“Give it a few years,” laughed Baby. “The sanctity of marriage ain’t always so sanctified.” She paused, realizing what she’d said, then assumed a slightly embarrassed look. “Well, some marriages, anyway,” she backpedaled. Baby paused, gathering her thoughts. “Did you know that Jade Ella has been dating Clark Berthume?”
“Seems to me I’ve heard that name mentioned in connection with money,” said Gabby. “Is he one of those fellows with money?”
“Piles of it,” replied Baby. “Old money.”
“That’s the best kind,” agreed Gabby.
“Don’t you remember, honey,” continued Baby, “Clark Berthume runs that new photo gallery over on Toulouse Street? What’s it called?”
“The Click! Gallery,” said Carmela. “Click with an exclamation point at the end.”
“The Click! Gallery,” repeated Gabby. “Sure.”
“I peeked in there a couple weeks ago,” said Carmela.
“They actually have some marvelous photos. Prints by Ansel Adams, Copanigro, and Minor White. Great stuff.”
Truth be known, Shamus had confided to Carmela a few weeks earlier that he’d been angling to get a small show of his own in the back gallery at Click! He’d told Carmela that scoring his own show would finally validate his work. Carmela had told Shamus that his photos were terrific, always had been terrific, and if he wanted real validation, he should go out and earn a paycheck. Shamus had pouted, telling Carmela he felt hurt and grievously injured by her harsh response. Carmela had replied something to the effect of “tough cookies.”
A sharp knock on the back door prompted an immediate look of anguish from Gabby. “I thought you said you were going to keep the back door locked,” she exclaimed.
“I am,” said Carmela. “And please don’t fret over every bump and thump, because it’s probably Ava. She still prefers to pop down the alley,” said Carmela, scurrying to let her in. “Even after what happened.”
“I’ve only got a moment,” said Ava as she burst into the shop, “but I just had to stop and say hi, see what everyone’s up to.”
“Hi, Ava,” called Baby.
Gabby eyed Ava suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?” Ava was dressed in skin-tight blue jeans and a low-cut cashmere sweater with froufrou feathery trim.
“It’s just my long-line bra,” Ava confided. “Holds all the fat and stuff in.”
Gabby peered at Ava’s thin frame. “You sure don’t look like you have all that much to hold in,” she said dubiously.
“Trust me, I do,” said Ava. “Hey, remember that great quote… a woman can never be too rich or too thin?”
“I believe those words have been attributed to the Duchess of Windsor,” offered Baby.
“Really?” said Ava. “Gosh, I thought it was Oprah. She’s always so darned clever. Oh well.” Ava whirled toward Carmela. “Hey girl, we still on for tonight?”
“Anytime after six,” said Carmela as the phone started to ring. Ava was going to come over for dinner, then they were both going to work on projects.
“Carmela,” called Gabby. “Phone.”
“See y’all later,” called Ava, dashing out the front door this time.
“Hello,” said Carmela, taking the phone from Gabby.
“Carmela, you’re going to kill me,” said a tentative voice on the other end of the line.
“Natalie?” asked Carmela. Natalie Chastain was the registrar at the New Orleans Art Institute. “Let me guess,” said Carmela. “You’ve got more changes.”
“Yes, I do,” came Natalie’s anguished reply. “And for that I truly apologize. Problem is, the director still hasn’t finalized his choices.”
“I hope you don’t have menu changes,” said Carmela, alarmed. Yikes. I just printed the darn things.
“No,” said Natalie. “That’s the one thing that seems to be carved in stone, probably because the whole shebang is being catered. But it’s the only thing, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to tell you, Carmela, that we’ve got more changes on the art and floral pairings.” She paused. “Big surprise, huh?” Natalie had called Carmela twice already with changes. And Carmela had long since decided that the smartest thing to do was to leave most of Friday afternoon open. She’d wait and knock out the twenty description cards then, when it would be too late for changes.
“Don’t worry, Natalie,” said Carmela. “I’m set up to do typography at the last minute so you’ve got till maybe… Thursday.” Carmela glanced toward the back of her shop where her new color printer sat hunkered on the counter. Thank goodness, she thought. I can push a button and print out any script, typeface, or hand-lettered font and it still looks like I slaved for hours.
“We’re pulling our hair out over here,” continued Natalie, still sounding desperate. The publicity people… our curators…”
“What seems to be the problem?” asked Carmela, just to be polite.
“One minute a piece is in, the next minute it’s out,” said Natalie in a resigned tone. “We’re in complete chaos.”
“How on earth are people going to get their floral arrangements done if they don’t know which artwork they’re supposed to be keying off?” asked Carmela.
“Good question,” said Natalie. “But you’d be amazed at how forgiving some of our art patrons are. They think Monroe Payne walks on water. Which, when it comes to the rarefied realm of fund-raising and capital campaigns, he probably does.” Monroe Payne was the New Orleans Art Institute’s rather flamboyant director and a veritable pit bull when it came to wresting money from the town’s movers and shakers.
Natalie hesitated. “Besides, not everyone actually creates their own floral arrangement.”
“The shocking truth finally revealed,” laughed Carmela.
“Well, don’t tell anyone,” continued Natalie. “But I think more than a few of our patrons have enlisted Teddy Pendergast at Nature’s Bounty to design floral arrangements for them.” Nature’s Bounty was the premier floral shop in New Orleans. They could always be counted on for hip, thematic, almost Manhattanesque table arrangements. For one of Baby’s summer dinner parties, Nature’s Bounty had created a stunning centerpiece with calla lilies, cattails, and sea grasses sprouting from a giant clump of bright green moss. It had been a huge hit with her guests and subsequently copied by a few other Garden District hostesses.
“Just e-mail me the poop when you have it,” Carmela told Natalie. “And don’t worry, there’s still time.”
“Bless you,” said Natalie.
Hanging up the phone, Carmela glanced toward the front of the store just as the front door opened and a man walked in. Hesitantly. He was in his midthirties and rather nattily attired in a houndstooth blazer and gray slacks.
Carmela decided he had to be from the police. Nobody else in the neighborhood dressed that well. In fact, most of the art and antique dealers shuffled around in worn jackets, hoping the local pickpockets would assume they were poor.
“Can I help you?” Carmela asked, going up to greet her visitor.
The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black leather case. Flipping it open, he showed his ID. But not in an intimidating manner, just a low-key professional way.
Carmela glanced at the ID. “Lieutenant Edgar Babcock. Right. We talked on the phone.”
“Actually we met the other night. Saturday night?” said Lieutenant Babcock. He flashed her a shy smile.
Carmela stared back at him. Tall, lanky, with ginger-colored hair, Lt. Edgar Babcock was not an unattractive man.
“You’ve come to pick up the list,” said Carmela.
Now why am I suddenly acting so stiff and formal? Carmela wondered to herself. Maybe because this guy is, as Ava would say, a bit of a hunk? Too bad Ava didn’t stick around a little longer. She would’ve been intrigued by someone in law enforcement.