Keepsake Crimes (25 page)

“Don’t you ever watch those TV shows where a bunch of clever, witty women sit around talking about how great it is to be independent?” asked Ava. “Didn’t you ever think how nice and self-respecting it would feel to actually
be
one of them?”

“Listen to
you
,” said Carmela. “First thing you do when you meet a man is interrogate him, try to determine if he’s got the makings for a perfect matrimonial candidate.”

“I daresay I’m not
that
obvious,” said Ava.

Carmela folded her arms and stared back at Ava. One corner of her mouth twitched.

“I
am
?” screeched Ava. “Oh, no. You think so,
really
?”

AFTER AVA LEFT, CARMELA MOPED ABOUT HER
apartment. Somehow the tags didn’t seem all that intriguing anymore for the travel layout. Maybe she should start over, she decided. Try to do a sample page using torn pieces from old maps and then integrate some luggage templates.

At ten minutes to eight, Carmela snapped on the TV and turned to one of the local cable channels. Regular programming had been preempted tonight so they could cover the Orpheus parade. The newscaster, sent out to do a remote broadcast, was huddled pitifully beneath an enormous striped umbrella that rocked precariously in the gale and threatened to blow away. Yet the newscaster, Fred something, continued to reassure his TV audience that the Orpheus parade was
still
going to roll. In fact, Fred was fairly certain that this single stalled cell that was delivering such a walloping rain to New Orleans would soon rumble on over into neighboring Mississippi.

Carmela was just about to fix herself a grilled cheese sandwich when the phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Carmela dear, I suppose you’re planning to stay in.” It was Jekyl Hardy.

“Absolutely,” replied Carmela. “How about you? You’re not going to the Orpheus parade are you? I figured it would be canceled, but now they’re saying it’s still going to roll.”

“Word is the start time’s been delayed an hour. Apparently the National Weather Service is making all sorts of optimistic predictions.”

“So I heard.”

“They’re holding all the floats in the den, plus they packed in a bunch of bands and marchers, too. It’s absolute bedlam. But they’re still going to roll, come hell or high water.”

That’s Mardi Gras for you,
thought Carmela.
Act of God, act of war, and the parades still roll.
At least it was something that could be counted on, like death and taxes.

“So the thing of it is,” said Jekyl, “I’m sitting here in a restaurant over on Esplanade, sipping Bloody Marys and doing oyster shooters with some of my die-hard float-builder friends.”

“Having a better night than I am,” quipped Carmela.

“Don’t be so sure,” said Jekyl. “I think the vodka they’re pouring is about two hours old. Anyway, I don’t want to schlep my costume home in the rain tonight, so do you mind if I stash it at your store?”

“Be my guest,” said Carmela. “You still have the key, right?” She’d given Jekyl a spare key a couple months ago, in case he needed to raid her stash of paper and ribbon for float-making supplies. Whenever he stopped by, he left a detailed list. Then she’d tally it up later and send him an invoice.

“Still got it,” said Jekyl. “Will I see you tomorrow when I stop by to pick my costume up?”

“Not sure,” said Carmela. “I’m officially closed, but that doesn’t mean I might not be in the back room catching up on busywork.”

“Okay, love, see you when I see you.”

“Bye, Jekyl,” said Carmela. As she hung up the phone, she suddenly decided she really was hungry. What did she have in her larder that would be even easier than a grilled cheese sandwich? Bowl of cereal? Cup of yogurt? Or had she fed the last of the yogurt to Boo?

Carmela ambled into her small kitchen and pulled open the door of the refrigerator. When the phone shrilled a few minutes later, she realized that she’d been standing there staring at the somewhat meager contents, balanced on one leg like a sand crane, completely tranced out.

Jekyl again
, Carmela thought to herself as she reached for the phone.
He’s gonna spin some farfetched story and try to coax me out into the night. He’s probably worried that I’m home alone again,
she decided as she picked up the phone.

But it wasn’t Jekyl Hardy’s voice that greeted her. It was the slow, slurry voice of Rhonda Lee Clayton.

“Carmela,” she said, her tongue sounding thick. “It’s Rhonda Lee.”

What’s with this?
thought Carmela. And then immediately wondered,
Has Rhonda Lee been drinking? Or is she just tooted up on medication? A little Xanax or a hit of Valium?

“Hello, Rhonda Lee,” said Carmela. She was about to say,
Well this is a surprise,
but decided not to. It would be too much of an understatement.

“Carmela,” said Rhonda Lee. Her voice suddenly carried that ebullient tone that users often get.

“Rhonda Lee,” Carmela repeated cheerily, suddenly unsure of what to say and starting to feel like a complete idiot.

“I might have been a little . . . uh . . .
harsh
today,” said Rhonda Lee.

“I’m sorry . . . ah, Car
mel
a,” said Rhonda Lee, carefully pronouncing each and every syllable. Rhonda Lee’s voice suddenly sounded sleepy.

“Rhonda Lee?” asked Carmela. “Are you all right? Are you at home?” God forbid that this woman was out driving around playing Chatty Cathy on her cell phone.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Rhonda Lee said in a drowsy, sing-song voice. “Just hanging around the old homestead.”

“Are you alone?” asked Carmela. It suddenly occurred to her that Rhonda Lee might have taken an overdose of something.
Like Jimmy Earl had?

“My beautiful daughter is here with me,” said Rhonda Lee, suddenly sounding slightly more lucid. She sighed deeply. “I’m okay.
We’re
okay.”

Is there a point to this conversation?
Carmela wondered.
Or is this just a rambling apology?

“Carmela,” began Rhonda Lee, “I think you might have been right. . . .”

Okay, I’ll bite,
thought Carmela.

“Might have been right about what, Rhonda Lee?” asked Carmela.

“I went through some papers in Jimmy Earl’s desk,” said Rhonda Lee.

Carmela stood stock-still.
Ohmygosh.

There was a sharp
clink
and then a
thunk
. Carmela figured Rhonda Lee must be helping herself to another drink.

“Are you still there, Rhonda Lee?”

A few seconds went by before Rhonda Lee answered her. “I’m here. I’ve got some . . . uh . . . papers.”

“Could I see them, Rhonda Lee?” asked Carmela. “Will you let me look at them?”

“Sure.”

It’s that easy?
thought Carmela.
She said “Sure” just like that?

Carmela squinted toward the window. Rain was still pelting down outside. Not exactly a great night to be dashing over to Rhonda Lee’s house.

“Can I come over now, Rhonda Lee?” asked Carmela.
Damn, how would she even get through the traffic on—

“Now?” said Rhonda Lee, sounding startled. “No. Oh no. Tomorrow.”

“I can stop by tomorrow?” said Carmela.
Get this confirmed; set up a specific time.

“I’ll come to
you
,” said Rhonda Lee. “At your store. Tomorrow . . .” There was a long pause as Rhonda Lee struggled to get the word out. “. . . afternoon,” she finished.

“Rhonda Lee,” protested Carmela, “it’s gonna be a madhouse down here in the French Quarter. It’d be a whole lot better if I . . .”

But Carmela was talking to dead air. Rhonda Lee had hung up.

Carmela stood with the receiver clutched in her hand. Tomorrow afternoon. She’d have to wait until Rhonda Lee Clayton stopped by Memory Mine tomorrow afternoon. But then maybe, just maybe, she’d start to get some answers.

T
HE morning drizzle didn’t seem to dim the enthu siasm of the Fat Tuesday revelers as tourists and locals alike thronged the streets of the French Quarter. Many wore rain garb with costumes peeking out; most had the ubiquitous
geaux
cups clutched in their hot little hands. And those in the know, which was just about everybody these days, were headed for Bourbon and St. Ann Streets, where the ladies on the second-floor balconies, lubricated by liquor and urged on by a crowd that often numbered in the thousands, would be jitterbugging and proudly displaying their ta-tas.

Carmela hadn’t really planned to go in to her shop to day at all, would have rather headed right for Saint Cyril’s Cemetery to photograph the oven crypts. But Alyse Eskew’s call late yesterday had set her teeth on edge and caused her to completely forget about bringing her digital camera home with her, so a quick trip to Memory Mine was in the cards.

Pushing open the door to Memory Mine, Carmela flipped on the lights and kicked the door shut. What she’d do, she decided, was grab the camera and hoof it the eight or ten blocks over to Saint Cyril’s Cemetery. If she was really lucky, she’d be able to click off a few shots between raindrops. Then she’d zip back here to the shop and download the photos to her computer. Viewing them on her monitor, a fairly new Hitachi with great color resolution, she’d know immediately if she had her shot. If everything looked okay, she’d go ahead and print them out on special photo paper. Then, she’d sit tight and wait for Rhonda Lee Clayton to show up. That is, assuming the somewhat mercurial Rhonda Lee was still coming and wasn’t curled up in bed nursing a hangover.

That was the plan for sure, Carmela decided, as she dug in her desk drawer, searching for her little camera.

Pawing through a tangle of papers, disks, and scrapbook supply catalogs, Carmela swore that she was going to get organized one of these days, even if it killed her. She couldn’t live her life in perpetual disarray, could she? Maybe she should take up the art of feng shui; then at least there’d be a Zen-like semblance of order to her disorder.

Where is that darn camera anyway?
she wondered as Jekyl Hardy’s costume, hanging in the corner of her office, suddenly caught her eye. Seeing the red sequined suit hanging there made her stop and smile. Jekyl’s prized devil costume. A sequined red suit complete with top hat and glittery pitchfork.
People in New Orleans truly are mad,
she decided. To spend all year planning for Mardi Gras and then spend a month’s salary or more on a costume was . . . what? Insane? No, it only looked insane if you didn’t live here. But, if you were born and bred in New Orleans, that madness was forever in your blood, was part of your visceral heritage. And, sure as shit, the minute Mardi Gras was finished and Ash Wednesday rolled around, you’d find yourself dreaming about
next
year’s exotic costume or big party idea.

Her fingers skittered across the plastic edge of the camera.
Okay, here it is,
she told herself.

Carmela flipped the switch on and checked the counter. It looked like . . . what? Maybe twenty shots left?

Carmela racked her brain.

As Carmela headed down Prieur Street toward Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, she felt completely out of step with the rest of the world. Or, at least the world of the French Quarter. Because while she was heading out of the
Vieux Carré
, it seemed that everyone else was spilling into it.

The French Quarter was definitely ground zero today; streets were cordoned off for twenty blocks. And the few blocks surrounding Jackson Square and the French Market were pandemonium, pure and simple.

Yes,
thought Carmela,
today the French Quarter is bursting with parades, marching bands, jazz groups, street performers, strippers, and a couple million costumed revelers. To say nothing of the oyster bars, jazz clubs, street vendors, horse-drawn jitneys, and paddle wheelers sitting over on the Mississippi.

 

 

ST. CYRIL’S CEMETERY LOOKED ALMOST ABAN
DONED, Carmela decided as she squeezed through the half-open front gates. No visitors in sight, no funerals in full swing. Just row upon uneven row of whitewashed tombs that stood out in sharp contrast to the muddy earth. Rain was still sifting down in a fine mist, and when lightning pulsed from purple, billowing clouds overhead, the old tombs seemed to glow with their own eerie brand of electrical energy.