Canoodling, that much was obvious. But what were they really doing together?

Had Jack and Jimmy Earl’s partnership not been as cozy as Jack had made it out to be? He’d certainly sung Jimmy Earl’s praises to high heaven and made their partnership sound like a mutual admiration society when he’d eulogized him at the memorial service a scant two days ago.

Could it be that Rhonda Lee was the real partner in the company, the silent partner, and Jimmy Earl had just been a figurehead?

No, that didn’t make any sense either, Carmela decided. Jimmy Earl had been quoted frequently in the business pages. And he’d gotten lots of little blurbs written about him in some of the smaller business magazines attesting to the fabulous deals he’d engineered. So Jimmy Earl had to have been a real partner in his own right, despite all his pathetic frat boy antics.

So maybe Big Jack had just plain offed Jimmy Earl in a straight-ahead murder?

Yeah, that’s gotta be the answer, figured Carmela. Jack offed his partner to gain control of the company and bed Rhonda Lee.

On the other hand, that answer seemed far too pat.

For one thing, Rhonda Lee was no great prize.

No, Carmela decided, there was something else going on. Something she hadn’t figured out yet.

Turning the key in her lock, Carmela let herself into her apartment. Even before she flipped on the lights, she knew she wasn’t alone. Someone was in there with her. Someone who had obviously become a new best friend with Boo. Could it be Granger Rathbone? Maybe. Pity Boo had such poor taste.

“Awright,” Carmela called into the darkness with as much bravado as she could muster. “Let’s cut the games. I know you’re in here.”

The cushions in the wicker chair gave a muffled squeak as someone shifted their body weight and reached for the ginger jar lamp that occupied the adjacent table.

There was a bright flash, and then Carmela was staring wide-eyed at her soon-to-be ex-husband. “Shamus!” she exclaimed. This was a surprise.

“Howdy, Carmela,” he said, returning her greeting.

She stared at him, hating the insolent look he wore on his face. Or maybe it was just his confidence. Shamus had always been a supremely confident being. Even when he played varsity football at Tulane, he was the kind of guy who could drop a pass and still walk off the field looking like a winner.

What the hell, Carmela decided, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she was getting more and more angry with every second that passed.

“Brushing up on your breaking and entering?” she asked him.

He responded by shifting his long legs off the ottoman and giving it a gentle pat, trying to entice her to come sit down next to him.

She sauntered over carefully, plunked herself down.

“Nice dress,” he remarked, reaching for the laces of her camisole.

Carmela held up a cautionary index finger. “That’s off limits,” she told him sternly.

He pulled his hand back, favored her with a lazy smile. “Still, you’re looking quite delicious,” he said.

Carmela didn’t answer him. What she wanted to say was, No, you’re looking good. Because damned if he wasn’t. Shamus’s olive skin, brown eyes, and shaggy, slightly sun-streaked hair were pure eye candy. Very appealing. In fact, he looked happier and healthier than when he’d been living with her. Being on the run seemed to agree with him.

Damn, she thought, how can it be? It just doesn’t make sense. Then again, nothing seems to make sense.

She also noticed that Shamus hadn’t abandoned his Ro lex Datejust and his Todd loafers. He may have ditched her, but he’d kept his toys. She guessed the Meechum family trust was still operating in full force.

“I came looking for you today,” she told him. “I was out at the camp house.”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Shamus. Boo came pattering over to him and rested her head on his knee. Shamus reached down and gently kneaded the dog’s tiny, flat ears. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.

“It’s been totally trashed,” Carmela told Shamus. She was trying not to let his apparent affection for Boo get under her skin. How could Shamus be so sweet and attentive to a little dog and act like an inconsiderate louse with her?

“I’m not surprised,” said Shamus.

“Everybody thinks you’re on the lam,” Carmela told him.

Shamus gave a disinterested shrug. “If that’s what everybody thinks, then I suppose I am,” he said.

Carmela was beginning to get very frustrated by his apparent lack of concern for himself. “People are accusing you of murder, Shamus! They’re trashing your camp house and saying incredibly nasty things about you. Doesn’t that bother you just one teeny tiny bit?”

Shamus turned liquid brown eyes on her. “Should it? Should I really care what vitriolic lies are being spewed out about me?” he asked her.

Carmela was flustered. This was not the hardheaded banker of the notoriously conservative Crescent City Bank that she’d known and loved. “No, but—” she started.

“But what?” he asked. His flashing eyes challenged her.

“But you should at least defend yourself,” she sputtered. Carmela stopped abruptly, tried to pull herself together. Why did she feel like she was suddenly playing one of the lead roles in a romantic comedy from the ’40s? One of those frothy, fast-moving films where the leading man and woman constantly snapped and snarled at each other, yet everyone knew they were madly in love and would end up happily-ever-aftering at the end of the picture.

“I saw Jack Dumaine with Rhonda Lee!” Carmela suddenly blurted out.

“Where?” asked Shamus.

“Tonight. At the Calhoun Motel. A hot sheet joint just off Airline Highway.” Burned in Carmela’s mind was the vision of Rhonda Lee Clayton in her sixties-style earth mother caftan. It was an image that projected far more than she cared to know about the woman.

“You don’t say,” said Shamus. “With the grieving widow, no less. I’m amazed Big Jack is still out wolfing around. My hat’s off to the old boy.”

“Shamus,” said Carmela, “I think Big Jack is trying to set you up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he is.”

Shamus leaned back and steepled his fingers together, looking as though he was lost in deep, impenetrable thought. Carmela had seen him do this before. It meant Shamus was stalling. Or, worse yet, merely toying with her.

“Let me get this straight,” said Shamus. “You think that just because Jack Dumaine decided to have a toss in the hay with Rhonda Lee . . . that he’s plotting to set me up? Destroy my career and my good family name?”

“Well, yes. He certainly could be,” said Carmela. “Beside the fact that he’s sleeping with his dead partner’s wife, Jack Dumaine also seems to have Granger Rathbone in his hip pocket.”

“Really,” said Shamus. “And what do you make of that?”

“Duh,” said Carmela. “A setup?” Jeez, she thought, is this boy dense or what? Or just in very serious denial?

“You’re right,” Shamus said finally. “It doesn’t look good.”

Aware that her skirt was beginning to ride up, Carmela shifted about on the ottoman, trying to smooth it down and assume a slightly more decorous pose. Shamus’s eyes followed every aspect of her struggle.

“Shamus, tell me something,” she said finally. “What words did you have with Jimmy Earl, right before he climbed up on that big green float and took a drink that snuffed out his gray matter?”

“Nothing that would interest you, my dear.”

“Try me.” Carmela stood up suddenly, placing her hands on her slim hips and gathering her face into a semblance of a thundercloud.

Shamus flashed a smile at her. “God, you’re a pretty thing.”

“Shamus . . .” Carmela’s voice carried a warning tone.

He threw up his hands in mock defeat. “Okay, okay, you win. If you must know, Jimmy Earl called me an asshole.”

“The man did have a way of making sense of things,” Carmela said with the beginning of a wry smile. She paused, staring into Shamus’s intense brown eyes. He didn’t seem all that amused by her banter. “Okay, Shamus, I’ll bite. Why did Jimmy Earl call you an asshole?”

“For leaving you.”

Carmela gave an audible snort. “I don’t believe you.”

“Honey, you can believe whatever you want, but I swear on a stack of Bibles . . . on my momma’s grave, in fact . . . that it’s true.”

“Where were you today?” Carmela asked him.

Shamus gathered his long legs beneath him and suddenly stood up. He stepped close to Carmela, towering over her. He looked like he was about to wrap his arms around her, then he suddenly seemed to do an about-face. “You came to see me today,” said Shamus. “I told you not to.”

“You said that if I needed to get hold of you to contact Ned Toler,” replied Carmela. “That’s exactly what I did. Followed your wishes to the letter of the law, in fact.”

Shamus thought for a second. “You’re right.”

“I’m sorry the camp house got trashed,” she told him. He was still standing way too close to her. It angered her and made her feel shivery at the same time. Oh God, she asked herself, why do I suddenly turn into a gelatinous mess when I’m around this man?

Shamus shook his head sadly. “One of my macro lenses got smashed.”

“Where were you?” Carmela asked him. “Where are you hiding out?”

Shamus gazed down at her with a look of complete innocence. “Hiding? I wasn’t hiding. In fact, today I was driving up and down the River Road.”

Carmela frowned. He was driving around? Doing what? “Doing what, I might ask?”

“If you must know,” said Shamus, “I was photographing some of the old plantations. The Destrehan, the Laura, the Houmas House,” said Shamus, naming some of the more famous plantations that graced the scenic River Road just north of New Orleans. Shamus shrugged his shoulders and rotated his head as though he was trying to work out a few muscle kinks. “You might not believe this, Carmela, but I truly believe I’m finally doing my best work ever.”

Carmela regarded him as you would a seriously demented person. “Your best work?” she exclaimed. “Shamus, I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you don’t work! You quit your job at the bank to run off and cohabit with alligators and possums. And, in case you’re not entirely plugged into reality, might I remind you that your name keeps coming up in connection with a murder investigation!”

But Shamus was already moving swiftly across the room, heading for the door.

“Yeah,” he muttered with his back to Carmela, “ain’t it a bitch.” He yanked open the door and slipped out without bothering to say good-bye.

Carmela ran to the door, pulled it open, fully prepared to hurl a nasty invective at him.

But Shamus had already melted into the dark.

From the click click of toenails, Carmela knew that Boo had followed her across the room. She slammed the front door shut, fixed the security chain in place, and looked down at Boo. “If that cad comes back here, I want you to bark your head off,” she told the dog. “Better yet, you have my permission to bite him in the ass.”

Boo gazed placidly at Carmela, then her nose crinkled up in a tired doggy yawn.

“Some help you are,” said Carmela with disgust.

It was only after she’d crawled into bed and pummeled her pillow for a while that Carmela realized she’d completely forgotten to ask Shamus about any possible connection he might have to Dace Wilcox or Bufford Maple.

Damn, she thought, there are still so many loose ends.