Keepsake Crimes (19 page)

So that’s who’d been following her today. Quite probably, the old boy had gotten her phone call from the previous night and categorically blown off her suggestion to take a look at Dace Wilcox. But he
had
decided to follow her out to the bayou this afternoon in hopes of finding Shamus.

There was also another possibility that loomed large.

Carmela considered the idea for a moment. Somehow, it didn’t feel right. Granger Rathbone would have had to sneak out there earlier, then wait around for her.

No, the most plausible explanation was that Granger had followed her, plain and simple. Hoping, of course, that the trail would lead to Shamus.

As Carmela stood behind the silver BMW pondering this new twist, one of the garage doors across the alley suddenly emitted a loud
cha-clunk
, then began to rise. Easing back into the shadows, she watched carefully. And, in the dim light from the overhead bulb that hung in the center of the garage, she recognized the somewhat ample profile of Jack Dumaine.

Jack Dumaine is going somewhere!
And he was agitated. In fact, he looked as though he was in a powerful hurry as he tried to insert his bulk into the front seat of his jumbo-sized Chrysler Voyager.

Where’s he off to?
Carmela wondered. Then just as quickly decided,
There’s only one way to find out
.

In a flash, she scampered through the side yard between Baby’s house and the neighbor’s big money pit of a home. When she hit Third Street, Carmela darted left, sprinted the length of a city block in what had to be record time, then dove into her car.

Raised by a careful Norwegian father who had always worn a belt
and
suspenders, Carmela, too, was a careful, cautious person. She always kept a spare key under the dashboard. She grabbed for it now, jammed it into the ignition, and cranked the engine hard. It was quicker than pawing through her evening bag in the dark.

As the Caddy came to life with a roar, Carmela pulled out into the street, then experienced a moment of high anxiety.
Which way is Jack Dumaine headed? Should I flip a U-turn or continue on straight ahead?

It was a fifty-fifty proposition, with no time to get overly analytical or toss a coin.
Straight
, Carmela decided.

At the corner of Chestnut she hooked right and was rewarded with a glimpse of Jack Dumaine’s fat-ass Chrysler, just a block ahead of her.

Awright, good call,
she told herself.

Carmela settled in behind Jack Dumaine, staying a safe distance behind him. As they puttered along, Carmela decided that Jack Dumaine drove his car the same way he walked. Ponderous bordering on lugubrious. Jack’s car seemed to lurch forward slowly as though he kept tapping the brake every few seconds instead of just proceeding smoothly.

They bumped down Washington until it turned into Palmetto, then hit the Airline Highway. This was the side of New Orleans that wasn’t so quaint and pretty. Lots of fast-food franchises, neon lights, tacky rib joints, and drive-through daiquiri bars.

Jack Dumaine eased his car onto Airline Highway and headed west. But rather than working up a full head of steam, he stayed in the right lane, carefully observing the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. A mile later, his right-turn signal pulsed, and Jack turned off. Carmela followed, again keeping her distance behind him. Driving down a side street now, Jack wove his way past an all-night rib joint, a seedy office building, and the Calhoun Motel.

Jack made a slow, wide turn into the motel’s parking lot.

Cutting her headlights, Carmela rolled in behind him. She stopped her car in a shadowy part of the parking lot and waited. Watched as Jack Dumaine pulled into a parking space, then eased himself out of his vehicle and stretched languidly. A sharp
bleep
sounded as Jack Dumaine locked his car with his electronic key. Then Jack strode confidently toward the door of one of the motel rooms.

Carmela tried to time her drive-by so she’d be rolling past the motel room at the exact same moment the door opened and Jack slipped inside.

It worked like a charm.

Because just as the door opened and light shone out into the dark parking lot, Carmela was rewarded with the surprise of her life. Rhonda Lee Clayton, Jimmy Earl’s grieving widow, stood in the doorway to greet Jack, wearing a black-and-gold floor-length caftan and a pussycat smile on her face.

J
ACK Dumaine and Rhonda Lee Clayton. Rhonda Lee Clayton and Jack Dumaine.
The words played over and over in Carmela’s brain like a feverish mantra. What
were
the two of them doing together?

Canoodling, that much was obvious. But what were they
really
doing together?

Had Jack and Jimmy Earl’s partnership not been as cozy as Jack had made it out to be? He’d certainly sung Jimmy Earl’s praises to high heaven and made their partnership sound like a mutual admiration society when he’d eulogized him at the memorial service a scant two days ago.

Could it be that Rhonda Lee was the
real
partner in the company, the silent partner, and Jimmy Earl had just been a figurehead?

No, that didn’t make any sense either, Carmela decided. Jimmy Earl had been quoted frequently in the business pages. And he’d gotten lots of little blurbs written about him in some of the smaller business magazines attesting to the fabulous deals he’d engineered. So Jimmy Earl
had
to have been a real partner in his own right, despite all his pathetic frat boy antics.

So maybe Big Jack had just plain offed Jimmy Earl in a straight-ahead murder?

Yeah, that’s gotta be the answer
, figured Carmela.
Jack offed his partner to gain control of the company and bed Rhonda Lee.

On the other hand, that answer seemed far too pat.

For one thing, Rhonda Lee was no great prize.

No, Carmela decided, there was something else going on. Something she hadn’t figured out yet.

Turning the key in her lock, Carmela let herself into her apartment. Even before she flipped on the lights, she knew she wasn’t alone. Someone was in there with her. Someone who had obviously become a new best friend with Boo. Could it be Granger Rathbone? Maybe. Pity Boo had such poor taste.

“Awright,” Carmela called into the darkness with as much bravado as she could muster. “Let’s cut the games. I know you’re in here.”

The cushions in the wicker chair gave a muffled squeak as someone shifted their body weight and reached for the ginger jar lamp that occupied the adjacent table.

There was a bright flash, and then Carmela was staring wide-eyed at her soon-to-be ex-husband. “Shamus!” she exclaimed. This
was
a surprise.

“Howdy, Carmela,” he said, returning her greeting.

She stared at him, hating the insolent look he wore on his face. Or maybe it was just his confidence. Shamus had always been a supremely confident being. Even when he played varsity football at Tulane, he was the kind of guy who could drop a pass and still walk off the field looking like a winner.

What the hell,
Carmela decided, it didn’t matter. What
did
matter was that she was getting more and more angry with every second that passed.

“Brushing up on your breaking and entering?” she asked him.

He responded by shifting his long legs off the ottoman and giving it a gentle pat, trying to entice her to come sit down next to him.

She sauntered over carefully, plunked herself down.

“Nice dress,” he remarked, reaching for the laces of her camisole.

Carmela held up a cautionary index finger. “That’s off limits,” she told him sternly.

He pulled his hand back, favored her with a lazy smile. “Still, you’re looking quite delicious,” he said.

Carmela didn’t answer him. What she wanted to say was,
No, you’re looking good.
Because damned if he wasn’t. Shamus’s olive skin, brown eyes, and shaggy, slightly sun-streaked hair were pure eye candy. Very appealing. In fact, he looked happier and healthier than when he’d been living with her. Being on the run seemed to agree with him.

Damn,
she thought,
how can it be? It just doesn’t make sense. Then again, nothing seems to make sense.

She also noticed that Shamus hadn’t abandoned his Ro lex Datejust and his Todd loafers. He may have ditched her, but he’d kept his toys. She guessed the Meechum family trust was still operating in full force.

“I came looking for you today,” she told him. “I was out at the camp house.”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Shamus. Boo came pattering over to him and rested her head on his knee. Shamus reached down and gently kneaded the dog’s tiny, flat ears. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.

“It’s been totally trashed,” Carmela told Shamus. She was trying not to let his apparent affection for Boo get under her skin. How could Shamus be so sweet and attentive to a little dog and act like an inconsiderate louse with her?

“I’m not surprised,” said Shamus.

“Everybody thinks you’re on the lam,” Carmela told him.

Shamus gave a disinterested shrug. “If that’s what everybody thinks, then I suppose I am,” he said.

Carmela was beginning to get very frustrated by his apparent lack of concern for himself. “People are accusing you of murder, Shamus! They’re trashing your camp house and saying incredibly nasty things about you. Doesn’t that bother you just one teeny tiny bit?”

Shamus turned liquid brown eyes on her. “Should it? Should I really care what vitriolic lies are being spewed out about me?” he asked her.

Carmela was flustered. This was not the hardheaded banker of the notoriously conservative Crescent City Bank that she’d known and loved. “No, but—” she started.

“But what?” he asked. His flashing eyes challenged her.

“But you should at least
defend
yourself,” she sputtered. Carmela stopped abruptly, tried to pull herself together. Why did she feel like she was suddenly playing one of the lead roles in a romantic comedy from the ’40s? One of those frothy, fast-moving films where the leading man and woman constantly snapped and snarled at each other, yet everyone knew they were madly in love and would end up happily-ever-aftering at the end of the picture.

“I saw Jack Dumaine with Rhonda Lee!” Carmela suddenly blurted out.

“Where?” asked Shamus.

“Tonight. At the Calhoun Motel. A hot sheet joint just off Airline Highway.” Burned in Carmela’s mind was the vision of Rhonda Lee Clayton in her sixties-style earth mother caftan. It was an image that projected far more than she cared to know about the woman.

“You don’t say,” said Shamus. “With the grieving widow, no less. I’m amazed Big Jack is still out wolfing around. My hat’s off to the old boy.”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “I think Big Jack is trying to set you up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he is.”

Shamus leaned back and steepled his fingers together, looking as though he was lost in deep, impenetrable thought. Carmela had seen him do this before. It meant Shamus was stalling. Or, worse yet, merely toying with her.

“Let me get this straight,” said Shamus. “You think that just because Jack Dumaine decided to have a toss in the hay with Rhonda Lee . . . that he’s plotting to set me up? Destroy my career and my good family name?”

“Well, yes. He certainly could be,” said Carmela. “Beside the fact that he’s sleeping with his dead partner’s wife, Jack Dumaine also seems to have Granger Rathbone in his hip pocket.”

“Really,” said Shamus. “And what do you make of that?”

“Duh,” said Carmela. “A setup?”
Jeez
, she thought,
is this boy dense or what? Or just in very serious denial?

“You’re right,” Shamus said finally. “It doesn’t look good.”

Aware that her skirt was beginning to ride up, Carmela shifted about on the ottoman, trying to smooth it down and assume a slightly more decorous pose. Shamus’s eyes followed every aspect of her struggle.

“Shamus, tell me something,” she said finally. “What words did you have with Jimmy Earl, right before he climbed up on that big green float and took a drink that snuffed out his gray matter?”

“Nothing that would interest you, my dear.”

“Try me.” Carmela stood up suddenly, placing her hands on her slim hips and gathering her face into a semblance of a thundercloud.

Shamus flashed a smile at her. “God, you’re a pretty thing.”

“Shamus . . .” Carmela’s voice carried a warning tone.

He threw up his hands in mock defeat. “Okay, okay, you win. If you must know, Jimmy Earl called me an asshole.”

“The man
did
have a way of making sense of things,” Carmela said with the beginning of a wry smile. She paused, staring into Shamus’s intense brown eyes. He didn’t seem all that amused by her banter. “Okay, Shamus, I’ll bite. Why did Jimmy Earl call you an asshole?”

“For leaving you.”

Carmela gave an audible snort. “I don’t believe you.”

“Honey, you can believe whatever you want, but I swear on a stack of Bibles . . . on my momma’s grave, in fact . . . that it’s true.”

“Where were you today?” Carmela asked him.

Shamus gathered his long legs beneath him and suddenly stood up. He stepped close to Carmela, towering over her. He looked like he was about to wrap his arms around her, then he suddenly seemed to do an about-face. “You came to see me today,” said Shamus. “I told you not to.”

“You said that if I needed to get hold of you to contact Ned Toler,” replied Carmela. “That’s exactly what I did. Followed your wishes to the letter of the law, in fact.”