Keepsake Crimes (12 page)

“Glory, I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Shamus left me, remember?”

Glory Meechum flashed Carmela an exasperated look, a look that said
Oh, give me a break.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Glory hastily, “but I thought for sure you two would keep
in touch.
That your little spat would eventually blow over.”

But Carmela held her tongue. She simply replied, “Sorry I can’t help you, Glory.”
Gosh,
she thought,
I wish my momma hadn’t instilled so much civility in me. This really could have been fun. Sport, actually.

There was a scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor as Tandy slid her chair back a few inches, jockeying for a better position from which to observe Glory Meechum’s rantings.

“Don’t get me wrong,” thundered Glory as she snatched up her purse and hung it possesively in the crook of her hefty arm. “It’s not Granger Rathbone who concerns me. He’s not nearly smart enough. What worries me is who Granger might be working for.” With that, Glory Meechum spun on her sensible low heels and darted out the door.

“Who was
that?
” asked Gabby. She emerged from the storeroom with an armful of paper and a startled look on her normally placid face.

“That, my dear girl, was Glory Meechum, Shamus’s big sister,” answered Tandy, obviously relishing the heated exchange she’d just witnessed. “Isn’t she a doozy? The old gal really fancies herself the matriarch of the family.”

Gabby put a hand to her heart. “I don’t mind telling you, that lady frightened me to death. I found the stencils and paisley paper I was looking for five minutes ago, but I was afraid to come out. I thought she might take off on
me!
”

Baby waved a manicured hand dismissively. “Glory barks like a rabid Rottweiler, but I doubt there’s much real bite in her.” Baby, who owned four Catahoula hounds, adored making dog analogies. There had even been Mardi Gras queen candidates who, over the years, had been referenced as poodles, poms, and pugs.

“Here’s that picture frame stencil you wanted,” said Gabby, passing the stencil, along with a stack of mauve cardstock, to Baby.

“Thank you, dear,” said Baby, who was bound and determined to finish off her daughter’s album of wedding reception pictures with a real flourish.

“If you slide the stencil right to the edge,” suggested Gabby, “I think you can cut two frames from one—” The ringing of the telephone interrupted her.

“Memory Mine,” answered Gabby as she snatched up the phone. Listening for a second, she nodded. “Yes, she’s here. Hang on, please.” Gabby punched the hold button, then turned toward Carmela. “It’s for you. Something about your lease?”

“My gosh, don’t tell me you’ve been here a full year already!” exclaimed Tandy. “
Tempus fugit,
how time
does
fly.”

Carmela picked up the phone. “This is Carmela.”

The crackly voice of Hop Pennington from Trident Property Management greeted her on the other end of the line.

“Carmela,” he said cheerfully. “I might have a spot of bad news for you. That nice fellow who has the space next door to you . . .”

“The art dealer?” said Carmela. “Bartholomew Hayward?” Barty Hayward was a self-styled antique impresario with delusions of grandeur. Carmela saw the delivery trucks pulling up at the back door of Barty Hayward’s store. She knew most of his antiques were really replicas and reproductions, and that Barty carefully and surreptitiously aged and distressed them in the workroom behind his store.

“That’s the fellow,” chirped Hop. “He might need your space.”

Hold everything,
thought Carmela,
just what the heck is going on here?

“What if I need
his
space?” replied Carmela, thinking quickly.

“What?” sputtered Hop. From the surprise in his voice, Carmela knew he obviously hadn’t considered
that
scenario. “What are you talking about?” asked Hop.

“Does Bartholomew Hayward have an option on my space?” asked Carmela. She knew that in order for someone to
really
force her out of her retail space, they had to have some kind of option clause written into their lease. And probably hers, too. And she didn’t recall seeing anything like that.

“Well, he doesn’t have an option per se,” Hop replied slowly. “It’s more like a gentleman’s agreement. Should Mr. Hayward wish to—”

“Tell Mr. Hayward that you’re terribly sorry, but my space simply isn’t available. In fact, I’m probably going to want to sign a five-year lease this time around. Business is booming. And I like it here.”

“Carmela . . .” wheedled Hop Pennington, “it doesn’t work that way.”

“Sure it does,” said Carmela. “In fact, I bet this whole thing will work out just fine if we’re all decent and honest and civilized about it.”

“You know, sugar,” said Hop Pennington, “I don’t
own
the building. I just work for the management company. I’m really just the hired help.”

Like that makes everything all right?
thought Carmela.

“I understand,” said Carmela. “I meant nothing personal. By the way, Hop, who
does
own the building?”

“Investors,” replied Hop vaguely.

“Which ones?”

“Ah . . . private ones.”

Carmela hung up the phone, more than a little miffed, verging on cold fury.
Is this another subtle pressure being exerted from somewhere? And if so, who was doing the exerting?

“CeCe!” called Tandy, who was right in the middle of cutting a group of so-so color photos into small slivers with the idea of piecing them together to form a collage. “I’m so glad you could make it.” CeCe Goodwin, a petite woman with green eyes and a modified shag haircut, strode through the shop and back to the craft table.

“Hello there,” she said to Carmela, sticking her hand out in a friendly, forthright gesture. “It’s great to see you again.” CeCe hoisted a plastic shopping bag into a clear spot on the craft table. “As you-all can probably see, I’m in photo hell right now. I
love
taking pictures, but my hours at Saint Ignatius are crazy, and I am definitely
not
making time for myself.” CeCe paused, looking around the table at all the friendly, welcoming faces. “You know . . . not enough bubble baths, candlelit dinners with my hubby, flower arranging, or scrapbooking. Boo-hoo,” she finished with a goofy smile.

“Let’s see what you’ve got there,” said Carmela as CeCe dug into her shopping bag and began scooping out piles of loose color photos.

“CeCe,” exclaimed Tandy as she watched Carmela and CeCe lay stacks of pictures out on the table, “you’ve got as many pictures of your dogs as you do of your kids.”

“Smart woman,” noted Baby. “See, she
does
have her priorities straight after all. What are their names?”

“Andrew and Livia,” said CeCe.

“She meant the dogs,” said Tandy.

“Oh,” said CeCe. “Coco and Sam Henry.”

“They sound like people names,” observed Gabby.

“Well, dogs are people, too,” said CeCe as she dug into her pile of photos. She turned toward Carmela with an imploring look. “Can you help me, or am I totally beyond redemption?”

Carmela had to laugh. CeCe was turning out to be a real card. In fact, after the earlier antics of Glory Meechum and the sleazy tactics of Hop Pennington, CeCe Goodwin was a welcome breath of fresh air.

“Why don’t we start by organizing your photos,” suggested Carmela. She reached behind her, pulled a handful of oversized, clear plastic envelopes off the shelf. “Let’s put dogs in one, kids in another,” said Carmela. “Vacation photos, relatives, whatever, in the rest.”

“Got tons of husband stuff, too,” said CeCe.

“Fine,” laughed Carmela. “We’re an equal-opportunity scrapbooking store. We’ll allot your husband an envelope as well.” She smiled down at CeCe. “Want a cup of tea or bottle of juice?”

CeCe shook her head. “No thanks. Don’t want to get my hands sticky.”

“How are the arrangements going for your party tomorrow night?” Gabby asked Baby as she continued to cut out a series of ornate frames.

Baby looked over at Gabby and grinned, her pixie face suddenly all aglow.

“Fantastic! You-all know I’m using that new caterer, Signature & Saffron, over on Magazine Street?”

“Mmn,” said Tandy squinting, “I’ve heard wonderful things about them. They’re very avant-garde and
chichi
. Or at least that’s what I read in that fancy magazine,
New Orleans Today
. So what delightful little tidbits are in store for us, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

Delighted that she’d finally been asked, Baby’s face lit up with anticipation. “For appetizers they’re doing miniature crawfish cakes, andouille sausage bites, and scallop ceviche. Doesn’t that all sound dreamy?”

“Are you serving the little crawfish cakes with remoulade sauce like Liddy Bosco did a couple weeks ago?” asked Tandy.

“No, honey, if I remember correctly, that was a
Creole
remoulade that Liddy served,” Baby pointed out. “Signature & Saffron is doing a
French
remoulade.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Gabby.

“Oh, the French remoulade has capers and anchovies but is
sans
tomato sauce,” said Baby conspiratorially. “And it’s got a much lighter touch. Effortless, one might say.”

“Especially effortless if one is having the entire gala affair catered,” said Tandy with a wry grin. She reached over and patted Baby’s wrist just to let her know she was kidding, not criticizing. “Then what about your main en trées, honey?” Tandy asked. “What’cha gonna serve for that?”

Baby leaned back, clearly in heaven. “Tiny roasted squab, sweet potato galette, pumpkin risotto, creamy coleslaw of cabbage and jicama . . .”

The women all groaned in anticipation as Baby ticked off her rather fantastic menu.

“I can’t
wait,
declared Gabby. “Everything sounds simply divine.”

“Divine,” echoed Tandy, nodding her approval.

 

 

“ISN’T THIS A COZY LITTLE GROUP,” PRO
NOUNCED the rather shrill voice of Ruby Dumaine.

“Hello there, Ruby,” called Baby, looking up from the scrapbook album she was putting together for her daughter. “Long time no see.” Since she had just seen Ruby Dumaine at Jimmy Earl Clayton’s funeral yesterday morning, her comment was obviously intended to be humorous.

But Ruby Dumaine wasn’t laughing. Dressed in a suit that could only be called crustacean coral, her face was set in a grim mask that would have given even the statues on Easter Island pause.

“Carmela,” Ruby called out in her loud bray, “I have a serious emergency, and I need your help
tout de suite.”

Carmela scrambled to the front of her store to see what she could do for Ruby.

“I am in dire need of a guest book,” said Ruby, rolling her eyes as though it was the most important thing in the world. “Specifically for use by my dear daughter, Swan. Don’t you know, so many folks will be dropping by our home over the next couple days to congratulate her. In fact, we’re having a group of people in tonight, then again on Sunday night after the big Bachus parade.”

Carmela nodded, even as she grabbed four albums off the shelf to show Ruby.

“And, of course,” continued Ruby, “we’ll be doing a fancy barbecue Monday night, after everyone returns from watching the Proteus parade. And then there’s the Pluvius queen candidate luncheon on Tuesday.” She threw up her hands as though it was all too much for her, though the smile of self-satisfaction on her face said she was relishing every single moment.

“Of course,” said Carmela. She especially knew about the Pluvius queen candidate luncheon. She’d designed the place cards, after all.

“Any one of these albums should work beautifully for you,” said Carmela as she laid them out carefully on the counter.

Ruby Dumaine fingered the smaller of the four albums, one with a brilliant purple satin cover and creamy pages rimmed with a fine gold line. “This is nice . . .” she began.

The satin cover was a bright royal purple, the purple of kings and queens and royal heraldic banners. Carmela had chosen it specifically for Mardi Gras, since purple, green, and gold were the official Mardi Gras colors. Purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power.

“This must be a very exciting time for Swan,” offered Carmela as she watched Ruby deliberate.

Ruby turned wide eyes on her. “Exciting?” she trumpeted as though Carmela had dared to trivialize the events she’d just spoken of. “This is the most
important
thing that’s ever
happened
to us!”

“I’ll bet it is,” said Gabby pleasantly as she brought two more albums to the front of the store for Ruby’s perusal.

But Ruby Dumaine had already made up her mind. She abruptly thrust the purple album into Carmela’s hands. “I’ll take this one,” she said. “It should do very nicely.”

“What’s got into her?” asked Gabby as the door closed behind Ruby Dumaine.

Carmela gave a quizzical smile. “Mother-of-the-queen-candidate jitters?” She was amused to observe that Ruby had also been wearing squatty little low-heeled shoes that must have been dyed to perfectly match her suit. And that the leather on one heel had split.

Gabby nodded knowingly. “You’re right. Must be jitters. Wonder if I’ll be that nuts when I have a daughter?”

“You’ll probably keep the poor girl under lock and key,” came Tandy’s voice from the back.

“No,” said Gabby, “but I know Stuart will.”

“I guess Shelby Clayton has dropped out as Pluvius queen candidate,” said Tandy as she pushed her cropped photos around, trying out different arrangements.

Baby slid one of the frames she’d punched out on top of a photo and positioned it on a sheet of creamy paper that had a background of tiny silver wedding bells. “It should be a shoo-in for Ruby’s daughter then,” she murmured. “Oh well . . .”