Keepsake Crimes (7 page)

Granger Rathbone struck a casual pose and pulled out a black leather notebook.

“Shamus much of a drinker?” he asked.

“He likes his bourbon now and then.” Carmela paused, managed an innocent smile. “I’ll bet you do, too.”

“You’re just full of answers, aren’t you, lady?” snarled Rathbone. “How about drugs. Does your husband do drugs?”

“Hardly,” replied Carmela, determined not to let herself be outwardly intimidated by this thug. Gabby, on the other hand, was fairly trembling as she hovered nearby.

“Know if Mr. Meechum ever
deals
drugs?” asked Rathbone.

Carmela let a long beat go by before she said anything. Then she looked carefully down at her watch and gave Granger Rathbone a reproachful look. “Gosh,” she said, “I’d really love to help with this thing, but I’ve got a scrapbooking class starting in about two minutes.”

“We can do this another time,” Granger Rathbone said as he fixed her with a hard-eyed gaze.

“Better phone ahead,” suggested Carmela with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Things tend to get a little crazy around here.” She turned to leave him, then hesitated. “Oh,” she said, as though the thought had just popped into her head. “Next time, instead of stalking in here, trying to intimidate everyone in sight, why don’t you call Seth Barstow’s office first. Perhaps you’ve heard of his law firm, Leonard, Barstow and Streeter? Well, the thing of it is, Seth is my attorney. And if you have any more questions, I’m sure Seth can arrange a time and proper place when we can all sit down together and talk.”

His black notebook snapped closed like an angry alligator as Granger Rathbone leaned forward, his pebbly cheeks flaring with color. “Think you’re pretty hot stuff, don’t ya, lady? Think you can outsmart me.” He shook his head from side to side, curling his lip in disdain. “We’ll just see about that.” With that, Rathbone stalked out of her store.

“Whew,” breathed Gabby after the door had slammed behind him. “I can’t believe you handled him the way you did. “You didn’t even seem like you were a bit . . .
Carmela?”

Gabby watched with surprise as Carmela staggered around to the back of the counter and eased herself down onto a wooden stool. Her face was white, and she looked about ready to faint.

“Don’t tell me that was all an act,” sputtered Gabby, a slow smile beginning to spread across her face.

Carmela bobbed her head, seemed to be having trouble catching her breath.

“Honey . . .” she grasped for Gabby’s hand, “I haven’t done that much playacting since sixth grade when I was sadly miscast for the part of Lisle in the
Sound of Music
.”

“You mean Seth Barstow
isn’t
your attorney?” asked Gabby.

Carmela’s face assumed a thoughtful look. “Well, I’ve certainly
met
the man before. So he could probably
be
my attorney if I paid him a handsome retainer.”

Peals of laughter erupted from the back of the room. Baby and Dawn had left an hour ago to attend a luncheon, but Tandy had stuck around.

“Hooray for Carmela,” chuckled Tandy as she waved a clenched fist in the air. “That Granger Rathbone is a real rotten egg. He was suspended from the police force last year for roughing up a prisoner he was transporting. I can’t imagine how the man ever got his job back. He must have had a stroke of luck and nabbed some poor city official on a drunk driving charge. Applied some not-so-subtle pressure.”

“Good lord,” said Gabby, “it’s beginning to sound like Shamus might really be in trouble.”

Carmela nodded her head thoughtfully, and a look of concern stole across her face. “Although I’d probably be the first to proclaim his innocence, it feels like there aren’t a lot of people rushing to be in his corner.”

Tandy and Gabby exchanged meaningful glances. They were slowly coming to the same conclusion.

“He’ll be okay, Carmela, I know he will,” Gabby assured her. “You both will.”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Carmela as the front door to her shop flew open and three of her scrapbooking students eagerly pushed their way in.

T
UCKED between Richaud’s Jazz Club and Tou louse’s Live Seafood Bar, the Hotel Babbit wasn’t a five star, but it certainly gave an impression of genteel elegance and respectability. To the busloads of tourists who wandered the French Quarter, shooting endless rolls of Kodachrome, the Hotel Babbit was roundly regarded as elegant. Its bright red carpet was appropriately plush, the velvet couches in its lobby, rendered in a sturdy, commercial bastardization of Louis XVI, appeared fairly sumptuous. And palmettos, graceful though slightly dusty, framed the lobby’s battered wood reception desk, completing the illusion of a grand hotel. Though it had slipped a bit from grace, the Hotel Babbit was still highly regarded as having one of the best ballrooms.

Jekyl Hardy was five minutes early. In any other hotel in any other city, a man dressed in a red sequined Mephistopheles suit, complete with a tail and carrying a matching pitchfork, would be regarded as highly suspect. In New Orleans it was de rigueur.

Carmela bounded up the stairs of the Hotel Babbit, her black-and-gold dress trailing in bountiful swirls behind her. Costumed as a French courtesan this evening, Carmela’s low-cut dress of panne velvet was cinched with a wide-laced corset, and her face was concealed by a gold lamé bird mask with a four-inch beak that Ava Grieux had custom designed for her.

Jekyl Hardy grasped Carmela’s hands and kissed her chastely on the cheek. “Careful with that beak, my dear,” he warned. “It could be classified as a lethal weapon.”

In the Cotillion Ballroom, the Marseilles Ball was in full swing. The ballroom was packed with costumed revelers as a thirty-piece band blared out jazz standards. People danced, cavorted, drank, and screamed in amusement at each other’s costumes. Purple, green, and gold bunting was strung across the ceiling in a wonderfully tangled web. Gigantic gold coins, some ten feet across, decorated the walls and served as a historic testament to the various krewes that made Mardi Gras such a delightful spectacle. The Bachus, Proteus, Endemion, Zulu, and Rex krewes were internationally known. These were the big krewes, the high-profile krewes, that had no trouble attracting Hollywood celebrities as their grand marshals. These were the krewes that drew over five million free-spending tourists to the city of New Orleans year after year to partake in the excitement of Mardi Gras.

Ava Grieux came flying across the dance floor toward Carmela and Jekyl. Dressed in an angel costume, complete with wings and a sparkling halo that bobbed provocatively above her head, Ava had a date in tow who was dressed head to toe in a furry costume.

Is he a Wookiee from
Star Wars? Carmela wondered.
Or maybe he’s just supposed to be an oversized dormouse from
Alice in Wonderland.
It really is a coin toss.

“I heard you had some trouble at the shop today,” Ava said as she grabbed Carmela’s arm.

Jekyl Hardy was immediately concerned. His black, greasepaint-enhanced eyebrows shot skyward. “Trouble? Tell us what happened, Carmela? Fess up!”

Carmela rolled her eyes. “It was nothing, really. A detective by the name of Granger Rathbone stopped by to ask a couple questions about Shamus.”

“Hey, girl,” said Ava, “this is starting to get
serious
.” Her halo bobbed wildly. The look on her face said she was clearly concerned.

“No, it’s not,” protested Carmela. “Because Shamus didn’t
do
anything. This is all going to blow over; I guarantee it.”

Ava suddenly turned to her escort, the Wookiee-dormouse. “Honey, could you run get us a couple drinks?” Then, remembering her manners, Ava made hasty introductions. “Ricky DeMott, these are my dear friends, Carmela Bertrand and Jekyl Hardy.”

There were quick nods of acknowledgment among the group.

“Nice costume,” said Jekyl Hardly, running his hand appraisingly down the arm of the Wookie-dormouse’s costume. “What is that? Washable acrylic?”

“I think so,” said Ricky. “My sister made it. Oh, hey, you’re the float guy,” he suddenly exclaimed. “The designer who masterminds all those great floats. I recognized you from an article in the paper. Cool. Wait till I tell my friends I met you.”

“The drinks, sweetie,” Ava reminded him gently.

“Sure thing,” said Ricky as he scampered off.

“That Granger Rathbone is a paid thug,” said Jekyl, shaking his head. “You watch your step around him,” he admonished Carmela. “Tell Shamus to be careful, too. This Jimmy Earl Clayton thing is far from over.”

“I haven’t really spoken with Shamus in weeks,” said Carmela, then suddenly remembered that wasn’t true at all. Shamus had called her just this very morning. How strange, she thought, that already their conversation seemed so distant. Just like their marriage.

“The best thing you can do is stay away from him,” advised Jekyl. “Until this thing settles down.”

“Right,” agreed Carmela, wondering if that really was the best thing to do. Then, for her own peace of mind, Carmela decided to put all thoughts of Shamus and Jimmy Earl Clayton out of her head.

Got to concentrate on having a good time
, she told herself.
Isn’t that why I came tonight? For a little dancing and flirting? Got to get back into circulation. Life goes on . . . or at least I hope it does.

The band, feeding off the frenzy of the crowd, was dishing up a wild rendition of Professor Longhair’s “Go to the Mardi Gras.” Carmela danced with a man in a purple Barney costume, was cut in on by a pirate who had a live parrot perched on his shoulder. Then, as she joined a snaking conga dance line, Carmela found herself behind a very brawny man decked out in full Scotsman’s tartans, clutching at his exceedingly short kilt.

As interesting as the prospect appeared, she decided it might be more prudent to sit this one out. Time to head for the bar.

Of course the bar was five deep in people. Everyone was waving money in the air, vying for the attention of the two overworked bartenders. All had the same goal, to wrap their hands around a hurricane, mint julep, daiquiri, or even a cosmopolitan.

When Carmela finally jockeyed to the front of the pack, she ordered a soft drink. Weary and warm from the night’s revelry, she was, most of all, just plain thirsty.

As Carmela sipped her cola and stuffed a couple dollars in the tip jar, a familiar face caught her eye.

“Dace?” she said, sidling over to the man on her left. “Dace Wilcox?”

A tall, lean man with ginger-colored hair and soft brown eyes turned his attention toward her. He was dressed in a skeleton costume but had his mask, a black plumed affair, dangling from one arm.

“Yes ma’am?” he said cordially.

Carmela slid her gold mask up. “It’s Carmela Bertrand. We were on a Concert in the Parks committee together a couple years ago.” She remembered Dace Wilcox as being a conscientious and concerned committee member, one who was zealous in marshaling funds and mindful of dollars being spent.

As recognition dawned, Dace Wilcox flashed her a friendly grin and touched a finger to his forehead in a salute. “Of course. Nice to see you again, Miss Bertrand.”

Carmela suddenly realized that Dace probably didn’t know she’d been married. Or realize that she was now separated. But, surely, Dace must know Shamus, Carmela decided. Because she was almost certain that Dace Wilcox was also a member of the Pluvius krewe.

“You used to be in the Pluvius krewe, right?” said Carmela.

“Still am,” said Dace as he downed the last of his drink.

“Then you must know Shamus Meechum,” she said. “He’s my—”

Dace fixed his gaze on a point slightly higher than Carmela’s head. “No,” he said, cutting her off. “Can’t say as I do.”

“Shamus Meechum of the Crescent City Bank Meechums?” Carmela continued. “Surely you—”

“Nope, sorry,” said Dace. His voice was friendly enough, but his eyes slid away, seeking out someone in the crowd.

Carmela had the distinct feeling that Dace Wilcox was definitely not telling the truth.
The man has to know Shamus, right? So what’s going on here?
Then she shrugged to herself as Dace melted into the crowd.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Dace Wilcox really
didn’t
know Shamus. No point in browbeating the man. If he said he didn’t know Shamus, she ought to take him at face value.

 

 

SOME FORTY MINUTES LATER, CARMELA AND
Jekyl Hardy were seated at a table in the Praline Queen, a colorful neighborhood restaurant and bar located in Jekyl’s beloved Bywater District. Because the Praline Queen was notorious for its jumbo stuffed artichokes, spicy gumbos, and sinfully rich praline pie, it drew customers from all over the city. From the French Quarter, Warehouse District, Garden District, even folks who lived across the river in Metairie.

Tonight was no exception. The open kitchen revealed a frenzied knot of white-coated chefs working at break-neck speed to keep pace with orders. Flames danced above the grill as great slabs of barbecue ribs were slathered with mind-bending sauces and fillets of catfish and skewers of gulf shrimp were plopped on the grill to sizzle and hiss.

Carmela and Jekyl shared a stuffed artichoke, dipping each tender morsel in the zesty lemon and garlic remoulade that accompanied it. Now Carmela was enjoying a bowl of oyster stew while Jekyl dug into a heaping mound of boiled crawfish.

“I’m about ready to go insane,” declared Jekyl. “The floats for the Nepthys krewe
still
aren’t finished for Saturday night, and I’m supposed to conduct a connoisseurship class that morning. How everything got mishmashed on top of one another
I’ll
never know.”

Carmela smiled. Jekyl was notorious for taking on ten projects at once, then flipping out from the stress of it all. Then again, there seemed to be a lot of stressed-out folks these days. Didn’t everybody have a scrip for Prozac? Wasn’t Valium making a big comeback?