Keepsake Crimes (27 page)

“Of course I paid a visit to Gabby,” said Ruby. “I figured she still had the camera.”

“And then you tried to pick up my photos,” added Carmela. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle were coming together with dizzying speed. And she didn’t much like the picture that was emerging.

“I didn’t realize you’d gone digital,” said Ruby. “Silly me; guess I’m going to have to take the plunge into cyberspace myself.”

Carmela also knew, with complete and utter clarity, that it had been Ruby Dumaine who strong-armed Alyse Eskew into calling her and trying to get the list back.

Dead giveaway,
thought Carmela.
Ha-ha.

“Know what else I did?” bragged Ruby Dumaine. “I talked that idiot Rhonda Lee into calling you last night.”

“You did? How?” Carmela regretted her question the minute the words flew from her mouth.

But Ruby just smiled. “I have my ways. Suffice it to say she’s just a drunken pawn, doesn’t understand a thing. In fact, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to death when my own daughter, Swan, is crowned Pluvius queen tonight.”

Thrilled to death. Once again, an interesting choice of words,
thought Carmela.

Carmela mustered up her nastiest sneer. “You’ll never get away with this!” she told Ruby with far more conviction than she felt.

“I already have,” smirked Ruby Dumaine. “Now, there’s just one final little item I’m going to enlist from you. In fact, it’ll help me tie up an awful lot of loose ends.” Ruby paused, flashed a horrible barracuda smile. “Your confession.”

“What?” said Carmela, stunned.

“You’re going to pick up your pen and write out your confession. About how Shamus killed Jimmy Earl Clayton and you gave him your very capable assistance.”

“Dream on,” said Carmela.

Ruby shifted the gun slightly to focus on the space between Carmela’s eyes.
I’ve always been partial to that space
, Carmela decided.
Okay, fine, I’ll pick up the damn pen and humor this crazy lady.

Carmela searched around on the top of her desk.
Too messy,
she thought wildly.
Gotta get organized.
Her fingers hit a green plastic pen that lurked under a pile of papers. It was the pen with the disappearing ink.
Ahh . . . there you go! I finally caught a break.

Ruby dictated a somewhat rambling statement, which Carmela diligently wrote out word for word on a piece of plain white paper. Ruby scowled at Carmela’s efforts, watching her over the pistol, moving her lips as she read the statement back. Then she gave a quick nod. “Sign it,” she ordered.

Carmela signed it.

Ruby snatched the paper from Carmela’s hands, folded it in half, and tucked it inside her red leather purse.

A clown with a designer purse
, thought Carmela.
If this wasn’t Mardi Gras, people would for sure know she was fruit loops.

“Stand up,” commanded Ruby. She gestured wildly with the pistol, and Carmela reluctantly scrambled to her feet.

“Is that your costume?” asked Ruby, gesturing toward Jekyl Hardy’s devil suit.

“No,” Carmela told her.

“Put it on anyway.”

Carmela slid the jacket off the hanger and put it on. The shoulders were too big and the sleeves way too long.

“Excellent,” said Ruby. “Trousers, too.” She leaned forward with a stupid grin on her face. “Remember, dearie, it’s Mardi Gras! We wouldn’t want to rouse suspicion.”

Carmela grabbed the trousers and stepped into them, pulling them up over her own black slacks. All the while she was hoping someone or something would intercede.

That single idea fueled Carmela’s hope. Maybe Jekyl Hardy would show up to retrieve his devil costume. Or Ava would get worried and peek in the window. Or maybe Rhonda Lee would get it together and drop by for their chat. Unfortunately, Carmela noted, none of those possibilities seemed to loom large on the horizon.

“Is your car parked nearby?” asked Ruby. She was tugging the purple clown wig back on over her red curls. If she didn’t look so terrifying, it would have been ridiculous.

“Not really,” said Carmela.

“Where is it?”

“Um . . . in an alley off Esplanade Avenue,” said Carmela. She decided it was better to tell the truth than lie about it. If Ruby decided to march her to her car, maybe she’d be able to figure out
the great escape
on the way. Flash a signal to someone. Or wrest herself away. Or get a bullet in the back of her head. No, she decided, the latter was not such a good option.

“Perfect,” cooed Ruby. She hefted the gun again. “Let’s march.”

There was a famous quote that went something like, “Never argue with people who buy ink by the gallon.” Carmela thought there should be another version that said, “Never argue with crazy people who carry guns.” Because as Ruby marched her down the street, Carmela realized just how helpless she was.

Here they were, in the middle of Mardi Gras, for goodness sakes, and she couldn’t do a thing.

“You live around here?” asked Ruby after they’d gone the requisite two blocks or so.

“No,” said Carmela.
My apartment is barely fifty feet away, and Boo is in there all by herself. I’ll die before I let Ruby near my dog.

“You sure?” Ruby Dumaine cocked her head like an inquisitive crow, staring at Carmela with glazed eyes.

Carmela shrugged. “I just park my car here,” she answered.

Ruby seemed to accept the answer at face value.
Good,
thought Carmela,
she’s not as shrewd as she thinks she is. And she obviously didn’t do her homework.

Carmela showed her the old Cadillac.

“Perfect,” said Ruby. “Unlock it, and let’s get in. And don’t try anything funny. I have very good reflexes.”

I’ll bet you do,
thought Carmela.

Carmela inserted the key in the ignition, turned on the engine. It did its rough
tocka-tocka-tocka
for a couple minutes, warming up. “Where to?” Carmela asked as she buckled her seat belt.

“Back to Saint Cyril’s,” Ruby told her. She ignored her seat belt and half turned in her seat, focusing her hostile gaze on Carmela.

Carmela could barely contain her surprise.

Ruby waggled the gun in her face again. “Just drive,” she said in a tired voice. “Don’t piss me off any more than you have to, okay?”

Carmela negotiated the car out of her parking space, headed down to Barracks Street. Luckily, the streets this far over weren’t blocked off yet, and she was able to head over to North Rampart, then hang a right to Prieur.

“That’s it,” said Ruby, catching a glimpse of the cemetery a few blocks away. “Go in the front entrance. The Prieur Street gate.”

“Ruby . . .” began Carmela. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but you’ll never—”

“Honey, you don’t know
what
I’ve got planned,” Ruby spat out. She snaked a hand into her purse and fumbled around. She pulled out Carmela’s confession as well as a large, rusty key.

Skeleton key?
thought Carmela.
What’s that for?

Ruby saw the consternation on Carmela’s face and favored her with a thin smile. “In case you don’t know, the Dumaines also have a family crypt at Saint Cyril’s. Six generations are interred there. And probably a few other various and sundry bodies as well.” Ruby let loose a crazed chortle and gazed hungrily at Carmela. “I don’t think one more body would put a strain on the accommodations. There’s not all that much of you.”

Carmela felt her hands go numb and her knees begin to tremble.
Ruby is going to try to force me inside the family crypt. If all goes well with Ruby’s bizarre plan, I’ll die of starvation, and there’ll be nothing left of me. Barely a few bones.

Ruby waved the signed confession at Carmela and jangled the key in her face. “Keep driving,” she snarled, “don’t slow down now.”

Carmela’s brows furrowed together.
No,
she told herself.
We all have a part in creating our own destinies. We just have to act on our impulses, take advantage of situations. That’s what spells the difference!

Carmela’s right foot crunched down hard on the accelerator, and the old Cadillac shot ahead with a burst of speed.

“That’s the spirit,” roared Ruby. “Zoom zoom, hurry it along!”

Up ahead Carmela could see the wrought-iron gates of Saint Cyril’s Cemetery coming into view. She’d walked through those gates barely an hour ago. Actually, she’d more or less
squeezed
through them, since the gates weren’t completely open, more like standing ajar. When she’d arrived here earlier, she’d just figured the caretaker had hastily unlocked them, then been distracted by something.

That’s it
, thought Carmela.
I’ll aim for the gates. I’ll drive this big honkin’ car right into the wrought-iron gates and send this crazy lady clear through the windshield!
Carmela clutched the steering wheel and tried to brace herself.

At the last minute, Ruby saw Carmela’s plan written on her face. “Stop it!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare crash this—!”

Finally hearing fear in Ruby’s voice, Carmela took a deep breath, even as she tried to relax every muscle in her body as her car slammed into the giant pair of black wrought-iron gates that loomed at the entrance to Saint Cyril’s Cemetery.

The air was filled with screams, the sickening screech of grinding metal, and the high-pitched shatter of glass as the car gunned its way up one of the wrought-iron gates. Then, back tires still churning and burning rubber, the car began to roll to its side. As if in slow motion, passengers, papers, and bits of Mardi Gras costumes all tumbled wildly in the car. And the last thing that flitted into Ruby Dumaine’s consciousness was the realization that the ink on Carmela’s signed confession had somehow faded into oblivion.

S
UNLIGHT. A white blur of a costume. And defi nitely a splitting headache.

Carmela was also cognizant of buzzing voices and soft footsteps padding around her. She knew she should try to open her eyes. But it all seemed too much. Too painful to even contemplate.

Carmela fought to open one eye. It fluttered mightily before she managed to get it to remain open and focus. The white chicken costume wasn’t a costume at all; it was a nurse’s uniform.

She decided to go for the other eye, too.
Live a little,
she prodded herself.
That is, if I’m still alive.

Both eyes fluttered open, and she stared into the anxious faces of Tandy Bliss, Ava Grieux, Baby Fontaine and . . . Shamus? Oh my.

Carmela made a feeble effort to sit up, decided her head hurt too much. “I’m not dead?” she croaked. “This isn’t heaven?”

“Close to it,” said Ava kindly. “You’re still in New Orleans.”

“Mardi Gras?” rasped Carmela.

“The poor girl’s delusional,” sobbed Tandy.

“Quick, get her a sip of water,” Baby directed the nurse. “Her throat is bone dry. Listen to that poor rattly little voice.”

Ava clutched at Carmela’s hand. “You’re in the hospital, honey. You’re going to be okay. No broken bones, but you’re a little shook up.”

“Samantha?” Carmela croaked again.

“Who’s Samantha?” asked the nurse. “Was she the victim in the clown costume? The one they had to subdue?”

“Samantha’s her car,” murmured Ava. She smiled at Carmela, shook her head. “She didn’t make it. Samantha was totaled. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Carmela sipped greedily at the water the nurse offered her. Then she licked her lips.

“Ruby?” she asked.

“Broken collarbone, broken arm, broken jaw,” said Tandy, happy to deliver such dreadful news. “They’ve got her all trussed up.”

“And in traction, too,” added Baby helpfully. Her blue eyes were bright with tears.

“Here?” asked Carmela. She had to know. She’d been dreaming about Ruby Dumaine for the last couple hours. Sick, drug-induced dreams that had made Ruby seem larger than life. Like some rampaging
thing
that couldn’t be stopped. Lying here, feeling completely helpless, Carmela didn’t even like the idea she might be in the same
building
as Ruby Dumaine.

“No. They moved Mrs. Dumaine to the state hospital early this morning,” said the nurse.

“Ladies,” said Shamus, finally speaking up. “Could you give the two of us a few minutes alone?”

There were knowing glances all around, then Ava, Baby, Tandy, and the nurse shuffled out into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind them.

Shamus moved around to the side of Carmela’s bed so he could be close to her. Carmela could smell his spicy aftershave. It smelled nice. Like their bathroom used to smell after he showered and shaved.

“I was so worried about you, darlin’.” Shamus bent down and kissed her cheek gently. In his navy cashmere sweater and khaki slacks he looked like a college kid.