Granger Rathbone spat on the pavement, ran his rough knuckles across the lower half of his pockmarked face. Women’s stuff. He snorted to himself. Frilly, silly, women’s stuff. He glanced at the old-fashioned sign that read Memory Mine, Scrapbooking Shop. And underneath in smaller type, Where Memories Are Made.

Yeah, right, he thought, memories. He had a head full of memories, didn’t he? Memories of a childhood spent up on the Saint Louis River. Gettin’ the tar whupped out of him by his pa. His ma running off and leaving him and his squalling little sister behind.

Ain’t got no time for memories like that, Granger Rathbone told himself. Or for women who think such things are important.

Gabby smiled sweetly at the man entering the scrapbooking shop and wondered briefly if he might be lost.

In fact, she was about to direct him to the CC Jazz and Social Club two doors down, when the rather rough-looking man reached into the breast pocket of his rumpled brown sport coat, pulled out a leather wallet, and snapped it open in her face.

“Detective Rathbone here to see Carmela Bertrand,” he said with a curl of his lip. “You her?”

“No . . . no, I’m not,” stammered Gabby. She was dismayed to see that Detective Rathbone seemed to take great enjoyment in the fact that he’d deliberately flustered her. “Carmela,” Gabby called out.

Bent over the craft table in back, Carmela looked up expectantly. In an instant she caught the look of intimi dation on Gabby’s face, the smug look on the face of the man who had just entered her store. And she knew in a heartbeat that something was up. Who is this person? she wondered. Cop? Private investigator?

Carmela sauntered to the front counter slowly, taking careful stock of the man who gazed at her with such guarded interest as well as bold-faced arrogance. A cool smile settled across her face as she made up her mind to deal with this better than she’d dealt with Officers Robineau and Reagan last night. “I’m Carmela Bertrand, the owner,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Damn right you can,” replied the man. “Name’s Granger Rathbone. I’m with Homicide. Need to ask you some questions.”

“Concerning what?” Carmela said pleasantly. Now that she’d had some time to get used to the idea of Shamus being branded a murder suspect, she wasn’t quite as spooked as she had been last evening. Besides, she knew that the charge or rumor or whatever it was, was entirely without basis.

“You know darn well why I’m here,” spoke Granger Rathbone. “You husband—”

“Ex-husband,” said Carmela.

“I’ve got it on good authority you’re still married to Mr. Shamus Allan Meechum,” said Granger Rathbone. “In the eyes of the law that makes him your old man.”

“That makes him nobody’s old man,” Carmela replied breezily. “Case in point, Shamus is a relatively young man. Chronologically he’s thirty-four. Although, as far as maturity level goes, one might peg him at around sixteen.”

There was a titter from the back room. Tandy.

Granger Rathbone narrowed his eyes at Carmela. He’d dealt with smart-ass women like this before. Women you couldn’t intimidate, couldn’t seem to ruffle. That’s just fine, he thought, she’ll whistle a different tune when her old man’s hauled in and put behind bars and she has to scramble to make bail. She’ll be sobbin’ her heart out then.

Granger Rathbone struck a casual pose and pulled out a black leather notebook.

“Shamus much of a drinker?” he asked.

“He likes his bourbon now and then.” Carmela paused, managed an innocent smile. “I’ll bet you do, too.”

“You’re just full of answers, aren’t you, lady?” snarled Rathbone. “How about drugs. Does your husband do drugs?”

“Hardly,” replied Carmela, determined not to let herself be outwardly intimidated by this thug. Gabby, on the other hand, was fairly trembling as she hovered nearby.

“Know if Mr. Meechum ever deals drugs?” asked Rathbone.

Carmela let a long beat go by before she said anything. Then she looked carefully down at her watch and gave Granger Rathbone a reproachful look. “Gosh,” she said, “I’d really love to help with this thing, but I’ve got a scrapbooking class starting in about two minutes.”

“We can do this another time,” Granger Rathbone said as he fixed her with a hard-eyed gaze.

“Better phone ahead,” suggested Carmela with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Things tend to get a little crazy around here.” She turned to leave him, then hesitated. “Oh,” she said, as though the thought had just popped into her head. “Next time, instead of stalking in here, trying to intimidate everyone in sight, why don’t you call Seth Barstow’s office first. Perhaps you’ve heard of his law firm, Leonard, Barstow and Streeter? Well, the thing of it is, Seth is my attorney. And if you have any more questions, I’m sure Seth can arrange a time and proper place when we can all sit down together and talk.”

His black notebook snapped closed like an angry alligator as Granger Rathbone leaned forward, his pebbly cheeks flaring with color. “Think you’re pretty hot stuff, don’t ya, lady? Think you can outsmart me.” He shook his head from side to side, curling his lip in disdain. “We’ll just see about that.” With that, Rathbone stalked out of her store.

“Whew,” breathed Gabby after the door had slammed behind him. “I can’t believe you handled him the way you did. “You didn’t even seem like you were a bit . . . Carmela?”

Gabby watched with surprise as Carmela staggered around to the back of the counter and eased herself down onto a wooden stool. Her face was white, and she looked about ready to faint.

“Don’t tell me that was all an act,” sputtered Gabby, a slow smile beginning to spread across her face.

Carmela bobbed her head, seemed to be having trouble catching her breath.

“Honey . . .” she grasped for Gabby’s hand, “I haven’t done that much playacting since sixth grade when I was sadly miscast for the part of Lisle in the Sound of Music.”

“You mean Seth Barstow isn’t your attorney?” asked Gabby.

Carmela’s face assumed a thoughtful look. “Well, I’ve certainly met the man before. So he could probably be my attorney if I paid him a handsome retainer.”

Peals of laughter erupted from the back of the room. Baby and Dawn had left an hour ago to attend a luncheon, but Tandy had stuck around.

“Hooray for Carmela,” chuckled Tandy as she waved a clenched fist in the air. “That Granger Rathbone is a real rotten egg. He was suspended from the police force last year for roughing up a prisoner he was transporting. I can’t imagine how the man ever got his job back. He must have had a stroke of luck and nabbed some poor city official on a drunk driving charge. Applied some not-so-subtle pressure.”

“Good lord,” said Gabby, “it’s beginning to sound like Shamus might really be in trouble.”

Carmela nodded her head thoughtfully, and a look of concern stole across her face. “Although I’d probably be the first to proclaim his innocence, it feels like there aren’t a lot of people rushing to be in his corner.”

Tandy and Gabby exchanged meaningful glances. They were slowly coming to the same conclusion.

“He’ll be okay, Carmela, I know he will,” Gabby assured her. “You both will.”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Carmela as the front door to her shop flew open and three of her scrapbooking students eagerly pushed their way in.