by Laura Childs
“Where do you take it?” Carmela asked, wishing Dwayne would stop his annoying tapping.
Dwayne gave an exasperated shrug. “Storage. Where else?”
Carmela rolled her eyes. “I know that.”
With that the trucker seemed to drop his hard-ass attitude. “The usual place,” he told her. “Place over in Westwego, just off River Road.”
“Yeah,” said Carmela. “Okay.” She gave an appraising look around, then flashed Dwayne what she hoped was one of her sweetest smiles. “No, we don’t seem to have anything to haul out there today.”
“Okay then,” he said, passing her the pen and clipboard. “Just put your John Hancock right there.”
“Not a problem,” said Carmela. She thought about signing a false name, then figured, the heck with it. On the bottom line of the form she carefully penned Carmela Bertrand accepting shipment for Billy Cobb.
“Thanks,” said Dwayne as he disappeared out the door. “You-all have a good one.”
Carmela stood in the back of Bartholomew Hayward’s shop and looked around. The shipment Dwayne had left was relatively small. A highboy chest of drawers, a banister-back rocking chair, plus a round dining table with four so-so chairs. Nothing to write home about. Probably the same caliber of stuff Dove Duval had been summarily stuck with.
But that storage place over in Westwego. Now that sounded interesting. Carmela wondered if that could be the place where Billy Cobb was hiding out.
She turned the idea over and over in her head, wondering if Billy was, in fact, hunkered down in Barty Hayward’s storage space. Finally, she decided there was only one way to find out. Take a drive out there.
Yeah, but that means I have to go into Barty’s office and snoop through his records to locate the exact address.
Was that a smart thing to do?
Good question.
And, of course, the next issue was what to do if she actually found Billy Cobb hiding out there. Then what? Did she try to reason with him? Get him to turn himself in so the whole mess could be sorted out? Lieutenant Babcock seemed like a decent man. Could she convince Billy to turn himself in to him? And then convince the lieutenant that Billy was innocent?
But there was something else bothering Carmela. In the back of her mind hung the unanswered question: What if Billy Cobb really is a murderer? What if I’m walking into what could end up being a trap?
Carmela decided she wouldn’t dwell on that right now.
The address. First I gotta find the address.
Carmela eased through the swinging doors that led into the shop, decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to switch on the lights. If she did, customers walking by would for sure see her rummaging around and knock on the door, seeking admittance.
Moving carefully through narrow aisles of etageres and tea tables crammed with antique silver teapots, pewter pitchers, colorful glass vases, and fanciful lamps with fringed shades, Carmela made her way to Bartholomew Hayward’s desk in the center of the room. Hesitantly, she turned on a single Tiffany-style lamp. As it cast its golden light across the top of the desk, Carmela hoped she could locate a Rolodex or address book. If she could, she was fairly certain she’d also find the address.
Unlike Barty Hayward’s neatly organized shop, his desktop and business records were a mess. Business cards were heaped in three different Chinese blue and white bowls, messages were written on tiny scraps of paper and scattered seemingly everywhere, files were nonexistent. After twenty minutes of random pawing through office drawers and stacks of papers, Carmela found a small stack of unpaid bills sitting beneath an antique bronze frog that sported large, bugged-out eyes. And, lucky, lucky, lucky, one of the bills just happened to be an invoice for monthly rent of $810 on warehouse space located at 1015 River Road.
“Find anything interesting?” a voice suddenly rasped.
Carmela’s heart thudded in her chest and she physically jumped at least a foot. She reared up ramrod straight and whipped her head around to see who’d just spoken to her. Standing just outside her little pool of light was Jade Ella Hayward, staring at her with a curious glint in her eyes.
“Jade Ella,” gasped Carmela. She fought to keep her voice easy and conversational even though her heart was still thumping out of control. “You scared me half to death!”
Jade Ella stared pointedly at Carmela. In her crimson embroidered Chinese jacket, tight blue jeans, and beaded high-heeled boots, Jade Ella looked like she was ready to attend the MTV Music Awards. Maybe even vault onstage and belt out a number or two.
“What are you doing here?” Jade Ella finally asked. Not Hello, not How are you, just What are you doing here.
“I…” Carmela stuttered, then suddenly remembered she was still clutching a copy of the furniture delivery order she’d just signed.
“I signed for a delivery,” she stammered. “A truck pulled up something like ten minutes ago. Did you see the new furniture out back?”
Jade Ella nodded, but Carmela wasn’t sure whether Jade Ella was admitting to having seen the furniture, or if she was just encouraging Carmela to continue her explanation. “I was just going to stick this in a safe place where Billy or whoever could find it.” Carmela held the piece of paper up as evidence and gave a casual shrug. There, that sounds awfully reasonable, doesn’t it?
“How’d you get in?” asked Jade Ella.
“Billy gave me a set of keys. Just in case.”
Jade Ella took a few steps forward and peered into Carmela’s face. Looking for… what? For her to flinch? To crack and come clean?
When Jade Ella didn’t seem to find what she was looking for, she let loose a long sigh then held up her own set of keys. She jangled them noisily in Carmela’s face. “See, I’ve still got my keys, too.”
Carmela stared back at Jade Ella, wondering if Jade Ella had finally received the life insurance check she’d been so anxiously awaiting. Was the case finally settled? Was Jade Ella no longer a suspect? Did she now own Menagerie Antiques lock, stock, and barrel?
Carmela’s momma had once told her that the best way to get an answer from someone was to ask them a direct question. That’s what Carmela did now.
“Did you get your insurance settlement?” she asked Jade Ella.
Jade Ella’s pupils seemed to contract, her eyebrows pinch together. Then, within a split second, she’d composed herself again.
“Why, no, I didn’t, Carmela,” said Jade Ella. “But it’s awfully kind of you to ask.” Jade Ella’s voice was guarded.
“Reed Bigelow, your insurance agent, stopped by my shop this morning,” said Carmela, by way of explanation. “That’s why I asked.”
Jade Ella’s face seemed to relax. “Ah, and what did the tedious Mr. Bigelow want from you?”
“He wanted to ask a few questions concerning Barty’s death,” said Carmela. “Since I was almost a witness.”
“Yes, you were,” said Jade Ella. “Almost.” Her green eyes bore into Carmela with burning curiosity. “Carmela, you didn’t tell Mr. Bigelow that I played any sort of role in Barty’s business affairs, did you?” Jade Ella took a step forward and adjusted a small oil painting that sat on an easel.
“We never got around to any kind of Q and A session,” Carmela told her. “Things just got too busy. And besides, everything’s already in the police reports, which I believe he would have access to. Why do you ask?”
Jade Ella folded her arms protectively across her chest. “There’s seems to be an itty-bitty problem concerning taxes,” said Jade Ella. “Something owed, or unpaid, or carried over,” she said. “Anyway… Barty’s tax issues have absolutely nothing to do with the insurance company paying out death benefits.”
“Death benefits,” repeated Carmela. “Sounds so final.” But Jade Ella had already spun on her glitzy boot heels and was threading her way back through the shop and toward the back door. “Good day, Carmela,” she called.
Chapter 15
RAIN beat down and a howling wind whipsawed stands o
f scrawny palmettos as Carmela made her way tentatively down River Road. Bumping along this deserted stretch of road that wound perilously close to the banks of the Mississippi, she’d once again come to the inevitable conclusion that New Orleans and much of its surrounding environs was a very spooky place. Aboveground cemeteries seemed to lurk everywhere. Old buildings emerged from dank mists like silent sentinels. And here in the Crescent City, where humidity often topped out at one hundred percent, trees and vegetation had a nasty habit of running wild. Of stealthily overgrowing brick walls, fountains, and crumbling outbuildings to the point where landmarks were reduced to architectural topiaries.
As Carmela slowed her car and rolled down the window, searching for 1015 River Road, she had the feeling she was time traveling. She’d been on the lookout for a storage space. Hopefully a modern, concrete building that was well lit and offered orderly numbered addresses.
Instead, what she was finding were decrepit old buildings, docks, and warehouses. Very industrial and not the least bit inviting. No sir.
Faded numerals loomed ahead of her. A one, a zero, a blank spot, then a five. Was this 1015? Had to be. Cranking her car into a muddy parking lot, Carmela gazed at the ramshackle wood building and wrinkled her nose.
She was staring at a long, low building with some sort of decaying wooden truck dock stretching along one side of it. A tumble of old machinery was scattered about, most of it hidden by overgrown weeds. This had obviously been some kind of manufacturing plant. But certainly not in recent years.
Carmela cut the engine, listened to the tick tick tick of the motor cooling down. Boo, hunched in the front seat next to her, gave a tentative woof.
She reached over and ruffled Boo’s fur. “Sorry, girl,” she told the dog. “Your job is to stay here as lookout and lend a little moral support.” Gazing at the ramshackle building once more, she noted that it was sublimely unappealing. “Make that a lot of moral support.”
Okay, she told herself. This was your big idea, your grand adventure. You had an inkling that Billy Cobb might be hiding out here. Does this look like the kind of place someone would hide out?
Ignoring what she deemed to be her own stupid, frivolous questions, Carmela opened the car door and stepped gingerly onto squishy, muddy ground.
If this is Bartholomew Hayward’s storage space, what on earth does he store here?
Slowly, quietly, Carmela made her way to the front door of the building. There were no windows, no lights, no indication of what might be inside.
Putting a hand on the old metal door, Carmela jiggled the handle. No dice. The door was dismally chipped and pock-marked, but it was also sturdy, serviceable, and securely locked. No way was she going to just waltz in the front door for a quick look-see.
That meant searching around back. Looking for a window to slip in or another door that could possibly be jimmied.
Which also meant breaking and entering. Gulp.
Keenly aware she was stepping on broken glass as well as moldering vegetation, Carmela made her way to the back of the building. Here the earth was even more soggy, and with each step, she had to pull her shoes from sucking mud.
Stopping in front of a wooden door, Carmela grasped the handle and gave it a tug. The handle rattled, but this door seemed to be locked securely as well.
But back here was also a row of windows.
Carmela stalked along the back of the building, searching for a possible point of entry. At the last window, she spied a loose molding. Digging her fingers under the wood, she tugged hard and was rewarded with a loud creak. The wood, damp and rotting, crumbled easily. Then the entire strip of molding pulled away and the bottom window, dirt-streaked glass set in decayed wood, came crashing down, barely missing her foot.
Ouch! Damn!
Torn between wanting to go back to her car and check her foot for possible splinters, and exploring this strange, deserted building, Carmela hesitated for a moment. Then she braced her hands against the side of the window frame, ducked down, and swung a leg up. Now she was halfway in. From there it was an easy task to balance on the window ledge in a crouching position and propel herself inside.
Crunch. Carmela landed atop broken glass. And decided she probably wasn’t the first person or persons to enter uninvited through this window.
Anybody here right now? I sure hope not.
Because suddenly, even the thought of running into Billy Cobb in this spooky, deserted place seemed terribly unnerving.
Wondering what exactly this old place had been, she ventured a few hesitant steps in the dark. The interior of the building was pitch black and she wondered how she’d ever find a light. She’d taken three more nervous steps when something tapped her gently on the shoulder.
What the…?
Carmela’s mind conjured up an array of horrors… bat, giant spider, mysterious disembodied hand… as she brushed wildly at the thing that hung there.
And discovered it was a thick black cord.
An electrical cord? Yeah, could be, she thought shakily. Carmela took a deep breath, grasped at the loop of dusty cord, and followed it upward? To a power switch. Her fingers fumbled for a second, finally made contact. A quick click and a dim yellow light flooded the premises.
Carmela gazed around. Dark, hulking machinery loomed everywhere. Tiny particles of dust and debris danced in the air.
Carmela promptly sneezed. But now she also had a fairly good idea of what this old place had been.
It’s an old shrimp-processing plant!
The Gulf waters off Louisiana were rich and fertile with shrimp. White shrimp were netted off the coastal inland waters, usually from September through May. And brown shrimp, a migratory shrimp, were plentiful May through December. As a result, small shrimp-processing plants dotted the landscape.
Carmela’s eyes focused on a disintegrating rubber conveyor belt where shrimp had once been sized and sorted. Ten feet down from that conveyor belt was an enormous metal pot, incredibly filthy now, that had probably served as one of the cookers. To her left was the dust-covered guillotine-a nasty-looking machine armed with hydraulic knives that had quickly and efficiently lopped off shrimp heads. Some of the knives lay scattered nearby, looking corroded and dangerous and sharp. That machine, usually operated by a foot pedal, still carried a faded yellow cardboard sign stuck to its side. Printed in black ink was the word WARNING accompanied by an outline of a man’s severed hand, obviously lost due to careless operation. An object lesson of sorts.
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-wit
hin 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 some things about her husband’s business.
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.
