Photo Finished (8 page)

“Okay, honey,” said Carmela. “Let us know if you hear anything.”

“I might be coming in later,” said Tandy.

“Really?” said Carmela, surprised by Tandy's remark.

“There's nothing
else
to do right now,” said Tandy, her voice quavering wildly.

Twenty minutes later, Baby Fontaine and her daughter Dawn Bodine, who'd married into the Brewton Creek Bod-ines, pushed their way through the door. Shortly after that, Byrle Coopersmith, another of Carmela's staunch regulars, also arrived. They were all shocked to hear that the police were now eyeing Billy Cobb as a possible suspect.

“But those latex gloves were used for stripping and shellacking,” argued Gabby. “Everybody knows that.”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Even
I
keep a box of latex gloves in the store. For when I work with glass paints and things. It doesn't make
me
a murderer.”

“Didn't you try to take over part of Barty's space a few months ago?” asked Baby.

“I did,” said Carmela.

Baby put a finger to her mouth.
“Ssshhh.”

“All this talk about murder is making me very jumpy,” said Byrle. “Can't we just work on our projects for a while?”

“I'm making a vacation scrapbook,” piped up Dawn. She was the youngest of Baby's daughters, youthful and vivacious, recently married and just back from a trip to Paris. Dawn was also the spitting image of her mother, only twenty-six years younger.

“What kind of album are you using?” Carmela asked Dawn.

Dawn held up a large square album with a plain cream-colored cover. “This one. Momma got it for me.” She smiled at Baby, who was sitting next to her.

“How would you ladies like a few ideas on how to create your own album covers?” asked Carmela.

“What fun!” exclaimed Baby, pulling out an album of her own. “We design all these wonderful scrapbook pages and sometimes forget that our album covers can be personalized, too.”

“Let me show you one quick idea,” said Carmela. “And then you can improvise and do your own versions.”

“Freestyle,” joked Byrle.

“Exactly,” replied Carmela as she pulled open cupboard doors, gathering the materials she needed.

“Okay, then,” said Carmela, spreading everything out around her. “I'm going to start with this Eiffel Tower rubber stamp. Using gold ink, I'm going to stamp an Eiffel Tower image onto a three-by-three-inch square of light blue card stock.”

“You need the colored oil crayons, too?” asked Gabby, hovering nearby.

“Please,” said Carmela. She took the box of crayons from Gabby and pulled out a dark blue and a purple crayon. As an afterthought she grabbed a pink oil crayon, too. “Now I'm just going to color in a little bit of the Eiffel Tower,” said Carmela, rubbing the oil crayons on the inside and around the outer edges of the Eiffel Tower image.

“Pretty,” said Byrle. “Now what? You smudge it?”

“Carefully smudge it,” said Carmela. “A
controlled
smudge, like doing your eye shadow. To achieve a soft, almost pastel look. Then we trim the square with a deckle-edged scissors to get a nice torn-edge effect.” Carmela trimmed the image, then carefully set it down on the table. It shone like an oversized French postage stamp.

“Now,” said Carmela, “we'll take our album cover and adhere this dark blue and purple paisley paper to the right side. On the left side we'll use this light-colored cream and gold paisley paper.” Carmela's hands worked swiftly with the papers and adhesive and, in a few minutes, the album cover had assumed a whole new look.

“That's gorgeous,” said Dawn. “Very rich looking. But what about the Eiffel Tower image?”

“I'm getting to that,” said Carmela. “Now we take our deckle-edged Eiffel Tower square and paste it on. Not quite centered . . . maybe a little to the right.” The Eiffel Tower image went on, then Carmela picked up a calligraphy pen.

“To add a finishing touch to our cover, I'm going to do some hand-lettering across the cream and gold paper.” She uncapped a bronze-colored pen, paused for a moment, then bent over the album and began to write in a long, looping script.

Baby watched her closely. “ ‘Paris, City of Light.' Beautiful. Now it's the perfect album for preserving memories of Dawn and Buddy's Paris trip.” Baby's fingers touched the edge of Dawn's sleeve; she was clearly proud of her daughter.

“Do you think I could do something similar using heart images?” asked Dawn. “For an anniversary album?”

“I think hearts would be adorable,” said Carmela. “We could even add some heart-shaped charms for a dimensional effect.”

“Could you attach charms to this?” asked Baby, indicating the album cover Carmela had just completed.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Carmela. “Tiny charms, stickers, gold tassels, a wax seal . . . the more layers you put on, the more depth you achieve.”

“Here are some rubber stamps with heart images,” said Gabby, passing a half-dozen rubber stamps to Dawn. “And this handmade mulberry paper has tiny rosebud petals imbedded in it.”

“Wow,” said Dawn, clearly impressed.

“That paper comes in cream, white, and pink,” said Carmela. “And I think we also have some pretty gold paper with poetry verses etched in the background. That would certainly go well with your romantic theme.” Carmela rose from her chair and headed for the front of the shop. “Let me take a look.”

As Carmela was searching through her stock of special papers, the phone rang. She grabbed the handset.

“Hello,” she said, fully expecting to hear Tandy once again.

But it wasn't Tandy. It was Lt. Edgar Babcock of the New Orleans Police Department. Asking Carmela if she would kindly put together a list of customers who'd attended her scrapbook crop this past Saturday night.

“Sure I will, of course I will,” Carmela replied into the phone.
God, am I babbling? Sure sounds like it. Why am I suddenly nervous?

“Today, if possible?” asked Lieutenant Babcock.

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Carmela told him. She glanced toward the back of the shop. Everybody seemed involved in their own projects and she was pretty sure Gabby had kept that reservation list. Positive they had it, in fact.

Lieutenant Babcock's request had also made Carmela suddenly hopeful.

“Shall I e-mail you the list or . . .?”

“I'd like to stop by and pick it up if I could,” said Lieutenant Babcock.

“I'll have it ready,” Carmela promised him.

“Problems?” asked Gabby as Carmela hung up the phone.

Carmela pulled the gold paper from the front display and hurried back to her friends.

“Not a problem per se,” Carmela answered slowly. “That was a police detective. He's asking for a list of Saturday night's customers.”

“Do they suspect someone?” asked Gabby, suddenly looking worried again.

“No, I don't think that's it at all,” said Carmela. “I think this is more routine than anything.”

“Oh,” said Gabby, not terribly convinced.

Uh-oh,
thought Carmela.
I hope Gabby doesn't get Stuart all upset about this.

“You know,” said Baby, when there was a lull in the conversation, “there
is
someone who's royally pissed at Barty Hayward.”

“Who's that?” asked Carmela.
And why am I not surprised?

“Dove Duval,” said Baby as she carefully traced out a heart-shaped photo frame for Dawn.

“Dove was here Saturday night!” gasped Gabby.

“And, as I recall, she left rather early,” continued Baby, lifting an elegant hand and pushing a lock of blond hair behind her ear.
“Before
Gabby went out the back door and rather unceremoniously stumbled upon Bartholomew Hayward's bleeding body.”

Gabby turned to Carmela. “That's right, she did. Remember? She and Mignon. They were the ones who bought a bunch of those new rubber stamps. I think they're planning to make holiday invitations or something.”

“Will someone please tell me who Dove Duval is?” demanded Dawn. “And is this woman related to the Duvals who live over in St. Landry Parish?”

“She is,” said Baby. “Sort of.” Baby gazed around the table, her bright blue eyes lighting up as she told her story. “In case you hadn't noticed, Dove Duval is what you'd call a
faux
Southerner. Originally, she was the Mrs. of Dr. and Mrs. Marvin Fleckstein of Montclair, New Jersey. Marvin Fleckstein being a self-proclaimed orthodontia king. But, times being what they are, and marriages not always that permanent, Dove and the dentist decided to divorce a year or so ago. On a trip to New Orleans, where Dove came to heal her wounded psyche and dip her beak into what was supposedly a pleasingly plump settlement, Dove met up with a certain Taurean Duval. The husband market being as precarious as the stock market, Dove wasted no time. She pounced quickly and is now Mrs. Taurean Duval.”

“What does Taurean Duval do?” asked Byrle.

“Owns the Dydee-doo Diaper Service,” said Baby.

“This is all very interesting,” said Gabby, a frown creasing her normally placid face, “but why on earth would Dove Duval have it in for Bartholomew Hayward?”

“I was getting to that,” said Baby. “Apparently, in her headlong rush to become an instant Southern lady and receive friends and visitors in her newly acquired Garden District home, Dove Duval nee Fleckstein purchased an entire
truckload
of what was touted to be genuine Southern plantation antiques.”

“Let me guess,” said Carmela, “some of them turned out to be fakes.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Baby. “How did you know?” Carmela shrugged. She'd seen the trucks pulling up late at night to Barty's back door. She knew he'd been doing some heavy-duty distressing and refinishing in his back room. Many of the pieces Barty sold were genuine, but there couldn't be
that
much old pecan and cypress left on the face of the earth.

“So Dove Duval could have been more than just a little upset with Bartholomew Hayward,” said Gabby. “She could have been furious.”

“Why didn't she just sue him?” asked Byrle.

“She was probably too embarrassed,” said Baby.

“Wouldn't you be? After being flimflammed?”

“Then the question remains,” said Byrle. “Was Dove furious enough to kill him? To stab him with a scissors?”

The women all paused and looked at each other. In Louisiana, men had been known to kill each other in disputes over prized coon hounds. In many ways there was still a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of mentality in the South. But did the transplanted Dove possess that same kind of hair trigger? That was the unanswered issue that seemed to perch like a giant question mark on the table.

“So tell me,” said Dawn, breaking the tension of the moment, “did Dove Duval finally get rid of all the fakes Barty unloaded on her?”

“Yes, she did, honey,” replied Baby. “Dove unloaded them at a flea market over in Baton Rouge. She has since hired a
professional
decorator in her quest to have her home featured in
Southern Living.
” Baby paused. “I understand her new decor is quite eclectic.”

“Define eclectic,” said Byrle as she cropped a large photo into quarters, then prepared to edge each piece with gold foil tape.

Baby's face assumed an impish grin. “It means nothin' really goes together!”

“She should hire Jekyl Hardy,” suggested Gabby. “He could get her home straightened out in no time.” Jekyl Hardy was a design consultant and one of New Orleans's premier Mardi Gras float designers. He was also a dear friend of Carmela's and sole proprietor of Hardy Art & Antique Consultants. Besides having a real knack for design, Jekyl Hardy periodically gave seminars on art collecting and connoiseurship.

Carmela had remained silent yet highly attentive throughout Baby's story. Now she wondered if this might be the moment to tell everyone about the heelprint she'd found.

It was a bit of a dilemma. Then again, there was the off chance someone might recognize the heelprint and shed some light on this whole thing.

Silently, Carmela slid a laser print onto the table. It was an enlarged printout of the enhanced heelprint that had been squashed into her medallion. Only she'd flopped the image so the initials, which had originally looked like interlocking G's, now clearly read GC. The same way you'd see them if you looked at the bottom of the shoe.

“What's this?” asked Byrle, turning the sheet toward her. “Another cover idea?”

“Better than that,” said Carmela.

The women listened with rapt attention as Carmela told them how she'd found the little medallion halfway down the alley. And how she'd noticed the heelprint, thought it might be significant, and enhanced the slightly smudged image by sprinkling it with embossing powder.

“Wow,” said Gabby, impressed. “You pulled a print. Just like on
CSI
!”

“Not exactly,” said Carmela. “You make it sound like I followed crime scene protocol. Instead, it was more like stumbling upon the little clay medallion, then noticing the smudgy heelprint.”

“You gonna show us the
real
forensic evidence, honey?” asked Baby, clearly fascinated by all of this.