Bound For Murder (26 page)

“But you don’t think he is,” said Baby. “You think he pitched her a lowball number.”

Carmela shrugged. “To be honest, I have no earthly idea what constitutes a fair price. Which is why it’s a good thing Wren and Jekyl are huddling at the bookstore today.”

“She’s been working on a scrapbook about Jamie,” spoke up Gabby. Her eyes turned suddenly sad as she stared across the table at the neat little stack of photos Wren had left sitting there.

Baby followed Gabby’s gaze. “Such a sweet girl,” she murmured. “To tackle such a sad project.”

BY TWO O’CLOCK, CARMELA FINALLY HAD A HANDLE on the DesLauriers’s Gilt Trip scrapbook. She’d sorted through her digital photos, selected a dozen or so, used Photo-shop to do some judicious digital retouching, then printed her photos out on four-by-six and six-by-ten glossy photo paper.

“Too bad we’re not getting paid for this,” said Gabby, looking over her shoulder.

“Mn hm,” said Carmela. She received lots of requests these days to design and create what they now referred to as “commercial” scrapbooks. She’d just designed one for a high-test realtor to showcase all the exceptional properties he’d sold in the past year. And she’d also created a really nifty smaller-sized scrapbook for a woman who guided walking tours through the French Quarter. That scrapbook had been almost collage-like in concept, with photos interspersed between short, fun quotes from satisfied clients.

“Hey, are you still going to design that Mumbo Gumbo menu?” Gabby asked. “For your friend, Quigg?”

Gabby’s innocent question seemed to suddenly paralyze Carmela’s brain.

Carmela forced herself to tune in to Gabby, who was going on about an idea she had for Mumbo Gumbo’s menu. Something about a five-panel booklet that opened up and a cover adorned with embellishments from Ava’s voodoo shop.

“Anyway,” said Gabby, “what do you think?”

Carmela, embarassed that she had no earthly idea what Gabby had been talking about, said, “I think you’re on to something.”

“Really?” said Gabby, sounding pleased. “Thanks.”

“Hey, you two,” called Tandy, who’d shown up about an hour ago. “Get out here and tell me if silver embossing ink is going to work on this gray frosted vellum.”

“Yes,” said Baby in a mock pout. “It isn’t any fun hanging around here if you two are going to huddle in that little office all afternoon.”

Grinning, firmly back in the here and now, Carmela carried her photos out to the craft table. “Sorry,” she told them, although she knew they weren’t really upset.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Tandy when she saw the photos of the DesLauriers’s dining room. “Don’t you have that last Gilt Trip scrapbook done yet?”

“Tandy!” said Baby, a cautionary note in her voice. “Carmela’s been ferociously
busy.
”

“She sure has,” added Gabby.

Tandy looked contrite. “My apologies, sweetie. I didn’t mean to insinuate you were lazy. I just assumed you’d off-loaded that project by now.”

“Tonight,” sighed Carmela, spreading out a number of twelve-by-twelve sheets of creamy yellow-beige paper that had a Tuscan motif border. “I’m gonna whip through this baby and then Margot Butler’s going to stop by here around five o’clock to pick it up. Then my last Gilt Trip scrapbook will be off-loaded, as you so elegantly put it!”

 

 

“HEY YA’LL,” CALLED AVA AS SHE POPPED THROUGH the back door. Carmela had given Ava a key so she could cut down the back alley.

In unison, Baby, Tandy, and Gabby sang out hearty hellos.

“What are
you
doing here?” asked Carmela. “I thought you had forty cases of saint candles to unpack!” Saint candles were tall jar candles with colorful images of saints either painted on the glass or printed on paper that was wrapped around the glass. They were popular items in French Quarter gift shops.

“Hey,” said Ava. “We’re workin’ our way through the alphabet. Saint Anthony, Saint Bridget, Saint Cecilia . . . well, you get the idea.”

“Be sure to save me a Saint Joseph,” said Gabby, as she ducked into the office to answer the ringing phone.

“Hey, Ava,” said Tandy. “Are you still dating that head chef?”

“You mean Chef Ricardo?” asked Ava.

“That’s the one,” said Tandy. “He works at Bon Tiempe, right? He should have a little inside information.”

Ava shook her head. “He moved to Shreveport last month. Works at a place called Coconut Billie’s. It sounds neighborhood, but it’s real fancy.”

“Too bad,” said Tandy.

Ava shrugged. “He was a nice fella, but still kind of a fixer-upper.”

“Good lord,” said Baby. “He’s a man, not a house!”

“I brought you somethin’,
cher,
” Ava told Carmela. She reached down and gently took Carmela’s right hand.

Carmela felt something cool and metallic slither into it.
Jewelry?

“I ordered this at the last gift show I attended and it just now arrived,” said Ava.

“Oh my gosh!” exclaimed Carmela, examining her impromptu gift. “A charm bracelet!”

“Let’s see,” urged Baby.

Carmela held up a sparkling silver chain bracelet with tiny picture frames dangling from it.

“Little picture frames,” said Tandy. “And they’re empty! Oh, too cute!”

“Oh, it’s a scrapbook charm bracelet,” marveled Baby. “You put little photos in there, right?”

“That’s the general idea,” said Ava. She stood there looking languid and lovely in her tight blue jeans and wrap-around brick-red sweater.

“I love it,” said Carmela. “I’ve heard about these, but never got around to sourcing a vendor for them.” She reached out and gave Ava a quick hug. “Thank you!”

“You know we’re all going to want one,” said Baby. She could barely take her eyes off the adorable charm bracelet.

“ ’Course you do, sweetie,” said Ava, reaching into the pockets of her sweater. “Which is why I ordered a half-dozen of them!” She tossed five more plastic packets, each containing a silver charm bracelet, onto the table.

“To die for!” exclaimed Baby, grabbing one immediately. “I can’t wait to put my kids’ photos in here.”

“And grandkids,” said Tandy, happily shredding the plastic to get to her bracelet. “You can never forget grandkids.”

 

 

“WHO WAS ON THE PHONE?” CARMELA ASKED Gabby, once Ava had scampered off and Gabby had been presented with
her
very own charm bracelet.

“It was Wren,” said Gabby, who suddenly seemed to be glowing with excitement. “And you’ll never guess what she and Jekyl found at the bookstore!”

“Tell us,” urged Baby, sensing good news.

“A signed first edition of John Steinbeck’s
East of Eden
that Wren didn’t even know they had!” exclaimed Gabby. “Isn’t that great?”

“Terrific,” said Carmela.

“I guess some of the first editions got mixed in with the other books,” said Gabby. “So now they’re hunting for more.”

Tandy frowned and slid her glasses on top of her head. “What’s something like that worth anyway? Ball park?”

Gabby looked proud. “Jekyl thought the Steinbeck might fetch as much as fifteen hundred dollars.”

“That much?” said Tandy. “Very impressive.”

“Wonderful,” murmured Baby. “It’s just like you said, Carmela. Now Wren can put a value on her inventory.”

 

 

MARGOT CAME SASHAYING INTO MEMORY MINE promptly at five o’clock. Gazing around with mild curiosity, she noted that Carmela was the only one left. “Is it ready?” Margot asked without preamble.

Carmela, who’d been busting her buns to finish the DesLauriers’s Gilt Trip scrapbook, wasn’t one bit thrilled with Margot’s attitude. The woman was rude, demanding, and projected an air of grand entitlement.
Maddening, truly maddening.

“I hope,” said Carmela, “that Gilt Trip succeeds in raising much-needed funds for the crisis nursery.”
After all, most of the work, and not just my work, was done on donated time. And it would be a shame if the focus of the fund raiser shifted away from the very real needs of the crisis nursery and onto Margot’s decorating and self-promotion skills.

“You’re such a worry wart, Carmela,” chided Margot. “The whole Gilt Trip event is going to be a huge success, you just wait and see.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Carmela, handing over the final scrapbook to Margot.

“Interesting,” said Margot, as she accepted the scrapbook. She frowned and knit her brows together as she studied the cover. “I’m surprised you chose a rather plain kraft paper cover for the album.” Margot’s words were just this side of accusatory.

“To better showcase the accent piece of wrought iron,” exclaimed Carmela. She had run out to a nearby antique shop, done a fast forage through their scratch-and-dent room, and come up with a nice, flat snippet of antique wrought iron. It had been a snap to drill a couple grommets and attach the small curlicue wrought iron piece near the spine. “You see,” continued Carmela, “the design is slightly reminiscent of your wall sconces.”

“Hmm,” said Margot, suddenly warming up to the concept. “You’re right.” She flipped open the book and began paging through it. “Your photos turned out rather well.”

Carmela shrugged. “It’s a point-and-click Nikon. Hard to go wrong.”

“Still,” said Margot, “the mood feels very painterly, and your prints are nice and sharp.”

“Good printer,” said Carmela. The new color printer
had
been a good investment on her part.

“Very understated,” said Margot, continuing to peruse the scrapbook. “But also highly effective. The medium doesn’t overshadow the message.”

“Right,” said Carmela, not exactly sure how to take that comment.

Snapping the book shut, Margot looked pleased. “Thanks, Carmela. Good job.”

“You’re welcome.”

Margot tossed her black portfolio onto the table, unzipped all three sides, then carefully slid Carmela’s scrapbook into it for safe transport. “What’s this?” Margot asked casually, once she had everything all packed up.

Carmela grimaced. Wren had left her stack of photos sitting on the table alongside one of the Memory Mine coffee mugs. And, of course, Margot’s sharp eyes had noticed them. “Just something Wren was working on,” Carmela told her.

“A scrapbook on Jamie?” Margot’s inquisitive fingers were suddenly riffling through the photos. “How touching.”

Carmela decided Margot had to be the only person she knew who could murmur heartfelt works like
how touching
but convey a sense of not really meaning it.

“Well,” Margot said, snatching her portfolio up and leaving the little stack of photos in complete disarray. “Life goes on, doesn’t it.” And then Margot’s boot heels were clacking loudly across the wooden floor, and she quickly disappeared out the front door.

Carmela stared at the photos spread out on the table. Deep within her was a sense that Margot had been sublimely disrespectful. That Margot had pawed through this stack of photographs that Wren had lovingly and carefully collected without any regard for feelings or circumstances.

Margot’s a cold woman,
thought Carmela.
Cold and distant. No wonder her relationship with Jamie ended. No wonder she gives me the creeps.

Sliding into one of the chairs, Carmela slowly gathered the photos into a pile and began to carefully re-stack them. As she did so, one of the photos that had ended up on top of the jumbled pile caught her eye. A photo of a middle-aged couple standing in front of the very same house she and Ava had visited! Only in this old photo, the house wasn’t nearly as dilapidated as it was now.

Her curiosity getting the best of her, Carmela continued to sift through the stack of the photos, studying them. Here was one of Jamie, looking skinny and young in a Tulane softball team jersey.

Carmela studied the next photo. Here Jamie was posed on a wooden dock in front of what had to be a commercial shrimping boat, since it bore the intricate rigging and hoists that allowed wide, sweeping nets to be lowered from each side.

Flipping the two photos over, Carmela checked the dates that were still faintly visible on the back.