Bound For Murder (7 page)

Warnings exploded in Carmela’s head, but she was too tired to heed them. Instead, she leaned back against Shamus. Absorbed his warmth, savored his strength, and snuggled her tired head against the curve of his shoulder. He felt reassuring, infinitely strong, and achingly familiar.

“Tell me,” he said. “Some of it was on the news, but I want to hear it in your words.”

And so Carmela told him, her voice breaking more than once. About Wren and Jamie. All the planning they’d put in. About how the much-anticipated party at Bon Tiempe had ended up as a crime scene with harsh black and yellow tape stretched everywhere.

“How’s Gabby doing?” Shamus asked when she’d finished.

“Upset about her cousin, but hanging in there. She came to work today.”

“That’s a positive,” said Shamus.

Carmela raised an eyebrow. This from a man who’d deserted his post at the Crescent City Bank and stayed away almost six months, pleading the Gauguin precedent?

“And Wren?” Shamus asked. “I don’t really know her, but I’m pretty sure I met her once when I stopped at Jamie’s bookstore to look for a Faulkner first edition. She worked there, didn’t she?”

Carmela nodded. “She’s shell-shocked, but I think she’ll eventually work her way out of it.”

“That’s good,” said Shamus. “Time heals.”

“So they say,” said Carmela, looking at him sideways.

Shamus sat for a long moment, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “So what’s the deal? Are you seeing that restaurant guy?”

Well, that came out of left field,
Carmela decided.

“Quigg Brevard?” she replied. “No. Not really.” She’d sat next to Quigg at a dinner party and had gone to dinner at his restaurant a few times, but that wasn’t technically
seeing
him, was it?

“Good,” declared Shamus. “I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit. The man favors European suits and slicks on too much hair gel.”

Okay,
thought Carmela,
let’s add those items to the column labeled Things Shamus Dislikes. A column that seems to expand exponentially with each passing day.

Carmela picked up the plush postal worker toy Shamus had given Boo. The mailman had a glib smile and a newly shredded belly.

“She already ripped the squeaker out,” said Shamus, a silly grin on his face. “Took her thirty seconds flat. It was like watching a crazed surgeon perform open-heart surgery.”

“The postman always squeaks twice,” muttered Carmela.

Shamus’s grin expanded across his handsome face and, inside, Carmela felt a twinge of deep longing.

That was one thing Carmela still adored about Shamus. His sense of humor and whimsy. His quick laughter.

He was also an easy mark, she smirked to herself. Shamus could be taking a slug of Coca-Cola and if she laid a zany one-liner on him quick enough . . . presto . . . he’d hiccup and laugh and Coke would suddenly froth from his nose. It was one of those weird, gross, secret things they did to each other. Try to make Coke spew from each other’s noses.

“Listen, babe,” said Shamus, suddenly looking intense. “We gotta get together real soon and talk.”

Carmela lifted her head and studied him.
We do?
she thought, her heart suddenly stalling a beat.
Really? Does this mean Shamus finally wants to sit down and talk about us? About our marriage?

“We do?” she finally said. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her palms seemed suddenly damp.

Shamus assumed his serious mortgage banker look. The look that said
We’re not convinced your financial underpinnings are quite up to snuff.
“Absolutely,” he responded. “The sooner the better.”

“And we’re going to discuss . . .” she said, trying to lead him.

“The photo show,” he said, a bright smile on his face. “We’ve got a good shot here to have a joint show. I’ve got my portfolio all pulled together, now it’s your turn to get it in gear. You’ve dragged your feet long enough, honey. We can’t keep stringing the Click! Gallery along forever!”

As fast as it had flipped over, Carmela’s heart thudded inside her chest.
The photo show. The stupid photo show is his big, fat burning issue.

Carmela had done some fashion photography for a ritzy day spa by the name of Spa Diva. Clark Berthume, the owner of Click!, had seen her moody black-and-white shots and offered her a show. In a gesture borne out of guilt and graciousness, Carmela had asked Shamus to be part of it. He’d been dabbling in photography for a couple years now and was actually quite talented.

And here I thought that maybe, just maybe, Shamus wanted to talk about us,
fumed Carmela.
About our marriage. Or total lack thereof
.

Carmela launched herself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen.

“Carmela,” called Shamus. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” she called.
Nothing that a really nasty divorce lawyer can’t fix.

“
W
REN,” exclaimed Tandy. “I can’t believe you really came in again.” Scrapbook bags slung across her slight shoulders like a pack animal, Tandy chugged her way to the battered table at the back of the store.

Wren, who was sitting next to Gabby, helping her sort out packages of stencils, ducked her head shyly. “This is the only place I feel safe,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Where do you live?”

“In Jamie’s house,” said Wren.

Tandy slid a pair of red half-glasses onto her bony nose and peered quizzically at Wren. “And where might that be?”

“Big old house over on Julia Street,” said Wren. “I think it used to be a girl’s school or convent or something.”

“Good grief,” responded Tandy. “Please tell me you’re not referring to the old Benedictine convent. I didn’t think that place was even habitable. Certainly not for
people,
anyway.”

Gabby immediately dove to her cousin’s defense. “Jamie bought that place eight months ago and was working very hard to renovate it. You’d be surprised, Tandy, it’s really quite updated and livable now.”

“Just livable or comfy livable?” asked Tandy, looking skeptical.

“Jamie got a special grant from the Preservation Foundation,” explained Wren.

“So it
had
been scheduled for the wrecking ball,” said Tandy. “I thought so.”

“He got a special grant?” asked Carmela, her ears suddenly perking up. She’d been camped nearby in her office, paging through a slew of vendor catalogs, getting ready to place an order for rubber stamps. There were some wonderful new ones available—antique engravings of botanical prints, carriage lanterns, ornate pillars, even French bistro tables. They had a slight Courier & Ives look, without being too New Englandy.

“You ask about the grant like it might be a problem,” Wren said to Carmela. “Is it?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said, emerging from her office.

“But you’ve got that worried look on your face,” said Gabby, suddenly nervous.

“Sorry,” said Carmela.

“And you know about grants and things,” persisted Gabby. “You’ve served on committees.”

“Arts committees and a Concert in the Parks committee a couple years ago,” said Carmela. “Never anything to do with architectural preservation or renovation.” She remembered that particular home on Julia Street as one that had been used as a Benedictine convent for just a few years. Mostly it was a big stone building that had been in a state of disrepair since time immemorial.

“You think the Preservation Foundation is going to want their money back if the work wasn’t completed?” asked Gabby.

“No idea,” said Carmela, sincerely regretting she’d raised the question.

But Wren was suddenly galvanized by what she perceived as a new threat. “You think I’ll get kicked out?” she cried. “It’s my home. The only place I’ve got!”

“Honey,” said Carmela, “do you know if the mortgage is in your name, too, or just Jamie’s?”

Tears oozed from Wren’s eyes. “Not sure. I know I signed
something
.”

“Well,” said Carmela, “I just happen to have an acquaintance in banking who’d probably be willing to do a little pro bono investigating.”

Put that good-for-nothing Shamus to work,
she thought to herself.
Although, if the grant had been awarded to Jamie, it might put Wren in a difficult, disputed position. To say nothing of the ownership of the home
.

Gabby gathered together the stencils Wren had sorted. “You look tired,” she told her cousin.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” said Wren. “I kept hearing weird noises.”

“Those big old homes are awfully creaky,” said Tandy. “Or maybe it’s just plain haunted.”

“Please don’t say that,” cried Wren. “I’m terrified as it is to stay there all by myself.”

“What if I came over and stayed with you tonight?” asked Gabby.

“Would you really?” said Wren, brightening. “That’d be great.”

“We could . . .” began Gabby, then stopped abruptly. “Darn. I can’t. Stuart’s taking his sales managers and their wives out for dinner tonight. He for sure wants me to go along.” Stuart Mercer-Morris, Gabby’s husband, was the self-proclaimed Toyota King of New Orleans. In fact, Stuart proudly bragged that he owned dealerships in all four parishes that made up the New Orleans metro area: Orleans, Jefferson, St. Bernard, and St. Tammany.

As Carmela watched Wren’s face fall, she thought:
It’s Friday, and once again, loser that I am, I don’t have a date. Or even a semblance of a plan for tonight
.

“Wren,” she said. “How about if I came over and stayed with you?”

“Would you really?” squealed Wren. “That’d be great!” The girl did sound delighted.

Maybe I’ll even invite Ava,
decided Carmela.
Try to get an impromptu slumber party going. Maybe do a quick check of Jamie’s home office and see if we can find any papers. See if he put his property in Wren’s name, too.

“Holy smokes,” said Gabby, scrambling to her feet. “I’ve got to get our ‘make and takes’ ready for Scrap Fest tomorrow.” Scrap Fest was a one-day scrapbook event sponsored by a local scrapbook club. Memory Mine was going to have a booth there along with quite a few other vendors. Scrap Fest would also be sponsoring scrapbook classes as well as an all-night crop.

“Aren’t you happy you don’t have to man the booth by yourself?” Carmela asked Tandy. Since Wren and Jamie’s wedding had been scheduled for tomorrow evening, Tandy had volunteered to set up and work at Memory Mine’s booth. Now, with no wedding to attend, plans had changed bigtime, and both Carmela and Gabby would be going to Scrap Fest.

“Actually,” said Tandy, “I was kind of looking forward to working the booth. Hearkens back to my old retail days when I worked at the jewelry counter in Woolworth’s.”

“Then don’t change your plans on our account,” said Carmela. “You’re always welcome to hang with us.”

“Thanks,” said Tandy. “Maybe I will.”

 

 

THE LITTLE BIBELOT BOX WREN HAD BROUGHT IN proved to be the hit of the morning. It was a stunning little oblong box, painted a midnight blue and embellished with swirls of gold peacock feather designs and decorated with keys that had been painted antique gold. In the center of the lid was a large, sparkling crystal.

“The feather designs look like they were done in gold leaf,” marveled Baby. She and Byrle had shown up some fifteen minutes ago. Her daughter, Dawn, and another friend, Sissy Wilkerson, had come along as well.

“It’s really just gold paint,” said Wren, pleased that everyone was oohing and ahing over her handiwork. “And the keys were just keys that Jamie had laying around.”

“Still, you’re
very
creative,” said Baby.

Wren, not used to being the center of all this attention, gazed around the table at all the eager faces. “Ya’ll are so sweet,” she said, her voice catching.

Tandy waved a hand. “You’re in the sisterhood now, honey. Which means we take care of our own.”

“Okay, Carmela,” demanded Byrle in a joking tone. “Show us how we can make some of these so-called bibelot boxes. And what exactly does bibelot mean, anyway?”

“A bibelot is like a bauble or trinket,” said Carmela, setting a half dozen empty Altoid tins and three empty Camembert cheese boxes on the table.

Surprised, the women just stared at them.

Finally Byrle spoke up. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, puzzled by the strange items Carmela had just dropped before them. Carmela had played tricks on them in the past, and Byrle wasn’t exactly sure what was going on.

“Do we collectively have bad breath?” joked Tandy. She reached for one of the Altoid tins and flipped it open.

“It’s empty,” said Carmela, “all the mints long gone. But . . . once you choose a special theme, then do some painting and decorating, these rather ordinary little boxes are going to be transformed into precious little gems. In other words, bibelot boxes. Smaller than keepsake boxes, but just perfect for stashing a special locket or favorite pair of earrings.”

“Now I get it,” said, Byrle, suddenly enchanted with the notion of turning the utilitarian red and white tin she held in her hands into a thing of beauty. “By the way, the one Wren did is stunning.”

“Show us what to do,” urged Tandy, settling her glasses on her nose and leaning forward eagerly. That was the thing about Tandy. She might have a sharp tongue, but she was always game for something new.

“First things first,” said Carmela. “Select a box.”

Hands darted into the middle of the table as each woman grabbed a box.

“I’m going to take this Altoid tin and guide you through a few steps rather quickly,” said Carmela. “Then you can take your time, think about what you want to do, and create your own unique design.”

“Sounds good,” said Baby.

“Paint,” said Carmela, unsnapping the lids on a couple jars of acrylic paint. “First I’m going to sponge on some blue, purple, gold, and copper pearlescent paint.”