Bound For Murder Page 3

  Nudging open the door to Quigg’s office, Carmela stopped abruptly in her tracks. Someone had doused the lights so only the eerie green glow from the laptop computer shone in the room.

  Then, slowly, as she stood there getting her bearings, Carmela became aware of the presence of someone else. Someone sprawled on the green velvet settee where, just an hour earlier, Ava had reclined in languid splendor.

  Some poor soul had too much to drink, was Carmela’s first thought. Tiptoeing across the room, she made her way to the roll-top desk where the centerpiece of azaleas, foxglove, and bleeding hearts sat.

  But the position of the body on the settee, a funny something about the room, made Carmela hesitate.

  Is that Blaine? she wondered. Did the hail and hearty party animal finally veer from merely tipsy into full-fledged blotto?

  Hesitantly, Carmela’s fingers tugged the metal chain of the Tiffany lamp. But its forty-watt bulb barely illuminated the amber and purple dragonflies that danced about the lampshade.

  Even though the room was mostly still in shadows, Carmela’s eyes landed on a tweed jacket laying in a puddle on the floor. And she recognized it instantly.

  That’s Jamie’s jacket. Jamie’s asleep on the settee!

  Carmela frowned and took a step closer. It was Jamie who was just laying there, scrunched forward on his side, arms thrown carelessly over his head. She wondered if Jamie had fallen ill. Worried that maybe he wasn’t used to drinking at all. Because Jamie, poor fellow, hadn’t even stirred when she’d turned on the light.

  Puzzling over what to do, Carmela decided the best thing was to give him a gentle nudge. Wake Jamie up. It would be infinitely better to share an embarrassed laugh with him now than let the poor guy sleep through dinner. A dinner that was in his and Wren’s honor!

  Carmela placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

  Should I really rouse him? she wondered. And a little voice inside answered back, Of course you should wake him up. Don’t be a dim wit.

  Carmela shook Jamie.

  Nothing. Poor guy was dead to the world.

  Carmela shook him again, harder this time, and was rewarded when Jamie began to slowly roll over. But her expectation of a drowsy awakening suddenly turned to horror as Jamie rolled off the settee and dropped to the floor with a heavy thud!

  Holy shit! What did I do to him?

  Hastily retreating to the doorway, Carmela searched frantically for a light switch. Her fingers skittered across the switch plate, then finally found purchase. Overhead light suddenly flooded the room.

  Ohmygod!

  Jamie Redmond, mild-mannered bookseller and fiance of Wren West, lay sprawled face down on the floor, a butcher knife jammed in his shoulder. His blue and white pinstripe shirt, that had probably been neat and crisp when he put it on, was now soaked a terrible dark red.

  Unable to catch her breath for a moment, Carmela gaped at the hideous tableau. The protruding knife with the dark wood handle. The glut of blood seeping across the floor. The dark, wet stain on the green velvet settee.

  Footsteps sounded behind Carmela as she leaned forward to feel for a pulse.

  Nothing. Not a tick. Oh Lord!

  “Carmela?” came Quigg’s worried voice. “Everyone’s about seated. They’re waiting for Jamie. They’re waiting for you,” he added.

  Carmela whirled about to face him. A lump in her throat the size of a Buick made her words tumble out in a hoarse croak. “Someone’s attacked Jamie!” she cried.

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Quigg, catching sight of the fallen man. Quigg threw himself to his knees, did the same quick search for a pulse. Then, shaken at not finding any sign of life, leapt to his feet, whipped his cell phone from his pocket, and punched in 911.

  Feeling sick to her stomach, Carmela stepped out of the room as Quigg screamed frantically into the phone. Demanding the police, an ambulance, an EMS team.

  “Carmela?” called Ava’s soft voice from down the hallway. “What the hell’s going on?” Ava was catching snatches of Quigg’s frantic conversation.

  Carmela caught Ava by the shoulders and halted her before she got too close. “It’s Jamie,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “What?” Ava asked nervously, trying to peek past Carmela. “That boy didn’t get cold feet, did he?”

  With a stricken look, Carmela stepped aside, allowing Ava to see for herself. Quigg was still on his cell phone, his voice rising in intensity as he spoke with the 911 operator.

  “Oh my god!” bellowed Ava when she saw Jamie’s body. “He’s dead?”

  Still in shock, Carmela simply nodded. “I think so. No pulse.”

  Ava pushed a mass of hair of her forehead. “Jeez,” she said, looking stunned. “What the hell are we gonna tell Wren?”

  Carmela stared in horror at the unreal scenario. One minute Jamie had been alive and laughing and filled with hope. Now he was laying on the floor, a kitchen knife protruding from his shoulder, his fingernails already starting to turn blue. Carmela shook her head in disbelief. What could have happened? Who could have done this?

  She tried to push her fear aside and concentrate on the here and now. Outside, sirens shrilled as police cars raced toward Bon Tiempe, and Carmela knew that in two more minutes they’d all be standing behind yellow police tape.

  Focus, Carmela admonished herself. Stay cool. For Wren’s sake. And Gabby’s.

  Carmela crept back into the office, Ava closely shadowing her. Try to find a clue as to what happened, she prodded herself. Look around. Think!

  “Why would anyone . . . ?” began Ava, but Carmela interrupted her.

  “What’s that on the table?” Carmela asked in a whisper. “Those marks?”

  Ava squinted at the small marble table nestled next to the blood-soaked settee. “More blood,” she said, sounding horrified.

  Carmela took another tentative step in. “Looks like Jamie tried to . . .”

  “Mother Mary,” breathed Ava, suddenly catching on.

  Footsteps thundered in the hallway and Carmela knew a wall of people was poised to descend upon them. “Look,” she said, in whispered excitement. “I think Jamie tried to write a message with his own blood!”

  Chapter 2

  THE women who were crowded around the craft table in the back of Memory Mine the next morning all exuded the expectant air of baby birds. Mouths open, eyes bright, every muscle straining to catch the retelling of the strange and sordid details of the night before.

  Carmela and Gabby had both arrived at the shop promptly at 9:00 AM this Thursday morning, even though they’d been up until well past midnight, talking with police and being interviewed by two detectives. Shortly after they’d hung the hand-lettered Open sign in the shop window, their “regulars” had come tumbling in. Worried, nervous, and rabid for details.

  Baby Fontaine, the fifty-ish, pixie-like Garden District socialite, whose manners were superseded only by her good humor, had been the first to arrive. Byrle Coopersmith came in on her heels. And Tandy Bliss had tumbled in shortly thereafter, toting her oversized scrapbooking bag. Skinny with a cap of tight red curls, Tandy was a fanatical scrapbooker and a woman not known for mincing words. As Byrle had once remarked of Tandy, “She never met a subject she couldn’t comment on.”

  Bony elbows propped on the table, chin cupped in her hands, Tandy was demanding more answers than either Carmela or Gabby could provide.

  “But you saw the weapon,” Tandy was saying. “So you must know something.” Wren being Gabby’s cousin, she had popped into the scrapbook shop frequently over the past few months, so Baby, Byrle, and Tandy had all come to know her fairly well. Plus, Gabby had continually regaled them with details of Wren’s upcoming nuptials.

  Gabby shivered. “Carmela was the one who saw everything. She and Ava stumbled upon poor Jamie’s body.” She held a hanky to her nose and sniffled.

  “How grisly,” murmured Baby. “Was it really a butcher knife?”

  “Afraid so,” said Carmela, wondering if she’d ever be able to exorcise that terrible image from her mind. Worse yet, would she ever be able to return to Bon Tiempe without thinking about their gleaming racks of sharpened knives?

  “And this happened in Bon Tiempe’s business office?” said Tandy, still trying to get the picture clear in her mind.

  “In Quigg’s office, yes,” Carmela said slowly.

  “You’re sure nobody else was around?” queried Baby. “There were no witnesses who came forth?” It seemed inconceivable to her that a killer had slipped into an upscale restaurant, murdered this well-liked, mild-mannered groom, then disappeared without a trace. Baby was married to Del Fontaine, one of New Orleans’s top attorneys, and, in her mind, there had to be a witness. There was always a witness. Even if you had to pay them.

  “Quigg’s office is tucked way back,” said Carmela, feeling like she was almost offering an apology. “Behind the kitchen.” She held a new stencil in her hand, a somewhat intricate design of what could pass for a Garden District home, but she hadn’t shown it to anyone yet, so distressed was she. “The office, the hallway, the telephone nook, the coat check area . . . it’s all kind of a rat’s maze back there.”

  “Lots of doors in that hallway,” piped up Tandy. “Darwin took me to dinner there one night and I got lost just trying to find the ladies’ room. Thought I’d have to take a whiz in the potted palm.”

  “So what’s going to happen now?” asked Byrle. “I mean, I know the police are investigating, but what about the . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “The wedding,” said Gabby, in a somber tone. “I’m going to start phoning all the guests.”

  “Oh no!” the women exclaimed with collective dismay.

  “Well, someone has to,” said Gabby, a trifle defensively. “You certa
inly can’t expect poor Wren to make those calls. It would break her heart.”

  “Of course we don’t, sweetie,” said Baby. “It just sounds like such an awful, sad task. You’re very brave to take it on.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” said Gabby. And she was. At barely twenty-three, with dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin, and a penchant for sweater twin sets, Gabby came across as the sorority girl-type. Demure, sweet, extremely well-mannered. But there was flint beneath that polished exterior. Real fortitude when it was needed.

  Tandy shook her head, still turning the whole situation over in her mind. She had read the Times-Picayune, scanned the TV stations for coverage, and called everyone she knew, trying to ferret out details. “Jamie Redmond’s murder made front page news in the Times-Picayune,” she said, as if everyone hadn’t already seen the terrible headlines.

  “The media adores bad news,” commented Byrle. “Somethin’ good happens, they turn a cold shoulder. But a nasty murder or a family tragedy, they eat it up.”

  “It’s about selling papers and garnering ratings,” said Carmela who, besides being a realist, had once worked as a graphic artist at the Times-Picayune. “They’re a business. You can’t completely blame them.”

  “Spoken like a true Republican,” muttered Tandy.

  CARMELA ASSURED GABBY THAT IT WAS FINE TO use her office and to take all the time she needed for her calls. And a grateful Gabby did exactly that, barricading herself inside Carmela’s cluttered little cubby hole, tearfully whispering into the phone amidst a jumble of rubber stamps, paper samples, and scrapbook supply catalogs.

  Hovering at the front of the store, Carmela waited on customers while she put together a new display featuring Asian-inspired stickers and charms. She was proud of Memory Mine, the little scrapbook shop she’d built on her own. And she loved how it had turned out. The brick walls held floor-to-ceiling brass wire racks filled with thousands of sheets of colorful scrapbook paper. She had one of the best selections of albums in all of New Orleans, and her flat files were filled with elegant, textural, handmade papers laced with linen, hemp, ivy leaves, and banana fibers. Her store had become a meeting ground, a place where friends could come and spend a few hours, roll up their sleeves, and be wildly creative while they enjoyed wonderful commaraderie, too.

  Glancing toward the back of the store, Carmela saw that Baby, Tandy, and Byrle were slowly unearthing their photos, albums, paper, rubber stamps, and stencils and were starting to begin work on their scrapbook pages.

  Good, she thought. Hopefully we can enjoy business as usual. Sort of.

  Even though they’d all gone round and round on the details of Jamie Redmond’s murder, there was one thing Carmela hadn’t discussed with anyone besides Ava. The strange, squiggly symbols that seemed to be scrawled in Jamie’s own blood. The message that had looked like “INA.” Or maybe “INE.” Or “INAE.” She wasn’t sure which it was, since, if they were letters at all, they were shaky and not very well defined.

  The detective she’d talked with last night, a Detective Jimmy Rawlings, hadn’t been terribly impressed with her hot theory that Jamie had scrawled out a final message. He’d yawned into his cup of coffee and copied the symbols down in his little spiral notebook. Told her he’d try to check them out. But she still had the impression that Detective Rawlings saw the marks as a kind of random by-product of the victim thrashing around. In other words, he hadn’t seen any meaning in them at all.

  Maybe so, thought Carmela. But what if Jamie Redmond had known his attacker? What if, after being stabbed, Jamie had realized he was mortally wounded? So, painfully, carefully, he scuffed out those marks using his own blood.

  Because there were no witnesses, Jamie Redmond had to be his own witness. He had to leave a clue for the living.

  It was an unsettling thought for Carmela. Yet one that was highly intriguing. So when Gabby took a break to run out and grab cups of chicory coffee for everyone, Carmela slipped into her back office and grabbed a pen and paper. She scrawled the letters down as best she remembered them and came up with a couple dozen ways to complete them.

  INATE? I NEED? INACTIVE? INERTIA? Good heavens. Just what was it Jamie had been trying to convey?

  But Carmela was either extremely tired or her neurons just weren’t firing all that well today. Because nothing seemed to gel.

  As Carmela sat puzzling over her scrawled symbols, the phone rang. Instinctively, she reached for it and answered with a not-so-chipper: Memory Mine. Can I help you?

  “Carmela.”

  It was Quigg, who, for some reason, jump-started every phone conversation with a throaty, meaningful growl. In this case, it was actually kind of nice. Interesting, anyway.

  “How you doin’?” Quigg asked. “You okay?”

  Carmela gazed toward the back of her store where everyone was buzzing away at the big table they’d dubbed Craft Central.

  Am I okay? Not really.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she lied.

  “What a disaster,” exclaimed Quigg, obviously referring to last night. “To have a customer murdered right in my own restaurant! Unsettling, truly unsettling. The police figure it was probably a robbery gone bad. Kids or maybe a junky who slipped in through the kitchen and was searching for the office safe.”

  “Is there a safe in the office?” asked Carmela.

  “No,” said Quigg. “But that’s something only I’d know.”

  “People could slip past your staff?” she questioned. “In the kitchen?” This seemed totally implausible to Carmela.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Quigg. “Easy. Pick your area. Kitchen, prep area, pantry, or cooler. Cripes, it’s always bedlam back there, and most restaurants have huge turnovers so there’s always some new guy lurking about.”

  Damn, thought Carmela.

  “That poor woman,” said Quigg, obviously referring to Wren. “I felt so helpless. She seemed inconsolable. If only there was something I could have done!”

  “Refunding the money was a nice gesture,” said Carmela. Quigg had been so upset last night, he’d written a check on the spot, refunding all the money for the bar tab and dinner. Carmela had the check in her handbag.

  “It was nothing,” said Quigg, who sounded anguished. “I just wish we could have gotten to Jamie Redmond sooner. Maybe the outcome would have been different.”

  “Maybe,” said Carmela. “You did a lot, though. You were very take-charge.”

  “The police kept my entire staff until three o’clock this morning. Three bus boys and my damn sous-chef put in for overtime, can you believe it?”

  She did, and told him so.

  “On the plus side,” continued Quigg, not sounding one bit happy, “business is suddenly booming.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Carmela.

  “I never kid about business, dawlin’. It seems everyone and his brother-in-law is burning with curiosity. I guess they want to enjoy a cup of court bouillon and bask in the midst of a real-life crime scene.” Quigg pronounced it coo-bee-yon, which was, of course, the New Orleans pronunciation for that type of spicy fish stew. “Forensics a la carte,” continued Quigg. “Sick, no?”

  “Sick yes,” murmured Carmela, knowing full well that the average citizen seemed utterly fascinated with crime scenes and forensic evidence these days. Case in point, just take a gander at what was being spewed out on TV.

  “You’ve got to keep in mind,” said Quigg, “that this is fairly typical for New Orleans. I mean, we’re the Roswell, New Mexico, of the macabre. We’ve got more voodoo shops, ghost tours, haunted buildings, above ground cemeteries, and amateur vampires per capita than any other place in the world!”

  “Good point,” agreed Carmela. Visitors to the French Quarter were forever wandering into her shop and asking if there were any haunted houses or hotels in the area. Lately she’d been sending them down the street to Amour’s Restaurant, a so-so brasserie that had been particularly snippy and pretentious to Gabby and her when they’d tried to order take-away.

  “Listen,” said Quigg, “I don’t know if this is the right time to tell you this, but I’m opening a new restaurant in a couple months. Already leased space over on Bienville Street in a building that used to be an art gallery. Gonna call the place Mumbo Gumbo. Any chance I could talk you into designing the menus? I want the typography and overall look to have a kind of jumbled scrapbook feel.”