by Laura Childs
“And although my concept is still a little looseygoosey,” continued Dove, “I’ve been tossing around the idea of an upscale food event. A tasting, to be precise.”
“You mean like a wine tasting?” asked Carmela.
“Because the docents at the Zoological Society are already doing that. Have been for five or six years now.”
“I was actually considering something a tad more upscale,” said Dove, her eyes gleaming. “Perhaps a caviar and vodka tasting. Maybe give it a catchy name. Call it Night of the Czars or something like that. What do you think?”
“Sure,” said Carmela. “Might work.”
Dove looked at her sharply. “Monroe Payne was extremely enthusiastic, Carmela.”
“He’d be the one to know. From what I hear, Monroe Payne has definitely got his finger on the pulse of the donors.” Carmela tugged at Boo’s leash and the two of them started to edge away.
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” said Dove.
“Nice seeing you,” said Carmela, deciding she was pretty close to making a clean break.
“Have fun now,” said Dove, waggling her fingers and pulling her dark green velvet cape about her shoulders. “See you tomorrow night.” She paused. “And Carmela…”
Carmela hesitated, a slight frown crossing her face. “Yes?”
“I can’t wait for you to see my arrangement!”
IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE GOT BACK TO HER SHOP that Carmela had a chance to take a look at the photographs Quigg Brevard had given her. But first, of course, she had to drop off her car at home, put Boo in the apartment, then pop across the courtyard to say hello to Ava and Tyrell, who were practically going berserk from all the customers who were crowded inside their little incense-filled store. Then Carmela hotfooted it back to Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street.
“Hey there,” said Gabby, who was demonstrating some new templates for a couple customers. “Help yourself to some pumpkin soup. It’s in the back room.”
“You cooked?”
Gabby put a hand to her forehead, simulating utter shock. “Surely you jest. No, Baby dropped off a pot of soup earlier. Said she had tons of pumpkin meat left over.”
“I’ll just bet she does,” said Carmela.
With a mug of Baby’s pumpkin soup heating in the microwave, Carmela sat down at her desk and spread out the photos Quigg Brevard had given her. Most were your fairly typical party shots. Not the lampshade-on-your-head variety, but still all the subjects looked fairly garrulous and affable. Men and women flirting, toasting, hugging, kissing.
There were several shots of a wedding reception, with a bride in a big poufy dress that looked a little like a wedding cake itself. And, surprise, surprise, there were also a few photos of Bartholomew Hayward hosting a summer soiree on the back patio of Bon Tiempe.
The timer on the microwave dinged and Carmela jumped up to fetch her soup. It was steaming like mad, but she took a sip anyway. Wonderful. Baby was a superb cook, even though she was forever claiming she wasn’t and usually opted to have her dinner parties catered.
Carmela carried her mug of soup back to her desk and focused, once again, on the photos of Bartholomew Hayward’s party. She could faintly recall that the summer before, Barty had staged a big promotion that he’d called his American Painters Expo. It had been by invitation only and she hadn’t been one of the chosen. But, judging from the attendees in the photograph, quite a few socially prominent art lovers had RSVP’d and shown up to peruse his selection of rather enchanting paintings.
In two shots Carmela could clearly see that paintings in large, decorative frames had been set up on easels ringing the courtyard. And that the guests were drinking, chowing down, and actually gazing at the paintings with what could only be called rapt attention. Carmela wondered how successful the event had been and then decided that, with the huge resurgence in art collecting and art investing today, Barty had probably made himself a small fortune. She also wondered how authentic they were, although from the looks of things, the paintings looked surprisingly good. Far better than Barty’s other merchandise.
“Carmela?”
Carmela turned her head and raised her eyebrows at Gabby. “Need some help?” she asked. She set her mug down. “I can sure…”
“It’s not that,” said Gabby, fidgeting. She dropped her voice. “That police detective is back.”
“Lieutenant Babcock?”
Gabby gave a tight nod. “He wants to talk to you.”
“No problem,” said Carmela. “Send the gentleman back.” By the time she’d scooped up all the photos and deposited them in the top drawer of her desk, Edgar Babcock was standing in her doorway.
“Please,” she said, indicating a slightly rickety director’s chair, “have a seat.”
It was tight quarters in her office and the chair was none too comfy, but Lieutenant Babcock didn’t seem to mind.
“What brings you back to Memory Mine?” asked Carmela. “Still looking for a birthday gift for that scrapbooking sister of yours?”
He smiled mildly.
Lieutenant Babcock was a pretty cool customer, Carmela decided. Really knew how to play it close to the vest. He was also one of those people who left lots of gaps in the conversation. The kind of gaps an extremely nervous person, someone who had something to hide, would probably struggle to fill in.
“Actually,” said Babcock, crossing his legs, “I’m doing a little research on paint.” His pleasant smile never wavered. “Gilt paint.”
“Would that be the type of gilt paint that was found on a certain scissors?” asked Carmela.
“It would.”
“Mn-hm,” she said noncommittally.
“It might also be the type of paint used on certain scrapbook pages.”
Carmela leaned back in her chair and her heart did a tiny flip-flop.
“I don’t believe it’s the same type of paint at all,” she said. She knew most of her paint was acrylic-based and assumed the paint found on the latex gloves was oil-based. Most paints and stains used in furniture refinishing were oil-based.
“Still,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “it might be worthwhile for our lab to run a few tests.”
“Is one of my customers under suspicion?” she asked. “Am I a suspect?”
Lieutenant Babcock gave her a mild smile. “Not at all. We’re simply attempting to rule people out.”
“Like you tried to rule out Billy Cobb?”
“Billy Cobb is no angel,” said Babcock.
“Billy Cobb is also not a murderer,” replied Carmela.
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
“Yes, I do. I am.” Carmela fought to keep her voice even.
Babcock suddenly leaned forward, an expression of grave concern on his face. “Can I be perfectly frank with you?”
“Please,” said Carmela. It had pretty much been her experience that anyone who said they wanted to be perfectly frank with you was probably setting you up for a nice juicy lie.
“We’re not making a lot of forward progress in this investigation,” said Lieutenant Babcock, as though he were letting her in on a big secret. “We need all the help we can get.”
“And you want my help?” said Carmela.
“Do you have any to give?”
Carmela hesitated. Actually, this man did seemed rather committed. And, because her bullshit detector didn’t seem to be going off too badly, she decided he might even be one of the honest ones. She wondered if there was any way she could bring Billy Cobb together with Lieutenant Babcock. Convince Billy to turn himself in. And, at the same time, convince Babcock to focus on what she deemed was the real investigation. If Billy’s name could be cleared, the police could get back to searching for the real murderer.
But Billy was hiding out God knew where. And Carmela had no way to reach him. Billy had her phone number, but would he call? That was the $64,000 question.
Lieutenant Babcock cleared his throat. “It would help enormously,” he said, “if you c
ould give us sample bottles of all the gilt paint you carry here in your shop.”
“To rule us out,” said Carmela.
Lieutenant Babcock offered her a sad smile and Carmela wondered for about the twentieth time if she should say something to him about Jade Ella Hayward and Dove Duval. In her book, both women seemed incredibly suspicious. If there was any ruling out-or in-to be done, they were a good place to start.
But she didn’t. At this point, it seemed that any accusations on her part would just come across as smoke screen or sour grapes.
BY FIVE THIRTY, GABBY HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR the day, and Carmela was ready to call it quits. She’d fiddled unhappily at her computer, torn between wondering about Billy Cobb’s innocence and placing a couple Internet orders for restocks on paper and craft boxes. Now, just as she was about to switch the phone over to the answering service, it started to ring.
Rats, she thought as she picked up the phone, don’t let it be another customer. God bless ’em all, but I’m wrecked. Totally wrecked.
“Carmela?” came a glib-sounding voice. “Carmela Bertrand?”
“Yes?”
“Glad I caught you. This is Clark Berthume from Click! Gallery.” There was a pause. “You know our shop?”
“Yes,” she said again, wondering what on earth this was all about. And suddenly leaping to the conclusion that perhaps Shamus had finally gotten the photography show he’d wanted. So Clark Berthume was calling to ask… what? To design some sort of invitation or poster or something?
“A friend of mine, Jade Ella Hayward, passed along a few photos you took,” said Clark effusively. “I daresay, I was absolutely bowled over by them.”
“You’re calling about my photos?” said Carmela, suddenly at a loss for words. “What photos?”
“Why, the fashion sequence you did for Spa Diva, of course.”
“No, no,” protested Carmela. “There was no fashion sequence.” She glanced about as if hoping someone would rush to her rescue. No one did. No one was there. “There must be some terrible mistake,” Carmela laughed. “I was horsing around in the park a few weeks ago at the same time Jade Ella had a fashion shoot going on. Just for fun, I took a few shots of the models, too. Alongside the hired photographer. The real photographer.” Carmela took a deep breath. “So you see, they’re not fashion shots at all.”
“But you printed them and passed them on to Jade Ella.”
Carmela racked her brain. She guessed she did. “I guess I did.”
“And she used one of them on the cover of her brochure,” said Clark Berthume.
Carmela chewed at her lip. “Could be.”
“Well, the shots look extremely professional to me,” said Clark Berthume. “In fact, you seem to have captured a certain blasé high fashion attitude and quirky sense of style. Which brings me to the reason I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a small show?”
“A show?” Carmela’s voice rose in a surprised squawk. “Me?”
There was a polite chuckle. “Well, that would be the general idea, yes.”
“Perhaps I didn’t completely make my point,” protested Carmela, still stunned by the invitation. “I’m not a professional photographer.” Photography, to her, still seemed like more of a by-product of scrapbooking. Shamus was the one with professional aspirations, wasn’t he?
“Miss Bertrand,” said Clark Berthume, “the black-and-white prints I have spread out on my desk at the moment are really quite stunning. They tell me you’re a very fine photographer.”
Damn Jade Ella, thought Carmela. Why did she do this? Why did she have to show those stupid photos to Clark Berthume?
“Can I call you back?” stuttered Carmela.
“Not a problem,” said Clark Berthume. “When can I expect to hear from you?”
Next year. Never. “Next week?” asked Carmela. “Monday afternoon at the latest,” cautioned Clark Berthume. “I’m trying to fix the schedule.”
Chapter 17
RAIN pounded down as Carmela scampered across her courtyard and jammed her key in the door. Mounds of jaunty bright red bougainvilleas that cascaded from twin urns flanking her front door had been knocked flat. The fountain that normally babbled so gently swirled like a storm drain. Overhead, the night sky pulsed with lightning and crackled with thunder. If this was indeed a hurricane, it seemed aptly poised to unleash its full fury.
Carmela almost missed seeing the envelope someone had slid under her door. Tromped right across it and dripped water all over it, in fact, until she flipped on the light and noticed its white glare staring up at her from the floor.
“What’s this?” Carmela asked Boo as she bent over to pick it up. “Special delivery?”
Ripping open the envelope, Carmela pulled out a small photo that had been stuck inside. And as she stared at it, received the shock of her life.
The photo was of her and Boo walking in the cemetery. That morning!
That someone had spied on her was creepy enough, but the mysterious photographer had taken it one step further and actually vandalized the photo. Carmela’s face had been scratched out with a pin until only paper showed through. Then the pin had been stuck clear through the paper into Boo’s chest, right about where her heart would be. Crude arrows aimed at both of their heads had been drawn with red grease pencil.
Ohmygod. Someone was watching me today! Was it Dove Duval? Or somebody else? Oh, lordy, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.
Carmela’s first thought was to call somebody. Ask them to come over as a sort of reinforcement. Because she sure as hell didn’t want to be alone. Feeling threatened and afraid and vulnerable.
Carmela flew to the phone and dialed Ava’s number. Nobody home. She was probably out on a date. Or with Sweetmomma Pam.
What about Baby? No, I can’t call her. She’s busy preparing for her family get-together tomorrow night.
Carmela dialed Gabby’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Gabby,” said Carmela, “sorry to bother you, but did anybody call while I was out today?”
“Sure,” chirped Gabby. “A couple folks did.” She held her hand over the receiver for a couple seconds while she called: “Just a minute, Stuart. We’ll eat in a second.”
“A couple?” asked Carmela.
“Well… probably more like three or four.”
“And you told them…,” said Carmela, knowing exactly what Gabby had told them.
“Just what you said,” responded Gabby. “That they could find you at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”
CARMELA HUNG UP THE PHONE, WONDERING WHO else she could call. She glanced over at Boo, who lifted her head expectantly.
Shamus? Ooh, I don’t want to do that, do I?
A second look at the scratched and mangled photo changed her mind.
But even after getting Shamus on the phone and explaining her big scare to him, he was not the knight in shining armor she’d hoped he’d be.
“Jeez, Carmela.” Shamus’s voice was flat. “I was just about to head up to Harrisonburg. There’s a Civil War re-enactment going on at Fort Beauregard this weekend.”
“But it’s raining. Pouring buckets, in fact.”
“Yeah, but…”
“And you for sure were planning to be back tomorrow afternoon anyway,” Carmela said. “For Monsters & Old Masters.” She hesitated. Should she? Why not. “And Glory’s big award,” she added.
“Well… yeah,” came his answer. “Of course.”
“You could still drive up early tomorrow,” she suggested.
“I might miss the cannon salute.”
Carmela hung on the phone, not saying a word. Feeling guilty about imposing on him. Feeling even more guilty about the surprise invitation she’d just received from the Click! Gallery. Mustn’t let Shamus know about that.
“Well, if you’re really scared…,” Shamus finally offered.
“I’m really scared,” Carmela told him.
Ten minutes later, Sh
amus Allan Meechum, Carmela’s estranged husband, was wandering barefoot around her kitchen, scratching his stomach and peering into cupboards. “Got anything to eat?” Shamus asked. He flipped open one cupboard after another, poking his head in. When he’d rifled through everything and still hadn’t found anything that appealed to him, he turned to the cluster of canisters and cookie jars that sat on Carmela’s kitchen counter just to the left of her stove.
Popping open a ceramic cookie jar, Shamus dug his fist in and helped himself to a dark brown cracker. He munched thoughtfully, then reached in to grab a few more. “Say, these are pretty good,” he mumbled. “Got any cheese to put on ’em?” Shamus whipped open the refrigerator door and insinuated his entire head in the refrigerator’s cool interior.
“You probably don’t want to eat those,” Carmela called to him from where she was flaked out, watching TV. “Those are mackerel morsels.”
Still surveying the interior of Carmela’s refrigerator, Shamus found a half-eaten wedge of cheddar cheese. Greedily, he grabbed a knife and sliced at the cheese, piling it on top of the crackers. Popping them into his mouth, he chewed appreciatively. “Mm-hm, they sure are mackerel flavored. And they’re good. Especially with cheese.”
“Shamus, listen to me,” said Carmela, starting to laugh. “You’re slathering cheese on dog treats.”
“What?” came Shamus’s strangled cry. He stopped chewing, then suddenly leaned over the sink and turned on both faucets full force. For the next couple minutes, a cacophony of sputtering, splashing, and gargling ensued.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me those were dog cookies?” he asked, emerging from the kitchen red-faced and angry. His normally wavy hair stuck up in unruly tufts as Shamus stared accusingly from Carmela to Boo. Boo, as usual, feigned complete innocence. “Who keeps dog cookies in a cookie jar?” he groused.
“You know darn well that ceramic doggie is Boo’s treat jar,” said Carmela. Boo’s curlicue tail gave a quick wave as she looked on in mute support.