Free Keepsake Crimes by Laura Childs

agree with her. Ensconced in huge Garden District mansions, the Claytons and the Dumaines had never seemed to want for anything.
    Jack Dumaine continued with his eulogy. “Jimmy Earl was an entrepreneur and a community benefactor,” he intoned as he grabbed his lapels and scanned the faces in the crowd. “He was a good father, beloved husband, and a damn fine bass fisherman.”
    Standing at her husband’s side, Ruby Dumaine nodded her punctuation at the tail end of every line Jack Dumaine delivered. Ruby was fifty-something, with a mass of reddish blond curls pulled into a flouncy pompadour atop her head. Poured into a black jersey wrap dress, Ruby didn’t look all that bad from a distance. It was only up close and personal that you noticed the slightly wonky eye job.
    Easing her digital camera out of her purse, Carmela snapped a couple shots of Jack Dumaine in all his oratorical splendor. Then Carmela aimed her little camera at the crowd that spread out on either side of Jack and clicked off a few more shots. Glancing at the digital counter, she saw that her memory card would easily hold another forty or so shots. Gabby had obviously not taken all that many shots the other night when she borrowed the camera.
    As Carmela continued to shoot, ostensibly for a Funerals Then and Now section in the Saint Cyril’s scrapbook, nobody seemed to notice, since the camera was far smaller in size than her usual Leica. Or better yet, nobody seemed to care.
    Of course, funerals in New Orleans were unlike funerals anywhere else. Carmela knew that you could probably haul a Hollywood movie crew in and film the whole shebang for posterity, and nobody would seriously bat an eyelash. Plus, New Orleans funerals were notoriously quirky. Dogs, cats, horses, mistresses, illegitimate children, obscure heirs—you name it—he/she/it had all been in attendance at various New Orleans funerals.
    As Carmela continued taking pictures with her digital camera, she scanned the crowd. Mostly Garden District folk, businessmen and their wives. The Taylors, the Coulters, the Reads. Baby was there, too, looking very cool and blond, a little Grace Kellyish, on the arm of her swarthy husband, Del. Two rumpled-looking men who looked like they might be reporters, perhaps sent by Bufford Maple, hung out on the sidelines.
    Sitting at the head of the casket, perched on black metal folding chairs, were Rhonda Lee, Jimmy Earl’s widow, and her daughter, Shelby.
    Carmela’s heart especially went out to the girl. Shelby was a beautiful young woman: tall, coltish, with beautiful olive skin and long, tawny blond hair. She was perhaps eighteen at best, a freshman at Tulane. Carmela knew it wasn’t easy to lose your father at such a young age. God knows, she’d lost her dad when she was just ten.
    A couple days ago, Baby had informed them all that Shelby was one of the finalists for queen of the Pluvius Ball. In light of all that had happened, Carmela wondered if Jimmy Earl’s only daughter would still grace the lineup of queen candidates next Tuesday. She thought probably not.
    As Carmela continued to gaze at Shelby, Rhonda Lee suddenly shifted her gaze toward Carmela. Rhonda Lee Clayton was short, puffy-faced, with a sleek helmet of brown hair. Hate filled her eyes.
    Stung for a moment by the overt hostility she saw there, Carmela quickly lowered her camera and looked away.
    Was it possible Rhonda Lee actually believed the terrible rumors that seemed to be circulating? That Rhonda Lee actually thought Shamus had been responsible for her husband’s death? Carmela sighed. Of course, it was possible. Anything was possible.
     
     
    SURPRISINGLY, AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE graveside service, Jack Dumaine and his wife Ruby came crunching across the gravel to speak with Carmela and Tandy. Carmela had met the Dumaines over the last couple years at various social and business functions that Shamus had dragged her to. And, of course, they were members of the Pluvius krewe. A