Read Online Keepsake Crimes by Laura Childs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Childs
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with somber prayers and a rousing oratory. Now he had succeeded in coaxing most of the mourners into joining him in a fairly dismal and off-key rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee,” the song most noted for having been played by the Titanic ’s shipboard orchestra as the ill-fated luxury liner headed for the briny depths of the Atlantic.
Carmela tuned out the awful singing and turned her thoughts to the vicious innuendos that had appeared in this morning’s Times-Picayune .
True to the anonymous heckler’s promise of last evening, Shamus had indeed been mentioned.
Not by name, of course. Bufford Maple, the opinionated boor of a columnist who had penned the piece, was much too smart for that. Bufford Maple had been a columnist at the Picayune for as long as anyone could remember, although calling him a columnist was putting a pretty glossy spin on things. Rather, Bufford Maple was a nasty viper who liked nothing better than to pontificate, spout off, and launch personal attacks against selected targets.
It had also been suggested more than once that an under-the-table agreement could often be struck with Bufford Maple whereby, for the right amount of money, he would launch an all-out public attack on one’s enemy.
When Bufford Maple penned this morning’s vitriolic piece, he must have been as elated as a pig in mud.
While not naming names per se, Bufford Maple had managed to insinuate and imply that a certain “banker turned swamp rat” had a very nasty bone to pick with a certain “ well-heeled businessman .” Bufford Maple went on to write that this “cowardly swamp rat” had plotted and schemed and finally brought about this “ poor businessman’s death .”
The rest of the column had been a diatribe about “swift apprehension” and “just punishment.”
Even though Carmela was still hopping mad at Shamus, she had been stung mightily by the nasty innuendos that Bufford Maple had flung. As she glanced about the group of at least a hundred mourners, she wondered if they had all read the article, too. And judging by the pairs of eyes that had flicked across at her, then looked quickly away, she guessed most of them had.
THE OFF-KEY HYMN DREW TO A CONCLUSION, and Jack Dumaine, Jimmy Earl Clayton’s business partner, proceeded to take his place front and center of the group. Gazing tearfully down at Jimmy Earl’s deluxe mahogany coffin, Jack Dumaine let fly with his eulogy.
Tuning out Jack Dumaine’s quavering voice as it seemed to rise and fall like a politician’s speech, Carmela focused her gaze squarely on Jimmy Earl’s coffin. With the morning sun glinting off its shined-up facade, it looked a bit like an old Lincoln Continental that had been tricked out with all the options money could buy. Ivory handles, engraved brass name plate, carved geegaws and knobs. She guessed that no expense had been spared for Jimmy Earl’s final send-off.
Fixing her gaze on Jack Dumaine, Carmela decided he looked exactly like the exceedingly prosperous businessman that he was. Jack Dumaine’s stomach protruded like a dirigible from between the lapels of his sedate black suit coat. His pants seemed to be held up by industrial-strength suspenders. Jack Dumaine was obviously a man who loved New Orleans and indulged freely in its rich bounty. He was a hale-and-hearty good old boy and a world-class gourmand.
Jack’s trio of chins wobbled, and his head seesawed like a bobble-head doll as he addressed the group of mourners.
“Jimmy Earl was my best friend,” Jack declared with heartfelt zeal, his voice climbing with trembling fervor. Reverently, he placed his chubby right hand over the broad expanse of his chest to emphasize this point. “In the sixteen years we-all were together in business at Clayton Crown, Jack and I might have had ourselves a few rough moments, but we never disagreed on the fine points.”
“Like making a shitload of money,” Tandy whispered in Carmela’s ear. Carmela had to
Carmela tuned out the awful singing and turned her thoughts to the vicious innuendos that had appeared in this morning’s Times-Picayune .
True to the anonymous heckler’s promise of last evening, Shamus had indeed been mentioned.
Not by name, of course. Bufford Maple, the opinionated boor of a columnist who had penned the piece, was much too smart for that. Bufford Maple had been a columnist at the Picayune for as long as anyone could remember, although calling him a columnist was putting a pretty glossy spin on things. Rather, Bufford Maple was a nasty viper who liked nothing better than to pontificate, spout off, and launch personal attacks against selected targets.
It had also been suggested more than once that an under-the-table agreement could often be struck with Bufford Maple whereby, for the right amount of money, he would launch an all-out public attack on one’s enemy.
When Bufford Maple penned this morning’s vitriolic piece, he must have been as elated as a pig in mud.
While not naming names per se, Bufford Maple had managed to insinuate and imply that a certain “banker turned swamp rat” had a very nasty bone to pick with a certain “ well-heeled businessman .” Bufford Maple went on to write that this “cowardly swamp rat” had plotted and schemed and finally brought about this “ poor businessman’s death .”
The rest of the column had been a diatribe about “swift apprehension” and “just punishment.”
Even though Carmela was still hopping mad at Shamus, she had been stung mightily by the nasty innuendos that Bufford Maple had flung. As she glanced about the group of at least a hundred mourners, she wondered if they had all read the article, too. And judging by the pairs of eyes that had flicked across at her, then looked quickly away, she guessed most of them had.
THE OFF-KEY HYMN DREW TO A CONCLUSION, and Jack Dumaine, Jimmy Earl Clayton’s business partner, proceeded to take his place front and center of the group. Gazing tearfully down at Jimmy Earl’s deluxe mahogany coffin, Jack Dumaine let fly with his eulogy.
Tuning out Jack Dumaine’s quavering voice as it seemed to rise and fall like a politician’s speech, Carmela focused her gaze squarely on Jimmy Earl’s coffin. With the morning sun glinting off its shined-up facade, it looked a bit like an old Lincoln Continental that had been tricked out with all the options money could buy. Ivory handles, engraved brass name plate, carved geegaws and knobs. She guessed that no expense had been spared for Jimmy Earl’s final send-off.
Fixing her gaze on Jack Dumaine, Carmela decided he looked exactly like the exceedingly prosperous businessman that he was. Jack Dumaine’s stomach protruded like a dirigible from between the lapels of his sedate black suit coat. His pants seemed to be held up by industrial-strength suspenders. Jack Dumaine was obviously a man who loved New Orleans and indulged freely in its rich bounty. He was a hale-and-hearty good old boy and a world-class gourmand.
Jack’s trio of chins wobbled, and his head seesawed like a bobble-head doll as he addressed the group of mourners.
“Jimmy Earl was my best friend,” Jack declared with heartfelt zeal, his voice climbing with trembling fervor. Reverently, he placed his chubby right hand over the broad expanse of his chest to emphasize this point. “In the sixteen years we-all were together in business at Clayton Crown, Jack and I might have had ourselves a few rough moments, but we never disagreed on the fine points.”
“Like making a shitload of money,” Tandy whispered in Carmela’s ear. Carmela had to
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