“What a good idea,” enthused Wren.
“Sounds like you’re seriously considering this,” said Carmela.
“I am. Wow! I can believe I said that.”
“What did you find in the basement?” asked Carmela, making a motion toward the file folders that lay on the carpet next to Wren.
“Not much. Old business records from, like, five years ago, a few old photos, and a bunch of other junk. Looks like letters and old news clippings.”
“Let me see,” said Carmela.
Wren handed Carmela one of the brown file folders. “These are very old photos,” said Carmela, pawing gently through the contents. “Some of them look like they might even date back to the forties and fifties. And there are old negatives, too.” She was suddenly formulating an idea. What if she took some of these old negatives and printed them in different ways? Maybe a photo montage effect combined with some of her own photos? Then she could colorize them on the computer or even hand-color them using some of the oil pens she had at Memory Mine.
Would something like that make a nice addition to her somewhat skimpy portfolio? Yeah. Maybe.
Better yet, would producing a few pieces like that get Shamus off her back? And satisfy Clark Berthume from the Click! Gallery? Worth a shot. Definitely worth a shot
.
“Mind if I take some of these home?” Carmela asked Wren.
“Be my guest,” said Wren. “In fact, you can
have
them. I certainly don’t know what I’d do with them.”
“Except for this one,” said Carmela, peering into another brown folder. “These look like they might be pictures of Jamie.” She handed the folder to Wren, who immediately clutched it to her chest.
“I’m not going to sort through this right now,” Wren told her. “But I am considering doing some sort of scrapbook in Jamie’s memory.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” said Carmela, smiling at Wren. The girl seemed to have definitely perked up. Maybe it was the knowledge that she now owned tangible assets. Maybe she was starting to work through her grief.
Boo suddenly let out a loud, wet snort. Startled, the dog sprang from the couch and spun around, ears perked, as if to ask,
Who on earth made such an undignified noise?
“She woke herself up,” said Wren suddenly convulsed with laughter.
“She does that a lot,” said Carmela. Shar-Peis are soft-palette dogs, renowned for their prodigious sound effects.
Wren reached out and stroked Boo’s velvety fur. “This is going to be a very tough decision. Now that I’m back here, I do love the atmosphere. So cozy and welcoming. But I know I’ll have some demons to work through, too, if I stay and keep the store going. I’m sure I’ll be constantly jumping at shadows. Hoping against hope that Jamie’s going to walk through that front door again.”
“You’ll need some time,” admitted Carmela.
“But I don’t have much time,” said Wren. “Aren’t business people always saying ‘Time is money’? Well, there isn’t a lot of money here. Especially since rent needs to eventually be paid. As well as heat, light, and all those other things you mentioned.”
“Come work at Memory Mine for a while,” said Carmela.
Wren stared at her, amazed. “What? Are you serious?”
“There’s sixteen grand in the business checking account,” said Carmela. “That should cover operating expenses for two, maybe three months. Buy you some time. Plus I could really use the help, since Mardi Gras is just around the corner. Besides our usual scrapbook customers and scrapbookers looking for unique gifts, we’ll probably be inundated by people who want to create their own cards and party invitations.”
“And you’d actually pay me?” said Wren.
“That’s the general idea,” said Carmela.
“Wow.” Wren’s face lit up.
“Is that a yes?” asked Carmela.
“Yes!” enthused Wren. She clambered to her knees, leaned forward, and threw her arms around Carmela, giving her a huge bear hug.
Woof!
“Hugs all around!” cried Wren as Boo pounced happily at Wren and, in the process, knocked over a half-filled cup of a cup of coffee that must have been tucked beneath the sofa. “Just wait until I get back to Gabby’s,” declared Wren. “She’ll be thrilled to hear we’ll all be working together!”
Carmela dug in her purse for a tissue to mop the spilled coffee. “She sure will,” she replied, her smile suddenly frozen on her face.
Please tell me why this coffee smells so fresh?
she asked herself.
Has someone been in this store very recently? Like late last night or earlier today?
Oh dear. And please don’t tell me it could be the same someone who snuck down the hallway at Bon Tiempe and wielded that nasty butcher knife! That would be very bad, indeed!
Chapter 11
C
LOUDS of pink and blue swirled overhead in a colorful wind-swept sky. The late afternoon sun, glinting orange, threw an extra scrim of light on the Caribbean colors of the French Quarter buildings as Carmela and Boo walked slowly home. The familiar
clip clop
from one of the horse-drawn carriages echoed down the block, a low mournful
toot
sounded from some tugboat anchored over on the Mississippi.
Carmela had been tossing around the notion that someone might have been poking around Biblios Booksellers not long before she and Wren had shown up today. But now, as she sped along, she’d almost succeeded in talking herself
out
of her paranoia.
Probably it was an old cup of coffee, right? That someone had carried in last week. Probably no one has been stretched out on that old sofa in the bookstore’s loft.
“Hey there, Boo,” said Carmela. “You didn’t catch any kind of scent, did you? Someone who might have been sitting on that sofa just before you?”
Boo shook her head and kept chugging along.
A young couple standing in a doorway, locked in a heated embrace, paused for a few seconds to stare as Carmela walked by.
Yeah, I talk to dogs. Because sometimes dogs are the only creatures who truly listen.
Turning into her courtyard, Carmela glanced up at the gracefully arched second story bow window that overlooked the fountain. Ava’s apartment was up there. And usually a light burned bright. But right now her place was still dark.
“She probably went out on a date,” Carmela told Boo. “She didn’t
mention
anything about it, but I bet that’s what she’s doing. Having a fun date.” Carmela unlocked the door to her apartment, nudged it open with her foot so Boo could scramble in. “In fact, that’s where I would be, if I wasn’t so socially impaired.”
Boo immediately sped toward the kitchen, where she parked herself and proceeded to stare intently at the doggy cookie jar that held her dry kibbles.
“Isn’t is a little early?” Carmela asked her. “Wouldn’t you rather dine fashionably late?” It wasn’t quite five. If Boo had her way she’d be eating supper at two in the afternoon.
Boo continued to stare at the jar as if she could levitate the lid, Uri Geller-style.
“Okay, you win,” Carmela told her.
She fed a delighted Boo, plopping a spoonful of yogurt on top of the dry kibbles, then changed into a comfy velour track suit that Ava had given her for her birthday. The track suit didn’t exactly carry a fancy designer label, but Ava had assured her it was probably made in one of the same overseas sweatshop that did the Juicy Couture or J.Lo line.
Then Carmela settled in at her dining room table. She finally had a chance to breathe. No major distractions seemed to loom on the horizon, so she was determined to take the plunge and see what could be done about putting her photos in order. The ones Shamus had been so hot and bothered about. The ones that were supposed to go to Click! Gallery to help determine if she and Shamus were really going to have a joint photo show.
Carmela still wasn’t completely positive she even wanted her photographs in a show. It wasn’t that she was shy about people seeing her work. After all, people looked at her scrapbook pages every day. In her shop, her front display window, and even on her website. It was just that photography was one of her favorite hobbies. Something she could do with her heart instead of her head. And once you turned that hobby into a vocation, treated it more like a business, you really had to start thinking consciously about it. And then it wasn’t quite so pure and joyful anymore.
Carmela had just hoisted her black oversized portfolio onto the table when the phone rang. Casting her eyes toward the heavens, she prayed it wasn’t anything major.
It was Shamus. So, of course it was major.
“Meet me for dinner,” he said, his invitation sounding peppy, just this side of manic.
Carmela stared at the photos spread out before her. She was determined to get through this. “Can’t,” she told him. “I’m in the middle of something.”
Besides, what’s the point?
she wanted to say, but didn’t.
“I bet you’re planning to go out for dinner tonight, aren’t you?” said Shamus, taking her refusal as a challenge. “Let me guess. It’s that sleazy restaurateur. That Quigg person. Did I guess right? Are you going to slither off to his restaurant and let him ply you with wine and truffles?”
“No,” Carmela said, although she had to admit Shamus’s little restaurant fantasy sounded pretty damn good. Preferable, certainly, to poking through a bunch of black-and-white photos that she was struggling to get excited about.
“What are you in the middle of?” he asked. Shamus had never been big on subtlety. Or privacy for that matter.
“If you must know,” said Carmela, “I’m working on my photos.”
“For the show?” exclaimed Shamus. “The one at Click!?”
“You got it,” said Carmela, casting a discerning eye at a black-and-white shot of a Mississippi river boat. Not bad, but not stunning either. Maybe a six on a scale of one to ten.
“Good girl,” commended Shamus. He’d suddenly revised his tone to bubbly and enthusiastic. “This could be a very big step for us, Carmela. Very major.”
“Mnn,” said Carmela, noncommittally. Shamus was definitely way more into this show than she would ever be.
But Shamus babbled on. “I don’t think I told you this, but Glory liked two of my photos so well that she hung them in the bank lobby. The ones of that Creole-style townhouse on Royal Street. Anyway, I understand they’re garnering rave reviews.”
“Rave reviews,” said Carmela. Shamus was beginning to seriously get on her nerves. “Rave reviews from people who come in to grab twenty bucks from the ATM. Those are pretty high accolades, Shamus. Sounds like you’re one step away from having a big show in a fancy New York gallery.”
“You’re just jealous,” said Shamus, sounding hurt.
“Actually, I’m not,” said Carmela. “In fact, I’d be delighted if you did this show all by yourself.”
“We had a deal, Carmela,” said Shamus. Now there was an edge to his voice. He was definitely giving her the Shamus Meechum Seal of Disapproval. “You said we’d do this
together.
You can’t just pull out now.”
“Why not?” said Carmela. “You pulled out of our marriage.”
Oh oh, now I’ve veered into that old territory again. Oh, shame on me.
“Totally different situation, Carmela. You know that.”
Carmela sighed. “Okay, Shamus, cards on the table. I can’t quit, but you can? Where’s the fairness in that?” She knew she was being petty, knew she was beating a dead horse, but she couldn’t stop. Anger and frustration still burned inside her like a molten ball.
“This is hopeless,” fumed Shamus. “Utterly hopeless.”
I’m afraid you’re right,
thought Carmela.
Silence hung between them for a few beats, then Shamus finally said. “So you’re going to drop by Click! when?”
“I don’t know,” said Carmela, who by now had completely lost interest in perusing her photos. “Maybe next Tuesday,” she lied. “Wednesday at the latest.”
“Good,” said Shamus. “Glad to hear it.” He seemed to have blanked out their snarling, sniping go-round of ten seconds ago.
Wonderful,
thought Carmela.
Shamus is having a senior moment.
“Be sure to let me know how it goes,” urged Shamus. “In fact, call me the minute you’re finished.”
“Right,” said Carmela, knowing she wouldn’t. She hung up the phone, stared down at the table.
Crapola.
Any iota of enthusiasm she’d had for this project had just flown right out the window.
So now what?
Carmela exhaled slowly, stared across the room at the chair where her purse and the brown file folders from Jamie’s store sat. Maybe take a look through those, she decided. They were one thing she could follow up on.
But after thumbing through the files for a few minutes, Carmela didn’t find anything that was particularly interesting. Or enlightening.
Most of the photos were similar to the ones she’d looked at the other night. Black-and-white shots of what had to be Jamie’s old homestead down near Boothville. There were a few variations on the same theme, but nothing that knocked her out.
No, these aren’t going to work even if I hand-color them. Not thematic enough. Oh well.
There were a few old news clippings tucked in among the photos, too. Most were from the
Boothville Courier
and dealt with high school sports team wins. A baseball conference championship, a football win, a wresting match.
It looked like Jamie might have been a frustrated scrapbooker, Carmela decided. But then again, lots of people were. They amassed huge amounts of photos, clippings, programs, and letters, but never quite made it to the next logical step, that being scrapbooking, journaling, or creating genealogy albums. Because they never found a logical way to chronicle their jumbled collection of photos and moments, they were never able to fully enjoy them.
Carmela was about to stuff everything back in the folder and fix something to eat, when one of the clippings caught her eye.