Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Scrapbook and Stamping Tips from Laura Childs

Carmela’s Favorite Recipes

SCRAP TRAP

Praise

Praise for the Bestselling TEA SHOP MYSTERY SERIES by Laura Childs

Featured Selection of the Mystery Book Club
“Highly recommended” by the Ladies Tea Guild
“Book of Choice” by the Red Hat Society

“Tea lovers, mystery lovers, [this] is for you. Just the right blend of cozy fun and clever plotting.”

—Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Indigo Dying

“It’s a delightful book!”

—Tea: a magazine

“Engages the audience from the start . . . Laura Childs provides the right combination between tidbits on tea and an amateur sleuth cozy that will send readers seeking a cup of Death By Darjeeling, the series’ previous novel.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A delightful cozy that will warm readers the way a good cup of tea does. Laura Childs describes the genteel South in ways that invite readers in and make them feel welcomed . . . Theodosia and her friends are a warm bunch of characters . . . A delightful series that will leave readers feeling as if they have shared a warm cup of tea on Church Street in Charleston.”

—The Mystery Reader

“This mystery series could single-handedly propel the tea shop business in this country to the status of wine bars and bustling coffee houses.”

—Buon Gusto, Minneapolis, MN

“If you devoured Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, this new series is right up your alley.”

—The Gazette, Goose Creek, SC

“Gives the reader a sense of traveling through the streets and environs of the beautiful, historic city of Charleston.”

—Lakeshore Weekly News, Wayzata, MN

Scrapbooking Mysteries by Laura Childs

KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER

Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs

DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PHOTO FINISHED

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2004

Copyright © 2003 by Gerry Schmitt.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-16153-1

BERKLEY®
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published
by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

This book is dedicated to my husand, Dr. Robert Poor.

Find out more about the Scrapbook Mystery
Series and the Tea Shop Mystery Series at
www.laurachilds.com

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thank-yous to mystery great Mary Higgins Clark; my wonderful agent, Sam Pinkus; my sister, Jennie, who is always first reader and critic; my mother, who devours books and asks for more (I can’t write that fast—no one can!); good friend and cheerleader Jim Smith; all the tea drinkers and scrapbookers who have been so wildly enthusiastic over this series; all the marvelous writers and editors who have been so kind in their reviews; all the hard-working booksellers who put my books on their shelves and into the hands of readers; and to all the enthusiastic readers who enjoy both the Scrapbook Mysteries and the Tea Shop Mysteries. I continue writing because of you!

Chapter 1

THE last thing Carmela Bertrand wanted was a cocoa-almond body scrub that would leave her smelling like a Zagnut bar. But that was what Jade Ella Hayward was trying to push on her. Tonight of all nights. When Carmela had twenty scrapbook fanatics crammed into her tiny little shop in the French Quarter, primed and pumped and ready for an all-night crop.

“No, thanks, Jade Ella, really,” protested Carmela. As it did for so many women who lived in New Orleans, the high humidity seemed to keep Carmela’s skin hydrated and free of tiny lines. Or maybe it was just her youth or the sparkling blend of DNA her parents had gifted her with.

“Look,” said Jade Ella, batting dramatic, kohl-rimmed eyes, “you helped me out by taking those great photos. See . . .” She shoved a newly printed flyer at Carmela. “I even used one on the cover of my new brochure.”

“That was nothing,” protested Carmela. “A happy accident.”

Jade Ella held up a finger adorned by a sparkling citrine that was roughly the size of a Buick. “And Spa Diva’s just opened, so now’s the time to come and enjoy a little complimentary pampering. Before the crowds hit. Before we become a huge success.”

Spa Diva was the newest, ritziest day spa in New Orleans and Jade Ella Hayward its major investor. A pantheon to women’s desire for the latest in beauty, hair treatments, and pampering, Spa Diva was located in a rehabbed shotgun house on the upper stretch of Magazine Street, where dozens of decorators’ studios and art galleries were clustered.

Carmela’s blue eyes crinkled politely as she quickly ran a hand through her mane of tawny blond hair. She had nothing against spas; she’d just never had much use for them. Hadn’t had time for them since she’d opened Memory Mine, her little scrapbooking shop, over a year earlier.

But the very insistent Jade Ella was the estranged wife of Bartholomew Hayward, the proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, which sat right next door to Carmela’s shop. Bartholomew Hayward did a land-office business selling eighteenth-century oil paintings and antique furniture. And he had always struck Carmela as the sort of fellow it might be best to tread lightly around.

So Carmela accepted the complimentary spa certificates and thanked Jade Ella profusely. It was the best way she could think of to get Jade Ella on her way and herself back to the gaggle of customers who were clamoring for attention.

“Why don’t you and your friend, Ava, come in next Saturday,” shrilled Jade Ella as she zipped her marabou-trimmed ivory satin jacket and slung her jewel-encrusted Fendi bag over her shoulder. Waggling her fingers at Carmela, Jade Ella disappeared out the door and into the Saturday night throng. “Tootles,” she sang over her shoulder.

Gazing out her front window at her own slice of the French Quarter, Carmela experienced the slight contact high that always seemed to reverberate in the two-hundred-year-old neighborhood also known as the Vieux Carré.

She knew that right now, over on Bourbon Street, raucous music clubs and strip bars were huckstering in visitors like mad, even as house bands banged out funky, eardrumbusting tunes.

A few blocks over, on Royal Street, the atmosphere would be slightly more rarefied. Antique shop windows gleaming with captivating treasures: oil paintings, antique silver, and elegant estate jewelry from a more genteel era. Flickering candlelight would beckon seductively from behind the paint-peeling shutters of old world restaurants, and the clink of crystal and pop of the wine cork, along with the tantalizing aroma of Creole and Cajun cuisine, would lure hungry visitors like moths to the flame.

And here, on Governor Nicholls Street, the hand-lettered sign hanging in her front window boldly proclaimed CROP TILL YOU DROP! TONIGHT!

Carmela grinned widely as she suddenly caught sight of a small woman with a cap of tight red curls barreling down the street. Then, a moment later, Tandy Bliss, laden with bulging scrapbook bags, shouldered open the painted blue door and tumbled in.

“Tandy!” exclaimed Carmela, rushing to embrace her dear friend and newest guest. “We weren’t expecting you for another four days and now here you are!”

“Honey, my sanity was severely in question,” declared Tandy wearily, adjusting scrapbooking bags on her small frame like a wrangler adjusting a pack horse. “Darwin wasn’t one bit happy with me, but I had to bail.” Darwin, Tandy’s husband of twenty-five years, had “volunteered” Tandy to stay with his sister, Elvira Bliss Wilkerson, up in Ponchatoula. Tandy was supposed to help with the kids while Elvira was in the hospital.

“How did Elvira’s surgery go?” asked Carmela as they pushed their way past the two large folding tables she’d wedged into her shop to handle customer overflow, and headed for the big craft table at the back of the store.

Tandy stopped dead in her tracks and planted bony hands on slim hips. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice rising to a decibel level that could only be called shrill. “Elvira wasn’t even in the hospital! She gave us this big song and dance about needing my help because she had to undergo major surgery. And then all they did was scrape her feet!”

The dozen or so women who were packed in at the two temporary craft tables collectively stopped what they were doing and stared at Tandy. Looking askance as well, Carmela ran a hand through the tawny mass of shoulder-length hair that framed her face.

“She had her feet scraped?” said Carmela. She paused. “What exactly is that, anyway?”

Waving a hand disdainfully, Tandy continued her journey toward the back of the crowded shop. “Search me,” she said. “Something to do with bunions and calluses. Or maybe it’s blisters and hammer toes. Anyway,” Tandy proclaimed, “I’m here to tell you that Elvira and that insurance agent husband of hers spawned four totally hideous children. Bona fide hellions, every one of them.”

Tandy slung her scrapbook bags down on the big wooden table at the back of the store and grinned widely at the women sitting there. “Hey there, chickens, I’m ba-ack,” she announced in a singsong voice.

Baby Fontaine and Byrle Coopersmith, two of Carmela’s regulars, murmured warm hellos. They were used to Tandy’s antics and crazy greetings. Since they were all scrapbook fanatics of the first magnitude, they saw each other almost every day. But Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s young assistant, immediately jumped up to give Tandy a big hug.

Tandy reciprocated the hug and delivered a quick peck on the cheek to Gabby. Then she turned her attention back to Carmela. “But enough about my trials and tribulations,” said Tandy. “Look at the gang you pulled in tonight, Miss Smart Business Lady. What have you got here? Almost twenty people?”

Carmela nodded and gave an appreciative gaze about her scrapbooking shop. Truth was, she was utterly thrilled at the turnout for her first all-night scrapbook crop. Besides her regulars like Tandy, Baby, and Byrle, another sixteen women had shown up. Hunkering down at the tables and ponying up twenty dollars each for unlimited use of Carmela’s ample stock of stencils, punches, sheets of peel-off lettering, colored pens, and fancy-edged scissors.

As a lucky strike extra, Carmela and Gabby were also planning to serve steaming mugs of homemade shrimp chowder, as well as all the pecan popovers and honey butter a hungry scrapbooker cared to snarf.

After getting Tandy settled in, Carmela threaded her way back through the tables, giving a suggestion here, passing out pens and scissors there. She couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride at how well her little scrapbooking shop was doing. She’d logged long hours and suffered sleepless nights to pull off her business venture. And now that she had eighteen months of real-time business ownership under her belt, she was feeling a lot more confident, a lot more hopeful that she’d be able to continue eking out a small but respectable profit.

But being an independent woman had recently taken on a new meaning for Carmela. Because besides being financially independent, she’d been forced to reclaim her independence as a single woman, too, when Shamus Allan Meechum, her husband of barely one year, had walked out on her. Had literally slipped out the back door of their Garden District home one afternoon and boogied his way into seclusion at the Meechum family’s camp house in the Barataria Bayou.

Had Carmela been shocked by this turn of events? Truth be told, she’d been rocked to the core.

Had she subsequently been filled with doubt, self-recrimination, and guilt over her part in the breakup? Hell no.

Carmela’s estranged husband had always been a strange duck. The youngest one in the Meechum clan, the same Meechums who’d owned and operated the high-profile Crescent City Bank for the past hundred and twenty years, Shamus had been born with a silver shoehorn in his Gucci loafers. He’d been a trust fund kid who’d coasted blissfully through most of the major chapters of his life. Shamus had attended the right school (Tulane), played the right sport (varsity football), lived in the right part of town (the Garden District), and celebrated life’s holidays, holy days, and personal triumphs at the right restaurants (Antoine’s or Galatoire’s—jackets and reservations always required).

Carmela had been the one wild card aspect in Shamus’s life. Unlike Shamus, she was not descended from old French and English families, but instead laid claim to being half Cajun and half Norwegian. Or Cawegian, as her dad had always joked. Plus Carmela had been born and bred in the more blue collar city of Chalmette.

But their courtship, seemingly unhampered by social conventions, had been passionate, romantic, and swift. They were both people who spoke their minds freely, were fiercely independent yet ruled by deep-seated emotion, and were, in general, prone to acting impetuously.

Only, to Carmela’s way of thinking, Shamus had been a little too impetuous.

Because, unlike most members of the Meechum clan, Shamus hadn’t fallen in love with the variances and vicissitudes of the banking business. Shamus was moody, some would say a dreamer. Shamus had an artistic bent, as did Carmela. In fact, Carmela had always figured the “art factor” was what had attracted them to each other.

Still, Shamus had gone into the banking business per his family’s wishes, diligently learning the ins and outs of mortgage banking, calmly dealing with slightly nefarious real estate developers, carefully parsoning out loans, and, along the way, building a solid reputation and nice little fiefdom for himself.

Then all hell had broken loose. First, Shamus left banking. Two days later, he left Carmela.

Carmela suddenly blinked back tears at the searing memory of Shamus’s unexpected departure.

Good heavens, don’t let the waterworks turn on now, Carmela told herself as she quickly bent down at the nearest table, where Dove Duval and Mignon Wright were busy with a craft project that involved Chinese paper fans. After all, the man’s been gone for over a year.

“These look fantastic,” Carmela told the two women. Dove and Mignon had rubber-stamped various Chinese characters onto heavy white card stock, tinted those images with bronze and gold paint, then cut them out and adhered them to bright red Chinese fans. As a finishing touch, they were adding more stamped images and attaching old Chinese coins and red tassels to the fans’ black lacquer handles.

“The fans are announcements for a party I’m throwing in a few weeks,” Mignon told Carmela. “Aren’t they fun?” She smiled up at Carmela, eager for approval.

“Your invitations are absolutely delightful,” Carmela told Mignon and Dove. “But the two of you are almost finished. What are you planning to work on the rest of the night? I hope you brought along lots of photos so you can work on a few scrapbook pages.”

“Oh, we have to leave early,” explained Dove, who was already making motions to pack up her craft bag.

“But we’ll be back next week,” Mignon assured Carmela. “I’m thinking of decorating some little tins to match. You know, to hold party favors?”

Carmela was always amazed at how the whole scrapbooking thing spilled over so wonderfully into dozens of other projects. Scrapbooking itself was fantastic, of course, what with all the album choices and gorgeous papers that were available. But enhancing your page layouts with stickers, rubber stamps, tags, tiny charms, and ribbons inevitably led to so many more craft projects. Carmela noted that tonight about half the ladies were working on scrapbooks per se, while the other half were creating cards, invitations, tags, and stamp collages. One woman had a tea party planned for the upcoming holidays, so she was crafting darling little invitations that also featured a small side pocket. When her invitations were finished, she’d be able to tuck a small tea bag inside as well.

Darling, really darling, thought Carmela. I should do some of those pocket-style invitations for my Christmas window display. Didn’t I just see some boxes of spiced holiday tea down the street at the Ashley Place Gift Shop? Sure I did. Those would work perfectly.

Carmela squeezed past the two folding tables back to where her regulars were holding court and sat down.

“Look at this, Carmela,” said Gabby. “Tandy brought jars of strawberry jam for us.” Gabby was her usual prim-looking self tonight, attired in a silk blouse and wool slacks, her fine brown hair held back in its inevitable pageboy by a black velvet ribbon.

Tandy continued to unearth jars of strawberry jam from her seemingly bottomless bag and slam them down on the big wooden table that normally served as the epicenter for Carmela’s “craft central.”

Gabby picked up one of the jars and studied the viscous red contents. “This looks absolutely delicious.”

Tandy nodded her head of tight curls and squinted at Gabby. “It should be, honey. Ponchatoula lays claim to being the strawberry capital.”

“Of the state?” asked Gabby, who was the only one sitting at the table who was, as they say, “from not here.” In other words, not a native of Louisiana.

“Of the universe,” cackled Tandy. “Every place I went people plied me with strawberry goodies. I came home with strawberry jam, strawberry sauce, strawberry preserves . . . why, one of Elvira’s cousins even presented me with a bottle of homemade strawberry vodka. The darn stuff is candy apple pink!”

“I bet that strawberry vodka would make one heck of a Cosmopolitan,” offered Baby. Baby Fontaine was fifty-something, very pixieish. And, with her immaculately coifed blond hair and bright blue eyes, she was still a stunner. Carmela thought Baby still possessed the vivaciousness of the sorority girl she’d been when she’d gotten her nickname. And, of course, her nickname still suited her perfectly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” murmured Gabby. “Martini drinkers are awfully particular.”

“You talking about your husband, honey?” asked Baby. Gabby was married to Stuart Mercer-Morris. The Mercer-Morris family that owned beaucoup plantations and car dealerships.

Gabby nodded. “Stuart’s a martini purist. His idea of the perfect dry martini is a big splash of gin and then a contemplative moment where he only imagines a shot of vermouth.”

“No olive?” asked Tandy.

Gabby shook her head.

“You say the vodka’s pink?” asked Carmela with a crooked grin. “Maybe you could create a vodka drink that’s an homage to the end of the Cold War.” She waited a beat, then dropped her punch line. “Call it Pinko.”

“Love it!” giggled Baby.

“Gosh, Carmela,” exclaimed Gabby, “you really should be in marketing.”

“I was in marketing,” Carmela reminded her. “Two years of designing labels for Turtle Chili, Catahoula Catsup, and Big Easy Étouffée.” Carmela had been, in fact, low man on the totem pole when she’d worked for the in-house design group at Bayou Bob’s Foods.

“We’re delighted you chose to open your scrapbook shop instead,” said Baby, reaching across the table to squeeze Carmela’s hand. “We love coming here.”

A door scraped open at the very back of the shop.

“Judging from all that raucous laughter, I guess everyone has thoroughly embraced the idea of an all-night crop,” called a familiar voice.

Carmela’s head whirled around. “Ava?”

“Who else?” said Ava. The back door closed behind her with a whoosh and she sauntered in, leading a small fawn-colored dog on a leash. A very wrinkled dog.

“Hey there, Boo,” exclaimed Gabby, easing off her chair and kneeling down to pet Carmela’s little dog. Boo, every inch a lady, held out her delicate Shar-Pei paw in greeting.

Ava shrugged out of her fringed leather jacket and tossed back her wild mane of auburn hair. “We just had a nice walk-walk, then we did our doo-doo in the alley,” said Ava. “Now we’re here to say hewwo to Momma.”

Gabby took Boo’s paw in her hand and waved it at Carmela. “Hewwo, Momma,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

“Good lord,” declared Tandy. “Why is it people always feel compelled to talk baby talk to dogs?” Although Tandy was crazy over kids, especially her grandchildren, no one would ever call her a pet fancier.

“Because dogs are just like children,” offered Baby, who had reared and loved dozens of blue-eyed Catahoula hounds of her own. “Dogs are gentle, innocent, trusting creatures.”

“Hell-o,” said Tandy. “You honestly think children are innocent, trusting creatures? You’d change your tune fast enough if you were stuck with my sister-in-law’s tribe. Those kids make the bushmen of Borneo look like a bunch of Methodist ministers.” She paused, gazing around the table at the bemused group. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” she told them. “I’m Methodist.”

“Anyway,” said Ava, “I assume it’s okay for Boo to stay?”

There were affirmative murmurs from everyone as Gabby unfurled a blanket for Boo to cozy up on.

“Just don’t let her nibble any glue sticks,” advised Carmela. “She has a very touchy tummy.”

“Tell me about it,” said Ava, unsnapping Boo’s leather leash. “One time Boo gnawed apart a sisal rug in my store and then oopsied all over the floor. Afterwards, we had to pull strands of sisal out of her mouth like we were reeling in fishing line. Lucky it didn’t get kinked around her—”

Carmela stood up so fast her chair almost tipped over. “Ava, do you think you could help Gabby serve the popovers? She’s been keeping everything warm in the back office.”

“Oh, sure thing,” said Ava, checking her watch. “Gosh, it’s after nine. I guess you guys are pretty hungry by now.”

Ava Grieux, formerly Mary Ann Sommersby of Mobile, Alabama, was the proprietor of the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop over on Esplanade Avenue. Carmela had met Ava after she was tossed out of Shamus’s Garden District home by Glory Meechum, Shamus’s older sister. Ava lived in an apartment above her voodoo shop and managed the two little apartments on the bougainvillea-filled courtyard behind her shop where Carmela had finally ended up renting a place.

“Whatcha serving, honey?” asked Tandy as she pulled a scissors from her bag and proceeded to cut a deckled edge on a sheet of mulberry paper. She was going to use it as a backdrop for a grouping of photos.

“Shrimp chowder and pecan popovers,” said Carmela. “The chowder recipe is one of my momma’s favorites and the popover recipe is Baby’s.”

Baby nodded and adjusted the Hermès silk scarf that sat coiled like a perfect smoke ring around her neck and shoulders. “Actually, my Aunt Cecily’s,” she amended. “She grew up on a pecan plantation in Bossier Parish, don’t you know?”

Carmela turned toward one of the flat files to pull out a sheet of vellum paper to also try with Tandy’s scrapbook layout when a second sharp rap sounded at the back door.

Baby arched her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “Another late arrival?”

Carmela frowned. “We weren’t expecting anyone else.” The cobblestone alley out back was awfully dark and dreary. And, besides the utterly fearless Ava, nobody in their right mind ever came in that way.

Indeed, the alley behind Memory Mine and the neighboring Menagerie Antiques was so dark and narrow it was used only for deliveries to the various neighboring businesses.

Carmela hurried to the back door, flipped the latch, and pulled the door open.

“Carmela,” said a deadpan voice.

Bartholomew Hayward, proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, stood gazing at her with a look of sublime dissatisfaction on his normally unhappy face.

“Barty,” Carmela said. “Come in. You just missed Jade Ella. She stopped by a few minutes ago.”

Bartholomew followed Carmela a few steps inside, pointedly ignoring her reference to his soon-to-be ex-wife. “You’re certainly open late,” he said in a tone that was almost accusing.

“We’re having an all-night crop,” Carmela explained. She waved a hand to indicate the three tables of women who were engrossed in their various scrapbooking and craft projects. She noted that Dove Duval and Mignon Wright, who’d been seated at the first table, had finished packing their craft bags and were now headed out the front door.

Bartholomew Hayward continued to stand in Carmela’s back hallway like an imperious ballet master surveying his ballet corps. “You’re going to have to move your car,” he announced in a petulant tone.

Gabby poked her head out of the temporary kitchen that was really Carmela’s office. “Billy said it was okay to leave Carmela’s car there.”

Carmela flashed an inquisitive glance at Gabby.

“I took him a popover and some honey butter maybe an hour ago,” Gabby explained.

“Well, it isn’t all right,” said Bartholomew. “In fact, Billy had no right to grant you permission. I’m expecting a delivery later on and I’m sure you’re well aware that parking is absolutely horrendous around here. Besides which, those two parking spots out back are specifically leased to me.”

“I’ll move my car,” Carmela assured him. She sure didn’t need Bartholomew Hayward creating a stinky scene when the evening seemed so alive with creativity and wonderful karma.

“Excellent,” said Bartholomew. He still wore a dubious expression on his face, which indicated it wasn’t really excellent at all. In fact, he looked as though he didn’t quite believe Carmela. Or had expected her to put up more of a fuss.

Ava strolled out of the back office carrying a silver tray piled high with giant pecan popovers. “Hey, Barty, grab yourself a popover,” she said, tipping the tray toward him.

“No, thank you,” he said in his clipped tone. Then he spun on his heels and was out the back door in a flash.

“Bring those right over here, Ava, I’d love one,” said Tandy after the door had swung shut behind Bartholomew. “That man is such a sourpuss,” she declared. “I wish Billy wasn’t working for him, but the boy is just nuts over antiques.” Billy Cobb was Tandy’s nephew. He’d been working as an assistant to Bartholomew for the past six months or so.

“Billy plans to open his own antique shop someday,” added Tandy, obviously proud of her nephew.

“I bet he will,” said Baby, ever the cheerleader.

“Do you know Billy goes cruising up the River Road in that old truck of his, going to tag sales and yard sales?” said Tandy. “When he finds something nice, like an old wooden ice chest or a picture frame, he brings it home and refinishes it. Does a remarkable job, too. Then he takes his restored treasures over to the Sunday flea market at the fairgrounds in Livingston Parish. Lenore says he’s already cleared something like two thousand dollars.”

“Billy has a very enterprising spirit,” said Gabby. “Plus I think some of Bartholomew Hayward’s customers find him far nicer to deal with than Barty himself.”

“Lord sakes, don’t ever say that in front of Barty,” warned Tandy. “He’d fire Billy for sure if he thought his customers were tight with him.” She shook her head in a gesture of exasperation. “If you only knew what that poor boy puts up with. . . .”

Carmela nodded. She had a pretty good idea of how tough it might be to work for Barty Hayward. The man was a legend in his own mind. Arrogant, overbearing, and not particularly friendly. Plus his prices were awfully high and the authenticity of his furniture often seemed questionable.

“Billy’s a good kid,” said Carmela as she slid a sheet of pink vellum in front of Tandy. “I’m sure he’ll do fine.”

“I hope so,” said Tandy as she moved one of her family photographs around, looking for the best placement on the page.

“How about using this vellum to ghost over that group shot of your grandkids?” asked Carmela.

Tandy beamed. “Perfect,” she declared. “Give it a nice soft-focus quality.”

Gabby emerged from Carmela’s office, balancing another heavy tray laden with mugs filled with steaming shrimp chowder. “Now be careful everyone,” she warned. “Push your scrapbooks and such aside. We don’t want any accidental spills ruining all your hard work.” There was a two-minute flurry while everyone slipped photos, papers, and projects into plastic protective envelopes. Then, as Gabby began to pass around mugs of chowder, the aroma of shrimp, onions, and cayenne pepper permeated the air.

“Is this strictly formal or are we allowed to dunk?” asked Baby as she tore off a hunk of popover and tentatively dipped it into her chowder.

“Please do,” insisted Carmela. “And you’ll have to adhere to our strict rationing policy tonight. Due to our overzealous kitchen crew, you’re expected to snarf down a minimum of three popovers per person!”

“Yum,” said Tandy, who weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Carmela,” said Gabby, returning from her rounds with an empty tray. “Your car?”

“Holy smokes,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet. “I almost forgot.” She dug in her jeans for the keys. “Barty’s probably going to have a hissy fit if I don’t get moving.”

Gabby set down the tray and put out a hand. “Here, give me the keys. I’ll go move your car.”

“You sure?” asked Carmela. She’d parked out back a few hours earlier to make it easier to ferry in boxes of rubber stamps, colored ink pads, and a lacquer tray filled with fun earrings and pendants. She’d created the pendants by pressing rubber stamps into clay. Because they were somewhat sizable, the pendants hadn’t been completely dry, and it had been just her luck to bobble the tray in the dark. Almost as though she’d had a premonition that Barty Hayward was skulking around somewhere, trying to prohibit any possible infringement on his parking spaces.

“You should stay here at the store,” said Gabby. “After all, it’s your show.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much luck finding another parking space close by,” Carmela told Gabby. Indeed, parking in the French Quarter was nearly impossible. Police cars continually prowled the narrow streets and any cars parked in unauthorized zones were immediately towed. “You’ll probably have to drive way over to Esplanade.” Esplanade was where Carmela lived. Where her overpriced monthly parking spot was located.

“No problem.” Gabby grinned. “Besides, I always wanted to get behind the wheel of your Mercedes and take it for a spin.”

“Then knock yourself out,” she said, passing the keys to Gabby and suddenly recalling the circumstances that had precipitated her getting the sharp little 500 SL. An issue involving Shamus had come to a head the previous March. On Mardi Gras day, in fact. And her beloved vintage Cadillac, the one she’d nicknamed Samantha, had been completely totaled in a nasty accident.

Overcome with a sense of love, shame, drama, indebtedness, whatever, Shamus had decided to present her with a brand-new Mercedes sports car. It was a hot and truly gorgeous car, and Carmela had been consumed with countless hours of guilt once she’d finally accepted it.

But I also love that car, Carmela reminded herself. And back then, Shamus was making positive signs toward reconciliation. Funny how all that seems to have totally evaporated. So what should I do now about what appears to be a somewhat murky future? File for divorce and move on? Yeah, maybe. Keep the car? Oh sure.

“That’s a cute sweater,” remarked Baby, as Gabby shrugged into a heavy cardigan. I like that nubby look.”

“Gettin’ cold out,” said Gabby, grabbing her purse. “Be back in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

PULLING OPEN THE BACK DOOR, GABBY STEPPED outside and was immediately enveloped in darkness. Spooky, she thought to herself and wished she’d asked someone to keep a watchful eye out, just until she climbed into Carmela’s car and popped the locks on the doors.

As Gabby headed for the car, strains of music drifted out from the C.C. Club next door and from Dr. Boogie’s down the block. At the end of the block, where the alley emerged onto Royal Street, there was a muffled clunk, then the crash of glass.

Startled, Gabby’s head jerked, and she scanned the alley warily. She didn’t see anyone lurking in the shadows. Still, this wasn’t the best place to be walking alone on a Saturday night.

She tossed the car keys up in a casual, whistling-in-the-dark sort of gesture. But grabbing for them, Gabby fumbled the recovery and was dismayed when she heard a faint clink as they hit the ground.

Gabby peered downward.

A sudden scraping noise, dull but distinct, sounded somewhere off to her right.

Gabby froze, her attention suddenly riveted on the hulking metal Dumpster some twenty feet away. She wondered if someone might be over there. Crouched down. Hiding.

As if on cue, the moon slid out from behind flimsy cloud cover and spilled eerie light into the dark alley.

And at that very moment, someone . . . Gabby’s fleeting impression was that it might have been a woman . . . bolted from behind the Dumpster and headed down the alley toward Royal Street. But whoever it was kept close to the rear of the buildings as they ran, staying in darkness.

Heart pounding wildly, Gabby put a hand to her chest, trying to steady her nerves, willing herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

That’s when she saw the body.

A man. Sprawled directly in front of her on the cobblestones, limbs awkwardly askew. Surrounded by a puddle of shiny black . . . ohmygod . . . was that blood?

Gabby let loose a blood-curdling scream. A scream that began in the pit of her stomach, resonated in her throat, and cut through the raucous night sounds of the French Quarter like a knife.

CARMELA, WHO WAS SEATED CLOSEST TO THE back door, heard Gabby’s shriek of terror. And pounded out the door in a flash. Ava, no slouch herself in the reaction department, was right behind her.

“Gabby!” cried Carmela, bursting through the door, fully expecting to find her assistant half beaten to death or in the process of being kidnapped.

Instead, like Lot’s wife turned to a pillar of salt, Gabby was standing stock still in the middle of the alley.

Carmela pulled up short beside her. “Gabby?” she asked quietly, staring at Gabby’s stunned face. Clearly, something was very wrong. Gabby appeared to be in shock.

Gabby’s eyes were round as saucers as she pointed toward the ground. “Look,” said Gabby, her voice sounding tremulous and disconnected.

Carmela’s eyes, which were adjusting rapidly to the darkness now, followed Gabby’s finger downward. To the body that lay sprawled on the ground.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ava, who had skidded to a stop directly behind Carmela and also spotted the body. Ava spun on her fashionably stacked mock croc heels and bounded back into the scrapbook store. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” she yelped. “We need an ambulance out back! Now!”

Still paused in the alley, Carmela gazed down at the body with a mixture of curiosity and horror. Close as she could tell, the person sprawled on the cobblestones was Bartholomew Hayward.

Oh my god . . . but I just talked to Barty Hayward a few moments ago. What could have happened? Who could have . . .?

Suddenly, almost in a gesture of reverence, Gabby knelt down beside Bartholomew, as though she were preparing to minister to the body. Gabby’s hand reached out tentatively, then stopped just inches short of Bartholomew’s neck. There, imbedded to its hilt, was a large orange-handled scissors.

Carmela sensed more than saw that Gabby was about to reach for the protruding scissors. Was going to grasp it and pull it from the poor man’s neck.

Carmela, figuring it had to be the murder weapon, suddenly barked at Gabby: “Don’t touch that!”

Reacting to the harshness in Carmela’s voice, Gabby snatched her hand away as though she’d just been burned.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. Now all of Carmela’s customers were pouring out the back door into the alley. The mournful wail and advancing whoop whoop of sirens mingled with the strains of jazz and Zydeco music, creating a strange, disjointed cacophony.

A light burst on above the back door of Menagerie Antiques, and a metal door clanked open. Billy Cobb, Bartholomew Hayward’s young assistant, emerged, looking startled.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” called Billy. “I heard someone scream.” Billy stopped in his tracks the instant he spotted the body, then turned to stare at Carmela, who stood closest to it. “Is that Mr. Hayward?” Billy asked in a small voice. “Is he all right?”

Carmela reached down and gently touched the pulse point on the other side of Bartholomew Hayward’s neck. There was nothing to indicate the man was still alive. No movement, no breath sounds, no pulse.

Tentatively, Billy Cobb crossed the twenty feet of alley that separated them.

“Is Mr. Hayward all right?” Billy asked again. His face looked pinched and pale in the dim light, his demeanor hushed.

Carmela straightened up, placed her hands firmly on Gabby’s shoulders, walked the girl back a few paces. She was keenly aware that, in a city that boasted forty-one cemeteries, swarms of vampire groupies, and an ever-increasing murder rate, death rubbed familiar shoulders with everyone each and every day. Still . . . in the trickle of moonlight, Barty Hayward’s blood glistening like India ink against the pavement was a shocking affront to the senses.

“No, Billy,” said Carmela slowly. “Mr. Hayward is definitely not all right.” Swiveling her head, Carmela saw concern turn to horror on the faces of her customers who were fanned out behind her. This evening’s over, she thought.

As they all huddled wordlessly, waiting for the paramedics and police to arrive, Carmela’s mind flashed on the image of the little sign that still hung in the front window of her store: CROP TILL YOU DROP.

Prophetic words, indeed.

Chapter 2

SILVERWARE clinked gently against china, crystal champagne glasses sparkled under antique chandeliers, soft jazz mingled with gentle Southern drawls. At a side table, a chef in a white smock and towering white hat sizzled fresh creamery butter along with sugar, brandy, and egg yolks in a brass chafing dish, creating the perfect sauce to complement the restaurant’s heavy-duty bread pudding.

Ava stared over her camellia blossom-garnished mimosa at Carmela. “So Tandy was pretty upset,” said Ava. It was an understatement and she knew it.

“Hysterical,” said Carmela. “In fact, Melinda Harper finally had to slip her a Valium.” Carmela paused, took a quick sip of her own drink, smiled at Ava. “Never underestimate the power of a tried-and-true drug. Especially one from the eighties.”

“Didn’t the police explain to Tandy that the only reason they wanted Billy down at the station was to give a statement?” asked Ava. “I mean, it’s not like they wanted to arrest the boy or anything.”

“Tandy’s always been a little”—Carmela paused, searching for the right phrase—“high strung.”

“Unlike the two of us,” said Ava, unfurling her white linen napkin and settling it across her lap. “Modern women who are utterly unflappable and totally grounded.”

“Completely,” agreed Carmela, who had been known to go ballistic over a millipede in the bathroom or a speck of dust on her contact lens.

The two women were sitting in Bon Tiempe, a new restaurant located in the Bywater area that had recently received rave reviews for its Sunday brunch. Bon Tiempe, which translated literally as “good times,” was housed in what had once been a rambling old Victorian mansion. Now it was a rambling old Victorian restaurant. Its interior was painted a restful sage green; its wood-planked floors were strewn with faded Aubusson carpets. Overhead, mood lighting was delivered compliments of tinkling glass chandeliers, many salvaged from old plantations.

Bon Tiempe’s furnishings were a charming mishmash of styles and eras. Comfortable parlor chairs sat next to Queen Anne chairs, with a couple upholstered Sheraton chairs scattered in for good measure. Sturdy wooden tables of pecan, oak, and pine were set with tall white tapers in silver candleholders and fresh flowers in cut-glass vases. Against the wall was an ornate marble-topped buffet, a curious piece of furniture with carved wooden shelves below and a curlicue wrought-iron backsplash. Today, the buffet was laden with straw baskets overflowing with breads, croissants, and other assorted pastries, as well as large platters of smoked fish and cheese.

With its creaking doors, sagging floors, and atmosphere of genteel decay, Bon Tiempe was definitely in keeping with the general aura that pervaded the whole of New Orleans.

“I’m sorry your all-night crop came to such a screeching halt,” said Ava. After the discovery of Bartholomew Hayward’s body in the alley, nobody had felt much like scrapbooking.

Carmela shrugged. “Try, try, again.”

“You will do it again?”

“Oh sure,” said Carmela. “But probably not until spring. After Mardi Gras, when things have settled down.”

Ava took another sip of her mimosa and gave Carmela a searching look. “Who do you think did it?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Carmela shrugged, shook her head. She’d been asking herself that same question for the past fifteen hours. It was highly probable that the previous night’s tragic events had been a random robbery, a casualty of life in the charming but rather dangerous French Quarter, where great architecture rubbed uneasy shoulders with bad behavior. On the other hand, Bartholomew Hayward could have been purposely singled out. Someone could have wanted the man out of the way for good.

“No idea,” Carmela told Ava. “But the whole event does inspire chills.”

“What do you . . . did you know . . . about Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Ava.

Carmela had to think about Ava’s question. Bartholomew Hayward had always been rather standoffish and sour, barely exchanging more than a few sentences with her in the eighteen months since her scrapbook shop had moved in next to him. The displays in Barty Hayward’s front window had always been tasty . . . mostly spectacular oil paintings, Tiffany lamps, and Chinese vases. But some of the larger pieces in his store, particularly the furniture, seemed . . . questionable. On the few occasions Carmela had stayed late to work on the books, redo her front window, or complete a scrapbook project, she’d noticed covered trucks rumbling up to Bartholomew Hayward’s back door. Trucks that seemed to be filled with fairly new pieces of furniture. Carmela knew that in the antique business, it wasn’t unusual for middlemen or dealers to take an old serving board or dressing table, break it up, and then use a smattering of the authentic parts to construct three or four new pieces.

But rather than relating all this to Ava, Carmela simply said, “Bartholomew Hayward always seemed like pretty much of a loner.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ava. “Which explains why he’s in the throes of a nasty divorce.” Ava extended a hand and wiggled her fingers, beckoning Carmela to give her more. “But you must have some suspicions.”

Carmela shook her head. “Nothing specific. Although I don’t think it was random like one of the police detectives theorized last night.”

“Cold-blooded murder then,” whispered Ava, obviously enjoying this immensely.

“Or some sort of confrontation gone bad,” surmised Carmela. “The assault itself on Barty might not have been premeditated.” She paused. “But it might have . . . evolved into murder?” She tried the idea out, decided it might hold water.

“With who as a suspect?” prompted Ava.

“Could be anyone,” replied Carmela. “A disgruntled customer, a vendor who got stiffed, an unhappy employee.”

“Employee? Good heavens, you’re not thinking of Billy Cobb, are you?” exclaimed Ava.

“No, not Billy.” Carmela smiled. “He’s a good kid. And apparently a very hard worker. Really, the murderer could be anyone.” Carmela picked up one of the menus the waiter had left for them and scanned the list of entrees. Everything sounded incredible. “We should think about ordering,” she told Ava.

Ava squinted at the freshly printed parchment paper where the entree choices were listed. “Escolar,” she read slowly. “Wasn’t Escolar the name of a drug kingpin?”

“That’s Escobar,” said Carmela, thinking. Oh, oh. I forgot how picky Ava can be when it comes to food. “Escolar is particularly tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

“Still is,” Carmela told her friend. “But it’s a fish, too. Tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “I think I might need somethin’ a tad more traditional,” she drawled. Ava was okay with familiar fare such as crawfish étouffée and blackened catfish, but she was having trouble with the notion of grilled escolar served over sweet red peppers and lavishly garnished with tarragon butter.

“What do they call this style of food again?” Ava asked.

“Local food critics, such as they are, credentialed or not, have dubbed it Cajun Fusion,” replied Carmela.

“Mmn,” murmured Ava, clearly not impressed. “Look at this,” she went on, scanning the menu. “Crab fritters on avocado with citrus dressing. Everybody knows you serve crab fritters with red beans and rice. Honey, this is more like Cajun Confusion.”

“Bon Tiempe’s supposed to be one of the hottest places in town,” said Carmela. “Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s the best,” she hastily explained. There was a greasy little hole-in-the-wall joint down the block from her that served the best oyster po’boys, bar none.

Ava laid her menu down and gazed around. Every table was filled, the bar was bustling, and a line had formed just inside the front door. “The joint does seem to be jumping,” she admitted. Languidly, she lifted her hair from off the back of her neck and let it fall in lush waves. “And the owner, the good-looking fellow who’s standing over there talking to the woman with the peculiar red hair. What’s his name? Craig? . . . Grigg?”

“Quigg,” said Carmela. “Quigg Brevard.”

“He’s not only adorable,” said Ava in a stage whisper, “I hear he’s the last of a dying breed . . . an eligible bachelor.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” replied Carmela, who actually had thought about it, but didn’t want to stare at the man and make an idiot of herself.

“Well, he’s noticed us. In fact, oh . . . hang on to your pantyhose, sweetums . . . I think Monsieur le restaurateur is charting a direct course to our table!”

Carmela had met Quigg Brevard, Bon Tiempe’s owner, at a dinner party some two months earlier. In fact, she’d found herself seated next to him. Quigg Brevard had proved to be charming, witty, and handsome.

So why don’t I want anything to do with him? wondered Carmela. Shamus is history and life has to go on, right? Kind of like the Big Muddy, which, come hell or high water, just keeps rolling toward the Gulf. Maybe I’m scared to do something. I’m afraid to take a chance and put myself out there like a yutz. Yeah, that’s probably it. That and the fact that I’m still carrying this darned torch.

Quigg Brevard had indeed made a beeline for their table.

“I heard you had some trouble at your store last night,” he said, flashing a wide, dimpled grin at Carmela. Obviously, he remembered her rather well.

“Not exactly at my store,” said Carmela. She suddenly felt slightly flushed and wondered if it was the mimosa cocktail she’d just tossed down or because Quigg Brevard’s piercing brown eyes were focused so intently on her.

“Hi, I’m Ava Grieux,” said Ava, delicately offering a hand to Quigg. “And technically, the murder occurred behind Carmela’s store. In the alley.”

“Charmed to meet you, Miss Grieux.” Quigg executed a gentlemanly half-bow. “And you’re looking particularly lovely this morning also, Ms. Bertrand.”

Carmela smiled back at him, giving praise to the heavens that she’d taken time to apply eyeliner and had worn her almost-Chanel jacket.

“How did you hear about Barty Hayward?” Ava asked. “Was it on the news?”

Quigg tugged at the perfect cuffs of the perfect white shirt that peeked from his impeccably tailored navy jacket. “Are you kidding?” he asked, his expressive eyebrows shooting up. “Rumors have been spreading like wildfire. Half the people eating here are speculating about Barty Hayward’s demise. And those are people who live all over the city . . . in the French Quarter, Faubourg Marigny, Garden District, and here in the Bywater. I tell you, everybody’s heard about it by now. And everybody’s got a theory.”

There was a sudden cataclysmic crash as the chef at the marble-topped sideboard drove a meat cleaver down, lopping off the head of a giant smoked sturgeon.

So shattering was the noise that Carmela and Ava both flinched.

“Hah!” exclaimed Quigg. “That fellow’s probably in a good mood over the news.”

“The chef?” asked Carmela, with a slight frown, wondering why on earth the chef would be happy over news of Barty’s death.

“That’s Chef Ricardo Gaspar,” explained Quigg, lowering his voice. “Poor fellow’s restaurant went belly-up last year when Bartholomew Hayward pulled the plug on financing.”

Carmela turned in her chair to study the chef, a swarthy, determined-looking man with dark eyes and sharp features.

“I heard about that,” said Ava. “A group of businessmen put money into a couple restaurants that didn’t work out.”

“That’s not exactly true,” said Quigg. “The backers, the consortium, really didn’t give the restaurants much of a chance to find their niche or turn a profit. From all reports, Chef Ricardo was doing a fabulous job running Scaloppina. The place was steadily picking up steam and they’d garnered some very favorable reviews. But”—he gestured with his hands—“what can you do in six months? In my estimation, it takes a good two years to get a place up and running and really find your market.”

“Who else was backing Chef Ricardo’s restaurant?” asked Carmela. “Besides Bartholomew Hayward?”

Quigg shrugged. “I don’t remember the names of the individual investors. All I know is it was a consortium of fellows. Called themselves Parasol Partners.”

Chef Ricardo’s cleaver came down again with a murderous thud and diners at several tables turned to stare.

“I’ll bet he remembers,” said Ava, nodding wide-eyed at Chef Ricardo, who returned her gaze then gave a flirtatious wink.

“You do get that feeling, don’t you?” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard grinned widely, showing off perfect Chiclet teeth. “In the end, their loss was our gain. We’re delighted to have Chef Ricardo on staff, though he is temperamental.”

“You’ve had problems?” asked Carmela politely.

Quigg shrugged. “We’ve had our share of jealousies and pissing matches, the usual stuff that goes on in restaurant kitchens. You know, petty political maneuverings that end in a scuffle, a few copper pots being hurled. A minor stabbing . . .”

“A stabbing?” asked Carmela. That sounded a lot more serious than simple political maneuvering.

“Well, not a stabbing per se,” laughed Quigg. “Let’s just say someone got in the way of a fillet knife.”

“Ouch,” said Ava.

“In the way of one of Chef Ricardo’s knives?” Carmela persisted.

Realizing he’d probably said too much already, Quigg held up his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Understand, dear ladies, my sous-chef hails from Ecuador, my saucier is a native of Haiti, and my pastry chef came here from the Dominican Republic. When Latin tempers flare, unhappy words are often exchanged and unfortunate things occur in the heat of the moment.” He paused. “But enough of kitchen politics. Have you made your selection yet?”

Ava screwed up her face in a look of abject concern. “I’m just not sure about this Cajun Fusion thing.”

“Perhaps you’d be happier with something else?” Quigg observed.

Ava batted her false eyelashes. “I would.” She hadn’t been first runner-up in the Mobile, Alabama, Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant for nothing.

“I could have the kitchen prepare something slightly more traditional,” offered Quigg. “Pain perdu perhaps, or trout meunière?” Pain perdu was the Creole version of French toast, made with French bread. Trout meunière was pan-fried trout with a rich butter sauce.

“Pain perdu would be wonderful,” said Ava, “along with some of that thick sliced bacon.”

“I’ll tell your waiter, Jerome,” said Quigg. “Now remember”—he held up a finger—“don’t judge us entirely by today’s menu. I can assure you we haven’t abandoned the roots from whence we’ve come. Tomorrow is Mud Bug Monday: boiled crawfish and hush puppies. And every fourth Thursday is Chicken Pickin’ Thursday. Fried chicken with snap peas, dirty rice, and buttered biscuits.” He flashed another of his megawatt smiles. “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?” And he was off to greet a new gaggle of guests who’d just flocked through the front door.

“He likes you,” whispered Ava.

“He’s very nice,” replied Carmela, thinking that Quigg Brevard seemed more taken with Ava.

“No, I mean he really likes you. As in, don’t be surprised if he asks you out,” said Ava.

Carmela’s cheeks suddenly glowed a bright pink. “I’m still married,” she told Ava. It wasn’t a very good excuse, but it was all she had at the moment.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Ava, assuming a stern expression. “I thought you finally decided to file those papers. Get the ball rolling on the big D. Make it official.”

“I’ve been awfully busy,” lied Carmela.

“You’ve been a coward,” accused Ava. “Face it, cookie, Shamus is history. He’s not coming back. He’s gone wild mustang on you. He got himself a snort of freedom and he likes it too much to give it up.” Ava paused, realizing she’d maybe come across a little too rough. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, her voice softening. “Cut yourself loose from Shamus Allan Meechum and you’ll find a whole new world opening up for you. Nice respectable men like Quigg Brevard. You could do worse.”

“Agreed,” said Carmela, fumbling in her purse for a Rolaid.

Do I have heartburn? No, just a broken heart. Will the Rolaid fix it? Hey, at least a girl can pretend.

Twenty minutes later, Carmela was scraping up her last morsel of escolar when what seemed to be a full-scale shouting match suddenly erupted in the kitchen. There was a quick shuffle of footsteps as Quigg Brevard hustled the length of the dining room, then pushed his way through the swinging door into the kitchen. A sudden sharp increase in the decibel level ensued, then the door swung closed with a thwack and silence prevailed.

“Fun place to work, huh?” remarked Ava.

“Reminds me of the Gator Grove Cafe over in Algiers,” said Carmela. “When I was waiting tables senior year in college, a fry cook tried to eviscerate a surly busboy with a potato peeler.”

“That’d do the trick,” Ava said with a nod.

“Can I interest you in dessert, ladies?” Their waiter, Jerome, was suddenly hovering tableside, probably nervous about the shouting match that had gone on in the kitchen. “Bread pudding or our homemade granita?”

“Nothing for me,” said Carmela.

“Bread pudding,” said Ava. “But don’t just drizzle a teeny bit of sauce on it. Really drench it.”

The waiter bowed, a faint smile playing at his lips. “As you wish, madame.”

“How can you eat like that and stay a size six?” asked Carmela. She herself was an eight and had to constantly struggle to keep a tight rein on things.

Ava sighed. “Actually, I’ve let myself go. I’ve been trying to convince myself that cellulite is really fancy French fat, but it’s not working.”

Carmela stared across the table at Ava. She had the lean, sinewy body of a New York fashion model.

“Now Sweetmomma Pam is entirely different,” said Ava. “She’s blessed with a fiery metabolism. That old lady can chow down like a stevedore and never gain an ounce.”

“How is Sweetmomma Pam?” Carmela asked. Sweetmomma Pam was Ava’s maternal grandmother. She’d blown into town a few days ago on the pretext of sightseeing and was just about driving poor Ava bonkers. That was one of the reasons Ava had wanted to go out to brunch today. To get a much-needed reprieve from Sweetmomma Pam.

“She’s a TV junkie,” said Ava.

“Watching soaps?” asked Carmela.

“No, ordering stuff off infomercials. Yesterday Sweetmomma Pam decided she simply couldn’t live without a Flowbee and some kind of greaseless chicken cooker.” Ava paused. “Yech, who’d want to eat greaseless chicken?”

“I’ve seen the ads for the chicken cooker thing,” said Carmela. “But what on earth is a Flowbee?”

Ava made a face. “Some kind of weird attachment you stick on the end of your vacuum cleaner. It sucks up your hair and cuts it at the same time.”

“Let’s hope,” said Carmela, “that Sweetmomma Pam never discovers the Internet. Or eBay!”

“Amen,” said Ava, as their bread pudding was delivered to their table.

Carmela continued to listen with great amusement to Ava as she babbled on about the trials and tribulations of having a seventy-nine-year-old woman as her houseguest. More than once, she had to put down her fork and indulge in a good belly laugh.

Sweetmomma Pam is something else. Or maybe this rum sauce is finally getting to me, loosening me up. Anyway, it feels good to laugh.

Still, all through dessert, Carmela kept a watchful eye out for the hot-tempered Chef Ricardo.

Chapter 3

AT three thirty that afternoon Carmela found herself back at Memory Mine. By the time Bartholomew Hayward’s body had been packed into the ambulance the night before, by the time they’d all finished giving statements to the police, it had been too late to do more than a cursory cleanup.

The place was still a mess.

Papers, stencils, colored markers, and orange-handled scissors were scattered everywhere. Her back office was catty-wampus and redolent with the remains of shrimp chowder and now-petrified popovers. And the two big folding tables she’d rented from Party Central had to be taken down and stashed somewhere until they could be returned. After all, tomorrow was Monday. Business as usual.

Business as usual. Right. I wonder what business will happen next door tomorrow. Will Billy open up the shop and soldier on, trying to run things? Or will Jade Ella, Barty’s soon-to-be ex who hasn’t spoken to him in months, suddenly step in to manage things?

She shrugged. There was also the possibility that Menagerie Antiques might just remain dark and shuttered, an ominous reminder of that night’s terrible events.

Carmela worked quickly, staying focused on her tasks and making short order of the cleanup. Luckily, the shop was compact in size and fairly well organized. It was easy to replace pens, colored pencils, all the various pairs of scissors with their decorative edges. . . .

Scissors. Oh, please don’t tell me I stock the same brand of scissors that ended up in Barty Hayward’s throat last night!

Carmela rushed to the front of the shop where she had a display of Sure Cut and KeenCo scissors. She scanned the ripple, scalloped, and wave-edged scissors, too, which were packaged in clear blister packs and hung on metal holders.

No. Whew. I didn’t think so.

For some reason, Carmela felt relieved. As though she, personally, were somehow off the hook.

But at the same time, she also knew she probably shouldn’t have let Gabby go tripping out into the back alley so late at night. That had probably been poor judgment on her part. After all, stumbling upon Barty Hayward’s dead body would probably leave the poor girl spooked for quite some time.

Carmela nursed her guilt until all the rubber stamps were put away, all the various 8“×11” and 12”×12” papers were gathered up, checked to make sure there weren’t any crinkles or folded corners, then carefully returned to their rightful places in the flat files.

Now, the last thing I have to do is break down these darned folding tables.

Carmela grunted and groaned, until she had the metal legs folded flat and the heavy six-foot tables leaning up against the back wall.

No, this is not going to work. Sure as shootin’ we’re going to want to dig into those files first thing tomorrow. Okay then, where can I stash these tables until I get someone to help me return them?

There was only one place. Outside. In the back alley.

Eeeyuh. Really? Out there?

Tentatively, Carmela pushed open the back door. She knew in her heart that the tables would be fine if left out here overnight. In fact, if Billy Cobb came in to work tomorrow, and she had a feeling he probably would because he was just that kind of fellow, she could get Billy to help her move them into his back workroom for safekeeping. There was always plenty of space in the workroom.

Tugging, shoving, and grunting, Carmela maneuvered the two tables outside and down the two back steps. With one final effort, she muscled them into place and propped them up against the dingy back wall of her store.

When Carmela was satisfied that the tables blended in fairly well with the dark bricks of the building and probably wouldn’t be noticed by anyone passing by, she breathed a sigh of relief. That job was finally done.

Carmela turned around slowly and stared down the alley that, just eighteen hours earlier, had been the scene of a violent and terrible crime.

The words returning to the scene of the crime suddenly rumbled through her brain, causing her to shudder. She noted that, already, the October sun hung precariously low and the back alley was etched with shadows.

Last night, black and yellow crime scene tape had been taped and strung everywhere, like a crazed spider’s web. Now, just a few desultory strands remained to flap in the wind. A few cars had undoubtedly roared through here, the drivers oblivious.

Carmela stared at the spot where Bartholomew Hayward had been murdered. There was no white chalk outline of the body like you always saw in movies, just a splotch of red spray paint at the point where Bartholomew Hayward’s head had connected with the rough cobblestones.

And where the orange scissors had connected with him. The police had been super diligent last night about taking crime scene photos and had gone to great lengths to attempt to obtain fingerprints. Now, fine white powder covered everything. It clung to the back door of Carmela’s shop and the back door of Menagerie Antiques. Powder residue also covered the Dumpster and nearby telephone poles. The darned stuff had even been on Carmela’s car this morning, until she’d run it through the Suds-o-Matic up on Marais Street.

Carmela stared around, her natural curiosity aroused. It was a trait that sometimes got the best of her, often led her into trouble. Today that curiosity was prodding her to wonder exactly how the night’s murderous events had played out.

Let’s see, how had Gabby told it? Oh, yeah . . .

Carmela took four measured steps forward.

Gabby said she was right about here when she heard the sound of a bottle breaking at the far end of the block. She tossed the car keys up in the air and missed the catch. Then, just as she heard the keys drop, she heard something . . . a noise . . . over by the Dumpster.

Carmela’s eyes were naturally drawn to the big brown hulking Dumpster.

So someone had been hiding beside or behind the Dumpster. Then when Gabby paused, or looked over, or whatever she did, they sprinted off down the alley.

Carmela now focused on the back door of Menagerie Antiques. She wondered if somebody had shown up at Barty’s back door and lured him outside. Or some kind of furniture shipment had arrived.

Hadn’t he said a shipment was coming? Sure he did. Then why didn’t I hear the truck?

The answer to that was simple. Because everyone had been talking, laughing, and having a grand old time. Because the noise level inside Memory Mine had been pretty high that night.

Crossing her arms, tapping a foot against the cobblestones, Carmela continued to puzzle out what might have taken place.

Okay, let’s just say somebody came knocking at Barty’s back door. Barty stepped out, closed the door behind him. Then Barty and his unknown assailant began to talk, argue, struggle, whatever. Then this unknown assailant stabbed him.

Carmela stared down at the red squirt of paint that delineated where Bartholomew Hayward’s body had lain.

Then maybe this assailant was startled when he heard Gabby click open the back door. So he squirreled himself behind the Dumpster. That would be the most logical hiding place.

Carmela paced off a few steps to the Dumpster.

She hesitated a split second, then squeezed in between its rusting hulk and the grubby brick wall. Glancing about, she didn’t see anything that struck her as particularly interesting. Or threatening. More fingerprint dust residue. A couple cigarette butts lying on the ground, stuck between the cracks of cobblestones. Gingerly, Carmela lifted the heavy lid of the Dumpster and peered in. A malodorous scent wafted up from its dark interior. Stale beer, rotted food, Lord knew what else.

Okay, stick with this, she told herself as she let the lid slam down. What happened next?

When Gabby heard a weird noise and looked around, the murderer . . . because this wasn’t just an assailant anymore, but a bona fide murderer . . . tore off down the alley.

Carmela eased herself out from behind the Dumpster and started walking slowly down the alley in the same direction Barty’s murderer had fled. In her mind’s eye, she was trying to picture the exact escape route the perpetrator might have taken. Head down this alley, pop out on Royal Street, get lost in the crowd. Pouf, it was that easy.

A few shreds of newspaper swirled about Carmela’s ankles as she continued down the alley. A couple geaux cups, plastic take-away glasses from a nearby bar, had rolled up against a brick wall.

The police searched around for clues, but came up empty. The closer Carmela got to Royal Street, the more she knew her search was futile. Not much here. An empty cigarette pack, a smashed whisky bottle. Obviously not a highly trafficked alley.

Nothing, she thought. No wonder the police are positively clueless.

Five feet from the end of the alley, a faint glint caught Carmela’s eye. She stopped and leaned down. Studied the shiny little object. Couldn’t believe her eyes!

That’s one of my pendants! I must have dropped the darn thing last night when I bobbled the tray climbing out of my car.

Carmela frowned and stared at the embossed gold disk with the fleur-de-lis design. It was definitely one she’d painstakingly stamped out of clay then rubbed with gold paint some two days ago.

But how the heck did the darned thing get way down here?

Carmela reached down to pick up the pendant, hesitated, suddenly inhaled sharply.

One edge of the pendant was seriously flattened. And bore a rather strange impression. One she certainly hadn’t stamped there.

Oh my god!

Could it be . . . a partial imprint from the heel of a shoe?

Carmela’s eyes bugged out as she was struck with the full implication.

Did Barty Hayward’s murderer step on this? The darned thing had obviously been lying somewhere near my car. And neither the clay nor the paint was completely dry. Could the clay pendant have clung to the bottom of the murderer’s heel, then suddenly flown off right here? Sure, it could have.

Carmela’s theory sounded plausible to her, but would the police see it the same way? No, probably not.

They’d already called in their detectives, uniformed officers, and crime scene technicians to the scene. The whole lot of them had shuffled around, scowling, smoking, cracking jokes, and making official grumblings. Then they’d packed up and left. Hadn’t really bothered to quiz her or her customers all that much.

So what do I do now?

Her instincts told her exactly what to do.

Reaching into her pocket, Carmela pulled out a Kleenex tissue. Carefully, without touching the top of the little handcrafted medallion, she scooped it up.

Okay, now what?

Carmela stared at the squashed medallion.

What I should do is take a digital photo. Then show it to Gabby or Tandy or Baby and see what they think. It’s got these weird initials on it. Maybe they’ll know if that’s a designer logo or something.

The notion encouraged her. At least she’d be doing something positive.

Can I get a good enough photo of it?

That thought made her smile.

Of course I can, especially if I sprinkle the medallion with some of that embossing powder I use to enhance rubber-stamped images on cards and invitations. After all, embossing powder probably isn’t all that different from the powder real forensic labs use.

As she hurried back to her store, Carmela found herself on edge and curiously excited.

Look at me. All worked up over finding what could turn out to be a very weird clue to a real-life killer. Am I completely nuts or what?

Please, she told herself, don’t even answer that.

Chapter 4

THEY say the devil sometimes pops up when you least expect him. Unpredictably, unforeseeably, certainly unwelcome. Such was the case when Carmela heard a sharp knock on her door that evening.

She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Who’s plotzing around out there this time of night? Ava? Can’t be, I just had a gab with her an hour ago. Told her all about the medallion with the heel impression.

Carmela rose from the creaky wicker chaise lounge where she’d been curled up, surfing her seventy-five cable channels, searching for a scintillating forensic TV show, and padded to the front door in her stocking feet. Rolling over in her cozy L. L. Bean dog bed, Boo uttered a half-hearted yip, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. A wet snore gurgled from her well-padded muzzle.

Some watchdog you are, thought Carmela.

Carmela peered through the peephole in the door. Shamus Allan Meechum was standing there in the small courtyard outside her apartment. Her tall, curly-haired, good-looking, soon-to-be ex-husband.

Shamus! What the heck does he want?

Reluctantly, Carmela took the chain off the door and let him in.

“Hey, babe.” Shamus gave a lazy smile as he brushed by her, his larger-than-life personality immediately insinuating itself in the confines of her small apartment.

Carmela closed the door and gave a quizzical glance.

What just happened here? I was cozied up, skimming a magazine and surfing channels, when suddenly this big galoot breezes in and changes the entire character of my place.

She peered at her apartment with its coral red walls, earth-tone sisal rug, and flea market furniture that had been reupholstered in cream-colored cotton duck fabric. Along with some antique shop buys, most from scratch-and-dent rooms, she’d managed to concoct a semblance of casual chic. But Shamus’s presence seemed to throw off the whole atmosphere. Suddenly, everything felt tilted and out of focus.

The notion that Shamus had waltzed in and impacted the character of her home greatly perturbed Carmela. Which meant she didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What do you want?” she asked Shamus bluntly.

Shamus, ever the Southern gentleman, favored Carmela with a look that fairly dripped with concern. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said in the soft accent he’d picked up from his mother, who hailed from Baton Rouge.

“Why?” Carmela asked in a neutral tone.

“Carmela,” Shamus replied with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I heard about Bartholomew Hayward’s murder last night.” He shook his head. “Poor Barty. Terrible thing. He went to Tulane, you know.”

“Do tell,” said Carmela. Shamus had gone to Tulane and considered all Tulane alumni kindred spirits.

“And for his murder to have taken place in the alley behind your shop,” continued Shamus, “well, that’s just way too close for comfort!”

“Oh, that.” Carmela resumed her position on the chaise lounge, crossed her legs, stared pointedly at the television set. The minute Shamus had brought up Barty Hayward’s murder, she’d decided she wasn’t going to tell him about the little medallion she’d found in the alley. The one that carried the mysterious heelprint with the initials GC.

Carmela had never encountered a designer with the initials GC, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t start looking. Who knew, maybe an Internet search would turn something up.

Without waiting to be invited, Shamus plopped himself down next to Carmela, put a hand on her bare ankle. “You’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time, aren’t you?” he remarked. A Cheshire cat grin lit his handsome face; his brown eyes sparkled.

Carmela fought the urge to reach down for one of her loafers and whack Shamus upside of the head.

“I’d say I was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time two years ago,” she replied. “On June twelfth.” June twelfth was their wedding date. She was always very careful to refer to June twelfth as their wedding date and not their anniversary. After all, anniversaries were what married people celebrated. Married people who lived together and honored those little ol’ vows of love, honor, and respect.

“Say now, darlin’,” purred Shamus, “that’s not very sweet. I myself harbor extremely fond memories of that particular date.”

Fond memories. Carmela stared at her loafers again, felt her fingers twitch. The man is a cad, an absolute cad.

“So,” said Shamus. “Do the police have any suspects? Or, at the very least, a best guess?”

Carmela picked up the TV remote control, turned the volume down a notch.

“No,” she said. “Do you?”

Her question was meant to be smart-ass and facetious, but Shamus immediately assumed a thoughtful expression.

“Since you ask, I’d probably have to put my money on Jade Ella.”

Carmela hesitated for a split second, then clicked the television completely off. Shamus suddenly had her clear and undivided attention.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Shamus smiled a lazy smile. He knew Carmela was intrigued by what had occurred the night before even though she was scared to death by it, too.

“Jade Ella Hayward was in the process of divorcing Barty,” said Shamus.

Carmela nodded. “I know that. I know Jade Ella. She even stopped by the shop last night. Said she adored the idea of an all-night crop but was far too busy generating some buzz for the grand opening of Spa Diva.”

Shamus nodded. “I heard she was involved in that. So how’d you two get so buddy-buddy?”

Carmela shrugged. The two of them weren’t particularly friendly. “She stopped by the shop a couple times,” replied Carmela. Jade Ella usually came into Memory Mine right after she paid a quick visit to Bartholomew Hayward’s shop. On more than one occasion, Carmela had heard their voices raised in bitter argument through the not-so-substantial wall that separated the two businesses.

But, hey, everybody fights, Carmela told herself. Shamus and I fight. Fought. That’s certainly not grounds for murder, is it?

She peered at Shamus.

From love to hate in the blink of an eye. One day you’re head over heels in love, the next day your man is boogying out the door. Or cheating on you. Can emotions flip-flop that fast? Oh yeah. Sure they can. I guess they can.

“You know that Jade Ella absolutely despised Barty,” said Shamus. “Thought he was a real horse’s patoot.”

“She was right on that count,” said Carmela.

“I also heard Jade Ella poured a fortune into Spa Diva and was frantic over the possibility of being screwed royally in the divorce.”

There it is. The D-word, thought Carmela. Funny how neither one of us has ever verbalized that word before in the other’s presence.

“Were Barty and Jade Ella’s divorce papers final?” Carmela asked, painfully aware she’d probably be filing her own divorce papers pretty soon. If she intended to get on with her life, that is.

“Nope,” said Shamus, looking pleased. “Nothing was final. Nada.”

“So now that Barty’s dead, Jade Ella inherits everything?” Shamus leisurely crossed one long leg over the other. “Looks that way.” He reached for a strand of Carmela’s hair, fingered it gently. “I love your hair that way. That tawny color really makes your skin glow.”

“Thank you.” Ava had talked Carmela into letting her hair grow out a little. Now, instead of the chunked and skunked, short and choppy do Carmela had been sporting, her face was framed with softer, slightly more blond locks. Carmela thought her new look made her look more vulnerable. Ava said it made her look predatory.

“So you’re saying Jade Ella had a motive for wanting to be rid of Barty Hayward,” said Carmela.

Shamus shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t know.” He smiled lazily at her. “What did you do today?” he asked as Boo finally roused herself from her bed and came over to greet Shamus.

“Went out to brunch with Ava,” said Carmela. “Ate too much.”

“Ava Grieux, the infamous serial dater,” said Shamus, rubbing Boo’s tiny triangle-shaped ears. “Hey there, Boo Boo, you like that?” In response, Boo snuggled closer.

“Ava’s not a serial dater,” said Carmela. “She’s just picky. And why shouldn’t she be? Given the choice of men in this neck of the woods.”

Shamus glanced sideways at her. “Am I supposed to be insulted by that remark?”

“Depends,” said Carmela, treading cautiously. “Depends on whether you’re back on the market or not.”

“I did get a rather gracious invitation to participate in next month’s Most Eligible Bachelor Auction,” said Shamus. “The one to benefit the Tulane Music Society.”

The Most Eligible Bachelor Auction was your basic beefcake venue: a dozen hunky, single men auctioned off for dinner dates to women who had too much time on their hands and too much money. Carmela thought the whole thing was pretty pathetic.

“Did you take them up on it?” Carmela asked him.

“ ’Course not, darlin’,” purred Shamus. “I’m married to you.”

Carmela’s thumb sought out the On button and clicked the TV picture back on.

“What else did you do today?” Shamus asked.

Carmela stared past him. “Went grocery shopping. Took Boo for a walk.”

Shamus waited, obviously expecting Carmela to ask about his day. She chose not to give him the satisfaction.

Shamus’s brows suddenly met in a pucker. “You know, Carmela, this is no way to engineer any sort of reconciliation.”

Her mouth flew open in surprise. Who said anything about a reconciliation? That sure came zooming out of left field. And what’s this ‘engineer’ business? That’s certainly not the correct usage of a verb. Especially when you team it with reconciliation.

“You’re full of shit, Shamus,” said Carmela, turning up the full volume of the TV.

“And you’re totally hostile,” said Shamus.

They pointedly ignored each other for a few minutes. Boo, sensing discord in the ranks, skulked back to her bed. Finally, the anger between the two of them began to dissipate.

“Okay,” Carmela said finally. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” said Shamus.

“But,” said Carmela, unwilling to let the subject simply drop, “we have major issues to deal with . . . and I think we need to face reality.”

Darn, she thought, why do I suddenly sound like Dr. Phil? “You’re not going to threaten to give back the car, are you?” asked Shamus, sidestepping the larger issue. “Because I’m not going to take it back,” he insisted.

Carmela made a face. Obviously Shamus was in no mood to talk about reconciliation or divorce. Then again, he never seemed to be.

“It’s your car,” continued Shamus.

Carmela stared at him, let a few beats go by. “Okaaay,” she relented, experiencing a slight sense of triumph at the look of genuine consternation on Shamus’s face. No way was she really going to give the car back. She might be colossally ticked at Shamus and ready to divorce him, but she wasn’t an idiot. No sir, that little 500 SL was a thing of sheer beauty. V8 engine, 302 horsepower.

Plus, as Ava had helpfully pointed out, the Mercedes had proven to be an incredible man magnet. You could park that puppy anywhere and suddenly, like magic, men came crawling out of the woodwork to drool over it.

“I have a marvelous idea,” said Shamus enthusiastically. “Why don’t you and I go away together? Spend some time alone?”

Carmela lifted an eyebrow and stared at him. What was this happy crap? They could spend a few nights together, but not their lives?

“We’ll drive up to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn, get a little hideaway,” rhapsodized Shamus. Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn was an elegant Greek Revival plantation up the Great River Road, just north of New Orleans. Tucked in among other old Victorian and “steamboat” Gothic plantations, it had been turned into an inn some twenty years ago and was famous among honeymooners as well as couples seeking to rekindle romance. The plantation was situated right next to Houmas House, where the Bette Davis movie Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte had been filmed.

Carmela continued to gaze at Shamus, amazed any man could possess so much unmitigated gall. Shamus had up and left her, bid adios to his job at the bank, and headed off to concentrate on his photography, for goodness’ sake! Plus, he’d been spotted squiring various women around town. Carmela sighed heavily. Bad behavior wasn’t even the term for it. It was more like bad judgment. Then again, this was Louisiana. A state where married governors, senators, and various and sundry politicos routinely courted younger women. Without causing any collateral damage to their careers.

Shamus was still on a roll. “How about this coming Friday?” He sidled closer to her.

“No. Absolutely not,” Carmela told him.

“Why not?” Shamus asked.

Carmela folded her arms protectively across her chest. “Because, among other things, I have previous commitments.” She was, once again, close to losing her temper.

“Like what?” Shamus challenged.

“Besides being busy at the shop,” said Carmela, “this Saturday is Halloween.”

“So?” said Shamus.

“The Art Institute’s Monsters & Old Masters Ball is this Saturday evening,” said Carmela. Monsters & Old Masters was one of the New Orleans Art Institute’s big fund-raisers. As Baby had proclaimed, Monsters & Old Masters was rife with the three F’s: food, fun, and fund-raising. In this case, the Art Institute was hoping to finance new art acquisitions.

“Not a problem,” said Shamus. “I was going to attend myself. Better yet, we can go together.”

“Sorry,” said Carmela. “But I’m sitting with Baby and Del. They already reserved a table for eight. Besides,” she added, “I’m likely to be busy. I’ve been tapped to create menu cards and twenty description tags for the art and floral displays that are going to be on view.”

Shamus ducked his head and threw her an inquisitive look. With his tousled brown hair and slightly olive skin, he looked youthful and boyish. And, truth be told, quite adorable.

Quit it, Carmela told herself. This marriage is over. Fini. Finito. Down the toilet.

“Okay then,” said Shamus. “Grant me another simple favor. Come to dinner with me Tuesday night at Glory’s.”

“At Glory’s?” Carmela’s voice rose in a sharp squawk. Glory Meechum was Shamus’s older sister and the self-proclaimed matriarch of the Meechum clan. Glory had also led the charge to force Carmela out of Shamus’s palatial home in the Garden District after he’d skipped out on her and fled to his family’s camp house. Suffice it to say, Glory was not high on Carmela’s top ten list of amusing dinner companions.

“Come on, Carmela,” said Shamus. “It’d mean a whole lot to her. Hell, it’d mean a lot to me.”

Carmela narrowed her eyes, wondering if the invitation to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn had simply been a red herring.

Maybe Shamus was confident I’d turn him down on that, and dinner at Glory’s was what he’d been angling for all along. Am I nuts to think this way? Yeah, probably. But Shamus makes me nuts.

Shamus scrambled to his feet and flashed her a winning smile. Carmela recognized it immediately. It was his touchdown smile. The same confident, slightly arrogant smile he’d always worn when he played varsity football at Tulane. The smile that, even when his team got royally trounced, said I did my best, I sure as hell played to win.

“Tell you what,” said Carmela. “I’ll be your date Tuesday night, but I’m going to need a small favor in return. Quid pro quo.”

“Such as?” said Shamus.

“I’ll go with you to Glory’s dinner party, but you have to pick up the two tables stashed behind my store and return them to Party Central.”

Shamus considered this for a few seconds.

“Deal?” pushed Carmela.

“Deal,” said Shamus. “Glory’s going to be thrilled.”

Carmela gave a disdainful snort. “Glory hates me.”

“Carmela,” said Shamus in a hurt tone of voice, “Glory’s your sister-in-law. Of course she doesn’t hate you.”

“Then how come she banished me from your house after you walked out on me?”

Shamus threw his hands in the air. “That doesn’t mean Glory hates you, honey. It’s just . . .”

“It’s just what?” demanded Carmela. She clambered to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, pretty sure now that she’d been blindsided on the dinner invitation.

“It’s . . . it’s just the way some families are,” stammered Shamus.

He leaned down, brushed his lips across the top of her head in a quick semi-kiss, and headed for the door. As the door flew open and chill air wafted in, Carmela was surprised to see a mixture of confusion and unhappiness on Shamus’s departing face.

And deep within her heart, in the part where she tried to suppress her true feelings for him, Carmela felt a painful stab.

Chapter 5

GABBY, I’m so sorry about Saturday night,” Carmela apologized for about the twentieth time. “I should never have let you go out back by yourself.”

“Carmela, it’s okay, really,” said Gabby. “I’ll get over it. I am over it.”

It was Monday morning. Gabby had shown up on time at nine o’clock, looking slightly subdued, but certainly no less enthusiastic about her job as Carmela’s assistant.

“I was afraid Stuart wouldn’t let you come back to work,” said Carmela. Gabby’s husband of barely two years was a combination worrywart and hard-ass. Stuart was also, as Tandy whispered when Gabby was absent from the shop, a male chauvinist pig. Only Tandy never actually said the word, she just spelled it out: p-i-g.

“My coming back to work here was an issue,” Gabby admitted. “But I promised Stuart I’d never venture into the back alley again, even during daytime hours.” Gabby grimaced. “Stuart’s not particularly happy making that concession, but I wasn’t about to give up a job I love.” Gabby adjusted her black velvet headband and nervously picked at a mythical speck of lint on her camel-colored sweater. “Besides, it’s not as though murder was a rare occurrence around here.”

Gabby was right. New Orleans was infamous for its nasty murder rate, and the French Quarter had always been a hotbed of trouble. Hot music, hot women, hot tempers.

Gabby smiled broadly. For her the issue was closed. “Okay to put the OPEN sign on the front door?” she asked Carmela as the phone on the front counter shrilled.

“Please,” said Carmela.

Gabby flipped over the sign, then swiped at the telephone. “Hello.” She listened for a few seconds, then held it out to Carmela. “It’s Tandy and she’s super upset!”

“Tandy,” said Carmela, taking the phone.

“The police kept him until five in the morning and now they’ve called him in again,” said the tearful voice on the other end of the phone.

“You mean Billy?” Carmela gasped. Of course Billy. Who else?

“It’s downright crazy,” shrilled Tandy. “Insane. Billy had absolutely nothing to do with Bartholomew Hayward’s death! You know that and so do I!”

“Of course he didn’t,” said Carmela. “The police are probably just trying to put together a possible timeline or something. Or they’re quizzing Billy about acquaintances of Barty’s, fishing around for possible suspects.”

“No, they’re not,” blubbered Tandy. “They keep asking Billy about the latex gloves.”

“What about latex gloves?” asked Carmela.

“The police found a box of them in Barty’s workroom.” Tandy paused and there was a loud honk as she blew her nose. “Carmela, this is awful!” she cried. “The police think that, just because they couldn’t find any fingerprints, Billy might be involved!”

Billy Cobb involved? No way. Billy was a good kid. Bright, polite, upstanding. Right?

“Has Billy got an attorney?” asked Carmela. She knew that even if you were totally innocent, it was always smart to be represented by a crackerjack attorney. A lot of people learn that one the hard way.

“I already called Baby,” sniffled Tandy. “And Del’s agreed to represent Billy.” Baby’s husband, Del Fontaine, was a high-powered attorney and senior partner with the law firm Jackson, Fontaine & DeWitt.

“Okay, honey,” said Carmela. “Let us know if you hear anything.”

“I might be coming in later,” said Tandy.

“Really?” said Carmela, surprised by Tandy’s remark.

“There’s nothing else to do right now,” said Tandy, her voice quavering wildly.

Twenty minutes later, Baby Fontaine and her daughter Dawn Bodine, who’d married into the Brewton Creek Bod-ines, pushed their way through the door. Shortly after that, Byrle Coopersmith, another of Carmela’s staunch regulars, also arrived. They were all shocked to hear that the police were now eyeing Billy Cobb as a possible suspect.

“But those latex gloves were used for stripping and shellacking,” argued Gabby. “Everybody knows that.”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Even I keep a box of latex gloves in the store. For when I work with glass paints and things. It doesn’t make me a murderer.”

“Didn’t you try to take over part of Barty’s space a few months ago?” asked Baby.

“I did,” said Carmela.

Baby put a finger to her mouth. “Ssshhh.”

“All this talk about murder is making me very jumpy,” said Byrle. “Can’t we just work on our projects for a while?”

“I’m making a vacation scrapbook,” piped up Dawn. She was the youngest of Baby’s daughters, youthful and vivacious, recently married and just back from a trip to Paris. Dawn was also the spitting image of her mother, only twenty-six years younger.

“What kind of album are you using?” Carmela asked Dawn.

Dawn held up a large square album with a plain cream-colored cover. “This one. Momma got it for me.” She smiled at Baby, who was sitting next to her.

“How would you ladies like a few ideas on how to create your own album covers?” asked Carmela.

“What fun!” exclaimed Baby, pulling out an album of her own. “We design all these wonderful scrapbook pages and sometimes forget that our album covers can be personalized, too.”

“Let me show you one quick idea,” said Carmela. “And then you can improvise and do your own versions.”

“Freestyle,” joked Byrle.

“Exactly,” replied Carmela as she pulled open cupboard doors, gathering the materials she needed.

“Okay, then,” said Carmela, spreading everything out around her. “I’m going to start with this Eiffel Tower rubber stamp. Using gold ink, I’m going to stamp an Eiffel Tower image onto a three-by-three-inch square of light blue card stock.”

“You need the colored oil crayons, too?” asked Gabby, hovering nearby.

“Please,” said Carmela. She took the box of crayons from Gabby and pulled out a dark blue and a purple crayon. As an afterthought she grabbed a pink oil crayon, too. “Now I’m just going to color in a little bit of the Eiffel Tower,” said Carmela, rubbing the oil crayons on the inside and around the outer edges of the Eiffel Tower image.

“Pretty,” said Byrle. “Now what? You smudge it?”

“Carefully smudge it,” said Carmela. “A controlled smudge, like doing your eye shadow. To achieve a soft, almost pastel look. Then we trim the square with a deckle-edged scissors to get a nice torn-edge effect.” Carmela trimmed the image, then carefully set it down on the table. It shone like an oversized French postage stamp.

“Now,” said Carmela, “we’ll take our album cover and adhere this dark blue and purple paisley paper to the right side. On the left side we’ll use this light-colored cream and gold paisley paper.” Carmela’s hands worked swiftly with the papers and adhesive and, in a few minutes, the album cover had assumed a whole new look.

“That’s gorgeous,” said Dawn. “Very rich looking. But what about the Eiffel Tower image?”

“I’m getting to that,” said Carmela. “Now we take our deckle-edged Eiffel Tower square and paste it on. Not quite centered . . . maybe a little to the right.” The Eiffel Tower image went on, then Carmela picked up a calligraphy pen.

“To add a finishing touch to our cover, I’m going to do some hand-lettering across the cream and gold paper.” She uncapped a bronze-colored pen, paused for a moment, then bent over the album and began to write in a long, looping script.

Baby watched her closely. “ ‘Paris, City of Light.’ Beautiful. Now it’s the perfect album for preserving memories of Dawn and Buddy’s Paris trip.” Baby’s fingers touched the edge of Dawn’s sleeve; she was clearly proud of her daughter.

“Do you think I could do something similar using heart images?” asked Dawn. “For an anniversary album?”

“I think hearts would be adorable,” said Carmela. “We could even add some heart-shaped charms for a dimensional effect.”

“Could you attach charms to this?” asked Baby, indicating the album cover Carmela had just completed.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Carmela. “Tiny charms, stickers, gold tassels, a wax seal . . . the more layers you put on, the more depth you achieve.”

“Here are some rubber stamps with heart images,” said Gabby, passing a half-dozen rubber stamps to Dawn. “And this handmade mulberry paper has tiny rosebud petals imbedded in it.”

“Wow,” said Dawn, clearly impressed.

“That paper comes in cream, white, and pink,” said Carmela. “And I think we also have some pretty gold paper with poetry verses etched in the background. That would certainly go well with your romantic theme.” Carmela rose from her chair and headed for the front of the shop. “Let me take a look.”

As Carmela was searching through her stock of special papers, the phone rang. She grabbed the handset.

“Hello,” she said, fully expecting to hear Tandy once again.

But it wasn’t Tandy. It was Lt. Edgar Babcock of the New Orleans Police Department. Asking Carmela if she would kindly put together a list of customers who’d attended her scrapbook crop this past Saturday night.

“Sure I will, of course I will,” Carmela replied into the phone. God, am I babbling? Sure sounds like it. Why am I suddenly nervous?

“Today, if possible?” asked Lieutenant Babcock.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Carmela told him. She glanced toward the back of the shop. Everybody seemed involved in their own projects and she was pretty sure Gabby had kept that reservation list. Positive they had it, in fact.

Lieutenant Babcock’s request had also made Carmela suddenly hopeful.

If the police are looking at other people, surely that means they’re not entirely focused on Billy Cobb. On the other hand, they’re starting to look at my customers. . . .

“Shall I e-mail you the list or . . .?”

“I’d like to stop by and pick it up if I could,” said Lieutenant Babcock.

“I’ll have it ready,” Carmela promised him.

“Problems?” asked Gabby as Carmela hung up the phone.

Carmela pulled the gold paper from the front display and hurried back to her friends.

“Not a problem per se,” Carmela answered slowly. “That was a police detective. He’s asking for a list of Saturday night’s customers.”

“Do they suspect someone?” asked Gabby, suddenly looking worried again.

“No, I don’t think that’s it at all,” said Carmela. “I think this is more routine than anything.”

“Oh,” said Gabby, not terribly convinced.

Uh-oh, thought Carmela. I hope Gabby doesn’t get Stuart all upset about this.

“You know,” said Baby, when there was a lull in the conversation, “there is someone who’s royally pissed at Barty Hayward.”

“Who’s that?” asked Carmela. And why am I not surprised?

“Dove Duval,” said Baby as she carefully traced out a heart-shaped photo frame for Dawn.

“Dove was here Saturday night!” gasped Gabby.

“And, as I recall, she left rather early,” continued Baby, lifting an elegant hand and pushing a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Before Gabby went out the back door and rather unceremoniously stumbled upon Bartholomew Hayward’s bleeding body.”

Gabby turned to Carmela. “That’s right, she did. Remember? She and Mignon. They were the ones who bought a bunch of those new rubber stamps. I think they’re planning to make holiday invitations or something.”

“Will someone please tell me who Dove Duval is?” demanded Dawn. “And is this woman related to the Duvals who live over in St. Landry Parish?”

“She is,” said Baby. “Sort of.” Baby gazed around the table, her bright blue eyes lighting up as she told her story. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Dove Duval is what you’d call a faux Southerner. Originally, she was the Mrs. of Dr. and Mrs. Marvin Fleckstein of Montclair, New Jersey. Marvin Fleckstein being a self-proclaimed orthodontia king. But, times being what they are, and marriages not always that permanent, Dove and the dentist decided to divorce a year or so ago. On a trip to New Orleans, where Dove came to heal her wounded psyche and dip her beak into what was supposedly a pleasingly plump settlement, Dove met up with a certain Taurean Duval. The husband market being as precarious as the stock market, Dove wasted no time. She pounced quickly and is now Mrs. Taurean Duval.”

“What does Taurean Duval do?” asked Byrle.

“Owns the Dydee-doo Diaper Service,” said Baby.

“This is all very interesting,” said Gabby, a frown creasing her normally placid face, “but why on earth would Dove Duval have it in for Bartholomew Hayward?”

“I was getting to that,” said Baby. “Apparently, in her headlong rush to become an instant Southern lady and receive friends and visitors in her newly acquired Garden District home, Dove Duval nee Fleckstein purchased an entire truckload of what was touted to be genuine Southern plantation antiques.”

“Let me guess,” said Carmela, “some of them turned out to be fakes.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Baby. “How did you know?” Carmela shrugged. She’d seen the trucks pulling up late at night to Barty’s back door. She knew he’d been doing some heavy-duty distressing and refinishing in his back room. Many of the pieces Barty sold were genuine, but there couldn’t be that much old pecan and cypress left on the face of the earth.

“So Dove Duval could have been more than just a little upset with Bartholomew Hayward,” said Gabby. “She could have been furious.”

“Why didn’t she just sue him?” asked Byrle.

“She was probably too embarrassed,” said Baby.

“Wouldn’t you be? After being flimflammed?”

“Then the question remains,” said Byrle. “Was Dove furious enough to kill him? To stab him with a scissors?”

The women all paused and looked at each other. In Louisiana, men had been known to kill each other in disputes over prized coon hounds. In many ways there was still a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of mentality in the South. But did the transplanted Dove possess that same kind of hair trigger? That was the unanswered issue that seemed to perch like a giant question mark on the table.

“So tell me,” said Dawn, breaking the tension of the moment, “did Dove Duval finally get rid of all the fakes Barty unloaded on her?”

“Yes, she did, honey,” replied Baby. “Dove unloaded them at a flea market over in Baton Rouge. She has since hired a professional decorator in her quest to have her home featured in Southern Living.” Baby paused. “I understand her new decor is quite eclectic.”

“Define eclectic,” said Byrle as she cropped a large photo into quarters, then prepared to edge each piece with gold foil tape.

Baby’s face assumed an impish grin. “It means nothin’ really goes together!”

“She should hire Jekyl Hardy,” suggested Gabby. “He could get her home straightened out in no time.” Jekyl Hardy was a design consultant and one of New Orleans’s premier Mardi Gras float designers. He was also a dear friend of Carmela’s and sole proprietor of Hardy Art & Antique Consultants. Besides having a real knack for design, Jekyl Hardy periodically gave seminars on art collecting and connoiseurship.

Carmela had remained silent yet highly attentive throughout Baby’s story. Now she wondered if this might be the moment to tell everyone about the heelprint she’d found.

Tell them? Not tell them? What should I do?

It was a bit of a dilemma. Then again, there was the off chance someone might recognize the heelprint and shed some light on this whole thing.

Silently, Carmela slid a laser print onto the table. It was an enlarged printout of the enhanced heelprint that had been squashed into her medallion. Only she’d flopped the image so the initials, which had originally looked like interlocking G’s, now clearly read GC. The same way you’d see them if you looked at the bottom of the shoe.

“What’s this?” asked Byrle, turning the sheet toward her. “Another cover idea?”

“Better than that,” said Carmela.

The women listened with rapt attention as Carmela told them how she’d found the little medallion halfway down the alley. And how she’d noticed the heelprint, thought it might be significant, and enhanced the slightly smudged image by sprinkling it with embossing powder.

“Wow,” said Gabby, impressed. “You pulled a print. Just like on CSI !”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela. “You make it sound like I followed crime scene protocol. Instead, it was more like stumbling upon the little clay medallion, then noticing the smudgy heelprint.”

“You gonna show us the real forensic evidence, honey?” asked Baby, clearly fascinated by all of this.

“You really want to see it?” asked Carmela. She had initially thought the ladies might be a little put off by her amateur sleuthing. Quite the contrary. They seemed mesmerized by the idea of trying to track down Barty’s killer.

Carmela placed the actual medallion in the center of the table while Gabby slipped into the back office and retrieved a magnifying glass.

“Let me take a peek,” said Baby, reaching out a hand to Gabby.

Gabby handed her the glass.

Baby peered forward, studying the medallion with the heelprint. “This is the medallion you crafted from clay,” she said. “And you think you dropped it when you got out of your car.”

Carmela nodded. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

“You’re right,” said Baby finally. “This definitely looks like it’s been stepped on and kind of ground in by—what . . . maybe a lady’s heel?”

“What are those, entwined G’s?” asked Byrle. “Maybe a Gucci logo?”

Baby picked up a pencil, tapped at the page Carmela had printed out. “Not Gucci,” said Baby. “The initials read GC. And see here, there’s a little crosshatch pattern in the background.”

Gabby took the magnifying glass back from Baby, stared at the now-squished medallion, then at Carmela’s printout. Finally, she straightened up and looked around the table.

“Anybody ever hear of a designer with the initials GC?”

“No designer I know of,” said Baby, her hands unconsciously patting the gold and rust Versace scarf draped about her patrician neck.

“What about a local store?” asked Carmela. “It could be a private label thing.”

But nobody could think of a store or clothing shop that had the initials GC.

“Y’all are completely forgetting about Jade Ella,” said Byrle. “From what I hear, she and Barty were locked in the throes of a very nasty divorce.”

“That’s what Shamus said, too,” said Carmela.

Gabby flashed Carmela an approving glance. “You’re seeing Shamus again?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” said Carmela. “Shamus just sort of . . . dropped in on me last night.”

“Sounds romantic,” said Gabby, ever hopeful that the couple’s marriage would rebound.

“It wasn’t particularly,” Carmela told her. She looked around into the hopeful faces of her friends. “Don’t hold your breath concerning Shamus and me.”

“Well, this information about Jade Ella and Dove is certainly intriguing,” declared Baby, getting back to the main thread of their conversation. “It seems that both women had a serious ax to grind with Bartholomew Hayward.”

Dawn nodded excitedly. “They really did, didn’t they!” “And both ladies generally wear high heels,” said Baby, ever the fashion maven.

Gabby looked around the room, wide eyed. “I swear, it did kind of sound like someone in high heels taking off down the alley.”

“So either Dove Duval or Jade Ella Hayward could be considered a suspect,” said Baby.

“Or Chef Ricardo,” said Carmela. “But only if he wears Cuban heels.”

This new entry, tossed so casually into the pot, brought a stunned silence to the table.

Finally, Byrle spoke up. “Who on earth is Chef Ricardo?” Carmela quickly related her brunch experience from the day before and explained about the withdrawal of financing from Chef Ricardo’s ill-fated Scaloppina Restaurant.

Baby nodded. “That’s right. I heard about that. In fact, I think Del’s firm might have represented one of the parties in a lawsuit. Turned out to be a real mess.”

“Buddy and I dined at Scaloppina once,” volunteered Dawn. “They served the best crab risotto I ever tasted.” She looked thoughtful. “Sad that the place had to close.”

“And under unfortunate circumstances, it would appear,” said Byrle.

“Sounds like Bartholomew Hayward might have had a few enemies,” said Gabby.

There were nods all around.

“Since this appears to be a crime of passion,” said Carmela, “what we need to do is try and figure out who hated Barty the most.” She gazed about the table, studying the troubled faces of her friends. “Anybody got any bright ideas?”

No lightbulbs clicked on.

Chapter 6

TANDY came steamrolling in just as Carmela, Gabby, and Baby were eating salads that had been delivered a few minutes earlier by the French Quarter Deli. Dawn and Byrle had packed up their craft bags and left an hour earlier.

“You poor thing,” said Carmela, jumping up from the craft table to greet Tandy. “Come on back here and tell us what’s going on. You want part of my salad?” she asked as she led Tandy toward the back. “Baby field greens with smoked turkey?”

Gabby and Baby focused looks of concern on Tandy. She seemed tired and distracted. Her usual tight mop of curls was frowsled. Already skinny to begin with, Tandy looked wan bordering on frail.

“Nothing to eat, no, thanks,” said Tandy as she collapsed into the wooden chair Carmela pulled out for her.

Carmela stared pointedly at Tandy. “Things aren’t going well,” she said as she sat down next to her. It was a statement rather than a question.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Tandy. “This has turned into the worst possible nightmare.” She leaned across the table and grasped Baby’s hand. “Thank goodness Del agreed to represent Billy. He’s the only bright spot in all of this.”

“He’s happy to help,” Baby told her. “We all are.”

“If there’s anything I can do . . .” began Gabby.

Tandy flashed Gabby a sad smile. “You’re a sweetheart, but . . . well, we’re all just in a hold pattern for now. As you might expect, Donny and Lenore are absolutely hysterical.” Donny and Lenore were Billy’s parents, Donny being Tandy’s younger brother.

“What news is there, if any?” Carmela asked, trying to steer Tandy away from the emotionalism of the issue and more toward actual facts.

Tandy leaned back and sighed. “Billy hasn’t been formally charged with anything yet, but the police are completely hung up on those latex gloves.”

“I can’t see where the gloves are all that relevant,” said Carmela. “Especially since Billy and Bartholomew Hayward and whoever else helped out in the back room wore them whenever they were doing furniture stripping or refinishing.”

Tandy grimaced. “There’s another little wrinkle.”

“What’s that?” asked Carmela, her ears perking up.

Tandy shifted uneasily in her chair. “The scissors that were found in Barty Hayward’s neck?”

“Yes?” said Carmela. Come on, Tandy, spit it out.

“The police found a couple flecks of gold paint on them. Similar to the gilding used to touch up frames in Barty’s workshop.”

“Ouch,” said Gabby.

“That’s not so good,” said Baby, commiserating.

“Still,” said Tandy. “The gold paint can be explained. And the scissors could still have come from Bartholomew Hayward’s workshop.”

“Did Billy have any flecks of this gilt paint on his hands?” asked Carmela.

“No,” said Tandy. “Which is why, I suppose, the police are looking at the latex gloves so hard.”

“What possible motive do the police think Billy had?” asked Carmela.

“Oh, honey,” said Tandy, “they’d sooner grill someone to death and figure all that out later. I tell you, it’s a travesty of justice.”

Baby nudged a sharp elbow into Carmela’s side. “Tell Tandy about the heelprint,” she said in a low voice.

“What heelprint?” asked Tandy.

Pulling out her medallion and her printout, Carmela quickly related her story of finding the wayward little medallion in the back alley, noticing the heelprint, then enhancing the heelprint via embossing powder and her computer.

Tandy was stunned. “This is fabulous, Carmela!” She leaned forward and planted a grateful smooch on Carmela’s cheek. “This almost proves there was someone else in the alley that night.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Carmela.

“Hallelujah,” sang Tandy, grinning ear to ear. “I’m going to tell Billy all about this wonderful Exhibit A.” She smiled over at Baby. “And Del, too. In fact, I see it as a major break in the case!”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” protested Carmela. Holy smokes, we don’t know a thing about this print and Tandy’s already got her hopes up. Maybe I shouldn’t have even told her about it.

“Then I’m going to tell Billy that a star investigator is hot on the trail of the murderer,” said Tandy with great excitement.

“You shouldn’t get your hopes up based on this,” said Carmela. “Even though a few of us have studied the heelprint, we’re still utterly clueless.”

“Hope is the one thing that will see us through this,” said Tandy fervently as she dug in her voluminous leather purse and pulled out a set of keys. “Here,” she said, shoving the keys toward Carmela. “Billy asked me to give you these.”

Slowly Carmela accepted the keys. She knew exactly what they were for. They were the keys to Menagerie Antiques next door. Gulp. What’s all this about?

“Billy said he trusted you,” said Tandy. “You see, there are a couple customers who might stop by to pick up things. Billy thought if you had the keys to the store you could help out. As if you haven’t done enough already!”

“How will I know who these customers are?” asked Carmela with a puzzled expression.

“Oh, you won’t,” said Tandy blithely. “In fact, it’s pretty much a hit-or-miss proposition. But if a customer happens to stop by here, and they’re clutching a receipt in their hot little hand, then you could let them in.” Tandy paused, slightly out of breath. “Could you do that?”

Carmela nodded. “Sure.” She figured it was the least she could do. Barty Hayward hadn’t been a particularly hospitable neighbor, but Billy was always polite and friendly. Plus he was Tandy’s nephew.

Baby reached out and grasped Tandy’s hands. “Come back tomorrow, will you? No sense sitting around and just stewing. We’ll have some fun designing labels.” Baby tried to project an upbeat attitude. “You’ve got all those wonderful jars of strawberry jelly, I always make a gazillion batches of applesauce for the holidays . . .”

“Carmela makes her special caramel sauce,” said Gabby jumping in, trying to keep the ball rolling.

“What do you say?” prompted Baby. “Are you game?”

“Okay,” said Tandy as she gathered her coat around her. “Why not.”

It wasn’t until after Tandy had left that Carmela remembered several of her customers had been using gilt paint on Saturday night.

They were painting highlights on the edges of party invitations and scrapbook pages, weren’t they? Uh-oh, please don’t tell me it was one of my customers who stabbed Barty Hayward. Especially not . . . what’s her name? . . . Dove Duval.

“ARE THOSE FOR THIS SATURDAY?” BABY ASKED Carmela, nodding at the array of colored squares and photo corners spread out on the table. “For the Monsters & Old Masters Ball?”

“They will be if I ever get them done,” Carmela answered.

Monsters & Old Masters was actually a spin-off of the Art Institute’s springtime Blooming Art Ball. During Blooming Art, two dozen pieces of artwork were selected for special display, and the same number of art patrons were tasked with creating floral arrangements that interpreted and complemented the artworks.

One year, Baby had been assigned a Claude Monet painting and she’d created a spectacular display of lilies and hyacinths floating in a Waterford crystal vase.

Because Blooming Art had proven to be a real money maker, and because party-hearty, costume-loving New Orleans folk were already head over heels in love with Halloween, Monsters & Old Masters, the slightly darker cousin to Blooming Art, was spawned.

Of course, the artworks that the museum selected had to remain in keeping with the Halloween theme. Which meant that many of the artworks had a spooky, slightly unsettling edge. Among the pieces selected by the current year’s committee was a painting by American artist Josephus Allan of the Hudson River School, which depicted one of the Salem witch trials. Edward Hopper’s American nostalgia style of art was also represented. And, at the last minute, the committee had added a dark and moody seventeenth-century painting of Roman ruins to the twenty chosen pieces.

The autumnal floral arrangements were equally in keeping with the Halloween theme: flowers in subdued autumn colors, baskets of dried leaves and grains, twisted twigs, grapevines, and branches of bittersweet.

“I’ve been asked to create menu cards as well as descriptive tags for the art and floral pairings,” Carmela explained to Baby. “It’s kind of a fun little project.”

“What’s on the menu?” asked Gabby. She was eagerly looking forward to attending her very first Monsters & Old Masters Ball on Saturday night. Baby and Del, always so generous, had reserved a table for eight and invited Carmela and Ava, Gabby and Stuart, and Tandy and Darwin to join them.

“Let’s see,” said Carmela, consulting the list that had been faxed to her earlier. “Crawfish bisque, citrus salad, roast duck, sweet potato praline casserole, cranberry bread pudding, and lemon bars.”

“To die for,” moaned Gabby. I can’t wait!”

“The Art Institute always could put on a decent spread,” commented Baby. She glanced at the red marbleized card stock on which Carmela had printed out the menu in twelve-point scrolling type. “That looks pretty. Now whatcha gonna do with it?”

Carmela picked up a rubber stamp and, above the headline that read MENU, stamped an image of a woman that had been taken from a seventeenth-century painting.

“First the artsy image,” said Carmela. “Then we’ll add a hint of mystery.” She picked up a second rubber stamp and stamped over the first image, giving the woman an elaborate mask.

“Cute,” said Baby.

“Now I’m going to faux finish these black photo corners using gold, red, and bronze-colored paint.”

“Wow,” said Gabby, suddenly getting interested. “Detail work.”

“Then,” continued Carmela, “I’ll use the photo corners to mount the menu card onto a second and slightly larger card of marbleized brown card stock.”

So intently was Carmela working that she barely heard the bell jingle over the door. Until the noise finally penetrated her consciousness and she looked up to find Jade Ella Hayward staring at her.

“Jade Ella!” Carmela must have jumped a foot. Here was the wife of the deceased Bartholomew Hayward studying her with the faintest of smiles on her face. Dressed in a spiffy poison green suede jacket and black leather slacks, rings sparkling from almost every finger, and her dark hair swooshing about her kohl-rimmed eyes and bright red mouth, Jade Ella had obviously not given a passing thought to looking the part of the grieving widow. She was her usual glam self.

“Carmela,” said Jade Ella, in the clipped manner of speech she was famous for. “Have you seen Billy?”

A shocked silence followed her question. Baby and Gabby stared with open mouths.

Finally Carmela spoke up. “The police are talking to him.”

“They are?” said Jade Ella, blinking, favoring them with a polite yet distant smile.

“Carmela means they’re talking to him,” said Baby, finally finding her voice. “About Barty’s death.”

Only then did Jade Ella seem to react. “You mean to say Billy’s a suspect? Billy Cobb? Barty’s assistant?” She paused, obviously digesting this. “Hmm.”

Gabby, who was still surprised to find Jade Ella acting so chipper, finally stammered out, “I’m sorry for your loss, Jade Ella.”

Jade Ella whirled toward her, eyes blazing. “Don’t be. Barty and I weren’t particularly close. In fact, we weren’t particularly on speaking terms.”

“Have you finalized funeral arrangements?” asked Baby, who was too well bred to be put off by Jade Ella’s blasé attitude.

“At first I thought about having Barty cremated,” said Jade Ella. “That way I could have the thrill of tossing his worthless ashes into a Dumpster behind the Wal-Mart store. But a small contingent of Barty’s friends thought he deserved a slightly more dignified send-off. So, in consideration of those folks, as well as the many loyal customers he’s managed to screw over the years, I’ve opted for a more traditional funeral.” Jade Ella smiled broadly, enjoying her own theatrics. “The whole nine yards, in fact. Fancy-schmancy casket, ordained minister, final interment at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.” Jade Ella paused, her eyes flashing, silently daring anyone to make a comment. “Ain’t that a kick?”

“It’s very considerate of you,” said Baby. Her patrician eyebrows were cranked up more than a few notches.

“Not really,” said Jade Ella. “I myself, in keeping with my new Spa Diva image, will probably wear a red silk dress and dash off early for a fashionable luncheon at Galatoire’s.” She struck a dramatic pose. “I shall most likely order the trout amandine and a nice glass of Pouilly-Fuissé.”

“You can’t go wrong with Galatoire’s trout amandine,” Baby agreed.

Carmela feigned a cough to stifle her giggle. Count on Baby for the perfect retort.

“Listen, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “you used to do a lot of label designs, didn’t you?”

Carmela nodded.

“Well, here’s the thing,” said Jade Ella. “I’m seriously thinking of launching my own line of cosmetics, too. I’d start by retailing them at Spa Diva. If that venture goes well, and I have no reason to believe it won’t, I’ll set up a website and maybe even get placement in a few upscale stores.”

Carmela gaped at Jade Ella. Her idea sounded good, but rarely were new products launched with that much ease. And the money needed for private labeling and a marketing launch was enormous. Bordering on astronomical. Jade Ella didn’t have that much money, did she? Or had Bartholomew Hayward carried a lot of insurance?

“Anyway,” said Jade Ella, “I immediately thought of you as the package designer. You have such an artistic flair!”

“Thank you,” said Carmela, doubting the project would ever come to pass.

“We’ll put our heads together real soon,” said Jade Ella, who was already making tracks for the door. “Ta ta.” She waved a hand and a pair of large gold charm bracelets jangled noisily. “See you.”

“I’d say that woman suffers from Mrs. Bling Bling syndrome,” joked Baby after Jade Ella had gone. “Too much gold, too many gemstones. Worn all at once.”

Carmela had to agree with Baby. Jade Ella was pushy beyond belief and always decked out like a show horse. Still, she was a female entrepreneur who had just launched her own business. And even though the add-on cosmetics line seemed awfully pie-in-the-sky, it was no small feat, especially in a city like New Orleans, for a woman to succeed. Carmela did wish Jade Ella well, even if she was put off by her attitude.

“Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when Jade Ella told us about the funeral,” announced Gabby. “How can a woman be so cool, so totally arctic, about her dead husband?”

“Give it a few years,” laughed Baby. “The sanctity of marriage ain’t always so sanctified.” She paused, realizing what she’d said, then assumed a slightly embarrassed look. “Well, some marriages, anyway,” she backpedaled. Baby paused, gathering her thoughts. “Did you know that Jade Ella has been dating Clark Berthume?”

“Seems to me I’ve heard that name mentioned in connection with money,” said Gabby. “Is he one of those fellows with money?”

“Piles of it,” replied Baby. “Old money.”

“That’s the best kind,” agreed Gabby.

“Don’t you remember, honey,” continued Baby, “Clark Berthume runs that new photo gallery over on Toulouse Street? What’s it called?”

“The Click! Gallery,” said Carmela. “Click with an exclamation point at the end.”

“The Click! Gallery,” repeated Gabby. “Sure.”

“I peeked in there a couple weeks ago,” said Carmela.

“They actually have some marvelous photos. Prints by Ansel Adams, Copanigro, and Minor White. Great stuff.”

Truth be known, Shamus had confided to Carmela a few weeks earlier that he’d been angling to get a small show of his own in the back gallery at Click! He’d told Carmela that scoring his own show would finally validate his work. Carmela had told Shamus that his photos were terrific, always had been terrific, and if he wanted real validation, he should go out and earn a paycheck. Shamus had pouted, telling Carmela he felt hurt and grievously injured by her harsh response. Carmela had replied something to the effect of “tough cookies.”

A sharp knock on the back door prompted an immediate look of anguish from Gabby. “I thought you said you were going to keep the back door locked,” she exclaimed.

“I am,” said Carmela. “And please don’t fret over every bump and thump, because it’s probably Ava. She still prefers to pop down the alley,” said Carmela, scurrying to let her in. “Even after what happened.”

“I’ve only got a moment,” said Ava as she burst into the shop, “but I just had to stop and say hi, see what everyone’s up to.”

“Hi, Ava,” called Baby.

Gabby eyed Ava suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?” Ava was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans and a low-cut cashmere sweater with froufrou feathery trim.

“It’s just my long-line bra,” Ava confided. “Holds all the fat and stuff in.”

Gabby peered at Ava’s thin frame. “You sure don’t look like you have all that much to hold in,” she said dubiously.

“Trust me, I do,” said Ava. “Hey, remember that great quote . . . a woman can never be too rich or too thin?”

“I believe those words have been attributed to the Duchess of Windsor,” offered Baby.

“Really?” said Ava. “Gosh, I thought it was Oprah. She’s always so darned clever. Oh well.” Ava whirled toward Carmela. “Hey girl, we still on for tonight?”

“Anytime after six,” said Carmela as the phone started to ring. Ava was going to come over for dinner, then they were both going to work on projects.

“Carmela,” called Gabby. “Phone.”

“See y’all later,” called Ava, dashing out the front door this time.

“Hello,” said Carmela, taking the phone from Gabby.

“Carmela, you’re going to kill me,” said a tentative voice on the other end of the line.

“Natalie?” asked Carmela. Natalie Chastain was the registrar at the New Orleans Art Institute. “Let me guess,” said Carmela. “You’ve got more changes.”

“Yes, I do,” came Natalie’s anguished reply. “And for that I truly apologize. Problem is, the director still hasn’t finalized his choices.”

“I hope you don’t have menu changes,” said Carmela, alarmed. Yikes. I just printed the darn things.

“No,” said Natalie. “That’s the one thing that seems to be carved in stone, probably because the whole shebang is being catered. But it’s the only thing, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to tell you, Carmela, that we’ve got more changes on the art and floral pairings.” She paused. “Big surprise, huh?” Natalie had called Carmela twice already with changes. And Carmela had long since decided that the smartest thing to do was to leave most of Friday afternoon open. She’d wait and knock out the twenty description cards then, when it would be too late for changes.

“Don’t worry, Natalie,” said Carmela. “I’m set up to do typography at the last minute so you’ve got till maybe . . . Thursday.” Carmela glanced toward the back of her shop where her new color printer sat hunkered on the counter. Thank goodness, she thought. I can push a button and print out any script, typeface, or hand-lettered font and it still looks like I slaved for hours.

“We’re pulling our hair out over here,” continued Natalie, still sounding desperate. The publicity people . . . our curators . . .”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Carmela, just to be polite.

“One minute a piece is in, the next minute it’s out,” said Natalie in a resigned tone. “We’re in complete chaos.”

“How on earth are people going to get their floral arrangements done if they don’t know which artwork they’re supposed to be keying off?” asked Carmela.

“Good question,” said Natalie. “But you’d be amazed at how forgiving some of our art patrons are. They think Monroe Payne walks on water. Which, when it comes to the rarefied realm of fund-raising and capital campaigns, he probably does.” Monroe Payne was the New Orleans Art Institute’s rather flamboyant director and a veritable pit bull when it came to wresting money from the town’s movers and shakers.

Natalie hesitated. “Besides, not everyone actually creates their own floral arrangement.”

“The shocking truth finally revealed,” laughed Carmela.

“Well, don’t tell anyone,” continued Natalie. “But I think more than a few of our patrons have enlisted Teddy Pendergast at Nature’s Bounty to design floral arrangements for them.” Nature’s Bounty was the premier floral shop in New Orleans. They could always be counted on for hip, thematic, almost Manhattanesque table arrangements. For one of Baby’s summer dinner parties, Nature’s Bounty had created a stunning centerpiece with calla lilies, cattails, and sea grasses sprouting from a giant clump of bright green moss. It had been a huge hit with her guests and subsequently copied by a few other Garden District hostesses.

“Just e-mail me the poop when you have it,” Carmela told Natalie. “And don’t worry, there’s still time.”

“Bless you,” said Natalie.

Hanging up the phone, Carmela glanced toward the front of the store just as the front door opened and a man walked in. Hesitantly. He was in his midthirties and rather nattily attired in a houndstooth blazer and gray slacks.

Carmela decided he had to be from the police. Nobody else in the neighborhood dressed that well. In fact, most of the art and antique dealers shuffled around in worn jackets, hoping the local pickpockets would assume they were poor.

“Can I help you?” Carmela asked, going up to greet her visitor.

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black leather case. Flipping it open, he showed his ID. But not in an intimidating manner, just a low-key professional way.

Carmela glanced at the ID. “Lieutenant Edgar Babcock. Right. We talked on the phone.”

“Actually we met the other night. Saturday night?” said Lieutenant Babcock. He flashed her a shy smile.

Carmela stared back at him. Tall, lanky, with ginger-colored hair, Lt. Edgar Babcock was not an unattractive man.

“You’ve come to pick up the list,” said Carmela.

Now why am I suddenly acting so stiff and formal? Carmela wondered to herself. Maybe because this guy is, as Ava would say, a bit of a hunk? Too bad Ava didn’t stick around a little longer. She would’ve been intrigued by someone in law enforcement.

Carmela glanced toward the back of the store where everyone was casting surreptitious glances toward the front.

“Uh . . . wait here a moment, okay?”

“Sure,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He was suddenly busy, looking at the rack of pens and scissors that was just to the right of the front counter.

Carmela was back in a flash with the list. “Here it is,” she said, holding out a sheet of paper.

Lieutenant Babcock accepted the list, folded it into quarters without looking at it, and slid it into the breast pocket of his blazer. “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” responded Carmela.

“Do you carry Gemini scissors?” Lieutenant Babcock suddenly asked her.

His question obviously did not come out of the blue.

“No,” Carmela said. “They’re a good scissors when it comes to cutting paper, but the Sure Cuts are better.” She continued staring at him. “Is that the kind you found sunk in Barty Hayward’s neck? The Gemini?”

Lieutenant Babcock smiled at her. “Not necessarily.”

Carmela continued to fix him with a questioning look. I suppose you have to hold back some information,” she said.

“Actually,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “someone close to me is a scrapbooker.”

“Your wife?” Carmela asked, glancing down at his ring finger.

He followed her gaze. “No, I’m not married. It’s my sister. She’s got a birthday coming up and that’s one of the things on her list.”

Carmela smiled at him. “Come back and I’ll help you put together a little scrapbooker’s gift bag,” she told him. “Stencils, rubber stamps, some fun papers maybe.”

“It’s something to consider,” he said.

“Whatever,” she said, wondering if there really was a scrapbooking sister or if Lieutenant Babcock was just a very skillful interrogator.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you gave a statement the other night, but if anything occurs to you, or anything strange happens, give me a call. Okay?”

She nodded.

Lieutenant Babcock pulled open the door, patted his jacket pocket. “Thanks for the list. We’ll get back to you.”

“Great,” said Carmela as the door swung closed on him. Hesitating before she went back to rejoin the group, Carmela considered Edgar Babcock’s words. If anything strange happens . . .

Anything strange? she thought to herself. Who’s he kidding? This is New Orleans. Everything is strange!

Chapter 7

BIG Easy Shrimp was one of Carmela’s all-time favorite recipes. You sautéed plump Gulf shrimp in a pan with butter, onions, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes, and spices for barely twelve minutes, then dumped the whole thing on top of hot, steamy rice. And voilà! You had yourself a dinner to die for.

Tonight Carmela’s Big Easy Shrimp was accompanied by a nice bottle of Chianti. Not the rough, slightly fermented version in the cheesy raffia basket that most people tippled during their el cheapo student days, but a lovely, lush Montepaldi Chianti. Bottled in a narrow, high-shouldered Bordeaux-type bottle, the Montepaldi was velvety rich, yet delicate in taste and scent. The perfect red wine to complement her seafood dish.

“This is so good,” exclaimed Ava, digging into her second helping of Big Easy Shrimp. “I wish I knew how to cook. I mean seriously.” Ava always claimed she followed the slash-and-burn method of cooking. Slash up some meat and vegetables, burn it in the pan.

“Cooking’s fairly simple,” Carmela told her between bites, “as long as you don’t get too hung up on recipes and measurements.”

“Is that a fact?” said Ava, reaching to pour herself another glass of Montepaldi. “I would think you’d have to measure carefully so things come out right.”

“My momma always said cooking was truly about food chemistry,” said Carmela. “That it’s more important to be tuned in to flavors and interactions between ingredients.”

Ava grimaced. “Food chemistry. That sounds kinda grim and academic.”

“It isn’t really. For example, it’s about knowing how to pair sulfur-based foods with sugar-based foods. Think how tasty onions are with rice.”

Ava looked doubtful. “I don’t know. I flunked home ec my senior year.”

“Come on,” laughed Carmela. “Nobody flunks home ec. Trigonometry and physics, maybe. Definitely calculus. But never home ec.”

“Our teacher, Miss Fruth, despised me. Besides, I was more into class plays, cheerleading, and flag twirling,” replied Ava.

“Then you didn’t flunk home ec,” said Carmela, “you flunked attendance.”

One of Ava’s crowning glories had come when she was named head flag twirler for the Jefferson High Martinettes. Then, right before graduation, high hopes for a beauty pageant career had led Ava to the Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant where she came in first runner-up. College hadn’t interested her, so Ava went on to compete in the Miss Palmetto Contest, the Miss Yellowhammer Contest, and finally the Miss Alabama Contest. Ava was pretty, some might say beautiful, but she did have a certain edge. So when her pageant career didn’t pan out as successfully as she hoped it would, Ava moved on to abbreviated careers. She worked as a cocktail waitress, skip tracer, paralegal, and photographer’s assistant, which was her longest stint. But Ava finally touched on magic and found her calling: for two years, she’d been running the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop in the French Quarter.

Visitors to New Orleans who came seeking a small touchstone of the Crescent City to carry home with them were captivated by the candles, charms, and trinkets that adorned Ava’s shop. And Ava, who enjoyed spinning harmless stories about love charms and pink candles that inspired happiness and good fortune, went on to build a rather thriving business.

But, like Carmela, Ava was also blessed with a flair for the arts. And in the last year, her creative bent had led her to mask making. For the last Mardi Gras, Ava had received orders for more than three dozen custom leather masks. Fanciful bird masks with plumes and beaks, tiger masks, jeweled Venetian Carnivale masks, and even Renaissance masks. For Halloween, orders had once again poured in, and Ava was working frantically to put the finishing touches on the last of her elegant, handcrafted masks.

“Is Sweetmomma Pam still staying with you?” asked Carmela.

“Lord, yes,” replied Ava.

“It must be fun having her around,” said Carmela, whose own grandparents had long been deceased.

“Are you for real?” said Ava. “Today Sweetmomma Pam ordered a talking watch off some darned TV ad she saw on the cable sports channel. Popped for overnight delivery and put the whole thing on my Visa card.”

“Can you send it back?” asked Carmela.

Ava shrugged. “Who knows. Anyway, we had a little talk and then she stomped out. Seems she’s got some kind of date. Do you believe that? Sweetmomma Pam came here not knowing a soul and now she’s cavorting around town like a prom queen.”

Carmela stared at Ava. A seventy-nine-year-old woman was out cavorting? Where? At the local bingo parlor?

“Where’d she go?” Carmela asked.

“Some senior citizen dance,” grumped Ava. “With a date. A man. Never mind that I haven’t had a truly viable date in six months.”

“Why, Ava, I do believe you’re jealous,” said Carmela.

“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Ava. “I think she might even have a better sex life than I do.”

“No way,” said Carmela, laughing.

“Listen, cupcake, I came home the other night and found Sweetmomma Pam on the couch, canoodling with Wendell Pickens,” declared Ava.

“Wendell Pickens?” said Carmela, alarmed. “You mean the old guy who runs the fruit stand in the French Market? The one who juggles peaches and cackles?”

Ava rolled her eyes. “That’s the one.” She drained her wineglass and set it down with an air of resignation. “Can you believe it? I’m almost twenty-nine years old. I thought for sure I’d be divorced by now.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, THE DISHES WERE cleared from the table and Carmela and Ava were busily working away, Carmela on her menu cards and Ava on a leather mask.

“I’m absolutely in love with that green mask,” said Carmela. “But the whole thing seems like such a complicated process.” Ava was assembling a mask of iridescent sea green leather. When all the parts were fitted together they would yield the elfin face of a sea nymph.

“Mask making actually is complicated,” admitted Ava. “First you have to do sketches. You know, figure out what it’s going to look like. Then you have to create a paper pattern. That can be anywhere from three to three hundred pieces for a single mask.”

“Yikes,” said Carmela. “What’s the most complicated pattern you’ve ever done?”

Ava considered this for a minute. “Maybe a hundred and twenty pieces. When I did a really elaborate bird mask with a long beak and leather feathers.”

Carmela nodded. “Then what?”

Ava picked up a leather-cutting tool to demonstrate the next step. “Then you cut out your pieces and trim the edges so each piece lies flat against the other,” continued Ava. “Moistening and shaping the pieces comes next. Then, when they’re dry, you start to assemble all of them.”

“Using glue?” asked Carmela.

“A special leather glue,” said Ava. “If I’m fastening several layers together or putting in an unusual crimp or bend, I also use a few grommets so the pieces stay where they’re supposed to. Anyway, once the mask is assembled, I wet the whole thing again and begin sculpting.”

“How do you do that?” Carmela was fascinated by the lengthy process. The only masks she’d ever made were some miniature pressed paper ones. And Ava had helped her out by creating the initial mold.

“Honey, I use anything and everything I can find,” said Ava. “Cuticle sticks, my fingers, a hair dryer. Leather is a very plastic material, so it moves and molds.”

“You’re really amazing,” marveled Carmela. “The patterns, all those pieces . . .”

“Oh, give me a break,” said Ava, pushing a frizzle of auburn hair out of her eyes. “And you’re not creative? Look at all the stuff you do! Scrapbooking, rubber stamping, crime solving . . .”

“Crime solving?” said Carmela with feigned innocence.

“Don’t play coy with me, cookie. I know you’re dying to figure out who whacked Bartholomew Hayward.”

Carmela snorted.

Ava peered at her sharply. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Aside from the fact that it happened right behind my store and in front of my number one employee, yes, I am,” replied Carmela. “Especially if it will help bring some peace to Billy and Tandy and their family. Problem is, there seem to be a number of people who were pretty ticked off at Barty Hayward.”

“The almost ex-wife,” said Ava. “Jade Ella. The one who gave you those complimentary passes so we can get waxed, buffed, and sloughed at Spa Diva.”

“She dropped by the shop today,” said Carmela. “Claims she’s going to launch her own makeup line and dance on her husband’s grave.”

“Charming lady,” said Ava. “Enterprising and spiteful. Remind me never to get on her bad side.”

“She also seemed surprised that the police were questioning Billy Cobb.”

“Honey, I’m surprised the police are questioning him,” exclaimed Ava. “He always seemed like a pretty innocuous kid.”

Carmela took a deep breath. “Dove Duval was awfully upset at Barty Hayward, too.”

Ava frowned. “Wasn’t Dove Duval at your shop Saturday night?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Carmela, who then proceeded to tell Ava about the load of faux antiques that Barty Hayward had stuck Dove with.

“Would you really kill someone over cheap replica furniture?” questioned Ava. “Personally, I think I would’ve just clobbered Barty with an andiron or something. Try to get him to see the error of his ways.”

“Bartholomew Hayward didn’t just stick Dove Duval with a load of bad furniture,” said Carmela. “He made her look foolish. When a person is shamed or made to look ridiculous in front of others, that can often plant the seeds for bitterness and hatred. And serious retaliation.”

“I see what you mean,” said Ava thoughtfully. “And I gather from the way you quizzed Quigg Brevard yesterday that you have a few suspicions about his good-looking chef . . . what’s the fellow’s name? Have meat cleaver, will travel?”

“Chef Ricardo,” said Carmela.

“Right,” said Ava. “You think instead of snipping herbs for his remoulade sauce the good chef might have used his kitchen shears to snip Barty Hayward’s jugular?”

“I think Bon Tiempe is close enough to Menagerie Antiques that, somewhere between the étouffée and the crème caramel, Chef Ricardo could have found time to high-tail it over and do the deed,” offered Carmela.

Ava beamed. “That’s what I like about you, Carmela Bertrand. You’re a very suspicious person. Always thinking the worst of people.”

“I do not,” said Carmela. “I’m just . . . careful. And realistic, too. I think it has something to do with my genetic code.” Carmela’s father, who had died in a barge accident on the Mississippi when she was just seven, had been one hundred percent Norwegian. Her mother, who lived across the river in Algiers, was full-blooded Cajun. It was a slightly hodgepodge pedigree, the Norwegian part tempered and cool, the Cajun part more than a little impulsive.

A tough balancing act. No wonder Shamus and I can’t seem to find any middle ground.

“You were telling me earlier about the good-looking detective who dropped by your store?” prompted Ava.

“To pick up a copy of my customer list,” said Carmela.

“Probably just a formality,” said Ava.

“That’s what they always say in the movies,” said Carmela. That’s what they always say when they’re really closing in on a suspect.

“Well, life’s pretty much a movie script, isn’t it?” asked Ava. “Your life is, anyway. Mine’s a colossal snooze right now.” She stood up and stretched, arms overhead, her pink silk T-shirt lifting to reveal bare skin and an amazingly taut stomach. “Tell me,” said Ava. “What’s new on the home front with the wayward hubby?”

“Not much,” said Carmela. She paused. “I told Shamus I’d go to dinner with him tomorrow night.”

“A date,” declared Ava, rolling her eyes. “Now doesn’t that sound cozy as hell. And which five-star restaurant will be sending its minions out to bow and scrape in your glorified presence? Could it be Antoine’s or Commander’s Palace? K-Paul’s or NOLA?” Ava rattled off the names of a smattering of crème de la crème restaurants in New Orleans.

Carmela made a wry face, knowing exactly what Ava’s reaction would be. “It’s not like that at all. Shamus and I aren’t going on a date date. We’re having dinner at Glory’s house.”

“Glory Meechum’s? Eeeyew,” grimaced Ava. “Big sister Glory has always impressed me as one hard-assed woman. In fact, truth be known and all cards face up on the table, Glory Meechum scares the bejeebers outa me. She reminds me of that crazy actress who played Jessica Lange’s momma in that movie Frances. You know, the momma kept up a respectable appearance on the outside, but inside she had a very sinister soul.”

“Shamus always speaks highly of Glory,” offered Carmela.

“Isn’t Glory the senior vice president at Crescent City Bank?” asked Ava. “Doesn’t Glory control the distributions from Shamus’s trust fund?”

“Well . . . yes. I suppose she does,” said Carmela.

“There’s your real family dynamics, honey. Shamus is a smart boy. No way is he going to bite the hand that feeds him.” Ava picked up a camel hair brush, dipped it in shimmering green paint, and deftly applied a few judicious highlights to one of her mask components. “On the other hand,” she said, “every Southern family’s got their fair share of crazies in the attic. Lord knows, I do.”

Chapter 8

“YOU’RE late!” declared Tandy as Carmela came chugging through the front door, more than a little behind schedule on Tuesday morning.

Carmela stopped dead in her tracks, then a huge smile spread across her face. “Tandy!” she cried. Sitting at the back craft table were Tandy Bliss, looking decidedly less frazzled, and Baby Fontaine, looking lovely as ever. Gabby hovered at the front counter, pulling out various scrapbook albums and extolling their merits for a couple of interested customers. “Need any help, Gabby?” Carmela asked.

Gabby shook her head. “We’re fine.”

“More than fine,” said one of the customers with her, a small dark-haired woman with mischievous-looking eyes.

“I’m just getting into this scrapbook thing and I adore it!”

“Watch out, it’s contagious,” Carmela told her as she hurried toward the back of her store.

“Look who’s feeling considerably more chipper today,” said Baby.

“Let me guess,” said Carmela, “the police have shifted their focus off Billy Cobb.”

“Nooo,” said Tandy, “not entirely. But thanks to Baby’s high-powered lawyering husband, they’re being a tad more careful with their accusations.”

“Hoo yah,” said Carmela, sitting down at the table. “Glad to hear it. There’s nothing better than having one of the city’s movers and shakers on your side.”

“Telling the New Orleans police when to move and what to shake,” said Tandy.

Baby arched her neck, secure in the notion that one of her adopted baby chicks was happy and content for the time being. “Okay now,” she said in her best schoolmarm voice, “Carmela promised to help us design labels today.”

“I brought in a couple jars of that strawberry jam,” said Tandy. She reached into her bag, plunked two squat jars on the table. They were the size of large squared-off mustard jars and had plain gold tops.

“And I brought along some of my applesauce,” said Baby. Her jars were rounded and slightly taller, also with gold tops. “I adore giving these away during the holidays,” she added.

“Which will be upon us sooner than we think,” said Tandy.

“Amen,” declared Baby. The two women stopped their amiable chatting to stare at Carmela.

“Well?” Tandy said, her eyes twinkling.

Carmela picked up a pen and paper. “How do you want your labels to read?”

“ ‘Strawberry Jam,’ ” said Tandy without missing a beat.

“ ‘Baby’s Applesauce,’ ” said Baby, grinning. “I take great pride in ownership.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I’m going to spend five minutes on my computer doing the typography, then I’ll print your titles out on beige parchment paper and we’ll get to work.”

“What should we do?” asked Tandy.

“Grab a bunch of rubber stamps and colored ink pads,” said Carmela. “I know for sure we’ve got apple stamps as well as strawberry stamps, but you’ll probably want to embellish your labels with other designs as well.”

True to her word, Carmela was back in five minutes with multiple printouts. “Okay,” she said, “now we’ll fit the labels to your jars. Which means you have to decide if you want your words centered, or a little offset toward the top or bottom.”

“Centered,” said Tandy and Baby in unison.

Carmela held the printouts up to the jars, eyeballed the dimensions, then took them to the paper cutter in her office. After a bit of judicious trimming, the labels, though still undecorated, wrapped around their respective jars perfectly.

“I’ve given you both five sets of labels,” said Carmela. “That way, using different stamps, colored inks, colored pens, and oil crayons, you can experiment and play to your heart’s content.” She shrugged. “You might love every one you come up with, or maybe just one design will trip your trigger. Then that’ll be the one you’ll want to replicate. Anyway, think of this as a kind of test kitchen,” laughed Carmela. “And your number one goal is to have fun.”

As Baby and Tandy labored away happily at the craft table in back, business was brisk that morning and Carmela and Gabby were kept hopping. One customer, a woman in the throes of scrapbook anxiety, was about to abandon hope at ever putting together a genealogy scrapbook until Carmela and Gabby shared a few tricks on mounting photos onto acid-free paper and showed her a variety of oversized envelopes, acid-free storage boxes, and craft bags for organizing and transporting her papers, photos, pens, and stencils.

A young art student came in, searching for Japanese handmade paper to incorporate into a collage project he was doing for class. Carmela showed him some sheets of paper made from bamboo leaves as well as sheets of kanjiprinted tissue paper and the young man left happy as a clam, a brown bag tucked carefully under his arm with Carmela’s gold MEMORY MINE sticker adorning it.

And two gray-haired ladies, regular scrapbook customers who’d driven down from Baton Rouge for the day, kept Carmela and Gabby digging through their files with requests for sports-themed paper and stickers. They both had grandsons who were excelling in soccer and football, they explained, and had declared themselves the self-appointed keepers of memories.

“Whew,” said Gabby. “Busy day. But it sure is heart-warming to see regular customers come in.”

Carmela nodded. She knew that regulars were the bread and butter of any retail business. The tourists, the one-time shoppers, just weren’t enough to sustain a business. You had to have regulars. Which was why she worked so hard to offer promotions, scrapbook and stamping classes, frequent buyer specials, even the all-night crop. Every event she staged gave customers a good reason to come back.

Carmela was even noodling around the idea of offering a class in the next month, called Paper Moon. Introduce folks to some of the brand-new art papers, work in a little scrapbooking and holiday card making at the same time. Or, if she could twist Ava’s arm, maybe even a paper mask making class in January to coincide with Mardi Gras, which kicked off the following month.

“Carmela,” said Baby, “show Tandy one of the menu cards you designed for Saturday night.”

Carmela pulled one down from the back counter, slid it across the table to Tandy.

“Ooh, this is special,” Tandy exclaimed. “And I love that you painted the photo corners.” She pulled off her glasses, red cheaters that she wore around her neck on a gold chain, and wiped at her eyes. “It’s amazing what you miss when you don’t stick around here.”

Baby glanced quickly over at Carmela, then at Tandy. “After you left yesterday, Jade Ella stopped by,” said Baby. She waited a moment, then let the other shoe drop. “She was looking for Billy.”

Tandy gasped in surprise. “Are you serious? She didn’t know the police were talking to him?”

“She acted like she didn’t,” said Baby. “What did you think, Carmela?”

“Hard to tell,” said Carmela, “seeing as how Jade Ella’s so wrapped up with this Spa Diva thing. On the other hand, she may just be playing it close to the vest. You know, see who shakes out as a suspect in her husband’s murder.”

“If you ask me,” said Tandy, “I don’t think she ever loved Barty Hayward in the first place. Jade Ella probably just married him for his money.”

“Does he have money?” wondered Carmela. “Or just inventory?”

“I’ll say one thing for Jade Ella,” said Baby. “She’s definitely one of those women who strive for a distinctive look. Like right now she’s really into the whole glam thing, whereas a year ago she was wearing long, flouncy peasant skirts with lots of ethnic beads and baubles.” Baby folded her arms across her chest. “I subscribe to the policy that Diana Vreeland, the former editor at Vogue, advocated. Miss Vreeland is dead now, God rest her oh-so-fashionable soul, but she firmly believed it was in the best interest of every woman to find a distinctive look and stick with it religiously. You know, wear a kind of uniform day after day.”

“You mean like Hitler did?” asked Tandy.

“Exactly.” Baby nodded. “Or Carol Channing.”

Carmela shook her head. It wasn’t often you heard the names Hitler and Carol Channing bandied about in the same conversation. Especially when it pertained to fashion. Oh well, they were a strange group.

CARMELA DIDN’T EVEN RECOGNIZE DOVE DUVAL when she came striding through the door. Gabby, who was arranging a display of photo albums in the front window, obviously didn’t either.

“Help!” Dove called out loudly, suddenly making her presence known to everyone within a three-block radius.

“Dove,” said Gabby, realizing who it was and springing to her side. “What’s wrong?”

In the back of the store, Tandy and Baby glanced up from their labels.

“I am in need of some ribbon,” announced Dove. Her words came out Ahmmm en neeed. “Hopefully,” continued Dove, with a somewhat petulant expression, “with images of leaves on it.”

“Carmela,” called Gabby, “do we still have that velvet ribbon with the gold oak leaves?”

“Maybe a yard or two,” said Carmela, hurrying toward the front of the store. She pulled open a drawer and pawed through it hastily. “As I recall, it might have been a moss green?” she said hopefully.

“Brown would be so much better,” said Dove. She stood there with her arms across her chest, tapping one small foot. Her blond hair, cut in a choppy do, was slightly wind-tousled. Her face, though flawlessly made up, wore a hard expression.

“Brown it is then,” said Carmela as she fished out a spool of brownish green ribbon. Hey, hold this up to the light and the brown tints are fairly noticeable.

Upon seeing the ribbon, Dove Duval finally allowed herself a small smile. “Perfect,” she declared. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever finish my arrangement for Monsters & Old Masters.” Wearing a self-satisfied grin on her face, this was Dove’s not-so-subtle announcement to everyone in the shop that she was one of the chosen. That she was one of just twenty people who’d been selected to complete a floral arrangement for Saturday night’s big bash. Carmela, on the other hand, knew this was a nice honor, but felt Dove was carrying on as if she’d just made the short list for the Nobel Prize.

“I hope you don’t have to do an arrangement to complement the devil tapestry,” said Carmela. Her good friend Jekyl Hardy was on the committee to select artworks for that year’s Monsters & Old Masters and she recalled Jekyl laughing over one of the works, a Medieval tapestry with pitchfork-toting devils capering across the bottom.

On the other hand, Carmela thought to herself, what a kick if Dove did draw short straw and ended up with that tapestry. From what Jekyl told me, it’s pretty ghastly.

“Au contraire,” said Dove, continuing to feign a Southern accent. “I lucked out and got that darling little owl painting by Rafael Rodrigue. You know, the one in the gold Renaissance-style frame?” Dove cocked a single eyebrow, again exuding a slight hint of superiority.

“Owl in the Moonlight,” said Baby, recalling the exact title. She had worked as a docent at the New Orleans Art Institute for years and was fairly knowledgeable when it came to its permanent collection. Carmela could have kissed Baby for her correct and rather snappy answer.

“Why, yes, that’s it,” said Dove Duval, a hint of uncertainty suddenly registering in her voice. It was slowly dawning on her that she wasn’t the only one in the room who had an “in” with the museum crowd.

“What kind of arrangement are you doing?” asked Gabby, trying to diffuse the tension that suddenly hung in the air.

“Poppy heads, branches of curly willow, dried feverfew, and possibly some Dutchman’s trousers if I can get them. All arranged in a moss-filled wire basket,” Dove told her.

“Pretty,” Tandy replied, although the brittle tone of her voice indicated otherwise.

But Dove Duval seemed not to notice. “How much ribbon is left?” she asked.

Carmela unwound the spool of ribbon and measured it against a yardstick that was taped across the back of the counter. “An inch short of two yards. Hope that’s enough to do the trick.”

“It’s more than enough,” Dove told her crisply. She turned to Gabby. “I need to pick up a few other things, too.”

“Of course,” said Gabby, reaching for a wicker shopping basket. “Not a problem.”

“WHY DOES THAT WOMAN PUT ME ON EDGE?” Carmela asked after Dove Duval had departed. “She’s a good customer. I try to like her.”

“Maybe because there’s not all that much to like?” suggested Tandy.

“She’s awfully pretentious,” added Gabby. “Last Saturday night, right before the Bartholomew Hayward debacle, Dove was bragging to everyone about how she was probably going to get named to the museum’s board of directors.”

“Gosh,” said Baby, crinkling her nose, “I just don’t think that’s going to happen in the near future. I really don’t.”

“Do you know something we don’t?” asked Tandy.

“Could be,” Baby replied as she applied streaks of both bright yellow and dark green oil crayon to her stamped apple leaf image, then smudged both colors gently to achieve a lovely shaded effect.

“Dove certainly seemed to be stocking up on things,” remarked Tandy.

Gabby nodded. “I get the feeling Dove has been bitten by the entertaining bug and plans to design a lot of invitations. She bought card stock, raffia, some of those new brass templates, casting molds, some more gilt paint, and a new pair of scissors.”

“Gilt paint?” said Carmela.

“Scissors!” yelped Tandy. “What kind?”

Gabby looked suddenly stricken. “Paper-cutting scissors. The stainless steel ones by Capers Cutlery.”

The women glanced around the table at each other with wide-eyed looks. As if part of a Vulcan mind meld, everyone seemed to be focused on the same thought until Tandy finally asked: “What do you think Dove did with her old scissors?”

The tension was suddenly so thick inside Carmela’s shop you could’ve cut it with a scissors.

Chapter 9

CARMELA couldn’t ever recall having been inside Glory Meechum’s house when the vacuum cleaner wasn’t rumbling full tilt. Cursed with a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder—Glory always seemed to be embroiled in a cleanliness snit. Take off your shoes, put a coaster under that drink, don’t sit down till I put a doily on the arm of that chair, and for God’s sake don’t spill on the carpet.

Visiting Glory was like some hellish trip back to the second grade. When teachers constantly hammered at you to wipe your feet, blow your nose, study hard, and flush.

To see Glory’s Garden District house filled with guests was quite a shocker to Carmela. Normally taciturn and vaguely suspicious, Glory wasn’t exactly a spitfire on the New Orleans social scene. In fact, the last social event Carmela remembered attending at Glory’s house was the infamous Inquisition Dinner. When all the relatives had been present just before she’d married Shamus.

And hadn’t that been a barrel of fun.

So this rather large person in the button-straining, splotchy floral print dress who was greeting guests and serving drinks couldn’t be Glory Meechum, could it? wondered Carmela.

Maybe it’s really Martha Stewart wearing a Glory costume. Spooky. And Halloween isn’t until this Saturday.

Glory lumbered over to where Carmela stood uncertainly next to Shamus. Shamus fairly beamed at his older sister. Under Glory’s close scrutiny, Carmela wanted to cower. Instead, she stood her ground and smiled.

Why do I suddenly feel like the too-small center on a football team, trying to muster up the courage to snap the ball while staring into a defensive line made up of three-hundred-pound gorillas?

After giving Shamus a perfunctory peck on the cheek, Glory wasted no time with snappy chitchat. “Drink, Shamus?” she asked. “Bourbon?”

Shamus nodded obediently. “Sounds good.”

Carmela cocked an appraising eye at Shamus. Dressed in a navy blazer and khaki slacks, Shamus looked successful, purposeful, and focused. All the things he really wasn’t.

Glory turned toward Carmela and focused hard, beady eyes upon her. “Carmela?” she said gruffly. “Glass of wine?”

“Merlot if you’ve got it,” said Carmela, gazing around with a slightly dazed expression.

“No red wine,” said Glory. “Only white.” A challenging look accompanied her retort.

“Fine,” said Carmela. “White wine then.” Use your head, she told herself. Of course Glory isn’t about to serve red wine. A drop or two might stain her precious carpet.

“You still running that paper store?” asked Glory.

“Scrapbooking shop,” replied Carmela.

“Whatever,” said Glory as she wandered off toward the bar to alert her bartender.

“Well, this is fun,” said Carmela, gazing up at Shamus. Maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, the earth will open up and swallow me whole.

“Carmela . . . don’t,” said Shamus. “Glory’s trying, really she is.”

“If that’s trying, I’d hate to see how she handles oblivious,” replied Carmela. “To say nothing of disdainful.”

Shamus took Carmela’s elbow and guided her toward the bar to collect their drinks. “The bourbon and a white wine?” Shamus said politely to the bartender, who was really Glory’s gardener, Gus, tricked out in a white shirt and black cotton jacket. With the sleeves two inches too short for Gus’s bony wrists, and the toggles fastened crookedly, Gus looked more like a disreputable waiter than a green-thumbed genius with magnolias and roses.

Shamus handed Carmela her glass of white wine. “Be nice,” he said, smiling at her. “Try to meet Glory halfway.”

“I’m always nice,” she replied. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a pill.”

Carmela noticed that Gus had plopped a colored umbrella into Shamus’s bourbon. She figured it was Gus’s notion of what a bartender was supposed to do. Shamus, on the other hand, simply glared at the offending umbrella, fished it out with his index finger, and flicked it into one of Glory’s potted plants.

Glancing about, Carmela saw that Glory’s ordinarily bare walls had been spiffed up. Now they were graced by a dozen or so of Shamus’s photographs in contemporary-looking silver frames. Most were moody shots Shamus had taken of the bayous just south of New Orleans. Photos of old cypress trees shrouded in mist, a riot of blue iris that had just come into bloom, a few shots of palmetto forests, and even one of a lurking alligator. Carmela wondered if Shamus had shot that one using a telephoto lens.

“Your photos are very good,” she told Shamus.

Shamus took a sip of bourbon and nodded, pleased that she’d noticed. “They are, aren’t they. I’m getting so much better. Probably working up to my own show.”

“You think so?” said Carmela.

“Oh yeah. For sure,” said Shamus, gazing about the room.

The dinner party turned out to include more Meechum relatives than real invited guests, with Glory and Shamus’s brother, Jeffrey, and a scattering of various and sundry cousins populating the premises. Plus, it wasn’t a dinner party per se. Rather than seating everyone at her large Sheraton dining table, Glory had set up a small table with appetizers. Garden variety stuff, really. More in the genus Munchies than the phylum Appetizer. Munchus ordinarus, Carmela decided, since the offerings consisted of overcooked rumaki, tiny crab cakes, oversauced chicken drummies, and some cherry tomatoes that haphazardly squirted their red liquid contents when bitten into.

On her second trip to the appetizer table, in an attempt to snare a few pieces from a decent-looking wheel of Camembert that had just been brought out, Carmela ran into Monroe Payne. He was chatting with Glory, praising her to high heaven about something.

“Carmela,” said Glory in her loud bray. “Have you met Monroe Payne? Monroe’s our esteemed director at the New Orleans Art Institute.” Glory pronounced his name Monroe, putting the emphasis on the first syllable of his name.

Carmela smiled politely at Monroe, who was tall, lean, and slightly owlish looking with his round Harry Potter glasses and dark hair combed straight back.

“I think we said hello in the hallway a couple weeks ago,” Carmela said as she balanced her glass of wine and plate of cheese bits while attempting to shake hands with Monroe Payne. “When I was over at the Institute meeting with Natalie Chastain,” she explained.

“Of course,” said Monroe, nodding. “You’re doing some decorating for us.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I’m doing the menu cards and display tags for the Monsters & Old Masters Ball.”

“Wunderbar,” said Monroe, flashing her a wide smile.

“We’re certainly all looking forward to that.”

Standing at his side, Glory Meechum cleared her throat. “I’m sure you’re aware,” said Monroe, still smiling at Carmela, “that Glory will be receiving a major award Saturday night.”

“Mmn, yes,” said Carmela noncommittally. Glory is getting an award? Well, this is news to me. No wonder Shamus is being so solicitous. Glory obviously sent out the order to round up an audience and I’m one of the pigeons.

“It’s our Founder’s Award,” Monroe Payne went on to explain. “A most prestigious award that only gets handed out every couple years or so.” Monroe turned his high-powered charm on Glory. “But Glory’s been a most generous patron so the award is well deserved.”

Glory fixed a hard stare on Carmela. “I hope you’ll be joining us at my table, Carmela.”

So that’s what this little soiree tonight is all about, mused Carmela. A prelude to Glory’s award. A warm-up.

If there was an uncomfortable moment or two, Monroe Payne didn’t seem to be aware of it.

“I’m trying to convince Glory to underwrite one of our upcoming shows,” Monroe confided to Carmela, while continuing to smile widely at Glory.

“Which show would that be?” asked Carmela, nibbling at her Camembert. Ah, finally something tasty.

“Feminist Art Perspectives of the Lower Mississippi,” replied Monroe.

Carmela stole a quick glance at Glory’s impassive face. Glory underwrite a show on feminist art? Never happen. No way, no how. The word feminist doesn’t exist in her lexicon.

But Monroe continued to rattle on about Glory. “Don’t you know,” he told Carmela, “that Glory is one of our Gold-level patrons. Not only has she donated a significant number of artworks to our museum, but she has followed them up with generous cash gifts as well.” Monroe paused dramatically and took a sip of his drink, trying to avoid the tiny purple umbrella that bobbed about, threatening to poke his eye out. “Everyone wants to donate works of art or have their money go toward purchasing works of art. But nobody ever wants their money to pay the heat bill or buy new display cases or pay the guards’ salaries. But those are some of the necessary evils that are part and parcel of running a large museum.” Monroe Payne gave a hangdog look, as though he sincerely regretted having to dirty his hands dealing with those particular necessary evils.

Carmela nodded politely. This was a side of Glory she didn’t know much about. But having had up close and personal experiences with the strange and wily Glory Meechum, Carmela knew it was likely the woman had set up some sort of nonprofit foundation through the family’s Crescent City Bank. That way Glory could appear civic-minded and magnanimous, while still getting a nice fat tax deduction.

“Did you know, Carmela,” said Glory, “that Founder’s Award recipients get to have their portrait painted?” She gazed down at the carpet, narrowing her eyes at some imaginary speck of lint. Carmela figured Glory was probably itching to pull the vacuum cleaner out of the closet for a fast touch-up. She also wondered if Glory was up to speed on the merits of a Flowbee attachment.

“That’s great about the portrait,” said Carmela, her mouth stuffed with cheese. “Terrific.” This last word came out terrifuff.

“Monroe was also trained as a painter,” added Glory. “In Italy.” She was trying her darnedest to keep the conversation ball rolling.

Monroe laughed. “Studied painting. Years ago. And I was terrible. It’s no wonder my professors urged me to switch to museology instead.”

At that moment Glory’s housekeeper, Gabriella, came and whispered something in Glory’s ear.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Glory, still being maddeningly polite as she scurried away.

Monroe gazed after Glory with watery eyes. “She’s a wonderful woman,” he told Carmela. “Generous to a fault.”

“Mmn,” murmured Carmela. Is he talking about the same Glory Meechum who kicked me out of Shamus’s house right after he rather unceremoniously took off? The same Glory Meechum who canceled all our joint credit cards? Who tried to get my name stricken from the rolls of the Garden Club?

Monroe continued to mumble platitudes about Glory, but Carmela suddenly wasn’t listening. Instead, she was intently watching Shamus as he talked and joked with a pretty young blond woman who was wearing a short black cocktail dress that had a keyhole cutout in back. Shamus’s left hand kept wandering up to that keyhole cutout. Flagrantly flirting right in front of the not-yet ex-wife, she thought. Where’s my digital camera when I need it? Judge, take a gander at this photo of the unfaithful husband flirting outrageously with another woman. Mental cruelty of the worst kind, wouldn’t you say?

“Mrs. Meechum?” said Monroe, his voice firm, as though he were repeating himself. “Carmela?”

Carmela blinked, turned her head, stared into Monroe Payne’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were saying . . .?”

“That was some nasty business last weekend. With the fellow who owned the shop next to yours?”

“Bartholomew Hayward,” said Carmela. “Yes, it was quite a shocker.”

“Do you know . . . are the police close to catching someone?” Monroe asked. “Or has that already been in the papers? I’ve been so frantic at the Institute finalizing plans for Monsters & Old Masters, I’m afraid I haven’t stayed all that well informed.”

Carmela shook her head. “You haven’t missed anything so far. But the police do seem to be focused on Billy Cobb, Barty Hayward’s young assistant.”

“From the hesitancy in your voice, I’m guessing you have other ideas,” said Monroe. “Glory told me how you so cleverly helped Shamus out of a spot of bad luck this past year.”

“Well, I wish I could shine that lucky star on Billy,” said Carmela. “He’s the nephew of one of my best friends and she’s very upset that he’s come under suspicion. Maybe you know my friend . . . Tandy Bliss?”

“Tandy and Darwin Bliss. Of course I know them,” said Monroe. “It’s good of you to be so involved. The world would be a far better place if more people were independent thinkers like you.” He glanced around quickly, as if making sure no one would overhear. “You have a suspect in mind?” he asked.

Carmela pursed her lips and a tiny frown creased her forehead. “Not exactly. Let’s just say I’m trying to follow up on a couple clues.”

“Clues that the police uncovered?” said Monroe with an encouraging look.

Carmela hesitated, not wanting to say too much. “Actually, I think the police would pretty much discount what I believe might be important.”

“Then be careful,” warned Monroe. “After having spent more years than I care to admit embroiled in the world of art and antiquities, I know that nefarious people abound. Which means that Bartholomew Hayward probably had any number of enemies.”

Carmela considered Monroe Payne’s words. They pretty much followed her line of thinking, too.

Monroe leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Lots of backbiting and strange goings-on in the art world,” he murmured in a low voice. “Would you believe that a person who resides right here in our very own Garden District once tried to palm off a sixteenth-century painting that disappeared from the collection of a prominent Dutch family during World War II?” He reared back and shook his head. “Shameful.”

“I hear a lot of stolen World War II artwork has resurfaced,” said Carmela.

Monroe grimaced. “Has for some time now. It just isn’t discussed in polite society.”

“I’m getting that same feeling about Barty Hayward’s murder,” said Carmela. “Which is why all of us at the shop have been struggling to get a handle on it.”

“Again,” said Monroe, flashing her a concerned look, “please exercise caution.”

“Don’t worry,” said Carmela. “I’m not about to stumble headlong into trouble. By the way, will you be attending Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral tomorrow?”

One of Monroe’s hands fluttered to his chest. “Unfortunately, I barely knew the man. How about you?”

“Yes, I believe I will be attending,” said Carmela, making up her mind on the spur of the moment. She didn’t really have a decent reason for going, only a huge dollop of curiosity.

Then, because Monroe Payne was still peering at her with a slightly inquisitive smile, Carmela decided she’d better come up with a good reason to explain her attendance. “Since Barty Hayward was my neighbor,” she said piously, “it seems only proper.”

“I agree,” said Monroe, bobbing his head. “It’s only proper.”

Chapter 10

A subtropical wave that had originated off the coast of Africa in mid-October had leisurely swooshed its way across the Atlantic and bumped into the broad area of low pressure that now hovered in the western Caribbean. Meteorologists, stunned to see signs of a hurricane percolating so late in the season, nevertheless recognized the telltale banding-type eye in their satellite imagery. Hoping the unseasonable storm would decelerate and peter out on its own, they were dismayed when a large mid- to upper-level trough moved into the central United States and slowly began edging the storm northward toward the Gulf coast.

Rain sputtered down on mourners that had gathered in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 around the grave that would soon serve as Bartholomew Hayward’s final resting place. Shivering against the raw wind, huddled under a cluster of black umbrellas, the morning’s funeral contingent resembled a patch of slick, oversized toadstools.

Carmela had arrived a little late. Hurrying through the ornate black wrought-iron gate on Washington Avenue, she’d crunched her way down the white gravel lanes that wound past ancient above-ground tombs, then slipped into place next to Baby.

Someone, Carmela didn’t know who, was right in the middle of a heartfelt eulogy to Bartholomew Hayward. The man, slightly built with an Ichabod Crane face and a terrible comb-over, was praising Barty’s sense of humor and mourning the fact he’d no longer be part of the French Quarter.

Carmela gazed around curiously at the rest of the mourners. Most were sedate-looking males, probably antique shop owners. Bartholomew Hayward had been a member of a loosely organized group known as the Vieux Carré Antique Shop Owners. They sometimes organized antique shop “crawls” and advertised their various shops together.

True to her promise, Jade Ella was also present, wearing a flouncy, low-cut red dress and gobs of shining jewelry, clutching a Judith Leiber handbag that turned out to be a jeweled pig. Perched pertly on a black folding chair, Jade Ella did indeed look like Mrs. Bling Bling. Lots of rocks, lots of glam.

Could Jade Ella have knocked off her husband? wondered Carmela. If she had, would she have shown up at his funeral flaunting a red dress and all that glitz? Only if she was certifiably crazy. Or maybe smart like a fox.

Baby nudged Carmela with one shoulder. Dressed in a black suit with a nipped-in waist, Baby looked refined and elegant. Carmela herself had hurriedly tossed on a black cashmere crew neck sweater and black slacks that morning. In the dim light of her apartment, the outfit had seemed sedate, more than appropriate for a funeral. Now she suddenly felt like she was dressed like a second-story artist. All she needed was a black mask and bag to stash the goods in.

“Bad news,” Baby whispered to Carmela.

Carmela frowned, not quite sure what Baby was referring to.

“It would appear our Billy skipped town last night,” Baby said under her breath.

You could’ve knocked Carmela over with a feather.

“What?” she said, trying to exercise some restraint in her response. As it was, a few eyebrows shot up around her. “You gotta be kidding!” she hissed.

“Shush!” Baby put a finger to her mouth. People were definitely beginning to stare.

Carmela plucked at Baby’s sleeve, but Baby merely shook her head and continued to focus on the proceedings. Any further elaboration of her tantalizing news would have to wait.

Two more eulogies droned by, then the minister passed out little paper songbooks. The mourners pulled themselves together and managed to belt out a slightly off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace.” That concluded, a small contingent of the mourners, presumably the Tulane alums, broke into a rousing chorus of the Tulane Fight Song.

Green Wave, Green Wave
Hats off to thee.
We’re out to
Fight Fight Fight
For our victory.

This college fight song was performed perfectly on key and with far more pep and energy than the sad hymn that preceded it.

Finally, the minister rendered his final blessing and Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral was officially concluded.

“Baby!” cried Carmela, finally able to talk out loud. “What’s up with Billy?”

Furrows appeared in Baby’s patrician brow. “All I know is that Del was on the phone early this mornin’ and that Billy was nowhere to be found.”

“He’d been living at home?” asked Carmela.

Baby gave a brisk nod. “With his parents, Donny and Lenore.”

“So what happened?” asked Carmela.

Baby dropped her voice a notch. “Apparently Billy went out last night and never came back.”

“Is that a fact?” said Carmela, gazing across the open grave to where Jade Ella was smiling and shaking hands, bouncing about like a debutante at her coming-out party. Carmela had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined that Billy Cobb might be one bit guilty.

And now Billy’s taken off into the night. Why? Is he actually running from the police?

She’d have to think about that one.

Why do people run from the police? Elementary, my dear Watson. Because they’re guilty. But Billy isn’t guilty, is he?

Carmela sighed. For all the thought she’d given this, she seemed to be going nowhere. And the meager clues she’d been able to garner seemed utterly useless. The little medallion with the GC insignia ground into it hadn’t led anywhere. Maybe it never would.

“This sure throws a wrench into things,” muttered Carmela.

“Doesn’t it just,” agreed Baby. She pulled a gold silk scarf from her perfect leather handbag and wound it around her neck.

“Tandy’s gonna freak out,” said Carmela.

“No, dear, Tandy’s gonna go ballistic,” said Baby. She hesitated, a slightly stricken look on her face.

“What?” asked Carmela, sensing more.

“There’s more,” said Baby, really looking worried now.

“Judging from the look on your face I’d say there’s a real problem,” said Carmela. “Tell me.”

“It seems our Billy has a police record,” whispered Baby.

“Oh, shit,” said Carmela. “What? What’d Billy do?”

“Small potatoes stuff, mostly,” said Baby. “A few years back, Billy stole a Jaguar XKE in order to impress a prom date.”

“At least he exhibits good taste in cars,” said Carmela. “What else?”

“He got pulled in for smoking pot,” said Baby.

“That’s not good,” said Carmela.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” said Baby. “I never in my wildest dreams saw this coming. I always figured Billy was clean as a whistle.”

“Maybe he is,” said Carmela. She was about to say more, when she saw Jade Ella heading toward them.

“Jade Ella,” said Baby, extending a hand gracefully, “my sincere condolences.”

“Ain’t this a hoot?” exclaimed Jade Ella, taking Baby’s hand. Her eyes shone brightly and her thick, dark hair swished at her shoulders. Carmela decided that Jade Ella looked a little like Cleopatra on Dexedrine. “Talk about dancing on someone’s grave,” Jade Ella babbled on. “But when your ticket is punched, what can you do?”

Carmela studied Jade Ella carefully. Drugs. The woman has to be on drugs. Because Bartholomew Hayward had more than just his ticket punched. The poor man had his throat gouged open.

“Will you keep the shop going?” Carmela asked.

“Why?” said Jade Ella playfully. “Do you need more space?”

“No,” said Carmela slowly. “I was just thinking about the customers and the rather large inventory Barty has amassed. Business considerations, really.”

Jade Ella waved a hand. “Not the sort of thing I want to worry about right now. The store will just have to take care of itself while I get Spa Diva up and running.” She waggled a finger at them. “I expect the two of you to be among our first customers.”

She doesn’t know about Billy, Carmela suddenly realized. She doesn’t know that Billy’s taken off. Should I tell her?

Carmela gave a quick glance toward Baby, whose smile remained frozen in place.

Baby’s not about to say anything. So neither will I. Jade Ella has such a snitty, irreverent attitude about her husband’s death that I’ll be darned if I’m going to bring her into the loop. Besides, she’s just crazy enough to have masterminded some kind of weird plot against Barty.

Carmela watched as Jade Ella moved off into the crowd. Then, lost in thought, Carmela stared out across the whitewashed graves. Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of the city’s oldest cemeteries and most of the graves testified to that fact. Many were cracked and crumbling. Lacy moss crawled up some of the tombs; sleeping angels, their faces eroded with time, kept watch on others.

This may be a place of dark beauty, Carmela thought to herself, but it’s also a place of unrelenting sadness.

Baby touched at Carmela’s elbow. “Sweetie,” she said, “you seem so sad all of a sudden. Want to catch lunch at Commander’s Palace?”

Carmela pulled herself from her dark thoughts and nodded. “Excellent idea.” Commander’s Palace was the rather tony restaurant directly across Washington Avenue from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. A former speakeasy, the famed turreted turquoise and white Victorian building was the only restaurant to grace the Garden District and it was where TV chef Emeril Lagasse got his start. Though it had long since evolved into a New Orleans institution, Commander’s Palace still enjoyed a reputation as one of New Orleans’s premier restaurants.

Baby cast a worried glance at the sky as they hurried across the street. “This rain could put a terrible damper on Halloween.”

“Weatherman says there’s a tropical depression brewing out over the Gulf of Mexico,” said Carmela.

Baby frowned. “Can’t be. It’s way too late in the season.” “Tell me about it,” said Carmela. She’d lived in and about New Orleans all her life and the traditional hurricane season generally stretched from June to early October. Still . . . if an anomaly was going to occur, this seemed to be the place. New Orleans seemed to be ground zero for all manner of strange events, the least of which were hurricanes.

And don’t forget, Carmela told herself, New Orleans’s most famous rum drink is named . . . what else? The Hurricane!

COMMANDER’S PALACE WAS WARM AND COZY, THE perfect rainy day lunch spot, and Carmela and Baby lucked out by scoring one of the coveted window tables. As Carmela dug in her black leather bag for a Kleenex, Baby spotted a packet of photos.

“May I?” she asked, plucking them from Carmela’s bag.

“Go ahead,” said Carmela. The photos were shots she’d taken a week earlier on a walk through Audubon Park, a 340-acre park that had once been an old sugar cane plantation. Carmela decided it might be fun to get someone’s reaction to them.

“Oh, these are terrific,” cooed Baby.

“Really?” Carmela hadn’t counted on such a favorable review.

“Absolutely,” said Baby as she eagerly scanned the photos. “Very professional looking. Did you print them yourself? ”

Carmela nodded. Photography had changed so much in the last couple years, what with the advent of digital cameras and color printers. Color prints that used to take days and cost a pretty penny to process could now be done in minutes in your own home or office.

“You should have your own show,” declared Baby. “You’re certainly good enough.”

“Hardly,” said Carmela, but she was pleased all the same. When she and Shamus were first dating, she had taken a photography class with him, at his urging. It looked like all the lectures on lighting, composition, and visual text were paying off now.

Just as Carmela finished ordering her eggs de la Salle, a fabulous house specialty that was served with crab cakes and wild mushrooms, her cell phone shrilled.

“ ’Scuse me,” she told Baby, who was still debating over whether to order the turtle soup. “It’s probably Gabby at the store.” Carmela snatched up her phone, punched on her Receive button, and said “Hello.”

“I adore a woman with a morbid streak,” came a rich, resonant male voice.

What? Who on earth is this? wondered Carmela.

“It’s Quigg Brevard,” the voice quickly explained. “I phoned your shop and your assistant assured me you were out wandering the byways of Lafayette Cemetery. I presume you were pondering the great hereafter and soaking up the mournful atmosphere.”

“It wasn’t exactly a pleasure jaunt,” Carmela told him. “I was attending a funeral.”

There was a short pause, then Quigg Brevard said, “Of course, for Bartholomew Hayward.”

“Bingo,” said Carmela, even as she wondered exactly why Quigg Brevard had called. As if you don’t know, you coy girl.

“Listen,” said Quigg, “I need to get some kind of scrapbook put together.”

Oops, survey says . . . wrong answer! Better tuck that massive ego away for safekeeping.

“You being the proverbial scrapbook lady,” continued Quigg, “I thought we could sit down and talk about a possible project.”

“What kind of scrapbook are you thinking about?” asked Carmela. She put her hand across the phone and murmured a hasty “Sorry” to Baby. Baby, who was engrossed in perusing the wine list while reapplying her lip gloss, smiled and nodded, not in the least bit put off.

“Something that will showcase our party room and catering services,” said Quigg. “And probably our wedding and banquet capabilities, too.”

Carmela nodded. More and more, businesses were noting the merits of putting together scrapbooks to illustrate their products and services. Interior designers had been doing it for years, visually demonstrating to clients their befores and afters. Now floral designers, orthodontists, landscapers, and wedding planners were jumping on the bandwagon and flocking to her shop. Asking questions, taking lessons, buying supplies, and . . . praise be . . . even requesting that Carmela put together professional scrapbooks for them.

“When would you like to get together?” Carmela asked Quigg, mentally going over the free time she had available in the coming week.

Yeah, next week is pretty open, that should probably work.

“How about tonight?” Quigg proposed.

“Tonight?” squawked Carmela.

“Absolutely. No time like the present,” Quigg said in his smooth yet enthusiastic manner. “Why don’t you drop by Bon Tiempe around sevenish? And please . . . come prepared for dinner. Plying you with fine food and wine is the least I can do for requesting your presence at such short notice.”

Charmed and more than just a little bit intrigued, Carmela told Quigg that seven o’clock would work just fine with her. And as she slid her cell phone back into her purse, she decided she’d better make a detour back to her apartment after work. So she could slip into something a touch more appealing.

Chapter 11

THE French Market between Decatur and North Peters Streets had been standing for well over one hundred and fifty years. A large, almost open-air building, the French Market bustled with vendors, food stands, and souvenir shops. Strands of braided garlic, known as prayer beads, hung from the rafters above the various farmers’ market stalls that brimmed with brightly colored produce.

Here you could also buy grilled alligator on a stick, honest-to-goodness Creole pecan pralines, and jars of mind-blowing hot sauce.

At the uptown end of the market sat Café Du Monde. Open twenty-four hours a day, this landmark institution was famous for its beignets, square doughnuts sans holes and liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar, as well as its inventive blend of chicory coffee and steamed milk, known forever as café au lait.

As Carmela hurried down the jostling center aisle to meet Jekyl Hardy, she was reminded just how tacky, wacky, and infinitely appealing the French Market really was. Smells of cinnamon and cardamom perfumed the air, and a lovely mélange of accents—Creole, Cajun, Louisianan, and African American—floated past her. Though Carmela didn’t exactly have time for coffee with Jekyl today, she was here anyway. Because they were good friends, they tried to make time for each other at least once a week.

Lean and wiry, his dark hair pulled into a small, sleek ponytail, Jekyl Hardy sat at a creaky wooden table sipping a double espresso. Dressed impeccably in his traditional black, Jekyl looked ethereal and slightly predatory, not unlike the infamous vampire Lestat who frequented New Orleans via Anne Rice’s novels. As the head float designer for the Pluvius and Nepthys krewes, Jekyl Hardy was generally in a state of sublime excitation once Mardi Gras loomed on the horizon. But for right now, Jekyl was focused mainly on his business of art and antique consulting. As he’d once confided to Carmela, “the float building’s for sport; the art and antiques consulting is for money.”

Carmela slipped into the chair across from Jekyl. “Boo!” she said by way of announcing herself.

He gazed at her morosely. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Jekyl, you love Halloween. You’re the only man I know who’s got a walk-in closet devoted just to costumes.”

“I don’t love it this year,” he told her.

“What’s wrong?” asked Carmela as she tucked her handbag under her chair, quickly ordered a coffee, and leaned in to listen to him.

“If I ever volunteer for Monsters & Old Masters again, kindly drag me into a swamp and shoot me with a silver bullet.”

“That bad?” asked Carmela.

“How do I let myself get talked into these things?” moaned Jekyl. “It’s taken a committee of five people forever to decide on twenty simple works of art.”

Carmela grinned. Jekyl was notorious for letting himself get stretched too thin. He might be a whirling dervish of activity, but nobody could be a volunteer with the Children’s Art Association, the Humane Society, and the Art Institute, head two float-building krewes for Mardi Gras, and run a consulting business. It wasn’t humanly possible.

“Natalie told me the list of artworks would be finalized by end of day tomorrow,” said Carmela. “Anyway, it better be. I’m the one doing the description tags for Saturday night’s event.”

Jekyl sighed, then took another sip of espresso. “Monroe Payne may be a wildly creative museum director, but he’s also very well named. Just as his name implies, the man can be an incredible pain. He’s constantly changing his mind.”

“I met Monroe Payne the other night,” said Carmela. “When I was at Glory’s house.”

Jekyl Hardy pulled his lips into a wicked smile. “Sleeping with the enemy, are we?”

“Nope,” said Carmela, “just plain old socializing.”

“Of that I approve,” said Jekyl. “But I hope filing for divorce remains numero uno on your personal agenda, my dear Ms. Bertrand.”

Carmela nodded her head in the affirmative.

“You sure about that?” prodded Jekyl. He’d been through more than a few go-rounds with Carmela on this divorce business. He pushing, she resisting.

Now Carmela looked downright sad. “Afraid so,” she said.

Jekyl reached over and touched one of her hands. “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you upset. Honest.”

Carmela managed a smile. “You didn’t upset me, Jekyl. I upset me.” No, Shamus upset me. Still burned into her memory was the image of the blond in the black cocktail dress with Shamus’s hand roving toward that keyhole cutout. Cad.

Jekyl waved a hand. “Sorry I’m so tediously distracted today, but I gave Natalie my solemn promise that I’d design a couple killer jack-o’-lanterns to light the museum’s front entrance Saturday night . . . and now I have this last-minute thing I might have to do.”

“What thing is that?” Carmela asked.

“There’s a big antiques conference up in St. Louis this weekend, and one of the speakers, a real antiques honcho, had to cancel. So they called me this morning and asked me to pinch-hit. All expenses paid plus a fairly decent stipend.” Jekyl rolled his eyes. “Plus there are undoubtedly connections to be made.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” said Carmela, always a big “seize the moment” proponent.

Jekyl Hardy fidgeted. “I don’t know. . . . ”

They both paused, listening to the mellow saxophone strains that wafted over from nearby street musicians. Even in the rain, the street musicians were cranking out their moody, bluesy tunes. Carmela hoped the tourists were generous, pitching their quarters and dollar bills into the musicians’ open, empty felt-lined cases. ’Cause these guys were good.

“Tell you what,” said Carmela. “You go to St. Louis and I’ll carve the jack-o’-lanterns for Natalie.”

“How are you going to manage that, pray tell?” asked Jekyl. “Your schedule’s got to be as jammed as mine.”

“I’ll corral Ava and we’ll make time.”

“Really?” asked Jekyl, a hopeful look lighting his face.

“No problem,” said Carmela. You go to St. Louis and be a star. Whip ’em into a frenzy with that great ‘Fakes and Forgeries’ talk you do.”

Can I get all this done? Carmela wondered. Sure I can. Of course I can. Gulp.

“A thousand blessings on your head,” proclaimed Jekyl.

BY THE TIME CARMELA FINISHED A FEW ERRANDS and got back to Memory Mine, it was after five. The sign hanging on the front door said CLOSED, and Gabby was nowhere to be found.

Of course Gabby’s gone, Carmela told herself. Closed means closed. Gabby went home to make dinner for Stuart, the car czar.

Stuart was notorious for having low blood sugar. When Stuart didn’t eat on time, all hell broke loose. He once gobbled half a dozen Three Musketeers bars during the last quarter of a New Orleans Saints game because he claimed he was suffering from a low blood sugar “attack” brought on by his beloved team’s desultory performance.

Carmela shuffled back toward her office. She wanted to take a couple scrapbook pages with her to Bon Tiempe. Quigg Brevard might think he knew what he wanted, but Carmela still wanted to do a little show-and-tell. And she for sure wanted Quigg to look at the sample scrapbook pages she’d put together for Lotus Floral and the pages she’d done for Romanoff’s Bakery.

Okay, where the heck are those pages? Where did I put them?

Carmela whipped open three drawers in the flat file in rapid succession, but came up empty. Frowning, she decided the pages had to be stashed somewhere in this cubbyhole of an office.

Cramped, crowded, and cluttered, her office wasn’t exactly a model office deserving of a center spread in Architectural Digest. In fact, her office was definitely due for a makeover. Or a cleanup. Or maybe even a full-scale intervention.

Carmela wondered if there were twelve-step programs for junk junkies, then decided there had to be. There were twelve-step programs for everything else. Heck, there were probably twelve-step programs for people who ate glue.

Finally, in the bottom drawer of her battered wooden desk, Carmela found the scrapbook pages she’d been searching for.

Hah! Gotcha.

Now she had to beat feet home, hit the shower, and wiggle into a cute little dress.

Right?

As if in answer to her question, a sharp knock sounded at her back door.

Ava? No, can’t be. Tonight Ava’s supposed to be shepherding Sweetmomma Pam to an early dinner at Brennan’s and then a jazz concert at Pete Fountain’s club over in the Hilton.

So who’s tapping on my back door? Quoth the Raven, Nevermore?

Carmela padded to the door and hesitated. Putting an ear to the heavy reinforced steel door, she listened for a couple seconds, but could hear nothing.

“Who’s there?” she called, then added in an emphatic tone: “I’m sorry, but the shop is closed.”

“Carmela?” came a low muffled voice. “It’s me.”

“Who’s me?” she called warily.

“Billy. I—”

Flinging open the door, Carmela was stunned to find Billy Cobb standing at her back door. Looking utterly forlorn and bedraggled in a faded checked shirt and frayed blue jeans, he was the last person she expected to turn up here.

“Billy! What on earth . . .?” Carmela began.

But Billy simply stared at her and continued to look mournful.

Carmela did a fast scan of the alley. Then she reached out, plucked at Billy’s shirtsleeve, and reeled him in. “Get in here,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you know everyone is looking for you? The police are looking for you, for goodness’ sake. And your poor family . . . well, they’re worried sick!”

Under her prodding, Billy Cobb hustled himself inside and closed the heavy door behind him.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Carmela asked.

Billy screwed up his face in a look of sublime unhappiness. “I . . . I don’t know what’s going on.”

Always a results-oriented person, this was not the answer Carmela wanted to hear. She decided to take a different approach in her line of questioning.

“Billy, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened last Saturday night, did you?” she asked.

“No, of course not!”

Carmela stared at him. He looked believable, sounded believable.

“The police are trying to railroad me,” he protested.

“Any idea why?” she asked.

“I think because I’m convenient,” he said, one hand raking through his mop of hair.

Carmela stared at Billy. He was a kid who’d been in trouble with the law, he wasn’t a property owner or a business owner, and he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was sure this wasn’t the first time the police had taken the path of least resistance.

“Listen, Billy, did Bartholomew Hayward get a lot of late-night deliveries?”

Billy shook his head. “I dunno. If he did, he always took care of them himself.”

“Do you have any idea who killed Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Carmela.

Something akin to fear crept into Billy’s expression. “No, of course not,” he answered. “But . . .” He cast his eyes downward.

“Billy,” said Carmela, her voice softening, “has someone threatened you?”

Billy’s mouth twitched, but no words issued forth. Finally he nodded. “Just tell my family I’m okay, will you? Can you do that for me?”

“I’d like to do more than that,” said Carmela. “I’d like to help if I can.”

“Then stay out of it,” pleaded Billy. “Because right now, the best thing for me to do is disappear for a while.” He spun back toward the door and grasped the doorknob.

“Billy,” said Carmela. She grabbed a pad of paper, scrawled her cell phone number on it, and pressed it into his hand. “Call me, will you? Let me know you’re okay.”

Billy pulled open the door and a gush of cold, damp air swept in. He hesitated, his back to Carmela. “I’ll try. . . .”

And with that, Billy Cobb was out the door.

“Billy, please . . . ,” said Carmela.

But he’d already melted into the darkness.

Chapter 12

THE dinner hour at Bon Tiempe was even more appealing than lunch or brunch. Candles flickered inside glass hurricane lamps, pale peach table linens imparted a romantic glow, and a tuxedo-clad sommelier solemnly bore bottles of wine to the various tables as though he were delivering precious elixirs, which he probably was.

As the maitre d’ led Carmela to a small, somewhat out-of-the-way table and seated her, she noted that the evening atmosphere at Bon Tiempe was decidedly elegant and romantic. Not exactly conducive to a serious business discussion. Then again, after her somewhat unnerving encounter with the disappearing Billy Cobb, she wasn’t sure she could even conduct a business discussion with Quigg Brevard tonight. Billy’s pop-in, pop-out act had been very strange indeed.

Is he covering up for someone? she wondered. Does Billy have a suspicion about who murdered Bartholomew Hayward and he’s afraid to say? Or is something else going on entirely?

Carmela brushed her hair back from her shoulders in a symbolic act of clearing her head. Got to tend to business, she told herself. Although everywhere she looked, couples were gazing into each other’s eyes, enjoying a romantic dinner.

And (Carmela had to admit it) she had dressed up for this meeting, this encounter with the rather dashing Quigg Brevard. Studying her reflection in the mirror at home, she’d decided that the black shantung silk dress had maybe looked a little too sexy. So she’d toned down her look with a pashmina shawl tossed casually about her shoulders and replaced the pearl bracelet with two chunky carved Chinese cinnabar bracelets that Ava had given her the previous Christmas. Her leather portfolio, filled with samples and tucked under one arm, had imparted the final business-woman touch.

At least she hoped it had. Because as she sat here, still waiting for Quigg Brevard to join her, the headwaiter lit the candles on her table and swooshed a linen napkin onto her lap while, with a grand flourish, the sommelier uncorked a bottle of wine and poured a half-inch of viscous red liquid into a gigantic crystal wine goblet for her approval.

All this for me? Quigg’s certainly given orders to pull out all the stops.

“The wine is to your liking, madame?” asked the sommelier, who was poised expectantly with the wine bottle.

Carmela took a small sip. The wine was rich and robust, slightly oaky and redolent with the scent of berries.

“This is amazing,” Carmela told him. And it was—like drinking ambrosia.

“I knew you’d enjoy that particular wine.”

Carmela looked up into the deeply tanned face of Quigg Brevard as he slipped into the chair across from her, then gazed at her with a mixture of curiosity and focused intent. “It comes from a small château in Bordeaux,” he told her. “Very limited production. Still, Château Veronique has been turning out fine wines since about seventeen ninety-eight. Napoleon Bonaparte was one of its most ardent fans. So was General George Patton.” Quigg’s smile turned into a somewhat sheepish grin. “Now you know my little secret. I’m an oenophile and a military buff. Weird combination, huh?”

Carmela raised an eyebrow. “This wine must have set you back a hundred dollars a bottle.”

“A hundred fifty,” said Quigg. “But only if I were paying retail.” He gestured for the sommelier to fill his glass, too. “Tonight you dine for my pleasure, madame.”

“Something tells me I’ll be dining very well,” said Carmela. This is awfully cozy and nice. A girl could get used to this kind of treatment.

Quigg smiled one of his toothy, fleeting smiles. “So we’ll eat first, drink a couple glasses of wine, and enjoy ourselves. Get to know each other. Then, if we’re still of a mind, we’ll talk business.”

“Terrific,” said Carmela. She gave a sidelong glance around the table, still not finding a menu at her place.

Quigg caught her glance. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve already ordered for us. Chef Ricardo will be preparing a couple dishes that aren’t on the menu. Not yet anyway.”

“So I’m your guinea pig,” laughed Carmela.

“Think of tonight as a taste test,” offered Quigg. “And, seriously, I really do want your honest opinion.”

The “couple dishes” Chef Ricardo prepared especially for them turned out to be very special indeed. Their appetizer consisted of a grilled duck liver salad. The segundo, or second course, brought tears of joy to Carmela’s eyes. Asparagus risotto with freshly shaved Parmesan. The arborio rice was creamy and rich, the asparagus bright green and cooked al dente, and the Parmesan cheese imparted a lovely salty, almost nutty taste.

Their surprise entree turned out to be a pair of perfectly pink veal chops stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese and toasted walnuts.

While none of the servings were particularly large or looked like they would be at all filling, the flavors were so sublime, the ingredients so sinfully rich, that Carmela had to launch a vehement protest when Quigg Brevard beckoned for another small veal chop to be brought out from the kitchen.

“Enough,” groaned Carmela. “I never eat this much.”

“Nothing wrong with a woman who demonstrates a healthy appetite,” Quigg told her.

“That’s the problem,” said Carmela. “Eating this much is unhealthy.”

“Then have another glass of wine,” said Quigg as he hopped up from his chair, “to assist in digestion. And I’m going to sound the alert to Chef Ricardo and have him fire up his chafing dish. Dessert will be prepared tableside tonight.”

“Dessert,” moaned Carmela. “Oh no.”

Carmela and Quigg did end up talking business. And as the brown sugar and brandy sizzled in the brass chafing dish, Quigg explained to Carmela what he had in mind.

“As you well know, dining is a transient experience. People come here for a couple hours, hopefully enjoy their elegant and beautifully prepared dinner, then go home. End of story. Bon Tiempe only remains top of mind for a few hours at best. Or, if our customers had a really enjoyable time, they might mention their dinner the next day to their friends.” Quigg assumed a contemplative gaze. “How on earth do you capture such a short-lived, almost ephemeral experience? And make it promotable to others?”

Carmela understood exactly where Quigg was headed.

“But if Bon Tiempe had a scrapbook,” he continued, “we could capture some of the happy faces of the couples and groups who were celebrating, all the fond memories, and use it to our advantage.”

Quigg picked up the bottle of Château Veronique and offered the last inch of wine to Carmela. When she declined, he emptied the few drops into his own wineglass.

“Downstairs we have a lovely party room,” continued Quigg. “Decorated in a very contemporary fashion.” He pointed across the dining room. “Out those double doors you’ll find our patio. Circular fountain, mood lighting, small but lush garden. Both areas will accommodate gatherings that range in size from a dozen to seventy-five people. Think of it,” he said excitedly, “we’re set up for Mardi Gras parties, wedding receptions, anniversaries, birthdays, office parties, you name it!” He paused, waited as Carmela jotted a few notes.

“Now if we had a nicely designed scrapbook,” continued Quigg, “we could better communicate our atmosphere and our offerings.” He paused. “What do you think?”

“You don’t have to sell me,” laughed Carmela. “But what you might want to consider is having two scrapbooks.”

Quigg rocked back in his chair, an amused smile lighting his face. “Why two?” he asked.

“Make the first scrapbook a straight-ahead promotional book using the group and event photos you have right now. I’m assuming you have some of those?”

“A shoebox full,” said Quigg emphatically.

“Good,” said Carmela. “Then make the second scrap book a sort of romantic-looking guest book. Pass that book around at lunch or in the evening, allow your guests to write in it. Trust me, people love to leave little notes about a special meal they enjoyed or the occasion they’re celebrating.”

“Okay . . . ,” said Quigg.

“But on, say, every other page of that book, we’ll put a beauty shot of a dinner entree or a dessert or something,” added Carmela. “And we’ll also intersperse some of the nicer photos of groups out on the patio or enjoying the party room. And we’ll add captions, too.”

“So as folks are signing the so-called guest book, we also make the point that Bon Tiempe is available for special events,” said Quigg.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “The guest book, or memory book if you will, plants the seeds.”

“And when customers come back to actually plan their event, we pull out the straight-ahead event scrapbook,” said Quigg. “I love it.”

“Really?” asked Carmela. She’d been so busy formulating and putting across her ideas, she wasn’t sure he’d actually heard her.

“So you’ll put them together for us?” Quigg asked. “The scrapbooks, I mean?”

“Of course,” said Carmela, thinking, Honey, you don’t have to twist my arm.

“Outstanding,” said Quigg, smiling at her.

And as Carmela gazed at his handsome face, a tiny little point of pain ignited deep within her heart. Shamus used to look at me like that, she told herself. Shamus used to take me out for romantic dinners that lasted for hours. Shamus would debate over the merits of a Bordeaux or a Burgundy, just to make me happy.

Carmela blinked, tried to yank herself back to the here and now.

Shamus isn’t in my life anymore, she told herself firmly. Not because I don’t want him, but because he doesn’t seem to want me. Grow up, girl. Wake up and smell the gumbo. March yourself into a lawyer’s office and file for that divorce so you can start living your life again. And start dating nice men like this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Quigg.

Carmela stiffened and sat up straight. Looking around hastily, her eyes fell on Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be creating something magical with trout, almonds, and white wine.

“I was thinking what a fabulous dinner we just had,” she lied.

Quigg looked pleased.

Carmela nodded toward Chef Ricardo. “I’ll bet you wish you could clone him.”

Quigg nodded fervently. “The man’s an absolute genius. A food alchemist.”

Carmela watched as Chef Ricardo slid a fillet knife into the body of the large, plump, butter-browned trout, flipped it open casually, and lifted out the spine. Carmela shivered, imagining that knife sliding into a person.

“Tough being a chef, though,” she said. “Working every night. Weekends, too.”

“He doesn’t work every night. Sometimes we let him off for good behavior.”

“Was he working last Saturday night?” Carmela asked.

Quigg’s brows knit together. “Why do you ask?”

Carmela shrugged. “No reason.”

Quigg rolled his eyes. “Chef Ricardo did not stab Bartholomew Hayward,” he told her emphatically. “You’re being overly suspicious and probably watch far too many episodes of Law and Order. Reruns and syndication are not necessarily a good thing.”

“So he was here,” said Carmela.

“As a matter of fact, he was off last Saturday night.”

“Really,” said Carmela.

Quigg chuckled. “But he’ll be doing double duty this Saturday night since we’re also catering the bash over at the Art Institute.” He paused. “Does that make you happy?”

“The Monsters & Old Masters Ball?” asked Carmela. Well, this is a coincidence.

“That’s the one,” said Quigg. “Say, you gonna be there?” His dark eyes sparkled. He was obviously amused by Carmela’s amateur sleuthing.

Carmela ducked her head. “Yes, I am.”

“Terrific,” enthused Quigg. “Save me a dance, will you? Or a monster hop or whatever the heck’s going on there.”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela playfully. “Are you coming in costume? It’s Halloween, after all.”

“Are you kidding?” said Quigg. “I’ll be the poor sap dressed in a tux. Just think of me as Lurch from The Addams Family. Say”—he turned suddenly serious—“how was that funeral this morning?”

“Funereal,” Carmela told him. “Except for Barty Hayward’s wife, Jade Ella, who served as the one bizarre bright spot in the whole thing. She wore a red dress and did everything but dance on Barty’s grave.” Carmela glanced over at Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be focused intently on their conversation even as he garnished his trout with a medley of asparagus and roasted red pepper.

“Jade Ella has always seemed like a very unusual woman,” said Quigg thoughtfully. “She’s dined here several times and each time she’s been accompanied by a different male escort. I get the distinct feeling she’s the one who prefers calling the shots.”

“Jade Ella’s a real pistol,” allowed Carmela. And a viable suspect, too. Not unlike Chef Ricardo.

“So,” said Quigg, smiling at Carmela. “You’re willing to put together those scrapbooks? You’ll take a stab at it?”

“Interesting choice of words,” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard stood up and shook his head. “I’ll get those photos for you, Carmela.”

Chapter 13

CLICK click click. Boo’s toenails clicked daintily across the floor as Carmela led her into the store on her leash. Outside, rain poured down in sheets. Carmela didn’t ordinarily bring Boo to her shop, but today Ava wasn’t going to be around to let her out and it was far too blustery to leave Boo outside in the courtyard.

“Hey there, pups,” called Gabby as she grabbed a towel and knelt down to wipe Boo’s wet paws. In typical Shar-Pei fashion, Boo immediately gave a good shake, then plopped herself down and scrunched her feet underneath her plump little body, trying to hide her paws.

“How come Boo came along today?” asked Gabby, still struggling to find a paw beneath all those ample wrinkles.

“Ava went to the retail buyers market today. And it didn’t seem right to impose on Tyrell.”

Tyrell Burton was Ava’s sometime assistant. A grad student at Tulane who was studiously earning his MA in history, Tyrell was an African American whose great-grandmother had emigrated from Haiti almost a hundred years ago. Because great-grandma had been known to dabble in voodoo, Tyrell felt himself uniquely qualified to work at Ava’s store. His Haitian heritage, combined with a knack for being exceedingly glib, made Tyrell a favorite with tourists. And he never tired of spinning a few good yarns just for their benefit.

Carmela shrugged out of her raincoat and, in a motion not unlike Boo’s, gave it a good shake. Droplets of water flew everywhere.

“Hey,” scolded Gabby, grabbing a roll of paper towels and kneeling down to wipe the floor. “I don’t know which one of you is messier. You or Boo.”

“Oops, sorry,” said Carmela, bending down to help sop up water. It wouldn’t do for unsuspecting customers to slip on the wet floor and take a nasty header.

“No problem,” said Gabby, who sometimes seemed happiest when she was cleaning up after someone.

Maybe Stuart is a secret slob, thought Carmela. Gabby always seems so pleased when there’s a mess to clean up. Maybe Stuart, the Toyota King, leaves his underwear in a ball at night or slops toothpaste all over the sink. Carmela chuckled to herself for a moment, until she remembered the awful truth. Wait a minute, what am I thinking? All men do that stuff. Somewhere along the line, the sloppiness factor has been embedded in their genetic code.

“What are you chuckling about?” Gabby asked.

“Nothing,” Carmela told her, a little ashamed of her flight of fancy over Stuart’s messiness. Carmela gazed toward the back of the store where Tandy and Byrle sat huddled at the big craft table. It didn’t look like much scrapbooking was going on, but they were certainly deep in conversation.

“What’s the story back there?” Carmela asked.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Tandy’s pretty hysterical about Billy skipping town like he did. And she’s waiting to talk to you. She says you’re always such a calming influence.”

“Me?” Carmela snorted. “First time I’ve ever heard that. Usually I’m the one who gets accused of upsetting the proverbial apple cart.”

“Hey,” Gabby grinned, “accept the compliment.”

“I will,” said Carmela as she strode to the back of the store, Boo scurrying after her.

“Carmela,” said Tandy, her hypothyroidal eyes fixing on her. “We have to talk.”

Carmela slid into a chair across from Tandy and Byrle. Tandy reached across the table and grasped for Carmela’s hands. “Things are so bad,” she whispered harshly, her lower lip beginning to quiver. “Donny and Lenore are just beside themselves with worry. And I didn’t sleep a wink all night myself. I kept turning this whole thing over and over in my mind. Does Billy know something? Is Billy somehow involved?” Tandy’s thin hands suddenly slipped out of Carmela’s and she swiped at the tears streaming down her thin, pale cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “This is very embarrassing.”

Byrle patted Tandy’s shoulder. “There, there,” she said, sympathy in her voice. “What’s a few tears in front of friends?”

“We’re pretty positive Billy has left the state,” said Tandy, snuffling harder. “He’s got cousins over in Biloxi, so he could be headed that way.” Tandy fumbled in her purse, pulled out a large white hanky, and blew her nose loudly.

Carmela stared at Tandy. Her dear friend was obviously in a world of hurt and she so wanted to help. But will telling Tandy that I spoke to Billy last night make things any better? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

“The thing of it is,” continued Tandy, “the police are really on Billy’s case now. His little disappearing act has them convinced of his guilt.”

“Oh, honey,” said Byrle, “that’s not necessarily true.”

“It is true,” said Tandy. “Now there’s a warrant out for Billy’s arrest!”

Carmela grimaced. Tell Tandy? Not tell her? She held her thumb to her lips, nibbled nervously at a fingernail.

“Tandy . . .,” began Carmela, “someone came . . .” She hesitated. “That is . . . I saw Billy last night.” This last part came out in a rush. There, thought Carmela. I finally spit it out. For what it’s worth.

Carmela’s words had a profound effect on Tandy. Her eyes went wide as saucers, a tiny hand flew to her birdlike chest. “You what?” Tandy was truly shocked. Dumbfounded, in fact.

“Billy knocked on my back door last night,” explained Carmela.

Now Tandy put a hand to her mouth. “You actually talked to him? Really and truly?”

“Honey,” said Carmela, “I wouldn’t characterize it as a heart-to-heart talk, but, yes, we spoke. Truth be known, it was a fairly one-sided conversation. I asked Billy a few probing questions, Billy shifted from one foot to the other, pretty much unwilling to answer any of them.”

“But he’s okay,” said Tandy. Her eyes gleamed; a healthy color had suddenly returned to her face.

“Physically, Billy seemed fine,” said Carmela. “But something has definitely got him running scared. And I get the feeling it’s not necessarily the police.”

“Oh my lord!” exclaimed Tandy. “I’ve got to call Donny and Lenore immediately.”

“No!” protested Carmela, knowing this could turn into a major problem for her.

Tandy stared at Carmela. “Why in heaven’s name not?” she asked. “Billy’s their only son, they’re worried sick about him. And they want him to come home!”

“Listen,” said Carmela, “I got the distinct feeling Billy’s not about to saunter into Donny and Lenore’s house, hang up his baseball cap, and sit down to a nice dish of jambalaya. Billy’s definitely on the run and I’m pretty sure he’s going to stay on the run.”

“Dear God,” said Tandy in a small, tight voice. “You mean . . . Billy’s never coming home?”

“Probably not until Bartholomew Hayward’s murder is solved anyway,” said Carmela. “Until this whole thing gets sorted out.”

“But the police aren’t doing anything,” wailed Tandy.

“They do seem incredibly myopic,” admitted Carmela. She was miffed that Lieutenant Babcock still hadn’t gotten back to her about the list she’d given him.

“Then it’s up to us,” declared Byrle in her typical gung ho style. But as she delivered her words, she stared pointedly at Carmela.

“Darned right, it’s up to us,” said Tandy, struggling to get a rein on her emotions. She, too, was staring directly at Carmela.

Why do I get the feeling that ‘us’ suddenly means me? wondered Carmela. When did I get appointed Sherlock Holmes? But even as the words free-floated through her brain, she knew the answer. Because Barty Hayward was killed in back of my store. Because he was probably staggering toward my back door for help.

“Listen,” said Carmela finally, “I’m not making any promises, but there are a couple things I could look into. Okay?”

Both women exhaled in unison as they leaned forward expectantly.

“Okay,” whispered Tandy.

“But you’ve got to keep quiet,” warned Carmela.

Byrle made a zipping motion across her mouth.

“Mum’s the word,” promised Tandy.

“And you have to promise you won’t breathe a word of this to Donny and Lenore,” said Carmela, directing a firm gaze at Tandy.

“I won’t,” said Tandy.

“Because the last thing I want is a bunch of police swarming around here asking questions,” said Carmela. Would they, really? Oh yeah, they would. And then I’d really be in a pickle. Aiding and abetting a felon and/or fugitive. Withholding evidence. Yipes.

Tandy’s eyes shone brightly. “I knew we could count on you, Carmela.”

“What did I tell you?” said Byrle. “Carmela’s got more sleuthing ability in her little finger than all of us put together.”

“Shhhh,” warned Carmela. Three customers had just entered her store and were clustered around a display of foil papers up front. Even though Gabby had rushed to help them, you never knew what might be overheard and passed on.

“We’ll make like church mice,” said Tandy, suddenly happy.

“We’ll work on our scrapbooks,” said Byrle as she plunked her craft bag on top of the table and began pulling out a jumble of photos, albums, and scissors.

“Okay,” said Carmela. “I’m going to see if Gabby needs any help.” She hesitated, waggled a finger at Boo. “And you, my dear girl, had better remain back here for the time being.” Boo, who was lying at Tandy’s feet, gazed up at Carmela solemnly as if to say, Pardon me, but I am too well mannered a canine to be receiving such a stern lecture on protocol.

THE WEEKS BEFORE AND AFTER A HOLIDAY, ANY holiday, were always frantically busy at Memory Mine. And this pre-Halloween week was no exception. In fact, these three customers, just like all the others, had come in search of stickers, rubber stamps, decorative papers, and ribbon. As Carmela well knew, they’d use some of the craft items for Halloween scrapbooking, others for decorating trick-or-treat bags, rubber-stamping invitations, and making window decorations.

Carmela had laid in a good supply of special Halloween papers and rubber stamps. She knew most of her regulars would be making Halloween scrapbook pages to celebrate the exploits of their own little monsters or, like Tandy and Baby, their grandchildren’s Halloween capers. Carmela’s stock of rubber stamps now included ghosts, skeletons, and classic movie monsters, while her supply of Halloween paper boasted bats, pumpkins, haunted houses, creeping vines, and star and moon motifs.

Carmela was just sliding sheets of beige kraft paper with large orange pumpkins emblazoned across them into an oversized envelope, when Tyrell Burton came trooping into the shop. And, lo and behold, Sweetmomma Pam was with him.

“Hey, Tyrell,” called Gabby from behind the front counter, where she was ringing up a customer. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” She smiled at Ava’s wizened little grandmother. “Hi there, Sweetmomma Pam.”

“I’ve got another customer for you,” said Tyrell. He put his hands on Sweetmomma Pam’s narrow shoulders and gently pushed her forward, presenting her to Carmela. A tiny woman with curly white hair dressed in an innocuous navy blue pantsuit, Sweetmomma Pam was definitely dwarfed by Tyrell’s imposing form.

“Hey there, dawlin’,” she said, waving to Carmela as a smile lit her lined face.

“Tyrell?” said Carmela. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

“I realize you’re extremely busy, Carmela,” began Tyrell, “but there are two of you”—his glance quickly flashed to Gabby—“and only one of me. Things are in a tizzy at the voodoo shop, on account of Halloween. And Sweetmomma Pam requires a tad more chaperoning than I am able to provide.” This explanation was delivered with such tact and delicacy that Carmela had to smile in spite of herself.

“And,” continued Tyrell, “Miss Ava assured me that you and your friends would extend every courtesy to Sweetmomma Pam.”

Carmela reached out, gently put a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Of course we will. In fact, we’re delighted to have Sweetmomma Pam join us.” Ava had been such a good sport about taking Boo out for walks when Carmela couldn’t make it home at noon, that Carmela was glad she could finally reciprocate.

Tyrell was visibly relieved. “Ava promised she’d be back by four o’clock at the latest.” Spinning on his heels, Tyrell was about to make a hasty exit, when he suddenly paused and turned around. “Thank you, ladies,” he said. “And God bless.”

Leading Sweetmomma Pam back to the craft table, Carmela made hasty introductions. And, as she got Sweetmomma Pam settled in, she began to formulate a plan. Sweetmomma Pam was the perfect candidate to help her finish up the menu cards. It was an easy project that would keep her guest busy and hopefully amused. If all went well, she’d then be able to zip over to the Art Institute after lunch and deliver said cards to Natalie.

“You got a boyfriend, honey?” Sweetmomma Pam asked Carmela as they sat side by side, Carmela stamping images on her menu cards and Sweetmomma Pam adhering them to the larger card using Carmela’s faux finished photo corners.

“No,” Carmela told her. “I’m still married.”

Sweetmomma Pam squinted in disbelief. “You’re married ? So how come y’all are livin’ alone? In that little apartment in back of Ava’s?”

“Um . . . actually I’m separated,” Carmela explained.

“Separated,” snorted Sweetmomma Pam. “That’s nothin’ but a fancy term for a bad marriage. In my book a woman’s either married or she’s not. There shouldn’t be any middle ground.”

Darn it, thought Carmela, Sweetmomma Pam is probably right. There shouldn’t be any middle ground. Either Shamus and I should stick together through thick or thin, or we should get that divorce. So why is it I’m still hovering in marital purgatory? Stuck right smack dab in the middle, not knowing what’s going on. Not knowing if we’re gonna divorce or reconcile.

Sweetmomma Pam suddenly turned her attention to Tandy, sitting across the table from her. Tandy was using one of her objets trouvés—found objects. In fact, Tandy was big on found objects. She’d once done an entire scrapbook using fabric scraps, old buttons, and angel charms as accent pieces.

Today Tandy was designing a scrapbook page using the front of a Wheaties box. She had cut away the picture of the sports hero du jour and replaced it with a photo of one of her grandsons whacking out a homer in a Little League game. The headline now read SLUGFEST OF CHAMPIONS.

“Who’s that fella?” asked Sweetmomma Pam, poking a finger at the grinning sports hero Tandy had discarded. “The one that got eighty-sixed.”

Not a serious sports fan, Tandy shrugged. “I don’t really know. Probably some hotshot named Barry or Bobby or Bubba.”

Sweetmomma Pam wrinkled her nose and smiled. “This is fun.” One of her sharp elbows jabbed at Carmela’s ribs.

“Eleven o’clock,” a mechanical voice announced brightly.

Tandy jumped in her seat. “What on earth was that?”

Sweetmomma Pam stuck her skinny wrist out. “My talking watch. Ain’t it a pip? I ordered it off the TV.”

“That voice sounds like it’s been sucking helium,” exclaimed Tandy.

“It’s amazing what they can put on a chip these days,” added Byrle.

But Sweetmomma Pam’s watch had also told Carmela that they were definitely making progress on the menu cards. They’d been at it a half hour and were more than halfway done.

“You’re an absolute whiz,” Carmela told her. And she was, too. Sweetmomma Pam’s gnarled fingers had been working double time, deftly sticking on the little photo corners. In fact, Carmela had finished her stamping and was moving on to her next last-minute project. Glassware for Baby’s party.

Baby was in the throes of decorating her palatial Garden District home for Halloween and was planning to throw a huge party for her family on Saturday night, just a few short hours before she and husband Del scampered off to the Monsters & Old Masters Ball. Baby had wanted to create something really special for her dinner table and Carmela (scrapbook and craft masochist that she was) had promised Baby she’d decorate some glassware for her.

So, early this morning, Gabby had accepted delivery of two dozen martini glasses. Not the garden variety kind, but whopping, oversized, long-stemmed martini glasses that you could really serve a serious drink in.

“Watcha gonna do with those, cher?” asked Byrle. She eyed the giant martini glasses expectantly as Carmela pulled them from the confines of their carton.

Carmela held up a finger. “Give me a minute and I’ll show you.”

She opened a stamp pad of black ink, rocked a rubber stamp against it gently, then applied the stamp to the side of one of the martini glasses. When Carmela removed the stamp, there remained the perfect image of a spider.

“A spider . . . cool,” said Sweetmomma Pam.

Carmela spun the glass around and carefully added another dozen or so spiders until the little arachnids appeared to be crawling all over the martini glass.

“That’s quite a Halloween effect,” said Tandy. One eyebrow was raised. She didn’t dislike the spider effect, it was just taking her a while to warm up to the idea of spiders.

“What the heck is Baby gonna serve in that?” asked Byrle.

“Something she calls a Monster Slosh,” said Carmela.

“Dear lord, a drink that size, one surely would get sloshed,” said Sweetmomma Pam with a gleam in her eye.

“What’s in a Monster Slosh?” asked Tandy.

“Ginger beer, lime juice, and a shot of dark rum,” said Carmela. “Baby’s gonna serve it on the rocks with a gummy worm dangling over the side for garnish. And maybe a lump of dry ice for a nice spooky fog effect.”

“Baby really loves to go all out,” remarked Tandy.

Carmela smiled as she held up her handiwork. “Don’t we all,” she said.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, CARMELA’S GOOD MOOD evaporated when a disheveled-looking man entered her shop and introduced himself as Reed Bigelow. Dark haired, dark complected, and seemingly dark tempered, Reed Bigelow had a nose that looked as sharp as the bill of a hawk.

He thrust his embossed business card into Carmela’s hand. “I represent the Harget Brown Insurance Company,” he told her. “Offices in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Shreveport, and Alexandria.” He rocked back on his heels, the picture of pride and puffery, as he hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his trench coat and waited for Carmela to react.

Carmela studied the man’s card, wondering exactly what reaction it was supposed to elicit from her. Stunned silence? Respect? “Life insurance or business insurance?” she finally asked him, since it wasn’t readily apparent from his card.

He shrugged. “Does it matter? I just want to ask a few questions.”

Carmela gave an answering shrug, then handed the card back to a surprised Reed Bigelow. “Excuse me,” she said, “I have customers to attend to.”

“Look, lady . . .” The insurance man was suddenly right behind her, dogging her steps.

Carmela stopped and turned. “Oh,” she said, a look of surprise registering on her face. “I guess it does matter.” Don’t try to bully me, friend. I haven’t lived in the South all my life and dealt with blustering men without picking up a trick or two. Fact is, it’s a little bit like handling bull elephants. Kindness combined with brute force.

Carmela smiled to herself. Now why couldn’t she use that line of reasoning with Shamus? Good question.

He had already backed way off, partly because of Carmela’s no-nonsense attitude and partly because of the audience he had suddenly acquired. “Look,” he explained, mindful that several pairs of eyes were now focused on him, “I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot here. It’s just that I’ve got this crazy lady constantly calling my office and haranguing me. When you gonna mail out the check, Reed? When do you think I’m finally gonna get a settlement?” By raising his voice and putting a little wheedle into his tone, Reed Bigelow had managed to do a fairly good imitation of Jade Ella Hayward.

“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, trying her best to suppress a knowing smile.

“Bingo,” he said unhappily, trying to figure out some way to get his business card back into Carmela’s hands. Much to his dismay, she had stuck her hands deep into the pockets of the craft apron she always wore when she did rubber stamping.

“When is Jade Ella going to get her payoff?” asked Carmela, who was suddenly more than curious. “And I assume this is life insurance.”

Bigelow nodded as he scrunched his face into a grimace. “That’s the thing of it,” he said. “These situations are extremely hard to predict. There are no hard-and-fast rules. In most cases, once the deceased is buried, our company cuts a check. However, in situations where a homicide has occurred”—he suddenly lowered his voice—“then we have to make sure that the beneficiary is what you’d call a noninvolved party.”

“And is Jade Ella a noninvolved party?” asked Carmela, who was starting to enjoy herself in this little cat-and-mouse game with Reed Bigelow.

The man continued to look unhappy. “Not exactly,” he said.

“So Jade Ella’s a suspect?”

“Not exactly,” he told her.

“Let me get this straight,” said Carmela. “From what you’ve determined so far, Jade Ella is a non-noninvolved party, yet she hasn’t been elevated to murder suspect.”

Bigelow narrowed his eyes. “You got a funny way of putting things, lady.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Carmela. The phone next to her shrilled and she casually reached over to pick it up. After listening for a few seconds, Carmela covered the mouthpiece and turned toward the back of the shop.

“It’s the Merci Beaucoup Bakery,” she called to Tandy, Byrle, Gabby, and Sweetmomma Pam. “They’re checking to see if we want lunch delivered today. Do we?”

“Ooh,” exclaimed Byrle. “How about muffulettas?”

“Yum,” said Tandy.

Besides the po’boy, the muffuletta was the other signature sandwich of Louisiana. Back in the early 1900s, a Sicilian grocer, gastronomically inclined, combined various meats, cheeses, and olive relish onto a round, seeded muffuletta loaf, thus launching a deliciously enduring trend. Although there were endless variations on the muffuletta sandwich, they all shared one thing in common—muffulettas were wonderfully messy to eat.

“Salami and cheese for me,” called Tandy.

“Tell ’em to skip the capers on mine,” said Byrle.

“I’m dying for an oyster po’boy,” screeched Sweetmomma Pam.

Carmela smiled sweetly at the unhappy little man who hovered nearby. “This lunch thing will probably take a while to sort out,” she told him. “I’m gonna have to get back to you.”

Chapter 14

THESE are terrific,” murmured Natalie Chastain as she turned over one of the menu cards and studied it. “Really terrific.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela. “It’s been a fun project.” And praise be for the nimble fingers of Sweetmomma Pam.

“Where would we be without volunteers like you?” Natalie asked, then quickly grinned and held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. I know where we’d be. Up a creek without a paddle.”

Carmela and Sweetmomma Pam had finished the menu cards and Baby’s martini glasses by two that afternoon. Carmela had immediately tossed everything into her car (she’d taken to parking in back of Menagerie Antiques now, since nobody was ever there) and headed across town to the Art Institute. Now, as she stood in Natalie’s cramped office, surveying floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with Chinese bronzes, kachina dolls, Greek vases, and various and sundry pieces of antique silver, the large black and white institutional clock that hung on the wall was just creeping toward two thirty.

“I’ll have the description tags for you tomorrow afternoon,” Carmela told her as she studied the final copy Natalie had just handed her. She also silently thought to herself, I’m really gonna have to book it.

Natalie nodded, sublimely pleased. “And I understand you’ll also be carving our jack-o’-lanterns.” She flashed Carmela a quizzical glance. “Carmela, how do you manage it all?”

Carmela shrugged. She had no idea. “Just doing a favor for a friend is all. Jekyl got busy.”

“Jekyl got smart and left town,” sighed Natalie. “I should follow his good example. The preparations for Saturday night’s Monsters & Old Masters are killing me. Are killing everyone here,” she amended.

“Is that Mrs. Meechum I hear?” a friendly voice called from out in the hallway.

Carmela swiveled her head just in time to see Monroe Payne step through the doorway. Dressed in a dark suit, carrying a small painting in his hand, he looked sedate and suave.

“Hello there,” Carmela said, pleased to see him again.

Monroe dropped his voice an octave and gave her a warm smile, the kind he usually reserved only for big-buck donors. “Natalie’s been telling me what an absolute angel you’ve been, Carmela. Helping us with the menu cards and the description tags. . . . Speaking of which, here’s our final piece.” He handed the small oil painting over to Natalie.

“Wonderful,” she said.

“And of course you’ll be in attendance Saturday night?” Monroe said, smiling at Carmela. He glanced quickly at Natalie, suddenly flustered. “Please tell me we sent complimentary tickets to Mrs. Meechum.”

“Carmela. Just call me Carmela.” Actually, she had never changed her name to Meechum in the first place. “And don’t worry about complimentary tickets. I’m already sitting at Baby and Del Fontaine’s table. They invited me way back when. Months ago, really.”

Natalie Chastain gently set the oil painting down on her desk, frowned slightly, then pawed through a jumble of papers. She suddenly looked puzzled as something caught her eye. “Don’t quote me on this, Carmela, but I think you’re going to end up with place cards at two different tables. I distinctly remember your husband telling me you’d be sitting with him, since his sister is slated to receive our Founder’s Award Saturday night.”

“That sounds exactly like something Shamus would do,” said Carmela, fuming inside. She was pretty sure she’d made it crystal clear to Shamus that she was sitting with Baby and Del and the rest of the gang.

“Problem?” asked Natalie.

“You’ll just have to make like a social butterfly,” said Monroe, sensing Carmela’s discomfort and trying his best to give the apparent mix-up a lighthearted spin. “And flit freely from one table to another. Maybe even bring a second costume so no one will be the wiser.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Carmela told him, although she was really thinking about wringing Shamus’s scrawny neck. “Natalie,” she said, holding up a finger. “Tags for the art and floral displays tomorrow.”

Natalie bobbed her head gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

RAIN WAS STILL SPATTERING DOWN WHEN CARMELA swung her car back down Napoleon Avenue and headed for the Garden District. Here were sixty-six blocks of palatial splendor, elegant antebellum mansions constructed in the 1840s and ’50s to house the socially and financially prominent. Today, most homes were painted in delicate soft pastels and trimmed in white. Many had been made even grander over the years by the addition of Greek columns, expansive verandahs, second-story porticos, and intricate wrought-iron fences and balustrades.

Stately and majestic, the oak tree reigned supreme in the Garden District; its great languid bows formed imposing archways over many of the streets. Lavish gardens surrounding the homes, originally cultivated to shield residents from the stench of nearby slaughterhouses, boasted towering stands of crape myrtle, bougainvillea, oleander, and camellias. In spring, the yards of most Garden District homes were a riot of flowering azaleas.

As Carmela pulled her car in front of Baby’s house and got out, she could hear the faint clang of the old streetcar as it rattled its way down St. Charles Avenue, just a few blocks over. Dating back to 1835, it was the oldest streetcar line still operating in the United States and its thirteen-mile route still served as a commuter train for New Orleans residents.

Baby Fontaine lived on Third Street in a palatial Italianate home with double doors of glass and wrought iron. Pale pink silk covered the walls of the front entry hall, where an enormous crystal chandelier dangled and a huge circular stairway curled dramatically upward.

“Carmela!” called Baby as she ran to greet her, all rustling silk and smelling of Joy, the perfume she considered her signature scent. “Come in, come in,” she enthused.

Charles Joseph, the Fontaines’ longtime maintenance man, had admitted Carmela and was now dispatched to Carmela’s car with orders to carefully ferry in the newly decorated glassware. Charles Joseph, who kept the furnace purring, the air conditioner humming, and the ancient copper pipes flowing as well as could be expected in the grand old house, was a tall, solemn, gray-haired man with a heroic handlebar mustache. Carmela thought he looked exactly like one of the old French pirates who had fought alongside Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte to help save the city of New Orleans during the War of 1812.

Grabbing Carmela by the hand, Baby dragged her down the center hallway to what she called her office. Carmela found herself being pulled past a grand living room that was impeccably furnished with Louis XVI furniture and hung with original oil paintings, as well as a spectacular cypress-paneled library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with gleaming leather-bound books.

Baby’s office at the end of the hallway was really just a small salon with a cozy brick fireplace. But Baby had set it up with a white silk love seat and matching club chairs, an antique library table for scrapbooking and craft projects, and pink lighting that was highly complementary to a lady’s complexion. This was Baby’s special retreat where she planned parties, gabbed on the phone, and had a few friends in for tea and gossip. It was also where she kept Sampson, her pet snapping turtle.

“Hello, Sampson,” said Carmela, peering into a giant cut-glass bowl at the dark green, humpbacked reptile. Sampson, not known for having particularly good manners or even a decent temper, gave a warning hiss as he regarded Carmela with hooded eyes.

“Careful, honey,” said Baby, “don’t get too close. Sampson’s a little out of sorts today. We didn’t have any beefsteak handy, so I had to make do with a slice of chicken. Put the poor dear off his feed, I guess.”

Carmela knew Sampson wasn’t all that picky. He’d been known to chomp down on a human or two when guests got a little too curious and poked a finger at him.

“Did I tell you?” Baby said excitedly. “Everyone’s coming Saturday afternoon.” By “everyone” she meant her family. Kids, grandkids, brothers, sisters, cousins, second cousins. She was going to stage a late afternoon Halloween buffet at her house and then scamper off to the Art Institute for the Monsters & Old Masters Ball.

“This year Anne Rice won’t have the only big hoo-ha in the Garden District,” said Carmela, referring to the big Halloween party that the famous mystery writer traditionally threw.

“Well, it’s not like ours is going to go all night,” said Baby. “Del and I for sure want to be there for Monsters & Old Masters. Besides, the kids will want to go out trick-or-treating and most of the kinfolk will be going on to other parties.”

“I see some nice trick-or-treat bags over there,” said Carmela, pointing to a stack of orange and black bags that Baby had gussied up with black cat and bat charms. “What else are you planning for Saturday?”

“The dining room will be draped with yards of sheer orange gossamer fabric,” said Baby with great enthusiasm. “With matching ribbon tied around the silverware.”

“And outside?” prompted Carmela. Baby was always big on outside decor, too.

“I’ll do a spectacular arrangement of orange and white pumpkins on the front porch,” said Baby. “With garlands of grape vine and bittersweet hung everywhere. And of course we’ll be doing pumpkin alley again this year.”

Pumpkin alley was something all Baby’s neighbors participated in. They got together and brought in a huge truckload of pumpkins, carved faces into them, and then, on Halloween night, lined the street with glowing jack-o’lanterns. Set every three feet along the curb, the flickering, smiling faces of pumpkin alley were quite a sight to behold.

“How’s the carving coming?” asked Carmela, knowing that was the hardest part. Knowing she had to get busy herself pretty soon and carve a couple jack-o’-lanterns of her own.

“I’ve only got two more left to do,” groaned Baby. “But I’m plumb out of ideas. Carmela, I was wondering if you might . . .”

“Your glassware, Miss Baby.” Charles Joseph stood at the doorway, boxes piled in his arms. Carmela found it amusing that Charles Joseph never called her Mrs. Fontaine or even Ms. Fontaine, but always Miss Baby. Then again, it was one of those Southern mannerisms that was both peculiar and endearing.

“Here, let me help,” said Baby, leaping up from the love seat and grabbing the top box of glassware. Together, she and Charles Joseph set the boxes on the table, then gently opened them.

Carmela said a hasty prayer to Saint Francis Xavier Cabrini, the patron saint of hopeless causes, knowing it would be a miracle if all two dozen martini glasses had survived their period in transit. Not because of her car, which was as smooth-riding as they come, but because the streets of New Orleans were so perilously riddled with potholes. Killer potholes. Had been, in fact, since anyone could remember. Probably since the very colorful Huey P. Long, also known as the Kingfish, had reigned as governor and then senator.

“These are fabulous!” exclaimed Baby as she grasped one of the spider-decorated glasses and held it up for inspection. “Aren’t they fabulous, Charles Joseph?”

Charles Joseph bobbed his grizzled head. “Very fanciful, indeed.” He gave a faint smile. “Lovely work, Miss Carmela.”

“Thank you, Charles Joseph,” said Carmela, suddenly feeling as though she were in a stage play where everyone was terribly well mannered and polite.

“Nothing broken?” asked Carmela.

“They’re absolutely perfect,” smiled Baby, her blue eyes gleaming. “In more ways than one.” She put an arm around Carmela. “Thanks for being such a dear friend.”

Charles Joseph helped repack the boxes and gathered them up once again. “I shall place these in the pantry, ma’am, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Wonderful,” cooed Baby, who turned to face Carmela. “Now, about those two pumpkins I have left . . .”

“I’ve got just the design for you,” said Carmela as she grabbed a crayon and a sheet of paper, then sat herself down at the library table and began to sketch.

“Look at that,” marveled Baby as Carmela’s fingers flew across the page. “A pumpkin face that has a moon for one eye and a star for the other. Where ever do you find your inspiration?”

CARMELA ZOOMED DOWN THE BACK ALLEY, POINTED her car into the parking space behind Menagerie Antiques, and cut the engine.

Quarter to five. Had she really been gone almost all afternoon? Yes, she had. But, she told herself, I got a whole lot done, too.

And there’s lots more to do, a little voice echoed inside her head as Carmela stuck her key in the lock and pushed her way inside the shop.

“I’m back,” she called, throwing her leather bag down atop the clutter of her desk.

Out front, two customers were sifting through a basket filled with colorful stickers while Gabby stood at the front counter, ringing up a purchase for a third customer. Carmela thought Gabby looked absolutely frazzled.

“You’ve been busy,” Carmela remarked after the last customer had finally departed.

Gabby stared at her. “Busy? Au contraire, my dear, we’ve been absolutely frantic. I do believe we did more business today than in all of last week.” Gabby blew out a puff of air that lifted her bangs off her forehead, then plunked herself down on one of the stools that had been brought around from the back of the counter. “Halloween,” she said. “Amazing. It’s been almost as crazy as Mardi Gras.”

“Gabby,” said Carmela, immediately feeling guilty, “I’m awfully sorry. I had no idea the shop would be so busy today.”

Gabby waved a hand. “Not to worry. In a weird way it was kind of fun. Challenging, you know?”

Carmela nodded as she glanced about the shop. Something was missing. Or rather, someone was missing. Boo was still there, curled up in the corner, but . . . “Where’s Sweetmomma Pam?” Carmela asked suddenly.

“Gone home,” said Gabby, gathering up a handful of hair and pulling it into a ponytail. “Ava stopped by about twenty minutes ago to pick her up. Ava also inquired about your—and I quote—hot date last night.” Gabby paused, curious now. “Did you have a hot date last night?”

“Not really,” said Carmela. “It was more of a business thing. I’m going to do a scrapbook for Bon Tiempe Restaurant.”

“Oh,” said Gabby, suddenly switching to her disinterested mode. Gabby’s forte was helping customers put together family scrapbooks and she was quite content to let Carmela deal with the commercial projects.

Carmela glanced at her watch, a sporty little Tag Heuer that Shamus had given her when they were first married. “Listen, could you stick around for five more minutes? I have to bring some stuff in from my car.”

“No problem,” said Gabby, beginning to sort through a basket of stickers that had gotten all messed up.

“I stopped by Patterson’s Paper Supply and got three more packages of that floral-patterned paper,” Carmela called to her as she headed toward the back door.

“Good,” said Gabby. “Mrs. Gardette was in a few days ago asking about it.”

Carmela had the packs of paper balanced on one knee, and that knee jammed up against the rear bumper of her car, when a truck lumbered down the alley. It was a large, nondescript-looking vehicle with a white cab and a wooden box with a tarp thrown over its contents. Easing up to the back door of Menagerie Antiques, the truck rumbled to a stop, its tailpipes belching diesel fumes.

What’s this? Carmela wondered as she wrinkled her nose. A delivery for Bartholomew Hayward? Doesn’t this guy know that Barty is dead? Has been for some five days now?

Resting her packages on the hood of her car, Carmela walked toward the truck. If memory served her correctly, Barty had been expecting a shipment the night he was murdered. She wondered if this was the shipment, arriving late. Or if this same fellow had delivered a different shipment on Saturday night. If so, he might know something.

“Got a delivery,” said the trucker, jumping from his cab. He was ample-bellied and jowly, wearing a gray shirt that barely tucked into baggy khaki pants. The name DWAYNE was stitched in red over his shirt pocket. No doubt, Carmela decided, his family and friends pronounced it Doo-wayne.

“The owner is away,” said Carmela, unsure as to how to proceed. Yeah, he’s away. For good.

“No problem,” said Dwayne. “As long as somebody can let me in.”

Carmela thought of the keys Billy Cobb had passed on to her a few days before. Should she go get those keys and let Dwayne in? Why not? No harm done.

Carmela was back with the ring of keys in two minutes, unlocking the back door and then ducking inside the back room of Menagerie Antiques. She pressed a dusty red button and the large garage door creaked and groaned its way upward.

“You were just here last Saturday?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Dwayne. “Haven’t been here for a couple weeks.”

That might have been so, but Dwayne certainly knew his way around. He flipped on a few more lights, then shoved a couple wooden crates off to one side to make room for the new shipment. Then he muscled the half-dozen pieces of furniture off his truck, slid them onto a dolly, and wheeled the furniture inside. Once he’d dispatched with the furniture, he disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes to do his business.

Carmela stood off to the side the whole time, a somewhat reluctant participant, still wondering if she’d done the right thing.

And, pray tell, what is the right thing? Tell Dwayne to get lost? Call the oh-so-strange Jade Ella and tell her to get down here to her dead husband’s shop? Ring up Reed Bigelow, Bartholomew Hayward’s insurance agent?

None of the choices seemed terribly appealing. Or all that appropriate. So, in the end, Carmela just wandered about Bartholomew Hayward’s workroom, gazing at spare chair parts, a peeling fireplace mantel, a small painting on an easel, and waited patiently for Dwayne to emerge from the rest room.

Dwayne came out, zipping his pants. “You got anything for the return trip?” he asked nonchalantly.

“What?” asked Carmela, slightly discombobulated by Dwayne’s casual zip-up.

The trucker inhaled deeply. Then he picked up his clipboard and tapped a metal pen against it, as though he really didn’t have time for this. “Mr. Hayward’s usually got a pickup for me,” he told her.

“Where do you take it?” Carmela asked, wishing Dwayne would stop his annoying tapping.

Dwayne gave an exasperated shrug. “Storage. Where else?”

Carmela rolled her eyes. “I know that.”

With that the trucker seemed to drop his hard-ass attitude. “The usual place,” he told her. “Place over in Westwego, just off River Road.”

“Yeah,” said Carmela. “Okay.” She gave an appraising look around, then flashed Dwayne what she hoped was one of her sweetest smiles. “No, we don’t seem to have anything to haul out there today.”

“Okay then,” he said, passing her the pen and clipboard. “Just put your John Hancock right there.”

“Not a problem,” said Carmela. She thought about signing a false name, then figured, the heck with it. On the bottom line of the form she carefully penned Carmela Bertrand accepting shipment for Billy Cobb.

“Thanks,” said Dwayne as he disappeared out the door. “You-all have a good one.”

Carmela stood in the back of Bartholomew Hayward’s shop and looked around. The shipment Dwayne had left was relatively small. A highboy chest of drawers, a banister-back rocking chair, plus a round dining table with four so-so chairs. Nothing to write home about. Probably the same caliber of stuff Dove Duval had been summarily stuck with.

But that storage place over in Westwego. Now that sounded interesting. Carmela wondered if that could be the place where Billy Cobb was hiding out.

She turned the idea over and over in her head, wondering if Billy was, in fact, hunkered down in Barty Hayward’s storage space. Finally, she decided there was only one way to find out. Take a drive out there.

Yeah, but that means I have to go into Barty’s office and snoop through his records to locate the exact address.

Was that a smart thing to do?

Good question.

And, of course, the next issue was what to do if she actually found Billy Cobb hiding out there. Then what? Did she try to reason with him? Get him to turn himself in so the whole mess could be sorted out? Lieutenant Babcock seemed like a decent man. Could she convince Billy to turn himself in to him? And then convince the lieutenant that Billy was innocent?

But there was something else bothering Carmela. In the back of her mind hung the unanswered question: What if Billy Cobb really is a murderer? What if I’m walking into what could end up being a trap?

Carmela decided she wouldn’t dwell on that right now.

The address. First I gotta find the address.

Carmela eased through the swinging doors that led into the shop, decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to switch on the lights. If she did, customers walking by would for sure see her rummaging around and knock on the door, seeking admittance.

Moving carefully through narrow aisles of etageres and tea tables crammed with antique silver teapots, pewter pitchers, colorful glass vases, and fanciful lamps with fringed shades, Carmela made her way to Bartholomew Hayward’s desk in the center of the room. Hesitantly, she turned on a single Tiffany-style lamp. As it cast its golden light across the top of the desk, Carmela hoped she could locate a Rolodex or address book. If she could, she was fairly certain she’d also find the address.

Unlike Barty Hayward’s neatly organized shop, his desktop and business records were a mess. Business cards were heaped in three different Chinese blue and white bowls, messages were written on tiny scraps of paper and scattered seemingly everywhere, files were nonexistent. After twenty minutes of random pawing through office drawers and stacks of papers, Carmela found a small stack of unpaid bills sitting beneath an antique bronze frog that sported large, bugged-out eyes. And, lucky, lucky, lucky, one of the bills just happened to be an invoice for monthly rent of $810 on warehouse space located at 1015 River Road.

“Find anything interesting?” a voice suddenly rasped.

Carmela’s heart thudded in her chest and she physically jumped at least a foot. She reared up ramrod straight and whipped her head around to see who’d just spoken to her. Standing just outside her little pool of light was Jade Ella Hayward, staring at her with a curious glint in her eyes.

“Jade Ella,” gasped Carmela. She fought to keep her voice easy and conversational even though her heart was still thumping out of control. “You scared me half to death!”

Jade Ella stared pointedly at Carmela. In her crimson embroidered Chinese jacket, tight blue jeans, and beaded high-heeled boots, Jade Ella looked like she was ready to attend the MTV Music Awards. Maybe even vault onstage and belt out a number or two.

“What are you doing here?” Jade Ella finally asked. Not Hello, not How are you, just What are you doing here.

“I . . .” Carmela stuttered, then suddenly remembered she was still clutching a copy of the furniture delivery order she’d just signed.

“I signed for a delivery,” she stammered. “A truck pulled up something like ten minutes ago. Did you see the new furniture out back?”

Jade Ella nodded, but Carmela wasn’t sure whether Jade Ella was admitting to having seen the furniture, or if she was just encouraging Carmela to continue her explanation. “I was just going to stick this in a safe place where Billy or whoever could find it.” Carmela held the piece of paper up as evidence and gave a casual shrug. There, that sounds awfully reasonable, doesn’t it?

“How’d you get in?” asked Jade Ella.

“Billy gave me a set of keys. Just in case.”

Jade Ella took a few steps forward and peered into Carmela’s face. Looking for . . . what? For her to flinch? To crack and come clean?

When Jade Ella didn’t seem to find what she was looking for, she let loose a long sigh then held up her own set of keys. She jangled them noisily in Carmela’s face. “See, I’ve still got my keys, too.”

Carmela stared back at Jade Ella, wondering if Jade Ella had finally received the life insurance check she’d been so anxiously awaiting. Was the case finally settled? Was Jade Ella no longer a suspect? Did she now own Menagerie Antiques lock, stock, and barrel?

Carmela’s momma had once told her that the best way to get an answer from someone was to ask them a direct question. That’s what Carmela did now.

“Did you get your insurance settlement?” she asked Jade Ella.

Jade Ella’s pupils seemed to contract, her eyebrows pinch together. Then, within a split second, she’d composed herself again.

“Why, no, I didn’t, Carmela,” said Jade Ella. “But it’s awfully kind of you to ask.” Jade Ella’s voice was guarded.

“Reed Bigelow, your insurance agent, stopped by my shop this morning,” said Carmela, by way of explanation. “That’s why I asked.”

Jade Ella’s face seemed to relax. “Ah, and what did the tedious Mr. Bigelow want from you?”

“He wanted to ask a few questions concerning Barty’s death,” said Carmela. “Since I was almost a witness.”

“Yes, you were,” said Jade Ella. “Almost.” Her green eyes bore into Carmela with burning curiosity. “Carmela, you didn’t tell Mr. Bigelow that I played any sort of role in Barty’s business affairs, did you?” Jade Ella took a step forward and adjusted a small oil painting that sat on an easel.

“We never got around to any kind of Q and A session,” Carmela told her. “Things just got too busy. And besides, everything’s already in the police reports, which I believe he would have access to. Why do you ask?”

Jade Ella folded her arms protectively across her chest. “There’s seems to be an itty-bitty problem concerning taxes,” said Jade Ella. “Something owed, or unpaid, or carried over,” she said. “Anyway . . . Barty’s tax issues have absolutely nothing to do with the insurance company paying out death benefits.”

“Death benefits,” repeated Carmela. “Sounds so final.” But Jade Ella had already spun on her glitzy boot heels and was threading her way back through the shop and toward the back door. “Good day, Carmela,” she called.

Chapter 15

RAIN beat down and a howling wind whipsawed stands of scrawny palmettos as Carmela made her way tentatively down River Road. Bumping along this deserted stretch of road that wound perilously close to the banks of the Mississippi, she’d once again come to the inevitable conclusion that New Orleans and much of its surrounding environs was a very spooky place. Aboveground cemeteries seemed to lurk everywhere. Old buildings emerged from dank mists like silent sentinels. And here in the Crescent City, where humidity often topped out at one hundred percent, trees and vegetation had a nasty habit of running wild. Of stealthily overgrowing brick walls, fountains, and crumbling outbuildings to the point where landmarks were reduced to architectural topiaries.

As Carmela slowed her car and rolled down the window, searching for 1015 River Road, she had the feeling she was time traveling. She’d been on the lookout for a storage space. Hopefully a modern, concrete building that was well lit and offered orderly numbered addresses.

Instead, what she was finding were decrepit old buildings, docks, and warehouses. Very industrial and not the least bit inviting. No sir.

Faded numerals loomed ahead of her. A one, a zero, a blank spot, then a five. Was this 1015? Had to be. Cranking her car into a muddy parking lot, Carmela gazed at the ramshackle wood building and wrinkled her nose.

She was staring at a long, low building with some sort of decaying wooden truck dock stretching along one side of it. A tumble of old machinery was scattered about, most of it hidden by overgrown weeds. This had obviously been some kind of manufacturing plant. But certainly not in recent years.

Carmela cut the engine, listened to the tick tick tick of the motor cooling down. Boo, hunched in the front seat next to her, gave a tentative woof.

She reached over and ruffled Boo’s fur. “Sorry, girl,” she told the dog. “Your job is to stay here as lookout and lend a little moral support.” Gazing at the ramshackle building once more, she noted that it was sublimely unappealing. “Make that a lot of moral support.”

Okay, she told herself. This was your big idea, your grand adventure. You had an inkling that Billy Cobb might be hiding out here. Does this look like the kind of place someone would hide out?

Ignoring what she deemed to be her own stupid, frivolous questions, Carmela opened the car door and stepped gingerly onto squishy, muddy ground.

If this is Bartholomew Hayward’s storage space, what on earth does he store here?

Slowly, quietly, Carmela made her way to the front door of the building. There were no windows, no lights, no indication of what might be inside.

Putting a hand on the old metal door, Carmela jiggled the handle. No dice. The door was dismally chipped and pock-marked, but it was also sturdy, serviceable, and securely locked. No way was she going to just waltz in the front door for a quick look-see.

That meant searching around back. Looking for a window to slip in or another door that could possibly be jimmied.

Which also meant breaking and entering. Gulp.

Keenly aware she was stepping on broken glass as well as moldering vegetation, Carmela made her way to the back of the building. Here the earth was even more soggy, and with each step, she had to pull her shoes from sucking mud.

Stopping in front of a wooden door, Carmela grasped the handle and gave it a tug. The handle rattled, but this door seemed to be locked securely as well.

But back here was also a row of windows.

Carmela stalked along the back of the building, searching for a possible point of entry. At the last window, she spied a loose molding. Digging her fingers under the wood, she tugged hard and was rewarded with a loud creak. The wood, damp and rotting, crumbled easily. Then the entire strip of molding pulled away and the bottom window, dirt-streaked glass set in decayed wood, came crashing down, barely missing her foot.

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.

“No can do, Shamus.” Carmela hobbled over to a dining room chair and sat down. Hooking her left toe into the back of her right tennis shoe, she pried the shoe off. Flecks of mud spattered everywhere. Reaching down, she pulled off the other muddy shoe and gave it a toss. Boo, who’d been sitting near the kitchen ever since they’d come in, flashed her a reproachful look. A look that said, I’d be punished for making this sort of mess.

“Carmela, I can’t tell you how much Glory is looking forward to this very special night. And to have you right there to share it with us would be icing on the cake for her.”

Bad metaphor, decided Carmela. It was way too reminiscent of wedding cake. And the fact that she and Shamus had barely made it past their first anniversary.

Carmela glanced down, saw a tiny rip in her gray wool slacks, and frowned. Damn, these were good ones, too. Plucked from the clearance rack at Saks.

“Tell Glory not to get her underwear in a twist,” Carmela told Shamus. “I’ll be there Saturday night. I’ll applaud politely. I’ll tell all my friends to applaud politely.”

“But we have a place reserved for you at our table,” Shamus continued in his maddening way. “It’s been prearranged.”

“Then I’ll post-arrange it,” Carmela laughed, even though she was still gritting her teeth. “Don’t you know? I’ve got a special in at the Art Institute.”

“Dawlin’, I know you do,” continued Shamus. “Which is why I’m askin’ you to do this one little old favor.” Shamus had casually dropped into good old boy mode. “It would mean so much to the family.”

The family. Of course it’s about the family. It’s always about the family. Except when it’s really about the family, decided Carmela. Which always made the whole familial landscape slightly Kafkaesque.

The call waiting button on Carmela’s phone suddenly burped.

Hallelujah! Saved by the burp.

“Shamus?” said Carmela. “I gotta go. I got another call.” Without waiting for a response, Carmela drove her thumb down on the button, disconnecting Shamus and connecting her other caller. She decided she didn’t give a rat’s ass if it was a telemarketer calling to hawk a load of aluminum siding. She was still gonna be nice as pie to him.

But it was someone with far more chutzpah than any mere mortal telemarketer. It was Ava.

“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Ava. “I’ve been calling your place all night. I thought maybe a bunch of rogue Irish folk dancers swept in and kidnapped you.”

“No such luck,” said Carmela. She tugged at her slightly damp socks, peeled one off. “I was snooping around inside a deserted shrimp-processing plant. Out on River Road. My hair stinks and there’s gobs of slithery mud and probably dead shrimp parts stuck to the soles of my shoes. No less than a dozen cats followed me in from my car.” She peeled the second sock off and tossed it toward Boo, who dodged it, then quickly scampered out of the way.

“Damn it, girl,” said Ava. “Your life reads like an old Doris Day movie. Trippin’ all over the countryside, having one merry adventure after another.” She paused. “Honey, what were you doin’ in a nasty old place like that, anyway? Was this some kind of Halloween prank? Wait a minute . . . don’t tell me you’re playing that crazy Internet game where you get all sorts of clues, then use one of those global positioning doohickeys.”

“No, just following up on a Bartholomew Hayward thing,” Carmela told her.

“A new lead?” asked Ava.

“Nah, more like a dead end,” said Carmela.

“Oh,” said Ava, disappointed. “Here I was hoping for big news. Nothing seems to want to break on that Billy Cobb thing, does it?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “Billy paid a surprise visit to my store yesterday.”

“Get out!” exclaimed Ava. “So he didn’t leave town after all.”

“No, but he’s threatening to,” said Carmela. She sighed. She wanted to help exonerate Billy, but nothing seemed to be gelling. Nothing that told her he was beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt innocent. “I checked on the Internet and called around to a few ladies’ shoe stores earlier today, trying to follow up on that heelprint thing?”

“And?”

“Seems nobody’s ever heard of a brand with the initials GC.”

“Hmm,” said Ava. “Maybe it’s Gina Chanel.”

“Who on earth is Gina Chanel?”

“I dunno,” laughed Ava. “Coco’s little known step-sister?”

“Hah,” said Carmela. “Nice try.”

“Say, honey,” said Ava, “I’m sorry you got stuck with Sweetmomma Pam today.”

“Not a problem,” said Carmela. “She was perfectly lovely and turned out to be a big help.”

“Really? You don’t have to say that just on my account. I can take it, even if Sweetmomma is kinfolk.”

“Really, she’s welcome any time,” said Carmela.

“You think she’d be welcome Saturday night?” asked Ava.

“You mean . . . ?” said Carmela, not quite tumbling at first to what Ava was asking.

“Saturday night,” continued Ava. “At Monsters & Old Masters.” She sighed heavily. “Here’s the big problema. First Sweetmomma Pam told me she had a date for Saturday night, now she says she’s broken the whole relationship off because the guy turned out to be too much of a chauvinist pig.”

“You’re talking about the fruit guy?” asked Carmela. “The one she was so hot for?”

“That’s the one,” said Ava. “She says it’s over. Kaput. Just one more notch in Sweetmomma Pam’s belt, such as it is.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I see that as a positive.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that Sweetmomma Pam probably had her consciousness raised.” Consciousness raising was a term Carmela’s momma had used a lot when she was growing up. And that Carmela had read about when she’d thumbed through the pages of her momma’s old Ms. magazines. Put into practical usage, Carmela had found that the basic tenets boiled down to two things: Don’t let any fella treat you like a doormat. And don’t let any fella make you feel like he’s smarter or better than you. ’Cause he ain’t. Pretty fine advice actually.

“Of course Sweetmomma Pam is welcome Saturday night,” said Carmela. “Shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Do you think we could squeeze her in with us?” asked Ava, who had also been invited to sit at Baby and Del’s table. “She’s just a little bit of a thing. Barely a hundred pounds.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” said Carmela.

“Whew,” said Ava. “Now all I have to worry about is coming up with a costume for Sweetmomma Pam.”

“I doubt that’ll be much of a problem for you,” said Carmela. Ava’s closets looked like the costume department for the combined road companies of Hello, Dolly! and The Lion King. Over-the-top theatrical with tons of sequins, feathers, and glitter.

“I hope we’re still on for our visit to Spa Diva Saturday morning,” said Ava. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

After her little run-in with Jade Ella earlier in the evening, Carmela had mixed feelings about using the gift certificates they’d been given. Still, Ava seemed to be counting on it.

“Did you get a load of all the spa treatments they offer?” enthused Ava. “It sounds like a hedonistic paradise. Right up my alley.”

“They list some treatments I’ve never heard of,” said Carmela. “Paraffin peel, hot lava stones, a Brazilian wax. I know what a bikini wax is, but a Brazilian wax?”

Ava chuckled. “Honey, haven’t you seen pictures of those women strutting their stuff on those beaches in Rio? With their teeny-weeny swimsuits kinda scrunched up the crack of their butts?”

Now it was Carmela’s turn to giggle. “Yeah.”

“You’re a smart girl,” said Ava. “Figure it out.” Carmela decided it might be more prudent, if not slightly more modest, to opt for the salt glow body wrap instead.

Chapter 16

FRIDAY morning dawned dark and dreary. Carmela pulled on a pair of gray wool slacks, a peachy-pink sweater, then a lightweight camel-colored suede jacket.

She’d dreamed about that darned shrimp-processing plant all night. Strange, nightmare images that involved knives, dank conveyor belts, and the layer of feltlike dust that seemed mounded over everything.

And she’d thought fleetingly about that number on the back of the oil painting, too. NMA92107.

What did it mean exactly?

When she arrived at Memory Mine, Carmela decided the easiest way to do some fast research would be to phone Natalie Chastain. She was a museum registrar, after all. It was her bailiwick to know about such things.

But when she dialed Natalie’s number, the phone rang and rang. Carmela was about to give up, when she heard a loud click and then someone came on the line.

“Natalie’s office,” said a male voice.

“Hi there,” said Carmela. “Natalie around?”

“Sorry,” came the voice. “I’m not sure where she’s off to at the moment.”

“Mr. Payne?” asked Carmela.

“Yes, this is Monroe Payne. To whom am I speaking, please?”

“It’s Carmela, Carmela Bertrand. I’m doing the—”

“The menu cards!” said Monroe with a smile in his voice.

“Of course. I’ll tell Natalie you called.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, hesitating slightly, “I had a quick question. Quite unrelated to menu cards.”

“Perhaps I can help?” said Monroe.

Should I? wondered Carmela. Why not? He’s a smart guy, too.

“If you found a series of numbers on the back of a painting, what would that mean to you?” she asked.

“You’re talking about acquisition numbers?” asked Monroe.

“I guess that’s it,” said Carmela. “Hmm.”

“Or deacquisiton numbers,” continued Monroe.

“Deacquistion?” said Carmela. “That’s what—getting rid of a piece of art? Do museums ever do that?”

“Actually,” said Monroe, “they do it all the time. Have private sales, sell to dealers, sell at auction.”

“All museums do this?” asked Carmela.

“Unless they’ve got a storage area with climate-controlled vaults the size of Texas,” Monroe laughed. “Good Lord, you’d be surprised at the things people donate to museums. Old photographs, archaeological relics . . . someone once tried to give us an elephant’s foot.”

Carmela chatted with Monroe Payne for a few more minutes, then hung up. His information had been valuable, but it hadn’t led anywhere.

Oh well.

“You off now?” asked Gabby as she popped her head into Carmela’s office.

Carmela jumped up, grabbing her handbag and digital camera. “Yup. If anybody calls, just tell ’em I’ll be hanging out in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARS RATTLED BY ON PRYTANIA AS CARMELA, accompanied by Boo, picked her way through the fog-shrouded graves of Lafayette Cemetery. Two days earlier, when she’d come here for the funeral of Bartholomew Hayward, the place had been fairly well populated by the living: mourners for Barty’s funeral, attendees for two other graveside services that had been going on that morning, plus the inevitable flocks of sightseers, tour groups, and amateur vampire hunters. Today, though, just a few stragglers wandered about.

Of all the cemeteries scattered throughout New Orleans, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of Carmela’s favorites. It was incredibly old, highly atmospheric, and chock-full of history.

Established in 1833, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, like most New Orleans cemeteries, had been borne out of terrible necessity, when pestilence, yellow fever, and cholera ravaged the city. Those epidemics often claimed thousands of lives, all in one hideous swoop.

Because New Orleans had been built below sea level, early residents soon learned a bitter lesson. Bodies of their loved ones that were buried underground had a nasty habit of finding their way back to the surface. So it didn’t take long for the aboveground cemetery to be devised. Crypts, mausoleums, and oven vaults were constructed aboveground to receive the bodies of the deceased.

Many of the larger structures bore a keen resemblance to Roman ruins; others spookily sported several stories, like condos for the dead. But what Carmela was most fascinated by were the ancient single tombs. These were three to four feet high and six feet long and resembled whitewashed grave vaults. Many were crumbling and decrepit now, due to the ravages of time, vandalism, and the merciless heat and humidity. Many of these tombs had once been embellished with images of angels, saints, and other heavenly accouterments, which had long since eroded and melted into ghostly forms.

These were the exact images Carmela planned to photograph, then plug into her computer. Once these images were enlarged, she’d print them out on paper as a sort of pattern. Taping these paper patterns to hollowed-out pumpkins, she would use a wood gouge to carve away the background, ending up with a nifty stencil effect. When lights were inserted, her tombstone images would appear in dark outlines against a glowing orange background.

Because there were so many eerie old graves to choose from, Carmela snapped away with her camera, wandering freely among the tombs as Boo trailed on the leash behind her. As she rounded a large multicolumned mausoleum, Carmela ran headlong into Dove Duval.

“Dove!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her thudding heart.

Dove Duval pulled up short, as well. “Why, hello, Carmela,” she said sweetly. “Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

For the third day in a row, rain drizzled down and clouds hung low. The wind delivered a nasty, damp chill and the weather forecasters were still talking hurricane. Lovely day? Carmela figured Dove had to be kidding.

Dove held her umbrella aloft and pressed in uncomfortably close to Carmela. “You must be working on one of your little projects,” Dove purred.

Carmela didn’t much like the way Dove said the word projects. Tugging on the leash, Carmela instantly telegraphed an alert to Boo. And Boo, never a terribly friendly dog to begin with, slid her gums back over her sharp white teeth and uttered a low growl. Grrrrrrr.

Unsettled, Dove took a step backward. “Such a charming creature,” she observed dryly. “Is your dog always this friendly?”

“She’s a Chinese Shar-Pei,” Carmela explained. “Not exactly your warm fuzzy breed. More on the order of chilly-wrinkley. Shar-Peis tend to regard most outsiders as sworn enemies.” Carmela kept a grin pasted on her face even though she didn’t feel particularly smiley toward Dove. “I think it hearkens back to the invasion of Genghis Khan,” she added. Whatever the heck that means, thought Carmela.

But Dove Duval, obviously no genius when it came to history, seemed to accept Carmela’s remark at face value. “I see,” she said.

“And you’re just out for a stroll?” Carmela asked, noting that Boo was holding her tail down instead of in its usual tight curl. The dog was definitely not getting good vibes from Dove.

What are you really doing here, Dove Duval? wondered Carmela. How come you’re lurking around Bartholomew Hayward’s grave? Have you really come for an innocent ramble through the cemetery or are you here to gloat over your handiwork?

“Isn’t this what folks here like to do?” asked Dove, gazing about in what seemed to be a state of blissful rhapsody. “Wander these marvelous old cemeteries and commune with the dead? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I was just snapping a few photos.” She didn’t much feel like explaining her jack-o’lantern-carving project to Dove. In fact, she didn’t feel like explaining anything to her.

“Probably for one of your many scrapbooks,” said Dove, poking bits of choppy blond hair behind her ears. “You’re so creative.” She was obviously dying to know more.

But Carmela was not forthcoming.

“You’re very tight with Baby Fontaine, aren’t you?” Dove said finally.

“She’s one of my dearest friends.”

Dove cocked her head to one side. “Baby comes from an old family?”

“Pretty old,” said Carmela. “Her grandfather was mayor of New Orleans back in the twenties.”

“Very impressive,” said Dove. “And she’s chaired a lot of committees for the Art Institute?”

Carmela nodded. “She’s had her share.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Dove. “I’ve spoken with Monroe Payne a few times about a possible winter fund-raiser.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. So that was it. Dove was bound and determined to chair her own fund-raiser. She probably assumed that, once you were chairman of an event, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to a seat on the board of directors. Carmela knew it was actually a very long and arduous leap.

“And although my concept is still a little looseygoosey,” continued Dove, “I’ve been tossing around the idea of an upscale food event. A tasting, to be precise.”

“You mean like a wine tasting?” asked Carmela.

“Because the docents at the Zoological Society are already doing that. Have been for five or six years now.”

“I was actually considering something a tad more upscale,” said Dove, her eyes gleaming. “Perhaps a caviar and vodka tasting. Maybe give it a catchy name. Call it Night of the Czars or something like that. What do you think?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Might work.”

Dove looked at her sharply. “Monroe Payne was extremely enthusiastic, Carmela.”

“He’d be the one to know. From what I hear, Monroe Payne has definitely got his finger on the pulse of the donors.” Carmela tugged at Boo’s leash and the two of them started to edge away.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” said Dove.

“Nice seeing you,” said Carmela, deciding she was pretty close to making a clean break.

“Have fun now,” said Dove, waggling her fingers and pulling her dark green velvet cape about her shoulders. “See you tomorrow night.” She paused. “And Carmela . . .”

Carmela hesitated, a slight frown crossing her face. “Yes?”

“I can’t wait for you to see my arrangement!”

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE GOT BACK TO HER SHOP that Carmela had a chance to take a look at the photographs Quigg Brevard had given her. But first, of course, she had to drop off her car at home, put Boo in the apartment, then pop across the courtyard to say hello to Ava and Tyrell, who were practically going berserk from all the customers who were crowded inside their little incense-filled store. Then Carmela hotfooted it back to Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street.

“Hey there,” said Gabby, who was demonstrating some new templates for a couple customers. “Help yourself to some pumpkin soup. It’s in the back room.”

“You cooked?”

Gabby put a hand to her forehead, simulating utter shock. “Surely you jest. No, Baby dropped off a pot of soup earlier. Said she had tons of pumpkin meat left over.”

“I’ll just bet she does,” said Carmela.

With a mug of Baby’s pumpkin soup heating in the microwave, Carmela sat down at her desk and spread out the photos Quigg Brevard had given her. Most were your fairly typical party shots. Not the lampshade-on-your-head variety, but still all the subjects looked fairly garrulous and affable. Men and women flirting, toasting, hugging, kissing.

There were several shots of a wedding reception, with a bride in a big poufy dress that looked a little like a wedding cake itself. And, surprise, surprise, there were also a few photos of Bartholomew Hayward hosting a summer soiree on the back patio of Bon Tiempe.

The timer on the microwave dinged and Carmela jumped up to fetch her soup. It was steaming like mad, but she took a sip anyway. Wonderful. Baby was a superb cook, even though she was forever claiming she wasn’t and usually opted to have her dinner parties catered.

Carmela carried her mug of soup back to her desk and focused, once again, on the photos of Bartholomew Hayward’s party. She could faintly recall that the summer before, Barty had staged a big promotion that he’d called his American Painters Expo. It had been by invitation only and she hadn’t been one of the chosen. But, judging from the attendees in the photograph, quite a few socially prominent art lovers had RSVP’d and shown up to peruse his selection of rather enchanting paintings.

In two shots Carmela could clearly see that paintings in large, decorative frames had been set up on easels ringing the courtyard. And that the guests were drinking, chowing down, and actually gazing at the paintings with what could only be called rapt attention. Carmela wondered how successful the event had been and then decided that, with the huge resurgence in art collecting and art investing today, Barty had probably made himself a small fortune. She also wondered how authentic they were, although from the looks of things, the paintings looked surprisingly good. Far better than Barty’s other merchandise.

“Carmela?”

Carmela turned her head and raised her eyebrows at Gabby. “Need some help?” she asked. She set her mug down. “I can sure . . .”

“It’s not that,” said Gabby, fidgeting. She dropped her voice. “That police detective is back.”

“Lieutenant Babcock?”

Gabby gave a tight nod. “He wants to talk to you.”

“No problem,” said Carmela. “Send the gentleman back.” By the time she’d scooped up all the photos and deposited them in the top drawer of her desk, Edgar Babcock was standing in her doorway.

“Please,” she said, indicating a slightly rickety director’s chair, “have a seat.”

It was tight quarters in her office and the chair was none too comfy, but Lieutenant Babcock didn’t seem to mind.

“What brings you back to Memory Mine?” asked Carmela. “Still looking for a birthday gift for that scrapbooking sister of yours?”

He smiled mildly.

Lieutenant Babcock was a pretty cool customer, Carmela decided. Really knew how to play it close to the vest. He was also one of those people who left lots of gaps in the conversation. The kind of gaps an extremely nervous person, someone who had something to hide, would probably struggle to fill in.

“Actually,” said Babcock, crossing his legs, “I’m doing a little research on paint.” His pleasant smile never wavered. “Gilt paint.”

“Would that be the type of gilt paint that was found on a certain scissors?” asked Carmela.

“It would.”

“Mn-hm,” she said noncommittally.

“It might also be the type of paint used on certain scrapbook pages.”

Carmela leaned back in her chair and her heart did a tiny flip-flop.

“I don’t believe it’s the same type of paint at all,” she said. She knew most of her paint was acrylic-based and assumed the paint found on the latex gloves was oil-based. Most paints and stains used in furniture refinishing were oil-based.

“Still,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “it might be worthwhile for our lab to run a few tests.”

“Is one of my customers under suspicion?” she asked. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Babcock gave her a mild smile. “Not at all. We’re simply attempting to rule people out.”

“Like you tried to rule out Billy Cobb?”

“Billy Cobb is no angel,” said Babcock.

“Billy Cobb is also not a murderer,” replied Carmela.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Yes, I do. I am.” Carmela fought to keep her voice even.

Babcock suddenly leaned forward, an expression of grave concern on his face. “Can I be perfectly frank with you?”

“Please,” said Carmela. It had pretty much been her experience that anyone who said they wanted to be perfectly frank with you was probably setting you up for a nice juicy lie.

“We’re not making a lot of forward progress in this investigation,” said Lieutenant Babcock, as though he were letting her in on a big secret. “We need all the help we can get.”

“And you want my help?” said Carmela.

“Do you have any to give?”

Carmela hesitated. Actually, this man did seemed rather committed. And, because her bullshit detector didn’t seem to be going off too badly, she decided he might even be one of the honest ones. She wondered if there was any way she could bring Billy Cobb together with Lieutenant Babcock. Convince Billy to turn himself in. And, at the same time, convince Babcock to focus on what she deemed was the real investigation. If Billy’s name could be cleared, the police could get back to searching for the real murderer.

But Billy was hiding out God knew where. And Carmela had no way to reach him. Billy had her phone number, but would he call? That was the $64,000 question.

Lieutenant Babcock cleared his throat. “It would help enormously,” he said, “if you could give us sample bottles of all the gilt paint you carry here in your shop.”

“To rule us out,” said Carmela.

Lieutenant Babcock offered her a sad smile and Carmela wondered for about the twentieth time if she should say something to him about Jade Ella Hayward and Dove Duval. In her book, both women seemed incredibly suspicious. If there was any ruling out—or in—to be done, they were a good place to start.

But she didn’t. At this point, it seemed that any accusations on her part would just come across as smoke screen or sour grapes.

BY FIVE THIRTY, GABBY HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR the day, and Carmela was ready to call it quits. She’d fiddled unhappily at her computer, torn between wondering about Billy Cobb’s innocence and placing a couple Internet orders for restocks on paper and craft boxes. Now, just as she was about to switch the phone over to the answering service, it started to ring.

Rats, she thought as she picked up the phone, don’t let it be another customer. God bless ’em all, but I’m wrecked. Totally wrecked.

“Carmela?” came a glib-sounding voice. “Carmela Bertrand?”

“Yes?”

“Glad I caught you. This is Clark Berthume from Click! Gallery.” There was a pause. “You know our shop?”

“Yes,” she said again, wondering what on earth this was all about. And suddenly leaping to the conclusion that perhaps Shamus had finally gotten the photography show he’d wanted. So Clark Berthume was calling to ask . . . what? To design some sort of invitation or poster or something?

“A friend of mine, Jade Ella Hayward, passed along a few photos you took,” said Clark effusively. “I daresay, I was absolutely bowled over by them.”

“You’re calling about my photos?” said Carmela, suddenly at a loss for words. “What photos?”

“Why, the fashion sequence you did for Spa Diva, of course.”

“No, no,” protested Carmela. “There was no fashion sequence.” She glanced about as if hoping someone would rush to her rescue. No one did. No one was there. “There must be some terrible mistake,” Carmela laughed. “I was horsing around in the park a few weeks ago at the same time Jade Ella had a fashion shoot going on. Just for fun, I took a few shots of the models, too. Alongside the hired photographer. The real photographer.” Carmela took a deep breath. “So you see, they’re not fashion shots at all.”

“But you printed them and passed them on to Jade Ella.”

Carmela racked her brain. She guessed she did. “I guess I did.”

“And she used one of them on the cover of her brochure,” said Clark Berthume.

Carmela chewed at her lip. “Could be.”

“Well, the shots look extremely professional to me,” said Clark Berthume. “In fact, you seem to have captured a certain blasé high fashion attitude and quirky sense of style. Which brings me to the reason I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a small show?”

“A show?” Carmela’s voice rose in a surprised squawk. “Me?”

There was a polite chuckle. “Well, that would be the general idea, yes.”

“Perhaps I didn’t completely make my point,” protested Carmela, still stunned by the invitation. “I’m not a professional photographer.” Photography, to her, still seemed like more of a by-product of scrapbooking. Shamus was the one with professional aspirations, wasn’t he?

“Miss Bertrand,” said Clark Berthume, “the black-and-white prints I have spread out on my desk at the moment are really quite stunning. They tell me you’re a very fine photographer.”

Damn Jade Ella, thought Carmela. Why did she do this? Why did she have to show those stupid photos to Clark Berthume?

“Can I call you back?” stuttered Carmela.

“Not a problem,” said Clark Berthume. “When can I expect to hear from you?”

Next year. Never. “Next week?” asked Carmela. “Monday afternoon at the latest,” cautioned Clark Berthume. “I’m trying to fix the schedule.”

Chapter 17

RAIN pounded down as Carmela scampered across her courtyard and jammed her key in the door. Mounds of jaunty bright red bougainvilleas that cascaded from twin urns flanking her front door had been knocked flat. The fountain that normally babbled so gently swirled like a storm drain. Overhead, the night sky pulsed with lightning and crackled with thunder. If this was indeed a hurricane, it seemed aptly poised to unleash its full fury.

Carmela almost missed seeing the envelope someone had slid under her door. Tromped right across it and dripped water all over it, in fact, until she flipped on the light and noticed its white glare staring up at her from the floor.

“What’s this?” Carmela asked Boo as she bent over to pick it up. “Special delivery?”

Ripping open the envelope, Carmela pulled out a small photo that had been stuck inside. And as she stared at it, received the shock of her life.

The photo was of her and Boo walking in the cemetery. That morning!

That someone had spied on her was creepy enough, but the mysterious photographer had taken it one step further and actually vandalized the photo. Carmela’s face had been scratched out with a pin until only paper showed through. Then the pin had been stuck clear through the paper into Boo’s chest, right about where her heart would be. Crude arrows aimed at both of their heads had been drawn with red grease pencil.

Ohmygod. Someone was watching me today! Was it Dove Duval? Or somebody else? Oh, lordy, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

Carmela’s first thought was to call somebody. Ask them to come over as a sort of reinforcement. Because she sure as hell didn’t want to be alone. Feeling threatened and afraid and vulnerable.

Carmela flew to the phone and dialed Ava’s number. Nobody home. She was probably out on a date. Or with Sweetmomma Pam.

What about Baby? No, I can’t call her. She’s busy preparing for her family get-together tomorrow night.

Carmela dialed Gabby’s number. She answered on the first ring.

“Gabby,” said Carmela, “sorry to bother you, but did anybody call while I was out today?”

“Sure,” chirped Gabby. “A couple folks did.” She held her hand over the receiver for a couple seconds while she called: “Just a minute, Stuart. We’ll eat in a second.”

“A couple?” asked Carmela.

“Well . . . probably more like three or four.”

“And you told them . . . ,” said Carmela, knowing exactly what Gabby had told them.

“Just what you said,” responded Gabby. “That they could find you at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARMELA HUNG UP THE PHONE, WONDERING WHO else she could call. She glanced over at Boo, who lifted her head expectantly.

Shamus? Ooh, I don’t want to do that, do I?

A second look at the scratched and mangled photo changed her mind.

But even after getting Shamus on the phone and explaining her big scare to him, he was not the knight in shining armor she’d hoped he’d be.

“Jeez, Carmela.” Shamus’s voice was flat. “I was just about to head up to Harrisonburg. There’s a Civil War re-enactment going on at Fort Beauregard this weekend.”

“But it’s raining. Pouring buckets, in fact.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“And you for sure were planning to be back tomorrow afternoon anyway,” Carmela said. “For Monsters & Old Masters.” She hesitated. Should she? Why not. “And Glory’s big award,” she added.

“Well . . . yeah,” came his answer. “Of course.”

“You could still drive up early tomorrow,” she suggested.

“I might miss the cannon salute.”

Carmela hung on the phone, not saying a word. Feeling guilty about imposing on him. Feeling even more guilty about the surprise invitation she’d just received from the Click! Gallery. Mustn’t let Shamus know about that.

“Well, if you’re really scared . . . ,” Shamus finally offered.

“I’m really scared,” Carmela told him.

Ten minutes later, Shamus Allan Meechum, Carmela’s estranged husband, was wandering barefoot around her kitchen, scratching his stomach and peering into cupboards. “Got anything to eat?” Shamus asked. He flipped open one cupboard after another, poking his head in. When he’d rifled through everything and still hadn’t found anything that appealed to him, he turned to the cluster of canisters and cookie jars that sat on Carmela’s kitchen counter just to the left of her stove.

Popping open a ceramic cookie jar, Shamus dug his fist in and helped himself to a dark brown cracker. He munched thoughtfully, then reached in to grab a few more. “Say, these are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Got any cheese to put on ’em?” Shamus whipped open the refrigerator door and insinuated his entire head in the refrigerator’s cool interior.

“You probably don’t want to eat those,” Carmela called to him from where she was flaked out, watching TV. “Those are mackerel morsels.”

Still surveying the interior of Carmela’s refrigerator, Shamus found a half-eaten wedge of cheddar cheese. Greedily, he grabbed a knife and sliced at the cheese, piling it on top of the crackers. Popping them into his mouth, he chewed appreciatively. “Mm-hm, they sure are mackerel flavored. And they’re good. Especially with cheese.”

“Shamus, listen to me,” said Carmela, starting to laugh. “You’re slathering cheese on dog treats.”

“What?” came Shamus’s strangled cry. He stopped chewing, then suddenly leaned over the sink and turned on both faucets full force. For the next couple minutes, a cacophony of sputtering, splashing, and gargling ensued.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me those were dog cookies?” he asked, emerging from the kitchen red-faced and angry. His normally wavy hair stuck up in unruly tufts as Shamus stared accusingly from Carmela to Boo. Boo, as usual, feigned complete innocence. “Who keeps dog cookies in a cookie jar?” he groused.

“You know darn well that ceramic doggie is Boo’s treat jar,” said Carmela. Boo’s curlicue tail gave a quick wave as she looked on in mute support.

“Besides,” said Carmela, “I had no idea you were going to ransack my kitchen and start chowing down on dog cookies. I’m not exactly psychic.”

“No, you’re a sadistic prankster,” accused Shamus.

“Holy mackerel, Shamus,” said Carmela, starting to giggle again. Since the cookies were homemade and wholesome, she knew they were perfectly fine to eat.

Shamus held up a finger. “That’s not funny. And damn it, I’m still hungry. You surely can’t expect a man to go to bed on an empty stomach. He gazed at her meaningfully.

Carmela fixed him with a level gaze. “There’s chowder in the freezer, Shamus. Pop a carton in the microwave and it’ll be defrosted in six, maybe seven minutes.”

The chowder sounded appealing, but Shamus still wasn’t convinced.

“What about biscuits?” he asked. “You got any biscuits? Or how about a loaf of nice chewy bread?”

“Nope.” Shamus was a carbo freak of the first magnitude. Carmela was, too, but she tried to do without.

“Then I’ll bake some bread,” said Shamus. “Chowder’s no good if you don’t have something to dunk in it.”

Shamus proceeded to busy himself in the kitchen, pulling out a mixing bowl and then dumping in flour, sugar, and . . . a bottle of beer?

“What are you doing?” asked Carmela, deciding this had to be the weirdest recipe ever concocted. Unless Shamus was just making it up as he went along. To jerk her chain.

“I’m making my famous game day beer bread,” he replied.

“You’re not serious,” said Carmela. “You never made anything before. And I have certainly never heard you utter a single word about game day beer bread. Please tell me this is some sort of fantasy you read about in a men’s magazine. Soldier of Fortune or Penthouse.”

“They don’t put recipes in those magazines,” Shamus snorted. “Besides, your nose is just out of joint because you think I can’t cook.” Shamus’s voice was heavy with reproach. “And you are so wrong.”

“I know I’m not an ardent Julia Child disciple,” said Carmela, “or even a Martha fan. But popping open a bottle of beer? Please. That does not constitute cooking.”

Yet, a little while later, when Shamus’s bread came out of the oven, all hot and steamy and yeasty smelling, Carmela got the surprise of her life.

“This is good,” she said, slathering on butter and munching a piece. Yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a carbo freak, too. Hard to keep a lid on it.

“You sound surprised.” Shamus sounded hurt.

“Actually, I’m astonished,” said Carmela. “I had no idea you could cook, let alone bake.”

“Well, I did reside in a frat house for three years.”

“Sure, but you had a housemother. Mrs. . . . what was her name . . . Warlock.”

“Murdock,” amended Shamus. “Mother Murdock.”

“Right,” said Carmela, deciding that poor Mother Murdock probably should have been canonized for putting up with all those stinky socks and stinky jocks.

“Honey, I’ll have you know that at Tri Delt we had a housemother, two maids, and a handyman.”

Carmela shook her head, thinking back to her own college days. It had been your basic four girls crammed into a one-bedroom apartment experience. Endlessly jockeying for the phone and the bathroom, someone always using the last tampon or bit of toilet paper but never owning up to it.

CARMELA’S GOOD HUMOR WAS ONCE AGAIN PUT to the test when it was time to turn in.

“Jammies?” asked Carmela, eyeing Shamus’s hastily packed overnight bag.

“Pardon?” said Shamus, not understanding. Or pretending not to.

“Pajamas,” said Carmela. “Did you bring them?”

“Well . . . yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” said Carmela, ducking into the bathroom. “You change while I take off my makeup and brush my teeth.”

Somewhere between the toning and the cleansing routine Carmela heard the phone ring. She tossed her tissue into the trash can and listened, heard Shamus talking in low tones. Had he given out her number? she wondered. She straightened up and stared at her bare face in the harsh fluorescent light, thinking, If this doesn’t scare him off, nothing will. And knowing in her heart that installers of bathroom lighting surely must harbor intense feelings of hostility toward women.

“Some guy named Quigg called,” Shamus snorted when she emerged from the bathroom clad in a modest floor-length nightie. “Said you could call him back tomorrow. Quigg.” He gave a second disdainful snort. “Sounds like somebody’s coonhound. Hey there, Quigg, old buddy, sniff around by that cypress tree and see what you come up with.”

Carmela climbed into bed, knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be productive.

“Say, do you have a date or something with that guy Quigg?” asked Shamus. “Is that why you don’t want to, or can’t, sit at our table?”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela.

“Not exactly,” repeated Shamus, suddenly looking very wounded.

Carmela stared at Shamus in wide-eyed amazement, wondering about the green-eyed monster that was suddenly crouched on Shamus’s back. She surely hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him. Maybe curiosity, maybe amusement. But certainly not out-and-out jealousy. Hmm.

“Where are your pajamas?” Carmela asked him, but Shamus was still reveling in his full-fledged snit. He peeled down to his T-shirt and jockey briefs, then clambered into bed next to Carmela.

Was this, Carmela wondered, what was meant by the phrase brief encounter?

She patted the bed and Boo immediately jumped up and snuggled in between them, a modern-day Shar-Pei bundling board.

Shamus frowned, lifted himself up on one elbow, and peered across Boo’s furry form. “You really owe me for this, you know.”

Carmela gazed back at Shamus and shifted about uncomfortably, amazed that a forty-five-pound dog could occupy such a sizable amount of real estate. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Don’t play cute with me,” said Shamus. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Saturday night. Glory’s table. Quid pro quo, baby.”

Carmela considered this. Shamus had come to her rescue tonight, so it was probably only right that she return the favor. On the other hand, didn’t Dr. Phil continually lecture on the danger of married people “keeping score”? You did this, so I get to do that. Except she and Shamus weren’t exactly your typical married couple. They were your typical on-the-verge-of-divorce couple.

“Okay, Shamus. You got it,” said Carmela, trying to stifle a yawn.

Shamus thumped his pillow, flopped over, and let loose a long sigh. “Thank goodness that’s settled,” he mumbled. As Carmela began to drift off to sleep, the last thing she was aware of were Boo’s wet snorts mingled with Shamus’s mumbled snores.

Is this the real meaning of family? she wondered. Maybe. Hard to tell.

Chapter 18

THE interior of Spa Diva looked like it might have taken some of its divine inspiration from the gentlemen’s clubs of yesteryear. A leopard print love seat and chairs were clustered around a black ebony cocktail table. Chinese lamps with silk shades of saffron yellow and mandarin red cast a glow against gold leaf wallpaper. A white flokati rug seemed to undulate on the floor and two life-sized ceramic Chinese warriors from an indeterminate dynasty stood guard on either side of the reception desk. “Obviously not a glitter-free zone,” remarked Carmela as they strolled up to the front desk.

But Ava was never adverse to a little glitz. “I like this,” she said. “Very glam-o-rama.”

“Very Jade Ella,” whispered Carmela.

The receptionist, a skinny, leather-clad blond, accepted their gift certificates and led them each to a treatment room.

Ava had finally decided upon the Banana Frango facial, while Carmela had opted for the full-body mud mask. The brochure, the one with her photo adorning the cover, touted the full-body mud mask as a “hedonistic indulgence guaranteed to sleek and slough the skin.” She didn’t know how much sleekness one could attain in forty-five minutes, but she figured her body could probably do with a little sloughing.

Carmela was shown to a treatment room with gleaming marble floors and walls, recessed glass panels adorned with etched nudes, and a large adjoining shower. Shucking out of her clothing, Carmela climbed onto the vinyl padded table and pulled a sheet about her modestly.

Within moments, a determined-looking woman with gray hair pulled back in a stiff bun entered the room. She carried a pail filled to the brink with green mud.

Uh-oh.

“I am Greta,” the woman said by way of introduction. “Roll over, please.”

Carmela obediently rolled onto her tummy. The word please had been filled with lots of sibilance, but not much warmth.

“The mud draws out impurities,” explained Greta tersely, slapping a handful of cold, wet goo on Carmela’s backside. It smelled earthy and slightly minty. Carmela shivered as she wondered about Greta’s accent. Was the inscrutable Greta Swiss? German?

“This is special mud?” asked Carmela, trying to make the best of what suddenly seemed like a slightly embarrassing situation. Maybe that Brazilian wax would have been preferable.

“Mineral mud,” Greta told her as she patted the goo all across Carmela’s back, then turned her attention to Carmela’s legs. “Imported from France.”

“Ah,” said Carmela. “France.” It felt like a stupid retort, but she couldn’t think of anything better to say as Greta grunted and groaned and tossed handfuls of mud onto her.

“Turn,” Greta finally ordered.

Carmela struggled onto her right side, then managed an ungainly flop. Already the mud had begun to harden and form a crusty shell. The treatment table she was reclining on seemed to be heated and she felt like she was slowly becoming a human puff pastry.

More mud was slathered and slapped atop her chest and breasts and when the procedure was complete down to the tips of her toes, Carmela found herself on her back, fully entombed in mineral mud. Greta positioned Carmela’s arms close to her sides, then covered her with what looked like a vinyl-coated electric blanket.

Heat, Greta told her, would activate the mud’s skin-softening properties. She was also instructed to think pure thoughts and not to move a muscle for the next thirty minutes.

The vinyl electric blanket was set at a sleep-inducing eighty degrees and plugged into a master panel that, she was told, electronically controlled the entire procedure. As Greta slipped out the door, the room lights dimmed automatically and Carmela found herself alone in the treatment room.

It wasn’t long before Carmela was beginning to drift off. The padded treatment table was surprisingly comfortable, the mud had induced a kind of lethargy, and, from somewhere, probably the master control panel, gentle music played over hidden speakers. Quiet, restful, New Age-sounding music. Lots of strings, a gentle pan flute. The kind of music that could transport your brain waves from their normal alpha state into the more relaxed beta state.

As she listened to the gentle notes, Carmela felt each one keenly, could almost see the notes floating in the warm air above her. Carmela giggled to herself, aware she was free-associating, not worrying where it was going to take her.

As she sank deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation, Carmela heard a low click. She turned her head and sighed, assuming the tape had ended and a new one was going to begin. And let herself tumble, tumble, tumble, like Alice in Wonderland falling down that most intriguing rabbit hole, into a dreamlike state.

But something was crouched on Carmela’s chest. Pressing down. Something heavy and hot.

Carmela’s eyelids fluttered. She knew she should try to open them, but it seemed like too much trouble.

Trouble.

She was intensely hot. Sweltering.

This time her eyelids really did open.

Nothing was on top of her, but sweat oozed from every pore, coursed down her face in rivulets. She wondered if this was part of the treatment.

No, it couldn’t be. She was too hot. Feverish.

Way too hot.

She tried to move an arm, but it stuck fast.

Okay, then try to move your legs, she told herself. Stand up and the vinyl electric blanket thing that’s making you so hot will slide right off.

She couldn’t budge an inch. Now she felt like she was encased in molten lava. Every nerve twanged, every inch of skin seemed to burn.

This isn’t happening!

Now what? she wondered. Now you scream your head off, her brain replied.

“Help! Anybody!” Carmela shrieked at the top of her lungs. She paused a moment, listened for footsteps. “Get me outa here!”

She gazed longingly at the door, praying for it to open.

“Everything good?” Greta, suddenly chirpy, snicked open the door and peeked her gray head in.

“Get me outa here!” Carmela yelled. “It’s too hot, I’m burning up!”

Greta ripped the vinyl electric blanket away, then pulled at Carmela’s mud-encrusted arms. There was a slight crack as the mud gave way, then, finally, Carmela was free.

“You set the heat way too high!” Carmela screamed, struggling to sit up. She was angry and didn’t care who heard her. “I was heading for a meltdown. The darn mud and electric blanket were as hot as Chernobyl!”

“No, ma’am, you must have changed the setting.” Greta pointed triumphantly to the master control panel. “Almost a hundred degrees.” She glowered suspiciously at Carmela. “Too high,” she pronounced, as though Carmela were clearly at fault.

Carmela hoisted herself off the treatment table, flung one arm out as much as one could fling a mud-encrusted arm, and pointed toward the door. “Get out!” she thundered.

Knowing a convenient exit when she saw one, Greta scuttled for the door and disappeared.

Angry, hot, feeling like an Egyptian mummy who’d just been released from her sarcophagus after a long slumber, Carmela dragged herself stiff-legged across the room to the shower. She turned the water on full throttle and positioned her mud-encased body under the spray. Then, the cooling water pelting her about the head, shoulders, and back, Carmela waited as the dried mud finally reconstituted itself and changed back to slithery goo. Then the goo finally slid off.

As she stared at the faintly musty green mineral mud swirling about her bare feet toward the drain, Carmela wondered just what the hell had happened. Had there really been a malfunction just now? Or had it been mischief?

Chapter 19

“WHEN were you going to tell me?” Shamus’s voice, filled with hurt, dripping with anger, blasted at Carmela from the telephone.

Carmela grimaced as she stared at the four fat orange pumpkins that squatted on her kitchen counter. And her heart sank.

Does he know about the show? Is that what this call is about?

“Tell you what?” she asked.

“About the show.” Shamus’s voice cut like a knife.

He knows.

“Oh, that,” said Carmela, fighting to keep her voice even. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Really,” said Shamus.

Carmela knew she had to carefully explain what had happened, make Shamus understand that she hadn’t gone out and lobbied for this show herself. Hadn’t tried to cut out his knees from under him.

“I was fooling around, taking photos a couple weeks ago,” she explained as patiently as she could, “at the same time Jade Ella Hayward had this photo shoot going on. So I took a few black-and-white shots of her models. She saw them at my shop and, for some bizarre reason, decided to use one on the front cover of her brochure.”

“You’re a bad liar, Carmela. You always have been.”

“And you’re a bad listener, Shamus, because I’m telling you the truth!”

“You just happened to score a commercial project and you just happened to worm your way into having your own show. At Click! Gallery yet.” Shamus sighed. “You knew all about this last night and didn’t have the decency to tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Shamus. I don’t even want the show. I’m not going to have a show.”

Shamus’s voice was like ice. “You know what was nothing, Carmela? Last night was nothing.”

His cold callousness sliced at her heart. “Don’t say that, Shamus. Don’t do this, please,” Carmela begged him.

“And another thing,” Shamus spat. “You presence is no longer required at our table tonight.”

“What about Glory’s big award?” cried Carmela. First she’d been strong-armed into participating, now she was being cut out. Very confusing.

“Forget about it,” snapped Shamus. “There’s no room for traitors and turncoats. Not in the Meechum family anyway.”

Carmela flinched as Shamus slammed the phone down. And thought about their miserable timing. Always that rotten timing.

Why the hell was that, anyway? Crossed wires? Bad luck? Planetary unrest?

She picked up her carving knife and stared at one of the pumpkins she’d just finished carving. It bore the image of a sorrowful angel clutching a cross.

Was this a metaphor for her life with Shamus? Sadness, sorrow, star-crossed lovers?

Carmela sighed. She supposed the night before hadn’t meant anything to him. She, on the other hand, had woken up this morning feeling lighthearted, ebullient, and a trifle dreamy. She and Shamus had shared a bed, kind words, and a few laughs. Even though they’d hadn’t physically made love, she had sensed that their emotional bond was still there, still intact. Yes, she had felt it wash over her in a warm, comforting wave. A hell of a lot of love still existed between the two of them. And she was sure Shamus had felt it, too.

Now . . . Now Shamus’s fragile ego had sustained a life-threatening blow. And when Shamus’s ego was knocked off-kilter, his psyche seemed to follow. Which meant they were probably back to square one. Completely estranged, on the brink of divorce.

Furious and frustrated, Carmela drove her carving knife into the front of one of the pumpkins, piercing its soft flesh.

It could just as easily have been her heart.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, EMERGING FROM THE shower, still trying to get rid of the feel of that morning’s mineral mud treatment, Carmela’s phone jingled again.

Slipping into a terry cloth bathrobe, Carmela padded across the slick floor and wondered tiredly if it was Shamus again. Calling to crab at her some more.

But this time it was her cell phone ringing from the depths of her handbag. And the caller turned out to be . . . surprise, surprise . . . Billy Cobb!

“Carmela,” he said.

“Yes, Billy,” she said breathlessly. She sat down on the edge of her bed, stared down at her well-scrubbed pink toes.

“You’ve always been friendly and nice to me, Carmela.” He paused. “Would you give my family a message?”

“Of course,” she told him, even as she warned herself to proceed with extreme caution. “Listen, Billy . . .” She hesitated, wondering how best to phrase this. “Did you by any chance slip something under my door last night?”

“Huh?” said Billy. “No. Why?” When Carmela didn’t answer, he said, “I only called ’cause I’m for sure leaving town tonight. If you could tell Aunt Tandy . . .”

“Billy . . . no.” Carmela tried to harness her jumbled thoughts. “Listen, Billy, I need to talk to you. In person. Can you meet me at the Art Institute tonight?”

“Why?” asked Billy, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Because . . . uh . . .” Carmela struggled to come up with a plausible excuse, hated herself for concocting an outright lie. “Because your aunt has something for you.”

“Money?”

“I’m not sure . . . I think so.” Oh, she thought to herself, this is awful.

“I guess I could stop by then.”

“You know where the Art Institute is?”

“I know where it is,” said Billy. “I’ve been there.”

“Okay then,” said Carmela. “Nine o’clock. Come to the side door. The one on Perrier Street that leads to the administration offices.”

“I’ll find it.”

With a sigh of relief, Carmela hung up the phone. Now she wondered if it was going to be possible to negotiate something with Lieutenant Babcock. It would be a long shot, but she felt she had to give it a try.

Carmela dug in her purse, found the business card Lieutenant Babcock had given her a few days earlier. Then she phoned the number, was put on hold by a disinterested-sounding officer, and had to wait a good five minutes before the officer told her she was being patched through. Probably to his home number, Carmela decided. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon.

There was a click and a whir and then Lieutenant Babcock was on the line. “Babcock here.” He sounded busy and distracted.

Uh-oh, bad timing? Again?

“Lieutenant Babcock? Hello. This is Carmela Bertrand.”

“The scrapbook lady,” Lieutenant Babcock responded. Now there was a little more warmth to his voice. “Hello, yourself.”

“Yeah, hi,” Carmela said, flustered. “I was wondering if you came up with anything on your paint tests.” She didn’t really give a hoot about the paint tests, but it seemed like a good gambit to get the conversation rolling.

“I don’t know,” said Lieutenant Babcock. “I’m pretty sure the labs are still working on it. Probably gonna take a few days.”

Carmela hesitated. “What I’m about to ask you is going to sound a trifle presumptuous, but would you . . .” She fumbled with her question. “I mean could you possibly meet me at the Art Institute tonight?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly.

And then, because Edgar Babcock was the smart cookie Carmela knew he was, with a cop’s innate savvy and a nose for ferreting out trouble, he asked her directly, “Does this have something to do with Billy Cobb?”

“It does,” admitted Carmela. “At least I hope it does.” She waited, but he didn’t ask for any more of an explanation. “Listen, if you have other plans tonight . . .”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Okay then,” she said, thinking, I gotta introduce this guy to Ava. There’s something about him that’s very appealing. He’s got that quiet self-assurance.

“What time?” Babcock asked.

Carmela asked him to meet her around nine fifteen, figuring that would give her just enough time to convince Billy Cobb to abandon his plan to flee the state. Then she hung up, thinking, Am I nuts or what? I’m trying to get a guy to turn himself in and I’m also thinking about playing matchmaker at the same time.

She knew this was precisely the problem with having that Cawegian heritage. Cool rationalization mixed with red hot emotion. Which meant the wires were definitely crossed.

Chapter 20

THE sky was stormy and restless as Carmela, Ava, and Sweetmomma Pam climbed the steps of the Art Institute. Waiting at the top were flickering jack-o’-lanterns with mirthful grins and a bevy of junior volunteers costumed as ghosts and passing out green glow sticks.

“How’d you get those jack-o’-lanterns here?” asked Ava. She was wearing a skin-tight silver sequined gown that clung to her body seductively. Most of her face was painted silver to match, and her eyeliner consisted of a tiny strip of miniature silver sequins. Her hair was pulled into an updo and threaded with gemstones, giving her the appearance of a fanciful cockatiel.

“Natalie Chastain stopped by and picked them up,” said Carmela, who was equally tricked out in a black and white harlequin-patterned gown. She’d forgone the face paint, however, and instead wore a black mask with a sparkling pavé surface and black ostrich plumes that curved away from either side of her face. “She’s got this big old honkin’ Chrysler she calls her jungle cruiser,” added Carmela.

“Neato,” sang Sweetmomma Pam as she scampered up the stairs, greatly excited by the prospect of attending such a gala ball.

Ava studied the harlequin gown Carmela was wearing. “Your butt looks real good in that dress, honey.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. At the last minute she’d changed from a gold peasant-style gown to the more flamboyant harlequin gown. Dressing to catch someone’s eye tonight? Could be.

“You still feelin’ hot flashes from that mud wrap this morning?” asked Ava.

“Hot flashes!” exclaimed Sweetmomma Pam, who was dressed adorably in a 1920s-era gold flapper dress complete with beaded headband and gold leather bird mask with a wicked-looking curved beak that had to be a good six inches long. “Never had ’em, never will!”

“I think I finally cooled down,” said Carmela, fanning herself even though the evening had turned chilly.

Like Cerberus guarding the entrance to Hades, Jade Ella Hayward met them at the entrance to the ballroom. She was glammed out in a jaguar print silk blouse that wrapped around her slim waist, then tied in front with a coquettish pussycat bow. The blouse topped a pencil thin black leather skirt and what had to be Manolo Blahnik heels, also jaguar-spotted. A very spendy outfit, Carmela decided. Jade Ella must have dipped into the insurance money already.

“Carmela,” Jade Ella intoned, rolling her eyes and scrunching up her face, getting ready to launch an all-out abject apology. “Greta told me what happened. I’m soooo sorry.” She nervously fingered the matching jaguar-spotted mask she had clutched in her hands.

“Poor Carmela was almost pan-fried like a catfish,” said Ava, jumping in, always at the ready to defend her friend. “She could have been seriously injured!”

“I know. I heard. We’re still having problems with the master control module,” Jade Ella explained. “You see, everything at Spa Diva is computerized. From the music to the lighting to the treatment apparatus. Very high tech, but terribly sensitive, too. If something’s just the teensiest bit off, well . . .”

“You’d better get your apparatus fixed posthaste,” warned Carmela. “Because I went from Defcon Four to Defcon One in about two minutes!” Defcon was slang for the Department of Defense’s readiness alert status. Defcon One meant the warheads were about to fly.

“Seven fifteen,” announced a loud mechanical voice.

Ava frowned at Sweetmomma Pam. “Will you turn that wristwatch thing off?” she hissed.

“Carmela,” purred Jade Ella, “please believe me when I say it was a terribly unfortunate accident.” She laughed nervously. “You certainly can’t believe anyone wished you harm?”

Carmela shook her head, still highly suspicious of her little “accident” at Spa Diva. She wondered if Jade Ella figured she might be privy to some inside information about Barty’s murder. Or did Jade Ella have motives more sinister than that? Carmela knew that if Jade Ella did mastermind the malfunctioning control module, that put her squarely in line as the prime murder suspect.

And what on earth was Jade Ella up to with the Click! Gallery—pushing her photographs on Clark Berthume, the owner?

“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, “I got a phone call from Clark Berthume yesterday.”

A knowing grin spread across Jade Ella’s face. “Aren’t you thrilled?” she cooed. “I just knew Clark would go gaga over your work.”

“First of all,” said Carmela, “photography’s not my life’s aspiration. In fact, I do it only for fun. Second, I’m not interested in having any sort of show.”

“Oh, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “how can you be so callous? Clark has photographers waiting in line for just this kind of break! Please don’t blow it!”

“Carmela.” Natalie Chastain tapped her gently on the shoulder and Jade Ella, sensing an opportune moment, slipped into the crowd.

“Natalie, hello,” said Carmela. And then, because Natalie looked a little frazzled, even dressed up in her rather elegant Roman robe with a wreath of grape leaves circling her head, said, “It looks like it’s going to be a wonderful evening.”

“It does?” Natalie brightened considerably. “Good, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Especially after all our last-minute hassles.”

Carmela hastily introduced Ava and Sweetmomma Pam to Natalie, and then had to do introductions all over again when Monroe Payne suddenly appeared and joined their little cluster.

Wearing a Peking Opera costume of embroidered crimson silk, Monroe authentically looked the part with his dark hair slicked back and drawn into a Chinese topknot set high upon his head.

“Have you seen the art and floral pairings yet?” Monroe asked them, obviously delighted at how everything had turned out.

“No, but we’re going to take a look right now,” Carmela told him, as an older couple wearing matching Medieval lord and lady costumes suddenly descended on Monroe in that assured way moneyed people always have.

The selected artworks were hung on the walls of the ballroom and the corresponding floral arrangements placed directly in front of them on square marble pedestals. The description cards Carmela had created were in little Lucite holders directly in front of the floral arrangements.

As fanciful a concept as Monsters & Old Masters was, Carmela had to admit that many of the artwork and floral pairings were really quite clever.

A bouquet of bright red chili peppers mixed with canary grass and accented with boughs of curly willow was set in a flat ikebana-type vase and paired with a dynamic, brightly colored Japanese print that depicted a Samurai warrior in full battle dress.

A bouquet of silvery-green lamb’s ear and blue salvia was accented with bright green apples and cinnamon sticks and paired most appropriately with a painting that depicted capering wood nymphs.

And dried yarrow and strawflowers, tied with raffia and displayed in a painted ceramic bowl, were paired with a ceramic Day of the Dead sculpture from Guadalajara, Mexico.

As Carmela moved down the row of floral and art pairings, she suddenly found herself staring into the hard face of Glory Meechum.

“Hello, Carmela,” said Glory.

Glory was one of the few guests who hadn’t come in costume. She was wearing a boxy navy blazer with an equally boxy matching skirt. On the other hand, if Glory was trying to pass for the dowdy head matron of a women’s prison or private girls’ school, then she was right on the money costume-wise. Glory also had a nice tall drink clutched firmly in one hand. Probably bourbon and water. From its dark amber appearance, it was obvious the drink had been mixed fairly strong.

“Nice to see you, Glory,” said Carmela. She glanced longingly after Ava and Sweetmomma Pam, who had wandered away. “Congratulations again on your Founder’s Award.”

Glory gave a self-satisfied smile and leaned in slightly. Her eyes were like hard little orbs and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Carmela could smell the bourbon on her breath and sensed that a confrontation might be imminent.

“Too bad you weren’t able to join us,” said Glory. She pulled her mouth into a sneer. “But I guess family doesn’t mean a whole lot to you anymore.”

“Glory . . . ,” said Carmela, tiredly, spreading her hands apart in a peace gesture, “I’d be happy to sit at your table tonight.” This kind of crap just wasn’t worth it, she decided. She’d sit at the damn table and be pleasant if it killed her.

Glory tucked her chin down and peered at Carmela. “That might prove slightly embarrassing for you, Carmela.

Especially since Shamus elected to bring a date tonight. A lovely young woman by the name of Zoe Carvelle, who is most enchanting.” The ice in Glory’s glass clinked like gnashing teeth. Then Glory flashed a triumphant smile, spun unsteadily on her squatty little navy heels, and tottered away.

Carmela stared after her, stunned by Glory’s revelation. Shamus had brought a date. Her estranged husband had brought a date. Wasn’t that just a trip and a half? She was about to be completely humiliated at one of New Orleans’s major social events. Could things get any worse?

A crowd of masked revelers suddenly swirled around her. Of course they could, she decided. This was New Orleans, after all.

A stark white face with waving strands of long black hair floated in close, startling her.

“Hey there, Carmela.” Dove Duval’s familiar voice suddenly issued forth from this strange apparition. “Having fun?”

Carmela managed to squeak out a one-syllable answer as she took in Dove Duval’s costume. Dove wore a Morticia Addams wig of long, black, straight hair. Her face was powdered stark white, like a performer in a Japanese Kabuki theater. Dove’s lips were outlined in black then filled in with blood red lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed in black, lent an eerie stark contrast, making her look enormously predatory and slightly crazed. And she wore a floor-length black witch’s gown. She looks, Carmela thought, like that bizarre pop star Marilyn Manson.

Dove Duval’s blood red lips pulled themselves into a wide smile. “Aren’t you the liberated woman.”

Carmela figured Dove had to be referring to Shamus and his date. And decided she seriously didn’t want to go there. Instead, Carmela decided to negotiate a countermaneuver. “How did your little photo session go yesterday?” she asked.

Dove blinked rapidly at her. “Pardon?”

“Weren’t you also taking photos when we met in the cemetery yesterday?” Carmela stared at Dove. Someone had taken the photo of her and Boo, scratched it up, then shoved it under her door.

“Why, no,” said Dove. “I don’t know the first thing about taking pictures.”

Carmela gave a long sigh. Dove wasn’t about to give her anything. “Did you finally get your floral arrangement done?” she asked.

That little question produced a flurry of animation and activity. Encouraged by Carmela’s apparent interest, infinitely proud to show off her handiwork, aspiring for recognition, Dove Duval grasped Carmela’s arm and pulled her down along the wall of artworks.

“Like it, Carmela?”

They stopped in front of the owl painting, Owl in the Moonlight. True to her word, Dove had composed an arrangement using poppy heads, dried feverfew, and bright orange Dutchman’s trousers.

“Wonderful,” replied Carmela, gazing at the moss-filled wire basket that was tied with velvet ribbon from her store.

“I just love being artistic,” said Dove. With her exaggerated accent, it sounded like she said I just love being autistic.

IT TOOK A GOOD TEN MINUTES FOR CARMELA TO finally pull herself away from Dove Duval, make her way through the crowd, then finally locate the large circular table that Baby and Del had reserved. When she finally got there, feeling more than a little discombobulated, everyone was already seated. Baby and Del. Tandy and Darwin. Gabby and her husband, Stuart. And Ava and Sweetmomma Pam. An extra place setting had been added for Ava’s grandmother, and she now sat perched expectantly on a folding chair.

After a flurry of greetings, hugs, and air kisses, Carmela slipped into the chair next to Ava.

“Shamus brought a date,” she told her friend in a low whisper.

Ava lifted an eyebrow and held it for a second, letting it quiver in disbelief. “Shamus brought a date?” she whispered back. “Date with a capital D?”

“Zoe,” said Carmela. The sick, sinking feeling that had begun in her stomach now seemed to have spread through her entire body. “Zoe with a capital Z.”

“Oh, honey!” Ava grasped Carmela’s hand and gave her a look of pure commiseration.

And, as everyone around her clinked glasses, noshed hors d’oeuvres, and made small talk, Carmela sat and tried to puzzle out what she could do to avoid being introduced to Zoe. Something. Anything. Even faking an epileptic seizure would be preferable and slightly less embarrassing than having to smile and shake hands with your husband’s date. Especially in a room full of scrutinizing society folk who loved nothing better than watching other people squirm like a bug on a pin.

Ava, her curiosity roused, craned her neck and peered across a sea of tables, trying to catch a look at Shamus’s date. “Hmm. I think I see her.”

“Dog?” asked Carmela.

“Actually,” said Ava, “she’s rather striking.”

On the pretext of reaching for a decanter of wine, Carmela half-stood and craned her neck as well. Finally she spotted Shamus, then Zoe sitting next to him. There was something familiar about her.

Damn. It’s the woman in the keyhole dress. Has to be.

“She certainly is striking,” agreed Carmela. “And youthful.”

Ava nodded. “Particularly if your taste runs toward emaciated girls with a head full of hair extensions.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Carmela.

Ava plucked the wine decanter from Carmela’s hand and refilled her own glass. “And, if you ask me, I’m thinking her ta-ta’s aren’t the genuine article, either.”

Once the main entree of roast duck had been served, Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo stopped by their table. Carmela made hasty introductions and there were hand-shakes and compliments all around.

“I’d love to take credit for everything,” Quigg told them ebulliently, slapping Chef Ricardo on the back, “but my head chef, Chef Ricardo Gaspar, is the real genius.”

Baby and Del applauded with great enthusiasm, then everyone at the table joined in, with a spatter of applause coming from surrounding tables as well.

Ava immediately caught the eye of Chef Ricardo. He sped to her side with the swiftness of a man questing after the holy grail. Or, more like, lusting after it.

“You like more sweet potato casserole, miss?” he asked her.

Ava tilted her chin up and eyed him carefully. “I’m fine.”

But Chef Ricardo was not to be deterred. “Another glass of wine? I get you better wine. French wine, not cheap domestic.” Obviously, Chef Ricardo considered drinking California wine tantamount to drinking pig swill.

“Now you’re talking my language, sweetie.” Ava, always delighted to be fawned over, fixed Chef Ricardo with a dazzling smile.

He leaned in close to her and inhaled deeply. “Lovely perfume, miss. Very sensual.” Chef Ricardo narrowed his eyes and uttered a low Lothario growl. Then he was off on his quest for better wine. French wine.

“What was that all about, miss?” asked Carmela.

Ava fanned herself nervously. “I think it’s that Banana Frango facial I had earlier. It’s still giving off kind of a heady aroma.” She gave Carmela a sideways glance. “Honey, do you still see Chef Ricardo as a viable suspect? ’Cause, truth be known, I think the man is kinda cute. And, you know, I never was all that fond of Bartholomew Hayward.”

“Go for it,” said Carmela.

As tuxedo-clad waiters cleared away remnants of Chef Ricardo’s calorie-loaded desserts—cranberry bread pudding and elegant lemon bars—the orchestra tuned up and the dancing began.

Baby and Del immediately headed for the dance floor to kick off the evening with a tango. Other couples, captivated by the sensuous music, their emotions fueled by the free flow of drinks, rushed to join them. And Carmela finally got her first clear, unobstructed view of Shamus’s table.

But Shamus was no longer sitting down. Instead, he was heading determinedly for her table. With Zoe in tow!

“Oops,” exclaimed Carmela, “gotta run.”

“Where you going?” called Tandy.

“Ladies’ room,” said Carmela. She jumped to her feet, grabbed for her beaded evening bag. But in her state of panic, the bag slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor and she had to dive under the table for what she hoped would be a fast retrieval.

“Carmela,” said Shamus. “I’d like you to meet Zoe.” Great, thought Carmela, Shamus just introduced his date to my butt.

Embarrassed, Carmela backed out from under the table and scrambled hastily to her feet.

“Hi there, howdja do?” she mumbled hastily. Pumping Zoe’s hand, not bothering to really look at her, Carmela tried to make a break for it, but Shamus moved left to block her.

Damn. Guess you can’t outflank an old quarterback. Especially one who can still scramble.

“I understand you’re very creative,” said Zoe politely.

“Carmela did all the menu cards,” volunteered Ava. She’d jumped up suddenly to help Carmela in whatever way she could. “And the cards with the floral and art descriptions, too.” Now she moved in on Zoe like a lioness circling her prey.

“Zoe manages a clothing store,” Shamus told them. “The Hive.” He paused. “Perhaps you ladies have heard of it?”

“Nice place,” said Carmela, feeling just a tiny ripple of intimidation. The Hive was a very upscale boutique located on Magazine Street. It carried many of the top designers like Versace, Ungaro, and Armani. She’d heard that they’d recently added a men’s line, too.

“Listen,” said Ava, moving in on Zoe, “I’ve been looking for a hot pink slip dress. Do you have anything remotely similar to that? Better yet, do you have any hot pink shoes? Something strappy and fun.” Ava gave a long sigh. “It’s so difficult to find the perfect designer piece. . . .”

Shamus looked on with amusement as Ava rattled away and Zoe rattled back.

Carmela faced Shamus. “You don’t have a costume,” she told him. He wore a black turtleneck under a black jacket, and Carmela wondered where that little fashion faux pas had originated. Shamus had always told her he despised turtlenecks.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out, obviously wanting Carmela’s reaction to his new look. Expecting a compliment.

“If you swabbed white greasepaint on your face you could pass for a mime,” Carmela snapped.

Shamus looked stung. “You know I despise mimes.”

Carmela shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

Shamus glowered at her. “This hostile attitude you’ve adopted,” he said. “It’s not one bit flattering. I hope you don’t intend to keep it up all night.” Shamus was so mad, he stomped off and left Zoe standing there with Ava.

“Only as long as I have to,” Carmela called to Shamus’s retreating backside.

Ava stopped chattering and the three of them stood staring at each other. Finally Zoe spoke up. “You’re very pretty,” she told Carmela. “Shamus said you were pretty.” She appraised Carmela with a careful eye, like a budding plastic surgery aficionado. “You have very full lips. I’ve been thinking of having my lips enhanced. There’s a plastic surgeon up in Baton Rouge who’s supposed to be a genius. . . .”

“Implants,” replied Ava, gesturing at Carmela’s lips.

“Really,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “They look very natural.”

“You want natural,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s cheekbones.”

Zoe’s eyes widened even more. “Implants, too?”

Ava nodded. “The surgeon made two teensy little incisions inside her mouth, then slipped these little plastic pieces right in. I tell you, the girl’s put together with spit and clay.”

Zoe was clearly fascinated. “I’ve heard about cheek implants. Did they hurt?” she asked Carmela.

“Never felt a thing,” replied Carmela.

“But if you want realistic,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s eyes.”

Now Zoe was completely confused. “Her eyes?” She threw Carmela a questioning glance.

Carmela, who’d never had an implant or a collagen injection in her life, just nodded. “Had ’em done two years ago,” she said. “Love ’em.”

Ava lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmela was born with brown eyes. Didn’t the surgeons do a fabulous job?”

Zoe’s pouty mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh yes, they did,” she marveled. “And I had no idea they could even do a transplant procedure like that. Wow.”

“Biosynthetics,” purred Ava. “Isn’t medical science amazing?”

“Yes, it is,” said Zoe, feeling that she’d developed a real kinship with the two women.

“You’re evil,” Carmela told Ava as Zoe headed back to her table. “Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“And you’re not?” asked Ava. She gave a slow wink.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“I am now,” said Carmela. But ten minutes later, Shamus was back in her face, begging for help.

Carmela stared at him, wondering where he found the nerve. “You want my help?” she asked. The man was certainly born with an extra helping of chutzpah.

“There’s a problem with Glory,” Shamus hissed, plucking at Carmela’s sleeve. “Hurry up! We’ve got a dire emergency on our hands!”

As Shamus pulled her across the ballroom, Carmela noted that suddenly, somehow, Shamus considered the two of them complicit again. Now we have an emergency. On our hands.

Glory Meechum was slumped in her chair, one chubby hand still stubbornly clasped around a glass of bourbon. Her older brother, Jeffrey, a pear-shaped banker in a drab gray suit, stared at her helplessly. Two useless banker cousins sat nervously twiddling their thumbs.

“She just drank too much bourbon!” exclaimed Carmela as she surveyed the situation. Over the past couple years Carmela had seen Glory sock it away pretty good, but she’d never seen her this drunk. Glory’s face was doughy and slack, her lipstick smudged and smeared. Not a positive sign.

Shamus put a hand protectively on one of Glory’s broad shoulders. “That’s not the real problem. She only had a couple drinks this evening, but she’s been taking this new medicine for her OCD. My guess is the combination of booze and pills must’ve packed a real wallop.”

“That lady’s stoned, all right,” said Ava, who had followed Carmela to Shamus’s table. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” Ava peered into Glory’s glazed eyes. “Oh yeah, look at her pupils. She’s gone.”

“She’s gone,” repeated Sweetmomma Pam, who had tagged along as well.

“Carmela, do something!” wailed Shamus.

Startled, wondering why this little family emergency had suddenly been thrust on her shoulders, Carmela whipped her head toward him. “Face it, Shamus, Glory’s zonked.”

“Carmela . . . please! You’ve got to do something,” Shamus begged as Baby and Del, curious as to what was going on, sidled up to the table as well.

“The woman’s clearly stoned, Shamus, what do you want me to do?” Carmela snapped. “Fire up the light show and throw some Jefferson Airplane on the turntable?”

“You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” grumped Shamus.

Carmela hesitated. Shamus was probably right. She was being a tad bitchy. But wasn’t she enjoying this little spectacle as well?

Oh yeah. What goes around comes around, Miss Glory Meechum. Spread enough bad karma around and it’ll come back and chomp you in the butt.

“This is Glory’s big night,” pleaded Shamus. “She’s supposed to receive her Founder’s Award!”

“Might I offer a suggestion?” said Baby. She stood on the sidelines, looking cool and somewhat detached in her Marie Antoinette costume, but also helping to block this rather embarrassing scene from other prying eyes.

“Whaaaa?” mumbled Glory, rolling her head. Neither eye seemed to be able to focus on the same thing. With her head sunk on her chest and her eyes looking wonky and rolling out to the sides, Carmela thought Glory resembled a Mississippi channel catfish.

“Now mind you,” said Baby, “not that I know this first-hand. But I did attend college in the late sixties.”

Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Lots of psychedelics back then. Powerful stuff.”

“And I did hear rumors . . . realize, these were only rumors,” said Baby, “that several spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in a glass of orange juice could bring a person down from a nasty high. Something about increasing glucose and balancing blood sugar levels.”

“Kind of like a diabetic,” breathed Ava. “That’s good.”

“Shamus, go tell Monroe Payne to hold off on that Founder’s Award presentation,” announced Carmela. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Glory like she was a science project. “Let’s go ahead and try Baby’s sugar and orange juice suggestion. Glory’s in no condition to walk out on a stage. Let alone stumble through an acceptance speech.”

“I don’t know,” said Baby, “I’ve seen lots of men do it.”

“But that’s men, honey,” interjected Ava. “In the South men are expected to get a little tipsy at social occasions. It’s their birthright.”

“Hear, hear,” said Baby’s husband, Del, grinning.

Chapter 21

“CARMELA,” said Gabby, her face scrunched into a worried grimace, “I think Stuart’s havin’ one of his low blood sugar attacks.”

“Um . . . didn’t Stuart just eat, Gabby?” Carmela had just poured glass after glass of sugar-enhanced orange juice down Glory Meechum’s gullet to revive her, and now Gabby was pressing her about yet another health crisis. What am I? An ER doc?

Gabby gestured helplessly at her husband, who was sprawled in his chair, staring up at Ava with a foolish grin. “He didn’t eat that much,” explained Gabby. “He was pretty busy jumping up and down, gallivanting around to neighboring tables, and saying how-do to folks.”

“Uh-huh,” said Carmela. “Trying to sell cars?”

“Lester Dorian did mention that he might be trading in his Cadillac, and Stuart was trying to get him to go for the big Toyota.”

“With the luxury package,” said Carmela.

“Of course,” said Gabby. “And the GPS. Anyway,” she continued, “the food’s all cleared away and since you’re personally acquainted with the caterer and his head chef, I thought maybe you could . . . you know . . .”

“Get some food for Stuart,” said Carmela.

“Could you do that?” asked Gabby. “I really hate to leave Stuart sitting here all by himself. He’s so shaky and rambling. You never know what could happen.”

Right, thought Carmela. Stuart might get spirited off by forest elves. Or, worse yet, rival car dealers. “Okay, Gabby, but just hold on a minute, okay?”

“How come everybody’s droppin’ like flies?” asked Ava as she dug in her evening bag for a packet of Clorets. “It’s like we’re on one of those big cruise ships or something.”

“That’s right,” said Carmela, “the Voyage of the Damned. Now, for the pièce de résistance all we need is a rousing case of Legionnaires’ disease.”

“Chew this,” Ava instructed Stuart as she shook a Cloret out of the package and handed it to him. “No, honey, don’t just swallow it in one gulp, it’s not a pill.” Ava sighed mightily as she passed him another Cloret. “Here. Try it again. And this time chew!”

Carmela checked her watch as she sped across the ballroom. Five minutes to nine. Where had the evening gone? Had she even had a few moments to relax and have a bit of fun? Hell no.

In fact, she was beginning to feel like some poor shlub in a Marx Brothers comedy where everything was spiraling out of control. Not only did she have to find a couple bites of food for Stuart, preferably something sweet and chewy, she had to surreptitiously meet Billy Cobb at the side door, try to locate Lt. Edgar Babcock, and then see if she could engineer some sort of truce between Billy and the New Orleans Police Department. Could she really pull all that off? Only if she was suddenly brandishing a bright blue Superwoman cape and a pair of silver bracelets.

As Carmela breezed down the corridor that led toward the employee lunchroom and administrative offices, she thought about how she’d been forced to abandon her original plan.

So much for my notion of finding the real killer. I gave it a shot and failed miserably. Ran across a few suspicious people, but never found any concrete evidence that linked them to Barty Hayward’s murder. And, Lord knows, you have to have evidence.

Carmela turned into the small kitchen. Two women were beginning the daunting task of washing dishes and stacking plates.

“Is there any bread pudding left?” Carmela asked.

One of the women shrugged. “Check next door.” Carmela popped next door to the employee lunchroom. The long tables were piled with a jumble of boxes, food platters covered with plastic wrap, and half-empty silver serving platters. Waiters rushed in and out, depositing empty wine decanters, serving utensils, and bread baskets. Nobody seemed to notice her.

Poking through the debris on one table, Carmela found a large cake pan that still contained a few lemon bars sprinkled generously with powdered sugar. She searched around, found a small china dessert plate, and scooped two of the lemon bars onto the plate. They were a little squishy by now, but Carmela decided Stuart would just have to rough it.

Glancing at her watch, Carmela saw it was almost time to meet Billy at the Perrier Street door.

Uh-oh, better take care of that first.

Clutching her plate of lemon bars, Carmela slipped out of the lunchroom and made her way farther down the corridor, away from the bright lights and clatter into semi-darkness and quiet. Natalie Chastain’s office was down this way. So was Monroe Payne’s office and those of the various curators.

Carmela’s plan was simple if not simplistic: Put Billy at ease, try to get him to come inside with her, then quietly reason with him. And then, at the magic moment, Lt. Edgar Babcock would appear. Helpful and rational. An honest, forthright representative of the New Orleans Police Department who would help straighten things out.

Good heavens, she thought to herself, isn’t this a grand fantasy? I’m really making this guy Babcock into a regular Dudley Do-Right.

When Carmela was halfway down the corridor, hurrying to meet Billy, one of the lemon bars slipped off the plate. Tumbled end over end and landed with a splotch, the white powdered sugar spilling out around it.

Nice going, klutz.

Carmela wrinkled her nose and stared down at the mess.

Okay, one lemon bar down, one to go. We’ll deal with this happy little accident on the return trip.

AT FIRST CARMELA THOUGHT BILLY HAD STOOD her up. She pushed open the heavy metal door, leaned out, peered into swirling darkness as rain pelted down and lightning strobed in the sky overhead.

Then she saw him. Walking swiftly toward her, splashing haphazardly through puddles of standing water. Billy’s head was tucked down and the collar of his dark blue pea coat was turned up against the battering wind and rain.

“Billy, over here,” Carmela called, waving to him.

Billy ducked through the doorway in a cold wash of rain, then the door snicked shut behind him.

Carmela put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and exhaled slowly. The boy looked cold and drenched, his youthful face tired and drawn. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up,” she told him. Now that he was actually here, she wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed.

Billy faced her as he slowly dripped water on the marble floor. “Do you have the money?” he asked tiredly. His eyes sought out the plate she was clutching. “What’s that?”

“Lemon bar,” said Carmela, thrusting the plate into his hands. “Listen, Billy, did you know about Barty’s storage space across the river?”

Billy accepted the plate and frowned. “I knew about it, yeah.”

“You used to go over there with him?” she asked.

The boy shook his head. “Nope.”

“But you talked to Barty about it?”

Billy gave a shrug. “Not really. I just heard him mention it a couple times.”

“To people in the store?” Carmela asked.

Billy thought for a minute. “More like on the phone, I think.”

“On the phone,” repeated Carmela.

“Yeah,” said Billy. “He was probably talkin’ to the delivery guys. I think that’s where Barty had ’em take the really crappy stuff.”

“You’re sure?” asked Carmela as, around the corner, she heard a sudden shuffle of footsteps.

Carmela touched a warning finger to her lips . . . Shhhh . . . as she and Billy flattened against the wall.

The footsteps stopped, then there was the distinct jingle of keys. Someone must be letting themselves into one of the offices, Carmela decided. Maybe Natalie?

She peeked around the corner, caught a flash of rich red silk. No, that had to be Monroe Payne in his Peking Opera costume. Probably come to fetch Glory’s Founder’s Award. The presentation was probably going to kick off fairly soon and Glory would receive her fancy engraved trophy now that she was back on her feet.

Okay now, how am I going to find Edgar Babcock . . . and drag Billy to meet him?

There was a sudden cry of dismay, then Monroe uttered a single low word: “Damn.”

Oops, thought Carmela, I think Monroe Payne just stepped in that lemon bar.

She poked her head out slightly to take a look. In the dim light she could see Monroe hopping along, trying to scrape something off the bottom of his shoe. Yellow goop, no doubt.

Sorry, Monroe.

As Carmela and Billy stood there in silence, someone else came clattering down the hallway. There was a low exchange of voices, something about a disgruntled donor, and Carmela also heard Monroe mutter, “Idiot food-service people.” Then Monroe and whoever it was that had spoken to him hurried back down the hallway, away from them.

Now it was Billy’s turn to stick his head around the corner for a quick peek.

“Are they gone?” hissed Carmela.

Billy nodded.

“Come on, then,” said Carmela, plucking at his jacket. “Let’s go.”

But Billy was suspicious. “Go where?”

“Uh . . . just down the hall a little. We’ve got to talk.”

Reluctantly, Billy allowed Carmela to pull him down the corridor in the direction Monroe Payne had just retreated.

When they got to the now-decimated lemon bar, Carmela glanced down at the mess, then paused. What the . . .?

“What’s wrong?” asked Billy.

“Got to get more light,” she muttered. “Take a closer look at something.”

Monroe Payne’s office door was open a couple inches. Voilà. Perfect. In his haste, Monroe had left his office unlocked.

Pushing the door open, Carmela’s eyes searched the darkness. A small lamp burned on Monroe’s expansive mahogany desk. But not enough candlepower for her purposes. Carmela searched around the door frame for a light switch, finally found it, hit it with her hand.

Yellow light spilled into the hallway and Carmela was finally able to get a good look at the splotched lemon bar.

“What?” asked Billy, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, obviously aching to get the hell out of there.

But Carmela’s eyes had traveled to the wide arc of powdered sugar that was spread out around the mess in the corridor.

“Oh no,” she breathed.

Carmela bent down on one knee, staring, not quite believing. And like a cartographer reading the latitude and longitude of a map, her index finger traced above a faint gridlike pattern that was imprinted in the spill of powdered sugar.

“What?” asked Billy, picking up on her radical shift in attitude. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Close,” said Carmela hoarsely. She grabbed Billy by the lapels, pulled him into Monroe’s office. “We’ve got to check something out,” she told him.

“What?” he asked.

“Shhh,” she said as her eyes flicked around his office, taking everything in.

Monroe Payne’s office was twice the size of Natalie Chastain’s. He had a large executive desk, two leather club chairs facing it, and, over by the window, a nice-looking round wooden conference table with four chairs pulled in around it. Two of his walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases stacked with oversized art books, Chinese ceramics, pre-Columbian vases, Greek urns, and some rolled-up Japanese hand scrolls. Exactly the mishmash of objects you’d expect to find in a museum director’s office.

Carmela’s eyes fell on a closet door.

Let’s just take a quick look-see.

She pulled at the closet door, grimaced as it swung open with a loud creak.

And found . . . clothes. Thud.

There was a khaki raincoat, a couple light blue shirts, a gray tweed sport coat, a couple striped rep ties tossed carelessly over a wooden hanger.

Carmela stared at these items, bit her lower lip, exhaled slowly. And wondered if her snap assumption about Monroe Payne had been that off base.

Hmm. Maybe.

She dropped to her knees, pawed haphazardly around on the closet floor. And came up with . . . what else? . . . a pair of shoes. Nice brown leather wing tips that looked to be maybe a size ten or eleven. She picked one up and held it for a moment, the leather feeling cool and slick in her hand. Then, pulling in a deep breath, Carmela turned one of the wing tips over.

And saw the letters GC imbedded in the rubber.

GC! Ohmygod!

Carmela righted the shoe, peered inside. Giorgio Cortina. GC was Giorgio Cortina, the shoe’s Italian manufacturer. A men’s shoe manufacturer!

Carmela closed her eyes and a shiver of excitement coursed through her.

Bartholomew Hayward and Monroe Payne must have had business dealings together. Business dealings that went terribly wrong!

Is this enough evidence to tie Monroe Payne to Bartholomew Hayward’s murder and clear Billy? It has to be. Carmela paused, thinking hard. But what about motive?

No. She decided she had to forgo worrying about motive for now. The first order of business was for her and Billy to get the hell out of this office and find Lt. Edgar Babcock.

“What the hell’s going on?” Billy demanded suddenly. He’d been watching her closely, shifting about nervously.

“We’ve got a big problem,” Carmela told him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, wary.

Carmela stared at him. “I think Monroe Payne killed Bartholomew Hayward.”

“What!” It took Billy a few seconds to digest this. “You’re talking about that museum guy?” he asked.

“Right,” said Carmela. “Did he hang around Menagerie Antiques? Was he a friend of Barty’s?”

“Tall guy? Slicked-back hair?” asked Billy.

“Yes, yes!” said Carmela. “Monroe Payne.” She glanced about nervously. They really did have to get out of there.

“He was at the shop sometimes,” said Billy. “But I wouldn’t call them friends.” His face contorted. “Jeez, if you think . . . well, shouldn’t we call the cops or something?”

“Exactly my thinking,” said Carmela, noting how quickly Billy’s attitude about cops had flip-flopped. But her heart suddenly sank as she heard footsteps coming back. “Quick,” she whispered to Billy as she pawed for the switch and doused the light. “Get in the closet.” She gave Billy a rough shove, was about to dive in herself when . . .

Click.

Carmela’s heart beat a timpani solo as the office door swung slowly open.

Uh-oh. Bad timing. Very bad timing.

A shadowy figure leaned in.

Could Lieutenant Babcock have somehow found his way to this office? Could she be that lucky? Carmela gazed apprehensively into the darkness, but the tiny spill of light from the desk lamp wasn’t enough to illuminate the figure in the doorway.

“Hello, Carmela.” The voice rang cold as tempered steel, but held a note of arrogance as well.

Oh no!

Monroe Payne stepped slowly into the light. And any hope Carmela had of Lt. Edgar Babcock magically showing up suddenly died.

Slowly, like a bad dream playing out in slow motion, Monroe Payne raised his arm. He held a gun. An ugly little snub-nosed Beretta. Not a terrible amount of stopping power, but certainly enough to do the job at close range.

Carmela stared at Monroe, feeling stupid, useless, and sick to her stomach. She wanted to cry, to rage, to plead. This wasn’t how the scenario was supposed to play out! This was all wrong!

Monroe took a measured step closer to Carmela and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you.” He stared at the upended shoe in her hand. “You and your stupid investigating. Had to go snooping around! Get suspicious about footprints and acquisition numbers.” He waggled a finger at her. “Well, we certainly can’t have that.”

Still clutching the shoe, Carmela tried to discreetly heft her handbag. Could she smack Monroe in the face with it? Rake him with the sharp beads? Could she rush at him full tilt, then duck and spin past him?

But that would leave poor Billy still hunkered down in the closet.

“You and I are going for a little ride,” said Monroe. His voice was cold, menacing. Carmela could imagine the final destination of that little ride. Bayou with quicksand? Mississippi River backwater? Gator-infested swamp?

But now there was the faint sound of more footsteps approaching.

“Carmela?” A tentative voice echoed from down the corridor. It was Ava. “Are you down here, honey?”

“Don’t make a sound,” snarled Monroe.

Carmela stared at him, took a calculated risk. “Call the police, Ava!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the distinct sound of Ava retreating posthaste. Of her clattering down the corridor and letting out a mighty yell.

“You bitch!” screamed Monroe. Gun raised, he turned toward the door and as he did, Carmela swung her beaded bag at him. If she could rake his cheek, knock him off balance . . .

But pffft, like a swift-moving phantom, Monroe Payne was gone. He’d spun on his pricey Italian loafers and slipped out the door as quickly and silently as he’d entered.

Carmela hesitated for a few shocked seconds, then moved toward the door.

A second high-pitched scream ricocheted down the marble hallway.

What on earth? thought Carmela. She flung herself around the corner, pounded down the hallway in the direction of the piercing scream.

Thirty feet down, outside the lunchroom, a small knot of people milled about. From the startled looks on their faces, they seemed collectively stunned.

“What happened?” cried Carmela. “Who screamed?” Chef Ricardo pushed his way through the knot to Carmela, his arms cartwheeled frantically. “He took her! The man with the gun took her!”

Monroe Payne took Ava? No, he couldn’t have. Ava’s lean and strong from twice-weekly Tae-Bo classes. Plus she had a head start on Monroe.

As if on cue, Ava suddenly appeared. “Sweetmomma Pam!” she cried. “She followed me down here and Monroe Payne grabbed her! He was waving a gun around and he just picked her up like a rag doll and held her in front of him!”

“Like a human shield!” added Chef Ricardo.

Carmela’s heart filled with dread. “Quick! Where did they go?” she asked.

“Outside the building!” Chef Ricardo told Carmela, gesturing wildly.

“Where did who go?” asked Shamus, suddenly appearing in the fray.

Ava’s face blanched white. “Monroe Payne kidnapped my poor granny!” she shrieked.

“Good Lord,” said Shamus, stunned. He looked at Carmela. “Really?”

She gave a sick nod.

Alarmed by the shouting, another glut of people suddenly poured into the hallway. As if in a dream, Carmela saw Baby, Del, Tandy, and Quigg Brevard stream toward them. Billy Cobb hurried down the hallway from the opposite direction, still carrying the plate with the lemon bar.

“Sweetmomma Pam was kidnapped?” cried Baby, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god! That dear sweet lady!”

“We gotta get her back!” shrilled Ava.

“Find Lieutenant Edgar Babcock,” Carmela told her. “Now!”

“Where?” pleaded Ava, verging on hysteria.

“He’s here somewhere,” said Carmela. “Just yell your head off and find him,” ordered Carmela. “Shamus’ll help you.”

“Billy?” called Tandy in a quavering voice as she suddenly caught sight of her nephew. “What are you doing here?”

But Billy was roundly ignored for the time being as Ava, now the center of attention, clawed frantically at Carmela’s sleeve. “We gotta get her back!” she insisted. “I’ll just die if anything happens to her!”

“We find her!” said Shamus, who looked clearly confused.

“Nothing’s going to happen to Sweetmomma,” said Carmela determinedly.

Tears streamed down Ava’s face. “Promise me!”

“I swear,” said Carmela. “On my daddy’s grave. Now go!”

Chapter 22

AS Carmela raced for her car, she was aware of someone sprinting after her, splashing headlong through puddles. A quick glance over her shoulder told her it was Shamus.

Shamus? What’s he up to?

With his longer, more powerful strides, Shamus reached the car at the same time Carmela did. Together, they ripped open the doors and hurled themselves inside Carmela’s Mercedes.

“Monroe Payne killed Barty!” Carmela told him between gasps as she fumbled in her beaded bag for her car key. “And now he’s kidnapped Ava’s granny!”

“Holy shit!” cried Shamus. “Did you see which way he went?” Shamus’s voice was tense and he wore his serious game face.

Carmela jammed the key into the ignition and cranked it hard. The Mercedes SL revved immediately with a throaty rumble. “No, but—”

“Hang on, I think we’ve got company!” yelled Shamus as he tucked his knees up under his chin and yanked at the seat belt.

Momentarily distracted, Carmela whipped her head to the right just as she stomped on the accelerator, building up rpm’s and almost red-lining the engine. With her car roaring like a jumbo jet, she was set to double clutch and pop directly into second gear. “What?” she asked him.

There was a moment of yelling and pounding on the outside of her car, then the passenger-side door was ripped open. Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, both breathing heavily, clambered in and squeezed themselves onto what could best be described as a token backseat.

Annoyed, Shamus glanced back over his shoulder. “Who do you guys think you are? The Lone Ranger and Tonto?”

“Drive, Carmela!” yelled Quigg, pounding the back of her seat.

“Drive!” echoed Chef Ricardo. His eyes were wild and rolling as he glanced nervously out the rain-streaked back window. Trying to see what had become of Ava, Carmela assumed.

“Where’s she supposed to drive to?” snarled Shamus. He wasn’t particularly happy about the two passengers who had opted to pack themselves in like sardines.

But Carmela’s car was moving now, roaring like an Indy car and spinning its wheels wildly as she jammed the accelerator to the floor. They fishtailed fifty yards down Perrier Street, then the Mercedes’s extra-wide tires finally found purchase and they really took off.

“Somebody’s behind us!” yelled Quigg.

“Is it a squad car?” asked Carmela.“Lieutenant Babcock?” She risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror even as her car rocketed down the street.

“Can’t tell,” said Quigg. He put a hand on her shoulder as she swerved wide around a corner. “Hey, take it easy. Do you even know where you’re going?”

Carmela responded with a tight nod. Yes, she did. In fact, she had a damn good idea of where Monroe Payne had probably spirited Sweetmomma Pam off to.

The shrimp-packing plant! Out on River Road. Has to be.

“HOLY BUCKETS,” WHISPERED SHAMUS AS THEY rolled silently into the little dirt parking lot. Carmela had doused her headlights some five hundred yards out and now they crept in slowly.

“Is that other car still behind us?” asked Carmela.

“I think we lost ’em at the last turnoff,” said Quigg. Everyone was talking in hushed whispers now, wondering what the next move should be.

Carmela made the decision for them. Springing lightly from her car, she gathered her skirt up around her knees and tiptoed toward the dilapidated building that Barty Hayward had used as his storage facility.

We can’t just sit around and hope Lieutenant Babcock is coming, decided Carmela. Got to act now!

“Wait!” called Shamus in a loud whisper. “You can’t go in there alone!”

“Watch me,” Carmela whispered back. She hadn’t bothered to tell him Monroe Payne had a gun. If she had, Shamus probably would’ve hog-tied her. And then where would Sweetmomma Pam be?

“Damn,” said Shamus, scrambling out after her. He hesitated, turned to stare at Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, who were still wedged in, yet making motions like they were going to extricate themselves. “Are you coming?” he groused at them.

“We’re trying,” said Chef Ricardo as he flailed about, trying to get a little leverage.

Carmela, meanwhile, had disappeared around the building. Tiptoeing through sucking mud in high heels wasn’t easy, and she was thankful for the rain as it slapped down upon the metal roof of the building and shook the trees around her. Covered any noise.

Way in back, close to where she’d gone in through the broken window two nights earlier, she found a dark-colored BMW hunkered down. Its nose was pointed into a grove of scrub brush, almost as though the owner had been trying to hide it.

Does this car belong to Monroe Payne?

Carmela ventured over and put a hand on the hood of the car. The metal was still warm to the touch.

Damn straight it’s his car. Has to be.

Carmela crept over to the broken window and peered in. Somewhere, toward the front, she thought, a dim light had been turned on.

Is Monroe Payne in there with Sweetmomma Pam? Only one way to find out.

Grasping the broken window, Carmela pulled at it. The sheer weight and bulk stunned her for a moment, then she was able to ease it down onto the ground. Hiking her skirt up above her knees, Carmela eased herself in through the window.

The interior of the shrimp-processing plant was just as dark and dank and dusty as Carmela remembered it. But this time, with her memory to guide her, Carmela was better able to navigate her way through the jumble of machinery and conveyer belts. And, as she edged closer to the giant cooker pot, she knew her hunch had been right. Someone was moving about inside one of the old blast freezers. One of the heavy metal doors was standing partially open, and she could see the gleam of a flashlight as light bounced off the freezer’s interior walls.

Darn. I saw those blast freezers before, but didn’t bother to look inside. Whatever’s in there must be pretty darn valuable if Monroe Payne saw fit to chase all the way over here.

Carmela crouched down behind the old cooker as murmurs from inside one of the blast freezers grew louder. She tried to still her breathing and, at the same time, cock her head at an optimal angle to catch what was being said.

At first she heard just fragments of words, but then she was able to make out a high-pitched, pleading voice.

Sweetmomma Pam!

Sweetmomma’s Pam’s voice was followed by a deep, angry voice.

Monroe Payne.

But what’s he up to? wondered Carmela.

She didn’t have to wait long. Monroe backed out of the blast freezer, a clutch of oil paintings in his arms, precariously balancing his flashlight. With his right shoulder, he began to muscle the heavy metal door closed on Sweetmomma Pam, obviously intending to trap her inside.

All the while, Sweetmomma Pam clawed frantically at the door. “Please!” she moaned. “Don’t leave me in here!”

That was enough for Carmela. She stood up from behind the cooker and shouted loudly at Monroe, “Back off, buster! Leave her alone!”

Startled, Monroe whirled toward her, dropping his arm-load of paintings. “What the . . .?” he called out, then his hand snaked inside his clothing.

Carmela sank down behind the cooker just as he fired and a bullet plinked off the rim of the giant metal cauldron.

At that exact moment, the front door crashed open and Lt. Edgar Babcock hurled himself in, landing in a very credible combat stance. He leveled his pistol directly at Monroe. “Drop it!” he shouted.

“Shoot him!” yelled Shamus, who stumbled in directly behind Lieutenant Babcock, wielding an enormous flashlight. There was a scuffle of feet on the wooden landing outside and then Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo also appeared.

“Watch out, everybody!” screamed Carmela. “He’s got a gun!”

“Back off!” yelled Monroe. In one swift move he reached through the door and grabbed Sweetmomma Pam by the arm, pulling her toward him. Now his gun was pointed directly at her heart, even as his eyes flashed nervously toward Lieutenant Babcock.

Carmela grimaced. When Monroe had hauled Sweetmomma Pam out roughly, the poor dear’s mask had slipped down over her face. She’s probably scared clean out of her mind, worried Carmela. And please, dear Lord, don’t let Lieutenant Babcock surrender his weapon. Under any circumstances.

“Just everybody back off or the old lady gets it!” With Sweetmomma Pam in his grasp, Monroe Payne was suddenly a lot more confident.

Trying to gauge the situation, Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun slightly. “Okay now,” he said in a cool, reasonable voice, “let’s nobody panic. We can work things out.”

“You can get out!” snarled Monroe, angered by the glut of people who had suddenly appeared at the deserted storage building. He stared coldly at Lieutenant Babcock. “Put the gun down.” Spitting out each word hard, Monroe meant his order to be obeyed.

Lieutenant Babcock lowered his gun to his side.

Damn, thought Carmela.

“Ten o’clock!” boomed a tinny, mechanical voice.

Startled, not knowing where yet another strange voice was coming from, Monroe jerked his head wildly just as Sweetmomma Pam turned toward him. The sharp beak of her mask caught him squarely in his right eye.

“My eye!” he screamed.

Howling with pain, Monroe clutched at his face and fumbled his gun. Seconds later, it clattered noisily on the wood-planked floor.

“Rush him!” yelled Shamus.

“No!” screamed Lieutenant Babcock. “Stay back!” Chef Ricardo, never at a loss for action, grabbed one of the rusty knives from the old guillotine table and tossed it. It whooshed through the air, then hit with a loud thwack, remarkably pinning the fold of red fabric that contained Monroe Payne’s upraised arm to the wall.

Everyone gasped. It was a stunt worthy of an Indiana Jones movie.

“Jeez,” marveled Quigg, “you hit him.”

“I meant to,” said Chef Ricardo, pleased with what had to be a lucky, once-in-a-lifetime throw.

Lieutenant Babcock scrambled for the dropped gun as Monroe let loose with a second fearsome shriek that would’ve done a wounded animal proud.

“Yeoow!” he screamed. “I’ve been stabbed!”

Men, thought Carmela as she rushed forward and swept Sweetmomma Pam into her arms. Always with the theatrics.

“Get a doctor!” Monroe’s outraged screams had turned to shouts and angry whimpers now. He stared fiercely at Carmela as she led Sweetmomma Pam a safe distance away, even as he held a trembling hand to his injured eye. “She attacked me with her beak!” he snarled. “Pecked me like a nasty bird from an Alfred Hitchcock movie!”

“Shut up,” barked Lieutenant Babcock as he wrested the knife from the fabric that pinned Monroe Payne to the wall, then tossed it to the floor out of reach. Then, with little wasted effort, the lieutenant snapped a pair of handcuffs on Monroe.

Monroe stared sullenly at Chef Ricardo. “That idiot threw a knife at me!”

Chef Ricardo stepped forward and peered at the ripped fabric and creased flesh with a proprietary glance. “Ees nothing,” he said scornfully. “Barely a flesh wound.”

“Sweetmomma Pam?” Ava Grieux, hair unpinned and swirling about her shoulders, teetered in the front doorway, a look of pure terror on her lovely face.

“Ava!” said Carmela, startled by her friend’s sudden appearance. “Sweetmomma Pam’s just fine. But how did you get here?”

“She came with me,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He pulled a radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into it, requesting a backup squad as well as an ambulance.

Shamus smiled broadly. Sweetmomma Pam was safe, the cops were taking over, the drama seemed to be wrapping up.

But Carmela wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Bartholomew Hayward had been stabbed. She’d been threatened and shot at. Sweetmomma Pam had been kidnapped. And Billy Cobb had been falsely accused and almost arrested!

Like an overworked image from a grade B horror film, Carmela felt a sheet of red descend before her eyes. And, in the tick of a single synapse, felt herself slip from fear into full-blown rage. Neurons popped like errant firecrackers inside her brain as a wave of anger engulfed her.

Baring her teeth in a snarl, Carmela hurled herself at Monroe Payne, grabbing tufts of red silk with both fists. “You arrogant asshole,” she yelled, “who do you think you are! Murdering . . . thieving . . .”

Shamus’s eyebrows shot up. He stepped forward and put a tentative hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Hey, Carmela, take it easy. It’s over, you don’t have to make a big scene.”

But Carmela was not to be deterred. She delivered a sharp kick to Monroe’s knees and yanked savagely again at his costume. “Blustering bully!” she screamed. “Kidnapping Ava’s grandmother! Stabbing Bartholomew Hayward! You’re pitiful . . . pathetic!”

Lieutenant Babcock watched her with a slack jaw. This was a side to the seemingly mild-mannered Carmela Bertrand he’d never have guessed at.

“Get her off me!” yelped Monroe. “The woman’s gone insane!”

Shamus continued to pull at Carmela. “Ease off, Carmela, it’s over.”

She refused to look at him. “No, it isn’t! It’s not over ’til I say it’s over!”

“Come on, honey,” Shamus entreated. “Back off, okay? You’re scaring the crap out of me . . . and, besides, you’re tearing the poor man’s dress.”

Abruptly, Carmela released her hold on Monroe Payne. He fell back against the wall, angry, shaken, and nervous that a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman had been poised to clean his clock.

Carmela turned and stared into Shamus’s brown eyes, allowing his words to slowly penetrate her consciousness. “What did you say?” she asked.

He shrugged gently. “You were tearing his dress?”

A hint of a grin dimpled Carmela’s face. Shamus stared at her for a second, then his mouth began to twitch as well. “I thought you were gonna kill him,” said Shamus. He gave an elaborate mock wipe at his brow. “Cripes.”

Then the tension fell away and Carmela and Shamus threw their arms around each other, hugging and patting each other on the back, reassuring one another that everything was okay.

“Did I just miss something?” asked Quigg Brevard, scratching his head.

Ava shook her head. “Jeez, Carmela. Just when it looked like you were over that louse . . .”

Sweetmomma Pam crinkled her old eyes and beamed. “Soul mates,” she whispered. “I can see it in their eyes.”

Chapter 23

MONROE Payne confessed to everything. First in drips and drops, then in a long, rambling, self-effacing story in which he also named two other art dealers from Miami whom he swore were also “embroiled” in the scam.

“So this was all about art forgeries,” said Carmela.

Everyone had trooped back to Quigg’s restaurant afterward for some rapid decompression. Of course, in New Orleans, rapid decompression could easily allow for generous drinks and seriously fine food.

Baby and Del, Tandy and Darwin, and Gabby and Stuart had also been summoned. And now they were gathered around the tables at Bon Tiempe, as well.

“They found oil paintings with museum labels still on them stashed in those old blast freezers,” said Quigg. “Apparently Monroe Payne and Bartholomew Hayward were in cahoots. Monroe would steal an original and paint a forgery. Then Bartholomew Hayward would handle the sale of the original painting via the crooked art dealers in Miami.”

“With the forged piece going back on the walls of the New Orleans Art Institute,” said Carmela.

Now Lt. Edgar Babcock spoke up. “It looks that way. I think when all this gets out, the board of directors at the New Orleans Art Institute is going to have a lot of explaining to do. They’re going to have some very unhappy donors.” He looked around at the still-stunned faces. “The Norton Museum, too. In Palm Beach. They had someone working on the inside there, too. With the dealers trading stolen paintings back and forth.”

“So no one would recognize them,” said Baby. She shook her head sadly and Del clasped her hand. Baby was still stunned that her beloved Art Institute was part of such a terrible scandal.

Carmela took a sip of wine and thought about the photos Quigg had given her. The ones that depicted Barty Hayward hosting his American Painters Expo. Had those been stolen paintings? Probably. Probably stolen from the Norton Museum or whatever other Florida museum had been part of the scam. And she remembered something else, too. Natalie Chastain sitting in her office, accepting a painting from Monroe Payne and frowning when she touched the frame. And . . . what else? Maybe wiping a bit of gilt paint from her hand?

Carmela nodded to herself. Of course. Gilt paint that wasn’t completely dry. It was probably the same gilt paint that had been on the murder weapon.

Carmela stood up and wandered over to the marble sideboard to pour herself another glass of wine. No wonder Bartholomew Hayward had such an endless supply of paintings. He was part of a major conspiracy to rob public museums and reap obscene profits. Of course, with such high stakes, it wasn’t surprising Barty Hayward and Monroe Payne had gotten into some kind of argument. One that had ended disastrously for Barty Hayward.

Shamus noticed Carmela standing alone and casually walked over to join her. Touching her shoulder gently, he asked, “Are you okay?”

She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”

“God, you’re feisty.” There was nothing but admiration in his voice.

Her smile wavered. “I am? Really?”

Shamus snorted. “ ’Course you are.” He paused, gazed down at his shoes. Normally talkative and glib, Shamus seemed at a loss for words.

Carmela put a hand on Shamus’s jacket, then walked her fingers up his lapel. “You don’t really look like a mime, you know.”

A smile twitched on his face. “Thanks. You had me worried.” Shamus looked suddenly sheepish. “Carmela . . . I didn’t mean those things I said before. You’re still very much a part of the family.”

Carmela’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

They stood for a few moments, shoulders touching. Carmela noticed that Ava was snuggled in the protective arms of Chef Ricardo. She grinned to herself. Some matchmaker she was. She’d had her eye on Lieutenant Babcock for Ava, but Ava had ended up with the hot-tempered chef. That was the thing about chemistry between men and women. Kapow—you never knew what would happen.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Carmela.

“About what?” asked Shamus.

“A joint photography show.”

A look of surprise spread across Shamus’s handsome face. “Aren’t you the creative thinker.”

“Of course, I’ll have to go meet with Clark Berthume. Show him your stuff, try to get him to agree to it . . . ,” said Carmela.

“He will,” said Shamus determinedly. “You’re a world-champion finagler, Carmela. Always have been. You can talk anybody into anything.”

“You really think so?” said Carmela.

Shamus nodded vehemently. “Oh yeah.”

They stood together in silence, shoulders and hips touching now.

Hmm, wondered Carmela. Could I talk Shamus into giving it another shot? Into giving us another shot? She gave him a sideways glance. It’s sure worth a try, she decided. Well worth a try.

Scrapbook and Stamping Tips from Laura Childs

Stamping on Glass

You can use your favorite rubber stamps to decorate beverage glasses, glass votive candles, or even mirrors and windows. When it’s time to clean up, colorful stamp pad ink can be removed in a flash using ordinary glass cleaner.

The Fabric of Your Life

Using a piece of fabric as background for your photographs adds texture, dimension, and color. Also consider snippets of embroidery, antique lace, scraps of baby clothing, or a piece from a wedding veil.

Treasure Trove Envelopes

Glassine envelopes, incorporated into your scrapbook pages, are perfect for holding photos, old letters, valentines, beads, trinkets, sand dollars, a bird feather, dried rose petals, a single earring, etc. Envelopes also give your scrapbooks a fun, interactive quality.

Tell a Story

Scrapbook pages are more interesting when you tell the complete story surrounding an event. Get pictures of the before, the during, and the after. For example, a page detailing a child’s birthday could be told with the before (getting dressed or decorating), the during (the party), and the after (the family dog lapping a plate of cake crumbs).

Pretty As a Picture

The same scrapbooking techniques you’ve perfected for your albums can also be used to create beautiful collages that can be framed. Family photos, old letters, and precious documents can be mounted together in a picture frame, then displayed on a wall or desk.

Double-Duty Punches

Use your paper punches to create other interesting shapes. For example, if you have a heart punch and a circle punch, you can create a flower. Punch out a single circle to use as the center, then a dozen or so heart shapes to use as petals.

Food for Thought

Since so many family events center around food, be sure to include recipes in your scrapbook. Use colorful recipe cards or print your recipe on a die-cut (a nice big apple, for example!).

Carmela’s Favorite Recipes

Killer Pecan Popovers

POPOVERS
4 eggs
2 cups milk
3 tbsp. butter, melted
2 cups all-purpose flour tsp. salt cup pecans, finely chopped

HONEY BUTTER
2 tbsp. honey cup butter, softened

Stir honey into thecup softened butter, then cover and chill. Whisk eggs, milk, and melted butter together in a large bowl. Add flour and salt, stirring until smooth. Stir in pecans. Spoon batter into 12 (6 oz.) greased custard cups, filling each cup halfway and placing them on a baking sheet. Bake at 400° for 40 minutes or until firm. Serve immediately with honey butter.

Baby’s Sublime Applesauce

12 large Granny Smith apples, peeled and chopped
1cups sugar cup fresh lemon juice

Combine ingredients in a heavy pan and cook over low heat, stirring often, for about 10 minutes. When apples begin to break down, increase heat to medium and cook, still stirring, for another 25 minutes or until thickened. Spoon apple mixture into hot sterilized jars and seal. Yields about 6 cups.

Carmela’s Carmel Sauce

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
2 tsp. fresh lemon juice
1cups whipping cream

Melt butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, then add sugar and lemon juice. Stir constantly for 6 or 7 minutes or until mixture turns a rich caramel color. Add whipping cream, a little at a time, and continue stirring. Cook for another 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat, pour into sterilized jars, and seal. Yields about 3 cups.

Big Easy Shrimp

4 tbsp. butter
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced green pepper, chopped
1 tsp. salt
Dash of pepper
Pinch of Cajun seasonings
1 can tomatoes (14 oz.)
1 lb. shrimp
2 cups cooked rice

Melt butter in large pan. Add onion, garlic, green pepper, salt, pepper, Cajun seasonings, and tomatoes (including juice). Simmer for 12 minutes. Add shrimp and continue simmering until shrimp are cooked through. Pour over rice. Serves 4.

Chef Ricardo’s Grilled Duck Liver Salad

1 tbsp. butter
7 oz. duck liver, cut into bite-size bits
2 tsp. whole-grain mustard
1 tsp. fresh chopped parsley
2 tbsp. Marsala wine
2 tsp. white wine vinegar
Salad greens

Heat butter in frying pan, add liver, and sizzle until sealed. Blend together all the other ingredients except salad greens and add to pan, stirring constantly for 3 minutes. Spoon the duck liver over a bowl of salad greens and serve immediately.

Bon Tiempe Asparagus Risotto

1 tbsp. butter
1 large onion, chopped
2 cups arborio rice cup dry white wine
4 cups chicken broth
1 lb. asparagus, chopped in 1-inch pieces cup water
2 tsp. chopped fresh parsley
1 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until tender. Add rice and stir for 1 minute. Add wine and cook until absorbed (4 to 5 minutes), stirring often. Addcup of the chicken broth and simmer until liquid is absorbed, stirring constantly. Continue to cook, adding more broth bycupfuls and allowing liquid to be absorbed before adding more. This process can take a good 20 minutes and you must remember to stir often. Add asparagus and stir, adding the water as mixture becomes creamy. Keep stirring and give the rice time to cook. When rice is fully cooked and very creamy, add parsley andcup of the Parmesan cheese. Stir, season to taste with salt and pepper, and transfer to serving bowl and sprinkle with remaining Parmesan cheese.

Veal Chops Stuffed with Gorgonzola and Walnuts

4 oz. Gorgonzola cheese (or blue cheese)
2 tbsp. butter, softened
2 tbsp. walnuts, chopped
1 tbsp. fresh chives, chopped
6 veal rib or loin chops, about 1-inch thick

Combine cheese and butter in a small bowl. Add walnuts and chives, mix well. Divide stuffing mixture into 6 equal portions and set aside. Cut a 2-inch horizontal pocket in each veal chop and insert 1 stuffing portion into each pocket. Close pockets with small skewers or wooden picks. Place chops on rack in broiler pan so meat is approximately 4 inches from heat. Broil 12 to 14 minutes for medium doneness, turning once. (Note: Chops may also be cooked uncovered on an outdoor grill.)

Baby’s Monster Slosh

3 oz. ginger beer
Juice of lime
1oz. dark rum
Gummy worm

Into a tall glass filled with ice, pour ginger beer, lime juice, and rum. Stir well and garnish by hanging a gummy worm over the side. (Note: If you want to de-monster your drink, garnish with a thin wedge of lime instead.)

Hearty Pumpkin Soup

14 oz. vegetable broth
1 large onion, chopped
2 carrots, diced
16 oz. pumpkin meat (fresh pureed or canned)
2 cups milk
1 tsp. cinnamon
Salt
Pepper
Nutmeg

Put broth, onion, and carrots in a large pot, and simmer uncovered for 10 to 15 minutes, until carrots are soft. Mix in the pumpkin, milk, and cinnamon, then simmer for another 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper, sprinkle with ground nutmeg.

Boo’s Holy Mackerel Morsels

(These are strictly for dogs!)

1 can (15 oz.) mackerel cup whole-grain bread crumbs
1 tbsp. minced green pepper
2 tbsp. canola oil
1 egg, beaten

Mash mackerel in a bowl with a fork, then add the remaining ingredients and mix well. Roll into walnut-size balls, then press with fork to flatten. Place on well-greased cookie sheet and bake at 350° for 20 minutes. Once they are firm and lightly browned, flip fish cakes and put back into oven for 5 additional minutes to dry them out slightly. Cool completely before storing in refrigerator.

Shamus’s Game Day Beer Bread

cup sugar
3 cups self-rising flour
1 bottle (12 oz.) beer

Stir all ingredients together, then spoon dough into a lightly greased 8̎×4” bread pan. Bake at 375° for 55 to 60 minutes or until golden brown. Cool in pan on wire rack for 5 minutes, then remove from pan and continue cooling on rack.

Coming in November 2004 from Laura Childs and Berkley Prime Crime

SCRAP TRAP

The Third Book in the Scrapbook Mystery Series

Even though her own marriage is sputtering, Carmela Bertrand, the feisty owner of Memory Mine, adores a wedding. Of course she’ll design invitations, fashion cunning favors, and craft an elegant scrapbook. But when the groom turns up dead, Carmela’s inside track has her unearthing clues all over New Orleans—in alligator- infested bayous, a dusty antiquarian bookshop, and a crumbling former convent.

High Praise for KEEPSAKE CRIMES, the first Scrapbook Mystery

“Readers are racing to checkout counters with Laura Childs’ books.”

—Sun-Sailor (Plymouth, MN)

“Who knew hobbies could be so dangerous!”

—St. Paul Pioneer Press

Keepsake Crimes is trademark Laura Childs . . . filled with unforgettable characters, edge-of-the-seat suspense, detailed locales, and a strong, sassy heroine.

—In the Library Reviews

“Keepsake Crimes is the start to a series that should quickly become as popular as the current scrapbooking craze.”

—The Mystery Reader

“An in-depth murder with great characters . . . scrapbooking tips . . . and New Orleans recipes. It’s great! Bravo!”

—Rendezvous

“A great new series.”

—Blether Book Review

“Cutting edge.”

—MysteryLovers.com

“A fun read, filled with all the sights, sounds and flavors of New Orleans and the excitement of Mardi Gras.”

—I Love a Mystery Newsletter.com

“Bring on the second (in the series) and hurry!

—Reviewing the evidence.com