Photo Finished

by Laura Childs

  Carmela shrugged. The two of them weren’t particularly friendly. “She stopped by the shop a couple times,” replied Carmela. Jade Ella usually came into Memory Mine right after she paid a quick visit to Bartholomew Hayward’s shop. On more than one occasion, Carmela had heard their voices raised in bitter argument through the not-so-substantial wall that separated the two businesses.

  But, hey, everybody fights, Carmela told herself. Shamus and I fight. Fought. That’s certainly not grounds for murder, is it?

  She peered at Shamus.

  From love to hate in the blink of an eye. One day you’re head over heels in love, the next day your man is boogying out the door. Or cheating on you. Can emotions flip-flop that fast? Oh yeah. Sure they can. I guess they can.

  “You know that Jade Ella absolutely despised Barty,” said Shamus. “Thought he was a real horse’s patoot.”

  “She was right on that count,” said Carmela.

  “I also heard Jade Ella poured a fortune into Spa Diva and was frantic over the possibility of being screwed royally in the divorce.”

  There it is. The D-word, thought Carmela. Funny how neither one of us has ever verbalized that word before in the other’s presence.

  “Were Barty and Jade Ella’s divorce papers final?” Carmela asked, painfully aware she’d probably be filing her own divorce papers pretty soon. If she intended to get on with her life, that is.

  “Nope,” said Shamus, looking pleased. “Nothing was final. Nada.”

  “So now that Barty’s dead, Jade Ella inherits everything?” Shamus leisurely crossed one long leg over the other. “Looks that way.” He reached for a strand of Carmela’s hair, fingered it gently. “I love your hair that way. That tawny color really makes your skin glow.”

  “Thank you.” Ava had talked Carmela into letting her hair grow out a little. Now, instead of the chunked and skunked, short and choppy do Carmela had been sporting, her face was framed with softer, slightly more blond locks. Carmela thought her new look made her look more vulnerable. Ava said it made her look predatory.

  “So you’re saying Jade Ella had a motive for wanting to be rid of Barty Hayward,” said Carmela.

  Shamus shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t know.” He smiled lazily at her. “What did you do today?” he asked as Boo finally roused herself from her bed and came over to greet Shamus.

  “Went out to brunch with Ava,” said Carmela. “Ate too much.”

  “Ava Grieux, the infamous serial dater,” said Shamus, rubbing Boo’s tiny triangle-shaped ears. “Hey there, Boo Boo, you like that?” In response, Boo snuggled closer.

  “Ava’s not a serial dater,” said Carmela. “She’s just picky. And why shouldn’t she be? Given the choice of men in this neck of the woods.”

  Shamus glanced sideways at her. “Am I supposed to be insulted by that remark?”

  “Depends,” said Carmela, treading cautiously. “Depends on whether you’re back on the market or not.”

  “I did get a rather gracious invitation to participate in next month’s Most Eligible Bachelor Auction,” said Shamus. “The one to benefit the Tulane Music Society.”

  The Most Eligible Bachelor Auction was your basic beefcake venue: a dozen hunky, single men auctioned off for dinner dates to women who had too much time on their hands and too much money. Carmela thought the whole thing was pretty pathetic.

  “Did you take them up on it?” Carmela asked him.

  “ ’Course not, darlin’,” purred Shamus. “I’m married to you.”

  Carmela’s thumb sought out the On button and clicked the TV picture back on.

  “What else did you do today?” Shamus asked.

  Carmela stared past him. “Went grocery shopping. Took Boo for a walk.”

  Shamus waited, obviously expecting Carmela to ask about his day. She chose not to give him the satisfaction.

  Shamus’s brows suddenly met in a pucker. “You know, Carmela, this is no way to engineer any sort of reconciliation.”

  Her mouth flew open in surprise. Who said anything about a reconciliation? That sure came zooming out of left field. And what’s this ‘engineer’ business? That’s certainly not the correct usage of a verb. Especially when you team it with reconciliation.

  “You’re full of shit, Shamus,” said Carmela, turning up the full volume of the TV.

  “And you’re totally hostile,” said Shamus.

  They pointedly ignored each other for a few minutes. Boo, sensing discord in the ranks, skulked back to her bed. Finally, the anger between the two of them began to dissipate.

  “Okay,” Carmela said finally. “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” said Shamus.

  “But,” said Carmela, unwilling to let the subject simply drop, “we have major issues to deal with… and I think we need to face reality.”

  Darn, she thought, why do I suddenly sound like Dr. Phil? “You’re not going to threaten to give back the car, are you?” asked Shamus, sidestepping the larger issue. “Because I’m not going to take it back,” he insisted.

  Carmela made a face. Obviously Shamus was in no mood to talk about reconciliation or divorce. Then again, he never seemed to be.

  “It’s your car,” continued Shamus.

  Carmela stared at him, let a few beats go by. “Okaaay,” she relented, experiencing a slight sense of triumph at the look of genuine consternation on Shamus’s face. No way was she really going to give the car back. She might be colossally ticked at Shamus and ready to divorce him, but she wasn’t an idiot. No sir, that little 500 SL was a thing of sheer beauty. V8 engine, 302 horsepower.

  Plus, as Ava had helpfully pointed out, the Mercedes had proven to be an incredible man magnet. You could park that puppy anywhere and suddenly, like magic, men came crawling out of the woodwork to drool over it.

  “I have a marvelous idea,” said Shamus enthusiastically. “Why don’t you and I go away together? Spend some time alone?”

  Carmela lifted an eyebrow and stared at him. What was this happy crap? They could spend a few nights together, but not their lives?

  “We’ll drive up to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn, get a little hideaway,” rhapsodized Shamus. Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn was an elegant Greek Revival plantation up the Great River Road, just north of New Orleans. Tucked in among other old Victorian and “steamboat” Gothic plantations, it had been turned into an inn some twenty years ago and was famous among honeymooners as well as couples seeking to rekindle romance. The plantation was situated right next to Houmas House, where the Bette Davis movie Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte had been filmed.

  Carmela continued to gaze at Shamus, amazed any man could possess so much unmitigated gall. Shamus had up and left her, bid adios to his job at the bank, and headed off to concentrate on his photography, for goodness’ sake! Plus, he’d been spotted squiring various women around town. Carmela sighed heavily. Bad behavior wasn’t even the term for it. It was more like bad judgment. Then again, this was Louisiana. A state where married governors, senators, and various and sundry politicos routinely courted younger women. Without causing any collateral damage to their careers.

  Shamus was still on a roll. “How about this coming Friday?” He sidled closer to her.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Carmela told him.

  “Why not?” Shamus asked.

  Carmela folded her arms protectively across her chest. “Because, among other things, I have previous commitments.” She was, once again, close to losing her temper.

  “Like what?” Shamus challenged.

  “Besides being busy at the shop,” said Carmela, “this Saturday is Halloween.”

  “So?” said Shamus.

  “The Art Institute’s Monsters & Old Masters Ball is this Saturday evening,” said Carmela. Monsters & Old Masters was one of the New Orleans Art Institute’s big fund-raisers. As Baby had proclaimed, Monsters & Old Masters was rife with the three F’s: food, fun, and fund-raising. In this case, the Art Institute was hoping to finance new
art acquisitions.

  “Not a problem,” said Shamus. “I was going to attend myself. Better yet, we can go together.”

  “Sorry,” said Carmela. “But I’m sitting with Baby and Del. They already reserved a table for eight. Besides,” she added, “I’m likely to be busy. I’ve been tapped to create menu cards and twenty description tags for the art and floral displays that are going to be on view.”

  Shamus ducked his head and threw her an inquisitive look. With his tousled brown hair and slightly olive skin, he looked youthful and boyish. And, truth be told, quite adorable.

  Quit it, Carmela told herself. This marriage is over. Fini. Finito. Down the toilet.

  “Okay then,” said Shamus. “Grant me another simple favor. Come to dinner with me Tuesday night at Glory’s.”

  “At Glory’s?” Carmela’s voice rose in a sharp squawk. Glory Meechum was Shamus’s older sister and the self-proclaimed matriarch of the Meechum clan. Glory had also led the charge to force Carmela out of Shamus’s palatial home in the Garden District after he’d skipped out on her and fled to his family’s camp house. Suffice it to say, Glory was not high on Carmela’s top ten list of amusing dinner companions.

  “Come on, Carmela,” said Shamus. “It’d mean a whole lot to her. Hell, it’d mean a lot to me.”

  Carmela narrowed her eyes, wondering if the invitation to Lafitte’s Landing Plantation Inn had simply been a red herring.

  Maybe Shamus was confident I’d turn him down on that, and dinner at Glory’s was what he’d been angling for all along. Am I nuts to think this way? Yeah, probably. But Shamus makes me nuts.

  Shamus scrambled to his feet and flashed her a winning smile. Carmela recognized it immediately. It was his touchdown smile. The same confident, slightly arrogant smile he’d always worn when he played varsity football at Tulane. The smile that, even when his team got royally trounced, said I did my best, I sure as hell played to win.

  “Tell you what,” said Carmela. “I’ll be your date Tuesday night, but I’m going to need a small favor in return. Quid pro quo.”

  “Such as?” said Shamus.

  “I’ll go with you to Glory’s dinner party, but you have to pick up the two tables stashed behind my store and return them to Party Central.”

  Shamus considered this for a few seconds.

  “Deal?” pushed Carmela.

  “Deal,” said Shamus. “Glory’s going to be thrilled.”

  Carmela gave a disdainful snort. “Glory hates me.”

  “Carmela,” said Shamus in a hurt tone of voice, “Glory’s your sister-in-law. Of course she doesn’t hate you.”

  “Then how come she banished me from your house after you walked out on me?”

  Shamus threw his hands in the air. “That doesn’t mean Glory hates you, honey. It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?” demanded Carmela. She clambered to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, pretty sure now that she’d been blindsided on the dinner invitation.

  “It’s… it’s just the way some families are,” stammered Shamus.

  He leaned down, brushed his lips across the top of her head in a quick semi-kiss, and headed for the door. As the door flew open and chill air wafted in, Carmela was surprised to see a mixture of confusion and unhappiness on Shamus’s departing face.

  And deep within her heart, in the part where she tried to suppress her true feelings for him, Carmela felt a painful stab.

  Chapter 5

  GABBY, I’m so sorry about Saturday night,” Carmela apologized for about the twentieth time. “I should never have let you go out back by yourself.”

  “Carmela, it’s okay, really,” said Gabby. “I’ll get over it. I am over it.”

  It was Monday morning. Gabby had shown up on time at nine o’clock, looking slightly subdued, but certainly no less enthusiastic about her job as Carmela’s assistant.

  “I was afraid Stuart wouldn’t let you come back to work,” said Carmela. Gabby’s husband of barely two years was a combination worrywart and hard-ass. Stuart was also, as Tandy whispered when Gabby was absent from the shop, a male chauvinist pig. Only Tandy never actually said the word, she just spelled it out: p-i-g.

  “My coming back to work here was an issue,” Gabby admitted. “But I promised Stuart I’d never venture into the back alley again, even during daytime hours.” Gabby grimaced. “Stuart’s not particularly happy making that concession, but I wasn’t about to give up a job I love.” Gabby adjusted her black velvet headband and nervously picked at a mythical speck of lint on her camel-colored sweater. “Besides, it’s not as though murder was a rare occurrence around here.”

  Gabby was right. New Orleans was infamous for its nasty murder rate, and the French Quarter had always been a hotbed of trouble. Hot music, hot women, hot tempers.

  Gabby smiled broadly. For her the issue was closed. “Okay to put the OPEN sign on the front door?” she asked Carmela as the phone on the front counter shrilled.

  “Please,” said Carmela.

  Gabby flipped over the sign, then swiped at the telephone. “Hello.” She listened for a few seconds, then held it out to Carmela. “It’s Tandy and she’s super upset!”

  “Tandy,” said Carmela, taking the phone.

  “The police kept him until five in the morning and now they’ve called him in again,” said the tearful voice on the other end of the phone.

  “You mean Billy?” Carmela gasped. Of course Billy. Who else?

  “It’s downright crazy,” shrilled Tandy. “Insane. Billy had absolutely nothing to do with Bartholomew Hayward’s death! You know that and so do I!”

  “Of course he didn’t,” said Carmela. “The police are probably just trying to put together a possible timeline or something. Or they’re quizzing Billy about acquaintances of Barty’s, fishing around for possible suspects.”

  “No, they’re not,” blubbered Tandy. “They keep asking Billy about the latex gloves.”

  “What about latex gloves?” asked Carmela.

  “The police found a box of them in Barty’s workroom.” Tandy paused and there was a loud honk as she blew her nose. “Carmela, this is awful!” she cried. “The police think that, just because they couldn’t find any fingerprints, Billy might be involved!”

  Billy Cobb involved? No way. Billy was a good kid. Bright, polite, upstanding. Right?

  “Has Billy got an attorney?” asked Carmela. She knew that even if you were totally innocent, it was always smart to be represented by a crackerjack attorney. A lot of people learn that one the hard way.

  “I already called Baby,” sniffled Tandy. “And Del ’s agreed to represent Billy.” Baby’s husband, Del Fontaine, was a high-powered attorney and senior partner with the law firm Jackson, Fontaine & DeWitt.

  “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.