Keepsake Crimes (20 page)

Shamus thought for a second. “You’re right.”

“I’m sorry the camp house got trashed,” she told him. He was still standing way too close to her. It angered her and made her feel shivery at the same time.
Oh God
, she asked herself,
why do I suddenly turn into a gelatinous mess when I’m around this man?

Shamus shook his head sadly. “One of my macro lenses got smashed.”

“Where were you?” Carmela asked him. “Where are you hiding out?”

Shamus gazed down at her with a look of complete innocence. “Hiding? I wasn’t hiding. In fact, today I was driving up and down the River Road.”

Carmela frowned.
He was driving around? Doing what?
“Doing what, I might ask?”

“If you must know,” said Shamus, “I was photographing some of the old plantations. The Destrehan, the Laura, the Houmas House,” said Shamus, naming some of the more famous plantations that graced the scenic River Road just north of New Orleans. Shamus shrugged his shoulders and rotated his head as though he was trying to work out a few muscle kinks. “You might not believe this, Carmela, but I truly believe I’m finally doing my best work ever.”

Carmela regarded him as you would a seriously demented person. “Your best work?” she exclaimed. “Shamus, I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but
you don’t work
! You quit your job at the bank to run off and cohabit with alligators and possums. And, in case you’re not entirely plugged into reality, might I remind you that your name keeps coming up in connection with a
murder
investigation!”

But Shamus was already moving swiftly across the room, heading for the door.

“Yeah,” he muttered with his back to Carmela, “ain’t it a bitch.” He yanked open the door and slipped out without bothering to say good-bye.

Carmela ran to the door, pulled it open, fully prepared to hurl a nasty invective at him.

But Shamus had already melted into the dark.

From the
click click
of toenails, Carmela knew that Boo had followed her across the room. She slammed the front door shut, fixed the security chain in place, and looked down at Boo. “If that cad comes back here, I want you to bark your head off,” she told the dog. “Better yet, you have my permission to bite him in the ass.”

Boo gazed placidly at Carmela, then her nose crinkled up in a tired doggy yawn.

“Some help you are,” said Carmela with disgust.

It was only after she’d crawled into bed and pummeled her pillow for a while that Carmela realized she’d completely forgotten to ask Shamus about any possible connection he might have to Dace Wilcox or Bufford Maple.

Damn
, she thought,
there are still so many loose ends.

“
W
HERE did
you
disappear to last night?” came a shrill voice.

Carmela sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.
How did I get the phone to my ear, and who is this person shrieking at me and drilling me for answers?

“Ava?” she said, a giant question mark in her voice.

“Of course, it’s Ava,” came the reply. “Who were you expecting? Madame L?” Madame L, or Marie Laveau, was an early nineteenth-century folk heroine who was a hairdresser, volunteer nurse, and voodoo queen.

“I had to take off in a hurry. Sorry,” said Carmela.

“You should be. I hope it was with a man.”

“Actually, it was,” said Carmela. Jack Dumaine was nobody’s idea of a dream date, but she had, technically, taken off with him. Or at least taken off
after
him. On the other hand, Carmela decided, Jack just might be Rhonda Lee Clayton’s idea of a dream date. Truth was indeed stranger than fiction.

“I’m glad to see you’re back in the social swing,” said Ava, her voice dripping with praise. “I told you it was like riding a horse. You fall off, you get right back on again.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best analogy,” offered Carmela.

There was silence as Ava took a few moments to contemplate this. “You might be right,” she admitted. “Okay, how about this. Men are like shoes. They start to crimp your toes, you toss ’em out and get a new pair.”

“I’ll go along with that,” yawned Carmela.

“Listen,” said Ava, “I’ve got an idea you’re really going to adore. How’s about you and me meet at Brennan’s for brunch. Say about tenish? We can indulge ourselves with praline pancakes dripping with syrup, an order of thick-sliced bacon, and a dollop of bread pudding with brandy sauce. Of course, we might want to indulge in one of their deliciously refreshing hurricanes to wash it all down.” For a woman who was worried about busting dress seams last night, Ava certainly seemed to have changed her tune.

Carmela sighed. Brennan’s hurricanes were notorious. Triple shots of rum mingled with fresh-squeezed fruit juices, crushed ice, and a floral garnish. You didn’t need more than a couple of those to start seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. But instead of saying yes, Carmela flopped back on her pillow and snuggled in. “Ava, I have to take a rain check, okay?” she told her friend.

“You’re not alone!” came Ava’s delighted shriek. “The fair maiden’s bed is finally
ocupado
!”

“No, I’m alone,” Carmela hastened to tell her. “But I have some figuring out to do.”

“Life-decision figuring out or more mundane stuff like deciding whether to pay the rent or pop for a new cashmere sweater?”

“Both,” said Carmela.

“Okay,” agreed Ava, “I can see you’ve got a lot on your plate—other than praline pancakes, that is. But I’m gonna call you later.”

“Do that,” said Carmela.

Hanging up the phone, Carmela stared at the whitewashed ceiling and the ceiling fan that swished slowly overhead. That was the way her mind felt. Like it was going in endless circles. Trying hard to figure things out but always ending up back where she started. It was frustrating. And downright debilitating in a strange kind of way.

 

 

A VACUUM CLEANER HOWLED FROM SOME
WHERE deep within the old house when Carmela banged on Glory Meechum’s screen door some fifty minutes later. It felt strange to be back in the Garden District, just a few blocks from where she’d been last night. She wondered vaguely if the big white tent was still flapping in Baby and Del Fontaine’s backyard. Or had it been struck down at first light?

“Glory?” Carmela shouted. “It’s me. Carmela. Are you home?” Carmela banged on the door again. Nothing. Maybe they couldn’t hear her in there.

Frustrated, Carmela reached down to grab the door handle. She was just about to pull it open and step inside when the ample form of Glory Meechum suddenly loomed behind the screen. Off in the distance, but farther away now, as if the vacuum cleaner had moved into another room, the mournful howl continued.

Does Glory make her poor maid clean on Sunday, too?
Carmela wondered. Then she decided to shelve that thought. Of course she did. Glory Meechum’s behavior often bordered on obsessive-compulsive.

Shamus had told her it was a harmless little foible. That Glory was really a sweet and gentle person. Carmela wasn’t so sure. She thought, if probed deeply enough, Glory Meechum might reveal a fairly dark side, kind of like that wacko, Annie Wilkes, from the Stephen King novel,
Misery
.

“What do you want?” demanded Glory Meechum. She’d opened the screen door, but with her arms folded across her sizable chest, she still blocked the entrance to her house.

“Good morning to you, too,” said Carmela pleasantly. “It
is
a gorgeous day, isn’t it?” She tried to smile her most convincing smile. This was, thought Carmela, the same technique you’d use to handle a large, hostile dog. Stand your ground, smile, betray not one iota of fear.

Glory Meechum, with her sensible housedress, helmet of gray hair, and no-makeup complexion, stared at Carmela and her sudden cheeriness as though she were a strange science project that had been unceremoniously dumped on her doorstep.

But Carmela’s upbeat approach was obviously working, because Glory seemed to soften just a tad. Her countenance lost its hard, accusing look, and she gazed at the pecan trees and flowering oleander in her yard as if finally seeing them for the first time. “Yes,” Glory replied briskly, “it is a very nice day.”

“Glory,” said Carmela, still on her best behavior, “may I come in for a moment?”

Glory nodded abruptly and stepped back, admitting Carmela to her inner sanctum.

Carmela, walking a few steps ahead of Glory, turned toward the living room.

“No,” said Glory hurriedly, grabbing at her arm. “That’s just been freshly cleaned. Let’s go sit in the dining room instead.”

Glory’s dining room was really the old breakfast nook. But it was still big enough to accommodate a rather nice Sheraton table that easily seated twelve. Carmela supposed there might be extra leaves, too, to enlarge the table even more. Although Glory Meechum certainly didn’t impress her as an entertaining hostess with the mostest.

Light spilled into the dining room from a trio of windows that overlooked the bucolic and somewhat overgrown backyard. Carmela realized she’d only been in this room once before. That was well over a year ago, when she and Shamus were planning their wedding and Glory had thrown what they’d laughingly referred to as the “grand inquisition dinner.” Most of Shamus’s family had been in attendance that evening, and it was amazing how prophetic their little nomenclature had turned out to be.

Glory plunked herself down on a dining room chair, causing it to utter a sharp
creak
. “What do you want?” she asked. Clearly, Glory was not a woman who felt she had to ease gracefully into a conversation.

Carmela decided the smartest thing to do was play this by the book.

“Glory,” she began, “when you paid a visit to my scrapbooking shop the other day, you were awfully upset.”

Glory’s full lower lip seemed to protrude a tad more than was normal. “Still am,” she told Carmela with all the aplomb of a petulant five-year-old.

“And you asked me to help you,” said Carmela.

Glory Meechum sat there like a lump, surrounded by an uncomfortable silence.

Wow
, thought Carmela,
Glory must have colossally lost it the other day. Is that regret showing through right now or just stubborn reluctance?

“I think we could help each other,” prompted Carmela. This whole conversation was proceeding with a lot more difficulty than she’d thought it would. In fact, trying to get a response from Glory was like trying to yank out teeth.

Glory folded her flabby arms across her chest in one of her favorite poses. “How so?” she demanded.

Carmela took a deep breath and began. “I think we both know that Shamus is in some kind of trouble,” she said.

“What the exact nature of it is, I have no idea. But, what I
am
proposing is that we pool our resources in an effort to unearth a clue or two.”

“And how would we go about that?” asked Glory Meechum in her flat tone.

“Shamus still has his office at the Crescent City Bank, does he not?” asked Carmela. Carmela knew for a fact that he did. In fact, Glory probably kept Shamus’s office looking like a shrine, the way some parents do with their children’s rooms, even though the little darlings have long since departed the old homestead.

What did they call that?
Carmela wondered.
Probably Whatever Happened to Baby Jane syndrome.

“Yes,” said Glory somewhat reluctantly. “Shamus
does
still have his office at the bank.” She paused. “We’re
holding
it for him.” Disappointment and disapproval were evident in her voice.

“Then I’d propose we start there,” said Carmela.

“At the bank,” said Glory. “Going through confidential records.” Glory Meechum had stonewall in her voice.

Uh-oh
, thought Carmela. She shifted in her chair, bent forward, and tried to project what she hoped was a kinder, gentler sort of conspiracy. “Not snooping,” she told Glory. “Sifting through
information
. Information that might give us a clue as to what’s going on.”

Glory continued to stare at her with reluctant, hooded eyes.

“You saw the column Bufford Maple wrote,” prompted Carmela. “That had to sting. And you’ve no doubt heard the innuendos.”

Glory’s head nodded ever so slightly.

Did the other guy just blink?
wondered Carmela.
Am I starting to actually get somewhere?

“And, of course, Granger Rathbone stopped by here the other day,” continued Carmela. “I’m sure his little invasion of privacy angered you. In fact, I
know
it did.”
That’s right
, Carmela told herself,
play on the woman’s paranoia.

“Granger Rathbone is a very hostile person,” spat Glory.

Touché
, thought Carmela.
The pot calling the kettle black.

But Carmela’s words were working on Glory. Because Glory was beginning to get wound up, actually seemed to be seriously considering the need for taking action. Glory’s eyes shone brighter, and her hands began to clench ever so slightly. A good case of outrage was starting to smolder deep within.

“Okay, then,” said Carmela. “For sure we can’t just stand idly by. We’ve got to take a proactive stance.”

The spark inside Glory Meechum suddenly ignited into a white-hot flame. “If Shamus won’t lift a hand to clear his good name, then we’ll do it for him,” proclaimed Glory. “If not for your own family, then who else? Am I right?”

“You are
so
right,” declared Carmela fervently as the whine of the vacuum cleaner suddenly sounded nearby. She wanted to leap up on the table and declare
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
, even as she wondered to herself,
Does that family thing still include me? Am I still technically part of the Meechum clan?