Photo Finished (21 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
our
table,” Shamus continued in his maddening way. “It's been prearranged.”

“Then I'll
post
-arrange it,” Carmela laughed, even though she was still gritting her teeth. “Don't you know? I've got a special
in
at the Art Institute.”

“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.

“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.”