Photo Finished (26 page)

With a sigh of relief, Carmela hung up the phone. Now she wondered if it was going to be possible to negotiate something with Lieutenant Babcock. It would be a long shot, but she felt she had to give it a try.

Carmela dug in her purse, found the business card Lieutenant Babcock had given her a few days earlier. Then she phoned the number, was put on hold by a disinterested-sounding officer, and had to wait a good five minutes before the officer told her she was being patched through. Probably to his home number, Carmela decided. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon.

There was a click and a whir and then Lieutenant Babcock was on the line. “Babcock here.” He sounded busy and distracted.

“Lieutenant Babcock? Hello. This is Carmela Bertrand.”

“The scrapbook lady,” Lieutenant Babcock responded. Now there was a little more warmth to his voice. “Hello, yourself.”

“Yeah, hi,” Carmela said, flustered. “I was wondering if you came up with anything on your paint tests.” She didn't really give a hoot about the paint tests, but it seemed like a good gambit to get the conversation rolling.

“I don't know,” said Lieutenant Babcock. “I'm pretty sure the labs are still working on it. Probably gonna take a few days.”

Carmela hesitated. “What I'm about to ask you is going to sound a trifle presumptuous, but would you . . .” She fumbled with her question. “I mean
could
you possibly meet me at the Art Institute tonight?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly.

And then, because Edgar Babcock was the smart cookie Carmela knew he was, with a cop's innate savvy and a nose for ferreting out trouble, he asked her directly, “Does this have something to do with Billy Cobb?”

“It does,” admitted Carmela. “At least I
hope
it does.” She waited, but he didn't ask for any more of an explanation. “Listen, if you have other plans tonight . . .”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Okay then,” she said, thinking,
I gotta introduce this guy to Ava. There's something about him that's very appealing. He's got that quiet self-assurance.

“What time?” Babcock asked.

Carmela asked him to meet her around nine fifteen, figuring that would give her just enough time to convince Billy Cobb to abandon his plan to flee the state. Then she hung up, thinking,
Am I nuts or what? I'm trying to get a guy to turn himself in and I'm also thinking about playing matchmaker at the same time.

She knew this was precisely the problem with having that Cawegian heritage. Cool rationalization mixed with red hot emotion. Which meant the wires were definitely crossed.

T
HE sky was stormy and restless as Carmela, Ava, and Sweetmomma Pam climbed the steps of the Art Institute. Waiting at the top were flickering jack-o'-lanterns with mirthful grins and a bevy of junior volunteers costumed as ghosts and passing out green glow sticks.

“How'd you get those jack-o'-lanterns here?” asked Ava. She was wearing a skin-tight silver sequined gown that clung to her body seductively. Most of her face was painted silver to match, and her eyeliner consisted of a tiny strip of miniature silver sequins. Her hair was pulled into an updo and threaded with gemstones, giving her the appearance of a fanciful cockatiel.

“Natalie Chastain stopped by and picked them up,” said Carmela, who was equally tricked out in a black and white harlequin-patterned gown. She'd forgone the face paint, however, and instead wore a black mask with a sparkling pavé surface and black ostrich plumes that curved away from either side of her face. “She's got this big old honkin' Chrysler she calls her jungle cruiser,” added Carmela.

“Neato,” sang Sweetmomma Pam as she scampered up the stairs, greatly excited by the prospect of attending such a gala ball.

Ava studied the harlequin gown Carmela was wearing. “Your butt looks real good in that dress, honey.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. At the last minute she'd changed from a gold peasant-style gown to the more flamboyant harlequin gown. Dressing to catch someone's eye tonight? Could be.

“You still feelin' hot flashes from that mud wrap this morning?” asked Ava.

“Hot flashes!” exclaimed Sweetmomma Pam, who was dressed adorably in a 1920s-era gold flapper dress complete with beaded headband and gold leather bird mask with a wicked-looking curved beak that had to be a good six inches long. “Never had 'em, never will!”

“I think I finally cooled down,” said Carmela, fanning herself even though the evening had turned chilly.

Like Cerberus guarding the entrance to Hades, Jade Ella Hayward met them at the entrance to the ballroom. She was glammed out in a jaguar print silk blouse that wrapped around her slim waist, then tied in front with a coquettish pussycat bow. The blouse topped a pencil thin black leather skirt and what had to be Manolo Blahnik heels, also jaguar-spotted. A very spendy outfit, Carmela decided. Jade Ella must have dipped into the insurance money already.

“Car
mela
,” Jade Ella intoned, rolling her eyes and scrunching up her face, getting ready to launch an all-out abject apology. “Greta told me what happened. I'm
soooo
sorry.” She nervously fingered the matching jaguar-spotted mask she had clutched in her hands.

“Poor Carmela was almost pan-fried like a catfish,” said Ava, jumping in, always at the ready to defend her friend. “She could have been seriously injured!”

“I
know
. I
heard
. We're still having problems with the master control module,” Jade Ella explained. “You see, everything at Spa Diva is computerized. From the music to the lighting to the treatment apparatus. Very high tech, but terribly sensitive, too. If something's just the teensiest bit off, well . . .”

“You'd better get your apparatus fixed posthaste,” warned Carmela. “Because I went from Defcon Four to Defcon One in about two minutes!” Defcon was slang for the Department of Defense's readiness alert status. Defcon One meant the warheads were about to fly.

“Seven fifteen,” announced a loud mechanical voice.

Ava frowned at Sweetmomma Pam. “Will you turn that wristwatch thing
off
?” she hissed.

“Carmela,” purred Jade Ella, “please
believe
me when I say it was a terribly unfortunate accident.” She laughed nervously. “You
certainly
can't believe anyone wished you harm?”

Carmela shook her head, still highly suspicious of her little “accident” at Spa Diva. She wondered if Jade Ella figured she might be privy to some inside information about Barty's murder. Or did Jade Ella have motives more sinister than that? Carmela knew that if Jade Ella
did
mastermind the malfunctioning control module, that put her squarely in line as the prime murder suspect.

And what on earth was Jade Ella up to with the Click! Gallery—pushing her photographs on Clark Berthume, the owner?

“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, “I got a phone call from Clark Berthume yesterday.”

A knowing grin spread across Jade Ella's face. “Aren't you thrilled?” she cooed. “I just knew Clark would go gaga over your work.”

“First of all,” said Carmela, “photography's not my life's aspiration. In fact, I do it only for fun. Second, I'm not interested in having any sort of show.”

“Oh, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “how can you be so callous? Clark has photographers waiting in line for just this kind of break! Please don't blow it!”

“Carmela.” Natalie Chastain tapped her gently on the shoulder and Jade Ella, sensing an opportune moment, slipped into the crowd.

“Natalie, hello,” said Carmela. And then, because Natalie looked a little frazzled, even dressed up in her rather elegant Roman robe with a wreath of grape leaves circling her head, said, “It looks like it's going to be a wonderful evening.”

“It does?” Natalie brightened considerably. “Good, that's exactly what I needed to hear. Especially after all our last-minute hassles.”

Carmela hastily introduced Ava and Sweetmomma Pam to Natalie, and then had to do introductions all over again when Monroe Payne suddenly appeared and joined their little cluster.

Wearing a Peking Opera costume of embroidered crimson silk, Monroe authentically looked the part with his dark hair slicked back and drawn into a Chinese topknot set high upon his head.

“Have you seen the art and floral pairings yet?” Monroe asked them, obviously delighted at how everything had turned out.

“No, but we're going to take a look right now,” Carmela told him, as an older couple wearing matching Medieval lord and lady costumes suddenly descended on Monroe in that assured way moneyed people always have.

The selected artworks were hung on the walls of the ballroom and the corresponding floral arrangements placed directly in front of them on square marble pedestals. The description cards Carmela had created were in little Lucite holders directly in front of the floral arrangements.

As fanciful a concept as Monsters & Old Masters was, Carmela had to admit that many of the artwork and floral pairings were really quite clever.

A bouquet of bright red chili peppers mixed with canary grass and accented with boughs of curly willow was set in a flat ikebana-type vase and paired with a dynamic, brightly colored Japanese print that depicted a Samurai warrior in full battle dress.

A bouquet of silvery-green lamb's ear and blue salvia was accented with bright green apples and cinnamon sticks and paired most appropriately with a painting that depicted capering wood nymphs.

And dried yarrow and strawflowers, tied with raffia and displayed in a painted ceramic bowl, were paired with a ceramic Day of the Dead sculpture from Guadalajara, Mexico.

As Carmela moved down the row of floral and art pairings, she suddenly found herself staring into the hard face of Glory Meechum.

“Hello, Carmela,” said Glory.

Glory was one of the few guests who hadn't come in costume. She was wearing a boxy navy blazer with an equally boxy matching skirt. On the other hand, if Glory was trying to pass for the dowdy head matron of a women's prison or private girls' school, then she was right on the money costume-wise. Glory also had a nice tall drink clutched firmly in one hand. Probably bourbon and water. From its dark amber appearance, it was obvious the drink had been mixed fairly strong.

“Nice to see you, Glory,” said Carmela. She glanced longingly after Ava and Sweetmomma Pam, who had wandered away. “Congratulations again on your Founder's Award.”

Glory gave a self-satisfied smile and leaned in slightly. Her eyes were like hard little orbs and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Carmela could smell the bourbon on her breath and sensed that a confrontation might be imminent.

“Too bad you weren't able to
join
us,” said Glory. She pulled her mouth into a sneer. “But I guess
family
doesn't mean a whole lot to you anymore.”

“Glory . . . ,” said Carmela, tiredly, spreading her hands apart in a peace gesture, “I'd be happy to sit at your table tonight.” This kind of crap just wasn't worth it, she decided. She'd sit at the damn table and be pleasant if it killed her.

Glory tucked her chin down and peered at Carmela. “That might prove slightly
embarrassing
for you, Carmela.

Especially since Shamus elected to bring a
date
tonight. A lovely young woman by the name of Zoe Carvelle, who is most enchanting.” The ice in Glory's glass clinked like gnashing teeth. Then Glory flashed a triumphant smile, spun unsteadily on her squatty little navy heels, and tottered away.

Carmela stared after her, stunned by Glory's revelation. Shamus had brought a date. Her estranged
husband
had brought a date. Wasn't that just a trip and a half? She was about to be completely humiliated at one of New Orleans's major social events. Could things get any worse?

A crowd of masked revelers suddenly swirled around her. Of course they could, she decided. This was New Orleans, after all.

A stark white face with waving strands of long black hair floated in close, startling her.

“Hey there, Carmela.” Dove Duval's familiar voice suddenly issued forth from this strange apparition. “Having fun?”

Carmela managed to squeak out a one-syllable answer as she took in Dove Duval's costume. Dove wore a Morticia Addams wig of long, black, straight hair. Her face was powdered stark white, like a performer in a Japanese Kabuki theater. Dove's lips were outlined in black then filled in with blood red lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed in black, lent an eerie stark contrast, making her look enormously predatory and slightly crazed. And she wore a floor-length black witch's gown.
She looks,
Carmela thought,
like that bizarre pop star Marilyn Manson
.

Dove Duval's blood red lips pulled themselves into a wide smile. “Aren't
you
the liberated woman.”

Carmela figured Dove
had
to be referring to Shamus and his date. And decided she seriously didn't want to go there. Instead, Carmela decided to negotiate a countermaneuver. “How did your little photo session go yesterday?” she asked.

Dove blinked rapidly at her. “Pardon?”

“Weren't you also taking photos when we met in the cemetery yesterday?” Carmela stared at Dove.
Someone
had taken the photo of her and Boo, scratched it up, then shoved it under her door.

“Why, no,” said Dove. “I don't know the first thing about taking pictures.”

Carmela gave a long sigh. Dove wasn't about to give her anything. “Did you finally get your floral arrangement done?” she asked.