Bound For Murder (25 page)

“You’re right. I know.” She extricated her hand gently, picked up her wine glass, took another sip.
Trusting people isn’t something I’ve had a lot of luck with.

“And while we’re on the subject of hearts and trust,” said Quigg, I’d like to say a little something about us.”

Carmela almost choked on her wine.
Us? Uh-oh, where is he going with this?

“I’d like to see you, Carmela,” began Quigg. “And I mean more than just an occasional dinner here at the restaurant. And more than just socially.”

“Uh huh,” she said, knowing she probably sounded like a supreme idiot. But Quigg’s words had come out of left field, raining down on her like errant meteorites.
He want to see me more. A lot more. I suppose it was coming, but it still feels like a bit of a shocker!

Quigg continued to stare at her with great intensity. Until he lobbed the final bombshell. “But you’re
married,
Carmela.”

“Oh,” she said. “That.”

“Yes, that,” said Quigg. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. “Honey, this may be the Big Easy, but the flipside is that New Orleans is very much a God-fearing, church goin’ city. In other words, people will eventually start to talk.”

And disapprove,
she thought.
People love to find something they can disapprove of. It always seems to warm their little hearts.

Quigg suddenly looked puzzled. “You’re getting that weird look on your face,” he told her.

“Look? What look?” Carmela asked, innocently. Shamus always told her she got a petulant, mischievous look on her face whenever she was trying to worm her way out of something. He called it her petchevious look.

“It’s a look that clearly broadcasts,
I don’t give a damn,
” said Quigg. “But I can tell you right now, you should give a damn. Because
I
give a damn, Carmela. So I need to know, are you planning to get a divorce from Shamus Meechum or not?”

There it was. Out on the table. Right alongside the leftover sea bass, spatters of mango salsa, and the empty wine bottle.

Quigg wants to know if I’m getting a divorce,
thought Carmela.
And isn’t that a good question? I always assumed I was, but I just never seem to get around to the mechanics of it. So what does that really mean? That I’m purposely sabotaging my own divorce? That would make me a complete fruitcake.

“This silence is lasting way too long for comfort,” Quigg said finally.

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “Really.”

The busboy arrived suddenly to clear away dishes, and they sat quietly, sipping wine, gazing into the fire.

Now we look like we’re married,
thought Carmela.
Glum looks, zero communication. Isn’t this great.

Once the dishes had been whisked away, Gerald appeared at their table, carrying an enormous dessert tray. He tipped it down for Carmela to inspect, then he carefully and lovingly detailed each small plate filled with lemon truffle, fruit-topped brioche, bread pudding, praline pie, almond cake, and chocolate
gateau.

The City That Care Forgot never forgets to eat dessert,
thought Carmela.

“Have you made a choice yet?” Quigg asked her. His dark eyes stared intently at her across the sugary expanse of the dessert tray.

“No,” Carmela told him. “But I will.”

“
Y
OU’RE not coming in this morning?” said Gabby.

“That means I’ll be here all alone.”

“Where’s Wren?” asked Carmela. She was trying to watch the road, shift from second gear into third, juggle her cell phone, and navigate Prytania Street all at the same time.

“She went over to the bookstore,” Gabby told her. “Apparently you talked to Jekyl Hardy about doing some sort of appraisal on those rare books?”

“I left a message on his answering machine last night,” replied Carmela. “I never did talk to him.”

“Well, Jekyl called here about twenty minutes ago and told Wren that if she could meet him at Biblios right away he could start on the appraisal. Apparently he had some free time.”

“That’s terrific,” said Carmela. She pulled over to the curb, scanning the homes, reading house numbers.

“Carmela?” said Gabby. “You still there?”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “I’m bumbling around the Garden District trying to do six things at once.”

“So you’ll be in later?” asked Gabby.

“Yeah, but probably not until late morning. For some bizarre reason known only to myself, I promised Margot Butler I’d take a few more photos of the DesLaurier’s newly decorated dining room,” said Carmela.

“Ouch,” said Gabby. “I guess you volunteered
before
Dunbar bought the paper on Wren’s home and tried to call in the loan.”

“You got that right,” said Carmela.

“I take it you’re there now? Traipsing about on egg-shells?”

“Not quite,” said Carmela. “I’m actually parked at the curb, staring at Casa DesLauriers.”

“I thought they called it Happy Halls,” chuckled Gabby.

“Please don’t remind me,” said Carmela.

“What are you going to do if Dunbar’s home?” asked Gabby.

“Not sure,” said Carmela. “Kick him in the shins? Toss sand in his face? I don’t know, I haven’t thought it through yet.”
So what’s new? I don’t think a lot of things through.

“You said Dunbar was just a big bully,” said Gabby, “so maybe he got wind you were coming and took off. He’s probably long gone.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Carmela. “Facing Pamela Dunbar is bad enough!”

 

 

BUT PAMELA DUNBAR, DRESSED RATHER STRANGELY in a salmon-colored harem pants outfit and dripping with pearls, couldn’t have been sweeter as she greeted Carmela at the door of her palatial home.

“Carmela,” purred Pamela. “Welcome. I’ve been so looking forward to your little visit.”

You have, really? Then you’re the only one.
“Sorry I’m a little late. Is Margot here?”

“In the dining room working on a few finishing touches,” said Pamela, rolling her eyes expressively. “What an amazing
artiste
that woman is. Always searching for the very best in color and form.”

“Uh huh,” said Carmela, deciding Pamela
had
to be quoting from Margot’s brochure. Nobody really talked like that, did they?

The DesLauriers house was as spectacularly palatial on the inside as it was on the outside. But even though it was expensively furnished, the interior lacked a certain warmth.

It’s got that direct-from-the-showroom feel,
thought Carmela as she followed Pamela, lugging her scrapbooks, camera gear, and handbag, feeling like an overburdened pack animal.
It’s like the furniture movers wheeled in a shitload of stuff, set it down, then took off. Nothing’s technically incorrect, but the home just doesn’t exude that genteel lived-in feel.

“Here’s our Carmela,” announced Pamela in a sing-song voice as they arrived at the doorway to her newly refurbished dining room. Coming to an abrupt stop, Pamela cupped both hands together in front of her, then asked in a chirpy voice: “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or small pot of tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” murmured Carmela.

“Hey there, Carmela,” called Margot, hearing Pamela’s announcement, but not bothering to turn around. Margot seemed agitated and lost in thought as she strode to and fro, pondering the placement of a pair of rococo-looking wall sconces that two of her assistants were struggling to hold up. “No, that’s way too high,” she finally told them. “Slide them down a bit. Everything must feel
accessible.
” Margot whirled and threw Carmela a bright smile. “You brought the Lonsdale scrapbook? Showcasing the music room?”

“I did,” said Carmela, setting all her gear on the dining room table. “It’s all finished.” Fact was, Carmela had put a final hour in on the scrapbook last night when she arrived home from Bon Tiempe. Now if she could just get
this
one finished.

Margot immediately grabbed the scrapbook from Carmela and squinted at the cover. “Love it,” she declared, then began to page through it. “Good. Good. Good. Perfect,” was her verdict. Snapping the scrapbook shut, Margot flashed Carmela another winning smile. “As you can see, we made a few last minute
changes
in the room.”

Carmela glanced about. The dining room didn’t look all that different from the original photos Pamela had delivered to her. “You sure have,” said Carmela, pulling open her camera bag to grab her digital Nikon. “Everything looks great.”

“For your first shot,” said Margot, “the draperies. You see that lobed medallion design? It was inspired by an Italian Renaissance fabric.”

“All righty,” said Carmela, snapping away.

“Now step back and get a wide shot,” commanded Margot, running a hand across the edge of the dining table. “This table is yew wood. Very rare.”

They continued on like that, Margot pointing and explaining the
provenance
of every bit of furnishing, Carmela snapping away.

Once Margot’s assistants got the wall sconces screwed firmly in, Carmela took a shot of those, too.

“I talked Carriage House Lighting into donating them,” Margot told her in a conspiratorial whisper. “In exchange for being mentioned in the Gilt Trip scrapbook.”

“How exactly will the scrapbooks be displayed?” asked Carmela.

“We’ll put up the usual velvet ropes and lay down heavy rubber mats to shepherd in visitors,” explained Margot. “And then at the end of the tour, we’ll have a table set up with the scrapbook and all the brochures and sales sheets from the various vendors. That way, if anyone falls in love with draperies or carpets or wall coverings, they’ll know exactly where to get them for their house.”

“Gilt Trip isn’t a bad way for you to troll for new business, either,” remarked Carmela.

Margot gave a slow wink. “That’s for sure.”

 

 

WHEN CARMELA WAS FINISHED TAKING PICTURES, Pamela suddenly appeared, a friendly wraith in harem pants. Somewhere along the line, though, the clanking pearls had disappeared.

“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” Pamela asked Carmela.

“That’d be great,” Carmela told her.
I thought you’d never ask.

Turned out, Dunbar
was
a serious book collector. While the living room was a testament to chintz and prints, the library was very clubby, with Oriental carpets, leather chairs, and wall-to-wall books.

“This is a great library,” said Carmela, meaning it.

“Oh, silly old Dunbar and his precious books,” said Pamela, waving a hand. “He does so love to collect them.”

“Looks like he has a fair amount of first editions,” said Carmela scanning the shelves.

“I think he’s got his heart set on acquiring quite a few more,” said Pamela, giving her a meaningful gaze.

“You know, Pamela,” said Carmela, “Dunbar is being awfully pushy about acquiring Biblios Booksellers.”

“Honey, that’s just Dunbar’s way,” replied Pamela. “He’s just a hardheaded good old boy. He certainly doesn’t mean to
offend.
”

“He’s not exactly being subtle,” said Carmela. “I know what he’s doing is considered legal and aboveboard and just business. I’ve heard all the arguments. But he’s just not being very honorable.”

Pamela looked almost hurt. “Why on earth would anyone want to run a dusty old bookstore like that anyway? Especially when Dunbar is offering such a great deal.”

A great deal,
thought Carmela.
That’s exactly what John Law, the Scottish financier, told thousands of wealthy Frenchmen as he was bilking them out of their money. His was the very first “swampland deal” in America. And it originated right here in Louisiana. Now Dunbar DesLauriers was doing his best to carry on a proud tradition. Wonderful!

“
W
E were just about to order out for salads,” called Baby as Carmela came flying though the front door of Memory Mine.

“Turkey and baby field greens for me,” answered Carmela. “With citrus dressing.”

“Got it,” said Gabby, who stood poised with pencil and pad.

“Anybody else coming in?” asked Carmela as she dumped her gear on the front counter. “I mean of the regulars?”

“Tandy might drop by later,” said Baby. “I think she wants to work on another bibelot box.” She laughed. “Tandy’s mad for those little things.”

“They are pretty neat,” admitted Carmela. She grabbed her purse and dug inside for her little Nikon. “I take it Wren’s still at the bookstore?”

Gabby nodded. “Yup. She seemed excited, and I think it’s good for her mental health to sort through all that stuff.”

“It’s also good business,” said Carmela. “Now she’ll know exactly what she has and be able to put a real value on the inventory.”

“You’re such a smart lady,” said Baby. “Always thinking in terms of dollars and cents. Oh,” she exclaimed, “what an adorable little camera.”

“Isn’t it slick?” said Carmela, holding it up.

“Where were you taking pictures?” asked Baby.

Carmela made a face. “Pamela DesLauriers’s new dining room.”

“Oh you poor thing,” laughed Baby. “How’d it go? Is Pamela’s house as underwhelming as I’ve heard?”

“It’s not
terrible,
” said Carmela slowly. “But it does have that mannered decorator feel. Like every little
tchochke
was placed just so. And her living room definitely looks like a chintz-and-prints factory exploded.”

Baby gave a mock shudder.

“Was Dunbar there?” asked Gabby. She’d just phoned in their lunch orders and her ears perked up at Carmela and Baby’s conversation.

“No physical sign of Dunbar,” said Carmela. “But he was certainly present in spirit.”

“I take it Pamela was acting as his little mouthpiece,” said Gabby.

“You might say that,” said Carmela. “She’s under the impression that Dunbar is going out of his way to offer Wren a fantastic deal.”