Bound For Murder (23 page)

“Carmela,” pleaded Dunbar, obviously not used to having women ridicule him to such an extent.

“Talk,” Carmela ordered, once the three women had retreated all the way to the back craft table.

But Dunbar DesLauriers was still wound up and blustering mightily. “Business,” he declared again. He shook his head and his jowls sloshed furiously. “Simply business,” he repeated, but his voice resonated with heated anger.

“Why don’t you tell me about this little business deal that’s got everyone so worked up,” said Carmela. A nasty feeling had taken root in the pit of her stomach, but Carmela wasn’t about to show any weakness in front of Dunbar DesLauriers.

Never let ’em see you sweat
.

Amazingly, she’d learned that valuable lesson from Shamus’s sister, Glory.

“I assure you,” said Dunbar, whipping out a piece of paper and smacking it down hard on the front counter, “this is all quite legal. All aboveboard.”

It had been Carmela’s experience that whenever someone went to great lengths to explain how legal and aboveboard something was, it meant they were set to screw you royally.

“What’s this, Dunbar?” she asked, snatching up the document and scanning it. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Glory sold me the paper,” spat out Dunbar DesLauriers. He was fighting to stay in control now. Angry and completely pissed off, he seemed poised to strike, just like the proverbial scorpion.

“The paper on what?” demanded Carmela. The nasty feeling in her stomach was spreading way too fast for comfort.

“Twenty ten Juliet Street,” said Dunbar. He sounded angry but suddenly looked slyly pleased. Like an errant little boy who’d just pulled one off.

“On Wren’s house,” said Carmela.
Oh crap
.

“On the house Crescent City Bank
owned,
” said Dunbar. “If you recall, they held the title.”

“And now you do,” said Carmela. She was seething inside. This was just the kind of dirty, underhanded trick she expected from someone like Dunbar DesLauriers. “I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself,” she told him.

Dunbar chose to ignore Carmela’s biting sarcasm. “I explained to Miss West that we could execute a simple trade,” said Dunbar. “A business deal of sorts. The paper on her house for the contents of Biblios Booksellers.” Dunbar paused and smiled then, looking all the world like a friendly but ravenous barracuda. “Once she has this paper,” he added, “the residence is hers. Free and clear.”

“Free and clear,” said Carmela, the words almost catching in her throat. “Wrong, pal. Free and clear is when you do the deal
above
board.”

“It
is
aboveboard,” countered Dunbar.

“You are a despicable weasel,” snapped Carmela. “So don’t try to take the moral high ground with me. You couldn’t just bide your time and maybe do this with a little grace and good faith? For goodness sakes, Wren might have even
sold
the bookstore to you if you’d let her do it in her own good time and of her own free will. But, no, you’ve got to come cowboying in here with your conniving ways and dirty tricks. It’s probably more
fun
that way, though, isn’t it?” Snatching up the piece of paper, Carmela crumpled it into a ball and hurled it at him. “Get out!” she ordered. “Tandy was right. You
are
an asshole.”

A spattering of applause erupted from the back of the room as Carmela’s ranting came to a rapid conclusion. Chest heaving, face slightly pink, she’d suddenly run out of words.

Dunbar DesLauriers bent swiftly and snatched up the crumpled paper from the floor. He thrust it toward her in a threatening gesture. “This is
legal,
” he hissed. “I can call this paper in tomorrow if I want to!”

“Get out!” ordered Carmela.

And with that, Dunbar DesLauriers spun on his heels and caromed out the front door.

 

 

“I’M COOKED,” SAID WREN. “NOW I DON’T HAVE ANY choice.” She sat at the table, looking dazed. Gabby and Tandy sat on either side of her, looking supportively morose.

“You’re not cooked,” said Carmela, still trying to catch her breath after her retaliatory outburst. She was striding around the store, trying to dispel the jittery feeling that had built up inside her from too much adrenaline. Way too much adrenaline.
That’s my second hit in the span of twenty-four hours,
she told herself.
Sure hope I don’t go into cardiac arrest or something
.

“What if Dunbar wants to call in the loan?” asked Wren, looking dispirited.

“I don’t know how much you guys know about real estate foreclosures,” said Carmela, “but I used to listen to Shamus endlessly grump and groan about foreclosures. And from the way he carried on about the unfairness of the process, I know it takes a good two or three months. Minimum.”

Wren looked up hopefully. “Really? You’re sure?”

Carmela nodded. “Yup. And that’s after going to court. If you can even get a court date.”

“That sounds
good,
” quipped Tandy. “Buys her some time.”

“Carmela’s right,” said Gabby. “Dunbar DesLauriers is a fool and a blowhard. Stuart held a CD on some property and when the tenants didn’t make the payments, it took him forever to get it back. Almost six months, I think.”

“Six months is even better,” said Tandy. She patted Wren’s hand. “See, sweetie, you’ve got plenty of time.”

“So what were his histrionics really about?” asked Wren. “Was he just trying to
scare
me?”

“Probably,” said Carmela. “Dunbar’s a bully, clear and simple. And it’s been my experience that bullies always lead with threats and tough talk.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Gabby.

Carmela thought for a minute. “Why not call Dunbar’s bluff?”

“How on earth can we do that?” asked Wren.

“Well,” said Carmela, hastily working through her plan, “why don’t you tell him you’re going to finalize an inventory list. Make it sound very business-like, but also give him the impression we’re knuckling under a bit.”

“And our real agenda is . . . what?” asked Gabby.

“We’ll ask Jekyl Hardy to do an appraisal on the morecollectible books,” said Carmela. “Or, if he can’t do it himself, he can recommend one of his friends who’s a licensed appraiser.”

“Okay,” said Wren. “Then what?”

“Not sure,” said Carmela. “Maybe you’ll end up selling to him after all. Or maybe, in the process of putting a value on the business, you’ll be able to walk into another bank and qualify for a mortgage on the house.”

“Or a bridge loan for the business,” suggested Gabby.

Wren sat quietly for a few moments, then a smile began to spread across her face. “You’re right, Carmela,” she said quietly. “Business can be fun.”

“And it’s especially fun,” said Carmela, “when you’re able to make a tasty profit or hopscotch the other guy!”

Another lesson learned from Glory,
thought Carmela. And then she decided that there was no way Glory was going to get away scot-free in all of this.

“Carmela,” said Gabby, “Quigg Brevard is on the phone.”

“Mmn,” said Carmela, darting into her office to take his call.

“Hey gorgeous,” said Quigg when she picked up the phone. “Whatcha doing tonight?”

All thoughts of staying late to work on the Gilt Trip scrapbook flew out of Carmela’s head at the sound of Quigg’s voice. Here was a charming, interesting man who sounded like he actually wanted the pleasure of her company. On the other hand, she didn’t want to sound
too
anxious.

“I’ve got some work to finish up,” she told him.

“Survey says . . .
wrong,
” answered Quigg. “I’ve got some Chilean sea bass that has your name on it.”

“Imagine that,” said Carmela. “All the way from Chile. And with my name on it.”

“Dinner’s at seven,” Quigg told her. “And if you’re really good, I’ll pop the cork on a bottle of Laetitia Pinot Noir.”

“How can I say no,” said Carmela.
Besides, this gives me one more chance to snoop around Bon Tiempe. I don’t expect to find any hot clues, but you never know. It’s worth a shot.

“
W
HAT the . . . ?”

Carmela’s first thought went she walked into her apartment was that someone had ransacked the place. Broken in and scattered all the photos and papers she’d laid out so carefully last night.

Then she saw the tiny snippet of paper caught in Poobah’s whisker.

“Did you do this?” Carmela asked the little dog sharply. Poobah’s tail thumped the floor even as his shoulders slumped and he looked evasively away.

“You’re a very naughty dog,” Carmela told him. Crouching down, she gathered up the mangled remains of the photos and shredded documents. She’d read somewhere that you were never supposed to reprimand a dog after the fact. That they weren’t smart enough to put two and two together.

“We’re going to take you back to Shamus,” Carmela told Poobah. “The nice man who found you. Because the cardinal rule around here is never, ever touch the papers and photos.” She put her hands on her hips and continued to lecture Poobah, who really did look penitent. “You see, pal, I’m in the scrapbooking business. And we really can’t have you undermining any of my handiwork. You understand?”

Poobah rolled his eyes nervously, as if to say
I didn’t mean to screw up so badly.
Boo, sensing this was a pivotal moment in canine commiseration, moved in to make her appeal. Eyes bright, paws dancing, Boo pranced in a tight circle around Carmela.

“Sorry, Boo, that’s not going to work either. I’m gonna feed you guys, then take a quick shower and change clothes. While I do that, you two say your doggy farewell’s to each other, because Poobah’s going back with Shamus tonight. Shamus is in banking, and they don’t look as unkindly upon shredded documents as I do.”

I’m also gonna kill two birds with one stone,
Carmela decided.
When I swing by the Garden District to drop Poobah off, I can say my piece to Glory Meechum. Hoo yeah.

Carmela nodded to herself, resolute in her mission. Then she dashed off to dig in her closet for the perfect pair of strappy sandals to go with her new black crepe dress.

 

 

SIX O’CLOCK IN THE GARDEN DISTRICT WAS A magical time of night. Gaslights silhouetted stately oaks, and enormous Victorian, Greek-Revival, and French Gothic homes glowed from within. High-ceilinged dining rooms, quiet during the day, suddenly came to life when candles were lit and crystal and silver laid out on damask linen.

Shamus’s family had lived in the Garden District for well over fifty years, with various and sundry relatives occupying different homes. Carmela had, of course, lived here with Shamus until they’d split and Glory had driven her out. That former home was now occupied by a Meechum cousin, some poor unfortunate who’d been conscripted and was probably being groomed for an entry-level slot at one of the banks.

Carmela stood on Glory’s wide, graceful verandah and pounded on the front door.

She’d already tried the doorbell three times and got no answer. Probably, Carmela decided, Glory was busy doing a little post-workday touch-up with the vacuum cleaner. Glory’s diagnosis of a mild case of OCD meant she was forever cleaning, polishing, nit-picking, and, in general, searching for fly-specks in the pepper.

Suddenly, much to Carmela’s surprise, the door flew open and there stood Glory, looking frumpy and frowsled in a splotchy print housedress. “Carmela.” She frowned. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Hey there, Glory,” said Carmela in hale-hearty greeting. She figured she’d start with a friendly opener, then move in for the kill once she’d gained entrance to Glory’s inner sanctum.

But Glory was a tough nut to crack. For one thing, she’d noticed the dog hunkered down at Carmela’s side.

“What’s that?” she demanded.

“Dog,” said Carmela. “Canine.”

“You can’t bring a dog in here!”

“Sure I can,” said Carmela, struggling to maintain her upbeat, semi-friendly ruse. “In fact, it’s Shamus’s dog.”

Glory suddenly looked stunned. “Shamus bought a dog?” The notion seemed inconceivable to her. “He’d never do that! He knows I deplore dog hair and dander. Makes me sneeze and go all itchy.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, beginning to relish the conversation, “Shamus
found
this dog. It was a stray.”

“He
found
a dog?” muttered Glory. She gazed in unabashed horror at the little brown and white mutt at Carmela’s side, as though he might be a carrier of the deadly Ebola virus.

“Can we come in?” asked Carmela, brushing past her.

“Absolutely not. Stay right where you are!” ordered Glory. But Carmela breezed on into the living room, definitely inner sanctum territory, then turned to confront Glory. Carmela didn’t look quite so friendly now, and Glory, sensing conflict might be imminent, crossed her flabby arms across her broad chest.

“Thanks a lot for selling that mortgage paper to Dunbar,” began Carmela. “Your little business deal really helped things along.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“It was perfectly legal,” snorted Glory. “Standard business practice.”

“No, Glory, it was perfectly awful,” Carmela fired back. “Wren’s fiance was murdered and all you can think about is keeping Dunbar DesLauriers fat and happy. I know customer loyalty and customer relationship management are hot buttons in business today, but I’m not sure your little stunt was the best way to put those principles into practice.”