Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  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 Carme
la. “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 scrapbo
oking 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.”