"Photo Finished" - читать интересную книгу автора (Childs Laura)

Chapter 1

THE last thing Carmela Bertrand wanted was a cocoa-almond body scrub that would leave her smelling like a Zagnut bar. But that was what Jade Ella Hayward was trying to push on her. Tonight of all nights. When Carmela had twenty scrapbook fanatics crammed into her tiny little shop in the French Quarter, primed and pumped and ready for an all-night crop.

“No, thanks, Jade Ella, really,” protested Carmela. As it did for so many women who lived in New Orleans, the high humidity seemed to keep Carmela’s skin hydrated and free of tiny lines. Or maybe it was just her youth or the sparkling blend of DNA her parents had gifted her with.

“Look,” said Jade Ella, batting dramatic, kohl-rimmed eyes, “you helped me out by taking those great photos. See…” She shoved a newly printed flyer at Carmela. “I even used one on the cover of my new brochure.”

“That was nothing,” protested Carmela. “A happy accident.”

Jade Ella held up a finger adorned by a sparkling citrine that was roughly the size of a Buick. “And Spa Diva’s just opened, so now’s the time to come and enjoy a little complimentary pampering. Before the crowds hit. Before we become a huge success.”

Spa Diva was the newest, ritziest day spa in New Orleans and Jade Ella Hayward its major investor. A pantheon to women’s desire for the latest in beauty, hair treatments, and pampering, Spa Diva was located in a rehabbed shotgun house on the upper stretch of Magazine Street, where dozens of decorators’ studios and art galleries were clustered.

Carmela’s blue eyes crinkled politely as she quickly ran a hand through her mane of tawny blond hair. She had nothing against spas; she’d just never had much use for them. Hadn’t had time for them since she’d opened Memory Mine, her little scrapbooking shop, over a year earlier.

But the very insistent Jade Ella was the estranged wife of Bartholomew Hayward, the proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, which sat right next door to Carmela’s shop. Bartholomew Hayward did a land-office business selling eighteenth-century oil paintings and antique furniture. And he had always struck Carmela as the sort of fellow it might be best to tread lightly around.

So Carmela accepted the complimentary spa certificates and thanked Jade Ella profusely. It was the best way she could think of to get Jade Ella on her way and herself back to the gaggle of customers who were clamoring for attention.

“Why don’t you and your friend, Ava, come in next Saturday,” shrilled Jade Ella as she zipped her marabou-trimmed ivory satin jacket and slung her jewel-encrusted Fendi bag over her shoulder. Waggling her fingers at Carmela, Jade Ella disappeared out the door and into the Saturday night throng. “Tootles,” she sang over her shoulder.

Gazing out her front window at her own slice of the French Quarter, Carmela experienced the slight contact high that always seemed to reverberate in the two-hundred-year-old neighborhood also known as the Vieux Carré.

She knew that right now, over on Bourbon Street, raucous music clubs and strip bars were huckstering in visitors like mad, even as house bands banged out funky, eardrumbusting tunes.

A few blocks over, on Royal Street, the atmosphere would be slightly more rarefied. Antique shop windows gleaming with captivating treasures: oil paintings, antique silver, and elegant estate jewelry from a more genteel era. Flickering candlelight would beckon seductively from behind the paint-peeling shutters of old world restaurants, and the clink of crystal and pop of the wine cork, along with the tantalizing aroma of Creole and Cajun cuisine, would lure hungry visitors like moths to the flame.

And here, on Governor Nicholls Street, the hand-lettered sign hanging in her front window boldly proclaimed CROP TILL YOU DROP! TONIGHT!

Carmela grinned widely as she suddenly caught sight of a small woman with a cap of tight red curls barreling down the street. Then, a moment later, Tandy Bliss, laden with bulging scrapbook bags, shouldered open the painted blue door and tumbled in.

“Tandy!” exclaimed Carmela, rushing to embrace her dear friend and newest guest. “We weren’t expecting you for another four days and now here you are!”

“Honey, my sanity was severely in question,” declared Tandy wearily, adjusting scrapbooking bags on her small frame like a wrangler adjusting a pack horse. “ Darwin wasn’t one bit happy with me, but I had to bail.” Darwin, Tandy’s husband of twenty-five years, had “volunteered” Tandy to stay with his sister, Elvira Bliss Wilkerson, up in Ponchatoula. Tandy was supposed to help with the kids while Elvira was in the hospital.

“How did Elvira’s surgery go?” asked Carmela as they pushed their way past the two large folding tables she’d wedged into her shop to handle customer overflow, and headed for the big craft table at the back of the store.

Tandy stopped dead in her tracks and planted bony hands on slim hips. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice rising to a decibel level that could only be called shrill. “Elvira wasn’t even in the hospital! She gave us this big song and dance about needing my help because she had to undergo major surgery. And then all they did was scrape her feet!”

The dozen or so women who were packed in at the two temporary craft tables collectively stopped what they were doing and stared at Tandy. Looking askance as well, Carmela ran a hand through the tawny mass of shoulder-length hair that framed her face.

“She had her feet scraped?” said Carmela. She paused. “What exactly is that, anyway?”

Waving a hand disdainfully, Tandy continued her journey toward the back of the crowded shop. “Search me,” she said. “Something to do with bunions and calluses. Or maybe it’s blisters and hammer toes. Anyway,” Tandy proclaimed, “I’m here to tell you that Elvira and that insurance agent husband of hers spawned four totally hideous children. Bona fide hellions, every one of them.”

Tandy slung her scrapbook bags down on the big wooden table at the back of the store and grinned widely at the women sitting there. “Hey there, chickens, I’m ba-ack,” she announced in a singsong voice.

Baby Fontaine and Byrle Coopersmith, two of Carmela’s regulars, murmured warm hellos. They were used to Tandy’s antics and crazy greetings. Since they were all scrapbook fanatics of the first magnitude, they saw each other almost every day. But Gabby Mercer-Morris, Carmela’s young assistant, immediately jumped up to give Tandy a big hug.

Tandy reciprocated the hug and delivered a quick peck on the cheek to Gabby. Then she turned her attention back to Carmela. “But enough about my trials and tribulations,” said Tandy. “Look at the gang you pulled in tonight, Miss Smart Business Lady. What have you got here? Almost twenty people?”

Carmela nodded and gave an appreciative gaze about her scrapbooking shop. Truth was, she was utterly thrilled at the turnout for her first all-night scrapbook crop. Besides her regulars like Tandy, Baby, and Byrle, another sixteen women had shown up. Hunkering down at the tables and ponying up twenty dollars each for unlimited use of Carmela’s ample stock of stencils, punches, sheets of peel-off lettering, colored pens, and fancy-edged scissors.

As a lucky strike extra, Carmela and Gabby were also planning to serve steaming mugs of homemade shrimp chowder, as well as all the pecan popovers and honey butter a hungry scrapbooker cared to snarf.

After getting Tandy settled in, Carmela threaded her way back through the tables, giving a suggestion here, passing out pens and scissors there. She couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride at how well her little scrapbooking shop was doing. She’d logged long hours and suffered sleepless nights to pull off her business venture. And now that she had eighteen months of real-time business ownership under her belt, she was feeling a lot more confident, a lot more hopeful that she’d be able to continue eking out a small but respectable profit.

But being an independent woman had recently taken on a new meaning for Carmela. Because besides being financially independent, she’d been forced to reclaim her independence as a single woman, too, when Shamus Allan Meechum, her husband of barely one year, had walked out on her. Had literally slipped out the back door of their Garden District home one afternoon and boogied his way into seclusion at the Meechum family’s camp house in the Barataria Bayou.

Had Carmela been shocked by this turn of events? Truth be told, she’d been rocked to the core.

Had she subsequently been filled with doubt, self-recrimination, and guilt over her part in the breakup? Hell no.

Carmela’s estranged husband had always been a strange duck. The youngest one in the Meechum clan, the same Meechums who’d owned and operated the high-profile Crescent City Bank for the past hundred and twenty years, Shamus had been born with a silver shoehorn in his Gucci loafers. He’d been a trust fund kid who’d coasted blissfully through most of the major chapters of his life. Shamus had attended the right school (Tulane), played the right sport (varsity football), lived in the right part of town (the Garden District), and celebrated life’s holidays, holy days, and personal triumphs at the right restaurants (Antoine’s or Galatoire’s-jackets and reservations always required).

Carmela had been the one wild card aspect in Shamus’s life. Unlike Shamus, she was not descended from old French and English families, but instead laid claim to being half Cajun and half Norwegian. Or Cawegian, as her dad had always joked. Plus Carmela had been born and bred in the more blue collar city of Chalmette.

But their courtship, seemingly unhampered by social conventions, had been passionate, romantic, and swift. They were both people who spoke their minds freely, were fiercely independent yet ruled by deep-seated emotion, and were, in general, prone to acting impetuously.

Only, to Carmela’s way of thinking, Shamus had been a little too impetuous.

Because, unlike most members of the Meechum clan, Shamus hadn’t fallen in love with the variances and vicissitudes of the banking business. Shamus was moody, some would say a dreamer. Shamus had an artistic bent, as did Carmela. In fact, Carmela had always figured the “art factor” was what had attracted them to each other.

Still, Shamus had gone into the banking business per his family’s wishes, diligently learning the ins and outs of mortgage banking, calmly dealing with slightly nefarious real estate developers, carefully parsoning out loans, and, along the way, building a solid reputation and nice little fiefdom for himself.

Then all hell had broken loose. First, Shamus left banking. Two days later, he left Carmela.

Carmela suddenly blinked back tears at the searing memory of Shamus’s unexpected departure.

Good heavens, don’t let the waterworks turn on now, Carmela told herself as she quickly bent down at the nearest table, where Dove Duval and Mignon Wright were busy with a craft project that involved Chinese paper fans. After all, the man’s been gone for over a year.

“These look fantastic,” Carmela told the two women. Dove and Mignon had rubber-stamped various Chinese characters onto heavy white card stock, tinted those images with bronze and gold paint, then cut them out and adhered them to bright red Chinese fans. As a finishing touch, they were adding more stamped images and attaching old Chinese coins and red tassels to the fans’ black lacquer handles.

“The fans are announcements for a party I’m throwing in a few weeks,” Mignon told Carmela. “Aren’t they fun?” She smiled up at Carmela, eager for approval.

“Your invitations are absolutely delightful,” Carmela told Mignon and Dove. “But the two of you are almost finished. What are you planning to work on the rest of the night? I hope you brought along lots of photos so you can work on a few scrapbook pages.”

“Oh, we have to leave early,” explained Dove, who was already making motions to pack up her craft bag.

“But we’ll be back next week,” Mignon assured Carmela. “I’m thinking of decorating some little tins to match. You know, to hold party favors?”

Carmela was always amazed at how the whole scrapbooking thing spilled over so wonderfully into dozens of other projects. Scrapbooking itself was fantastic, of course, what with all the album choices and gorgeous papers that were available. But enhancing your page layouts with stickers, rubber stamps, tags, tiny charms, and ribbons inevitably led to so many more craft projects. Carmela noted that tonight about half the ladies were working on scrapbooks per se, while the other half were creating cards, invitations, tags, and stamp collages. One woman had a tea party planned for the upcoming holidays, so she was crafting darling little invitations that also featured a small side pocket. When her invitations were finished, she’d be able to tuck a small tea bag inside as well.

Darling, really darling, thought Carmela. I should do some of those pocket-style invitations for my Christmas window display. Didn’t I just see some boxes of spiced holiday tea down the street at the Ashley Place Gift Shop? Sure I did. Those would work perfectly.

Carmela squeezed past the two folding tables back to where her regulars were holding court and sat down.

“Look at this, Carmela,” said Gabby. “Tandy brought jars of strawberry jam for us.” Gabby was her usual prim-looking self tonight, attired in a silk blouse and wool slacks, her fine brown hair held back in its inevitable pageboy by a black velvet ribbon.

Tandy continued to unearth jars of strawberry jam from her seemingly bottomless bag and slam them down on the big wooden table that normally served as the epicenter for Carmela’s “craft central.”

Gabby picked up one of the jars and studied the viscous red contents. “This looks absolutely delicious.”

Tandy nodded her head of tight curls and squinted at Gabby. “It should be, honey. Ponchatoula lays claim to being the strawberry capital.”

“Of the state?” asked Gabby, who was the only one sitting at the table who was, as they say, “from not here.” In other words, not a native of Louisiana.

“Of the universe,” cackled Tandy. “Every place I went people plied me with strawberry goodies. I came home with strawberry jam, strawberry sauce, strawberry preserves… why, one of Elvira’s cousins even presented me with a bottle of homemade strawberry vodka. The darn stuff is candy apple pink!”

“I bet that strawberry vodka would make one heck of a Cosmopolitan,” offered Baby. Baby Fontaine was fifty-something, very pixieish. And, with her immaculately coifed blond hair and bright blue eyes, she was still a stunner. Carmela thought Baby still possessed the vivaciousness of the sorority girl she’d been when she’d gotten her nickname. And, of course, her nickname still suited her perfectly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” murmured Gabby. “Martini drinkers are awfully particular.”

“You talking about your husband, honey?” asked Baby. Gabby was married to Stuart Mercer-Morris. The Mercer-Morris family that owned beaucoup plantations and car dealerships.

Gabby nodded. “Stuart’s a martini purist. His idea of the perfect dry martini is a big splash of gin and then a contemplative moment where he only imagines a shot of vermouth.”

“No olive?” asked Tandy.

Gabby shook her head.

“You say the vodka’s pink?” asked Carmela with a crooked grin. “Maybe you could create a vodka drink that’s an homage to the end of the Cold War.” She waited a beat, then dropped her punch line. “Call it Pinko.”

“Love it!” giggled Baby.

“Gosh, Carmela,” exclaimed Gabby, “you really should be in marketing.”

“I was in marketing,” Carmela reminded her. “Two years of designing labels for Turtle Chili, Catahoula Catsup, and Big Easy Étouffée.” Carmela had been, in fact, low man on the totem pole when she’d worked for the in-house design group at Bayou Bob’s Foods.

“We’re delighted you chose to open your scrapbook shop instead,” said Baby, reaching across the table to squeeze Carmela’s hand. “We love coming here.”

A door scraped open at the very back of the shop.

“Judging from all that raucous laughter, I guess everyone has thoroughly embraced the idea of an all-night crop,” called a familiar voice.

Carmela’s head whirled around. “Ava?”

“Who else?” said Ava. The back door closed behind her with a whoosh and she sauntered in, leading a small fawn-colored dog on a leash. A very wrinkled dog.

“Hey there, Boo,” exclaimed Gabby, easing off her chair and kneeling down to pet Carmela’s little dog. Boo, every inch a lady, held out her delicate Shar-Pei paw in greeting.

Ava shrugged out of her fringed leather jacket and tossed back her wild mane of auburn hair. “We just had a nice walk-walk, then we did our doo-doo in the alley,” said Ava. “Now we’re here to say hewwo to Momma.”

Gabby took Boo’s paw in her hand and waved it at Carmela. “Hewwo, Momma,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

“Good lord,” declared Tandy. “Why is it people always feel compelled to talk baby talk to dogs?” Although Tandy was crazy over kids, especially her grandchildren, no one would ever call her a pet fancier.

“Because dogs are just like children,” offered Baby, who had reared and loved dozens of blue-eyed Catahoula hounds of her own. “Dogs are gentle, innocent, trusting creatures.”

“Hell-o,” said Tandy. “You honestly think children are innocent, trusting creatures? You’d change your tune fast enough if you were stuck with my sister-in-law’s tribe. Those kids make the bushmen of Borneo look like a bunch of Methodist ministers.” She paused, gazing around the table at the bemused group. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” she told them. “I’m Methodist.”

“Anyway,” said Ava, “I assume it’s okay for Boo to stay?”

There were affirmative murmurs from everyone as Gabby unfurled a blanket for Boo to cozy up on.

“Just don’t let her nibble any glue sticks,” advised Carmela. “She has a very touchy tummy.”

“Tell me about it,” said Ava, unsnapping Boo’s leather leash. “One time Boo gnawed apart a sisal rug in my store and then oopsied all over the floor. Afterwards, we had to pull strands of sisal out of her mouth like we were reeling in fishing line. Lucky it didn’t get kinked around her-”

Carmela stood up so fast her chair almost tipped over. “Ava, do you think you could help Gabby serve the popovers? She’s been keeping everything warm in the back office.”

“Oh, sure thing,” said Ava, checking her watch. “Gosh, it’s after nine. I guess you guys are pretty hungry by now.”

Ava Grieux, formerly Mary Ann Sommersby of Mobile, Alabama, was the proprietor of the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop over on Esplanade Avenue. Carmela had met Ava after she was tossed out of Shamus’s Garden District home by Glory Meechum, Shamus’s older sister. Ava lived in an apartment above her voodoo shop and managed the two little apartments on the bougainvillea-filled courtyard behind her shop where Carmela had finally ended up renting a place.

“Whatcha serving, honey?” asked Tandy as she pulled a scissors from her bag and proceeded to cut a deckled edge on a sheet of mulberry paper. She was going to use it as a backdrop for a grouping of photos.

“Shrimp chowder and pecan popovers,” said Carmela. “The chowder recipe is one of my momma’s favorites and the popover recipe is Baby’s.”

Baby nodded and adjusted the Hermès silk scarf that sat coiled like a perfect smoke ring around her neck and shoulders. “Actually, my Aunt Cecily’s,” she amended. “She grew up on a pecan plantation in Bossier Parish, don’t you know?”

Carmela turned toward one of the flat files to pull out a sheet of vellum paper to also try with Tandy’s scrapbook layout when a second sharp rap sounded at the back door.

Baby arched her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “Another late arrival?”

Carmela frowned. “We weren’t expecting anyone else.” The cobblestone alley out back was awfully dark and dreary. And, besides the utterly fearless Ava, nobody in their right mind ever came in that way.

Indeed, the alley behind Memory Mine and the neighboring Menagerie Antiques was so dark and narrow it was used only for deliveries to the various neighboring businesses.

Carmela hurried to the back door, flipped the latch, and pulled the door open.

“Carmela,” said a deadpan voice.

Bartholomew Hayward, proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, stood gazing at her with a look of sublime dissatisfaction on his normally unhappy face.

“Barty,” Carmela said. “Come in. You just missed Jade Ella. She stopped by a few minutes ago.”

Bartholomew followed Carmela a few steps inside, pointedly ignoring her reference to his soon-to-be ex-wife. “You’re certainly open late,” he said in a tone that was almost accusing.

“We’re having an all-night crop,” Carmela explained. She waved a hand to indicate the three tables of women who were engrossed in their various scrapbooking and craft projects. She noted that Dove Duval and Mignon Wright, who’d been seated at the first table, had finished packing their craft bags and were now headed out the front door.

Bartholomew Hayward continued to stand in Carmela’s back hallway like an imperious ballet master surveying his ballet corps. “You’re going to have to move your car,” he announced in a petulant tone.

Gabby poked her head out of the temporary kitchen that was really Carmela’s office. “Billy said it was okay to leave Carmela’s car there.”

Carmela flashed an inquisitive glance at Gabby.

“I took him a popover and some honey butter maybe an hour ago,” Gabby explained.

“Well, it isn’t all right,” said Bartholomew. “In fact, Billy had no right to grant you permission. I’m expecting a delivery later on and I’m sure you’re well aware that parking is absolutely horrendous around here. Besides which, those two parking spots out back are specifically leased to me.”

“I’ll move my car,” Carmela assured him. She sure didn’t need Bartholomew Hayward creating a stinky scene when the evening seemed so alive with creativity and wonderful karma.

“Excellent,” said Bartholomew. He still wore a dubious expression on his face, which indicated it wasn’t really excellent at all. In fact, he looked as though he didn’t quite believe Carmela. Or had expected her to put up more of a fuss.

Ava strolled out of the back office carrying a silver tray piled high with giant pecan popovers. “Hey, Barty, grab yourself a popover,” she said, tipping the tray toward him.

“No, thank you,” he said in his clipped tone. Then he spun on his heels and was out the back door in a flash.

“Bring those right over here, Ava, I’d love one,” said Tandy after the door had swung shut behind Bartholomew. “That man is such a sourpuss,” she declared. “I wish Billy wasn’t working for him, but the boy is just nuts over antiques.” Billy Cobb was Tandy’s nephew. He’d been working as an assistant to Bartholomew for the past six months or so.

“Billy plans to open his own antique shop someday,” added Tandy, obviously proud of her nephew.

“I bet he will,” said Baby, ever the cheerleader.

“Do you know Billy goes cruising up the River Road in that old truck of his, going to tag sales and yard sales?” said Tandy. “When he finds something nice, like an old wooden ice chest or a picture frame, he brings it home and refinishes it. Does a remarkable job, too. Then he takes his restored treasures over to the Sunday flea market at the fairgrounds in Livingston Parish. Lenore says he’s already cleared something like two thousand dollars.”

“Billy has a very enterprising spirit,” said Gabby. “Plus I think some of Bartholomew Hayward’s customers find him far nicer to deal with than Barty himself.”

“Lord sakes, don’t ever say that in front of Barty,” warned Tandy. “He’d fire Billy for sure if he thought his customers were tight with him.” She shook her head in a gesture of exasperation. “If you only knew what that poor boy puts up with…”

Carmela nodded. She had a pretty good idea of how tough it might be to work for Barty Hayward. The man was a legend in his own mind. Arrogant, overbearing, and not particularly friendly. Plus his prices were awfully high and the authenticity of his furniture often seemed questionable.

“Billy’s a good kid,” said Carmela as she slid a sheet of pink vellum in front of Tandy. “I’m sure he’ll do fine.”

“I hope so,” said Tandy as she moved one of her family photographs around, looking for the best placement on the page.

“How about using this vellum to ghost over that group shot of your grandkids?” asked Carmela.

Tandy beamed. “Perfect,” she declared. “Give it a nice soft-focus quality.”

Gabby emerged from Carmela’s office, balancing another heavy tray laden with mugs filled with steaming shrimp chowder. “Now be careful everyone,” she warned. “Push your scrapbooks and such aside. We don’t want any accidental spills ruining all your hard work.” There was a two-minute flurry while everyone slipped photos, papers, and projects into plastic protective envelopes. Then, as Gabby began to pass around mugs of chowder, the aroma of shrimp, onions, and cayenne pepper permeated the air.

“Is this strictly formal or are we allowed to dunk?” asked Baby as she tore off a hunk of popover and tentatively dipped it into her chowder.

“Please do,” insisted Carmela. “And you’ll have to adhere to our strict rationing policy tonight. Due to our overzealous kitchen crew, you’re expected to snarf down a minimum of three popovers per person!”

“Yum,” said Tandy, who weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Carmela,” said Gabby, returning from her rounds with an empty tray. “Your car?”

“Holy smokes,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet. “I almost forgot.” She dug in her jeans for the keys. “Barty’s probably going to have a hissy fit if I don’t get moving.”

Gabby set down the tray and put out a hand. “Here, give me the keys. I’ll go move your car.”

“You sure?” asked Carmela. She’d parked out back a few hours earlier to make it easier to ferry in boxes of rubber stamps, colored ink pads, and a lacquer tray filled with fun earrings and pendants. She’d created the pendants by pressing rubber stamps into clay. Because they were somewhat sizable, the pendants hadn’t been completely dry, and it had been just her luck to bobble the tray in the dark. Almost as though she’d had a premonition that Barty Hayward was skulking around somewhere, trying to prohibit any possible infringement on his parking spaces.

“You should stay here at the store,” said Gabby. “After all, it’s your show.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much luck finding another parking space close by,” Carmela told Gabby. Indeed, parking in the French Quarter was nearly impossible. Police cars continually prowled the narrow streets and any cars parked in unauthorized zones were immediately towed. “You’ll probably have to drive way over to Esplanade.” Esplanade was where Carmela lived. Where her overpriced monthly parking spot was located.

“No problem.” Gabby grinned. “Besides, I always wanted to get behind the wheel of your Mercedes and take it for a spin.”

“Then knock yourself out,” she said, passing the keys to Gabby and suddenly recalling the circumstances that had precipitated her getting the sharp little 500 SL. An issue involving Shamus had come to a head the previous March. On Mardi Gras day, in fact. And her beloved vintage Cadillac, the one she’d nicknamed Samantha, had been completely totaled in a nasty accident.

Overcome with a sense of love, shame, drama, indebtedness, whatever, Shamus had decided to present her with a brand-new Mercedes sports car. It was a hot and truly gorgeous car, and Carmela had been consumed with countless hours of guilt once she’d finally accepted it.

But I also love that car, Carmela reminded herself. And back then, Shamus was making positive signs toward reconciliation. Funny how all that seems to have totally evaporated. So what should I do now about what appears to be a somewhat murky future? File for divorce and move on? Yeah, maybe. Keep the car? Oh sure.

“That’s a cute sweater,” remarked Baby, as Gabby shrugged into a heavy cardigan. I like that nubby look.”

“Gettin’ cold out,” said Gabby, grabbing her purse. “Be back in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

PULLING OPEN THE BACK DOOR, GABBY STEPPED outside and was immediately enveloped in darkness. Spooky, she thought to herself and wished she’d asked someone to keep a watchful eye out, just until she climbed into Carmela’s car and popped the locks on the doors.

As Gabby headed for the car, strains of music drifted out from the C.C. Club next door and from Dr. Boogie’s down the block. At the end of the block, where the alley emerged onto Royal Street, there was a muffled clunk, then the crash of glass.

Startled, Gabby’s head jerked, and she scanned the alley warily. She didn’t see anyone lurking in the shadows. Still, this wasn’t the best place to be walking alone on a Saturday night.

She tossed the car keys up in a casual, whistling-in-the-dark sort of gesture. But grabbing for them, Gabby fumbled the recovery and was dismayed when she heard a faint clink as they hit the ground.

Gabby peered downward.

A sudden scraping noise, dull but distinct, sounded somewhere off to her right.

Gabby froze, her attention suddenly riveted on the hulking metal Dumpster some twenty feet away. She wondered if someone might be over there. Crouched down. Hiding.

As if on cue, the moon slid out from behind flimsy cloud cover and spilled eerie light into the dark alley.

And at that very moment, someone… Gabby’s fleeting impression was that it might have been a woman… bolted from behind the Dumpster and headed down the alley toward Royal Street. But whoever it was kept close to the rear of the buildings as they ran, staying in darkness.

Heart pounding wildly, Gabby put a hand to her chest, trying to steady her nerves, willing herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

That’s when she saw the body.

A man. Sprawled directly in front of her on the cobblestones, limbs awkwardly askew. Surrounded by a puddle of shiny black… ohmygod… was that blood?

Gabby let loose a blood-curdling scream. A scream that began in the pit of her stomach, resonated in her throat, and cut through the raucous night sounds of the French Quarter like a knife.

CARMELA, WHO WAS SEATED CLOSEST TO THE back door, heard Gabby’s shriek of terror. And pounded out the door in a flash. Ava, no slouch herself in the reaction department, was right behind her.

“Gabby!” cried Carmela, bursting through the door, fully expecting to find her assistant half beaten to death or in the process of being kidnapped.

Instead, like Lot ’s wife turned to a pillar of salt, Gabby was standing stock still in the middle of the alley.

Carmela pulled up short beside her. “Gabby?” she asked quietly, staring at Gabby’s stunned face. Clearly, something was very wrong. Gabby appeared to be in shock.

Gabby’s eyes were round as saucers as she pointed toward the ground. “Look,” said Gabby, her voice sounding tremulous and disconnected.

Carmela’s eyes, which were adjusting rapidly to the darkness now, followed Gabby’s finger downward. To the body that lay sprawled on the ground.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ava, who had skidded to a stop directly behind Carmela and also spotted the body. Ava spun on her fashionably stacked mock croc heels and bounded back into the scrapbook store. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” she yelped. “We need an ambulance out back! Now!”

Still paused in the alley, Carmela gazed down at the body with a mixture of curiosity and horror. Close as she could tell, the person sprawled on the cobblestones was Bartholomew Hayward.

Oh my god… but I just talked to Barty Hayward a few moments ago. What could have happened? Who could have…?

Suddenly, almost in a gesture of reverence, Gabby knelt down beside Bartholomew, as though she were preparing to minister to the body. Gabby’s hand reached out tentatively, then stopped just inches short of Bartholomew’s neck. There, imbedded to its hilt, was a large orange-handled scissors.

Carmela sensed more than saw that Gabby was about to reach for the protruding scissors. Was going to grasp it and pull it from the poor man’s neck.

Carmela, figuring it had to be the murder weapon, suddenly barked at Gabby: “Don’t touch that!”

Reacting to the harshness in Carmela’s voice, Gabby snatched her hand away as though she’d just been burned.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. Now all of Carmela’s customers were pouring out the back door into the alley. The mournful wail and advancing whoop whoop of sirens mingled with the strains of jazz and Zydeco music, creating a strange, disjointed cacophony.

A light burst on above the back door of Menagerie Antiques, and a metal door clanked open. Billy Cobb, Bartholomew Hayward’s young assistant, emerged, looking startled.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” called Billy. “I heard someone scream.” Billy stopped in his tracks the instant he spotted the body, then turned to stare at Carmela, who stood closest to it. “Is that Mr. Hayward?” Billy asked in a small voice. “Is he all right?”

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.