Bound For Murder (9 page)

“No,” said Wren, in a tired voice. “I
want
to talk about it. The man I was supposed to marry tomorrow evening, the man I planned to spend the rest of my life with, was killed. Murdered. And nobody seems to have any answers.”

“Honey,” said Ava, “I’m sure the homicide detectives are busting their buns trying to solve this case. They’ve probably interviewed every guest and kitchen staffer. Even the folks who just dropped by Bon Tiempe for a quick drink at the bar.”

“But they’re not getting anywhere,” said Wren. “I talked to Detective Rawlings earlier this evening and he said they had a short list of suspects but still nothing conclusive.” She gazed at Carmela, her face etched with sorrow. “I wish we could do something,” she murmured. “I know Gabby talked to you about looking into a few things. You are, aren’t you? I mean I
hope
you are.”

Carmela gave a tentative nod. “Did she tell you?”

“No,” said Wren, “I figured it out by myself. You’re . . . just that sort of person. Smart and naturally resourceful.”

Carmela smiled at Wren’s assessment of her. She’d promised Wren earlier today that she’d try to find out where Jamie’s parents were buried. And even though Gabby had talked about going over the guest list, Carmela hadn’t intended to do anything much beyond the scope of a little cemetery snooping. Now Wren seemed to be asking if she’d help
investigate
Jamie’s murder!

“Wren, I don’t pretend to possess any real investigative skills . . .” Carmela began.

“That’s not what I hear,” said Wren quickly. Her face sagged, but her eyes burned bright. She glanced over at Ava, who threw her an encouraging look. A look that said
Go ahead and ask her
.

“Ava, you didn’t,” said Carmela.
Of course she had
.

“Face it, sugar, you’re a natural,” said Ava with enthusiasm. “You pulled old Shamus’s butt out of the glue last year. And then your clever thinking helped Tandy out, too.” Ava flashed a wide smile, her Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant smile. “We were all
real
proud of you for that.”

Carmela shook her head slowly. “Nice try, Ava, but it’s not going to work. Those cases were different. Everything just sort off fell into my lap.”

“So we’ll try to hand you this one on a silver platter,” said Ava.

Carmela threw Wren an imploring look. “What has she been telling you?” Clearly Ava had been huckstering her investigative skills.

“That you’re smart and feisty and don’t take crap from anyone,” said Wren.

“I also mentioned you’ve got a natural built-in bullshit detector, too,” added Ava. “Which sure comes in handy.”

“There’s no way . . .” began Carmela. “I mean, I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.” She stopped abruptly, seeing the effect her words had on Wren.

A tear slid silently down Wren’s cheek, a shudder passed through her body. “I certainly understand if you don’t want to get involved,” said Wren softly. “I truly do.” She reached for a hanky and daubed at her eyes. Boo raised her head, gazed mournfully at Wren, and let loose a deep sigh, as if in sympathy.

Carmela stared at Wren and her heart went out to her. She knew what it was like to lose someone. She’d lost her father in a barge accident on the Mississippi when she was still a little girl. She’d lost Shamus. He hadn’t died, of course, but his love for her had seemingly evaporated into thin air. And that had been awful. Losing a fiance as Wren just had . . . Carmela couldn’t imagine what kind of gut-wrenching pain the girl must be in.

“Wren,” said Carmela cautiously, “what if we just bat-ted a few ideas around? You let me ask a few questions, do a little cautious snooping. I’m not promising anything, but maybe something could turn up.” She glanced at Ava and shrugged. “You never know.”
Oh dear, why can’t I leave well enough alone?

Wren threw Carmela a hopeful look. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

Ava reached over and patted Carmela on the knee. “I knew you’d want to dig in and help,
cher
.”

“Okay then,” said Carmela, turning her full attention to Wren. “You’ve been interviewed by the police, correct?”

“Twice,” said Wren. “Two nights ago, the night of Jamie’s murder, and then most of yesterday afternoon.”

“What kinds of questions did they ask you?” asked Carmela.

Wren bit her lip and thought for a moment. “They asked if I knew anyone who might be angry or upset with Jamie. You know . . . family, friends, business acquaintances, old enemies, old girlfriends.”

“Ghosts from the past,” murmured Ava.

Carmela gave Wren an encouraging look. “And were you able to give them any names?”

Wren shook her head slowly. “Not a one. The thing of it is, everyone
loved
Jamie. He was a terrific person. An all-around good guy.”

“I don’t want to sound harsh,” said Carmela, “or like a traitor to Jamie’s memory; but are you positive he never mentioned anything about his past? Something that might have seemed strange or a little bit off?”

“Not that I recall,” said Wren. “Then again, he didn’t talk much about it.”

“What about his family?” Carmela knew that in a murder investigation the first thing police did was take a good hard look at family members.

“He didn’t have any blood relatives that he knew about,” said Wren. “Remember? Jamie was adopted.”

“Hmm,” said Carmela. “Do you know if Jamie was ever able to reconnect with his birth parents?”

“I’m almost positive he didn’t,” said Wren.

“Okay,” said Carmela, “how about business partners or investors?”

“The only business partner he had was Blaine Taylor. And that was just for the software thing. Neutron.” She took a sip of cocoa. “Blaine’s been wonderful. Very solicitous and helpful.”

“Think hard, Wren,” Carmela pressed. “What about old rivals, a problem in the past, maybe an old enemy? Did he ever mention anything like that? Even in passing? Or maybe in jest?”

“Not really,” said Wren. “Like I said, people loved Jamie. He sold
books
for crying out loud!” She looked upset that she was unable to dredge something up. “Sorry,” she said contritely.

“He must have been involved in
some
kind of dispute,” said Ava. “I mean, half the people I know, people who are really dear friends, drive me nuts
once
in a while.” She glanced over at Carmela. “Not you, honey.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Carmela. Drawing her knees up to her chin, she stared into the crackling fire, wondering if there was some way they could get more of a handle on this.
People didn’t just sneak into fancy restaurants and murder a groom at his pre-nuptial dinner just for sport, did they? No. Someone had to have a motive. Someone had to be angry, jealous, looking for money, or out for revenge. Those always seemed to be the main motives for murder. At least on TV anyway
.

“Wren,” said Carmela suddenly. “Does Jamie have a home office?”

Wren nodded. “Sure, next room over. What used to be the chapel back when this place was a convent. There are still a couple statues in there, in fact.”

While Boo remained sprawled on the couch, the three of them trooped into the rotunda and across to Jamie’s office.

“Spooky,” said Ava, as Wren flipped on the light. “Looks like Ozzie Osbourne decorated the place.”

Jamie’s office had indeed been a former chapel. A circular stained glass window served as backdrop for a large wooden desk that sat where a small altar had probably stood. A computer on a stand was canted to the left of it. On either side of the stained glass window were small recessed niches with old plaster statues tucked into them. Bookcases lined the side walls. Light fixtures in the shape of electrified candles threw their illumination upward to highlight cove ceilings with peeling paint.

“Jamie thought this place exuded a very Gothic feel,” explained Wren. “So he never made any changes.”

“Maybe he couldn’t make any,” said Carmela.

“What do you mean?” asked Ava. She pulled a leatherbound book from a shelf, blew dust from the top of it, then slid it back onto the shelf.

“Jamie received some sort of historic preservation grant from the city,” Carmela explained. “Perhaps it stipulated that he had to leave some things as is. Not update them.”

“Could be,” said Wren. She reached out and tentatively touched one of the almost-ruined statues, an undetermined saint with socketless eyes who valiantly clutched a crucifix. “I’ve always found this room a little weird, myself. But Jamie said it appealed to him, reminded him of his parents.” Wren paused. “Whatever
that
was supposed to mean.”

“Maybe they were religious,” said Ava.

“Maybe,” shrugged Wren.

“I had an aunt who had loads of statues and stuff like this,” Ava continued. “She even belonged to the St. Christopher Auto Club, although she hadn’t driven her Chevy Bel Air in years. Just left it parked in the garage.”

Carmela gazed around the office that was indeed rather Gothic in spirit. She wondered if the words Jamie had tried to scrawl in his own blood had any connection to all this. Had he been Catholic? Did he know Latin? She frowned. Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing seemed to come together.

“Have you looked through Jamie’s desk?” asked Carmela, eyeing the scarred wooden desk with its array of drawers. She knew that, sooner or later, Wren would have to bite the bullet and search Jamie’s papers. After all, who knew if Jamie had owned this house outright or still carried a mortgage on it? Same for his bookstore. Carmela knew that if they could find mortgage papers, a will, or even the name and address of Jamie’s lawyer, they’d be miles ahead.

But Wren hung back. “You look,” she urged Carmela. “I know I should, but I feel funny. It’s still too soon.”

“You’re sure?” asked Carmela. “You don’t mind me pawing through Jamie’s desk?”

Ava knelt down next to Carmela. “Come on, let’s have a look. I can’t believe we’re gonna find anything particularly shocking.”

“Agreed,” said Carmela. “So you take the left set of drawers, I’ll take the right.”

“And I’ll get to Scotland before you,” joked Ava.

Ten minutes later, one of their burning questions had been answered. It turned out that Jamie did have a little bit of equity in the house on Julia Street. He’d put ten thousand dollars down on it, made about four years’ worth of mortgage payments, and then refinanced it. It looked like he now owed a balance of approximately one hundred thousand dollars to the bank. Crescent City Bank to be exact. And he
had
added Wren’s name to the title. So, whatever else happened, boom, bust, or bear market, Wren would always have a place to live as long as she kept making payments on that mortgage. Or, if she decided she didn’t want to live there, couldn’t face the memories, it was at least hers to sell and still realize a small profit.

They could find nothing to do with Jamie’s business, however. No lease, tax records, or inventory sheets. Carmela figured that information must either be on Jamie’s computer or stashed at the bookstore. That issue, however, wasn’t quite as pressing. Obviously Jamie owned his inventory of books and maps. And, like every other shopkeeper in the French Quarter, he probably had a landlord that collected rent every month.

“Should we check the computer?” asked Carmela.

“Go ahead,” said Wren.

Carmela sat down and clicked open the hard drive. A quick perusal showed that pretty much everything there pertained to Jamie’s software program, Neutron. Carmela wondered if the program existed only there, on that computer, or if it was backed up somewhere on CD or zip drive or existed on the Internet in the form of a beta site. She also wondered who owned Neutron. Was it Jamie’s program and Blaine Taylor was helping sell it for a piece of the action? Or did both men own an equal share? Frowning, she found a blank CD, stuck it into the computer, and made a backup copy of Jamie’s Neutron files.
This is another issue we’ll have to sort out sooner or later,
she decided.

As far as clues pertaining to Jamie’s background, or any long-forgotten relatives, or even something that alluded to a murky past, there didn’t seem to be anything. They found household bills, invoices from trades people who’d done work in rehabbing the house, electric bills, records of sewer and water assessments, and credit card receipts. But that was it.

Carmela also didn’t find anything that had to do with Jamie’s family. She knew Wren was counting on her to find out exactly where Jamie’s parent’s were buried, so Jamie could be laid to rest along side them. And she’d been keeping a keen eye out for death certificates, burial information, or even a deed to a cemetery plot, but nothing had materialized so far.

“Except for the mortgage information, we’ve got zip,” said Wren. She was obviously relieved she wasn’t going to be kicked out onto the street, but disappointed that nothing else had surfaced.

“What about photos?” asked Ava. “We haven’t peeked through any of these yet.” She held a stack of photo envelopes, most of them bright yellow and looking fairly recent. A couple cream-colored envelopes at the bottom of her stack looked like they might be a little older.

“Let’s scoot back across the hall and take a look,” suggested Carmela.

 

 

“THESE ARE FROM THE LITERARY FESTIVAL LAST year,” said Wren. “Jamie was on one of the panels.” She smiled wistfully. “The one about Mark Twain. He
loved
Mark Twain.”

“What about that other packet?” asked Ava. She had given Wren a couple photo packets to look through. She was nosing through the rest of them.

“And these were taken the last time Jamie had an open house at the bookstore,” said Wren, shuffling through the photos.

“Y’all are so
academic,
” drawled Ava. “My photos are usually of crazy relatives and such. You know, my brothers and cousins with their souped-up Chevys and aunts with big hair who wear rhinestone cat-eye glasses.”