Keepsake Crimes by Laura Childs

Author:Laura Childs [Childs, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Scrapbooks, New Orleans (La.), Fiction, Mystery Fiction, Women Detectives - Louisiana - New Orleans, General, Detective and Mystery Stories; American, Women Sleuths, Women Detectives, Detective and Mystery Stories, Carnival, Adventure and Adventurers, Separated People
ISBN: 9780425190746
Google: lPm1qSQ5f8MC
Amazon: 0425190749
Publisher: Chivers
Published: 2002-12-31T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

THE Meechum family’s camp house, located at a promontory point at the far end of the Barataria Bayou, had been constructed some eighty years ago. Each one of the cypress and cedar boards had been split, sawed, planed, and nailed in place by hand.

Viewing the camp house from a distance as Carmela was now, coming up the river in Ned Toler’s sputtering motorboat, the structure appeared fairly substantial. Built on stilts and hunkered into a grove of saw palmetto and tupelo gum trees, it looked impervious to the occasional hurricane that lashed its way in from the Gulf of Mexico. Windows that were hinged on top and opened outward to allow breezes to sift through could be battened down in a heartbeat. The steeply pitched roof shed water easily. The cypress and cedar boards were thick and sturdy. An open-air porch wrapped around the front and sides.

As Ned’s boat puttered up to the small dock, he reached over and handily tossed a rope around one of the wood pilings. Then Ned snugged his watercraft up close, allowing Carmela to jump out.

She’d been here twice before, always with Shamus. The first time had been when they’d returned from their honeymoon in Paris, and Shamus still had a couple days before he had to get back to his job at the bank. That had been a wonderful couple of days. Evenings they snuggled together in the double bed upstairs in the loft and talked about their future. Mornings Carmela had struggled good-naturedly to cook bacon and grits on the old-fashioned wood-fired stove.

Carmela’s second visit to the camp house had been last spring. Shamus had wanted to come out here and take photographs of the azaleas and water hyacinths that were in bloom. Back then he’d been mumbling and grumbling about how much happier he’d be if he were a photographer instead of a banker. About how much happier he’d be if he could work outdoors. Of course, back then she hadn’t really heard what he was saying.

Skipping lightly up a path of crushed oyster shells, Carmela climbed the steep, sturdy stairs and found herself on the wide porch that spanned the camp house on three sides. With its roof of pressed tin, she could imagine sitting out here in a storm. You could put your feet up on the railing, watch the bursts of heat lightning. Or listen to the beat of the rain, cozied up under a homemade quilt in one of the old cane chairs.

Carmela could hear the jangle of keys as Ned Toler came up the stairs behind her, pulling a heroic ring of keys from his pocket.

But the door to the camp house stood wide open.

Frowning, Carmela stepped over the threshold into the camp house.

The place looked like a hurricane had whipped through.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Carmela. Someone had obviously ransacked the entire place. What had been a fairly utilitarian and orderly little home was now an utter mess.

Carmela stared in dismay at the jumble of papers, dishes, knickknacks, and utensils that littered the planked wooden floors.

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