Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  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 th
en,” 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 disr
eputable 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.