Carmela continued to peer around. Dust and metal carnage were everywhere. Lots more strange-looking machines, foul-smelling conveyer belts, and toppled-over racks. Against the far wall, two dirt-encrusted metal doors led to what had probably been old blast freezers.
And snugged up against the old freezer doors was a huge jumble of furniture.
So this really is Barty Hayward’s storage space.
Walking tentatively toward the furniture, Carmela studied the jumble of highboys, desks, tea tables, and wooden fireplace mantels. And, as she gazed at the wooden furniture, lying there in a rather sorry state, she saw exactly what Bartholomew Hayward had been up to.
New drawer pulls and fittings had been replaced with old ones. Tables inlaid with bits of ivory and mother-of-pearl had been stained with tea for instant aging. Paintings barely older than she was had been restretched on old frames.
And as Carmela gazed at the musty, dusty surroundings, a rueful smile crept onto her face. Because she saw that this place was, indeed, the perfect place to store furniture.
You could take most anything that was newly knocked together out of pine, oak, cedar, or cypress, and store it here for a few months. Given the climate, each and every piece would be warped and slightly malodorous by the end of its incarceration.
Even a rank amateur could bring in a load of brand-new stuff, toss dirt and sawdust all over it, drip a little pigeon poop on it for good measure, then let it all percolate. And the whole lot would end up looking aged, instantly-within six months flat. Guaranteed.
You had a pretty sweet racket going, Barty.
Carmela stood for a moment, taking it all in as the muffled toot of a tugboat drifted in from the river.
What else was stored here? she wondered. Carmela peered into the dimness, mustiness prickling her nose.
There were smaller wooden crates stacked along the back wall. Probably containing prints and paintings. Carmela moved over to these, reached into a rectangular crate that was open on top, and pulled out a painting.
It was a lovely piece, lots of golds and russets and dark greens. A landscape painting that depicted a Tuscan hill-side and a villa in the background with a high, squared-off tower. Pretty. She flipped it over, noting a series of numbers marked on the back of the painting: NMA92107.
Carmela stared at the numbers, wondering what they meant.
Auction house? Yeah, probably.
She shrugged and slipped the painting back into its wooden case and idly gazed about the old plant.
Who would have known about this? she wondered. Besides Barty. And the delivery guy, Dwayne.
She figured Jade Ella might also have known. As tumultuous as their marriage had been, the woman must have known
And on the heels of that thought came another, a real corker. Did Jade Ella suspect I might be coming out here tonight?
Carmela racked her brain.
How long was Jade Ella standing there before she spoke to me? Did she watch me shuffle through the invoices, then carefully peruse the storage invoice?
Carmela knew that if Jade Ella was suspicious about her coming out here tonight, she could be watching right now. Which was a very spooky notion.
Time to boogaloo out of here.
It took Carmela considerably less time to exit the back window, prop the lower half back in place, and scamper to her waiting car. Then, the heater roaring like a blast furnace and Boo dozing on the seat next to her, Carmela bumped her way across the muddy lot to the paved road. But all the while she kept one eye on the rearview mirror. Just in case.
THE PHONE WAS RINGING OFF THE HOOK WHEN Carmela came rocketing through her front door, Boo right behind her. She scampered, muddy shoes and all, across the sisal carpet to grab the phone.
“Hello?” she said, fully expecting to hear dead air. She didn’t for a minute think she’d made it in time. Figured her caller would have gotten frustrated and hung up.
“Carmela,” came a rich, male voice. “You’re home.”
It was Shamus.
“Shamus,” she said, feeling somehow reassured at hearing his familiar voice. “Hey there.”
“Hey, cupcake, you’re still coming Saturday night, right?”
“What are you talking about?” She knew exactly what Shamus was talking about.
“You’re going to sit at our table, aren’t you?” Shamus twittered excitedly.
Carmela let out a long sigh. She’d already covered this territory with Shamus and the answer had been a big fat no. Putting a hand over the receiver, she dropped it to her chest, wondered why life always had to be so darn complicated. Quigg Brevard had also hinted at the two of them getting together. And she was already committed to sitting with Baby and Del.
Ain’t it grand to be wanted?
Carmela put the phone back to her ear. “Shamus, you know I’m not going to be able to do that.”
“Aw, honey,” came his answer, and Carmela thought how funny it was that his voice had gone from reassuring to wheedling in a matter of thirty seconds.
“No can do, Shamus.” Carmela hobbled over to a dining room chair and sat down. Hooking her left toe into the back of her right tennis shoe, she pried the shoe off. Flecks of mud spattered everywhere. Reaching down, she pulled off the other muddy shoe and gave it a toss. Boo, who’d been sitting near the kitchen ever since they’d come in, flashed her a reproachful look. A look that said, I’d be punished for making this sort of mess.
“Carmela, I can’t tell you how much Glory is looking forward to this very special night. And to have you right there to share it with us would be icing on the cake for her.”
Bad metaphor, decided Carmela. It was way too reminiscent of wedding cake. And the fact that she and Shamus had barely made it past their first anniversary.
Carmela glanced down, saw a tiny rip in her gray wool slacks, and frowned. Damn, these were good ones, too. Plucked from the clearance rack at Saks.
“Tell Glory not to get her underwear in a twist,” Carmela told Shamus. “I’ll be there Saturday night. I’ll applaud politely. I’ll tell all my friends to applaud politely.”
“But we have a place reserved for you at
“Then I’ll
“Dawlin’, I know you do,” continued Shamus. “Which is why I’m askin’ you to do this one little old favor.” Shamus had casually dropped into good old boy mode. “It would mean so much to the family.”
The family. Of course it’s about the family. It’s always about the family. Except when it’s really about the family, decided Carmela. Which always made the whole familial landscape slightly Kafkaesque.
The call waiting button on Carmela’s phone suddenly burped.
Hallelujah! Saved by the burp.
“Shamus?” said Carmela. “I gotta go. I got another call.” Without waiting for a response, Carmela drove her thumb down on the button, disconnecting Shamus and connecting her other caller. She decided she didn’t give a rat’s ass if it was a telemarketer calling to hawk a load of aluminum siding. She was still gonna be nice as pie to him.
But it was someone with far more chutzpah than any mere mortal telemarketer. It was Ava.
“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Ava. “I’ve been calling your place all night. I thought maybe a bunch of rogue Irish folk dancers swept in and kidnapped you.”
“No such luck,” said Carmela. She tugged at her slightly damp socks, peeled one off. “I was snooping around inside a deserted shrimp-processing plant. Out on River Road. My hair stinks and there’s gobs of slithery mud and probably dead shrimp parts stuck to the soles of my shoes. No less than a dozen cats followed me in from my car.” She peeled the second sock off and tossed it toward Boo, who dodged it, then quickly scampered out of the way.
“Damn it, girl,” said Ava. “Your life reads like an old Doris Day movie. Trippin’ all over the countryside, having one merry adventure after another.” She paused. “Honey, what were you doin
“No, just following up on a Bartholomew Hayward thing,” Carmela told her.
“A new lead?” asked Ava.
“Nah, more like a dead end,” said Carmela.
“Oh,” said Ava, disappointed. “Here I was hoping for big news. Nothing seems to want to break on that Billy Cobb thing, does it?”
“Actually,” said Carmela, “Billy paid a surprise visit to my store yesterday.”
“Get out!” exclaimed Ava. “So he didn’t leave town after all.”
“No, but he’s threatening to,” said Carmela. She sighed. She wanted to help exonerate Billy, but nothing seemed to be gelling. Nothing that told her he was beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt innocent. “I checked on the Internet and called around to a few ladies’ shoe stores earlier today, trying to follow up on that heelprint thing?”
“And?”
“Seems nobody’s ever heard of a brand with the initials GC.”
“Hmm,” said Ava. “Maybe it’s Gina Chanel.”
“Who on earth is Gina Chanel?”
“I dunno,” laughed Ava. “ Coco ’s little known step-sister?”
“Hah,” said Carmela. “Nice try.”
“Say, honey,” said Ava, “I’m sorry you got stuck with Sweetmomma Pam today.”
