Now Let's Talk of Graves

Copyright

Praise for Now Let's Talk of Graves

Now Let's Talk of Graves

To the memory of Allan Jaffe

Special Thanks

Let's talk of graves...

One

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Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Now Let's Talk of Graves

A Samantha Adams Mystery

By Sarah Shankman

Copyright 2016 by Sarah Shankman

Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing

Cover Design by Ginny Glass

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print, 1991.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Also by Sarah Shankman and Untreed Reads Publishing

First Kill All the Lawyers

He Was Her Man (A Samantha Adams Mystery)

Impersonal Attractions

Keeping Secets

Say You're Sorry: 12 Stories of Ban Manners and Criminal Consequences

She Walks in Beauty (A Samantha Adams Mystery)

Then Hang All the Liars (A Samantha Adams Mystery)

www.untreedreads.com

Praise for
Now Let's Talk of Graves

“As vivid a bunch of local rogues, aristocrats and in-betweens as ever nodded to each other over coffee and
beignets
in the Quarter… Plenty of action… These characters slip and slide across each other's paths more often than players in a Shakespearean farce… a grand Carnival tide.”
—The Wall Street Journal

“Ms. Shankman has great flair for caricature and writes with wit and humor… A good read… There is an amusing feminist edge.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“Witty, well-paced and filled with characters you want to meet again…
NOW LET'S TALK OF GRAVES
is a thoroughly enjoyable book and Ms. Shankman has captured New Orleans's quirkiness and flavor through her strong supporting cast.”
—Atlanta Journal and Constitution

“First-class entertainment… New Orleans and its denizens are the stars here, in a raunchy, Runyon-esque tour of the city's social structure, streets, speech, food, and flavor not to be found in the guide books.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“A rollicking novel of New Orleans.”
—San Antonio Express News

“Shankman's feisty characters and vibrant Southern setting make for a lively, enjoyable narrative.”
—The Drood Review of Mystery

“Shankman makes the place and time vivid.…”
—Philadelphia Inquirer

“Terrific… the setting and the characters are marvelous. And the dialogue! I could
hear
these people talking… highly recommended.” —Dean James, of Murder by The Book

“Sam Adams is witty and perceptive.…
NOW LET'S TALK OF GRAVES is
laced with insight and humor.”
—New Orleans Times-Picayune

“Shankman has genuine gifts for the demanding creation of a good murder mystery.”
—Houston Post

“Witty… Shankman's engaging Southern characters speak in authentic Southern dialogue and engage in swift repartee… readers will be charmed by her spunky style.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Shankman should be proud to claim this… Samantha is a delight; the writing is skilled; the plot is involved and involving.”
—Washington Times

Now Let's Talk of Graves

A Samantha Adams Mystery

Sarah Shankman

To the memory of Allan Jaffe

of Preservation Hall—for the good times

Special thanks to Ann Culley in Raleigh and Joseph Epstein in New Orleans for reading, for many kindnesses, and for generous advice. Jane Chelius, a love, and the best of editors. Dana Isaacson, kiss kiss. Matthew Gee, computer wizard, you saved my life. Harvey Klinger, superb agent, prince, and shrink. Johanna Tani, copy editor extraordinaire. Luisah Teish's
Jambalaya
(Harper & Row, 1985) was an invaluable resource for voudou.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;

Let's choose executors and talk of wills.

—Richard II

One

THEY HIT SAM with the Hurricane right at the gate.

Laissez les bons temps rouler.
Let the good times roll.

The unofficial welcoming committee, a bunch of free-roaming drunks, left her holding a tall glass of the strawberry-colored kick-ass punch that had made Pat O'Brien's famous—that and the piano players' dirty songs. “Long John,” the one about a hard-driving dentist, had been Sam's favorite when she was a teenager, used to pack six in a car, make the long trip down from Atlanta for Mardi Gras. Drunk as skunks Saturday through Fat Tuesday. Nobody'd ever heard of
underage
in the Big Easy of the sixties.

Now, on the day before Mardi Gras, half past noon, twenty-odd years later and ten years sober, Samantha Adams shifted the long black garment bag she was carrying over one shoulder and looked around the Delta gate for a place to put down the drink.

*

Over at the edge of the waiting area Harry Zack was watching Sam—though he didn't know her yet. He was watching her because she was a tall, very pretty brunette, a lot easier on the eyes than the pie-eating lady evangelist who'd caught his attention on the pay TV, courtesy of the chubby young blonde in the waiting area who'd been stuffing the TV meter with quarters. The evangelist was famous in New Orleans; her name was Sister Nadine. The pie Nadine had in one hand, the one that wasn't holding the tambourine, looked like lemon meringue to Harry. Looked pretty good, though the tall, very pretty brunette with the head full of soft dark curls looked sweeter. Trying not to be too obvious about it, Harry slid his eyes up Sam's legs. Up to her great chest. Elegant nose. He had a thing about women's ears, but hers were hidden behind the curls and silver hoop earrings. She had huge brown eyes, and a classically beautiful face that reminded him of some star he'd once seen in an old movie on TV.

Then his imagination skipped over the how-do-you-do-my-name-is-could-I-call-you-sometime-first-second-third-date business and he wondered—after all that—where would he take her? If, after a leisurely lunch at Galatoire's, making love to her from the very first minute with his mind, his eyes, little sighs, lots of good wine, she said yes? Where would they go, skipping hand in hand out of the restaurant together?

He closed his steel-gray eyes, the one on the left having less far to go—the lid drooped just a little. He could see the place in his mind. A cottage at the Maison de Ville in the Quarter. Jammed with antiques. Bathtub big enough for two. Bed even bigger—draped with old lace. The perfect love nest.

Now, wouldn't that be nice?

Take it to the Lord in prayer,
the TV blared as Sister Nadine cut loose. Harry opened his eyes and the bedroom vanished. But the brunette, with a smart-alecky sort of grin on her pretty face, hadn't.

It's you she's staring at, Harry Zack. You, right there.

*

But it wasn't Harry she was seeing. Sam was grinning off into space, seeing her friend Kitty Lee in her mind. Kitty, who was supposed to meet her at the gate. Kitty, who was always, chronically, since they'd been roomies twenty years ago at Stanford, late. Kitty, yelling at her on the long distance every day for the past week:
Why don't you hurry up and get your butt over here, gonna miss the whole goddamn Mardi Gras. Don't make the Comus Ball your ass is grass might as well stay home.
Then, when Sam finally did get a breather, filed her story on the shooter picking off some of Atlanta's finest citizens like deer right through their picture windows, left the
Constitution
and its Byzantine problems behind her, grabbed the last seat on the flight—now, where was Kitty? Well, hell, hadn't everyone always said that woman would be late to her own funeral?

Sam's gaze focused.
Not bad,
she thought, zeroing in on Harry. Not bad at all. In fact, in the looks department, great. Wide brow. Nice nose. Couldn't see the color of his eyes from here. Blue, maybe. Or was that gray? High cheekbones with bright spots of color just beneath. Fair-skinned with a dark shadow of stubble. Wide mouth—a little pouty. That look was in, wasn't it, at least for models. Well, he could model. Broad-shouldered and lean, though not much taller than she. A ringer for Paul Newman's son. Grandson? Oh, Lord. He
was
pretty young. Pretty
and
young. That wild tangle of black curls could use a shearing. So is that what she'd say to him if she got the chance?
Young man, you could do with a haircut.
Sound like his aunt. His mother.

Well, hell, why not? Younger men were in fashion these days, weren't they? And she'd been considering, so far only in the abstract, the possibility of grabbing up one for her own amusement. And, matter of fact, it wasn't as if the handsome young man in the rumpled raincoat wasn't staring back. Of course, he might just be thinking about stealing her pearls. But more likely he was searching for an opening line. She straightened her back, gave him her good profile. Thirty-nine and a half wasn't, by God, dead and nailed down. Not yet.

*

Harry caught Sam's look and flashed her a little smile. Then, suddenly shy, he looked away, his gaze searching for a place to light, landing on the chubby young blonde whose rear was a real tight fit in the TV chair. She seemed to be mesmerized by Sister Nadine and that lemon meringue, licking her lips and fingering a little gold crucifix. Another necklace spelled her name out in big gold letters: TERI.

He wondered what the pretty brunette's name was. Laura? Suzanne? He sneaked a look back at her. Whoops. She was still staring. Waiting for him to make the first move, maybe. Jesus! He stared down at the floor, up at the ceiling. He'd
promised
himself next time he'd have one ready. Well, sucker, this
was
next time. And what did he have to pull out of his bag of tricks? Nothing more than a handkerchief. Thank God for small favors—it was clean. But he needed it; he was sweating like a pig. He blotted his forehead, swiveled his gaze back to the chubbette.