Bound For Murder (24 page)

“It’s a free country,” said Glory. But her words didn’t carry their normal dose of venom. Glory was clearly uncomfortable with Poobah in her house. She squirmed, flinched, and one eye seemed to be bouncing around all on its own.

“Right,” said Carmela slowly. She knew the “free country” defense was another one of those lame, dumb-ass excuses that really meant
I’m gonna do whatever I want and you can’t stop me.

“Carmela. Glory. What the heck’s going on?” Shamus was suddenly in the room with them.

Glory looked relieved. As though reinforcements had arrived just in the nick of time. “Good. You’re home,” said Glory, edging toward Shamus.

“I brought your dog,” Carmela told Shamus.

Looking suddenly uncomfortable, Shamus chose to ignore both of them and focus on Poobah. “Hi, pup,” he said, bending down to gently scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Are we quite finished?” asked Glory. She stared belligerently at Carmela. “Because I for one have better things to do than stand around listening to you belly-ache about business that doesn’t concern you.”

“Don’t talk to Carmela like that,” said Shamus. “She’s still my wife.”

“Humph,”
said Glory, scratching at her neck. “Not for long. If you two don’t get divorce proceedings rolling, I’m going to step in and put one of my own lawyers to work. It’s high time you . . .”

“Stay out of it,” snapped Carmela.

“She’s right,” said Shamus. “We’ll deal with it ourselves.”

“In our own sweet time,” said Carmela.
Good lord, what am I saying? Our own sweet time? Hasn’t this thing dragged on long enough?

“Mother of pearl!” thundered Glory.

Startled, both Carmela and Shamus jumped at the sound of her strident voice.

“What?” asked Shamus.

Eyes bugged out, looking completely aghast, Glory was leaning forward, pointing to a wet spot on the carpet. “Look! That hideous animal Carmela dragged in here has had an accident! In my
house!
”

“I don’t think so, Glory,” began Shamus. “Gus was in here earlier watering plants.” Gus was Glory’s gardener.

“Gus doesn’t spill,” spat Glory, itching furiously now. “He’s not
allowed
to spill.”

With a look of panic on his face, Shamus was suddenly back-pedaling like mad. “For cripe sakes, Glory, it’s not that big a deal. The dog simply had an accident. A little tinky-poo on the carpet’s not going to hurt anything.”

Carmela stared at Shamus in utter amazement. First of all, she’d never seen him this panicked, except for the few minutes right before their wedding ceremony. And second, and possibly most startling of all, she’d never ever heard Shamus spout baby talk before. It was extremely odd. And more than a little unnerving. Was this what she had to look forward to if they ever decided to grow old together? Shamus talking about his drinky-winky or his lunchy-munchy? It would be like being forced to endlessly watch the Teletubbies.

But Glory wasn’t about to be put off by Shamus’s suddenly regressive choice of words. “This carpet will have to be replaced,” she barked. “It’s probably soaked clear through to the foam padding.”

“You might have to rip up the floorboards, too,” Carmela added helpfully. “Or, at the very least, disinfect them.”

Shamus threw her a disparaging glance. “Thanks a
lot!
”

“Don’t mention it,” Carmela told him sweetly. She was pleased to see that Glory seemed to have developed a full-fledged rash on her neck.

“Take your dog outside now!” Glory commanded Carmela.

“Sorry, but he’s not my dog.” Carmela tried to hand the leash off to Shamus, but he stood there stubbornly, hands held firmly at his sides.

“Sure he is,” whined Shamus. “Poobah’s
your
dog. You’ve been taking care of him.”

“Nice try,” said Carmela, now finding herself in a face-off with Shamus. “Your mewling and puling might have worked on me once, but not a second time. I’m immune, Shamus. I’ve found the antitoxin.”

“Shamus!” snapped Glory. “If it’s your animal, take the damn thing outside!” She pushed out her lower lip and glowered at Shamus like
he
was the one who’d wet the carpet.

Carmela fought to control her glee. Dealing with Glory was a lot more fun when she wasn’t on the receiving end of that razor-sharp tongue.

Shamus grabbed the leash from Carmela’s hands and headed for the door, Carmela following on his heels. They steamrolled through the doorway together like they were beginning some grand adventure. But Shamus wasn’t finished with his petty grumblings.

“You’ve got to take Poobah home with you,” he pleaded, once they hit the front porch.

“No can do,” countered Carmela.

“Pleeease,” said Shamus.

“Put a lid on it, will you?” snapped Carmela. She gazed down at Poobah, who was looking a little dazed and confused.
They weren’t all going for a walk together? He had to stay in this strange house with the scary lady?

“Look,” said Carmela, “Poobah’s a terrific little dog, okay? Maybe, if things were different, I could keep him. But . . . well, it’s just not going to work out.”

“If things were different,” said Shamus, pouncing on her words. “What things?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” murmured Carmela. “Bigger house, a fenced-in yard . . . just things.”

“Us?” Shamus asked sharply. He was grasping Poobah’s leash like it were a life line.

“Maybe,” said Carmela. She was suddenly cautious about the direction this conversation was taking her.
Proceed carefully,
she told herself.
This is dangerous ground.

“You know I love you,” blurted out Shamus. “I always have.”

Carmela felt like her head was spinning. Like she was imprisoned on a runaway tilt-a-whirl and the ride operator had wandered off somewhere. To have a smoke, or maybe never come back.

“Shamus, telling me you love me is not going to motivate me to keep Poobah.” Carmela’s words came out harsher than she’d intended and she inwardly cringed.
Great. Lash out and really hit the guy when he’s down. Way to go.

Shamus was peering at her closely now. “Are you going on a date tonight or something?” He’d obviously just noticed her black crepe dress.

“Why do you ask?”
Damn. I thought if I tossed this ratty old sweater on over it he wouldn’t notice.

“You’re all dressed up,” he said, his tone verging on accusatory. “Your hair looks really cute. And you’re wearing makeup. Eye liner.”

Pulling her sweater tightly around her shoulders, Carmela stood on tiptoes and gave Shamus a kiss on his cheek. His skin felt smooth and cool and smelled faintly of spicy after-shave. “Good night, Shamus,” she told him. “Good luck with Poobah.”

Q
UIGG Brevard caught both of Carmela’s hands in his as he greeted her at the front door. She’d left the ratty sweater in the car and freshened her lipstick, seeing as how it seemed to have worked its way off during her altercation with Glory.

“You look ravishing,” Quigg growled. Snazzily turned out in a dark-blue suit with a starched white shirt and Chinese red tie, his fashion choice was highly complementary to his dark hair and olive complexion. It also served to make him look a little more handsome, a little more dangerous.

Carmela did what any normal woman would do under the circumstances. She blushed and stammered out a
thank you
.

“No, I mean it,” Quigg told her, slipping an arm about her waist. “Your skin is glowing, your hair looks incredibly blond and fantastic, and I love the dramatic eye makeup.”

What’s with the comments about makeup?
wondered Carmela.
First from Shamus and now Quigg. Do I normally not wear enough makeup? And here I thought I was single-handedly supporting the Chanel and Estee Lauder counters at Saks.

“Thank you,” Carmela murmured again. Quigg’s compliments were a far cry from Shamus’s almost accusatory remarks about her makeup and hair. But could she really buy into Mr. Oh-so-polished-restaurateur’s words? Ah, that was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Quigg Brevard talked a great game and fairly oozed charm, but was he really a one-woman, settling-down kind of guy? Maybe. Or maybe not. Carmela wasn’t so sure she wanted to lay her beating heart out there on a silver platter to find out. Been there, done that, as they say. This time, if there was a
this time,
she was determined to proceed with extreme caution.

“This cozy spot right over here,” said Quigg, as he hustled Carmela across the dining room, “has been reserved exclusively for
us
.”

A table for two, set with white linen, gold chargers, and a virtual hedge of red roses, sat right in front of the marble fireplace and the crackling fire that burned within. The coziest and very best seat in the house. The table that was
the
focal point of the restaurant. Where you could see everyone and they could see you.

Gulp,
thought Carmela.

But slipping into her chair, she still couldn’t help but be charmed. “You’re sure this is just an impromptu little dinner?” Carmela asked him. It sure looked like Quigg had gone out of his way.

“Absolutely,” he replied, flashing her a wicked grin. “Worst table in the house. Can’t give the darn thing away.”

A waiter hustled over to fill Carmela’s water glass, gently drape a damask napkin across her lap, deposit of basket of fresh-baked rolls and honey butter at her fingertips, and, in general, fuss over her.

“We’ll start with the carpachio, Gerald,” Quigg told him. “And bring the wine right away.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the waiter.

“No menu tonight,” said Carmela. “You must have dinner all figured out.”

“We can get you a menu if you prefer,” Quigg told her. “But, as I mentioned on the phone, we have some superlative Chilean sea bass fillets that the chef is going to prepare with a barbecue glaze and side of mango salsa.”

Carmela shook her head as she suddenly felt faint hunger pangs in her tummy. “Sounds heavenly.” She sank back in her sumptuously upholstered chair, watching as Quigg and Gerald went through the wine ritual. Gerald opening and pouring, Quigg sniffing and swirling the contents of his glass.

One of the delights of seeing Quigg was that Carmela
didn’t
have to order off the menu. He almost always had a spectacular dinner lined up. Sometimes he surprised her with an exotic appetizer of quail’s eggs or
foie gras
. Sometimes it was as simple and basic as sliced beefsteak tomatoes with a slice of fresh mozzarella and drizzle of balsamic vinegar.

“The restaurant’s packed tonight,” she told him. Indeed, every table in Bon Tiempe seemed to be occupied, and Carmela could see a line forming at the front door. Late arrivals waiting for a table or hopefuls praying for a cancellation.

Quigg shrugged. “It’s been this way for the past week. Absolutely jam-packed.”

“More curiosity seekers?” asked Carmela.

A dark eyebrow shot up. “I prefer to think my menu is the major draw,” said Quigg. “But . . . yes, I think so.” And then, because Quigg could tell that Carmela really wanted to talk about Jamie’s tragic murder, he added: “Curiosity seekers. And amateur investigators, too.”

She took a quick sip of wine, put her crystal goblet down. “What you really meant was amateur investigators like me.”

Quigg grinned. “You try to look so innocent, but I know you can’t resist getting involved.”

Carmela’s cheeks suddenly flushed with color. “We’ve all been pretty stunned by this,” she told Quigg.

“By
we
you mean your little circle of scrapbookers,” said Quigg.

“Well, yes,” replied Carmela. “But most especially Wren and Gabby.”

“I can’t tell you how many times the police have been back here,” said Quigg. “The detectives interviewed absolutely everyone who was here that night. Kitchen help, wait staff . . .”

“And nothing?” said Carmela.

Quigg gave a small shrug. “Apparently not. You’ve been in contact with the police, too. What do they say?”

“They’re baffled.”

Carmela hesitated as the waiter set small plates of carpachio in front of each of them. After he left, she continued.

“You trust all your employees?” she asked Quigg.

Quigg gave a rueful smile. “Hardly,” he said. “Then again, I can’t say I know them personally. I’m more concerned with their ability to whip up a French remoulade sauce, green tomato relish, or a pan of pecan biscuits than I am with their personal ethics, so I really only know the faces they present here. But lots of people do lead double lives.”

“I know they do,” she answered.
Case in point: Jamie Redmond seems to have led a bit of a double life himself.

“How do you like the wine?” asked Quigg. “It’s Laetitia Pinot Noir Estate.”

“Absolutely superb,” Carmela told him.

 

 

THEY WERE WELL THROUGH THEIR CHILEAN SEA bass and mango salsa before Quigg circled back to the subject of Jamie’s murder.

“Do you still believe Jamie Redmond was trying to scrawl some sort of final message before he died?” Quigg asked her.

Carmela looked pensive. “Don’t know,” she told him. “You sure thought so that night,” said Quigg. “At least that’s what you and Ava were chattering about.”

“I know,” said Carmela. “But the police pretty much blew that idea out of the water. So I guess I’m not convinced, either.”

“It did seem a little far-fetched,” allowed Quigg.

“Do you think . . .” Carmela began, then cleared her throat. “Do you think I could have a word with some of the people who were working in the kitchen that night?”

Quigg set his fork down and reached across the table to take her hand. “Carmela, the police really are doing their best. I think your heart is in the absolute right place, but there comes a time when you just have to trust people.”