Tragic Magic (28 page)

“Y
OU brought
dogs
?” screamed Glory. She screwed her doughy face into a look of horror and disbelief. “This is an underhanded ploy, Carmela. You know I
despise
those filthy, mangy creatures!”

Glory stood hunkered in the doorway, blocking Carmela’s access into the second-floor conference room at the downtown office of Crescent City Bank.

“Shamus asked me to bring them,” Carmela responded, fighting to maintain her cool and restrain a growling Boo from nipping Glory. Boo was a good girl, but when provoked she could definitely make her displeasure known. With sharp little teeth.

“Out!” Glory shrilled, her arms flailing about her body, her face going red, and her fleshy upper arms quivering.

Carmela gritted her teeth, tightened up on the leashes, and waited for Shamus. She knew she had to remain especially centered and grounded this morning. Dealing with Shamus, Glory, and the lawyers was not going to be a walk in the park.

But Glory continued to glower, ordering Carmela, once again, “Take those dogs outside!”

“Hey!” Shamus called from down the hallway. “You brought the dogs! Cool!” He loped down the carpeted hallway, a silly grin on his handsome face. When he reached Carmela and her furry charges, he dropped to his knees and pulled Boo and Poobah into his arms. They greeted him with soft snorts and wet kisses.

“Shamus,” said Glory, in a still-thunderous tone, “you are
not
bringing those creatures into my conference room.”

“C’mon, Glory,” wheedled Shamus, “Boo and Poobah are part of the family.”

“They carry disease,” argued Glory.

Carmela, glancing from Glory to Shamus, was beginning to enjoy this bizarre sideshow. “She’s right,” she finally chimed in. “They could be carrying fleas or ticks. And you know what that means . . .” Carmela favored Glory with a bright smile. “Lyme disease.” That, she decided, would add insult to injury.

Glory shrank back like a vampire confronted with holy water and a crucifix.

“I’ll keep ’em at one end of the room,” Shamus assured his sister, while frowning at Carmela.

“We’ll surely have to fumigate,” muttered Glory as she skittered on ahead to take her place at the conference table.

Even though Shamus had formally agreed to Carmela’s divorce settlement, today was no slam dunk. Shamus’s lawyer, Willis B. Mortimer, Esquire, sniped at Carmela’s attorney, Shawna Hardwick. Hardwick shook it off and struck back, a petite African American woman in a red power suit who wasn’t about to take any shit. As the attorneys argued back and forth, Shamus seemed to settle into a blue funk. And Glory played her role as the hysterical wild card or the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the corner, depending on how you looked at things.

Carmela decided the entire meeting was like the bad third act of a really bad soap opera. Only (sigh!) this was real life.

“Just make her sign the papers,” Shamus said, morosely. “Make it all go away.”

“Thanks so much, Shamus,” said Carmela. “And do you think you could have possibly been a little more considerate early on? Maybe you shouldn’t have left me, argued so melodramatically to get back together again, then cheated on me again!”

“You’re not exactly lily white,” snarled Shamus.

“I never cheated on you,” said Carmela.

“But you started seeing other men,” grumped Shamus.

“Only after we were officially separated,” Carmela pointed out. “And because you were the one who encouraged me. You told me to get out there and look around.”

“Maybe I was wrong,” said Shamus. “Maybe we were both wrong.”

The two lawyers exchanged worried glances.

“Shall we continue with this?” asked Shamus’s lawyer.

Shamus nodded faintly.

“Please do,” said Carmela.

“Fine,” said Mortimer. “As it stands now, what Mr. Meechum and Ms. Bertrand will be agreeing to today is as follows . . .” He picked up the typed agreement, adjusted his glasses, studied it for a moment, then said, “Ms. Bertrand will now forgo the previously agreed-upon alimony and will instead receive the deed to Mr. Meechum’s Garden District property as well as a cash settlement in the amount of ten thousand dollars.”

Glory’s fist suddenly slammed down onto the table. “The house,” she muttered.

Mortimer lifted furry eyebrows and gazed at her. As personal as well as corporate counsel, he seemed used to Glory’s frequent outbursts. “It’s what has been agreed upon by both parties,” he intoned.

“But it’s not
fair
,” seethed Glory.

“Are we going to get this done or not?” asked Carmela’s lawyer. “Because if we have to come back in here . . .” Shawna Hardwick’s tone was just this side of threatening.

“Let’s get it done,” said Shamus, slumping in his chair. “Let’s get it over.”

Glory’s face turned a darker shade of red, and she twitched her nose. “That house has been in our family for decades. This arrangement simply isn’t acceptable!” She pulled a plain white hanky from her sturdy black bag and sneezed into it. “The house should never have entered into this negotiation!” She sneezed again, then looked accusingly at Carmela with red-rimmed eyes. “See what you’ve done! You dragged those hideous beasts into my conference room just to trigger my allergies!” She turned to confront attorney Mortimer. “It’s a ploy!” she cried, sneezing again and causing him to duck.

“Could we please move this along?” asked Shawna Hardwick.

Shamus popped up from his chair and grabbed Glory’s arm. “Let me walk you to your office. You can sit down, relax, get some fresh air.”

Glory dabbed at her nose while allowing herself to be half-dragged, half-carried from the conference room. A couple minutes later, Shamus came back, red-faced and sweating bullets.

“
Now
can we proceed?” asked Hardwick.

“Wait,” said Shamus, holding up a hand. “We haven’t discussed custody of the dogs.”

“What!” exclaimed Carmela and the two attorneys in unison.

“I’m their daddy,” said Shamus. “I need to have at least partial custody.”

“You get no custody of Boo,” said Carmela. “She was my dog before we got married.”

“What about Poobah?” Shamus whined. “I love Poobah.”

At hearing his name, Poobah lifted his head and gave an
eager doggy grin. His torn ear flopped and a string of drool dropped slowly to the carpet.

Mortimer regarded the dog. “You’re
sure
you want custody?” he asked Shamus.

“Poobah was a stray that you found and I took in,” Carmela told Shamus. “So the way I see it, we probably have . . . uh . . . joint custody.”

That prompted a whispered conference between Shamus and his lawyer. And some exuberant yips and tail wagging on the part of Boo and Poobah.

Mortimer listened, nodded, made a few jottings, then gazed at Carmela over horn-rimmed spectacles. “Saturday walks and once-every-other-week sleepovers?” he droned, as though it were the most reasonable request in the world. “The dates to be mutually agreed upon by the two parties.”

Carmela nodded. It sounded fair to her.

“Looks like we have a deal,” said Shawna Hardwick.

While the documents were being retyped, Shamus bored them all with chatter about his photographs that were on display at the Click! Gallery tonight. “Plus, I don’t know how many of you know this,” said Shamus, “but tomorrow’s Glory’s birthday, so we’re going to celebrate by having a cake at the gallery.” He smiled at Carmela. “You should drop by for cake and ice cream.”

Carmela shrugged. “Yeah. Right.” Like she cared.

“And the Pluvius krewe is going to roll a float tonight,” Shamus added. “In honor of Galleries and Gourmets, we got it all gussied up with a Chinese art theme.”

“Terrific,” said Carmela, with even less enthusiasm.

Ten minutes later, a secretary who’d been shanghaied to work this Saturday morning came running back with the revised documents.

Carmela signed first, then Shamus.

When it was all over, Shamus smiled gamely and tried to give Carmela a kiss. But at the last minute, she did her little trick and turned her head so his lips just grazed her ear.

“I’m glad we got this wrapped up,” Shamus told her, his brown eyes slightly misty.

“No shit,” replied Carmela.

Carmela dropped off the dogs at her apartment, kissed their respective furry noses, then headed to Memory Mine. Not surprisingly, the French Quarter was jammed with people and work crews jostling to set up for Galleries and Gourmets. Which meant Carmela had to forcibly push her way through the crowds.

The food booths were the big hot thing, of course. Come five o’clock tonight there would be booths selling boiled crawfish, jambalaya, stuffed mirliton, po’boys, hush puppies, homemade pralines, kettle corn, turtle soup, muffuletta sandwiches, frozen daiquiris, and Dixie Beer.

But as Carmela made her way down Royal Street, she saw that many of the antique shops were also busily setting up. Dulcimer’s Antiques already had two large library tables angled in front of their shop, and Devon Dowling, the owner, was slowly arranging some of his smaller tabletop items: candelabras, colored glass, antique pitchers, a few small paintings, some leather-bound books, and what looked to be a Tiffany lamp. Mimi, his chubby little pug, stood under the table, watching the proceedings. When Mimi saw Carmela, she gave a desultory tail wag.

“Mimi looks nervous,” said Carmela, coming up behind him, noticing that his pigtail hung halfway down his back.

Dowling whirled around, looked uncertain for a moment, then crinkled his eyes when he recognized Carmela. “Mimi’s a little hothouse flower just like me,” Dowling said airily. “Prefers to stay inside.”

“So you’re not looking forward to tonight’s festivities?”

Dowling wrinkled his nose. “Oh, I suppose it’s all well and good,” he told her in a slightly petulant tone. “I don’t anticipate selling any more pieces than I normally would. And I’m certainly not convinced that displaying antiques
like you would baskets and pinch pots at an art fair is the smartest strategy in the world.”

“If it’s any consolation,” said Carmela, “you’ve got a great-looking display.” She turned her attention to his table, which really did hold a number of tasty treasures. “I can’t imagine people won’t stop and take notice.”

“But will they buy?” asked Dowling. “Or are they just coming down here for the food and music?” He reached down, scooped up Mimi, and snuggled her in his arms. She grinned happily and stared at Carmela with shiny, dark eyes.

“Have to wait and see,” said Carmela. She reached out and touched the rosebud lid of a pink-and-cream-colored teapot. “Is this from Meissen, by any chance?” she asked.

Dowling suddenly looked a lot less bored. “As a matter of fact, it is. Are you in the market for a collectible teapot?”

 

“What’s it like out there?” asked Gabby. She was standing in the front of the shop, sorting through various packets of brads, buttons, and beads. “It’s been quiet in here, but I see hordes of people streaming by.”

Carmela smiled as she dusted her hands together. “Getting very crowded. There’s a ton of people, and excitement seems to be building.”

“Now tell me the real news,” said Gabby. “How did your meeting go? Did you settle? Did you finally close the deal?”

Carmela’s grin stretched across her face. “I’m a free woman,” she told Gabby. She was just getting used to that notion and it thrilled her. Free at last; no more Shamus sticking his big, fat, meddling nose in her business. The only contact she’d have with him was arranging doggy sleepovers. And he’d probably tire of that soon enough.

Gabby peered inquisitively at Carmela. “You’re a free woman who now owns a great big Garden District home?”

Carmela bobbed her head. “Even though Glory put up a last-ditch effort to squash it, the house is mine. Although, truth be told, I’m not sure how long I’m going to keep it.”

“What!” exclaimed Gabby. “After all you went through? That house is yours. It’s the spoils of war.”

“That house is also humongous,” said Carmela. “The smart thing would be to sell it. Buy a smaller property and invest the rest of the money.”

“That’s the kind of thing that financial lady on CNN would tell you to do,” said Gabby. “You know the one I mean, Suze Orman.”

Carmela nodded. She was a big proponent of carefully calculated plans. Well, most of the time she was.

Gabby came around the counter and gave Carmela a hug. “You’re a good businesswoman, Carmela.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Carmela, hugging her back. “But I know Shamus’s house . . .
my
house now . . . could turn into a money pit. Just the monthly upkeep is murderous.”

“Shamus will have a fit if you turn around and sell it,” giggled Gabby.

“You’re right,” said Carmela. “So there really is an upside to all of this.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ava called, looking for her own update.

“Well . . . ?” she said.

“It’s over,” said Carmela. “Absolutely, formally, signed-sealed-and-witnessed-by-two-attorneys-and-a-notary over.”

“Glory didn’t make trouble?”

“I said it was over,” Carmela told her. “Not that it was over easy.”

“But you got the house!” chortled Ava. “Which, I have to believe, is worth well over two million buckaroos in today’s real estate market. So you’re a multimillionaire,
cher
! Which means we gotta celebrate tonight at Galleries and Gourmets.”

Carmela gave a slight groan.

“I don’t want to hear it!” cautioned Ava. “You know we’ve been planning to go to this for weeks. I’m even gonna wear my fat jeans so we can really pig out.”

“Your fat jeans are, like, a size four,” laughed Carmela. “While mine are . . . well, never mind.”

“We
gotta
go,” said Ava. “I’ll wheedle and whimper until you plead for mercy!”