Carmela wondered.
That would remain to be seen.
THUMBING THROUGH A CATALOG OF RUBBER stamp art, enjoying her steaming bowl of jambalaya, Carmela had finally been able to calm down. In fact, she was determined to look ahead and plan for the future, especially when it came to her little store, Memory Mine. She was particularly excited by the variety of decorative rubber stamps that were available: fanciful stamps depicting trailing vines, elegant picture frames, fans, filmy summer dresses blowing on hangers, tiny ballet slippers, filigree designs, and teacups.
All would lend delightful extra touches to wedding and anniversary scrapbooks and would also be perfect should her customers decide to create invitations for engagement parties, baby showers, and such.
Just as Carmela was imagining how a pair of doves would work on a sheet of soft blue-flecked paper with a deckled edge, the phone rang.
She kicked the footstool out of the way, hoping for a telemarketer to take her excess energy out on.
“Carmela,” came a rough purr.
Oh shit. It’s Shamus.
“Where are you?” asked Carmela.
“Can’t say, darlin’.”
“You mean you can’t say because you’ve somehow lost your memory and are wandering around the parishes of Louisiana in a delirium, or you won’t say?”
There was quiet laughter. “Your phone could be tapped.”
Darn Shamus, Carmela thought to herself, why does he have to go and act all spooky and mysterious? Like he’s playing Mission Impossible or something.
“This isn’t a game, Shamus. And my phone isn’t tapped. Where are you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why?” said Carmela, feeling her blood pressure begin to inch up. “Because I just won the lottery, Shamus. A hundred million dollars. And I want to give you half. Helloooo . Why do you think I want to know?” Carmela hissed. “Because last time I looked, I was still your wife, that’s why. Even though half of my queen-sized bed is decidedly unoccupied.” She paused. “And because, Shamus, whether you want to admit it or not, you’re in deep doo-doo.”
“I know, darlin,’ that’s why I called. I don’t want you to worry.”
“Worry?” said Carmela. She suddenly shifted the tone of her voice. “Why would I worry?”
“Because you worry about everything,” laughed Shamus.
“I do not,” said Carmela, indignant now.
“Of course you do. You used to worry about the baby birds that fell out of their nests in the oak tree out back. I came home once and you were using this teeny tiny little eyedropper to—”
“That’s different,” said Carmela. “Those were creatures.”
“Listen, honey,” said Shamus. “If you need to get in touch with me, you just get a message to a guy named Ned Toler. He owns a boat place out in the Barataria Bayou, in a little village called Baptiste Creek. If you bring him a six-pack of Dixie Beer, he’ll know it’s really you.”
“Where are you going to be?” asked Carmela.
“Around,” said Shamus. “But don’t worry.” There was a sharp click , and the line went dead.
Damn. He hung up on me again.
Sprinting across the room, Carmela grabbed for her purse, then threw herself back in her easy chair. She dug for her address book, fumbled for the phone number of his family’s camp house, then punched the number into the phone, determined to call him back, finish this conversation once and for all.
But the phone out there just rang and rang. She could picture it, an old black enamel wall phone, hanging on the wooden wall of the two-room camp house that sat on stilts above sluggish brown green water.
Probably Shamus wasn’t staying there anymore, Carmela decided.
Then where is he? And why has he gone into hiding?
Because he’s guilty?
Oh please. Say it ain’t so.
Chapter 11
G LORY Meechum was a woman who still put a great deal of faith in girdles. Nice, durable, reinforced panty girdles designed to smooth out unsightly blips and bulges and carefully
That would remain to be seen.
THUMBING THROUGH A CATALOG OF RUBBER stamp art, enjoying her steaming bowl of jambalaya, Carmela had finally been able to calm down. In fact, she was determined to look ahead and plan for the future, especially when it came to her little store, Memory Mine. She was particularly excited by the variety of decorative rubber stamps that were available: fanciful stamps depicting trailing vines, elegant picture frames, fans, filmy summer dresses blowing on hangers, tiny ballet slippers, filigree designs, and teacups.
All would lend delightful extra touches to wedding and anniversary scrapbooks and would also be perfect should her customers decide to create invitations for engagement parties, baby showers, and such.
Just as Carmela was imagining how a pair of doves would work on a sheet of soft blue-flecked paper with a deckled edge, the phone rang.
She kicked the footstool out of the way, hoping for a telemarketer to take her excess energy out on.
“Carmela,” came a rough purr.
Oh shit. It’s Shamus.
“Where are you?” asked Carmela.
“Can’t say, darlin’.”
“You mean you can’t say because you’ve somehow lost your memory and are wandering around the parishes of Louisiana in a delirium, or you won’t say?”
There was quiet laughter. “Your phone could be tapped.”
Darn Shamus, Carmela thought to herself, why does he have to go and act all spooky and mysterious? Like he’s playing Mission Impossible or something.
“This isn’t a game, Shamus. And my phone isn’t tapped. Where are you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why?” said Carmela, feeling her blood pressure begin to inch up. “Because I just won the lottery, Shamus. A hundred million dollars. And I want to give you half. Helloooo . Why do you think I want to know?” Carmela hissed. “Because last time I looked, I was still your wife, that’s why. Even though half of my queen-sized bed is decidedly unoccupied.” She paused. “And because, Shamus, whether you want to admit it or not, you’re in deep doo-doo.”
“I know, darlin,’ that’s why I called. I don’t want you to worry.”
“Worry?” said Carmela. She suddenly shifted the tone of her voice. “Why would I worry?”
“Because you worry about everything,” laughed Shamus.
“I do not,” said Carmela, indignant now.
“Of course you do. You used to worry about the baby birds that fell out of their nests in the oak tree out back. I came home once and you were using this teeny tiny little eyedropper to—”
“That’s different,” said Carmela. “Those were creatures.”
“Listen, honey,” said Shamus. “If you need to get in touch with me, you just get a message to a guy named Ned Toler. He owns a boat place out in the Barataria Bayou, in a little village called Baptiste Creek. If you bring him a six-pack of Dixie Beer, he’ll know it’s really you.”
“Where are you going to be?” asked Carmela.
“Around,” said Shamus. “But don’t worry.” There was a sharp click , and the line went dead.
Damn. He hung up on me again.
Sprinting across the room, Carmela grabbed for her purse, then threw herself back in her easy chair. She dug for her address book, fumbled for the phone number of his family’s camp house, then punched the number into the phone, determined to call him back, finish this conversation once and for all.
But the phone out there just rang and rang. She could picture it, an old black enamel wall phone, hanging on the wooden wall of the two-room camp house that sat on stilts above sluggish brown green water.
Probably Shamus wasn’t staying there anymore, Carmela decided.
Then where is he? And why has he gone into hiding?
Because he’s guilty?
Oh please. Say it ain’t so.
Chapter 11
G LORY Meechum was a woman who still put a great deal of faith in girdles. Nice, durable, reinforced panty girdles designed to smooth out unsightly blips and bulges and carefully
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