Ouch! Damn!
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.
Anybody here right now? I sure hope not.
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.
What the…?
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.
It’s an old shrimp-processing plant!
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.
So this really is Barty Hayward’s storage space.
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.
You had a pretty sweet racket going, Barty.
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.
Auction house? Yeah, probably.
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.
How long was Jade Ella standing there before she spoke to me? Did she watch me shuffle through the invoices, then carefully peruse the storage invoice?
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.
Time to boogaloo out of here.
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.
Ain’t it grand to be wanted?
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.