Bound For Murder (8 page)

The ladies watched as Carmela deftly sponged on the paint, making the sides of the tin a trifle more bluish and adding a more dramatic hint of purple and copper on the lid.

“While that dries, I’m going to take three small squares of frayed brown burlap and daub them with purple and copper paint.”

“Wow,” said Baby’s daughter, Dawn. “You made them look like antiqued screens or something. Now what? You glue them on?”

Carmela nodded. “And once those three painted squares are attached, I’ll glue on a gold aspen leaf, a small gold bee charm, and a small sprig of faux fruit. In this case, frosted purple pears.”

“It sure won’t resemble an Altoid tin once you’re finished,” said Tandy. “It really will be a jewel of a box.

“Complete with four crystal beads at each corner for legs,” said Carmela. “But don’t just copy what I’ve done, really let your imagination soar. Think about using mosaic tiles or embossing powder. Or even creating a tortoiseshell look.”

“Love it,” declared Tandy. She had completed more than a dozen scrapbooks and was adept at all the various tricks and tools available to scrappers and crafters.

Carmela hung around the back table for another fifteen minutes or so, offering words of encouragement and giving a few small creative hints. Then she made her way to the front of the store where Gabby was packing up, getting everything ready for tomorrow’s Scrap Fest.

“How’s it going?” asked Carmela. Actually, she could pretty much see how it was going. Gabby had assembled several large cardboard boxes and was sifting through store merchandise, determining what should be brought along so it could be displayed in their booth tomorrow.

“Do we want to take these stencils?” asked Gabby, holding some up.

“The new ones, yes,” said Carmela, gazing about her shop, wishing they could take along the metal racks that were filled with all their wonderful new papers.

“How about this rack of charms and tags?” she asked.

“Ditto,” said Carmela.

“And the scissors,” murmured Gabby.

“Gotta have those,” agreed Carmela.

Gabby turned toward Carmela with a wry grin on her face. “Why don’t we just transport the entire store!”

“Great idea,” said Carmela. “Beam me up, Scotty!”

 

 

AN HOUR LATER THE WOMEN AT THE BACK TABLE had made remarkable progress with their bibelot boxes. Tandy had covered her box with paisley paper, added a layer of gold mesh, then decorated the whole thing with squiggles of copper wire that had stations of pearlized gold and copper beads. Baby had painted her old Camembert cheese box to resemble Chinese red lacquer, then added a Chinese coin charm, gold tassel, and a tiny matching red tag stamped in gold with Chinese characters. Byrle and the other two girls were all going with romantic themes, incorporating bits of hand-colored photos trimmed to resemble stamps and emblems, mesh ribbon, embossed paper, silk flowers, and dragonfly charms.

“Wow, is that ever cute,” said Gabby, looking at Byrle’s bibelot box. “Very mauve.”

“I’m making mauve my signature color this season,” joked Byrle.

“You look like you’re all done in,” said Wren, glancing up at Gabby, who was still buzzing about the shop. Wren had been content to huddle at the craft table, watching and enjoying as the women created their personal bibelot boxes.

“I’m kind of brain dead,” admitted Gabby. “It’s tough trying to figure out the merchandise mix. What to take, what to leave behind.”

“But you figured it out,” interjected Carmela. “That’s what counts.”

“All I have to do now is tape the boxes closed,” replied Gabby. “And therein lies my problem. We have roll after roll of masking tape, invisible tape, and double-stick tape, but, alas, no strapping tape.”

“I’ll run out and grab some,” volunteered Carmela. “When the messenger service arrives to pick this stuff up, we want our boxes to be secure.”

“Okay,” said Gabby, content to stay and mind the store.

But as Carmela slipped out the front door, ready to head off toward Bultman’s Drug Store, where she was pretty sure she’d find a good supply of packing materials, she encountered what seemed like an immovable object on her front sidewalk. A large man.

She tried to duck around him, but he side-stepped to block her.

“Hey there,” said the man, definitely capturing her attention. He tucked his chin down and fixed her with a smile. A good show of teeth, she noted. But not much warmth.

“Do I know you?” Carmela asked. Somehow she had the feeling this little meeting wasn’t exactly a chance encounter. That this man might have been
lingering
outside her shop.

“I’m looking for Wren West,” said the man, staring at Carmela with pale, watery-blue eyes. “I was just over at Biblios Booksellers and the darn place is locked up tighter ’n a drum. Figured she might be here.”

“How would you figure that?” asked Carmela, curious about this man who seemed to act so casual yet projected an aura of tension.

“I’m Dunbar DesLauriers,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height and puffing out this chest.

Dunbar DesLauriers. The name rang a bell. Carmela stared at him for a second, then her brain suddenly made the connection. This was the same man who’d been wearing the tartan tie at Wren and Jamie’s ill-fated prenuptial dinner two nights ago. The one who had been swaggering about, making the drunken toast.

“As a collector of rare books, I was Jamie Redmond’s best customer,” Dunbar drawled.

Carmela stared at him, slightly amused by his pomposity.
He wasn’t just one of Jamie’s customers, he’d been his
best
customer
.

Dunbar DesLauriers swiveled his oversized head and peered in the front window of Memory Mine. Past the display of spiral-bound journals and calligraphy pens, past the poster that advertised their tag-making class. “She’s in there, isn’t she?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, she is,” said Carmela, picking up a vibe she didn’t much like and suddenly not wanting Wren to be disturbed by this strange, somewhat boorish man. “But she’s still very upset. I think we need to respect her privacy.”
What I really mean is
you
need to respect her privacy.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dunbar, a touch of hardness coming into his eyes. “About her being so upset, that is. I really wanted to speak with Miss West. Make her a business proposition.”

“A business proposition?” asked Carmela.
What is all this about?

“Yes,” said Dunbar, rocking back on his heels. “I was going to offer to buy the inventory. Take the whole mess off her hands.”

Carmela stared at him. By
whole mess
he obviously meant Jamie’s bookstore.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Jamie’s bookstore a mess,” said Carmela, beginning to get her hackles up at this strangely self-important man. Last time she’d ventured into Jamie’s store, it had been a charming mish-mash of old wooden bookshelves stuffed with leatherbound books, Oriental carpets on uneven wood-planked floors, antique oak flat files spilling over with old maps, and cozy stuffed chairs tucked into corners. The feeling was similar to being in your grandma’s attic. Familiar and warm, a place where you could curl up and read undisturbed for a while. And with classical music perpetually wafting through the air, Biblios Booksellers had seemed a most intriguing shop. Very Old World and charming.

“This probably isn’t the time or the place for discussing business deals,” said Carmela. Her words came out a little firmer than she’d intended and Dunbar cocked his head at her, registering disapproval.

Could this boorish fellow really have been a friend of Jamie’s?
Carmela wondered.
Then again, he had been an invited guest at their dinner
.

Dunbar DesLauriers seemed to consider Carmela’s words for a while, then he bent forward and gave her a sly wink. “You really should tell that poor girl to sell to me, you know.” Dunbar’s voice was like butter. “She’d listen to you. She trusts you and that cousin of hers.” He paused. “Rest assured, you’d be giving her solid business advice,” he said, punctuating his words with another aggravating wink.

Carmela gazed at Dunbar DesLauriers, not liking his condescending attitude one bit, wondering exactly what his game was. “Think so?” she asked.

Dunbar DesLauriers curled his upper lip and sucked air in through his front teeth. “Oh sure,” he said, looking extremely pleased with himself.

Carmela could feel her anger rising, could almost picture a cartoon thermometer where the mercury rose up, up, steadily up, then suddenly exploded off the top. She
really
didn’t like the subtle pressure Dunbar DesLauriers seemed to be exerting. So why, she wondered, was he exerting this pressure? Why did he suddenly want to buy Jamie’s bookstore, lock, stock, and barrel? What was going on? Was he just a businessman used to getting his way? Was there some rare book in Jamie’s inventory that Dunbar wanted for his personal collection? Or did he just get off on bullying women? Hmm.

In Carmela’s experience there was only one way to deal with a bully. Put ’em on the defensive.

“You know,” she said, starting to regret her words even as they tumbled out. “You were probably the last person to be seen with Jamie Redmond on Wednesday night.”

The smarmy smile disappeared from Dunbar’s lined face in about two seconds flat.

His brows shot up in displeasure, his face suddenly took on the ominous hue of an Heirloom Tomato. “If I didn’t know you better, Ms. Bertrand,” he sputtered, “I’d say you were veering dangerously close to slander.”

“You
don’t
know me at all, Mr. DesLauriers,” replied Carmela. “But if you did, you’d know I don’t veer. I pretty much set a direct course. Now kindly leave us in peace. And if you have any more business proposals to make, perhaps you’d best send them via an intermediary. In other words, have your lawyer talk to Wren’s lawyer.”

And with that, Carmela took off down the street, leaving Dunbar DesLauriers fuming in her wake.

B
LUESY notes drifted out from the Copper Club and hung in the night air on Girod Street. Around the corner on Camp Street, coffee house musicians cranked out their own version of swamp pop, a riotous feel-good blend of rock, Cajun, and country.

In the area once known as the Warehouse District, a proliferation of blues clubs, art galleries, recording studios, and coffee houses had popped up like errant mushrooms, replacing old sugar refineries, tobacco factories, and cotton presses. Red brick row houses that were in disrepair were suddenly deemed highly desirable, and this once-industrial, working-class neighborhood that rubs shoulders with the Central Business District was reborn as the Arts District.

Jamie Redmond had been in the process of restoring a large, rather austere-looking limestone building on Julia Street. Looking more church-like than residential, it had originally been built as a home then used as a convent for a short period of time.

The interior was dominated by high ceilings, original slate floors, cypress paneling, and a small first floor rotunda that served as a sort of central hub with the various rooms radiating off from it.

Carmela, Ava, Wren, and Boo lounged in what had been Jamie’s at-home library. The battered leather couches were comfortably slouchy, a fire crackled cheerily, but the faces the three women wore were a little grim.

As would be expected, Wren was still stunned and deeply disturbed by her fiance’s murder just two days ago. Carmela was troubled by her somewhat bizarre encounter with Dunbar DesLauriers earlier this afternoon. And Ava was pretending to be upset that tonight’s date with a legislator from St. Tammany Parish had been canceled. She’d told Carmela and Wren that she’d been counting on a spectacular dinner at NOLA, Emeril Lagasse’s famed five-star restaurant in the French Quarter.

“Ava,” said Carmela, knowing her friend was trying her darndest to make Wren smile, “the man was
married,
for heaven’s sake. You can’t count that as a
date
. I think that’s technically an affair.”

Ava waved a hand distractedly. “Honey, how else am I gonna enjoy the company of a husband unless I borrow somebody else’s?”

“You weren’t really going to go out with a married man, were you?” asked Wren.

“Sure I was,” grinned Ava. “It was going to be kind of a test drive.”

“You’re trying to cheer me up,” said Wren, managing a half smile.

“Is it workin’?” asked Ava, peering at her speculatively.

“Some,” admitted Wren.

“Well, good,” replied Ava, reaching for a handful of popcorn. “Because I’d stand on my head and whistle Dixie if I thought it’d make you feel any better.”

“You’re so sweet,” said Wren. “Both of you.” She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in her pajamas, sipping a cup of hot cocoa. Ava had kindly offered to make dirty martinis for everyone, but Wren hadn’t been feeling up to it. And Carmela didn’t think the two of them should be merrily imbibing when Wren felt so miserable. It just wasn’t appropriate.

“Do the police have any ideas at all?” asked Ava. She’d brought her pajamas along, as well. A black satin negligee with a touch of marabou at the plunging neckline. Not exactly slumber party attire. Then again, she’d pointed out to Carmela that the gown
was
a sedate black.

“The police are still going over the guest list,” Carmela responded. “Apparently trying to run down leads.”

“I didn’t think there were any leads,” said Ava. “The story in this morning’s
Times-Picayune
said the police were . . . and I quote . . . ‘baffled.’ ”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” said Carmela, seeing Wren fidget uncomfortably. She seemed to have gone downhill since this afternoon when she was at Memory Mine. Wren had appeared tired and sad then, but was still functioning. Now she looked extremely depressed, almost despondent.