Read Online Keepsake Crimes by Laura Childs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Childs
Ads: Link
you’d want to be present for the final disposition.” His voice betrayed a somewhat sly tone.
This is the man who advised me to stay under the radar until everything blows over. Oh well, Jekyl likes his fun.
Carmela gazed at Jekyl’s purposely bland expression across the table from her. Attend Jimmy Earl’s funeral. Interesting idea.
Carmela tested the notion in her mind.
The service will be held at the Clayton family crypt in Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, of course. Which is the very same cemetery I’ve been asked to create the scrapbook for. So . . . I could probably finesse my appearance at Jimmy Earl Clayton’s memorial service. People wouldn’t consider my attendance all that strange.
There was another reason Carmela was suddenly liking this idea quite a bit. Someone had brazenly offed poor Jimmy Earl Clayton the night of his big Mardi Gras parade. And though it was fairly doubtful the culprit had been Shamus, her ex-husband extraordinaire, it surely had to be someone fairly close to Jimmy Earl. Didn’t it?
Would the culprit, the murderer, dare to show his face at Jimmy Earl’s funeral? And if so, will I be able to figure out who it is?
Perhaps the perpetrator of the deadly deed would conduct himself in a highly suspicious manner. Or throw himself on poor Jimmy Earl’s coffin out of guilt or remorse. Carmela considered this for a scant moment.
Hardly. Times are tough. And guilty consciences are in exceedingly short supply these days.
Twenty minutes later, Carmela and Jekyl stood in line at the cash register to settle their tab. As she studied the collection of Mardi Gras paraphernalia that hung on the wall behind the cash register, Carmela heard her name called. A long, low, teasing call.
“Car-mellll-a.”
She whirled about, looking to see who had spoken. Searching the faces crowded around the various tables, she saw no one gazing in her direction. In fact, everyone seemed immersed in their own conversations or focused intently on chowing down. Frowning slightly, Carmela scanned the crowd again. Nope. Not a soul she recognized.
Turning back to Jekyl Hardy, accepting the couple dollars in change he stuffed in her hand, Carmela once again heard someone call to her.
Only this time it was a teasing, slightly more menacing threat.
“Your old man’s gonna be in the paper tomorrow, Carmela.”
Jekyl Hardy heard it, too, furrowed his brow. “Let it go,” he advised as he took Carmela’s elbow and steered her out the door. There was a sudden burst of laughter behind them and a loud hiss just as the door slammed shut.
“Neanderthals,” grumped Jekyl.
That’s it, Carmela decided. Pencil me in for that funeral tomorrow. In fact, I’m gonna try to get a front-row seat for Jimmy Earl’s big send-off!
Chapter 7
A jumble of white, sun-bleached aboveground tombs stretched as far as the eye could see. Some were simple rounded tombs that contained a single casket; others were elaborate mausoleums adorned with crosses, statues of saints, and wrought-iron embellishments, built to hold the remains of entire families. One of the strangest features of many of these older, ornate tombs was the one-way trap door built into the floor of the tomb. After a body had laid in state for a decent interval of time, that trap door could be flipped open, and the bones of the deceased could be discreetly disposed down a chute, where they would mingle with all the former relations who’d been buried there.
A block away, at the far end of Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, a jazz combo played a mournful tune, while a tight clutch of mourners swayed rhythmically. Such was the business of funerals and burials in New Orleans’s old cemeteries.
“Get up here,” whispered Tandy. Dressed in a black suit with a vintage black pillbox hat perched atop her tight curls, Tandy had been discreetly worming her way to the front of the group, with Carmela in tow, for the past twenty minutes.
A minister had opened the services for Jimmy Earl
This is the man who advised me to stay under the radar until everything blows over. Oh well, Jekyl likes his fun.
Carmela gazed at Jekyl’s purposely bland expression across the table from her. Attend Jimmy Earl’s funeral. Interesting idea.
Carmela tested the notion in her mind.
The service will be held at the Clayton family crypt in Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, of course. Which is the very same cemetery I’ve been asked to create the scrapbook for. So . . . I could probably finesse my appearance at Jimmy Earl Clayton’s memorial service. People wouldn’t consider my attendance all that strange.
There was another reason Carmela was suddenly liking this idea quite a bit. Someone had brazenly offed poor Jimmy Earl Clayton the night of his big Mardi Gras parade. And though it was fairly doubtful the culprit had been Shamus, her ex-husband extraordinaire, it surely had to be someone fairly close to Jimmy Earl. Didn’t it?
Would the culprit, the murderer, dare to show his face at Jimmy Earl’s funeral? And if so, will I be able to figure out who it is?
Perhaps the perpetrator of the deadly deed would conduct himself in a highly suspicious manner. Or throw himself on poor Jimmy Earl’s coffin out of guilt or remorse. Carmela considered this for a scant moment.
Hardly. Times are tough. And guilty consciences are in exceedingly short supply these days.
Twenty minutes later, Carmela and Jekyl stood in line at the cash register to settle their tab. As she studied the collection of Mardi Gras paraphernalia that hung on the wall behind the cash register, Carmela heard her name called. A long, low, teasing call.
“Car-mellll-a.”
She whirled about, looking to see who had spoken. Searching the faces crowded around the various tables, she saw no one gazing in her direction. In fact, everyone seemed immersed in their own conversations or focused intently on chowing down. Frowning slightly, Carmela scanned the crowd again. Nope. Not a soul she recognized.
Turning back to Jekyl Hardy, accepting the couple dollars in change he stuffed in her hand, Carmela once again heard someone call to her.
Only this time it was a teasing, slightly more menacing threat.
“Your old man’s gonna be in the paper tomorrow, Carmela.”
Jekyl Hardy heard it, too, furrowed his brow. “Let it go,” he advised as he took Carmela’s elbow and steered her out the door. There was a sudden burst of laughter behind them and a loud hiss just as the door slammed shut.
“Neanderthals,” grumped Jekyl.
That’s it, Carmela decided. Pencil me in for that funeral tomorrow. In fact, I’m gonna try to get a front-row seat for Jimmy Earl’s big send-off!
Chapter 7
A jumble of white, sun-bleached aboveground tombs stretched as far as the eye could see. Some were simple rounded tombs that contained a single casket; others were elaborate mausoleums adorned with crosses, statues of saints, and wrought-iron embellishments, built to hold the remains of entire families. One of the strangest features of many of these older, ornate tombs was the one-way trap door built into the floor of the tomb. After a body had laid in state for a decent interval of time, that trap door could be flipped open, and the bones of the deceased could be discreetly disposed down a chute, where they would mingle with all the former relations who’d been buried there.
A block away, at the far end of Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, a jazz combo played a mournful tune, while a tight clutch of mourners swayed rhythmically. Such was the business of funerals and burials in New Orleans’s old cemeteries.
“Get up here,” whispered Tandy. Dressed in a black suit with a vintage black pillbox hat perched atop her tight curls, Tandy had been discreetly worming her way to the front of the group, with Carmela in tow, for the past twenty minutes.
A minister had opened the services for Jimmy Earl
Similar Books
