Bound For Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Scrapbook, Stamping, and Craft Tips from Laura Childs

  Favorite New Orleans Recipes

  Praise

  Praise

  Watch for The New Tea Shop Mystery from Laura Childs and Berkley Prime Crime!

  Don’t miss the Tea Shop Mystery Series also from Laura Childs and Berkley Prime Crime

  Praise for the Bestselling

  TEA SHOP MYSTERY SERIES

  By Laura Childs

  Featured Selection of the Mystery Book Club

  “Highly recommended” by the Ladies Tea Guild

  “Tea lovers, mystery lovers, [this] is for you. Just the right blend of cozy fun and clever plotting.”

  —Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Indigo Dying

  “It’s delightful book!”

  —Tea: A Magazine

  “Engages the audience from the start . . . Laura Childs provides the right combination between tidbits on tea and an amateur sleuth cozy that will send readers seeking a cup of Death By Darjeeling, the series’s previous novel.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Will warm readers the way a good cup of tea does. Laura Childs describes the genteel South in ways that invite readers in and make them feel welcomed . . . Theodosia and her friends are a warm bunch of characters . . . A delightful series that will leave readers feeling as if they have shared a warm cup of tea on Church Street in Charleston.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “This mystery series could single-handedly propel the tea shop business in this country to the status of wine bars and bustling coffee houses.”

  —Buon Gusto, Minneapolis, MN

  “If you devoured Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, this new series is right up your alley.”

  —The Gazette, Goose Creek, SC

  “Gives the reader a sense of traveling through the streets and environs of the beautiful, historic city of Charleston.”

  —Lakeshore Weekly News, Wayzata, MN

  Scrapbooking Mysteries by Laura Childs

  KEEPSAKE CRIMES

  PHOTO FINISHED

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs

  DEATH BY DARJEELING

  GUNPOWDER GREEN

  SHADES OF EARL GREY

  THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER

  THE JASMINE MOON MURDER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime edition / November 2004

  Copyright © 2004 by Gerry Schmitt.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11838-2

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME® Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The Berkley Prime Crime design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thank-yous to my agent, Sam Pinkus; to Gary, for giving me an office at Mill City Marketing/Survey Value; to my husband, Bob, for his continued support; to the many scrapbook shops that carry my books and invite me in for book signings; to the tea shops that also carry my books and generously promote them via “scrapbook teas” (what fun!); to all the marvelous book sellers who not only stock my books, but recommend them to customers; and to all the wonderful writers, reviewers, web masters, crafts columnists, and editors who have been so kind and generous with their words.

  This book is dedicated to my dear friend,

  Diane,

  whom I finally reconnected with after almost 30 years.

  Find out more about the

  Scrapbook Mystery series

  and the Tea Shop Mystery series

  at www.laurachilds.com

  Chapter 1

  “HAUNTED?” cried Carmela Bertrand as she and her friend Ava Grieux trundled their packages down a narrow hallway where sagging floorboards creaked and lamps with beaded shades cast a faint pinkish glow. “I don’t recall Quigg ever mentioning that Bon Tiempe was haunted.” With tall, narrow doors at every twist and turn and canted baroque mirrors that tossed back gilded reflections, the hallway felt more like a funhouse maze.

  Putting her shoulder to the door at the far end of the hallway, Carmela nudged it open and the two of them stepped into a small, tastefully furnished business office that had been shoe-horned in where a butler’s pantry had once existed. Back when Bon Tiempe Restaurant had been a private New Orleans home.

  Ava Grieux’s expressive brown eyes gave a languid sweep of the small office, taking in the slightly Gothic decor, the Tiffany lamp strewn with dancing dragonflies, and the moss-green velvet settee pushed up against one wall. The opposite wall was dominated by an antique roll-top desk with a laptop computer sitting atop it.

  “Feels haunted,” said Ava, hunching her shawl-draped shoulders in a hopeful gesture.

  Carmela uttered a soft laugh as she set her box of place cards down on a small marble-topped table, then grabbed the box containing the floral arrangement that Ava, her best friend and female confidante, had been carrying. “Haunted by ghosts of customers past, maybe,” Carmela told her, placing the oversized bo
x on the desk. “Before Quigg turned this old Bywater mansion into a hoity-toity restaurant it was a costume shop.” Quigg Brevard was the rather dashing proprietor of the fabulously successful Bon Tiempe. A bit of a bon vivant, Quigg was also a man who found Carmela most enchanting, much to her consternation. Because fortunately or unfortunately for Carmela, she was already married. To Shamus Allan Meechum, professional cad, sweet talker, and the youngest of the Crescent City Bank Meechums.

  Although Carmela and Shamus were most definitely separated—physically, spiritually, and in all manner of opinion concerning the commonly held definition of matrimonial harmony—they’d simply never gotten around to making their separation formal and legal. Even for a banker, Shamus wasn’t all that keen on formal and legal.

  “Mmn,” said Ava, surveying her wavering image in yet another antique mirror and obviously liking what she saw. “Lots of so-called costumers in New Orleans.” Ava poufed her mass of auburn hair and pulled the front of her cocktail dress down to reveal a tad more of her luscious décolletage. Then, like a lazy, languid cat, Ava eased herself down onto the velvet settee, allowing Carmela an unobstructed view of the amber-tinted glass.

  Carmela stared straight ahead as though confronting the lens of a camera. Not unlike she’d done for her fourth grade class picture when, geeky-looking and skinny, she’d probably taken the worst picture of her life.

  Now the image that stared back at her was quite different. Mid-twenties, pretty veering toward stunning, Carmela possessed a unique blend of kinetic energy and quiet confidence. Her looks were further enhanced by her glowing, almost luminous complexion. Her lovely oval face was loosely framed by streaked blond hair. And many thought her grayish-blue eyes strikingly similar in color to the flat glint of the Gulf of Mexico.

  That’s me? Carmela asked herself, always surprised by her now-comely image. Then, suddenly startled, she frowned and peered into the mirror for a closer look. As she studied her image, she realized that the silvering or mercury or whatever you called that shiny stuff on the back of the mirror had either flaked off or been improperly redone. So a faint double image was reflected. A ghost image. Carmela gave a slight shiver. Maybe Ava’s premonition wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

  Ava dug eagerly into the box Carmela had brought along. “I haven’t seen your place card designs yet, cher,” she said, carefully pulling out a stack of deckled paper cards and studying them.

  “Honey, that’s because my design isn’t done yet,” Carmela told her, letting loose a mighty sigh. “I ordered ribbon six weeks ago and it only just showed up on my doorstep late this afternoon!” Carmela pulled two spools of peach-colored ribbon from her purse and held them out for Ava’s inspection.

  “Personalized ribbon,” said Ava, narrowing her eyes. “Perfect.”

  Carmela was the proprietor of Memory Mine, a small scrapbooking shop tucked away on Governor Nicholls Street in the French Quarter. Besides helping her customers create pluperfect scrapbook pages that showcased their precious photos, her talents also shone forth when it came to designing keepsake boxes, party invitations, and personalized albums.

  Reaching into her bag again, Carmela produced a small gold snipping scissors. She spun out one of the spools of ribbon until she had a twelve-inch piece on which sparkled the gold-embossed words Wren & Jamie. Giving a quick snip, Carmela passed the twist of ribbon over to Ava.

  “This is gonna be great,” said Ava, studying the ribbon. “I love the script or type font or whatever you call it.”

  “I could order some for your shop,” said Carmela, raising one skeptical eyebrow. Ava owned the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop over on Esplenade Avenue. Voodoo being a thriving cottage industry in New Orleans, Ava’s tiny shop was redolent with the heady scents of sandalwood incense, musk oil, and flickering vanilla candles. With its enchanting stock of love charms and tiny silk bags filled with “secret” herb mixtures (mixtures that Ava confided were better suited to seasoning a turkey) the little shop catered shamelessly to tourists who flocked to the French Quarter searching for an authentic voodoo experience.

  Ava giggled at the thought of personalized ribbon for her shop. “I think my shop’s a little trippy for something this classy.” She eyed the twelve-inch hanks of peach ribbon Carmela kept snipping and handing over to her. “So what do you want me to do?” she drawled. “Just twine this stuff through the holes ya’ll punched?”

  Carmela nodded. “Thread it through and I’ll finish up with some neat little bows and judicious trimming.” The place cards Carmela had designed for tonight were truly miniature works of art. Four-by-six-inch pieces of floral card stock served as the canvas. Upon this, Carmela had created a mini collage, incorporating tiny Renaissance-style images of angels, pressed flowers, gold heart charms, and the guest’s names printed on peach-colored vellum. She’d used a crinkle cutter to create a deckled edge at the bottom of each card. The personalized ribbon threaded through the top would be the final loving touch.

  As Carmela worked, she glanced at her watch nervously. She knew the guests were probably arriving right now. And even though they were being hustled into the party room to mix, mingle, and enjoy cocktails and finger food, she still needed to get the place cards on the tables ASAP. After all, Gabby was counting on her. Big time.

  As if reading Carmela’s mind, Ava glanced up and smiled. “Is Gabby pretty excited about Wren’s wedding?” she asked, her nimble fingers continuing to weave ribbon through the punched holes in the place cards.

  “Gabby’s ecstatic,” confirmed Carmela. “She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and Wren is her absolute favorite cousin.”

  “It was sweet of you to help with all the arrangements,” murmured Ava, trying to keep up with Carmela, who was tying bows and trimming ribbon like a true scrapbook and craft pro.

  “It’s the least I can do,” murmured Carmela. Ever since she’d opened Memory Mine, Gabby Mercer-Morris had served as her highly capable assistant and enthusiastic instructor of scrapbook classes. In fact, the place cards that Carmela and Ava were laboring over right now were a kind of by-product of Gabby’s creativity.

  Gabby was a paper freak of the first magnitude. She adored the myriad of paper designs they carried for scrapbooking, and positively swooned over the special vellums, mulberry papers, Japanese washi papers, flax and jute fiber papers, and parchment papers they also carried. And, although it had been Carmela’s idea to offer their Paper Moon class, an introduction to the amazingly diverse world of paper, it was Gabby who’d hatched the idea for card-making classes. Classes that filled up immediately and taught eager scrapbookers how to apply the same stamping, embossing, and dry brush techniques they’d learned in scrapbooking to create highly personalized greeting cards, thank-you cards, and even place cards.

  Now Gabby’s cousin, Wren West, was marrying Jamie Redmond this coming Saturday. And Carmela, with a little help from Ava, was doing her utmost to make tonight’s pre-wedding gala an elegant and memorable occasion.

  The place cards finished, Carmela let out a low whistle as she lifted the centerpiece Ava had designed from its tissue paper nest inside a cardboard box.

  Ava glanced at Carmela. “What?” she asked, anxiously. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Okay?” exclaimed Carmela. “This is spectacular.” Time had run out for Carmela today, so she’d sent out a plea to Ava. And Ava, overachiever and dear friend that she was, had gladly responded. Besides owning a voodoo shop and freelancing as a custom mask maker, Ava was also a rather fine floral designer. For the big pre-wedding bash tonight, she’d created a floral arrangement using pink ruffle azaleas, foxglove, Louisiana peppermint camellias, and ferns, accented with sprigs of bleeding hearts and set in a cream-colored French crock.

  “Twarn’t nothin,” replied Ava, plucking at the sprigs of bleeding hearts to straighten them. But she was pleased just the same to receive Carmela’s compliment.

  Twenty minutes later the party was in full swing.

  “Interestin
g crowd,” commented Ava, as she sipped a dirty martini, her favorite drink du jour. “I’ve already been hit on four times.”

  “Good night for you?” asked Carmela.

  Ava shook back her frowzled mane and considered the question. “A little slow,” she admitted. Tall and sinewy, with the carriage of a New York runway model, Ava was zipped into a slithery gold dress that most definitely showed off her generous assets. Once crowned Miss Teen Sparkle of Mobile, Alabama, Ava had never abandoned the regal bearing as befitted a Southern beauty queen.

  “Give it a few minutes,” said Carmela, as the party swirled noisily around them. “Things should pick up.” It was a good-sized crowd—exactly sixty people according to the guest list—that had turned out to celebrate the much anticipated wedding of Wren and Jamie. Most were friends of the groom, Jamie Redmond, who’d grown up just south of New Orleans in the little town of Boothville and then moved the seventy or so miles north to attend Tulane University. Wren, Jamie’s fiancée and Gabby’s first cousin, had moved to New Orleans from Chicago just over a year ago.

  “Evenin’ pretty ladies,” drawled a male voice behind them.

  “Hello,” said Ava, arching a single eyebrow and turning to appraise their admirer.

  “I bet you’re Carmela,” said the man, a tall, good-looking fellow with dark wavy hair and a pencil mustache. He was clutching a glass of bourbon and weaving slightly.

  “I’m Ava, this is Carmela,” said Ava, setting him straight.

  “Blaine Taylor,” said the man playfully, leaning in close. “But ya’ll can call me B.T.”

  “You’re Jamie’s software partner,” exclaimed Carmela. She’d heard all about Blaine Taylor from Gabby. Blaine was supposedly a bigtime real estate investor as well as former Tulane classmate of Jamie’s. Although he didn’t look it at the moment, Blaine was also a fairly savvy businessman and had teamed up with Jamie to help investigate potential markets for a software program Jamie had designed.