Bound For Murder (22 page)

Nervously, Carmela scanned the dark courtyard, but it was empty. Just rain pounding down on flagstones, pots of drooping bougainvilleas, and a fountain that bubbled furiously even as it filled to capacity.

Pulling herself away from the window, shaking from the tiny shot of adrenaline that had insinuated itself into her nervous system, Carmela told herself she’d seen some kind of optical illusion.

Had to be her retina picking up the image of Jamie from the photo, then projecting it in her brain. So it caused the
illusion
of seeing him silhouetted in the window.

After all, there was no other logical explanation.

But even after Carmela crawled into bed and settled under her down comforter, it was a good long time before sleep came to carry her away.

Y
OU didn’t find anything?” asked Gabby. The rainstorm had continued through the night and into the morning, burbling down drain pipes, swirling in gutters and storm sewers, and, in general, snarling up city traffic. Which seemed to set the tone for the day.

Carmela shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry.” She debated telling Gabby about the conk on the head she’d received, but decided not to. Things were getting decidedly stranger and there was no reason to panic her.

“And you for sure checked the Boothville Cemetery?” Gabby asked.

“Ava and I walked every row,” Carmela assured her, “and found nothing.”

Gabby drummed her fingertips on the front counter and gazed toward the back of the store where Wren was showing a customer how to use a template to create a miniature shopping bag. “What are you going to tell Wren?”

“That we tried,” replied Carmela. “Which we did. Truly.” Carmela sighed. She felt like she’d let Gabby down. She hadn’t meant to, of course. It was just that the Redmonds must be buried somewhere else.

“Thank you, Carmela,” said Gabby finally. “You took a day off work to do this and here I am being a sourpuss. Sorry.”

“No problem,” said Carmela, although she appreciated the apology.

“And with this rain pouring down, I can’t imagine we’re going to be busy today.” Gabby shook her head. “There’s enough coming down out there to turn Canal Street into a real canal.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I could use a catch-up day.”

“Scrapbooks for Gilt Trip?” asked Gabby. She knew that Carmela’s life was perpetually over-booked.

Carmela nodded. “Even though you backed Margot off on the deadline, I still have to get them done.”

“Today’s the deadline,” said Gabby.

Carmela shrugged. “I know. But tomorrow’s going to have to do.”

“Carmela,” said Wren as Carmela drifted toward the back of the store. “Can I talk to you?”

Carmela held up a finger. “Hang on a minute, will you?” She wanted to check in with Lieutenant Edgar Babcock. He was her conduit in the New Orleans Police Department, and she wanted to see if they were any closer to naming a suspect or perhaps even making an arrest.

They weren’t.

Lieutenant Babcock was sympathetic, courteous, and sincere, all the things Boy Scouts are supposed to be, but he also seemed profoundly down when it came to talking about the case.

“Nothing,” he said in a tone that made no bones about the fact that he was disheartened. Not with Carmela. But with the lack of progress.

“We thought for sure you’d be hot on the trail of
someone
by now,” said Carmela. She didn’t want to come down too hard on Lieutenant Babcock or his colleagues. Criticism and negative pronouncements had a way of discouraging people.

“Jimmy . . . Detective Rawlings . . . and the other officers have gone back and talked to the kitchen employees a half-dozen times,” Lieutenant Babcock told her. “And they all tell the same story: Bon Tiempe was a madhouse that night. There were new people being trained in, a
saucier
got fired, several late deliveries were made.”

“Your people checked on these deliveries?” asked Carmela.

“Sure did. As I recall, one was from Vincent’s Wine Shop, another from Le Fleur; a florist shop, I’d guess. And the third was . . . ah, I’d have to check the case file.”

“But nothing,” said Carmela. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Oh, there’s gotta be something,” said Lieutenant Babcock. “Or, rather, some
one
. It’s just that nobody’s pinned him down yet.”

“What about the murder weapon?” asked Carmela. It had, after all, been a kitchen knife. Which would seem to indicate a weapon of convenience, grabbed from a drawer or a knife rack in Bon Tiempe’s sprawling kitchen.

“We’re still looking at that,” said Lieutenant Babcock.

Carmela debated telling Lieutenant Babcock about her trip down to Boothville yesterday. About the blue car that had seemed to follow them. And the nasty conk on the head she’d received. But she didn’t want Lieutenant Babcock coming down hard on her. Telling her to stay the hell out of the investigation. She was too far in and wanted to see this through to the end. For her own sake as well as Gabby’s and Wren’s.

“Say,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “your friend is still around, right?”

Carmela knew he was referring to Ava. “You mean Ava?”

“That’s the one.” A silence spun out. “Do you happen to know if she’s seeing anyone?”

What to tell him? Ava dated a lot.

“I don’t believe she’s seeing any
one person
in particular,” said Carmela. There. That answer was technically correct.

“Think she’d go out with me?” asked Lieutenant Babcock.

“Why don’t you give her a call and find out?” said Carmela. And then, because she thought her answer might sound a trifle flip, she added: “I’m sure she’d love to go out with you.”

“Okay, then,” said Lieutenant Babcock. “Thanks.”

“You’ll let us know,” said Carmela. “The minute you have something?”

“Count on it,” Lieutenant Babcock assured her.

Hanging up the phone, Carmela stared down at the photos and fabric scraps that were sitting on her desk. All stuff to go into the Happy Halls scrapbook for Pamela and Dunbar DesLauriers. She didn’t have much of a stomach for completing the scrapbook right now. But a promise was a promise and the Gilt Trip promotion
was
a fund raiser for the crisis nursery. So . . . she knew it was best to get on with things and focus on the end result, which was a very positive thing. And
not
worry about Margot Butler and her petty posturings. Or Pamela Dunbar and her delusions of grandeur. Still, it was difficult. And maddening, too.

Carmela’s phone gave off a single ring and she snatched it up.

“Memory Mine. This is Carmela.”

“Good morning,” came a carefully modulated voice. “This is Ross Pitot at the Selby Pitot Funeral Home.”

“Oh,” said Carmela. She
really
wasn’t expecting this call.

“Is Miss Wren West available?”

“She’s here,” said Carmela, “but she’s with a customer.” This time Wren really was with a customer.

“Perhaps I could call back,” said Ross Pitot. “If there’s a time . . .”

“This is about Jamie, right?” said Carmela. She paused. “Jamie Redmond. You handled the cremation?”

“That’s correct,” said Ross Pitot. “And you are . . .”

“I’m Carmela Bertrand. I’m a friend of Wren’s. I know the police released Jamie’s body a couple days ago, so I’m assuming you have since handled the . . . ah . . . cremation and that Jamie’s ashes are ready to be picked up.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Ross Pitot in a somber voice. “That’s exactly why I was calling. The cremains are ready for whatever final disposition Miss West has in mind.”

Cremains. What a strange, made-up word,
thought Carmela.
Almost clinical sounding. But very final, too.

“Wren . . . Miss West . . . is still a little upset,” said Carmela. “Obviously. But we will be by to pick up the . . . cremains.” Carmela grimaced. “I assume there’s no immediate rush?”

“Good heavens, no,” Ross Pitot assured her. “No hurry at all. Mr. Redmond’s cremains are really quite fine here. Tell Miss West to take her time. No problem.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. “I’ll relay that to her.”
I just have to work up my nerve first
.

But Wren seemed to know.

“That was a call about Jamie, wasn’t it?” she asked Carmela. Wren was pulling out sheets of sports-themed paper for Tandy and had a stack of photos on the table next to her. “I was going to work on that scrapbook about him,” she explained to Carmela, indicating some of the photos of Jamie they’d found at his house. “Over the lunch hour.”

“Do it now,” said Carmela, suddenly flashing on the image she saw—or thought she saw—in her window last night.
My eyes were just playing tricks on me,
she told herself.

“Are you sure?” said Wren. Carmela didn’t seem to be listening, so she said, “Carmela?”

Carmela suddenly snapped out of her strange reverie. “We’re not particularly busy,” she told Wren. “And you and Gabby did a phenomenal amount of straightening up yesterday, so . . . go ahead.” She glanced at the stack of photos with the portrait of Jamie sitting on top. “We just got some new leatherette albums in. One of those might work nicely for what you’ve got in mind.”

Wren gave her a shy smile. “Thank you. And hopefully you’ll give me a few pointers, too.” She paused. “That call
was
about Jamie, wasn’t it? I kind of overheard some of it. I guess his ashes are ready.”

Carmela nodded slowly. “You’re right, they are. But the fellow at Selby Pitot said there was no hurry.”

Wren chewed her lip. “I want to apologize for sending you and Ava on such a wild goose chase yesterday. For some reason, I was sure his parents were buried down in Boothville.”

“Not a problem,” said Carmela. “I’m just sorry Ava and I didn’t find anything.” Carmela surreptitiously rubbed the bump on the back of her head. She hadn’t found anything, but trouble seemed to have found them.

“Well, if there’s no hurry . . .” said Wren. Again Carmela had a strange faraway look in her eyes. But then she was smiling and back to her usual self.

“Don’t worry,” Carmela told her. “We’ll find his parents’ grave. It’s only a matter of time.”

 

 

“GOOD LORD,” SAID TANDY, SLIDING HER RED cheaters onto her bony nose. “You’ve completely covered that page with the most marvelous chintz fabric. I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“That’s because I’ve never done it before,” admitted Carmela. “But this is one of the scrapbooks for Gilt Trip, so I really wanted to make a bold design statement.”

“You certainly did,” said Tandy. “In fact, the end result is pretty fabulous.”

“Actually, this isn’t quite finished,” said Carmela. “I’m about ready to zip down the street to Gossamer & Grosgrain and borrow one of their sewing machines for a few minutes.” Gossamer & Grosgrain was the premier fabric and needlecraft shop in the French Quarter. They specialized in elegant silks, damasks, organzas, and satins. And they carried an exemplary array of Venetian point lace and duchesse lace.

“You’re going to stitch . . . what?” asked Tandy. Tandy was big on details. In fact, Tandy
demanded
details.

“The whole page,” replied Carmela. “I want to create lines of stitchery that will outline each photo.”

“Whoa,” said Gabby, suddenly interested. “Neat idea. But I thought you weren’t going to beat your brains out over this scrapbook. Especially since Margot strong-armed you.”

“She didn’t beat her brains out,” spoke up Wren in a soft voice. “Carmela’s pouring her heart into it. Big difference.” She flashed a faint, almost triumphant smile at Tandy and Gabby. “Did you really think she wouldn’t?”

“I guess not,” said Gabby. “Carmela pretty much throws herself wholeheartedly into everything she does.”

Don’t I wish,
thought Carmela.
Don’t I wish.

T
HE proverbial bull in a china shop was posturing smack dab in the middle of Memory Mine when Carmela returned from her visit to Gossamer & Grosgrain.

Dunbar DesLauriers, arms akimbo and voice in the dangerous decibel range, had seemingly reduced Wren to tears. And Tandy, all skinny one hundred and seven pounds of her, was advancing on Dunbar like an avenging angel.

“What the hell is going on?” Carmela demanded at the top of her voice as she came flying through the front door. Her profane and thunderous approach was designed to startle Dunbar, not upset the others. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the reverse effect.

Dunbar shook his head and rolled his eyes upon seeing her. “Finally!” he cried in a petulant tone. “Someone with a little common
sense.
”

Tandy continued to advance on Dunbar. “Shoo,” she told him, flapping her skinny arms as him as though she were trying to oust a flock of disobedient chickens. “Get out. We don’t want your kind around here. All you do is bring trouble!”

“Carmela!” demanded Dunbar. “Tell them it’s a
business
deal. That it isn’t personal, just business. It’s the way things are
done
.”

Where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah, in the movie.
The Godfather
. And always right before they wacked some poor sucker.

Dropping her newly stitched scrapbook pages onto the counter, Carmela approached the pleading Dunbar. “What are you talking about?” she asked. Then she glanced past Dunbar at Tandy, Gabby, and Wren and extended her hands in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “Let me sort this out,” she told them.

“He’s an
ass
hole,” sniffed Tandy, retreating a few steps and savoring the impact of her words. Reveling in her succinct characterization of Dunbar, Tandy made her pronouncement again: “A total asshole.”