“What?” she said, trying to exercise some restraint in her response. As it was, a few eyebrows shot up around her. “You gotta be kidding!” she hissed.
“Shush!” Baby put a finger to her mouth. People were definitely beginning to stare.
Carmela plucked at Baby’s sleeve, but Baby merely shook her head and continued to focus on the proceedings. Any further elaboration of her tantalizing news would have to wait.
Two more eulogies droned by, then the minister passed out little paper songbooks. The mourners pulled themselves together and managed to belt out a slightly off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace.” That concluded, a small contingent of the mourners, presumably the Tulane alums, broke into a rousing chorus of the Tulane Fight Song.
Green Wave, Green Wave
This college fight song was performed perfectly on key and with far more pep and energy than the sad hymn that preceded it.
Finally, the minister rendered his final blessing and Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral was officially concluded.
“Baby!” cried Carmela, finally able to talk out loud. “What’s up with Billy?”
Furrows appeared in Baby’s patrician brow. “All I know is that Del was on the phone early this mornin’ and that Billy was nowhere to be found.”
“He’d been living at home?” asked Carmela.
Baby gave a brisk nod. “With his parents, Donny and Lenore.”
“So what happened?” asked Carmela.
Baby dropped her voice a notch. “Apparently Billy went out last night and never came back.”
“Is that a fact?” said Carmela, gazing across the open grave to where Jade Ella was smiling and shaking hands, bouncing about like a debutante at her coming-out party. Carmela had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined that Billy Cobb might be one bit guilty.
And now Billy’s taken off into the night. Why? Is he actually running from the police?
She’d have to think about that one.
Why do people run from the police? Elementary, my dear Watson. Because they’re guilty. But Billy isn’t guilty, is he?
Carmela sighed. For all the thought she’d given this, she seemed to be going nowhere. And the meager clues she’d been able to garner seemed utterly useless. The little medallion with the GC insignia ground into it hadn’t led anywhere. Maybe it never would.
“This sure throws a wrench into things,” muttered Carmela.
“Doesn’t it just,” agreed Baby. She pulled a gold silk scarf from her perfect leather handbag and wound it around her neck.
“Tandy’s gonna freak out,” said Carmela.
“No, dear, Tandy’s gonna go
“What?” asked Carmela, sensing more.
“There’s more,” said Baby, really looking worried now.
“Judging from the look on your face I’d say there’s a real problem,” said Carmela. “Tell me.”
“It seems our Billy has a police record,” whispered Baby.
“Oh, shit,” said Carmela. “What? What’d Billy do?”
“Small potatoes stuff, mostly,” said Baby. “A few years back, Billy stole a Jaguar XKE in order to impress a prom date.”
“At least he exhibits good taste in cars,” said Carmela. “What else?”
“He got pulled in for smoking pot,” said Baby.
“That’s not good,” said Carmela.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” said Baby. “I never in my wildest dreams saw this coming. I always figured Billy was clean as a whistle.”
“Maybe he is,” said Carmela. She was about to say more, when she saw Jade Ella heading toward them.
“Jade Ella,” said Baby, extending a hand gracefully, “my sincere condolences.”
“Ain’t this a hoot?” exclaimed Jade Ella, taking Baby’s hand. Her eyes shone brightly and her thick, dark hair swished at her shoulders. Carmela decided that Jade Ella looked a little like Cleopatra on Dexedrine. “Talk about dancing on someone’s grave,” Jade Ella babbled on. “But when your ticket is punched, what can you do?”
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.
“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.
