Bound For Murder (27 page)

The last photo in the stack caused a sharp intake of breath and raised the hair on the back of Carmela’s neck.

“What the . . . !”

She stared at an old black-and-white photo that depicted a bizarre grouping of false limbs and crutches!

Carmela studied the photo, feeling unsettled and a little perplexed. Then, slowly, a distant memory tripped in her brain.

She propped it up, resting it against the coffee mug.

The St. Roch Chapel was located in the St. Roch Cemetery, one of New Orleans’s older cemeteries over on St. Roch and Derbigny Streets. Built to honor St. Roch, intercessor for the sick and victims of the plague, the cemetery had been constructed after the yellow fever epidemic of 1868 ravaged New Orleans. At one time, thousands of people had flocked to the St. Roch Chapel on All Soul’s Day to pray for friends and relatives who were sick or in distress. A small side room adjacent to the chapel now contained the
objects curieux
that had been left in St. Rochs Chapel. These strange objects included crutches, false limbs, glass eyeballs, plaster anatomical parts, and even medical supplies.

Carmela recalled that, long ago, her dad had taken her to St. Roch for a visit and she’d been terrified by what she’d seen. She had worried that the wooden limbs and glass eyes and strange orthopedic appliances would suddenly come to life, not unlike the dancing broomsticks in that Disney classic,
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Carmela shivered.
Okay, I’m grown up now, and that stuff doesn’t freak me out like it used to. But still, the question remains, why is this photo stuck in here with all the other photos of Jamie?

Carmela let the question percolate in her brain.

She thought about this for a moment, warming up to the idea.

Carmela dialed the number of Biblios Booksellers. It rang once . . . twice . . . three times.
Please be there.

“Hello?” answered a tentative voice. It was Wren.

“Wren,” said Carmela, “you’re still there.”
Good.

“We’re making a terrific progress,” chortled Wren. “In fact, Jekyl just ran out to grab us a couple po-boys. We’re going to make a major push and try to finish up tonight.”

“Wonderful,” said Carmela. She paused, unsure how to pose her question. “Wren, that stack of photos you left on the craft table? Have you had a chance to sort through all of them yet?”

“No,” said Wren, sounding puzzled. “Is there some sort of problem?”

“Not at all,” said Carmela, fighting to make her voice sound breezy and upbeat. “I was just going to tuck them in an envelope for safe keeping.”

“You’re so sweet, Carmela,” said Wren. “But I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you just take the photos home with you and I’ll drop by your place later to pick them up. Get all that stuff out of your hair. My photos, the bibelot box I left there. I have a feeling I’m going to be changing careers from scrapbook shop assistant to bookseller real soon.”

“That’s great, Wren, really great,” said Carmela.

“Yeah, well. I guess I really love this place after all.” Wren paused. “So you’re heading home now?”

Carmela glanced at her watch. Five-fifteen. There was just time enough for a quick run over to St. Roch Cemetery.

“Pretty soon,” answered Carmela, crossing her fingers at the little white lie.

“Well, see you later then,” said Wren. “And thanks again for all your help.”

Carmela hung up the phone and wandered back to the table to stare at the strange photo.

It wasn’t much to go on. In fact, this photo taken in St. Rochs Chapel might have nothing to do with where Jamie’s parents were buried. On the other hand, Carmela knew there was only one way to find out. And if she
did
stumble upon their graves, then Wren and Gabby could finally arrange for Jamie’s ashes to be buried along side them.

Carmela slipped into her suede jacket and hurried out the door. The sun was sinking fast and she had work to do.

T
HIS might be a bad idea,
Carmela told herself as she pulled her car over to the curb.
A very bad idea.

New Orleans’s cities of the dead had always been considered dangerous territory after dark. Muggers, drug dealers, and all manner of unsavory characters came out at night to claim the spooky above-ground cemeteries as their turf. It was never a great surprise when the occasional tourist, curious but unsuspecting, wandered into one of these cemeteries and had his wallet stolen or ended up requiring a few stitches at a nearby emergency room.

The sun was a red orb sinking behind a screen of bare trees as Carmela pulled her jacket tight around her and stepped smartly through the wrought iron gates of St. Roch Cemetery. The evening was cold and turning colder, the dying shafts of light fading faster than she’d like.

Sundown’s in about five minutes,
Carmela told herself.
Once that happens, this little foray becomes awfully dicey.

Gravel crunched beneath Carmela’s feet as she hurried down the path to St. Roch Chapel. Mausoleums, vaults, family crypts, and tombstones loomed on either side of her, a spooky setting for an even spookier errand.

At the heavy double doors of St. Roch Chapel, Carmela’s fingertips brushed rough wood and she wondered if the building was still unlocked. Then she put a shoulder to the ponderous doors and pushed. Slowly they creaked inward.

Candles flickered on the altar as Carmela hesitantly entered the dim chapel. Her footsteps echoed off the walls and vaulted ceiling, sounding hollow in the cold, still church.

“Hello,” Carmela called out, her voice sounding shaky and shrill. “Anybody here?”

But there was only emptiness. And the moaning of the wind outside.

Slowly, feeling her way carefully in the dim light, Carmela approached the altar, stopping just short of the metal railing. She gazed up at the altar with its statue of St. Roch depicted as a plague victim, skin sores and all. Altar panels on either side illustrated his travels and service to other poor plague victims.

Carmela decided the first order of business was to check out the rather spooky side chapel.

Taking a deep breath, she ducked inside.

The objects adorning the small side chapel were just as strange and disquieting as she remembered. Only now there seemed to be an even more bizarre jumble of items. Leg braces with shoes still attached to them hung on the walls. There were false teeth, replicas of disembodied legs, arms, and hands, and even plaster casts of internal organs. Carmela stared at the strange collection, oddly fascinated. They reminded her of objects that might be found in an old Roman catacomb. Except, of course, there weren’t any actual skulls.

Creeping back through the chapel, Carmela slipped back outside, trying to figure out her next move. Coming here had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now she saw that she might have made a bit of a tactical error. It was dark and dangerous and she probably wasn’t going to experience any
aha!
moments stumbling around in the dark.

Still . . . she was here. And that photo had her curiosity working at fever pitch. So maybe a quick peek
was
in order.

Carmela moved down a narrow path that led through a section of larger tombs and mausoleums. A few steps in, the hulking repositories for the dead seemed to lean in on her with a kind of menacing claustrophobia.

She recalled accounts from not so long ago of New Orleans cemeteries that had fallen into terrible disrepair. Tombs that had crumbled, caskets that had disintegrated and broken open to reveal remnants of bones and skulls. She hoped that wasn’t the case at St. Roch Cemetery. Prayed there might be a caretaker
somewhere
on the premises.

With thoughts this wild, Carmela’s imagination began to work overtime. And a nasty thought bubbled up in her brain.

Carmela cut left past a row of oven tombs, so named for their strange oven-like shape.

What am I doing here, anyway? This is pure craziness, sheer madness,
she fretted.
I better get the hell out of here before they close the gates and lock me in for the night!

Carmela stopped in her tracks to gather her wits and get her bearings. Glancing left, she saw a faint shaft of light from a street lamp illuminating several whitewashed tombs. She relaxed. A street lamp meant she was probably near the stations of the cross that stretched around the exterior wall of this place. Probably near one of the gates.

Correcting her course, Carmela walked another fifteen feet, glancing about hesitantly. And she suddenly halted dead in her tracks.

There, chiseled into a crumbling crypt that lay directly before her, were the words IN AETERNUM. She stared as something familiar sparked deep in her brain.

Hesitantly, nervously, Carmela approached the crypt. It was a good-sized crypt, probably built to hold two coffins, but the structure tilted back like it had settled unevenly over the years. A heavy wrought iron gate barred the way to an old wooden door.

As Carmela reached out to touch the crypt, dry flakes of whitewash crumbled against her fingertips. Then her eyes widened in disbelief and she moved her hand across rough stone. Slowly, her fingers traced the name Redmond.

Carmela pulled her hand back, wiped it against her slacks.

Her heart thudding like mad, a
swish swish
of blood pounding in her ears, Carmela forced herself to think.

And suddenly, the feeling crept over her that something more important than Jamie’s parent’s remains was contained within this crypt.

Almost on their own, Carmela’s hands reached up to grab the rusty lock that hung on the wrought iron gate.

It was fastened tight. She needed a key.

Carmela thought for a minute. She knew the caretaker probably had a key. But even if she found him and rousted him, there was no way he was just going to hand it over to her. Or even to Wren. In fact, it would probably take a court order to get inside.

As Carmela tugged at the cold metal in her hands, a single thought formed in her head.

Like a woman possessed, Carmela hurried back to her car. She jumped in, feeling momentarily safe as she sat there thinking. She had the photos and the little bibelot box stashed right there in the back seat. Wren, after all, had asked her to bring those items home with her, so they could be picked up later.

Did she dare? Did she have the courage?

Suddenly, Carmela’s cell phone sounded, filling the car’s interior with its shrill ring, scaring her half to death.

She pawed for the phone in her bag and pressed the Receive button. “Hello?” she said shakily.

“Carmela?” came an urgent voice. “It’s Shamus.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still her fluttering heart. “Shamus? What do you want?”

“I have to talk to you!” Urgency filled his voice.

“Not now,” Carmela told him. “I’m busy.”

But Shamus was persistent. “It’s very important. What are you doing right now?”

“Running an errand.”
Am I ever!

“Are you’re still at your shop?” Shamus asked. “Are you at Memory Mine?”

“Uh . . . sure . . . maybe later. Listen Shamus, I’ll give you a jingle later tonight, okay?”

“Carmela . . . wait! I have to talk to you! Please, I’m in my car and I could meet you in two shakes!”

But she’d already hung up.