Photo Finished (16 page)

Carmela whipped open three drawers in the flat file in rapid succession, but came up empty. Frowning, she decided the pages had to be stashed somewhere in this cubbyhole of an office.

Cramped, crowded, and cluttered, her office wasn't exactly a model office deserving of a center spread in
Architectural Digest.
In fact, her office was definitely due for a makeover. Or a cleanup. Or maybe even a full-scale intervention.

Carmela wondered if there were twelve-step programs for junk junkies, then decided there had to be. There were twelve-step programs for everything else. Heck, there were probably twelve-step programs for people who ate glue.

Finally, in the bottom drawer of her battered wooden desk, Carmela found the scrapbook pages she'd been searching for.

Now she had to beat feet home, hit the shower, and wiggle into a cute little dress.

As if in answer to her question, a sharp knock sounded at her back door.

Carmela padded to the door and hesitated. Putting an ear to the heavy reinforced steel door, she listened for a couple seconds, but could hear nothing.

“Who's there?” she called, then added in an emphatic tone: “I'm sorry, but the shop is closed.”

“Carmela?” came a low muffled voice. “It's me.”

“Who's me?” she called warily.

“Billy. I—”

Flinging open the door, Carmela was stunned to find Billy Cobb standing at her back door. Looking utterly forlorn and bedraggled in a faded checked shirt and frayed blue jeans, he was the last person she expected to turn up here.

“Billy! What on earth . . .?” Carmela began.

But Billy simply stared at her and continued to look mournful.

Carmela did a fast scan of the alley. Then she reached out, plucked at Billy's shirtsleeve, and reeled him in. “Get in here,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don't you know everyone is looking for you? The
police
are looking for you, for goodness' sake. And your poor family . . . well, they're worried sick!”

Under her prodding, Billy Cobb hustled himself inside and closed the heavy door behind him.

“Do you want to tell me what's going on?” Carmela asked.

Billy screwed up his face in a look of sublime unhappiness. “I . . . I don't know what's going on.”

Always a results-oriented person, this was not the answer Carmela wanted to hear. She decided to take a different approach in her line of questioning.

“Billy, you didn't have anything to do with what happened last Saturday night, did you?” she asked.

“No, of course not!”

Carmela stared at him. He looked believable, sounded believable.

“The police are trying to railroad me,” he protested.

“Any idea why?” she asked.

“I think because I'm convenient,” he said, one hand raking through his mop of hair.

Carmela stared at Billy. He was a kid who'd been in trouble with the law, he wasn't a property owner or a business owner, and he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was sure this wasn't the first time the police had taken the path of least resistance.

“Listen, Billy, did Bartholomew Hayward get a lot of late-night deliveries?”

Billy shook his head. “I dunno. If he did, he always took care of them himself.”

“Do you have any idea who killed Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Carmela.

Something akin to fear crept into Billy's expression. “No, of course not,” he answered. “But . . .” He cast his eyes downward.

“Billy,” said Carmela, her voice softening, “has someone threatened you?”

Billy's mouth twitched, but no words issued forth. Finally he nodded. “Just tell my family I'm okay, will you? Can you do that for me?”

“I'd like to do more than that,” said Carmela. “I'd like to help if I can.”

“Then stay out of it,” pleaded Billy. “Because right now, the best thing for me to do is disappear for a while.” He spun back toward the door and grasped the doorknob.

“Billy,” said Carmela. She grabbed a pad of paper, scrawled her cell phone number on it, and pressed it into his hand. “Call me, will you? Let me know you're okay.”

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.

T
HE 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.

“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
un
healthy.”

“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 Carmela. “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.”