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Chapter 4

THEY say the devil sometimes pops up when you least expect him. Unpredictably, unforeseeably, certainly unwelcome. Such was the case when Carmela heard a sharp knock on her door that evening.

She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Who’s plotzing around out there this time of night? Ava? Can’t be, I just had a gab with her an hour ago. Told her all about the medallion with the heel impression.

Carmela rose from the creaky wicker chaise lounge where she’d been curled up, surfing her seventy-five cable channels, searching for a scintillating forensic TV show, and padded to the front door in her stocking feet. Rolling over in her cozy L. L. Bean dog bed, Boo uttered a half-hearted yip, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. A wet snore gurgled from her well-padded muzzle.

Some watchdog you are, thought Carmela.

Carmela peered through the peephole in the door. Shamus Allan Meechum was standing there in the small courtyard outside her apartment. Her tall, curly-haired, good-looking, soon-to-be ex-husband.

Shamus! What the heck does he want?

Reluctantly, Carmela took the chain off the door and let him in.

“Hey, babe.” Shamus gave a lazy smile as he brushed by her, his larger-than-life personality immediately insinuating itself in the confines of her small apartment.

Carmela closed the door and gave a quizzical glance.

What just happened here? I was cozied up, skimming a magazine and surfing channels, when suddenly this big galoot breezes in and changes the entire character of my place.

She peered at her apartment with its coral red walls, earth-tone sisal rug, and flea market furniture that had been reupholstered in cream-colored cotton duck fabric. Along with some antique shop buys, most from scratch-and-dent rooms, she’d managed to concoct a semblance of casual chic. But Shamus’s presence seemed to throw off the whole atmosphere. Suddenly, everything felt tilted and out of focus.

The notion that Shamus had waltzed in and impacted the character of her home greatly perturbed Carmela. Which meant she didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What do you want?” she asked Shamus bluntly.

Shamus, ever the Southern gentleman, favored Carmela with a look that fairly dripped with concern. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said in the soft accent he’d picked up from his mother, who hailed from Baton Rouge.

“Why?” Carmela asked in a neutral tone.

“Carmela,” Shamus replied with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I heard about Bartholomew Hayward’s murder last night.” He shook his head. “Poor Barty. Terrible thing. He went to Tulane, you know.”

“Do tell,” said Carmela. Shamus had gone to Tulane and considered all Tulane alumni kindred spirits.

“And for his murder to have taken place in the alley behind your shop,” continued Shamus, “well, that’s just way too close for comfort!”

“Oh, that.” Carmela resumed her position on the chaise lounge, crossed her legs, stared pointedly at the television set. The minute Shamus had brought up Barty Hayward’s murder, she’d decided she wasn’t going to tell him about the little medallion she’d found in the alley. The one that carried the mysterious heelprint with the initials GC.

Carmela had never encountered a designer with the initials GC, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t start looking. Who knew, maybe an Internet search would turn something up.

Without waiting to be invited, Shamus plopped himself down next to Carmela, put a hand on her bare ankle. “You’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time, aren’t you?” he remarked. A Cheshire cat grin lit his handsome face; his brown eyes sparkled.

Carmela fought the urge to reach down for one of her loafers and whack Shamus upside of the head.

“I’d say I was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time two years ago,” she replied. “On June twelfth.” June twelfth was their wedding date. She was always very careful to refer to June twelfth as their wedding date and not their anniversary. After all, anniversaries were what married people celebrated. Married people who lived together and honored those little ol’ vows of love, honor, and respect.

“Say now, darlin’,” purred Shamus, “that’s not very sweet. I myself harbor extremely fond memories of that particular date.”

Fond memories. Carmela stared at her loafers again, felt her fingers twitch. The man is a cad, an absolute cad.

“So,” said Shamus. “Do the police have any suspects? Or, at the very least, a best guess?”

Carmela picked up the TV remote control, turned the volume down a notch.

“No,” she said. “Do you?”

Her question was meant to be smart-ass and facetious, but Shamus immediately assumed a thoughtful expression.

“Since you ask, I’d probably have to put my money on Jade Ella.”

Carmela hesitated for a split second, then clicked the television completely off. Shamus suddenly had her clear and undivided attention.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Shamus smiled a lazy smile. He knew Carmela was intrigued by what had occurred the night before even though she was scared to death by it, too.

“Jade Ella Hayward was in the process of divorcing Barty,” said Shamus.

Carmela nodded. “I know that. I know Jade Ella. She even stopped by the shop last night. Said she adored the idea of an all-night crop but was far too busy generating some buzz for the grand opening of Spa Diva.”

Shamus nodded. “I heard she was involved in that. So how’d you two get so buddy-buddy?”

Carmela shrugged. The two of them weren’t particularly friendly. “She stopped by the shop a couple times,” replied Carmela. Jade Ella usually came into Memory Mine right after she paid a quick visit to Bartholomew Hayward’s shop. On more than one occasion, Carmela had heard their voices raised in bitter argument through the not-so-substantial wall that separated the two businesses.

But, hey, everybody fights, Carmela told herself. Shamus and I fight. Fought. That’s certainly not grounds for murder, is it?

She peered at Shamus.

From love to hate in the blink of an eye. One day you’re head over heels in love, the next day your man is boogying out the door. Or cheating on you. Can emotions flip-flop that fast? Oh yeah. Sure they can. I guess they can.

“You know that Jade Ella absolutely despised Barty,” said Shamus. “Thought he was a real horse’s patoot.”

“She was right on that count,” said Carmela.

“I also heard Jade Ella poured a fortune into Spa Diva and was frantic over the possibility of being screwed royally in the divorce.”

There it is. The D-word, thought Carmela. Funny how neither one of us has ever verbalized that word before in the other’s presence.

“Were Barty and Jade Ella’s divorce papers final?” Carmela asked, painfully aware she’d probably be filing her own divorce papers pretty soon. If she intended to get on with her life, that is.

“Nope,” said Shamus, looking pleased. “Nothing was final. Nada.”

“So now that Barty’s dead, Jade Ella inherits everything?” Shamus leisurely crossed one long leg over the other. “Looks that way.” He reached for a strand of Carmela’s hair, fingered it gently. “I love your hair that way. That tawny color really makes your skin glow.”

“Thank you.” Ava had talked Carmela into letting her hair grow out a little. Now, instead of the chunked and skunked, short and choppy do Carmela had been sporting, her face was framed with softer, slightly more blond locks. Carmela thought her new look made her look more vulnerable. Ava said it made her look predatory.

“So you’re saying Jade Ella had a motive for wanting to be rid of Barty Hayward,” said Carmela.

Shamus shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t know.” He smiled lazily at her. “What did you do today?” he asked as Boo finally roused herself from her bed and came over to greet Shamus.

“Went out to brunch with Ava,” said Carmela. “Ate too much.”

“Ava Grieux, the infamous serial dater,” said Shamus, rubbing Boo’s tiny triangle-shaped ears. “Hey there, Boo Boo, you like that?” In response, Boo snuggled closer.

“Ava’s not a serial dater,” said Carmela. “She’s just picky. And why shouldn’t she be? Given the choice of men in this neck of the woods.”

Shamus glanced sideways at her. “Am I supposed to be insulted by that remark?”

“Depends,” said Carmela, treading cautiously. “Depends on whether you’re back on the market or not.”

“I did get a rather gracious invitation to participate in next month’s Most Eligible Bachelor Auction,” said Shamus. “The one to benefit the Tulane Music Society.”

The Most Eligible Bachelor Auction was your basic beefcake venue: a dozen hunky, single men auctioned off for dinner dates to women who had too much time on their hands and too much money. Carmela thought the whole thing was pretty pathetic.

“Did you take them up on it?” Carmela asked him.

“ ’Course not, darlin’,” purred Shamus. “I’m married to you.”

Carmela’s thumb sought out the On button and clicked the TV picture back on.

“What else did you do today?” Shamus asked.

Carmela stared past him. “Went grocery shopping. Took Boo for a walk.”

Shamus waited, obviously expecting Carmela to ask about his day. She chose not to give him the satisfaction.

Shamus’s brows suddenly met in a pucker. “You know, Carmela, this is no way to engineer any sort of reconciliation.”

Her mouth flew open in surprise. Who said anything about a reconciliation? That sure came zooming out of left field. And what’s this ‘engineer’ business? That’s certainly not the correct usage of a verb. Especially when you team it with reconciliation.

“You’re full of shit, Shamus,” said Carmela, turning up the full volume of the TV.

“And you’re totally hostile,” said Shamus.

They pointedly ignored each other for a few minutes. Boo, sensing discord in the ranks, skulked back to her bed. Finally, the anger between the two of them began to dissipate.

“Okay,” Carmela said finally. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” said Shamus.

“But,” said Carmela, unwilling to let the subject simply drop, “we have major issues to deal with… and I think we need to face reality.”

Darn, she thought, why do I suddenly sound like Dr. Phil? “You’re not going to threaten to give back the car, are you?” asked Shamus, sidestepping the larger issue. “Because I’m not going to take it back,” he insisted.

Carmela made a face. Obviously Shamus was in no mood to talk about reconciliation or divorce. Then again, he never seemed to be.

“It’s your car,” continued Shamus.

Carmela stared at him, let a few beats go by. “Okaaay,” she relented, experiencing a slight sense of triumph at the look of genuine consternation on Shamus’s face. No way was she really going to give the car back. She might be colossally ticked at Shamus and ready to divorce him, but she wasn’t an idiot. No sir, that little 500 SL was a thing of sheer beauty. V8 engine, 302 horsepower.

Plus, as Ava had helpfully pointed out, the Mercedes had proven to be an incredible man magnet. You could park that puppy anywhere and suddenly, like magic, men came crawling out of the woodwork to drool over it.

“I have a marvelous idea,” said Shamus enthusiastically. “Why don’t you and I go away together? Spend some time alone?”

Carmela lifted an eyebrow and stared at him. What was this happy crap? They could spend a few nights together, but not their lives?

“We’ll drive up to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn, get a little hideaway,” rhapsodized Shamus. Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn was an elegant Greek Revival plantation up the Great River Road, just north of New Orleans. Tucked in among other old Victorian and “steamboat” Gothic plantations, it had been turned into an inn some twenty years ago and was famous among honeymooners as well as couples seeking to rekindle romance. The plantation was situated right next to Houmas House, where the Bette Davis movie Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte had been filmed.

Carmela continued to gaze at Shamus, amazed any man could possess so much unmitigated gall. Shamus had up and left her, bid adios to his job at the bank, and headed off to concentrate on his photography, for goodness’ sake! Plus, he’d been spotted squiring various women around town. Carmela sighed heavily. Bad behavior wasn’t even the term for it. It was more like bad judgment. Then again, this was Louisiana. A state where married governors, senators, and various and sundry politicos routinely courted younger women. Without causing any collateral damage to their careers.

Shamus was still on a roll. “How about this coming Friday?” He sidled closer to her.

“No. Absolutely not,” Carmela told him.

“Why not?” Shamus asked.

Carmela folded her arms protectively across her chest. “Because, among other things, I have previous commitments.” She was, once again, close to losing her temper.

“Like what?” Shamus challenged.

“Besides being busy at the shop,” said Carmela, “this Saturday is Halloween.”

“So?” said Shamus.

“The Art Institute’s Monsters & Old Masters Ball is this Saturday evening,” said Carmela. Monsters & Old Masters was one of the New Orleans Art Institute’s big fund-raisers. As Baby had proclaimed, Monsters & Old Masters was rife with the three F’s: food, fun, and fund-raising. In this case, the Art Institute was hoping to finance new art acquisitions.

“Not a problem,” said Shamus. “I was going to attend myself. Better yet, we can go together.”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “But I’m sitting with Baby and Del. They already reserved a table for eight. Besides,” she added, “I’m likely to be busy. I’ve been tapped to create menu cards and twenty description tags for the art and floral displays that are going to be on view.”

Shamus ducked his head and threw her an inquisitive look. With his tousled brown hair and slightly olive skin, he looked youthful and boyish. And, truth be told, quite adorable.

Quit it, Carmela told herself. This marriage is over. Fini. Finito. Down the toilet.

“Okay then,” said Shamus. “Grant me another simple favor. Come to dinner with me Tuesday night at Glory’s.”

“At Glory’s?” Carmela’s voice rose in a sharp squawk. Glory Meechum was Shamus’s older sister and the self-proclaimed matriarch of the Meechum clan. Glory had also led the charge to force Carmela out of Shamus’s palatial home in the Garden District after he’d skipped out on her and fled to his family’s camp house. Suffice it to say, Glory was not high on Carmela’s top ten list of amusing dinner companions.

“Come on, Carmela,” said Shamus. “It’d mean a whole lot to her. Hell, it’d mean a lot to me.”

Carmela narrowed her eyes, wondering if the invitation to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn had simply been a red herring.

Maybe Shamus was confident I’d turn him down on that, and dinner at Glory’s was what he’d been angling for all along. Am I nuts to think this way? Yeah, probably. But Shamus makes me nuts.

Shamus scrambled to his feet and flashed her a winning smile. Carmela recognized it immediately. It was his touchdown smile. The same confident, slightly arrogant smile he’d always worn when he played varsity football at Tulane. The smile that, even when his team got royally trounced, said I did my best, I sure as hell played to win.

“Tell you what,” said Carmela. “I’ll be your date Tuesday night, but I’m going to need a small favor in return. Quid pro quo.”

“Such as?” said Shamus.

“I’ll go with you to Glory’s dinner party, but you have to pick up the two tables stashed behind my store and return them to Party Central.”

Shamus considered this for a few seconds.

“Deal?” pushed Carmela.

“Deal,” said Shamus. “Glory’s going to be thrilled.”

Carmela gave a disdainful snort. “Glory hates me.”

“Carmela,” said Shamus in a hurt tone of voice, “Glory’s your sister-in-law. Of course she doesn’t hate you.”

“Then how come she banished me from your house after you walked out on me?”

Shamus threw his hands in the air. “That doesn’t mean Glory hates you, honey. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?” demanded Carmela. She clambered to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, pretty sure now that she’d been blindsided on the dinner invitation.

“It’s… it’s just the way some families are,” stammered Shamus.

He leaned down, brushed his lips across the top of her head in a quick semi-kiss, and headed for the door. As the door flew open and chill air wafted in, Carmela was surprised to see a mixture of confusion and unhappiness on Shamus’s departing face.

And deep within her heart, in the part where she tried to suppress her true feelings for him, Carmela felt a painful stab.