Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  “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 t
hat 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.