Photo Finished (17 page)

“And when customers come back to actually
plan
their event, we pull out the straight-ahead event scrapbook,” said Quigg. “I love it.”

“Really?” asked Carmela. She'd been so busy formulating and putting across her ideas, she wasn't sure he'd actually heard her.

“So you'll put them together for us?” Quigg asked. “The scrapbooks, I mean?”

“Of course,” said Carmela, thinking,
Honey, you don't have to twist my arm.

“Outstanding,” said Quigg, smiling at her.

And as Carmela gazed at his handsome face, a tiny little point of pain ignited deep within her heart.
Shamus used to look at me like that,
she told herself.
Shamus used to take me out for romantic dinners that lasted for hours. Shamus would debate over the merits of a Bordeaux or a Burgundy, just to make me happy.

Carmela blinked, tried to yank herself back to the here and now.

Shamus isn't in my life anymore,
she told herself firmly.
Not because I don't want him, but because he doesn't seem to want me. Grow up, girl. Wake up and smell the gumbo. March yourself into a lawyer's office and file for that divorce so you can start living your life again. And start dating nice men like this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Quigg.

Carmela stiffened and sat up straight. Looking around hastily, her eyes fell on Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be creating something magical with trout, almonds, and white wine.

“I was thinking what a fabulous dinner we just had,” she lied.

Quigg looked pleased.

Carmela nodded toward Chef Ricardo. “I'll bet you wish you could clone him.”

Quigg nodded fervently. “The man's an absolute genius. A food alchemist.”

Carmela watched as Chef Ricardo slid a fillet knife into the body of the large, plump, butter-browned trout, flipped it open casually, and lifted out the spine. Carmela shivered, imagining that knife sliding into a person.

“Tough being a chef, though,” she said. “Working every night. Weekends, too.”

“He doesn't work every night. Sometimes we let him off for good behavior.”

“Was he working last Saturday night?” Carmela asked.

Quigg's brows knit together. “Why do you ask?”

Carmela shrugged. “No reason.”

Quigg rolled his eyes. “Chef Ricardo did
not
stab Bartholomew Hayward,” he told her emphatically. “You're being overly suspicious and probably watch far too many episodes of
Law and Order.
Reruns and syndication are
not
necessarily a good thing.”

“So he was here,” said Carmela.

“As a matter of fact, he was off last Saturday night.”

“Really,” said Carmela.

Quigg chuckled. “But he'll be doing double duty
this
Saturday night since we're also catering the bash over at the Art Institute.” He paused. “Does
that
make you happy?”

“The Monsters & Old Masters Ball?” asked Carmela.
Well, this is a coincidence.

“That's the one,” said Quigg. “Say, you gonna be there?” His dark eyes sparkled. He was obviously amused by Carmela's amateur sleuthing.

Carmela ducked her head. “Yes, I am.”

“Terrific,” enthused Quigg. “Save me a dance, will you? Or a monster hop or whatever the heck's going on there.”

“I don't know,” said Carmela playfully. “Are you coming in costume? It's Halloween, after all.”

“Are you kidding?” said Quigg. “I'll be the poor sap dressed in a tux. Just think of me as Lurch from
The Addams Family.
Say”—he turned suddenly serious—“how
was
that funeral this morning?”

“Funereal,” Carmela told him. “Except for Barty Hayward's wife, Jade Ella, who served as the one bizarre bright spot in the whole thing. She wore a red dress and did everything but dance on Barty's grave.” Carmela glanced over at Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be focused intently on their conversation even as he garnished his trout with a medley of asparagus and roasted red pepper.

“Jade Ella has always seemed like a very unusual woman,” said Quigg thoughtfully. “She's dined here several times and each time she's been accompanied by a different male escort. I get the distinct feeling
she's
the one who prefers calling the shots.”

“Jade Ella's a real pistol,” allowed Carmela.
And a viable suspect, too. Not unlike Chef Ricardo.

“So,” said Quigg, smiling at Carmela. “You're willing to put together those scrapbooks? You'll take a stab at it?”

“Interesting choice of words,” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard stood up and shook his head. “I'll get those photos for you, Carmela.”

C
LICK click click. Boo's toenails clicked daintily across the floor as Carmela led her into the store on her leash. Outside, rain poured down in sheets. Carmela didn't ordinarily bring Boo to her shop, but today Ava wasn't going to be around to let her out and it was far too blustery to leave Boo outside in the courtyard.

“Hey there, pups,” called Gabby as she grabbed a towel and knelt down to wipe Boo's wet paws. In typical Shar-Pei fashion, Boo immediately gave a good shake, then plopped herself down and scrunched her feet underneath her plump little body, trying to hide her paws.

“How come Boo came along today?” asked Gabby, still struggling to find a paw beneath all those ample wrinkles.

“Ava went to the retail buyers market today. And it didn't seem right to impose on Tyrell.”

Tyrell Burton was Ava's sometime assistant. A grad student at Tulane who was studiously earning his MA in history, Tyrell was an African American whose great-grandmother had emigrated from Haiti almost a hundred years ago. Because great-grandma had been known to dabble in voodoo, Tyrell felt himself uniquely qualified to work at Ava's store. His Haitian heritage, combined with a knack for being exceedingly glib, made Tyrell a favorite with tourists. And he never tired of spinning a few good yarns just for their benefit.

Carmela shrugged out of her raincoat and, in a motion not unlike Boo's, gave it a good shake. Droplets of water flew everywhere.

“Hey,” scolded Gabby, grabbing a roll of paper towels and kneeling down to wipe the floor. “I don't know which one of you is messier. You or Boo.”

“Oops, sorry,” said Carmela, bending down to help sop up water. It wouldn't do for unsuspecting customers to slip on the wet floor and take a nasty header.

“No problem,” said Gabby, who sometimes seemed happiest when she was cleaning up after someone.

Maybe Stuart is a secret slob,
thought Carmela.
Gabby always seems so pleased when there's a mess to clean up. Maybe Stuart, the Toyota King, leaves his underwear in a ball at night or slops toothpaste all over the sink.
Carmela chuckled to herself for a moment, until she remembered the awful truth.
Wait a minute, what am I thinking? All men do that stuff. Somewhere along the line, the sloppiness factor has been embedded in their genetic code.

“What are you chuckling about?” Gabby asked.

“Nothing,” Carmela told her, a little ashamed of her flight of fancy over Stuart's messiness. Carmela gazed toward the back of the store where Tandy and Byrle sat huddled at the big craft table. It didn't look like much scrapbooking was going on, but they were certainly deep in conversation.

“What's the story back there?” Carmela asked.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Tandy's pretty hysterical about Billy skipping town like he did. And she's waiting to talk to you. She says you're always such a calming influence.”

“Me?” Carmela snorted. “First time I've ever heard that. Usually I'm the one who gets accused of upsetting the proverbial apple cart.”

“Hey,” Gabby grinned, “accept the compliment.”

“I will,” said Carmela as she strode to the back of the store, Boo scurrying after her.

“Carmela,” said Tandy, her hypothyroidal eyes fixing on her. “We have to talk.”

Carmela slid into a chair across from Tandy and Byrle. Tandy reached across the table and grasped for Carmela's hands. “Things are
so
bad,” she whispered harshly, her lower lip beginning to quiver. “Donny and Lenore are just beside themselves with worry. And I didn't sleep a wink all night myself. I kept turning this whole thing over and over in my mind. Does Billy know something? Is Billy somehow involved?” Tandy's thin hands suddenly slipped out of Carmela's and she swiped at the tears streaming down her thin, pale cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “This is
very
embarrassing.”

Byrle patted Tandy's shoulder. “There, there,” she said, sympathy in her voice. “What's a few tears in front of friends?”

“We're pretty positive Billy has left the state,” said Tandy, snuffling harder. “He's got cousins over in Biloxi, so he could be headed that way.” Tandy fumbled in her purse, pulled out a large white hanky, and blew her nose loudly.

Carmela stared at Tandy. Her dear friend was obviously in a world of hurt and she so wanted to help.
But will telling Tandy that I spoke to Billy last night make things any better? I don't know. I really don't know.

“The thing of it is,” continued Tandy, “the police are really on Billy's case now. His little disappearing act has them
convinced
of his guilt.”

“Oh, honey,” said Byrle, “that's not necessarily true.”

“It
is
true,” said Tandy. “Now there's a warrant out for Billy's arrest!”

Carmela grimaced.
Tell Tandy? Not tell her?
She held her thumb to her lips, nibbled nervously at a fingernail.

“Tandy . . .,” began Carmela, “someone came . . .” She hesitated. “That is . . . I saw Billy last night.” This last part came out in a rush.
There,
thought Carmela.
I finally spit it out. For what it's worth.

Carmela's words had a profound effect on Tandy. Her eyes went wide as saucers, a tiny hand flew to her birdlike chest. “You
what
?” Tandy was truly shocked. Dumbfounded, in fact.

“Billy knocked on my back door last night,” explained Carmela.

Now Tandy put a hand to her mouth. “You actually
talked
to him? Really and truly?”

“Honey,” said Carmela, “I wouldn't characterize it as a heart-to-heart talk, but, yes, we spoke. Truth be known, it was a fairly one-sided conversation. I asked Billy a few probing questions, Billy shifted from one foot to the other, pretty much unwilling to answer any of them.”

“But he's
okay,
” said Tandy. Her eyes gleamed; a healthy color had suddenly returned to her face.

“Physically, Billy seemed fine,” said Carmela. “But something has definitely got him running scared. And I get the feeling it's
not
necessarily the police.”

“Oh my lord!” exclaimed Tandy. “I've got to call Donny and Lenore immediately.”

“No!” protested Carmela, knowing this could turn into a major problem for her.

Tandy stared at Carmela. “Why in heaven's name not?” she asked. “Billy's their only son, they're worried sick about him. And they want him to come home!”

“Listen,” said Carmela, “I got the distinct feeling Billy's not about to saunter into Donny and Lenore's house, hang up his baseball cap, and sit down to a nice dish of jambalaya. Billy's definitely on the run and I'm pretty sure he's going to
stay
on the run.”

“Dear God,” said Tandy in a small, tight voice. “You mean . . . Billy's
never
coming home?”

“Probably not until Bartholomew Hayward's murder is solved anyway,” said Carmela. “Until this whole thing gets sorted out.”

“But the police aren't
doing
anything,” wailed Tandy.

“They do seem incredibly myopic,” admitted Carmela. She was miffed that Lieutenant Babcock
still
hadn't gotten back to her about the list she'd given him.

“Then it's up to us,” declared Byrle in her typical gung ho style. But as she delivered her words, she stared pointedly at Carmela.

“Darned right, it's up to us,” said Tandy, struggling to get a rein on her emotions. She, too, was staring directly at Carmela.

Why do I get the feeling that ‘us' suddenly means me?
wondered Carmela.
When did I get appointed Sherlock Holmes?
But even as the words free-floated through her brain, she knew the answer.
Because Barty Hayward was killed in back of my store. Because he was probably staggering toward my back door for help.

“Listen,” said Carmela finally, “I'm not making any promises, but there are a couple things I
could
look into. Okay?”

Both women exhaled in unison as they leaned forward expectantly.

“Okay,” whispered Tandy.

“But you've got to keep quiet,” warned Carmela.

Byrle made a zipping motion across her mouth.

“Mum's the word,” promised Tandy.

“And you have to promise you won't breathe a word of this to Donny and Lenore,” said Carmela, directing a firm gaze at Tandy.

“I won't,” said Tandy.

“Because the last thing I want is a bunch of police swarming around here asking questions,” said Carmela.
Would they, really? Oh yeah, they would. And then I'd really be in a pickle. Aiding and abetting a felon and/or fugitive. Withholding evidence. Yipes.

Tandy's eyes shone brightly. “I knew we could count on you, Carmela.”