But, like Carmela, Ava was also blessed with a flair for the arts. And in the last year, her creative bent had led her to mask making. For the last Mardi Gras, Ava had received orders for more than three dozen custom leather masks. Fanciful bird masks with plumes and beaks, tiger masks, jeweled Venetian Carnivale masks, and even Renaissance masks. For Halloween, orders had once again poured in, and Ava was working frantically to put the finishing touches on the last of her elegant, handcrafted masks.
“Is Sweetmomma Pam still staying with you?” asked Carmela.
“Lord, yes,” replied Ava.
“It must be fun having her around,” said Carmela, whose own grandparents had long been deceased.
“Are you for real?” said Ava. “Today Sweetmomma Pam ordered a talking watch off some darned TV ad she saw on the cable sports channel. Popped for overnight delivery and put the whole thing on my Visa card.”
“Can you send it back?” asked Carmela.
Ava shrugged. “Who knows. Anyway, we had a little talk and then she stomped out. Seems she’s got some kind of date. Do you believe that? Sweetmomma Pam came here not knowing a soul and now she’s cavorting around town like a prom queen.”
Carmela stared at Ava. A seventy-nine-year-old woman was out cavorting? Where? At the local bingo parlor?
“Where’d she go?” Carmela asked.
“Some senior citizen dance,” grumped Ava. “With a date. A man. Never mind that I haven’t had a truly viable date in six months.”
“Why, Ava, I do believe you’re jealous,” said Carmela.
“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Ava. “I think she might even have a better sex life than I do.”
“No way,” said Carmela, laughing.
“Listen, cupcake, I came home the other night and found Sweetmomma Pam on the couch, canoodling with Wendell Pickens,” declared Ava.
“Wendell Pickens?” said Carmela, alarmed. “You mean the old guy who runs the fruit stand in the French Market? The one who juggles peaches and cackles?”
Ava rolled her eyes. “That’s the one.” She drained her wineglass and set it down with an air of resignation. “Can you believe it? I’m almost twenty-nine years old. I thought for sure I’d be divorced by now.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, THE DISHES WERE cleared from the table and Carmela and Ava were busily working away, Carmela on her menu cards and Ava on a leather mask.
“I’m absolutely in love with that green mask,” said Carmela. “But the whole thing seems like such a complicated process.” Ava was assembling a mask of iridescent sea green leather. When all the parts were fitted together they would yield the elfin face of a sea nymph.
“Mask making actually is complicated,” admitted Ava. “First you have to do sketches. You know, figure out what it’s going to look like. Then you have to create a paper pattern. That can be anywhere from three to three hundred pieces for a single mask.”
“Yikes,” said Carmela. “What’s the most complicated pattern you’ve ever done?”
Ava considered this for a minute. “Maybe a hundred and twenty pieces. When I did a really elaborate bird mask with a long beak and leather feathers.”
Carmela nodded. “Then what?”
Ava picked up a leather-cutting tool to demonstrate the next step. “Then you cut out your pieces and trim the edges so each piece lies flat against the other,” continued Ava. “Moistening and shaping the pieces comes next. Then, when they’re dry, you start to assemble all of them.”
“Using glue?” asked Carmela.
“A special leather glue,” said Ava. “If I’m fastening several layers together or putting in an unusual crimp or bend, I also use a few grommets so the pieces stay where they’re supposed to. Anyway, once the mask is assembled, I wet the whole thing again and begin sculpting.”
“How do you do that?” Carmela was fascinated by the lengthy process. The only masks she’d ever made were some miniature pressed paper ones. And Ava had helped her out by creating the initial mold.
“Honey, I use anything and everything I can find,” said Ava. “Cuticle sticks, my fingers, a hair dryer. Leather is a very plastic material, so it moves and molds.”
“You’re really amazing,” marveled Carmela. “The patterns, all those pieces…”
“Oh, give me a break,” said Ava, pushing a frizzle of auburn hair out of her eyes. “And you’re not creative? Look at all the stuff you do! Scrapbooking, rubber stamping, crime solving…”
“Crime solving?” said Carmela with feigned innocence.
“Don’t play coy with me, cookie. I know you’re dying to figure out who whacked Bartholomew Hayward.”
Carmela snorted.
Ava peered at her sharply. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Aside from the fact that it happened right behind my store and in front of my number one employee, yes, I am,” replied Carmela. “Especially if it will help bring some peace to Billy and Tandy and their family. Problem is, there seem to be a number of people who were pretty ticked off at Barty Hayward.”
“The almost ex-wife,” said Ava. “Jade Ella. The one who gave you those complimentary passes so we can get waxed, buffed, and sloughed at Spa Diva.”
“She dropped by the shop today,” said Carmela. “Claims she’s going to launch her own makeup line and dance on her husband’s grave.”
“Charming lady,” said Ava. “Enterprising and spiteful. Remind me never to get on her bad side.”
“She also seemed surprised that the police were questioning Billy Cobb.”
“Honey, I’m surprised the police are questioning him,” exclaimed Ava. “He always seemed like a pretty innocuous kid.”
Carmela took a deep breath. “Dove Duval was awfully upset at Barty Hayward, too.”
Ava frowned. “Wasn’t Dove Duval at your shop Saturday night?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Carmela, who then proceeded to tell Ava about the load of faux antiques that Barty Hayward had stuck Dove with.
“Would you really kill someone over cheap replica furniture?” questioned Ava. “Personally, I think I would’ve just clobbered Barty with an andiron or something. Try to get him to see the error of his ways.”
“Bartholomew Hayward didn’t just stick Dove Duval with a load of bad furniture,” said Carmela. “He made her look foolish. When a person is shamed or made to look ridiculous in front of others, that can often plant the seeds for bitterness and hatred. And serious retaliation.”
“I see what you mean,” said Ava thoughtfully. “And I gather from the way you quizzed Quigg Brevard yesterday that you have a few suspicions about his good-looking chef… what’s the fellow’s name? Have meat cleaver, will travel?”
“Chef Ricardo,” said Carmela.
“Right,” said Ava. “You think instead of snipping herbs for his remoulade sauce the good chef might have used his kitchen shears to snip Barty Hayward’s jugular?”
“I think Bon Tiempe is close enough to Menagerie Antiques that, somewhere between the étouffée and the crème caramel, Chef Ricardo could have found time to high-tail it over and do the deed,” offered Carmela.
Ava beamed. “That’s what I like about you, Carmela Bertrand. You’re a very suspicious person. Always thinking the worst of people.”
“I do not,” said Carmela. “I’m just… careful. And realistic, too. I think it has something to do with my genetic code.” Carmela’s father, who had died in a barge accident on the Mississippi when she was just seven, had been one hundred percent Norwegian. Her mother, who lived across the river in Algiers, was full-blooded Cajun. It was a slightly hodgepodge pedigree, the Norwegian part tempered and cool, the Cajun part more than a little impulsive.