Bound For Murder Page 2

  “Neutron,” said Blaine, blowing soft, boozy breath into Carmela’s ear.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “Neutered?” asked Ava. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Blaine Taylor looked hurt. “Not neutered, Neutron,” he said, lurching toward Ava and, in the process, sloshing half his drink on the Aubusson carpet. “Oops,” he said, a silly smile flitting across his handsome face.

  “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my erstwhile partner,” said Jamie Redmond, suddenly materializing at Carmela’s elbow. Tall and elegantly slim, with a fair complexion, pale-blue eyes, and ginger-colored hair, Jamie appeared slightly embarrassed by his friend’s behavior. “Has B.T. been boring you with tales of our software project?” he asked the two women.

  “Mostly he’s just been weaving and sloshing,” commented Ava, still eyeing Blaine. “So we’re kind of reserving judgment.”

  “What exactly is Neutron?” asked Carmela, turning her attention to Jamie.

  “It’s pretty neat,” Jamie responded eagerly. “Neutron is a software program that helps detect bugs and bombs in newly written code.”

  “Oh,” said Ava, suddenly disinterested. “Computer stuff.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Blaine, holding up one finger. “This is cutting-edge stuff!”

  “As you can see,” said Jamie, making a self-deprecating gesture at the well-worn tweed jacket he wore, “I’m the tweedy, nerdish member of the team. And Blaine’s the showy ‘suit’ side. Very buttoned up.” He smiled enthusiastically at the two women. “Would you believe it? Blaine’s already got us pow-wowing with a couple heavy-hitter high-tech companies! Both have expressed interest in either licensing or possibly even buying Neutron outright.”

  “For big money,” Blaine blurted out, a silly, satisfied grin pasted across his face. “That is, if I can get this self-styled dilettante to seriously agree to sell.” Blaine spat out the word dilettante like he was referring to cattle manure.

  Jamie put a hand on Blaine’s shoulder to steady him. “I have to admit, as a self-made real estate mogul, Blaine has opened a lot of doors for us.”

  “You’re in real estate?” said Ava, perking up. Here was something a girl could understand and appreciate. Serious, tangible assets.

  Blaine bobbed his head eagerly, delighted at Ava’s sudden interest. “I’m a private investor,” he told her. His words came out private inveshtur.

  “Honey, you and I should get better acquainted,” said Ava, gently pulling Blaine away. “Tell me,” she said as they strolled toward the hors d’oeuvre table, “do you hold lots of real estate yourself? Or do you mostly just buy and sell it for a tidy profit? Like playing Monopoly?”

  Jamie chuckled as they watched Ava and Blaine wander off together.

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” said Carmela. “She’ll have a P & L statement from him by evening’s end.”

  “Blaine’s a big boy,” laughed Jamie. “He’ll be fine. His only problem is he does like to party. At Tulane, Blaine was an absolute hellion. President of some ultra-secret group called the Phlegethon Society, although I think it was more about drinking than anything else.”

  “Ava means well, too,” said Carmela. “But the prospect of your wedding this Saturday evening has her altar ego all in knots. Ava was positive she’d be married and divorced by now.”

  Jamie smiled at Carmela’s little joke.

  “With all this talk of selling your software program,” continued Carmela, “what’s going to happen to your cozy little bookstore?” Jamie owned a bookstore over on Toulouse Street, not far from Carmela’s scrapbook shop. He specialized in secondhand books, maps, old engravings, and the occasional rare or antique book.

  “Possibly selling my software program,” said Jamie. “It still needs a bit of fine-tuning. As for the bookstore, I think it might finally be turning a profit.”

  Carmela nodded knowingly. Although everyone thought owning a shop in the French Quarter guaranteed huge rewards, a lot of proprietors were lucky to eke out a modest living.

  “Hey, you two!” cried Gabby, as she rushed over with her cousin Wren in tow.

  Jamie wrapped his arms around his bride-to-be and planted a kiss on Wren’s forehead. Wren, a petite blond with big blue eyes and short wispy hair, smiled up at him in complete adoration. In her cream-colored wrap dress and citrine chandelier earrings, she looked like anything but a wren.

  “Who knew this bookish fellow was also a software genius,” said Carmela, smiling as the two of them embraced. Why, she wondered, can’t Shamus and I communicate like that? Bear hugs, longing gazes, lots of sexual tension.

  “Genius? No way!” protested Jamie. “I was merely born with a love for the printed word as well as the digital. The luck of the draw.”

  “And a talent for choosing the right girl, too,” said Gabby, obviously pleased at the fine catch her cousin had made. She put a hand on Carmela’s arm and lowered her voice. “Your place cards are gorgeous,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” said Carmela. She’d put them out earlier according to Wren and Gabby’s seating chart.

  Gabby laid a hand across her heart and ducked her head. “You’ve done so much, Carmela,” she said, her dark eyes filled with gratitude. “Designing the wedding invitations, the place cards tonight, helping Wren and Jamie with tons of arrangements . . .”

  “How can we possibly thank you?” bubbled Wren.

  “Just have a lovely wedding Saturday night and live happily ever after,” said Carmela. After all, she decided, isn’t that what wedded bliss is really all about? Is hopefully all about?

  Carmela smiled at Jamie as he listened attentively to Wren and Gabby chit-chat back and forth. She decided that Jamie seemed like a nice enough guy, acted like a nice enough guy. Of course, the true test lay ahead. Could Jamie Redmond, this good looking, dripping-with-charm bookseller, put away his bachelor habits? Could he slip his old ways into his sock drawer without a single twinge of regret and settle down to a nice, long monogamous relationship?

  Carmela shook her head to clear it. Of course he could. What was she thinking? It was Shamus, her husband, who’d been unable to succumb to a full-time commitment. Shamus, her adorable husband who swore he loved her, but still craved freedom. Who claimed they were soul mates, yet continued to sling barbed arrows into her heart. Ava had lectured her sternly about proceeding full steam ahead on a divorce, and she was probably right. Still . . .

  Gazing across the crowded room, Carmela caught sight of Quigg Brevard, the owner of Bon Tiempe. Darkly handsome and oh-so-suave, Quigg made no bones about the fact that he was interested in Carmela.

  But am I interested in him? she wondered. Yes. And No. Yes, because Quigg is charming and courtly and talks a good game about honesty and relationships. And no, because somewhere, in the dark recess of my aching heart, I still believe Shamus and I might find our way back to each other.

  “Honey,” said Ava, coming up behind her, “that man is about as subtle as a Zubaz track suit.”

  “You’re talking about Blaine Taylor?” asked Carmela, slightly amused by Ava’s apparent discomfiture. “Old B.T.?”

  “We shall henceforth refer to him as Mr. Calamari,” snapped Ava. “The man is a veritable octopus. Had his grabby little hands all over my sweet little bod. Didn’t wait for an invitation or nothin’.” Ava smoothed her dress, managing to look both pleased and outraged. “Can’t say I care for a man who doesn’t wait for my say-so.”

  “You don’t think your come-hither dress and springloaded bra aren’t the next best thing to an engraved invitation?” asked Carmela. Dressed in her skin-tight gold dress, Ava had caught the roving eye of nearly every man in the joint.

  Ava grinned widely. “Sure, I dress to advertise my assets. But what’s a girl supposed to do? Skulk around like a nun? Wear skirts below her knees?”

  Carmela had to choke back a chuckle. For Ava Grieux, whose bursting clothes closet looked like something a drag queen would kil
l for, there was no middle ground. Dress like a meek Carmelite or boldly strut your stuff. That was it.

  Ava nudged Carmela as her eyes roamed the room. “Monsieur restaurateur is gazing your way,” she said in a coy voice.

  Carmela glanced over toward Quigg Brevard again. Even though he was deep in conversation with one of his high-hatted chefs, he was indeed looking in her direction. Smiling at her, in fact. Carmela waggled her fingers at Quigg in greeting and he waggled fingers back.

  “Now that’s the man you should be involved with,” whispered Ava. “A drop-dead gorgeous guy who could sweep you off your feet, maybe even start a rip-roaring scandal or two. Stop you from pining away over silly old Shamus Meechum.”

  “I’m not pining,” said Carmela. “I’m getting on beautifully with my life. It’s exceedingly busy. Hectic, in fact.”

  “You seem to be confusing your thriving business at Memory Mine with your rather dreary personal life,” said Ava. “Tell me, what did you do last Friday evening?”

  “Nothing,” said Carmela, wincing. She had cleaned her refrigerator, a sputtering, vintage Norge that only an unscrupulous landlord would dare stick in a rental unit.

  “Aha,” said Ava, sounding victorious. “And Saturday evening?”

  “Stayed home,” muttered Carmela, not liking the gist of this conversation one bit. Truth be known, Saturday night had been a total black hole. Sinking into the abyss of boredom, she’d alphabetized her spice rack.

  Ava planted hands on slim hips and stared pointedly at Carmela. “You stayed home,” she said in an accusing tone. “With Boo.” Boo was Carmela’s little dog. A Chinese Shar-Pei.

  “Boo is extremely good company,” argued Carmela, trying to score a few points. Boo had proved useful at disposing of some stinky, slightly moldy cheese, but had been completely indifferent when presented with the spice rack project.

  “Boo doggy is sweet and utterly adorable,” agreed Ava. “Unfortunately, she is somewhat lacking in the conversation department. Carmela, you need a man who’ll take you out and show you a good time. Jump-start your heart again.”

  “Jump-start my heart,” repeated Carmela. This she wasn’t so sure of. Although Ava’s enthusiastic pitch did carry a certain appeal.

  “That’s right, girl,” continued Ava in an upbeat, manic manner that seemed to veer between spirited cheerleader and hectoring, lecturing evangelist. “Your poor emotions have been lying dormant for months. Ever since—”

  “I know, I know,” countered Carmela. “You don’t have to say it.” Ever since Shamus slipped into his boogie shoes and disappeared out the back door, thought Carmela. Ever since he tromped all over my poor heart, the rat.

  “Take a look around,” urged Ava. “What do you see?”

  “Ava . . .” pleaded Carmela. This was getting entirely too personal. Even for best friends.

  “No, I mean it,” insisted Ava.

  Carmela surveyed the crowd of friends and well-wishers. Many were people she recognized from around town. Some were folks from the Garden District, the upscale part of town where she’d lived with Shamus before the demise of their so-called marriage. Before Shamus’s big sister, Glory Meechum, had so rudely tossed her out of the family home. Other guests she recognized from the French Quarter. Shop owners, long-time denizens of charming courtyard apartments, a couple restaurant owners. And what they all seemed to have in common, what Ava had most certainly been driving at, was that certain sparkle in their eye, a light-hearted joie de vive in their attitude.

  “They’re people having fun,” Carmela grudgingly admitted.

  “Not just fun, Carmela. They’re having a damn laugh riot!” exclaimed Ava. “Honey, this is New Orleans . . . the Big Easy. We’re the city that care forgot. The poster child for bad behavior! Our war cry is Laissez les bon temps rouler. Let the good times roll!”

  “Point well taken,” said Carmela. “I hereby resolve to have way more fun.”

  Ava let loose an unlady-like snort. “I don’t believe you.”

  “No, really,” persisted Carmela. “I’m going to march over to the bar right now and order a drink.”

  “Well, hallelujah,” said Ava, brightening considerably. “That’s a start. Whatcha gonna have, cher?”

  “Maybe a hurricane,” said Carmela. The hurricane was a marvelous concoction of fruit juice and rum that had been invented in New Orleans back in the thirties. Necessity being the mother of invention, the hurricane had come about because an overzealous bar owner had ordered one too many cases of rum and hurricane lamp-shaped glasses.

  “You go, girl,” urged Ava as Carmela sped off toward the bar. “And please! Smile pretty at all the nice men!”

  “YOU LOOK WAY TOO SERIOUS,” A LOW VOICE whispered in her ear.

  Carmela spun on her barstool to find Quigg Brevard gazing at her. “Why does everyone insist on telling me I’m having a rotten time?” she hissed.

  Quigg stared at her as though she were a fragile porcelain angel that had suddenly morphed into a demonic Chuckie doll. “My, we sound cranky tonight,” he said, deadpan.

  Carmela managed a sheepish smile. “Yeah . . . well . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.”

  Quigg waved a hand. “Don’t apologize. Your feelings are your feelings. And you, my dear Carmela, unlike many people in my circle of acquaintances, have the unique ability to vent your emotions honestly. And with great verbal flair, I might add.” He peered at her closely. “I find that unusual in a woman.”

  “Are you kidding?” responded Carmela, studying his impossibly white Chicklet teeth and noticing the tiny gleam of gel in his hair. “If you listen closely enough, most women let you know exactly what’s on their mind.”

  “Okaaay,” said Quigg, obviously enjoying this discussion. “Are you implying that men are the ones who are emotionally dishonest?”

  “No,” said Carmela, “absolutely not. I think men are a remarkable species. Very up-front about what they want.”

  Quigg smiled ruefully. “I’m probably gonna regret this, but what is it you think men are up-front about?”

  “Power and sex,” said Carmela. “But not necessarily in that order.”

  “Whew,” said Quigg, “you don’t pull any punches, do you?”

  The bartender slid Carmela’s drink toward her. “I try not to,” she said. Now she felt more like her old self. She took a sip of her drink. “Mmm, good. Strong.”

  “Quigg Brevard fixed her with a rakish grin. “Bon Tiempe aims to please.”

  “Listen,” said Carmela, “I didn’t mean to get so . . .” she searched for the right word . . . “visceral about things. I’m going through kind of a weird phase right now.” She didn’t bother mentioning that she’d been going through the same weird phase since she was fourteen. Maybe thirteen.

  “No problem,” said Quigg. “Like I said, I find your openness extremely refreshing.”

  Carmela took another sip of her drink, thinking: Quigg wouldn’t be a bad catch. He’s handsome, has a good sense of humor, and the man’s a gourmet chef. Maybe Ava’s right. There could be some merit to exploring relationship options while enjoying a properly prepared soufflé.

  “Bon Tiempe looks enchanting tonight,” Carmela told him, suddenly struck by the mellow feel of the Old World bar. Or maybe it was the smoothness of the ninety-proof rum.

  “Lots of drawbacks to running a restaurant housed in a crumbing old mansion,” said Quigg, “to say nothing of the madness that goes on in our kitchen. But our atmosphere seems to draw customers in like a magnet. Besides your group tonight we’ve got another forty or so dinner guests and bar patrons.”

  Indeed, Bon Tiempe dripped with Old World elegance. Antique chandeliers sparkled overhead, oil paintings crackled with age hung on brocade-covered walls, crushed velvet draperies with golden tassels sectioned off different parts of the restaurant to create cozy, private dining nooks. Throw in the cypress wood paneling and sagging floors, and the overall effect was refined and genteel, tinged wi
th a hint of decadence. A perfect reflection of New Orleans in general.

  Quigg glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna check with the kitchen in a couple minutes. Tell ’em to start plating the prime rib.”

  Three weeks ago, when Carmela, Gabby, and Wren met with Quigg to plan tonight’s menu, they had settled on prime rib with ginger peach chutney, bell peppers stuffed with rice and shrimp, and citrus salad. For dessert, Quigg’s desert chef was whipping up a sinfully rich Mississippi mud cake with brandy sauce.

  “I’d better get busy and grab the centerpiece for the head table,” declared Carmela. “It’s a surprise for Wren, so we’ve been keeping it under wraps in your office.”

  “Go grab it,” Quigg said enthusiastically, while behind them loud clinks sounded with a gaggle of guests raising their champagne flutes in a boisterous toast.

  “Here’s to our beautiful bride and groom,” boomed an exuberant voice.

  Carmela and Quigg glanced over their shoulders at a red-faced reveler, a beefy man decked out in an expensive-looking pearl-gray suit and showy tartan tie.

  “Dunbar DesLauriers,” muttered Quigg. “I better tell the kitchen to hold the brandy sauce for that one.”

  Carmela slipped off her barstool. “I really am going to fetch those flowers.”

  Moving quickly from the bar into the dining room, she stopped to admire the tables draped in white linen and sparkling with stemmed glassware and silver chargers. White tapers flickered enticingly, tiny silver place card holders held her cards.

  Gorgeous, Carmela thought to herself. A beautiful prenuptial dinner, lovingly planned right down to the last detail.

  “To Wren and Jamie,” came another excited voice.

  Carmela heard a faint spatter of applause as she stepped briskly down the hallway. She scooted past the coat check, twisted to the right past the dark little nook with the telephone booth, then jogged left and down to the end of the hallway.