Keepsake Crimes (4 page)

“. . . needs an airway,” said the first paramedic.

“. . . so swollen, I can’t see his . . .” came the panicky reply from the second paramedic. He probed at the mouth of the collapsed man with latex-gloved hands, obviously frustrated in his attempt to establish an airway.

The two paramedics remained bent over the man, working on him furiously. Then Carmela saw one of the paramedics pull a small instrument from his medical bag. A sharp glint of metal told Carmela it must be a scalpel.

“Traching him,” murmured a man next to her.

Carmela peered intently at the scene in front of her and saw that one of the paramedics was, in fact, performing an emergency tracheotomy. Crouched on the pavement, a single wavering flashlight held by one of the police officers, the circumstances were primitive at best. She prayed the paramedic was blessed with a steady pair of hands.

Finally, their emergency procedure seemingly accomplished and an airway established for Jimmy Earl, the police and paramedics rolled the inert man onto a stretcher. Then they scrambled to their collective feet and rushed him to the back door of the ambulance. As they slid the poor man in, one of the paramedics jumped in beside him. Then the door was slammed shut, and the other paramedic clambered into the driver’s seat. Lights flashed, the engine roared to life, and the siren gave a single plaintive
whoop
as the ambulance screeched off down the street.

T
HE walls in Carmela’s apartment were painted coral, a rich, satisfying red that matched the tumble of bougainvillea that sprang from the brown ceramic pots crouched outside her front door. Her furnishings were mostly thrift shop finds. Chairs and couches with classic lines that she’d slipcovered in crisp, natural beige cotton.

Ava Grieux had donated a couple of sisal rugs, claiming they were “too upscale” for her shop, whatever
that
meant.

The rest of the furnishings were little touches Carmela had found in the bargain back rooms of French Quarter antique shops. An ornate framed mirror with some of the gilt scuffed off. A piece of wrought iron that had once been part of a balustrade on some grand old home and now functioned as a dandy shelf for Carmela’s collection of antique children’s books. Brass candle holders that were so oversized they looked like they must have once resided in a church.

It wasn’t the sprawling grandeur of the Garden District, that was for sure. But her apartment
did
reflect the quirky charm and old world ambiance of the French Quarter. Punchy yet relaxed, a little bit decadent, definitely Belle Epoque. A distinct flavor that could only be found in this birthplace of New Orleans.

Carmela knew that most visitors, once captivated by the French Quarter’s spell, would give their eyeteeth to live here. And all she had to do was get tossed out of her own home. Correction, get tossed out of
Shamus’s
home.

Carmela was in a downer mood tonight and knew it. Then again, who wouldn’t be after seeing poor Jimmy Earl Clayton get handed down from his sea serpent float and laid out pathetically in the middle of the street for all to see?

It was an ignominious moment for one of the Pluvius krewe’s big muckety-mucks. And not exactly the best way to cap off their gala torchlight parade.

Had Jimmy Earl been resuscitated at the hospital?
Carmela wondered. She certainly hoped so. They’d probably taken Jimmy Earl to Saint Ignatius Hospital, where they had a crack ER team.

The more Carmela thought about it, she more she figured the poor man must have suffered some sort of cardiac incident. That would account for his terrible palor, his inability to breathe, right?

Jimmy Earl was young, mid-thirties, still in fairly good shape. But in a city that dined nightly on crawfish bisque, deep-fried shrimp, andouille sausage, fried oyster po’boys, and bread pudding with whiskey sauce, early onset heart attacks weren’t exactly unheard of.

Carmela grabbed a carton of orange juice from her small refrigerator and poured herself a glass. Stepping out of her shoes, she padded back across the floor to an antique wicker lounge chair that had been bolstered with down-filled cushions. She flopped down and nestled in. Stretching her legs out, she caught the matching footstool with her toe, pulled it toward her.

Ah, that was better. Now she could kick back and relax. Carmela took a sip of juice, savoring the sweet, fruity taste, and closed her eyes.

For one split second tonight, when she’d seen that poor limp body in the white mask and tunic being hauled off the sea serpent float, Carmela had experienced a terrible moment when she’d imagined that it might be Shamus. Somehow, her mind had flashed on the idea that Shamus had been up there, riding in the Pluvius parade with his old krewe, and that something bizarre had befallen him.

But, of course, she’d known it
couldn’t
have been Shamus. Shamus wasn’t a member of the Pluvius krewe anymore. When he renounced his old life, he’d renounced
everything
. Gone cold turkey. Bid adios to her, his job, his social obligations.

There was no way Shamus would have been riding on that float.

Experiencing an unexpected flood of relief, Carmela was suddenly angry with herself.

Why had she thought it might be Shamus? How had
that
thought insinuated itself in her head?

Better yet, why would she even care? Wasn’t she still furious at Shamus? Yes, she was. Of course she was.

Footsteps scraped across cobblestones in the courtyard outside her door and Boo, suddenly roused, let loose with a mournful howl. In almost perfect synchronization, the doorbell rang.

Carmela pulled herself out of the chair, ambled to her front door, opened it as much as the safety chain would allow.

Two uniformed police officers peered in at her.

“Ma’am?” said one.

“Yes?” said Carmela pleasantly.

The two officers continued to stare in at her.

Suddenly, reluctantly, Carmela had a pretty good idea of why the two policemen were here.

“Has something happened at the store?” Carmela asked then sighed deeply. Most business owners, the
smart
business owners, reinforced their store windows with wooden barriers and chicken wire during Mardi Gras. It was a good preventive measure that kept the party hearty hordes from trampling or pushing their way through your plate-glass windows. If the police were here, it was a pretty good indication something like that had happened. That the front window had been busted in or at the very least cracked. Darn. And she’d just put in a brand-new display.

“Ma’am . . .” one of the officers was saying.

“It’s the front window, isn’t it?” said Carmela as she unhooked the chain and reluctantly pulled the door open. “I could just kick myself. I
knew
I should have—” she began, even as she wondered if her insurance would cover it.

“It’s not your window, ma’am,” said the officer whose name tag read Robineau. He hesitated. “We’re here about your husband.”

Carmela was so surprised she took a step backward. Boo, who’d been milling about at her knees for the past minute, suddenly pressed forward for a good, investigatory sniff of the two men who stood in the doorway.

“My husband?” said Carmela.
What could this be about?

“Yes ma’am,” said Officer Robineau as he continued in that maddeningly polite procedural manner that many policemen adopt. “You are the wife of Shamus Allan Meechum?”

“
Estranged
wife,” Carmela replied. “Shamus and I are separated.”

“Well, ma’am,” continued Robineau, “Mr. Meechum’s been taken in for questioning.”

Carmela frowned.
Why would the police want to question Shamus? What on earth has he done to warrant being taken into custody by the police? Gotten drunk and propositioned one of New Orleans’s social doyennes?
Carmela cleared that thought from her mind.
No, that would be no big deal. During Mardi Gras that kind of social impropriety was par for the course.

“He’s been arrested?” Carmela asked with some trepidation.

“No, ma’am,” the second policeman, Officer Reagan, chimed in. “Not formally charged, nothin’ like that. It’s just like my partner said. Mr. Meechum is being
questioned
.” Officer Reagan paused. “We’d like to ask you a few questions as well.”

“You want to tell me exactly what this is about?” Carmela asked, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice.

Officer Reagan, who bore the sad look of a betrayed bloodhound said, “Your husband is being questioned concerning the apparent murder of Jimmy Earl Clayton.”

Stunned, Carmela put a hand to her heart. “Jimmy Earl is dead?”

Officer Reagan nodded slowly.

This was shocking news to Carmela. Somehow, she’d been fairly sure the brilliant doctors at Saint Ignatius would work their medical magic on Jimmy Earl. That they’d EKG, EEG, or ECG him so he’d live to play the fool in yet another Mardi Gras celebration.

“Oh, no,” said Carmela, “poor Jimmy Earl. Such sad news. I thought for sure he’d . . .” her voice faltered. “I hoped it was something the doctors could easily fix. But this . . .” Shaking her head, Carmela motioned the two officers in. “Perhaps you’d better come in . . . tell me all about it.”

T
HE sun wasn’t up yet, but something was making a dreadful racket.

Carmela lay in bed in a half-dream state, trying in vain to figure out what was going on. Flag twirlers in spangled uniforms and shiny white boots pranced in front of a green and yellow float. Then the float ground to a halt, and a giant phone was handed down to her.

What? Oh, oh. Phone,
she finally decided.

Carmela fumbled for the pale blue princess phone she’d ripped from the wall in the butler’s pantry the day she’d vacated Shamus’s home.

“Hello,” she croaked.

“Carmela.” The voice was a deep, languid drawl.

Carmela uttered a sharp intake of breath. It was the rat himself: Shamus.

“What?” she mumbled. Lifting her head, she peered at the oversized dial on her vintage clock radio. It read a big five-fifteen. She hadn’t slept more than six hours. No wonder she felt tired and crabby.

“Are you insane?” Carmela groaned into the phone at Shamus, already knowing the answer. “Because it’s so early the
birds
aren’t awake. It’s so early the morning shift of bartenders down on
Bourbon Street
hasn’t come on yet.”

“Carmela, I need to talk to you.” Shamus’s voice was soft yet insistent.

Carmela grimaced. She hated that soft, wheedling tone. It drove her crazy and got to her practically every time.

She closed her eyes, tried not to conjure up a mental picture of him. It didn’t work. In her mind’s eye she could still see Shamus. Tall, six feet two, and the proud possessor of a lazy smile that tended to be devastating when he decided to turn it up a notch or two. Shamus had a sinewy body, strong hands, flashing brown eyes. And a soft accent. His mother hailed from Baton Rouge, and he carried her soft-spoken ways.

“What about?” Carmela asked. She pretty much knew what Shamus was going to say, but she didn’t feel like making it easy for him. She swung her legs out of bed, hit the sisal rug, scrubbed the bottoms of her feet back and forth across the bristles, as though the rug were a loofah, and she could magically rub some energy into herself. Positive energy that would fortify her against Shamus.

“You heard what happened to Jimmy Earl Clayton?” Shamus asked her.

“You know something, Shamus?” she told him. “I was
there
. I was standing in front of the French Market when the entire Pluvius parade ground to a halt and the police had to lift the poor man down from his sea serpent float.” Carmela didn’t know why she was suddenly so defensive, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. When they were living together, she’d always thought they brought out the best in each other. Now that they were apart, Shamus most definitely brought out the worst in her.

“You’re not going to believe this, Carmela,” Shamus roared back, “but the police questioned
me
last night. Me!” She could hear both anger and anxiety in his voice.

“In fact, they held me at the police station until almost two in the morning!”

“I’ve got news for you, Shamus, they came and talked to me, too,” Carmela fired back.

“What?” said Shamus, genuinely stunned. “When?”

“Last night,” she told him. “Around ten, ten-thirty. They came to my apartment. The exceedingly small apartment I was forced to move into after you unceremoniously dumped me. The one I retreated to after your lovely sister ousted me from our former home.”

“Carmela, we’ve been over this,” Shamus said plaintively. “I didn’t dump you; I love you. You’re my wife.”

“Let’s see now,” she said. “Would that be your have-and-to-hold-till-death-do-us-part wife? Or your I’ll-get-back-to-you-when-I’m-good-and-ready wife?”

Oh man,
she thought,
there’s that insidious, wheedling tone again.

“Carmela,” repeated Shamus. “What did they want with you?”

“They wanted to know if I’d seen you last night. I told them I hadn’t seen your sorry ass since you stuffed your argyle socks into your banjo case and boogied on out the door.”

“Guitar. You know darn well I play guitar.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t care if you switched to a cello and joined the Boston Symphony. The police wanted to know if you were acquainted with Jimmy Earl Clayton.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Shamus.

“I told them everybody and his brother from here to Shreveport was well acquainted with Jimmy Earl Clayton. The man was your basic Southern boy mover and shaker. Rated several column inches per week in the business section as well as a few mentions in our somewhat questionable society pages. And I use that term loosely, society being what it is today.”