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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.

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

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.

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.

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Carmela stared at the squashed medallion.

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

That thought made her smile.

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

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

T
HEY 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.

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.

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?”

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.

“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.