Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  Billy faced her as he slowly dripped water on the marble floor. “Do you have the money?” he asked tiredly. His eyes sought out the plate she was clutching. “What’s that?”

  “Lemon bar,” said Carmela, thrusting the plate into his hands. “Listen, Billy, did you know about Barty’s storage space across the river?”

  Billy accepted the plate and frowned. “I knew about it, yeah.”

  “You used to go over there with him?” she asked.

  The boy shook his head. “Nope.”

  “But you talked to Barty about it?”

  Billy gave a shrug. “Not really. I just heard him mention it a couple times.”

  “To people in the store?” Carmela asked.

  Billy thought for a minute. “More like on the phone, I think.”

  “On the phone,” repeated Carmela.

  “Yeah,” said Billy. “He was probably talkin’ to the delivery guys. I think that’s where Barty had ’em take the really crappy stuff.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Carmela as, around the corner, she heard a sudden shuffle of footsteps.

  Carmela touched a warning finger to her lips… Shhhh… as she and Billy flattened against the wall.

  The footsteps stopped, then there was the distinct jingle of keys. Someone must be letting themselves into one of the offices, Carmela decided. Maybe Natalie?

  She peeked around the corner, caught a flash of rich red silk. No, that had to be Monroe Payne in his Peking Opera costume. Probably come to fetch Glory’s Founder’s Award. The presentation was probably going to kick off fairly soon and Glory would receive her fancy engraved trophy now that she was back on her feet.

  Okay now, how am I going to find Edgar Babcock… and drag Billy to meet him?

  There was a sudden cry of dismay, then Monroe uttered a single low word: “Damn.”

  Oops, thought Carmela, I think Monroe Payne just stepped in that lemon bar.

  She poked her head out slightly to take a look. In the dim light she could see Monroe hopping along, trying to scrape something off the bottom of his shoe. Yellow goop, no doubt.

  Sorry, Monroe.

  As Carmela and Billy stood there in silence, someone else came clattering down the hallway. There was a low exchange of voices, something about a disgruntled donor, and Carmela also heard Monroe mutter, “Idiot food-service people.” Then Monroe and whoever it was that had spoken to him hurried back down the hallway, away from them.

  Now it was Billy’s turn to stick his head around the corner for a quick peek.

  “Are they gone?” hissed Carmela.

  Billy nodded.

  “Come on, then,” said Carmela, plucking at his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  But Billy was suspicious. “Go where?”

  “Uh… just down the hall a little. We’ve got to talk.”

  Reluctantly, Billy allowed Carmela to pull him down the corridor in the direction Monroe Payne had just retreated.

  When they got to the now-decimated lemon bar, Carmela glanced down at the mess, then paused. What the…?

  “What’s wrong?” asked Billy.

  “Got to get more light,” she muttered. “Take a closer look at something.”

  Monroe Payne’s office door was open a couple inches. Voilà. Perfect. In his haste, Monroe had left his office unlocked.

  Pushing the door open, Carmela’s eyes searched the darkness. A small lamp burned on Monroe ’s expansive mahogany desk. But not enough candlepower for her purposes. Carmela searched around the door frame for a light switch, finally found it, hit it with her hand.

  Yellow light spilled into the hallway and Carmela was finally able to get a good look at the splotched lemon bar.

  “What?” asked Billy, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, obviously aching to get the hell out of there.

  But Carmela’s eyes had traveled to the wide arc of powdered sugar that was spread out around the mess in the corridor.

  “Oh no,” she breathed.

  Carmela bent down on one knee, staring, not quite believing. And like a cartographer reading the latitude and longitude of a map, her index finger traced above a faint gridlike pattern that was imprinted in the spill of powdered sugar.

  “What?” asked Billy, picking up on her radical shift in attitude. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Close,” said Carmela hoarsely. She grabbed Billy by the lapels, pulled him into Monroe ’s office. “We’ve got to check something out,” she told him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Shhh,” she said as her eyes flicked around his office, taking everything in.

  Monroe Payne’s office was twice the size of Natalie Chastain’s. He had a large executive desk, two leather club chairs facing it, and, over by the window, a nice-looking round wooden conference table with four chairs pulled in around it. Two of his walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases stacked with oversized art books, Chinese ceramics, pre-Columbian vases, Greek urns, and some rolled-up Japanese hand scrolls. Exactly the mishmash of objects you’d expect to find in a museum director’s office.

  Carmela’s eyes fell on a closet door.

  Let’s just take a quick look-see.

  She pulled at the closet door, grimaced as it swung open with a loud creak.

  And found… clothes. Thud.

  There was a khaki raincoat, a couple light blue shirts, a gray tweed sport coat, a couple striped rep ties tossed carelessly over a wooden hanger.

  Carmela stared at these items, bit her lower lip, exhaled slowly. And wondered if her snap assumption about Monroe Payne had been that off base.

  Hmm. Maybe.

  She dropped to her knees, pawed haphazardly around on the closet floor. And came up with… what else?… a pair of shoes. Nice brown leather wing tips that looked to be maybe a size ten or eleven. She picked one up and held it for a moment, the leather feeling cool and slick in her hand. Then, pulling in a deep breath, Carmela turned one of the wing tips over.

  And saw the letters GC imbedded in the rubber.

  GC! Ohmygod!

  Carmela righted the shoe, peered inside. Giorgio Cortina. GC was Giorgio Cortina, the shoe’s Italian manufacturer. A men’s shoe manufacturer!

  Carmela closed her eyes and a shiver of excitement coursed through her.

  Bartholomew Hayward and Monroe Payne must have had business dealings together. Business dealings that went terribly wrong!

  Is this enough evidence to tie Monroe Payne to Bartholomew Hayward’s murder and clear Billy? It has to be. Carmela paused, thinking hard. But what about motive?

  No. She decided she had to forgo worrying about motive for now. The first order of business was for her and Billy to get the hell out of this office and find Lt. Edgar Babcock.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Billy demanded suddenly. He’d been watching her closely, shifting about nervously.

  “We’ve got a big problem,” Carmela told him.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, wary.

  Carmela stared at him. “I think Monroe Payne killed Bartholomew Hayward.”

  “What!” It took Billy a few seconds to digest this. “You’re talking about that museum guy?” he asked.

  “Right,” said Carmela. “Did he hang around Menagerie Antiques? Was he a friend of Barty’s?”

  “Tall guy? Slicked-back hair?” asked Billy.

  “Yes, yes!” said Carmela. “Monroe Payne.” She glanced about nervously. They really did have to get out of there.

  “He was at the shop sometimes,” said Billy. “But I wouldn’t call them friends.” His face contorted. “Jeez, if you think… well, shouldn’t we call the cops or something?”

  “Exactly my thinking,” said Carmela, noting how quickly Billy’s attitude about cops had flip-flopped. But her heart suddenly sank as she heard footsteps coming back. “Quick,” she whispered to Billy as she pawed for the switch and doused the light. “Get in the closet.” She gave Billy a rough shove, was about to dive in herself when…


  Click.

  Carmela’s heart beat a timpani solo as the office door swung slowly open.

  Uh-oh. Bad timing. Very bad timing.

  A shadowy figure leaned in.

  Could Lieutenant Babcock have somehow found his way to this office? Could she be that lucky? Carmela gazed apprehensively into the darkness, but the tiny spill of light from the desk lamp wasn’t enough to illuminate the figure in the doorway.

  “Hello, Carmela.” The voice rang cold as tempered steel, but held a note of arrogance as well.

  Oh no!

  Monroe Payne stepped slowly into the light. And any hope Carmela had of Lt. Edgar Babcock magically showing up suddenly died.

  Slowly, like a bad dream playing out in slow motion, Monroe Payne raised his arm. He held a gun. An ugly little snub-nosed Beretta. Not a terrible amount of stopping power, but certainly enough to do the job at close range.

  Carmela stared at Monroe, feeling stupid, useless, and sick to her stomach. She wanted to cry, to rage, to plead. This wasn’t how the scenario was supposed to play out! This was all wrong!

  Monroe took a measured step closer to Carmela and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you.” He stared at the upended shoe in her hand. “You and your stupid investigating. Had to go snooping around! Get suspicious about footprints and acquisition numbers.” He waggled a finger at her. “Well, we certainly can’t have that.”

  Still clutching the shoe, Carmela tried to discreetly heft her handbag. Could she smack Monroe in the face with it? Rake him with the sharp beads? Could she rush at him full tilt, then duck and spin past him?

  But that would leave poor Billy still hunkered down in the closet.

  “You and I are going for a little ride,” said Monroe. His voice was cold, menacing. Carmela could imagine the final destination of that little ride. Bayou with quicksand? Mississippi River backwater? Gator-infested swamp?

  But now there was the faint sound of more footsteps approaching.

  “Carmela?” A tentative voice echoed from down the corridor. It was Ava. “Are you down here, honey?”

  “Don’t make a sound,” snarled Monroe.

  Carmela stared at him, took a calculated risk. “Call the police, Ava!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then the distinct sound of Ava retreating posthaste. Of her clattering down the corridor and letting out a mighty yell.

  “You bitch!” screamed Monroe. Gun raised, he turned toward the door and as he did, Carmela swung her beaded bag at him. If she could rake his cheek, knock him off balance…

  But pffft, like a swift-moving phantom, Monroe Payne was gone. He’d spun on his pricey Italian loafers and slipped out the door as quickly and silently as he’d entered.

  Carmela hesitated for a few shocked seconds, then moved toward the door.

  A second high-pitched scream ricocheted down the marble hallway.

  What on earth? thought Carmela. She flung herself around the corner, pounded down the hallway in the direction of the piercing scream.

  Thirty feet down, outside the lunchroom, a small knot of people milled about. From the startled looks on their faces, they seemed collectively stunned.

  “What happened?” cried Carmela. “Who screamed?” Chef Ricardo pushed his way through the knot to Carmela, his arms cartwheeled frantically. “He took her! The man with the gun took her!”

  Monroe Payne took Ava? No, he couldn’t have. Ava’s lean and strong from twice-weekly Tae-Bo classes. Plus she had a head start on Monroe.

  As if on cue, Ava suddenly appeared. “Sweetmomma Pam!” she cried. “She followed me down here and Monroe Payne grabbed her! He was waving a gun around and he just picked her up like a rag doll and held her in front of him!”

  “Like a human shield!” added Chef Ricardo.

  Carmela’s heart filled with dread. “Quick! Where did they go?” she asked.

  “Outside the building!” Chef Ricardo told Carmela, gesturing wildly.

  “Where did who go?” asked Shamus, suddenly appearing in the fray.

  Ava’s face blanched white. “Monroe Payne kidnapped my poor granny!” she shrieked.

  “Good Lord,” said Shamus, stunned. He looked at Carmela. “Really?”

  She gave a sick nod.

  Alarmed by the shouting, another glut of people suddenly poured into the hallway. As if in a dream, Carmela saw Baby, Del, Tandy, and Quigg Brevard stream toward them. Billy Cobb hurried down the hallway from the opposite direction, still carrying the plate with the lemon bar.

  “Sweetmomma Pam was kidnapped?” cried Baby, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god! That dear sweet lady!”

  “We gotta get her back!” shrilled Ava.

  “Find Lieutenant Edgar Babcock,” Carmela told her. “Now!”

  “Where?” pleaded Ava, verging on hysteria.

  “He’s here somewhere,” said Carmela. “Just yell your head off and find him,” ordered Carmela. “Shamus’ll help you.”

  “Billy?” called Tandy in a quavering voice as she suddenly caught sight of her nephew. “What are you doing here?”

  But Billy was roundly ignored for the time being as Ava, now the center of attention, clawed frantically at Carmela’s sleeve. “We gotta get her back!” she insisted. “I’ll just die if anything happens to her!”

  “We find her!” said Shamus, who looked clearly confused.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Sweetmomma,” said Carmela determinedly.

  Tears streamed down Ava’s face. “Promise me!”

  “I swear,” said Carmela. “On my daddy’s grave. Now go!”

  Chapter 22

  AS Carmela raced for her car, she was aware of someone sprinting after her, splashing headlong through puddles. A quick glance over her shoulder told her it was Shamus.

  Shamus? What’s he up to?

  With his longer, more powerful strides, Shamus reached the car at the same time Carmela did. Together, they ripped open the doors and hurled themselves inside Carmela’s Mercedes.

  “Monroe Payne killed Barty!” Carmela told him between gasps as she fumbled in her beaded bag for her car key. “And now he’s kidnapped Ava’s granny!”

  “Holy shit!” cried Shamus. “Did you see which way he went?” Shamus’s voice was tense and he wore his serious game face.

  Carmela jammed the key into the ignition and cranked it hard. The Mercedes SL revved immediately with a throaty rumble. “No, but-”

  “Hang on, I think we’ve got company!” yelled Shamus as he tucked his knees up under his chin and yanked at the seat belt.

  Momentarily distracted, Carmela whipped her head to the right just as she stomped on the accelerator, building up rpm’s and almost red-lining the engine. With her car roaring like a jumbo jet, she was set to double clutch and pop directly into second gear. “What?” she asked him.

  There was a moment of yelling and pounding on the outside of her car, then the passenger-side door was ripped open. Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, both breathing heavily, clambered in and squeezed themselves onto what could best be described as a token backseat.

  Annoyed, Shamus glanced back over his shoulder. “Who do you guys think you are? The Lone Ranger and Tonto?”

  “Drive, Carmela!” yelled Quigg, pounding the back of her seat.

  “Drive!” echoed Chef Ricardo. His eyes were wild and rolling as he glanced nervously out the rain-streaked back window. Trying to see what had become of Ava, Carmela assumed.

  “Where’s she supposed to drive to?” snarled Shamus. He wasn’t particularly happy about the two passengers who had opted to pack themselves in like sardines.

  But Carmela’s car was moving now, roaring like an Indy car and spinning its wheels wildly as she jammed the accelerator to the floor. They fishtailed fifty yards down Perrier Street, then the Mercedes’s extra-wide tires finally found purchase and they really took off.

  “Somebody’s behind us!” yel
led Quigg.

  “Is it a squad car?” asked Carmela.“Lieutenant Babcock?” She risked a quick glance in the rearview mirror even as her car rocketed down the street.

  “Can’t tell,” said Quigg. He put a hand on her shoulder as she swerved wide around a corner. “Hey, take it easy. Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Carmela responded with a tight nod. Yes, she did. In fact, she had a damn good idea of where Monroe Payne had probably spirited Sweetmomma Pam off to.

  The shrimp-packing plant! Out on River Road. Has to be.

  “HOLY BUCKETS,” WHISPERED SHAMUS AS THEY rolled silently into the little dirt parking lot. Carmela had doused her headlights some five hundred yards out and now they crept in slowly.

  “Is that other car still behind us?” asked Carmela.

  “I think we lost ’em at the last turnoff,” said Quigg. Everyone was talking in hushed whispers now, wondering what the next move should be.

  Carmela made the decision for them. Springing lightly from her car, she gathered her skirt up around her knees and tiptoed toward the dilapidated building that Barty Hayward had used as his storage facility.

  We can’t just sit around and hope Lieutenant Babcock is coming, decided Carmela. Got to act now!

  “Wait!” called Shamus in a loud whisper. “You can’t go in there alone!”

  “Watch me,” Carmela whispered back. She hadn’t bothered to tell him Monroe Payne had a gun. If she had, Shamus probably would’ve hog-tied her. And then where would Sweetmomma Pam be?

  “Damn,” said Shamus, scrambling out after her. He hesitated, turned to stare at Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo, who were still wedged in, yet making motions like they were going to extricate themselves. “Are you coming?” he groused at them.

  “We’re trying,” said Chef Ricardo as he flailed about, trying to get a little leverage.

  Carmela, meanwhile, had disappeared around the building. Tiptoeing through sucking mud in high heels wasn’t easy, and she was thankful for the rain as it slapped down upon the metal roof of the building and shook the trees around her. Covered any noise.