Free Keepsake Crimes by Laura Childs Page A

somewhat enigmatic couple, they had a peculiar tendency to jump in and finish each other’s sentences.
    “A lovely tribute,” said Tandy, grasping Jack’s hand in a goodwill gesture.
    “This is the saddest day of my life,” declared Jack tearfully. “Jimmy Earl was like . . .” He hesitated.
    “Like a brother to him,” filled in Ruby Dumaine. “And, don’t you know, our dear girls practically grew up together.”
    Ruby Dumaine was referring to their daughter, Swan, who was standing some twenty feet away, looking morose and talking with Shelby Clayton and several other young women.
    “When Jimmy Earl collapsed on that float . . . it was like a member of my family died,” said Jack tearfully.
    “You were riding on the sea serpent float together?” said Carmela.
    Jack nodded sadly, then unfurled a large, white handkerchief, held it to his nose, and blew loudly. “It’s a bad business about Shamus,” he rumbled solemnly, directing his gaze at Carmela. His eyes, buried in the massive flesh of his face, looked like glinting little pig eyes. Blowing his nose again, hitting yet a higher octave, Jack shook his giant head regretfully. “A real bad business.”
    “Bad business,” echoed Ruby as the two of them slid off into the crowd.
    Carmela watched Jack Dumaine lumber off toward the minister and wondered, What exactly did Jack Dumaine mean by that remark? And whose corner is he in, anyway? Does Jack think Shamus is guilty? Or innocent?
    “I thought I’d find you here,” murmured a clipped, slightly menacing voice at Carmela’s elbow. “Catch the paper this morning?” Granger Rathbone’s eyes glinted like an alley cat who’d just spied a cowering mouse.
    “Granger Rathbone,” Carmela muttered as she turned to face him. “Tandy, have you met the illustrious Mr. Rathbone?”
    Tandy fixed Granger with a hostile gaze. “You were in such a rush yesterday, I’m afraid we didn’t have the pleasure of a formal introduction. Such a pity.”
    Carmela smiled at Tandy. For someone who weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, this gal was certainly blessed with beaucoup guts.
    “Tell Shamus to call me,” snarled Granger as he moved off. “I’ve got more questions.”
    “Tell him yourself,” snapped Carmela.
    Tandy gave Carmela a playful punch on the arm. “You go, girl! Don’t let that little dog turd push you around.”
    Then, when Granger Rathbone was out of earshot, Tandy asked in a somewhat more worried tone of voice, “Have you talked with Shamus, honey? ’Cause things really are getting weird.”
    “I guess you saw this morning’s newspaper?”
    “Honey, I guarantee that, right after checking out Jeane Dixon and Dear Abby, everybody read Bufford Maple’s column. Heck, the darn thing’s probably on the Internet by now, whirling around out there in cyberspace.”
    “It’s drivel,” said Carmela.
    “Of course, it’s drivel,” said Tandy. “But it’s drivel people are starting to pay attention to.” She squeezed Carmela’s hand, then added, “Girl, you have to do something.”
    Somewhat unnerved by Tandy’s words, Carmela turned to gaze toward the crowd that lingered, seemingly reluctant to disperse.
    Last night she’d almost convinced herself that the real culprit might show up here today. Had he? Well, if he had, there’d been no dramatic graveside confession, no bolt of lightning that had shot from the sky and singled him out. There had only been more heavy-handed insinuations against Shamus.
    Are witnesses being interviewed? Carmela wondered. And if so, who? And, if things continue to go against Shamus, will formal charges be filed?
    Oh lord, thought Carmela. Why couldn’t Shamus have kept his size-eleven Thom McCanns parked safely under his desk at the Crescent City Bank? Why couldn’t he have gone on doing his mortgage banking thing during the day and plunking his banjo while relaxing on the side portico at night? Better yet, why hadn’t their life just gone on and on