Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  Damn. It’s the woman in the keyhole dress. Has to be.

  “She certainly is striking,” agreed Carmela. “And youthful.”

  Ava nodded. “Particularly if your taste runs toward emaciated girls with a head full of hair extensions.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” agreed Carmela.

  Ava plucked the wine decanter from Carmela’s hand and refilled her own glass. “And, if you ask me, I’m thinking her ta-ta’s aren’t the genuine article, either.”

  Once the main entree of roast duck had been served, Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo stopped by their table. Carmela made hasty introductions and there were hand-shakes and compliments all around.

  “I’d love to take credit for everything,” Quigg told them ebulliently, slapping Chef Ricardo on the back, “but my head chef, Chef Ricardo Gaspar, is the real genius.”

  Baby and Del applauded with great enthusiasm, then everyone at the table joined in, with a spatter of applause coming from surrounding tables as well.

  Ava immediately caught the eye of Chef Ricardo. He sped to her side with the swiftness of a man questing after the holy grail. Or, more like, lusting after it.

  “You like more sweet potato casserole, miss?” he asked her.

  Ava tilted her chin up and eyed him carefully. “I’m fine.”

  But Chef Ricardo was not to be deterred. “Another glass of wine? I get you better wine. French wine, not cheap domestic.” Obviously, Chef Ricardo considered drinking California wine tantamount to drinking pig swill.

  “Now you’re talking my language, sweetie.” Ava, always delighted to be fawned over, fixed Chef Ricardo with a dazzling smile.

  He leaned in close to her and inhaled deeply. “Lovely perfume, miss. Very sensual.” Chef Ricardo narrowed his eyes and uttered a low Lothario growl. Then he was off on his quest for better wine. French wine.

  “What was that all about, miss?” asked Carmela.

  Ava fanned herself nervously. “I think it’s that Banana Frango facial I had earlier. It’s still giving off kind of a heady aroma.” She gave Carmela a sideways glance. “Honey, do you still see Chef Ricardo as a viable suspect? ’Cause, truth be known, I think the man is kinda cute. And, you know, I never was all that fond of Bartholomew Hayward.”

  “Go for it,” said Carmela.

  As tuxedo-clad waiters cleared away remnants of Chef Ricardo’s calorie-loaded desserts-cranberry bread pudding and elegant lemon bars-the orchestra tuned up and the dancing began.

  Baby and Del immediately headed for the dance floor to kick off the evening with a tango. Other couples, captivated by the sensuous music, their emotions fueled by the free flow of drinks, rushed to join them. And Carmela finally got her first clear, unobstructed view of Shamus’s table.

  But Shamus was no longer sitting down. Instead, he was heading determinedly for her table. With Zoe in tow!

  “Oops,” exclaimed Carmela, “gotta run.”

  “Where you going?” called Tandy.

  “Ladies’ room,” said Carmela. She jumped to her feet, grabbed for her beaded evening bag. But in her state of panic, the bag slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor and she had to dive under the table for what she hoped would be a fast retrieval.

  “Carmela,” said Shamus. “I’d like you to meet Zoe.” Great, thought Carmela, Shamus just introduced his date to my butt.

  Embarrassed, Carmela backed out from under the table and scrambled hastily to her feet.

  “Hi there, howdja do?” she mumbled hastily. Pumping Zoe’s hand, not bothering to really look at her, Carmela tried to make a break for it, but Shamus moved left to block her.

  Damn. Guess you can’t outflank an old quarterback. Especially one who can still scramble.

  “I understand you’re very creative,” said Zoe politely.

  “Carmela did all the menu cards,” volunteered Ava. She’d jumped up suddenly to help Carmela in whatever way she could. “And the cards with the floral and art descriptions, too.” Now she moved in on Zoe like a lioness circling her prey.

  “Zoe manages a clothing store,” Shamus told them. “The Hive.” He paused. “Perhaps you ladies have heard of it?”

  “Nice place,” said Carmela, feeling just a tiny ripple of intimidation. The Hive was a very upscale boutique located on Magazine Street. It carried many of the top designers like Versace, Ungaro, and Armani. She’d heard that they’d recently added a men’s line, too.

  “Listen,” said Ava, moving in on Zoe, “I’ve been looking for a hot pink slip dress. Do you have anything remotely similar to that? Better yet, do you have any hot pink shoes? Something strappy and fun.” Ava gave a long sigh. “It’s so difficult to find the perfect designer piece…”

  Shamus looked on with amusement as Ava rattled away and Zoe rattled back.

  Carmela faced Shamus. “You don’t have a costume,” she told him. He wore a black turtleneck under a black jacket, and Carmela wondered where that little fashion faux pas had originated. Shamus had always told her he despised turtlenecks.

  “What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out, obviously wanting Carmela’s reaction to his new look. Expecting a compliment.

  “If you swabbed white greasepaint on your face you could pass for a mime,” Carmela snapped.

  Shamus looked stung. “You know I despise mimes.”

  Carmela shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

  Shamus glowered at her. “This hostile attitude you’ve adopted,” he said. “It’s not one bit flattering. I hope you don’t intend to keep it up all night.” Shamus was so mad, he stomped off and left Zoe standing there with Ava.

  “Only as long as I have to,” Carmela called to Shamus’s retreating backside.

  Ava stopped chattering and the three of them stood staring at each other. Finally Zoe spoke up. “You’re very pretty,” she told Carmela. “Shamus said you were pretty.” She appraised Carmela with a careful eye, like a budding plastic surgery aficionado. “You have very full lips. I’ve been thinking of having my lips enhanced. There’s a plastic surgeon up in Baton Rouge who’s supposed to be a genius…”

  “Implants,” replied Ava, gesturing at Carmela’s lips.

  “Really,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “They look very natural.”

  “You want natural,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s cheekbones.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened even more. “Implants, too?”

  Ava nodded. “The surgeon made two teensy little incisions inside her mouth, then slipped these little plastic pieces right in. I tell you, the girl’s put together with spit and clay.”

  Zoe was clearly fascinated. “I’ve heard about cheek implants. Did they hurt?” she asked Carmela.

  “Never felt a thing,” replied Carmela.

  “But if you want realistic,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s eyes.”

  Now Zoe was completely confused. “Her eyes?” She threw Carmela a questioning glance.

  Carmela, who’d never had an implant or a collagen injection in her life, just nodded. “Had ’em done two years ago,” she said. “Love ’em.”

  Ava lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmela was born with brown eyes. Didn’t the surgeons do a fabulous job?”

  Zoe’s pouty mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh yes, they did,” she marveled. “And I had no idea they could even do a transplant procedure like that. Wow.”

  “Biosynthetics,” purred Ava. “Isn’t medical science amazing?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Zoe, feeling that she’d developed a real kinship with the two women.

  “You’re evil,” Carmela told Ava as Zoe headed back to her table. “Pure, unadulterated evil.”

  “And you’re not?” asked Ava. She gave a slow wink.

  “Having fun?” she asked.

  “I am now,” said Carmela. But ten minutes later, Shamus was back in her face, begging for help.

  Carmela stared at him, wondering where he found the nerve. “You want my help?” she asked. The
man was certainly born with an extra helping of chutzpah.

  “There’s a problem with Glory,” Shamus hissed, plucking at Carmela’s sleeve. “Hurry up! We’ve got a dire emergency on our hands!”

  As Shamus pulled her across the ballroom, Carmela noted that suddenly, somehow, Shamus considered the two of them complicit again. Now we have an emergency. On our hands.

  Glory Meechum was slumped in her chair, one chubby hand still stubbornly clasped around a glass of bourbon. Her older brother, Jeffrey, a pear-shaped banker in a drab gray suit, stared at her helplessly. Two useless banker cousins sat nervously twiddling their thumbs.

  “She just drank too much bourbon!” exclaimed Carmela as she surveyed the situation. Over the past couple years Carmela had seen Glory sock it away pretty good, but she’d never seen her this drunk. Glory’s face was doughy and slack, her lipstick smudged and smeared. Not a positive sign.

  Shamus put a hand protectively on one of Glory’s broad shoulders. “That’s not the real problem. She only had a couple drinks this evening, but she’s been taking this new medicine for her OCD. My guess is the combination of booze and pills must’ve packed a real wallop.”

  “That lady’s stoned, all right,” said Ava, who had followed Carmela to Shamus’s table. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” Ava peered into Glory’s glazed eyes. “Oh yeah, look at her pupils. She’s gone.”

  “She’s gone,” repeated Sweetmomma Pam, who had tagged along as well.

  “Carmela, do something!” wailed Shamus.

  Startled, wondering why this little family emergency had suddenly been thrust on her shoulders, Carmela whipped her head toward him. “Face it, Shamus, Glory’s zonked.”

  “Carmela… please! You’ve got to do something,” Shamus begged as Baby and Del, curious as to what was going on, sidled up to the table as well.

  “The woman’s clearly stoned, Shamus, what do you want me to do?” Carmela snapped. “Fire up the light show and throw some Jefferson Airplane on the turntable?”

  “You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” grumped Shamus.

  Carmela hesitated. Shamus was probably right. She was being a tad bitchy. But wasn’t she enjoying this little spectacle as well?

  Oh yeah. What goes around comes around, Miss Glory Meechum. Spread enough bad karma around and it’ll come back and chomp you in the butt.

  “This is Glory’s big night,” pleaded Shamus. “She’s supposed to receive her Founder’s Award!”

  “Might I offer a suggestion?” said Baby. She stood on the sidelines, looking cool and somewhat detached in her Marie Antoinette costume, but also helping to block this rather embarrassing scene from other prying eyes.

  “Whaaaa?” mumbled Glory, rolling her head. Neither eye seemed to be able to focus on the same thing. With her head sunk on her chest and her eyes looking wonky and rolling out to the sides, Carmela thought Glory resembled a Mississippi channel catfish.

  “Now mind you,” said Baby, “not that I know this first-hand. But I did attend college in the late sixties.”

  Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Lots of psychedelics back then. Powerful stuff.”

  “And I did hear rumors… realize, these were only rumors,” said Baby, “that several spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in a glass of orange juice could bring a person down from a nasty high. Something about increasing glucose and balancing blood sugar levels.”

  “Kind of like a diabetic,” breathed Ava. “That’s good.”

  “Shamus, go tell Monroe Payne to hold off on that Founder’s Award presentation,” announced Carmela. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Glory like she was a science project. “Let’s go ahead and try Baby’s sugar and orange juice suggestion. Glory’s in no condition to walk out on a stage. Let alone stumble through an acceptance speech.”

  “I don’t know,” said Baby, “I’ve seen lots of men do it.”

  “But that’s men, honey,” interjected Ava. “In the South men are expected to get a little tipsy at social occasions. It’s their birthright.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Baby’s husband, Del, grinning.

  Chapter 21

  “CARMELA,” said Gabby, her face scrunched into a worried grimace, “I think Stuart’s havin’ one of his low blood sugar attacks.”

  “Um… didn’t Stuart just eat, Gabby?” Carmela had just poured glass after glass of sugar-enhanced orange juice down Glory Meechum’s gullet to revive her, and now Gabby was pressing her about yet another health crisis. What am I? An ER doc?

  Gabby gestured helplessly at her husband, who was sprawled in his chair, staring up at Ava with a foolish grin. “He didn’t eat that much,” explained Gabby. “He was pretty busy jumping up and down, gallivanting around to neighboring tables, and saying how-do to folks.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Carmela. “Trying to sell cars?”

  “Lester Dorian did mention that he might be trading in his Cadillac, and Stuart was trying to get him to go for the big Toyota.”

  “With the luxury package,” said Carmela.

  “Of course,” said Gabby. “And the GPS. Anyway,” she continued, “the food’s all cleared away and since you’re personally acquainted with the caterer and his head chef, I thought maybe you could… you know…”

  “Get some food for Stuart,” said Carmela.

  “Could you do that?” asked Gabby. “I really hate to leave Stuart sitting here all by himself. He’s so shaky and rambling. You never know what could happen.”

  Right, thought Carmela. Stuart might get spirited off by forest elves. Or, worse yet, rival car dealers. “Okay, Gabby, but just hold on a minute, okay?”

  “How come everybody’s droppin’ like flies?” asked Ava as she dug in her evening bag for a packet of Clorets. “It’s like we’re on one of those big cruise ships or something.”

  “That’s right,” said Carmela, “the Voyage of the Damned. Now, for the pièce de résistance all we need is a rousing case of Legionnaires’ disease.”

  “Chew this,” Ava instructed Stuart as she shook a Cloret out of the package and handed it to him. “No, honey, don’t just swallow it in one gulp, it’s not a pill.” Ava sighed mightily as she passed him another Cloret. “Here. Try it again. And this time chew!”

  Carmela checked her watch as she sped across the ballroom. Five minutes to nine. Where had the evening gone? Had she even had a few moments to relax and have a bit of fun? Hell no.

  In fact, she was beginning to feel like some poor shlub in a Marx Brothers comedy where everything was spiraling out of control. Not only did she have to find a couple bites of food for Stuart, preferably something sweet and chewy, she had to surreptitiously meet Billy Cobb at the side door, try to locate Lt. Edgar Babcock, and then see if she could engineer some sort of truce between Billy and the New Orleans Police Department. Could she really pull all that off? Only if she was suddenly brandishing a bright blue Superwoman cape and a pair of silver bracelets.

  As Carmela breezed down the corridor that led toward the employee lunchroom and administrative offices, she thought about how she’d been forced to abandon her original plan.

  So much for my notion of finding the real killer. I gave it a shot and failed miserably. Ran across a few suspicious people, but never found any concrete evidence that linked them to Barty Hayward’s murder. And, Lord knows, you have to have evidence.

  Carmela turned into the small kitchen. Two women were beginning the daunting task of washing dishes and stacking plates.

  “Is there any bread pudding left?” Carmela asked.

  One of the women shrugged. “Check next door.” Carmela popped next door to the employee lunchroom. The long tables were piled with a jumble of boxes, food platters covered with plastic wrap, and half-empty silver serving platters. Waiters rushed in and out, depositing empty wine decanters, serving utensils, and bread baskets. Nobody seemed to notice her.

  Poking through the debris on one table, Carmela found a large cake pan that still contained a few lemon bars sprinkled generous
ly with powdered sugar. She searched around, found a small china dessert plate, and scooped two of the lemon bars onto the plate. They were a little squishy by now, but Carmela decided Stuart would just have to rough it.

  Glancing at her watch, Carmela saw it was almost time to meet Billy at the Perrier Street door.

  Uh-oh, better take care of that first.

  Clutching her plate of lemon bars, Carmela slipped out of the lunchroom and made her way farther down the corridor, away from the bright lights and clatter into semi-darkness and quiet. Natalie Chastain’s office was down this way. So was Monroe Payne’s office and those of the various curators.

  Carmela’s plan was simple if not simplistic: Put Billy at ease, try to get him to come inside with her, then quietly reason with him. And then, at the magic moment, Lt. Edgar Babcock would appear. Helpful and rational. An honest, forthright representative of the New Orleans Police Department who would help straighten things out.

  Good heavens, she thought to herself, isn’t this a grand fantasy? I’m really making this guy Babcock into a regular Dudley Do-Right.

  When Carmela was halfway down the corridor, hurrying to meet Billy, one of the lemon bars slipped off the plate. Tumbled end over end and landed with a splotch, the white powdered sugar spilling out around it.

  Nice going, klutz.

  Carmela wrinkled her nose and stared down at the mess.

  Okay, one lemon bar down, one to go. We’ll deal with this happy little accident on the return trip.

  AT FIRST CARMELA THOUGHT BILLY HAD STOOD her up. She pushed open the heavy metal door, leaned out, peered into swirling darkness as rain pelted down and lightning strobed in the sky overhead.

  Then she saw him. Walking swiftly toward her, splashing haphazardly through puddles of standing water. Billy’s head was tucked down and the collar of his dark blue pea coat was turned up against the battering wind and rain.

  “Billy, over here,” Carmela called, waving to him.

  Billy ducked through the doorway in a cold wash of rain, then the door snicked shut behind him.

  Carmela put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and exhaled slowly. The boy looked cold and drenched, his youthful face tired and drawn. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up,” she told him. Now that he was actually here, she wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed.