Seeing Dace Wilcox’s picture next to Shamus’s had been a stunner. And learning that Dace might have been talking to Jimmy Earl Clayton right before he died was downright eerie.

Was it possible Dace Wilcox was not what he appeared to be? That he’d had some sort of bone to pick with Jimmy Earl Clayton? If Dace had somehow engineered a nasty “accident” using a lethal dose of ketamine, how convenient to help steer the rumors and innuendoes to point toward Shamus.

The call she’d received earlier from Hop Pennington didn’t help things either. In fact, it had left her feeling terribly unsettled. Carmela loved her retail space and dearly wanted to remain there. Had to remain there, really, if she had any notion of supporting herself as she continued to grow her fledgling business.

Now that Carmela thought about it, she realized she didn’t have a clue. Of course, there was a legitimate reason for that. When she was setting up the store a year ago, Shamus had volunteered to handle that aspect of the business. She had located the empty space on Governor Nicholls Street, but Shamus had volunteered to negotiate the lease for her.

Curious now and hungry for information, Carmela wandered back to her office, plunked herself down behind the tiny desk that was wedged between a counter that held a paper cutter and one of the flat files where their expensive handmade papers were stored.

Reaching down and pulling open a file drawer, Carmela’s fingers flipped across the hanging files with their hand-lettered labels. Way in the back was a file marked Lease. After she’d signed the lease, she’d stuck the document in there without really reading it or giving it a second thought. She’d just assumed Shamus would deal with the lease again when it was time to renew.

Carmela pulled the lease out and studied the first page. It was printed on company letterhead and listed Trident Property Management at the top of the page. Their address, phone number, and fax number were printed below.

Carmela dialed the phone number listed on the lease. It was doubtful anyone would still be in the Trident offices. Still . . . she could try.

“Hello,” said a voice on the other end of the phone. It was a woman’s voice. Probably a secretary or the front desk person. At least it wasn’t Hop Pennington who answered.

“I’m glad I caught you,” said Carmela, with a friendly greeting. “I didn’t know if anyone would still be there.”

“Well, I’m the last one here,” said the woman, a touch of impatience in her voice. “I was just about to lock up and make my escape.”

“Listen,” said Carmela, thinking quickly. “My boss wanted me to call and get some numbers.”

The woman on the other end of the line sighed heavily. “Now? Late Friday afternoon?” Clearly this was an imposition.

“Yeah,” said Carmela, trying to match her tone. “I was trying to get out of here myself. Don’t you just love bosses and their last-minute requests?”

“Tell me about it,” said the woman, warming up to Carmela now. “What property was your boss interested in?”

Carmela racked her brain, wondering exactly how to play this out. She’d seen the blue and green Trident Property Management signs all over town. They were a fairly big outfit. They handled leasing and the management of lots of different commercial properties.

Carmela took a stab at it. “Trident has some property for lease down on Bienville, right?”

“You mean the new Rampart Building?”

“That’s it,” said Carmela. She held her breath as she heard papers rustling. “My boss talked to someone about square footage and lease rates for the second and third floors.”

“Gosh,” said the woman. “I don’t have that kind of information. That building’s so new it’s not even handled by property management yet. It’s still in the initial leasing stage, so everything is being handled out of the executive office.”

Bingo, thought Carmela. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Who should I ask for at the executive office?” asked Carmela.

“I suppose you’d want to chat with one of the partners,” said the woman. “Although I seriously doubt they’re still there. Anyway, tell your boss to get in touch with Mr. Michael Theriot. He’s the managing partner. He handles day-to-day operations and works up lease proposals, that sort of thing.”

“And the other partner?” asked Carmela.

“That would be Mr. Maple,” said the woman. “You want the number?”

Carmela was suddenly stunned beyond belief. “Mr. Maple?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “Would that be Mr. Bufford Maple, the newspaper columnist?”

“Yes,” said the woman pleasantly. “Would you like his number?”