Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  “I’ve seen the ads for the chicken cooker thing,” said Carmela. “But what on earth is a Flowbee?”

  Ava made a face. “Some kind of weird attachment you stick on the end of your vacuum cleaner. It sucks up your hair and cuts it at the same time.”

  “Let’s hope,” said Carmela, “that Sweetmomma Pam never discovers the Internet. Or eBay!”

  “Amen,” said Ava, as their bread pudding was delivered to their table.

  Carmela continued to listen with great amusement to Ava as she babbled on about the trials and tribulations of having a seventy-nine-year-old woman as her houseguest. More than once, she had to put down her fork and indulge in a good belly laugh.

  Sweetmomma Pam is something else. Or maybe this rum sauce is finally getting to me, loosening me up. Anyway, it feels good to laugh.

  Still, all through dessert, Carmela kept a watchful eye out for the hot-tempered Chef Ricardo.

  Chapter 3

  AT three thirty that afternoon Carmela found herself back at Memory Mine. By the time Bartholomew Hayward’s body had been packed into the ambulance the night before, by the time they’d all finished giving statements to the police, it had been too late to do more than a cursory cleanup.

  The place was still a mess.

  Papers, stencils, colored markers, and orange-handled scissors were scattered everywhere. Her back office was catty-wampus and redolent with the remains of shrimp chowder and now-petrified popovers. And the two big folding tables she’d rented from Party Central had to be taken down and stashed somewhere until they could be returned. After all, tomorrow was Monday. Business as usual.

  Business as usual. Right. I wonder what business will happen next door tomorrow. Will Billy open up the shop and soldier on, trying to run things? Or will Jade Ella, Barty’s soon-to-be ex who hasn’t spoken to him in months, suddenly step in to manage things?

  She shrugged. There was also the possibility that Menagerie Antiques might just remain dark and shuttered, an ominous reminder of that night’s terrible events.

  Carmela worked quickly, staying focused on her tasks and making short order of the cleanup. Luckily, the shop was compact in size and fairly well organized. It was easy to replace pens, colored pencils, all the various pairs of scissors with their decorative edges…

  Scissors. Oh, please don’t tell me I stock the same brand of scissors that ended up in Barty Hayward’s throat last night!

  Carmela rushed to the front of the shop where she had a display of Sure Cut and KeenCo scissors. She scanned the ripple, scalloped, and wave-edged scissors, too, which were packaged in clear blister packs and hung on metal holders.

  No. Whew. I didn’t think so.

  For some reason, Carmela felt relieved. As though she, personally, were somehow off the hook.

  But at the same time, she also knew she probably shouldn’t have let Gabby go tripping out into the back alley so late at night. That had probably been poor judgment on her part. After all, stumbling upon Barty Hayward’s dead body would probably leave the poor girl spooked for quite some time.

  Carmela nursed her guilt until all the rubber stamps were put away, all the various 8 1/2 “×11” and 12”×12” papers were gathered up, checked to make sure there weren’t any crinkles or folded corners, then carefully returned to their rightful places in the flat files.

  Now, the last thing I have to do is break down these darned folding tables.

  Carmela grunted and groaned, until she had the metal legs folded flat and the heavy six-foot tables leaning up against the back wall.

  No, this is not going to work. Sure as shootin’ we’re going to want to dig into those files first thing tomorrow. Okay then, where can I stash these tables until I get someone to help me return them?

  There was only one place. Outside. In the back alley.

  Eeeyuh. Really? Out there?

  Tentatively, Carmela pushed open the back door. She knew in her heart that the tables would be fine if left out here overnight. In fact, if Billy Cobb came in to work tomorrow, and she had a feeling he probably would because he was just that kind of fellow, she could get Billy to help her move them into his back workroom for safekeeping. There was always plenty of space in the workroom.

  Tugging, shoving, and grunting, Carmela maneuvered the two tables outside and down the two back steps. With one final effort, she muscled them into place and propped them up against the dingy back wall of her store.

  When Carmela was satisfied that the tables blended in fairly well with the dark bricks of the building and probably wouldn’t be noticed by anyone passing by, she breathed a sigh of relief. That job was finally done.

  Carmela turned around slowly and stared down the alley that, just eighteen hours earlier, had been the scene of a violent and terrible crime.

  The words returning to the scene of the crime suddenly rumbled through her brain, causing her to shudder. She noted that, already, the October sun hung precariously low and the back alley was etched with shadows.

  Last night, black and yellow crime scene tape had been taped and strung everywhere, like a crazed spider’s web. Now, just a few desultory strands remained to flap in the wind. A few cars had undoubtedly roared through here, the drivers oblivious.

  Carmela stared at the spot where Bartholomew Hayward had been murdered. There was no white chalk outline of the body like you always saw in movies, just a splotch of red spray paint at the point where Bartholomew Hayward’s head had connected with the rough cobblestones.

  And where the orange scissors had connected with him. The police had been super diligent last night about taking crime scene photos and had gone to great lengths to attempt to obtain fingerprints. Now, fine white powder covered everything. It clung to the back door of Carmela’s shop and the back door of Menagerie Antiques. Powder residue also covered the Dumpster and nearby telephone poles. The darned stuff had even been on Carmela’s car this morning, until she’d run it through the Suds-o-Matic up on Marais Street.

  Carmela stared around, her natural curiosity aroused. It was a trait that sometimes got the best of her, often led her into trouble. Today that curiosity was prodding her to wonder exactly how the night’s murderous events had played out.

  Let’s see, how had Gabby told it? Oh, yeah…

  Carmela took four measured steps forward.

  Gabby said she was right about here when she heard the sound of a bottle breaking at the far end of the block. She tossed the car keys up in the air and missed the catch. Then, just as she heard the keys drop, she heard something… a noise… over by the Dumpster.

  Carmela’s eyes were naturally drawn to the big brown hulking Dumpster.

  So someone had been hiding beside or behind the Dumpster. Then when Gabby paused, or looked over, or whatever she did, they sprinted off down the alley.

  Carmela now focused on the back door of Menagerie Antiques. She wondered if somebody had shown up at Barty’s back door and lured him outside. Or some kind of furniture shipment had arrived.

  Hadn’t he said a shipment was coming? Sure he did. Then why didn’t I hear the truck?

  The answer to that was simple. Because everyone had been talking, laughing, and having a grand old time. Because the noise level inside Memory Mine had been pretty high that night.

  Crossing her arms, tapping a foot against the cobblestones, Carmela continued to puzzle out what might have taken place.

  Okay, let’s just say somebody came knocking at Barty’s back door. Barty stepped out, closed the door behind him. Then Barty and his unknown assailant began to talk, argue, struggle, whatever. Then this unknown assailant stabbed him.

  Carmela stared down at the red squirt of paint that delineated where Bartholomew Hayward’s body had lain.

  Then maybe this assailant was startled when he heard Gabby click open the back door. So he squirreled himself behind the Dumpster. That would be the most logical hiding place.

  Carmela paced off a few steps to the Dumpster.

  She hesitated
a split second, then squeezed in between its rusting hulk and the grubby brick wall. Glancing about, she didn’t see anything that struck her as particularly interesting. Or threatening. More fingerprint dust residue. A couple cigarette butts lying on the ground, stuck between the cracks of cobblestones. Gingerly, Carmela lifted the heavy lid of the Dumpster and peered in. A malodorous scent wafted up from its dark interior. Stale beer, rotted food, Lord knew what else.

  Okay, stick with this, she told herself as she let the lid slam down. What happened next?

  When Gabby heard a weird noise and looked around, the murderer… because this wasn’t just an assailant anymore, but a bona fide murderer… tore off down the alley.

  Carmela eased herself out from behind the Dumpster and started walking slowly down the alley in the same direction Barty’s murderer had fled. In her mind’s eye, she was trying to picture the exact escape route the perpetrator might have taken. Head down this alley, pop out on Royal Street, get lost in the crowd. Pouf, it was that easy.

  A few shreds of newspaper swirled about Carmela’s ankles as she continued down the alley. A couple geaux cups, plastic take-away glasses from a nearby bar, had rolled up against a brick wall.

  The police searched around for clues, but came up empty. The closer Carmela got to Royal Street, the more she knew her search was futile. Not much here. An empty cigarette pack, a smashed whisky bottle. Obviously not a highly trafficked alley.

  Nothing, she thought. No wonder the police are positively clueless.

  Five feet from the end of the alley, a faint glint caught Carmela’s eye. She stopped and leaned down. Studied the shiny little object. Couldn’t believe her eyes!

  That’s one of my pendants! I must have dropped the darn thing last night when I bobbled the tray climbing out of my car.

  Carmela frowned and stared at the embossed gold disk with the fleur-de-lis design. It was definitely one she’d painstakingly stamped out of clay then rubbed with gold paint some two days ago.

  But how the heck did the darned thing get way down here?

  Carmela reached down to pick up the pendant, hesitated, suddenly inhaled sharply.

  One edge of the pendant was seriously flattened. And bore a rather strange impression. One she certainly hadn’t stamped there.

  Oh my god!

  Could it be… a partial imprint from the heel of a shoe?

  Carmela’s eyes bugged out as she was struck with the full implication.

  Did Barty Hayward’s murderer step on this? The darned thing had obviously been lying somewhere near my car. And neither the clay nor the paint was completely dry. Could the clay pendant have clung to the bottom of the murderer’s heel, then suddenly flown off right here? Sure, it could have.

  Carmela’s theory sounded plausible to her, but would the police see it the same way? No, probably not.

  They’d already called in their detectives, uniformed officers, and crime scene technicians to the scene. The whole lot of them had shuffled around, scowling, smoking, cracking jokes, and making official grumblings. Then they’d packed up and left. Hadn’t really bothered to quiz her or her customers all that much.

  So what do I do now?

  Her instincts told her exactly what to do.

  Reaching into her pocket, Carmela pulled out a Kleenex tissue. Carefully, without touching the top of the little handcrafted medallion, she scooped it up.

  Okay, now what?

  Carmela stared at the squashed medallion.

  What I should do is take a digital photo. Then show it to Gabby or Tandy or Baby and see what they think. It’s got these weird initials on it. Maybe they’ll know if that’s a designer logo or something.

  The notion encouraged her. At least she’d be doing something positive.

  Can I get a good enough photo of it?

  That thought made her smile.

  Of course I can, especially if I sprinkle the medallion with some of that embossing powder I use to enhance rubber-stamped images on cards and invitations. After all, embossing powder probably isn’t all that different from the powder real forensic labs use.

  As she hurried back to her store, Carmela found herself on edge and curiously excited.

  Look at me. All worked up over finding what could turn out to be a very weird clue to a real-life killer. Am I completely nuts or what?

  Please, she told herself, don’t even answer that.

  Chapter 4

  THEY say the devil sometimes pops up when you least expect him. Unpredictably, unforeseeably, certainly unwelcome. Such was the case when Carmela heard a sharp knock on her door that evening.

  She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Who’s plotzing around out there this time of night? Ava? Can’t be, I just had a gab with her an hour ago. Told her all about the medallion with the heel impression.

  Carmela rose from the creaky wicker chaise lounge where she’d been curled up, surfing her seventy-five cable channels, searching for a scintillating forensic TV show, and padded to the front door in her stocking feet. Rolling over in her cozy L. L. Bean dog bed, Boo uttered a half-hearted yip, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. A wet snore gurgled from her well-padded muzzle.

  Some watchdog you are, thought Carmela.

  Carmela peered through the peephole in the door. Shamus Allan Meechum was standing there in the small courtyard outside her apartment. Her tall, curly-haired, good-looking, soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Shamus! What the heck does he want?

  Reluctantly, Carmela took the chain off the door and let him in.

  “Hey, babe.” Shamus gave a lazy smile as he brushed by her, his larger-than-life personality immediately insinuating itself in the confines of her small apartment.

  Carmela closed the door and gave a quizzical glance.

  What just happened here? I was cozied up, skimming a magazine and surfing channels, when suddenly this big galoot breezes in and changes the entire character of my place.

  She peered at her apartment with its coral red walls, earth-tone sisal rug, and flea market furniture that had been reupholstered in cream-colored cotton duck fabric. Along with some antique shop buys, most from scratch-and-dent rooms, she’d managed to concoct a semblance of casual chic. But Shamus’s presence seemed to throw off the whole atmosphere. Suddenly, everything felt tilted and out of focus.

  The notion that Shamus had waltzed in and impacted the character of her home greatly perturbed Carmela. Which meant she didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

  “What do you want?” she asked Shamus bluntly.

  Shamus, ever the Southern gentleman, favored Carmela with a look that fairly dripped with concern. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said in the soft accent he’d picked up from his mother, who hailed from Baton Rouge.

  “Why?” Carmela asked in a neutral tone.

  “Carmela,” Shamus replied with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I heard about Bartholomew Hayward’s murder last night.” He shook his head. “Poor Barty. Terrible thing. He went to Tulane, you know.”

  “Do tell,” said Carmela. Shamus had gone to Tulane and considered all Tulane alumni kindred spirits.

  “And for his murder to have taken place in the alley behind your shop,” continued Shamus, “well, that’s just way too close for comfort!”

  “Oh, that.” Carmela resumed her position on the chaise lounge, crossed her legs, stared pointedly at the television set. The minute Shamus had brought up Barty Hayward’s murder, she’d decided she wasn’t going to tell him about the little medallion she’d found in the alley. The one that carried the mysterious heelprint with the initials GC.

  Carmela had never encountered a designer with the initials GC, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t start looking. Who knew, maybe an Internet search would turn something up.

  Without waiting to be invited, Shamus plopped himself down next to Carmela, put a hand on her bare ankle. “You’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time, aren’t you?” he remarked. A Cheshire cat grin lit his
handsome face; his brown eyes sparkled.

  Carmela fought the urge to reach down for one of her loafers and whack Shamus upside of the head.

  “I’d say I was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time two years ago,” she replied. “On June twelfth.” June twelfth was their wedding date. She was always very careful to refer to June twelfth as their wedding date and not their anniversary. After all, anniversaries were what married people celebrated. Married people who lived together and honored those little ol’ vows of love, honor, and respect.

  “Say now, darlin’,” purred Shamus, “that’s not very sweet. I myself harbor extremely fond memories of that particular date.”

  Fond memories. Carmela stared at her loafers again, felt her fingers twitch. The man is a cad, an absolute cad.

  “So,” said Shamus. “Do the police have any suspects? Or, at the very least, a best guess?”

  Carmela picked up the TV remote control, turned the volume down a notch.

  “No,” she said. “Do you?”

  Her question was meant to be smart-ass and facetious, but Shamus immediately assumed a thoughtful expression.

  “Since you ask, I’d probably have to put my money on Jade Ella.”

  Carmela hesitated for a split second, then clicked the television completely off. Shamus suddenly had her clear and undivided attention.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  Shamus smiled a lazy smile. He knew Carmela was intrigued by what had occurred the night before even though she was scared to death by it, too.

  “Jade Ella Hayward was in the process of divorcing Barty,” said Shamus.

  Carmela nodded. “I know that. I know Jade Ella. She even stopped by the shop last night. Said she adored the idea of an all-night crop but was far too busy generating some buzz for the grand opening of Spa Diva.”

  Shamus nodded. “I heard she was involved in that. So how’d you two get so buddy-buddy?”