Read Keepsake Crimes Online

Authors: Laura Childs

Keepsake Crimes (13 page)

BOOK: Keepsake Crimes
8.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“Carmela,” said Tandy suddenly, “are you
ever
going to show us what you’re working on for Saint Cyril’s?”
BABY TOOK OFF AT NOON TO HAVE A FINAL
powwow with her florist, but CeCe and Tandy stayed at the store. Gabby fired up the toaster oven in the back room and toasted bagels for everyone, while Carmela broke out a batch of sour cherry cream cheese spread she’d whipped up a couple days ago.
After the women had munched their bagels, they went back to their scrapbooking projects. CeCe continued to doggedly organize her photos while Tandy worked on her own album even as she paid rapt attention to Carmela’s efforts on the Saint Cyril’s scrapbook.
“I’m going to create an art montage for the introduction page of the scrapbook,” Carmela explained to them. “A kind of establishing visual that will set the tone all the way through.” She fingered a nubby piece of paper. “I’ll start with this five-by-seven-inch piece of beige paper, then stamp it in brown sepia using this oversized rubber stamp that depicts an architectural rendering.”
“Looks like the doorway to an Italian villa,” said Tandy, peering over her glasses.
“Or a home in the Garden District,” suggested Gabby enthusiastically. She had a serious case of I-want-to-live-there.
“Actually, the design is taken from the front of a Roman tomb,” said Carmela. “I’m hoping it will pass for one of the family crypts in Saint Cyril’s.”
“Perfect,” breathed CeCe. “You could have fooled me.”
“Okay,” said Carmela, “so first I stamp the architectural rendering using brown ink so it looks like sepia. Then I’m going to write over it using a copper ink.”
“What are you writing, honey?” asked Tandy, as Carmela began writing in a flowing longhand.
“It’s a French inscription I found on one of the old tombs at Saint Cyril’s,” said Carmela.
“Neat,” allowed Tandy. “What does it say?”
“Something about peace and eternal rest,” said Carmela.
“Then what?” asked Gabby, fascinated.
“Now I take these dried acanthus leaves and tie them at the top of the page with some metallic copper ribbon,” said Carmela, as she punched two holes, then threaded the ribbon through.
“Wow,” enthused Gabby, “the folks at Saint Cyril’s are going to love this.”
“You think?” said Carmela. “But wait, I’m not done yet.”
“What else?” asked Tandy.
“This finished piece gets mounted on this dark reddish brown paper, which is just slightly larger. You see,” said Carmela, “it gives it a sort of floating mat look. Then I paste
that
onto a slightly larger ivory sheet of paper with a deckled edge.”
“Wow,” said Tandy, impressed.
“It’s elegant and somber,” said Gabby, eyeing it carefully, “but very scrapbooky.” She sounded slightly envious that Carmela was able to put together such a pretty art montage with seemingly little effort.
“Hey, everybody,” CeCe exclaimed suddenly, “I think I’ve finally got my photos organized!”
Tandy stood up and arched her back in a leisurely stretch. Her collage had actually worked out far better than she’d hoped. Once she’d trimmed away the uninteresting backgrounds and pieced together the shards of what was left, she got a pattern going that was not unlike a stained-glass window. In fact, there was real charm to the jumbled image.
“Isn’t this interesting,” commented Tandy as she picked up one of the envelopes that CeCe had sorted photos into and riffled through it.
“Those pictures are all from Bobby’s Tulane days,” pointed out CeCe. “His birthday is in a couple weeks, so I thought I’d pull together a bunch of mementos and stuff and make him a little memory book. Bobby pretends to be so tough, but he’s really sentimental as hell. You should see him . . . blubbering away at weddings, funerals, football games . . . that sort of thing.”
CeCe had, indeed, pulled together a great many photos of her husband, Bobby. Plus she’d thrown in clippings that related to his fraternity days, an old homecoming button, and a frayed blue ribbon he’d won at a state track meet.
“Darwin’s a big softy, too,” said Tandy, referring to her own husband. “When he participates in those catch-and-release fishing tournaments, he gets
so
upset if he can’t get the hook out clean,” said Tandy as she continued to peer into the envelope. “If some poor fish gets a torn lip or starts gasping and goes belly up, Darwin really feels bad.”
“The strong but sensitive type,” grinned CeCe. “I know what you mean.”
“You’re right about a memory book being a good birthday present for him,” continued Tandy, “and what great stuff you have to work with. Carmela, do you still have those brown leather-looking photo corners?”
Carmela nodded as she worked. “I’m pretty sure we do.”
“They’d look nice and masculine with all this stuff,” said Tandy.
“I agree,” said Carmela. “Especially if CeCe chose one of the old-fashioned photo albums with the black pages.”
“Oh, my gosh, would you look at this!” said Tandy as she held up a photo and stared pointedly at it.
“Oh, that’s just one of Bobby’s old fraternity pictures,” remarked CeCe. “Wasn’t he adorable? Wasn’t he young?”
“Wasn’t Shamus in Phi Kappa Sigma?” asked Tandy suddenly.
Carmela’s head spun around like a gopher popping up out of a hole. “Yes, he was,” she replied as she paused in her careful application of gold paint to the deckled edges of her montage.
“Lord honey,” exclaimed Tandy excitedly, “I think this fellow in the picture
is
Shamus. Come over here and look for yourself.”
Frowning slightly, Carmela stood up and made her way around the table.
“Right here,” said Tandy, pointing with a carefully manicured index finger. “See the fellow with the silly grin, standing behind the beer keg?”
Carmela peered at an old color Polaroid that was starting to go orange with age. It
was
Shamus. But seeing Shamus in the old photo didn’t surprise her half as much as recognizing the young man who was posed next to him. Because it was none other than Dace Wilcox!
The same Dace Wilcox who’d claimed he didn’t know Shamus. Or even remember Shamus from the Pluvius krewe!
Why had Dace lied?
Carmela wondered.
Was he trying to hide something, or had he simply forgotten?
Gabby,” said Carmela suddenly. “You were at the Pluvius den the other night. Do you remember seeing this man, Dace Wilcox?”
Gabby came around the table and studied the picture, cocking her head to one side. She nodded. “Yes, I know Dace Wilcox. Or at least I’ve
met
him. And he was there.”
“Talking to Shamus?”
Gabby thought for a moment. “Don’t think so.”
There followed a long moment so pregnant with silence you could’ve heard a pin drop.
“Was he talking with Jimmy Earl?” asked Carmela.
Gabby continued to study the old Polaroid of Shamus and Dace, taken at the Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity at Tulane.
“I
think
I might have seen the two of them talking,” said Gabby finally.
“Just so we’re absolutely clear on this, Gabby, you saw Dace Wilcox talking with Jimmy Earl Clayton,” said Carmela.
Gabby nodded her head again. “I’m pretty sure I saw ’em together.” Her brows knit together as she suddenly realized what she’d just said. Then she added, “Just before the floats rolled out of the den.”
Chapter 12
A
T twenty to five, the store was deserted, all the pa pers, stencils, and fancy-edged scissors put away in drawers and cupboards for the weekend. Still, Carmelain was reluctant to leave. She wandered about the store, snapping out display lights and fretting about the strange events of the day.
Seeing Dace Wilcox’s picture next to Shamus’s had been a stunner. And learning that Dace might have been talking to Jimmy Earl Clayton right before he died was downright eerie.
Was it possible Dace Wilcox was not what he appeared to be? That he’d had some sort of bone to pick with Jimmy Earl Clayton? If Dace had somehow engineered a nasty “accident” using a lethal dose of ketamine, how convenient to help steer the rumors and innuendoes to point toward Shamus.
The call she’d received earlier from Hop Pennington didn’t help things either. In fact, it had left her feeling terribly unsettled. Carmela loved her retail space and dearly wanted to remain there.
Had
to remain there, really, if she had any notion of supporting herself as she continued to grow her fledgling business.
Is the landlord trying to ease me out? Or is Hop Pennington just trying to cut a better deal so he can garner a fatter commission check? And who the heck is the property owner anyway?
Now that Carmela thought about it, she realized she didn’t have a clue. Of course, there was a legitimate reason for that. When she was setting up the store a year ago, Shamus had volunteered to handle that aspect of the business. She had located the empty space on Governor Nicholls Street, but Shamus had volunteered to negotiate the lease for her.
Curious now and hungry for information, Carmela wandered back to her office, plunked herself down behind the tiny desk that was wedged between a counter that held a paper cutter and one of the flat files where their expensive handmade papers were stored.
Reaching down and pulling open a file drawer, Carmela’s fingers flipped across the hanging files with their hand-lettered labels. Way in the back was a file marked
Lease
. After she’d signed the lease, she’d stuck the document in there without really reading it or giving it a second thought. She’d just assumed Shamus would deal with the lease again when it was time to renew.
And wasn’t that a nice assumption. Welcome to never-never land, dear girl.
Carmela pulled the lease out and studied the first page. It was printed on company letterhead and listed Trident Property Management at the top of the page. Their address, phone number, and fax number were printed below.
Carmela dialed the phone number listed on the lease. It was doubtful anyone would still be in the Trident offices. Still . . . she could try.
“Hello,” said a voice on the other end of the phone. It was a woman’s voice. Probably a secretary or the front desk person. At least it wasn’t Hop Pennington who answered.
“I’m glad I caught you,” said Carmela, with a friendly greeting. “I didn’t know if anyone would still be there.”
“Well, I’m the last one here,” said the woman, a touch of impatience in her voice. “I was just about to lock up and make my escape.”
“Listen,” said Carmela, thinking quickly. “My boss wanted me to call and get some numbers.”
The woman on the other end of the line sighed heavily. “Now? Late Friday afternoon?” Clearly this was an imposition.
“Yeah,” said Carmela, trying to match her tone. “I was trying to get out of here myself. Don’t you just love bosses and their last-minute requests?”
“Tell me about it,” said the woman, warming up to Carmela now. “What property was your boss interested in?”
Carmela racked her brain, wondering exactly how to play this out. She’d seen the blue and green Trident Property Management signs all over town. They were a fairly big outfit. They handled leasing and the management of lots of different commercial properties.
Carmela took a stab at it. “Trident has some property for lease down on Bienville, right?”
“You mean the new Rampart Building?”
“That’s it,” said Carmela. She held her breath as she heard papers rustling. “My boss talked to someone about square footage and lease rates for the second and third floors.”
“Gosh,” said the woman. “I don’t have that kind of information. That building’s so new it’s not even handled by property management yet. It’s still in the initial leasing stage, so everything is being handled out of the executive office.”
Bingo,
thought Carmela.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Who should I ask for at the executive office?” asked Carmela.
“I suppose you’d want to chat with one of the partners,” said the woman. “Although I seriously doubt they’re still there. Anyway, tell your boss to get in touch with Mr. Michael Theriot. He’s the managing partner. He handles day-to-day operations and works up lease proposals, that sort of thing.”
“And the other partner?” asked Carmela.
“That would be Mr. Maple,” said the woman. “You want the number?”
Carmela was suddenly stunned beyond belief. “Mr. Maple?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “Would that be Mr. Bufford Maple, the newspaper columnist?”
“Yes,” said the woman pleasantly. “Would you like his number?”
Chapter 13
T
HE gold statue of Hermes, winged courier and messenger of the Greek gods, cut through the night like the illuminated prow of a ship. Horsemen in flowing gold robes clattered down the street, flanking the gleaming Hermes float on either side. Costumed jesters in billowing purple and gold silks accompanied the contingent as they strutted along, balanced on six-foot-high stilts.
BOOK: Keepsake Crimes
8.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Blind Spot by Maggie Kavanagh
Flashback by Ted Wood
Monahan 01 Options by Rosemarie A D'Amico
Profile of Evil by Alexa Grace