Photo Finished (10 page)

Carmela picked up a rubber stamp and, above the headline that read MENU, stamped an image of a woman that had been taken from a seventeenth-century painting.

“First the artsy image,” said Carmela. “Then we'll add a hint of mystery.” She picked up a second rubber stamp and stamped over the first image, giving the woman an elaborate mask.

“Cute,” said Baby.

“Now I'm going to faux finish these black photo corners using gold, red, and bronze-colored paint.”

“Wow,” said Gabby, suddenly getting interested. “Detail work.”

“Then,” continued Carmela, “I'll use the photo corners to mount the menu card onto a second and slightly larger card of marbleized
brown
card stock.”

So intently was Carmela working that she barely heard the bell jingle over the door. Until the noise finally penetrated her consciousness and she looked up to find Jade Ella Hayward staring at her.

“Jade Ella!” Carmela must have jumped a foot. Here was the wife of the deceased Bartholomew Hayward studying her with the faintest of smiles on her face. Dressed in a spiffy poison green suede jacket and black leather slacks, rings sparkling from almost every finger, and her dark hair swooshing about her kohl-rimmed eyes and bright red mouth, Jade Ella had obviously not given a passing thought to looking the part of the grieving widow. She was her usual glam self.

“Carmela,” said Jade Ella, in the clipped manner of speech she was famous for. “Have you seen Billy?”

A shocked silence followed her question. Baby and Gabby stared with open mouths.

Finally Carmela spoke up. “The police are talking to him.”

“They are?” said Jade Ella, blinking, favoring them with a polite yet distant smile.

“Carmela means they're
talking
to him,” said Baby, finally finding her voice. “About Barty's death.”

Only then did Jade Ella seem to react. “You mean to say Billy's a
suspect
? Billy Cobb? Barty's assistant?” She paused, obviously digesting this. “Hmm.”

Gabby, who was still surprised to find Jade Ella acting so chipper, finally stammered out, “I'm sorry for your loss, Jade Ella.”

Jade Ella whirled toward her, eyes blazing. “Don't be. Barty and I weren't particularly close. In fact, we weren't particularly on speaking terms.”

“Have you finalized funeral arrangements?” asked Baby, who was too well bred to be put off by Jade Ella's blasé attitude.

“At first I thought about having Barty cremated,” said Jade Ella. “That way I could have the thrill of tossing his worthless ashes into a Dumpster behind the Wal-Mart store. But a small contingent of Barty's friends thought he deserved a slightly more dignified send-off. So, in consideration of those folks, as well as the many loyal customers he's managed to screw over the years, I've opted for a more traditional funeral.” Jade Ella smiled broadly, enjoying her own theatrics. “The whole nine yards, in fact. Fancy-schmancy casket, ordained minister, final interment at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.” Jade Ella paused, her eyes flashing, silently daring anyone to make a comment. “Ain't that a kick?”

“It's very considerate of you,” said Baby. Her patrician eyebrows were cranked up more than a few notches.

“Not really,” said Jade Ella. “I myself, in keeping with my new Spa Diva image, will probably wear a red silk dress and dash off early for a fashionable luncheon at Galatoire's.” She struck a dramatic pose. “I shall most likely order the trout amandine and a nice glass of Pouilly-Fuissé.”

“You can't go wrong with Galatoire's trout amandine,” Baby agreed.

Carmela feigned a cough to stifle her giggle.
Count on Baby for the perfect retort.

“Listen, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “you used to do a lot of label designs, didn't you?”

Carmela nodded.

“Well, here's the thing,” said Jade Ella. “I'm seriously thinking of launching my own line of cosmetics, too. I'd start by retailing them at Spa Diva. If that venture goes well, and I have no reason to believe it won't, I'll set up a website and maybe even get placement in a few upscale stores.”

Carmela gaped at Jade Ella. Her idea
sounded
good, but rarely were new products launched with that much ease. And the money needed for private labeling and a marketing launch was enormous. Bordering on astronomical. Jade Ella didn't have that much money, did she? Or had Bartholomew Hayward carried a lot of insurance?

“Anyway,” said Jade Ella, “I immediately thought of you as the package designer. You have such an artistic flair!”

“Thank you,” said Carmela, doubting the project would ever come to pass.

“We'll put our heads together real soon,” said Jade Ella, who was already making tracks for the door. “Ta ta.” She waved a hand and a pair of large gold charm bracelets jangled noisily. “See you.”

“I'd say that woman suffers from Mrs. Bling Bling syndrome,” joked Baby after Jade Ella had gone. “Too much gold, too many gemstones. Worn all at once.”

Carmela had to agree with Baby. Jade Ella was pushy beyond belief and always decked out like a show horse. Still, she was a female entrepreneur who had just launched her own business. And even though the add-on cosmetics line seemed awfully pie-in-the-sky, it was no small feat, especially in a city like New Orleans, for a woman to succeed. Carmela did wish Jade Ella well, even if she was put off by her attitude.

“Well, you could've knocked me over with a feather when Jade Ella told us about the funeral,” announced Gabby. “How can a woman be so cool, so totally
arctic,
about her dead husband?”

“Give it a few years,” laughed Baby. “The sanctity of marriage ain't always so sanctified.” She paused, realizing what she'd said, then assumed a slightly embarrassed look. “Well,
some
marriages, anyway,” she backpedaled. Baby paused, gathering her thoughts. “Did you know that Jade Ella has been dating Clark Berthume?”

“Seems to me I've heard that name mentioned in connection with money,” said Gabby. “Is he one of those fellows with money?”

“Piles of it,” replied Baby. “Old money.”

“That's the best kind,” agreed Gabby.

“Don't you remember, honey,” continued Baby, “Clark Berthume runs that new photo gallery over on Toulouse Street? What's it called?”

“The Click! Gallery,” said Carmela. “Click with an exclamation point at the end.”

“The Click! Gallery,” repeated Gabby. “Sure.”

“I peeked in there a couple weeks ago,” said Carmela.

“They actually have some marvelous photos. Prints by Ansel Adams, Copanigro, and Minor White. Great stuff.”

Truth be known, Shamus had confided to Carmela a few weeks earlier that he'd been angling to get a small show of his own in the back gallery at Click! He'd told Carmela that scoring his own show would finally validate his work. Carmela had told Shamus that his photos were terrific, always had been terrific, and if he wanted
real
validation, he should go out and earn a paycheck. Shamus had pouted, telling Carmela he felt hurt and grievously injured by her harsh response. Carmela had replied something to the effect of “tough cookies.”

A sharp knock on the back door prompted an immediate look of anguish from Gabby. “I thought you said you were going to keep the back door locked,” she exclaimed.

“I am,” said Carmela. “And
please
don't fret over every bump and thump, because it's probably Ava. She still prefers to pop down the alley,” said Carmela, scurrying to let her in. “Even after what happened.”

“I've only got a moment,” said Ava as she burst into the shop, “but I just had to stop and say hi, see what everyone's up to.”

“Hi, Ava,” called Baby.

Gabby eyed Ava suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?” Ava was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans and a low-cut cashmere sweater with froufrou feathery trim.

“It's just my long-line bra,” Ava confided. “Holds all the fat and stuff in.”

Gabby peered at Ava's thin frame. “You sure don't look like you have all that much to hold in,” she said dubiously.

“Trust me, I do,” said Ava. “Hey, remember that great quote . . . a woman can never be too rich or too thin?”

“I believe those words have been attributed to the Duchess of Windsor,” offered Baby.

“Really?” said Ava. “Gosh, I thought it was Oprah. She's always so darned clever. Oh well.” Ava whirled toward Carmela. “Hey girl, we still on for tonight?”

“Anytime after six,” said Carmela as the phone started to ring. Ava was going to come over for dinner, then they were both going to work on projects.

“Carmela,” called Gabby. “Phone.”

“See y'all later,” called Ava, dashing out the front door this time.

“Hello,” said Carmela, taking the phone from Gabby.

“Carmela, you're going to kill me,” said a tentative voice on the other end of the line.

“Natalie?” asked Carmela. Natalie Chastain was the registrar at the New Orleans Art Institute. “Let me guess,” said Carmela. “You've got more changes.”

“Yes, I do,” came Natalie's anguished reply. “And for that I truly apologize. Problem is, the director
still
hasn't finalized his choices.”

“I hope you don't have menu changes,” said Carmela, alarmed.
Yikes. I just printed the darn things.

“No,” said Natalie. “That's the one thing that seems to be carved in stone, probably because the whole shebang is being catered. But it's the
only
thing, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to tell you, Carmela, that we've got more changes on the art and floral pairings.” She paused. “Big surprise, huh?” Natalie had called Carmela twice already with changes. And Carmela had long since decided that the smartest thing to do was to leave most of Friday afternoon open. She'd wait and knock out the twenty description cards then, when it would be too
late
for changes.

“Don't worry, Natalie,” said Carmela. “I'm set up to do typography at the last minute so you've got till maybe . . . Thursday.” Carmela glanced toward the back of her shop where her new color printer sat hunkered on the counter.
Thank goodness,
she thought.
I can push a button and print out any script, typeface, or hand-lettered font and it still looks like I slaved for hours.

“We're pulling our hair out over here,” continued Natalie, still sounding desperate. The publicity people . . . our curators . . .”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Carmela, just to be polite.

“One minute a piece is in, the next minute it's out,” said Natalie in a resigned tone. “We're in complete chaos.”

“How on earth are people going to get their floral arrangements done if they don't know which artwork they're supposed to be keying off?” asked Carmela.

“Good question,” said Natalie. “But you'd be amazed at how forgiving some of our art patrons are. They think Monroe Payne walks on water. Which, when it comes to the rarefied realm of fund-raising and capital campaigns, he probably does.” Monroe Payne was the New Orleans Art Institute's rather flamboyant director and a veritable pit bull when it came to wresting money from the town's movers and shakers.

Natalie hesitated. “Besides, not everyone actually creates their
own
floral arrangement.”

“The shocking truth finally revealed,” laughed Carmela.

“Well, don't tell anyone,” continued Natalie. “But I think more than a few of our patrons have enlisted Teddy Pendergast at Nature's Bounty to design floral arrangements for them.” Nature's Bounty was the premier floral shop in New Orleans. They could always be counted on for hip, thematic, almost Manhattanesque table arrangements. For one of Baby's summer dinner parties, Nature's Bounty had created a stunning centerpiece with calla lilies, cattails, and sea grasses sprouting from a giant clump of bright green moss. It had been a huge hit with her guests and subsequently copied by a few other Garden District hostesses.

“Just e-mail me the poop when you have it,” Carmela told Natalie. “And don't worry, there's still time.”

“Bless you,” said Natalie.

Hanging up the phone, Carmela glanced toward the front of the store just as the front door opened and a man walked in. Hesitantly. He was in his midthirties and rather nattily attired in a houndstooth blazer and gray slacks.

Carmela decided he had to be from the police. Nobody else in the neighborhood dressed that well. In fact, most of the art and antique dealers shuffled around in worn jackets, hoping the local pickpockets would assume they were poor.

“Can I help you?” Carmela asked, going up to greet her visitor.

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black leather case. Flipping it open, he showed his ID. But not in an intimidating manner, just a low-key professional way.

Carmela glanced at the ID. “Lieutenant Edgar Babcock. Right. We talked on the phone.”

“Actually we met the other night. Saturday night?” said Lieutenant Babcock. He flashed her a shy smile.

Carmela stared back at him. Tall, lanky, with ginger-colored hair, Lt. Edgar Babcock was not an unattractive man.

“You've come to pick up the list,” said Carmela.

Now why am I suddenly acting so stiff and formal?
Carmela wondered to herself.
Maybe because this guy is, as Ava would say, a bit of a hunk? Too bad Ava didn't stick around a little longer. She would've been intrigued by someone in law enforcement.