Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  “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-h
a 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.