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
“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.
Carmela glanced toward the back of the store where everyone was casting surreptitious glances toward the front.
“Uh… wait here a moment, okay?”
“Sure,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He was suddenly busy, looking at the rack of pens and scissors that was just to the right of the front counter.
Carmela was back in a flash with the list. “Here it is,” she said, holding out a sheet of paper.
Lieutenant Babcock accepted the list, folded it into quarters without looking at it, and slid it into the breast pocket of his blazer. “Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” responded Carmela.
“Do you carry Gemini scissors?” Lieutenant Babcock suddenly asked her.
His question obviously did not come out of the blue.
“No,” Carmela said. “They’re a good scissors when it comes to cutting paper, but the Sure Cuts are better.” She continued staring at him. “Is that the kind you found sunk in Barty Hayward’s neck? The Gemini?”
Lieutenant Babcock smiled at her. “Not necessarily.”
Carmela continued to fix him with a questioning look. I suppose you have to hold back some information,” she said.
“Actually,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “someone close to me is a scrapbooker.”
“Your wife?” Carmela asked, glancing down at his ring finger.
He followed her gaze. “No, I’m not married. It’s my sister. She’s got a birthday coming up and that’s one of the things on her list.”
Carmela smiled at him. “Come back and I’ll help you put together a little scrapbooker’s gift bag,” she told him. “Stencils, rubber stamps, some fun papers maybe.”
“It’s something to consider,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said, wondering if there really
“Listen,” he said, “I know you gave a statement the other night, but if anything occurs to you, or anything strange happens, give me a call. Okay?”
She nodded.
Lieutenant Babcock pulled open the door, patted his jacket pocket. “Thanks for the list. We’ll get back to you.”
“Great,” said Carmela as the door swung closed on him. Hesitating before she went back to rejoin the group, Carmela considered Edgar Babcock’s words. If anything strange happens…
Anything strange? she thought to herself. Who’s he kidding? This is New Orleans. Everything is strange!
Chapter 7
BIG Easy Shrimp was one of Carmela’s all-time favorite recipes. You sauteed plump Gulf shrimp in a pan with butter, onions, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes, and spices for barely twelve minutes, then dumped the whole thing on top of hot, steamy rice. And voila! You had yourself a dinner to die for.
Tonight Carmela’s Big Easy Shrimp was accompanied by a nice bottle of Chianti. Not the rough, slightly fermented version in the cheesy raffia basket that most people tippled during their el cheapo student days, but a lovely, lush Montepaldi Chianti. Bottled in a narrow, high-shouldered Bordeaux-type bottle, the Montepaldi was velvety rich, yet delicate in taste and scent. The perfect red wine to complement her seafood dish.
“This is
“Cooking’s fairly simple,” Carmela told her between bites, “as long as you don’t get too hung up on recipes and measurements.”
“Is that a fact?” said Ava, reaching to pour herself another glass of Montepaldi. “I would think you’d
“My momma always said cooking was truly about food chemistry,” said Carmela. “That it’s more important to be tuned in to flavors and interactions between ingredients.”
Ava grimaced. “Food chemistry. That sounds kinda grim and academic.”
“It isn’t really. For example, it’s about knowing how to pair sulfur-based foods with sugar-based foods. Think how tasty onions are with rice.”
Ava looked doubtful. “I don’t know. I flunked home ec my senior year.”
“Come on,” laughed Carmela. “Nobody flunks home ec. Trigonometry and physics, maybe. Definitely calculus. But never home ec.”
“Our teacher, Miss Fruth,
“Then you didn’t flunk home ec,” said Carmela, “you flunked attendance.”
One of Ava’s crowning glories had come when she was named head flag twirler for the Jefferson High Martinettes. Then, right before graduation, high hopes for a beauty pageant career had led Ava to the Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant where she came in first runner-up. College hadn’t interested her, so Ava went on to compete in the Miss Palmetto Contest, the Miss Yellowhammer Contest, and finally the Miss Alabama Contest. Ava was pretty, some might say beautiful, but she did have a certain edge. So when her pageant career didn’t pan out as successfully as she hoped it would, Ava moved on to abbreviated careers. She worked as a cocktail waitress, skip tracer, paralegal, and photographer’s assistant, which was her longest stint. But Ava finally touched on magic and found her calling: for two years, she’d been running the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop in the French Quarter.
Visitors to New Orleans who came seeking a small touchstone of the Crescent City to carry home with them were captivated by the candles, charms, and trinkets that adorned Ava’s shop. And Ava, who enjoyed spinning harmless stories about love charms and pink candles that inspired happiness and good fortune, went on to build a rather thriving business.
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
