Keepsake Crimes (6 page)

“She was right there in the emergency room when Jimmy Earl was brought in,” finished Gabby with great enthusiasm.

Baby cranked her patrician brows up a notch and turned to study Tandy. “You don’t say,” she murmured. “Was the poor fellow still alive, do you know?”

“Dead as a doornail,” said Tandy as she flipped through her stack of photos like playing cards.

“I heard they found drugs in his bloodstream,” volunteered Dawn.

“Ketamine,” called Tandy from the back, not wanting her inside information to be overshadowed by anyone else.

“Such a sad business,” said Baby. “I think I’ll make a crab étouffée to take over to Rhonda Lee.” Rhonda Lee was Jimmy Earl’s wife. Technically his widow now. “What do you think, honey?” She turned to Dawn.

“Crab’s good,” said Dawn.

“You know, the Claytons only live a few blocks away,” Baby added. “It just goes to show you never know when or where tragedy’s going to strike.” There were murmurs of agreement from the women, then Baby shook her head as if to clear it. “On a happier note, I was telling Dawn about the wedding scrapbook pages you showed us yesterday.”

“Ya’ll know I just got married this past fall,” said Dawn, brightening immediately. “To Buddy Bodine of the Brewton Creek Bodines. And I
still
haven’t got my reception pictures in any semblance of order. Mama did my wedding album, of course, but these . . .” She sighed dramatically and held up a large fabric-covered box that presumably contained a jumble of reception photos. “I thought maybe ya’ll could help,” she finished with a pleading note.

“You thought right,” said Carmela, draping an arm around Dawn’s shoulders and leading her to the table in back. “In fact I just got a
load
of new albums and papers in. Here . . .” Carmela got Dawn and Baby seated at the table, then moved to a flat file cabinet and slid open a drawer. Drawing out an album with a thick cover of cream-colored, nubby paper embossed with tiny hearts, she passed it over to them.

Dawn fingered the thick paper. “I
adore
this cover, it’s so tactile.”

“That’s because the paper’s handmade,” Baby quickly pointed out.

“And I absolutely
love
the almond color,” said Dawn, “it’s so much more elegant than just plain old pasty white. And those little hearts are
perfect.
So romantic.”

“I’ve got some great papers, too,” said Carmela, smiling at Dawn’s over-the-top enthusiasm. “Some are mulberry, handmade in Japan. One even has cashmere fibers woven in.”

 

 

CARMELA HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN ABOUT
Jimmy Earl’s demise by the time Donna Mae Dupres walked in to her shop. A rail-thin little woman in her sixties with a tangle of gray hair, it was rumored that, in her youth, Donna Mae Dupres had been wilder than seven devils. But whatever mischief she had wrought and hearts she had broken had now been replaced by matronly decorum, for Donna Mae Dupres was a tireless fund-raiser and chairman of Saint Cyril’s Cemetery Preservation Society.

Saint Cyril’s, like all the ancient cemeteries in New Orleans, had been built aboveground back in the late 1700s. With constant outbreaks of yellow fever killing off large numbers of the population, early settlers had still found it nearly impossible to bury the bodies of their dead in the ground. The city of New Orleans, it seemed, was situated a good six feet
below
sea level. So the water table had a nasty habit of eventually returning their loved ones to them. An alternative method was hastily and cleverly devised. The aboveground tomb.

Carmela had been commissioned by Saint Cyril’s Preservation Society to design a history scrapbook commemorating this historic old cemetery with its whitewashed tombs, historic monuments, and black wrought-iron gates. Quite a creative coup and the first
commercial
scrapbook project she’d ever received.

“Look what someone just donated, dear,” said Donna Mae, handing a yellowed and tattered brochure to Carmela. “It’s the program for the dedication of Saint Cyril’s back in 1802.”

Carmela accepted the fragile program. From the condition of the faded, half-shredded paper, it had obviously been forgotten for decades in someone’s old trunk. And, over the past hundred years, it had been subjected to all manner of heat, mildew, mold, and insects.

“I’ll get this treated with archival preserving spray right away,” Carmela promised. “Like some of us, it doesn’t need any more age on it.”

“We located a few more black-and-white photos, too,” said Donna Mae, handing over a large manila envelope.

“And I asked some of the older folks to write down their recollections, just as you suggested.”

“Wonderful,” said Carmela. “That way this scrapbook can be an interesting amalgam of photos, news clippings, and written history.”

Donna Mae beamed. “And you’ll have a sample page or two to show the committee by the end of next week?”

“Count on it,” Carmela assured her.

“Isn’t that a coincidence,” remarked Tandy as the door closed on Donna Mae Dupres. Tandy’s eyes sparkled, and a curious smile occupied her thin face.

“What is?” asked Carmela.

“You’re creating a scrapbook for Saint Cyril’s,” said Tandy, nodding at the packet of photos in Carmela’s hands.

“Yes,” said Carmela slowly, still wondering what coincidence Tandy was referring to.

“And the Clayton family plot is in Saint Cyril’s,” continued Tandy. “That’s where poor Jimmy Earl will be laid to rest.”

 

 

CARMELA WAS HUNCHED OVER HER IMAC IN
her little office at the back of the store when Gabby poked her head in.

“Jekyl Hardy’s on the phone,” Gabby announced. She looked at the computer screen. “You got the order in okay?”

Yes,
mouthed Carmela as she picked up the phone. “Jekyl, hey there,” said Carmela.

Jekyl Hardy was a whirling dervish of a man who, for the better part of the year, made his living as an art and antiques consultant. When Mardi Gras rolled around, however, you could usually find Jekyl Hardy at the Pluvius or Nepthys dens, where he served as head designer and float builder for both krewes. Lean and wiry, dark hair pulled snugly into a ponytail, Jekyl Hardy was usually attired in all black. And since he was constantly overbooked, Jekyl was generally in a state of high anxiety throughout Mardi Gras—at least until the last beads were tossed and the queens were crowned on the final Tuesday night.

“Carmela, my most darling and favorite of all people,” came his intense voice at the other end of the phone. “Do you know your name was mentioned in passing regarding our fair city’s latest brouhaha?”

“What are you talking about, Jekyl?” She had a pretty good guess as to what Jekyl meant but still held out a faint glimmer of hope it might be something else.

“I’m referring to the untimely demise of Jimmy Earl Clayton,” said Jekyl. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook. As you know, I’m doing the decorations for the Pluvius Ball next Tuesday night.” He paused dramatically. “And now there’s a slight rumble the ball may be canceled altogether.”

“Out of respect for poor Jimmy Earl?” asked Carmela.

“I suppose that would be the general idea,” said Jekyl. “Although, from what I’ve heard about Jimmy Earl, the man didn’t garner all that much respect when he was alive.” Jekyl Hardy cackled wickedly, pleased with his offbeat brand of gallows humor. “But, Carmela, this nasty innuendo about your ex,” Jekyl continued. “Very, very bad. Word on the street is that Shamus is suspect numero uno, the odds-on favorite for the moment.”

“Not
my
favorite,” replied Carmela.

“I admit it’s all circumstantial,” said Jekyl. “On the other hand, Shamus does posses a fairly famous temper and has been known to dip his beak in the demon rum. It’s a fairly damning combination. I mean,
I
was running around like a chicken with its head cut off last night, trying to get the damn floats out the door, and I
still
noticed Shamus staggering around, sucking down hurricanes like they were Pepsi Colas.”

“Shamus always does that at Mardi Gras,” said Carmela. “Hell, Jekyl, the whole of New Orleans does.”

“Point well taken,” agreed Jekyl. “The question is, what’s to be done now? What kind of damage control can you engineer?”

“There’s nothing to do,” said Carmela. “Except let the police do their job. I’m sure they’ll blow off all the nasty rumors and innuendos soon enough and get on with their job.”

“Which is?” said Jekyl.

“Figuring out who
really
did away with poor Jimmy Earl Clayton,” responded Carmela. “Or, rather, I should say determine how he died. Since nothing’s really been proven yet.”

“Carmela,” gushed Jekyl Hardy, “you’re such a linear thinker. I absolutely
adore
that aspect of your brain. Me, I’m far too right brain. Just not enough balance between the cerebrum and the cerebellum, I guess. Or does it all take place in the cerebral cortex? I can’t remember. Anyway, next question. What lucky gent is squiring you to the Marseilles Ball this evening?”

“No one,” said Carmela. “I’m not going.”

“But, darlin’, you have your beauteous costume all figured out!” protested Jekyl.

Carmela grinned. To pass up a Mardi Gras ball was heresy for a Mardi Gras fanatic like Jekyl Hardy.

“Well,” blustered Jekyl, “you most definitely
are
going, and don’t bother trying to weasel your way out of it. You’ll go with me.”

“I don’t think so—” protested Carmela.

“Mm-mn, case closed,” declared Jekyl over her protests. “I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Hotel Babbit at eight o’clock sharp. Okay?”

“Okay,” sighed Carmela.

“And you
are
wearing that delightful black-and-gold creation, correct?”

Carmela sighed again. “If you say so.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to go flouncing into one of the biggest Mardi Gras parties of the year with her décolletage in plain sight while her soon-to-be-ex-husband was being speculated on so freely. On the other hand . . . what could she do? Shamus was surely innocent, right?

G
RANGER Rathbone paused on the sidewalk outside Memory Mine and narrowed his eyes as he stared in the store’s front window. Gazing past his own reflection of a lanky, long-jawed man with an unruly shock of gray brown hair, he could see a young woman standing at the counter. She seemed to be arranging various sheets of paper into some kind of display. Handling them with great care, as though the darn things were terribly fragile or expensive or something.

Granger Rathbone spat on the pavement, ran his rough knuckles across the lower half of his pockmarked face.
Women’s stuff.
He snorted to himself.
Frilly, silly, women’s stuff
. He glanced at the old-fashioned sign that read
Memory Mine, Scrapbooking Shop
. And underneath in smaller type,
Where Memories Are Made.

Yeah, right,
he thought,
memories.
He had a head full of memories, didn’t he? Memories of a childhood spent up on the Saint Louis River. Gettin’ the tar whupped out of him by his pa. His ma running off and leaving him and his squalling little sister behind.

Ain’t got no time for memories like that,
Granger Rathbone told himself.
Or for women who think such things are important.

Gabby smiled sweetly at the man entering the scrapbooking shop and wondered briefly if he might be lost.

In fact, she was about to direct him to the CC Jazz and Social Club two doors down, when the rather rough-looking man reached into the breast pocket of his rumpled brown sport coat, pulled out a leather wallet, and snapped it open in her face.

“Detective Rathbone here to see Carmela Bertrand,” he said with a curl of his lip. “You her?”

“No . . . no, I’m not,” stammered Gabby. She was dismayed to see that Detective Rathbone seemed to take great enjoyment in the fact that he’d deliberately flustered her. “Carmela,” Gabby called out.

Bent over the craft table in back, Carmela looked up expectantly. In an instant she caught the look of intimi dation on Gabby’s face, the smug look on the face of the man who had just entered her store. And she knew in a heartbeat that something was up.
Who is this person?
she wondered.
Cop? Private investigator?

Carmela sauntered to the front counter slowly, taking careful stock of the man who gazed at her with such guarded interest as well as bold-faced arrogance. A cool smile settled across her face as she made up her mind to deal with this better than she’d dealt with Officers Robineau and Reagan last night. “I’m Carmela Bertrand, the owner,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Damn right you can,” replied the man. “Name’s Granger Rathbone. I’m with Homicide. Need to ask you some questions.”

“Concerning what?” Carmela said pleasantly. Now that she’d had some time to get used to the idea of Shamus being branded a murder suspect, she wasn’t quite as spooked as she had been last evening. Besides, she knew that the charge or rumor or whatever it was, was entirely without basis.

“You know darn well why I’m here,” spoke Granger Rathbone. “You husband—”

“Ex-husband,” said Carmela.

“I’ve got it on good authority you’re still married to Mr. Shamus Allan Meechum,” said Granger Rathbone. “In the eyes of the law that makes him your old man.”

“That makes him nobody’s old man,” Carmela replied breezily. “Case in point, Shamus is a relatively
young
man. Chronologically he’s thirty-four. Although, as far as maturity level goes, one might peg him at around sixteen.”

There was a titter from the back room. Tandy.

Granger Rathbone narrowed his eyes at Carmela. He’d dealt with smart-ass women like this before. Women you couldn’t intimidate, couldn’t seem to ruffle.
That’s just fine,
he thought,
she’ll whistle a different tune when her old man’s hauled in and put behind bars and she has to scramble to make bail. She’ll be sobbin’ her heart out then.