Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  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 th
ink 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 Gl
ory 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.