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Carmela reached down and gently touched the pulse point on the other side of Bartholomew Hayward's neck. There was nothing to indicate the man was still alive. No movement, no breath sounds, no pulse.

Tentatively, Billy Cobb crossed the twenty feet of alley that separated them.

“Is Mr. Hayward all right?” Billy asked again. His face looked pinched and pale in the dim light, his demeanor hushed.

Carmela straightened up, placed her hands firmly on Gabby's shoulders, walked the girl back a few paces. She was keenly aware that, in a city that boasted forty-one cemeteries, swarms of vampire groupies, and an ever-increasing murder rate, death rubbed familiar shoulders with everyone each and every day. Still . . . in the trickle of moonlight, Barty Hayward's blood glistening like India ink against the pavement was a shocking affront to the senses.

“No, Billy,” said Carmela slowly. “Mr. Hayward is definitely
not
all right.” Swiveling her head, Carmela saw concern turn to horror on the faces of her customers who were fanned out behind her.
This evening's over,
she thought.

As they all huddled wordlessly, waiting for the paramedics and police to arrive, Carmela's mind flashed on the image of the little sign that still hung in the front window of her store: CROP TILL YOU DROP.

Prophetic words, indeed.

S
ILVERWARE clinked gently against china, crystal champagne glasses sparkled under antique chandeliers, soft jazz mingled with gentle Southern drawls. At a side table, a chef in a white smock and towering white hat sizzled fresh creamery butter along with sugar, brandy, and egg yolks in a brass chafing dish, creating the perfect sauce to complement the restaurant's heavy-duty bread pudding.

Ava stared over her camellia blossom-garnished mimosa at Carmela. “So Tandy was pretty upset,” said Ava. It was an understatement and she knew it.

“Hysterical,” said Carmela. “In fact, Melinda Harper finally had to slip her a Valium.” Carmela paused, took a quick sip of her own drink, smiled at Ava. “Never underestimate the power of a tried-and-true drug. Especially one from the eighties.”

“Didn't the police explain to Tandy that the only reason they wanted Billy down at the station was to give a statement?” asked Ava. “I mean, it's not like they wanted to
arrest
the boy or anything.”

“Tandy's always been a little”—Carmela paused, searching for the right phrase—“high strung.”

“Unlike the two of us,” said Ava, unfurling her white linen napkin and settling it across her lap. “Modern women who are utterly unflappable and totally grounded.”

“Completely,” agreed Carmela, who had been known to go ballistic over a millipede in the bathroom or a speck of dust on her contact lens.

The two women were sitting in Bon Tiempe, a new restaurant located in the Bywater area that had recently received rave reviews for its Sunday brunch. Bon Tiempe, which translated literally as “good times,” was housed in what had once been a rambling old Victorian mansion. Now it was a rambling old Victorian restaurant. Its interior was painted a restful sage green; its wood-planked floors were strewn with faded Aubusson carpets. Overhead, mood lighting was delivered compliments of tinkling glass chandeliers, many salvaged from old plantations.

Bon Tiempe's furnishings were a charming mishmash of styles and eras. Comfortable parlor chairs sat next to Queen Anne chairs, with a couple upholstered Sheraton chairs scattered in for good measure. Sturdy wooden tables of pecan, oak, and pine were set with tall white tapers in silver candleholders and fresh flowers in cut-glass vases. Against the wall was an ornate marble-topped buffet, a curious piece of furniture with carved wooden shelves below and a curlicue wrought-iron backsplash. Today, the buffet was laden with straw baskets overflowing with breads, croissants, and other assorted pastries, as well as large platters of smoked fish and cheese.

With its creaking doors, sagging floors, and atmosphere of genteel decay, Bon Tiempe was definitely in keeping with the general aura that pervaded the whole of New Orleans.

“I'm sorry your all-night crop came to such a screeching halt,” said Ava. After the discovery of Bartholomew Hayward's body in the alley, nobody had felt much like scrapbooking.

Carmela shrugged. “Try, try, again.”

“You
will
do it again?”

“Oh sure,” said Carmela. “But probably not until spring. After Mardi Gras, when things have settled down.”

Ava took another sip of her mimosa and gave Carmela a searching look. “Who do you think did it?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Carmela shrugged, shook her head. She'd been asking herself that same question for the past fifteen hours. It was highly probable that the previous night's tragic events had been a random robbery, a casualty of life in the charming but rather dangerous French Quarter, where great architecture rubbed uneasy shoulders with bad behavior. On the other hand, Bartholomew Hayward could have been purposely singled out. Someone
could
have wanted the man out of the way for good.

“No idea,” Carmela told Ava. “But the whole event does inspire chills.”

“What do you . . .
did
you know . . . about Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Ava.

Carmela had to think about Ava's question. Bartholomew Hayward had always been rather standoffish and sour, barely exchanging more than a few sentences with her in the eighteen months since her scrapbook shop had moved in next to him. The displays in Barty Hayward's front window had always been tasty . . . mostly spectacular oil paintings, Tiffany lamps, and Chinese vases. But some of the larger pieces in his store, particularly the furniture, seemed . . . questionable. On the few occasions Carmela had stayed late to work on the books, redo her front window, or complete a scrapbook project, she'd noticed covered trucks rumbling up to Bartholomew Hayward's back door. Trucks that seemed to be filled with fairly new pieces of furniture. Carmela knew that in the antique business, it wasn't unusual for middlemen or dealers to take an old serving board or dressing table, break it up, and then use a smattering of the authentic parts to construct three or four
new
pieces.

But rather than relating all this to Ava, Carmela simply said, “Bartholomew Hayward always seemed like pretty much of a loner.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ava. “Which explains why he's in the throes of a nasty divorce.” Ava extended a hand and wiggled her fingers, beckoning Carmela to give her more. “But you must have
some
suspicions.”

Carmela shook her head. “Nothing specific. Although I don't think it was random like one of the police detectives theorized last night.”

“Cold-blooded murder then,” whispered Ava, obviously enjoying this immensely.

“Or some sort of confrontation gone bad,” surmised Carmela. “The assault itself on Barty might not have been premeditated.” She paused. “But it might have . . .
evolved
into murder?” She tried the idea out, decided it might hold water.

“With who as a suspect?” prompted Ava.

“Could be anyone,” replied Carmela. “A disgruntled customer, a vendor who got stiffed, an unhappy employee.”

“Employee? Good heavens, you're not thinking of Billy Cobb, are you?” exclaimed Ava.

“No, not Billy.” Carmela smiled. “He's a good kid. And apparently a very hard worker. Really, the murderer could be anyone.” Carmela picked up one of the menus the waiter had left for them and scanned the list of entrees. Everything sounded incredible. “We should think about ordering,” she told Ava.

Ava squinted at the freshly printed parchment paper where the entree choices were listed. “Escolar,” she read slowly. “Wasn't Escolar the name of a drug kingpin?”

“That's Escobar,” said Carmela, thinking.
Oh, oh. I forgot how picky Ava can be when it comes to food.
“Escolar is particularly tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

“Still is,” Carmela told her friend. “But it's a fish, too. Tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “I think I might need somethin' a tad more traditional,” she drawled. Ava was okay with familiar fare such as crawfish étouffée and blackened catfish, but she was having trouble with the notion of grilled escolar served over sweet red peppers and lavishly garnished with tarragon butter.

“What do they call this style of food again?” Ava asked.

“Local food critics, such as they are, credentialed or not, have dubbed it Cajun Fusion,” replied Carmela.

“Mmn,” murmured Ava, clearly not impressed. “Look at this,” she went on, scanning the menu. “Crab fritters on avocado with citrus dressing. Everybody knows you serve crab fritters with red beans and rice. Honey, this is more like Cajun
Con
fusion.”

“Bon Tiempe's supposed to be one of the hottest places in town,” said Carmela. “Of course, that doesn't mean it's the best,” she hastily explained. There was a greasy little hole-in-the-wall joint down the block from her that served the best oyster po'boys, bar none.

Ava laid her menu down and gazed around. Every table was filled, the bar was bustling, and a line had formed just inside the front door. “The joint
does
seem to be jumping,” she admitted. Languidly, she lifted her hair from off the back of her neck and let it fall in lush waves. “And the owner, the good-looking fellow who's standing over there talking to the woman with the peculiar red hair. What's his name? Craig? . . . Grigg?”

“Quigg,” said Carmela. “Quigg Brevard.”

“He's not only adorable,” said Ava in a stage whisper, “I hear he's the last of a dying breed . . . an eligible bachelor.”

“I hadn't really thought about it,” replied Carmela, who actually
had
thought about it, but didn't want to stare at the man and make an idiot of herself.

“Well,
he's
noticed us. In fact, oh . . . hang on to your pantyhose, sweetums . . . I think
Monsieur le restaurateur
is charting a direct course to our table!”

Carmela had met Quigg Brevard, Bon Tiempe's owner, at a dinner party some two months earlier. In fact, she'd found herself seated next to him. Quigg Brevard had proved to be charming, witty, and handsome.

So why don't I want anything to do with him?
wondered Carmela.
Shamus is history and life has to go on, right? Kind of like the Big Muddy, which, come hell or high water, just keeps rolling toward the Gulf. Maybe I'm scared to do something. I'm afraid to take a chance and put myself out there like a yutz. Yeah, that's probably it. That and the fact that I'm still carrying this darned torch.

Quigg Brevard had indeed made a beeline for their table.

“I heard you had some trouble at your store last night,” he said, flashing a wide, dimpled grin at Carmela. Obviously, he remembered her rather well.

“Not exactly at my store,” said Carmela. She suddenly felt slightly flushed and wondered if it was the mimosa cocktail she'd just tossed down or because Quigg Brevard's piercing brown eyes were focused so intently on her.

“Hi, I'm Ava Grieux,” said Ava, delicately offering a hand to Quigg. “And technically, the murder occurred
behind
Carmela's store. In the alley.”

“Charmed to meet you, Miss Grieux.” Quigg executed a gentlemanly half-bow. “And you're looking particularly lovely this morning also, Ms. Bertrand.”

Carmela smiled back at him, giving praise to the heavens that she'd taken time to apply eyeliner and had worn her almost-Chanel jacket.

“How did you hear about Barty Hayward?” Ava asked. “Was it on the news?”

Quigg tugged at the perfect cuffs of the perfect white shirt that peeked from his impeccably tailored navy jacket. “Are you kidding?” he asked, his expressive eyebrows shooting up. “Rumors have been spreading like wildfire. Half the people eating here are speculating about Barty Hayward's demise. And those are people who live all over the city . . . in the French Quarter, Faubourg Marigny, Garden District, and here in the Bywater. I tell you,
everybody's
heard about it by now. And everybody's got a theory.”

There was a sudden cataclysmic crash as the chef at the marble-topped sideboard drove a meat cleaver down, lopping off the head of a giant smoked sturgeon.

So shattering was the noise that Carmela and Ava both flinched.

“Hah!” exclaimed Quigg. “That fellow's probably in a
good
mood over the news.”

“The chef?” asked Carmela, with a slight frown, wondering why on earth the chef would be happy over news of Barty's death.

“That's Chef Ricardo Gaspar,” explained Quigg, lowering his voice. “Poor fellow's restaurant went belly-up last year when Bartholomew Hayward pulled the plug on financing.”

Carmela turned in her chair to study the chef, a swarthy, determined-looking man with dark eyes and sharp features.

“I heard about that,” said Ava. “A group of businessmen put money into a couple restaurants that didn't work out.”

“That's not exactly true,” said Quigg. “The backers, the consortium, really didn't give the restaurants much of a chance to find their niche or turn a profit. From all reports, Chef Ricardo was doing a fabulous job running Scaloppina. The place was steadily picking up steam and they'd garnered some very favorable reviews. But”—he gestured with his hands—“what can you do in six months? In my estimation, it takes a good two years to get a place up and running and really find your market.”

“Who else was backing Chef Ricardo's restaurant?” asked Carmela. “Besides Bartholomew Hayward?”