“Well, not exactly,” said Carmela. “It seems that the mortgage Jamie has with Crescent City Bank . . . the mortgage
you
now have . . . is an adjustable-rate balloon mortgage.”
“Is that why Glory Meechum came storming in here earlier?” asked Baby. “With her underwear all in a twist?”
Carmela nodded. “She claims Dunbar DesLauriers is one of her best customers. That she’d do anything to keep him happy.”
“I’ll bet,” muttered Baby. Glory lived two blocks from Baby in the Garden District, and there was no love lost between the two women. When Glory had been the chairman of their Garden Club’s Spring Rose Show, she’d accused Baby of bringing in ringers. Roses that hadn’t actually been grown in Baby’s garden. Which had been an outright lie, of course. And an accusation that
still
aggravated Baby.
“A balloon mortgage,” repeated Wren. She wrinkled her nose. “What a funny name. What is it? What does it mean?”
Carmela took a deep breath. “Basically, it means your monthly payment has nowhere to go but up and that the entire balance is probably due in a matter of months.”
“Are you serious?” cried Wren. “You mean I could lose the house!”
“That possibility does seem to exist,” said Carmela, hating the fact that she had to break this news to Wren. “Unless, of course, you get busy and pay the mortgage off.”
“With the profit I make from selling Biblios Booksellers,” said Wren. She crossed her arms and hugged herself tightly. “This feels suspiciously like a trap.”
“It sure does,” agreed Gabby.
“A catch-22,” added Tandy.
“But legal, just the same,” said Carmela. She hated to be the one hard-ass in the bunch, but the mortgage
was
completely aboveboard. It may not have been a smart choice on Jamie’s part, but it was legal just the same.
“Well, this has been quite a day,” declared Wren, looking forlorn.
“Wait,” said Carmela, “it’s not over.” She slid the news clipping across the table.
“What’s this?” said Wren.
“I’m afraid it’s even more disturbing news,” said Carmela.
Who am I kidding? It’s beyond disturbing. It’s downright crappy.
Gabby sped around the table so she could read over Wren’s shoulder.
“Good lord!” said Wren, when she’d finished the article. Her face was white, her hands were shaking. She slid the article over to Tandy and Baby, who quickly scanned it.
“Oh, my goodness!” declared Baby. She looked over at Wren with pity on her face. “This is quite a shocker.”
“When does it end?” stammered Wren. “I thought finding out that Jamie was once engaged to Margot Butler was a terrible shock.”
Baby and Tandy quickly exchanged glances. “He was?” asked Tandy. “Wow.”
“Now I find out Jamie was a convicted felon!” continued Wren in an agonized voice. “Which is even worse!”
“Don’t jump to conclusions yet,” warned Carmela. “This could be about Jamie’s father.”
“No,” said Wren. “I’m sure it’s about Jamie. That’s why he was always so closed-mouthed about his past.” She leaned forward, rocking back and forth in her chair as though the pain were almost too much to bear. “I feel awful,” she murmured. “Ashamed, almost.”
“It’s not
your
fault,” said Gabby, patting Wren on the shoulder.
“Please don’t feel bad,” said Tandy. “Try to look on the bright side. Lots of perfectly lovely people have done jail time.”
Baby swiveled in her chair, aghast. “Are you
serious?
Name one.”
Tandy thought for a moment. “Leona Helmsley.”
“Leona Helmsley was dubbed the
Queen of Mean,
” snorted Baby. “I don’t think her poor ex-employees would characterize her as a lovely person at all.”
Tandy pursed her lips. “Well, she certainly
seemed
kind of sweet when Suzanne Plechet played her in the made-for-TV movie.”
“Look,” said Gabby, “could we please not dwell on this? What’s done is done. Even if Jamie served time in jail, he’d put it behind him by the time he met Wren. He paid his debt to society, as they say.”
“She’s right,” murmured Tandy. “Jamie was a lovely person.”
“I think for now we have to focus on the positive,” continued Gabby. “Keep Jamie’s memory sacred and continue in our quest to find his parents’ final resting place.” She gazed pointedly at Carmela.
I know, I know,
thought Carmela.
I was supposed to make a few calls, try to figure out where Jamie’s parents are buried, and I still haven’t gotten around to it.
“That’s for sure,” said Wren, shaking her head, not knowing what to think. “I’m having Jamie cremated, and I still don’t know what to do with his ashes.”
“When Jamie is finally at rest,” murmured Baby, “maybe Wren will rest a little easier, too.
“That’s a lovely thought,” said Wren. “Thank you.”
Gabby gazed at Carmela. “When were you going to look into that grave site thing?”
“Ava and I are gonna take a drive down to Boothville tomorrow,” said Carmela. This was going to come as big news to Ava. Of course, it was also big news to Carmela. Until she’d just blurted it out, a trip down to Boothville hadn’t been in her forecast.
Oh well.
I’m going to light a few candles tonight,” said Gabby. “And say a little prayer that everything will work out okay.” Gabby took great comfort in lighting the colorful vigil rights that were prevalent in French Quarter shops. Her favorites were Saint Cecilia and Saint Ann.
“Amen,” said Tandy, as she inked a rubber stamp and slammed it down hard on a piece of craft paper.
WHEN MARGOT BUTLER WALKED IN THE DOOR AT four o’clock, Carmela was thankful Wren had gone home early. She didn’t think Wren could deal with seeing Margot in person, knowing the woman had once been engaged to Jamie.
And Wren just might start mulling over the possibility that Margot could be a possible suspect in Jamie’s murder. Because I sure am.
Today Margot was bouncy and vivacious, filled with energy and big ideas.
“Pamela DesLauriers is absolutely
thrilled
that you’re working on her Gilt Trip scrapbook,” Margot enthused.
Carmela, who hadn’t had a free moment to even think about the scrapbook, just smiled.
“But some enhancements have been made,” said Margot. “In Pamela’s dining room. In fact, the photos she dropped off simply don’t do it justice.”
“What are you suggesting, Margot?” asked Carmela. Margot was kicking up a lot of dust, but they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
“Could you . . .
would you
. . . stop by in person?” begged Margot. “It would mean so much to us.”
“You’re re-taking photos?” asked Carmela. Margot was still being resolutely obtuse.
Margot suddenly looked unhappy. “Yes, I suppose we’re going to have to do that. Although a re-shoot is simply not in the budget . . .” She shrugged. “I’m not sure
how
we’re going to pull that rabbit out of a hat.”
“Maybe I could re-take a couple photos,” suggested Carmela. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to get inside the DesLauriers home. Maybe take a look to see what kind of book collection Dunbar really had?
“Good heavens, Carmela!” exclaimed Margot. “What a spectacularly brilliant idea! You’re a photographer?”
“I’ve been known to snap a picture or two,” said Carmela.
“Tomorrow,” said Margot. “You must come tomorrow, then.”
“No,” said Carmela. “That won’t work. I’ve got to take a quick trip out of town. But I can come on Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.”
Margot’s bony little hand suddenly gripped Carmela’s arm hard. “It’s gonna be tight, but I love the idea!”
Carmela had to turn away so Margot couldn’t see her amused expression. As long as Margot was getting her way she was sweet as pie. And when she didn’t get her way? Well, Carmela had seen
that
side to Margot, too. She wondered if Jamie had also seem that side.
Is that why Jamie broke off the engagement?
Carmela wondered.
And Margot, strange little lady that she was, had become totally enraged?
If Margot couldn’t have Jamie, was she crazy enough to make it so that no one could have him?
Carmela shook her head as Margot skittered out the front door, then she headed back to see if Tandy and Baby needed any help finishing up their projects.
“Did you ever notice how much Margot likes snakes?” piped up Baby. “She always seems to be wearing snakeskin shoes or carrying a snakeskin bag.”
“Well, heavens to Betsy,” shot Tandy. “Look what she named her company.”
Carmela, Gabby, and Baby mouthed a collective, “What?”
“Fer de Lance,” replied Tandy. When they all continued to stare at her, she set her hot glue gun down and stared at them. “Well for goodness sake,” said Tandy, her tight curls bobbing. “A fer de lance is a snake!”
Chapter 14
T
HE oil pens were put away, the mulberry paper returned to the flat files, the day’s receipts tallied and scribbled in the little black ledger Carmela kept to assure herself Memory Mine was indeed a viable business.
And now Carmela was going to follow through on an idea she’d hatched earlier this afternoon.
Just before Wren had left for the day, Carmela had asked for the key to Biblios Booksellers. Wren, of course, had immediately turned it over to her. Which meant Carmela could now pay a second visit to the dusty little bookstore over on Toulouse Street to see if she could unearth anything else that might shed a little light on Jamie Redmond’s past. And on his tragic demise.
Clues. Let’s call ’em what they really are. They’re clues.
But even the most well-intentioned plans are generally fraught with a few problems. Because once Carmela arrived at the store, she realized
her
problem was going to be tiptoeing down the creaky flight of stairs into that musty old cellar.
Standing in the middle of the bookstore, listening to the quiet, she gazed at towering cases of books. Then she slowly let her eyes slide toward the cellar door.
Spiders and mousies and bugs, oh my!
It wasn’t that she was
afraid
of these things. Good heavens, no. She was merely . . . well, let’s call it apprehensive.
Buck up, girl. You’ve never backed off from anything in your life!
Carmela walked over to the cellar door, her footsteps echoing in the empty store, half wishing she’d strong-armed Wren to coming back here with her. Putting a hand on the doorknob, she gave a good, firm yank. The door creaked back on its hinges and the smell of mildew and dust immediately assaulted her nose.
Whew. Not exactly eau de magnolia, is it?
Fumbling for the light switch, Carmela flipped it on. She was rewarded with a dim glow at the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, carefully, she headed down the creaky stairs toward the faint puddle of light, one hand gripping the flimsy wooden railing. It wouldn’t pay to take a tumble here.
At the bottom of the stairs, Carmela paused. The basement or old root cellar or ancient torture chamber, or whatever it had been, was small. A lot smaller than she’d imagined it would be. The ceiling was low and oppressive, a tangle of furry cobweb-coated beams, and the floor was packed earth. Up against one wall, looking strangely like a log jam, was a ceiling-high jumble of broken bookcases. An old sink, dirty and rusted, hung from another wall. A dusty four-drawer metal file case stood poised in front of her.
This must be where Wren got the file folders with the photos and clippings.
Fighting an urge to sneeze, Carmela slid the top drawer open. Empty. She wasn’t surprised. Its former contents were probably the very same files that were stashed at her apartment. Sliding the drawer closed, she heard a faint skittering in the corner.
Mousies? Yeah, probably.
She slid the second and third drawers open. The second drawer was empty, the third drawer was filled with old office supplies. Tape that probably wouldn’t stick anymore, an old stapler, a couple jars of hardened White-Out, an ancient tube of glue.
Carmela moved on to the bottom drawer, but it was stuck tight.
Which means Wren probably didn’t check this drawer. Should I? I can try, anyway
.
The grubby-looking sink hanging from the wall was dripping a steady
drip drip drip
that annoyed Carmela, grating on her nerves.
I’m gonna get this done with and get the heck out of here.
Steeling her shoulders, grasping the handle with both hands, Carmela gave a might yank. Nothing. Searching around the basement, she finally found a wooden box that had a pile of rusty tools in it.
Good. Maybe there’s something here.
She passed on the saw, the hammer, and the broken pliers. But decided the rusty screwdriver just might do the trick.
Carmela went back to the file case, wedged the screwdriver into the edge of the drawer, and put as much muscle behind it as she could.
Creak.
The drawer popped out a quarter inch.
Repositioning the screwdriver, Carmela dug it in deeper and tried to leverage it with all her might.
A high-pitched
creak
dropped to a low
groan
as the drawer slid grudgingly open.
Success!
Carmela peered in. A single brown file folder lay in the bottom of the drawer. With one quick motion, she grabbed it, executed a fast spin, and bounded back up the stairs.
Enough of this creepy place!
Back upstairs, Carmela found that the sun had just gone down. And the frosted windows, the ones that always made the place seem so warm and cozy when sunlight filtered through them, now lent a dark, spooky feel.
Hmm, does Wren really want to run this place all by her lonesome?
But Carmela knew where she could find a cozy spot to take a look at the file she’d just retrieved. Climbing the half-dozen stairs to the little loft, she plopped down on the sagging couch. The same couch she’d sprawled on yesterday with Boo.