Carmela studied Jade Ella carefully. Drugs. The woman has to be on drugs. Because Bartholomew Hayward had more than just his ticket punched. The poor man had his throat gouged open.
“Will you keep the shop going?” Carmela asked.
“Why?” said Jade Ella playfully. “Do you need more space?”
“No,” said Carmela slowly. “I was just thinking about the customers and the rather large inventory Barty has amassed. Business considerations, really.”
Jade Ella waved a hand. “Not the sort of thing I want to worry about right now. The store will just have to take care of itself while I get Spa Diva up and running.” She waggled a finger at them. “I expect the two of you to be among our first customers.”
She doesn’t know about Billy, Carmela suddenly realized. She doesn’t know that Billy’s taken off. Should I tell her?
Carmela gave a quick glance toward Baby, whose smile remained frozen in place.
Baby’s not about to say anything. So neither will I. Jade Ella has such a snitty, irreverent attitude about her husband’s death that I’ll be darned if I’m going to bring her into the loop. Besides, she’s just crazy enough to have masterminded some kind of weird plot against Barty.
Carmela watched as Jade Ella moved off into the crowd. Then, lost in thought, Carmela stared out across the whitewashed graves. Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of the city’s oldest cemeteries and most of the graves testified to that fact. Many were cracked and crumbling. Lacy moss crawled up some of the tombs; sleeping angels, their faces eroded with time, kept watch on others.
This may be a place of dark beauty, Carmela thought to herself, but it’s also a place of unrelenting sadness.
Baby touched at Carmela’s elbow. “Sweetie,” she said, “you seem so sad all of a sudden. Want to catch lunch at Commander’s Palace?”
Carmela pulled herself from her dark thoughts and nodded. “Excellent idea.” Commander’s Palace was the rather tony restaurant directly across Washington Avenue from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. A former speakeasy, the famed turreted turquoise and white Victorian building was the only restaurant to grace the Garden District and it was where TV chef Emeril Lagasse got his start. Though it had long since evolved into a New Orleans institution, Commander’s Palace still enjoyed a reputation as one of New Orleans ’s premier restaurants.
Baby cast a worried glance at the sky as they hurried across the street. “This rain could put a terrible damper on Halloween.”
“Weatherman says there’s a tropical depression brewing out over the Gulf of Mexico,” said Carmela.
Baby frowned. “Can’t be. It’s way too late in the season.” “Tell me about it,” said Carmela. She’d lived in and about New Orleans all her life and the traditional hurricane season generally stretched from June to early October. Still… if an anomaly was going to occur, this seemed to be the place. New Orleans seemed to be ground zero for all manner of strange events, the least of which were hurricanes.
And don’t forget, Carmela told herself, New Orleans’s most famous rum drink is named… what else? The Hurricane!
COMMANDER’S PALACE WAS WARM AND COZY, THE perfect rainy day lunch spot, and Carmela and Baby lucked out by scoring one of the coveted window tables. As Carmela dug in her black leather bag for a Kleenex, Baby spotted a packet of photos.
“May I?” she asked, plucking them from Carmela’s bag.
“Go ahead,” said Carmela. The photos were shots she’d taken a week earlier on a walk through Audubon Park, a 340-acre park that had once been an old sugar cane plantation. Carmela decided it might be fun to get someone’s reaction to them.
“Oh, these are terrific,” cooed Baby.
“Really?” Carmela hadn’t counted on such a favorable review.
“Absolutely,” said Baby as she eagerly scanned the photos. “Very professional looking. Did you print them yourself? ”
Carmela nodded. Photography had changed so much in the last couple years, what with the advent of digital cameras and color printers. Color prints that used to take days and cost a pretty penny to process could now be done in minutes in your own home or office.
“You should have your own show,” declared Baby. “You’re certainly good enough.”
“Hardly,” said Carmela, but she was pleased all the same. When she and Shamus were first dating, she had taken a photography class with him, at his urging. It looked like all the lectures on lighting, composition, and visual text were paying off now.
Just as Carmela finished ordering her eggs de la Salle, a fabulous house specialty that was served with crab cakes and wild mushrooms, her cell phone shrilled.
“ ’Scuse me,” she told Baby, who was still debating over whether to order the turtle soup. “It’s probably Gabby at the store.” Carmela snatched up her phone, punched on her Receive button, and said “Hello.”
“I adore a woman with a morbid streak,” came a rich, resonant male voice.
What? Who on earth is this? wondered Carmela.
“It’s Quigg Brevard,” the voice quickly explained. “I phoned your shop and your assistant assured me you were out wandering the byways of Lafayette Cemetery. I presume you were pondering the great hereafter and soaking up the mournful atmosphere.”
“It wasn’t exactly a pleasure jaunt,” Carmela told him. “I was attending a funeral.”
There was a short pause, then Quigg Brevard said, “Of course, for Bartholomew Hayward.”
“Bingo,” said Carmela, even as she wondered exactly why Quigg Brevard had called. As if you don’t know, you coy girl.
“Listen,” said Quigg, “I need to get some kind of scrapbook put together.”
Oops, survey says… wrong answer! Better tuck that massive ego away for safekeeping.
“You being the proverbial scrapbook lady,” continued Quigg, “I thought we could sit down and talk about a possible project.”
“What kind of scrapbook are you thinking about?” asked Carmela. She put her hand across the phone and murmured a hasty “Sorry” to Baby. Baby, who was engrossed in perusing the wine list while reapplying her lip gloss, smiled and nodded, not in the least bit put off.
“Something that will showcase our party room and catering services,” said Quigg. “And probably our wedding and banquet capabilities, too.”
Carmela nodded. More and more, businesses were noting the merits of putting together scrapbooks to illustrate their products and services. Interior designers had been doing it for years, visually demonstrating to clients their befores and afters. Now floral designers, orthodontists, landscapers, and wedding planners were jumping on the bandwagon and flocking to her shop. Asking questions, taking lessons, buying supplies, and… praise be… even requesting that Carmela put together professional scrapbooks for them.
“When would you like to get together?” Carmela asked Quigg, mentally going over the free time she had available in the coming week.
Yeah, next week is pretty open, that should probably work.
“How about tonight?” Quigg proposed.
“Tonight?” squawked Carmela.
“Absolutely. No time like the present,” Quigg said in his smooth yet enthusiastic manner. “Why don’t you drop by Bon Tiempe around sevenish? And please… come prepared for dinner. Plying you with fine food and wine is the least I can do for requesting your presence at such short notice.”
Charmed and more than just a little bit intrigued, Carmela told Quigg that seven o’clock would work just fine with her. And as she slid her cell phone back into her purse, she decided she’d better make a detour back to her apartment after work. So she could slip into something a touch more appealing.
Chapter 11
THE French Market between Decatur and North Peters Streets had been standing for well over one hundred and fifty years. A large, almost open-air building, the French Market bustled with vendors, food stands, and souvenir shops. Strands of braided garlic, known as prayer beads, hung from the rafters above the various farmers’ market stalls that brimmed with brightly colored produce.