell you what,” said Shamus. “I’ll run out and buy a flea collar.”

“And if Poobah lays claim to my furniture and
I
get fleas . . . ?”

“I’ll buy two collars.”

“Shamus . . .” said Carmela, a warning note sounding in her voice. “This is really a terrible idea.”

“No, it’s not,” enthused Shamus. “It’s a wonderful idea. This is a terrific little dog. A diamond in the rough. Plus, we’d be giving the poor fella a home.”

“
We’d
be giving it a home?” said Carmela. She stared at Shamus. “No.
We’re
not doing anything of the sort.”

“Pleeease,” he cajoled. “Everybody deserves a second chance.”

Carmela stared at Poobah. The little dog gazed mournfully back at her, then cocked his head as if to say,
Well, what about it? Like the song says, Should I stay or should I go?

“Good lord,” cried Carmela, throwing her hands helplessly in the air. “I’m a sucker . . . a pushover . . . a patsy!”

“You’re a love,” said Shamus, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her toward him.

“Promise me you’ll run an ad,” said Carmela, savoring the way his body felt pressed up against her. “In the lost and found section of the
Times-Picayune.
Promise me you’ll try to find this guy’s owner.”

“Of course I will,” said Shamus. “You know I will. Have I ever let you down?”

Oh boy,
thought Carmela.
Time to tattoo the word STUPID across my forehead in capital letters.

“
I
woke up and looked in the mirror this morning,” began Ava as she climbed into Carmela’s Mercedes, “and was utterly shocked to see how awful my lips looked.” She pulled down the passenger-side visor and squinted into that mirror. “Look,” she cried unhappily. “My lips used to be all plump and full and now they’re thin and wrinkled. I’m gettin’
turtle
lips!”

“No way,” said Carmela, laughing. “Your lips and every other body part are still utterly gorgeous. In fact, you’re the last person in the world who’d ever have to think about getting collagen injections or Botox or whatever the procedure
du jour
happens to be.” Ava, who was not yet thirty, was drop-dead beautiful. No lines or crows feet had dared insinuate themselves on her face, and her lips were decidedly lush.

“You really think so?” queried Ava. “I still have my looks? To say nothing of my lips?”

“You’re fine,” Carmela assured her. “Now will you please fasten your seat belt so we can get going?”

That’s funny,” said Ava. She was still squinting in the mirror and happened to catch the reflection of Boo and Poobah perched on the tiny shelf that served as a rudimentary back seat in Carmela’s Mercedes. “Last time I looked you just had the one dog. Now I’m seeing two dogs squished into your back seat.”

“Hey,” said Carmela, popping the car into gear and squealing away from the curb. “Last time
I
looked I had one dog.”

“Uh-oh, sounds like you found yourself some trouble with a capital T,” said Ava as they shot down Barracks Street. “What happened?”

“Shamus happened,” said Carmela.

Ava rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me . . .”

“Long story short,” said Carmela, “Poobah’s a stray. Shamus found him. Or claims he did, anyway.”

“Let me guess,” said Ava, quickly sensing the gist of the story. “Shamus felt sorry for the dog, but in typical Shamus style he foisted the little mutt off on you. Jeez, Carmela, you’re not gonna
keep
him, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Carmela, wondering if Ava meant Shamus or the dog. And wondering, also, how to extricate herself from yet another Shamus-induced mess. Shamus obviously adored the poor stray, and Boo, the little traitor, had promptly adopted Poobah as her long-lost little brother.

“What’s the dog’s name?” asked Ava, scrunching around to get a better look at him.

“Poobah,” answered Carmela. Upon hearing his name, Poobah was suddenly at full attention, tail wagging, nose quivering, brown eyes shining eagerly.