Photo Finished (23 page)

But Carmela was not forthcoming.

“You're very tight with Baby Fontaine, aren't you?” Dove said finally.

“She's one of my dearest friends.”

Dove cocked her head to one side. “Baby comes from an old family?”

“Pretty old,” said Carmela. “Her grandfather was mayor of New Orleans back in the twenties.”

“Very impressive,” said Dove. “And she's chaired a lot of committees for the Art Institute?”

Carmela nodded. “She's had her share.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Dove. “I've spoken with Monroe Payne a few times about a possible winter fund-raiser.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. So that was it. Dove was bound and determined to chair her own fund-raiser. She probably assumed that, once you were chairman of an event, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to a seat on the board of directors. Carmela knew it was actually a very long and arduous leap.

“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 could 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.”

R
AIN 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.