Photo Finished

Carmela and Quigg did end up talking business. And as the brown sugar and brandy sizzled in the brass chafing dish, Quigg explained to Carmela what he had in mind.

“As you well know, dining is a transient experience. People come here for a couple hours, hopefully enjoy their elegant and beautifully prepared dinner, then go home. End of story. Bon Tiempe only remains top of mind for a few hours at best. Or, if our customers had a really enjoyable time, they might mention their dinner the next day to their friends.” Quigg assumed a contemplative gaze. “How on earth do you capture such a short-lived, almost ephemeral experience? And make it promotable to others?”

Carmela understood exactly where Quigg was headed.

“But if Bon Tiempe had a scrapbook,” he continued, “we could capture some of the happy faces of the couples and groups who were celebrating, all the fond memories, and use it to our advantage.”

Quigg picked up the bottle of Chateau Veronique and offered the last inch of wine to Carmela. When she declined, he emptied the few drops into his own wineglass.

“Downstairs we have a lovely party room,” continued Quigg. “Decorated in a very contemporary fashion.” He pointed across the dining room. “Out those double doors you’ll find our patio. Circular fountain, mood lighting, small but lush garden. Both areas will accommodate gatherings that range in size from a dozen to seventy- five people. Think of it,” he said excitedly, “we’re set up for Mardi Gras parties, wedding receptions, anniversaries, birthdays, office parties, you name it!” He paused, waited as Carmela jotted a few notes.

“Now if we had a nicely designed scrapbook,” continued Quigg, “we could better communicate our atmosphere and our offerings.” He paused. “What do you think?”

“You don’t have to sell me,” laughed Carmela. “But what you might want to consider is having two scrapbooks.”

Quigg rocked back in his chair, an amused smile lighting his face. “Why two?” he asked.

“Make the first scrapbook a straight-ahead promotional book using the group and event photos you have right now. I’m assuming you have some of those?”

“A shoebox full,” said Quigg emphatically.

“Good,” said Carmela. “Then make the second scrap book a sort of romantic-looking guest book. Pass that book around at lunch or in the evening, allow your guests to write in it. Trust me, people love to leave little notes about a special meal they enjoyed or the occasion they’re celebrating.”

“Okay…,” said Quigg.

“But on, say, every other page of that book, we’ll put a beauty shot of a dinner entree or a dessert or something,” added Carmela. “And we’ll also intersperse some of the nicer photos of groups out on the patio or enjoying the party room. And we’ll add captions, too.”

“So as folks are signing the so-called guest book, we also make the point that Bon Tiempe is available for special events,” said Quigg.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “The guest book, or memory book if you will, plants the seeds.”

“And when customers come back to actually plan their event, we pull out the straight-ahead event scrapbook,” said Quigg. “I love it.”

“Really?” asked Carmela. She’d been so busy formulating and putting across her ideas, she wasn’t sure he’d actually heard her.

“So you’ll put them together for us?” Quigg asked. “The scrapbooks, I mean?”

“Of course,” said Carmela, thinking, Honey, you don’t have to twist my arm.

“Outstanding,” said Quigg, smiling at her.

And as Carmela gazed at his handsome face, a tiny little point of pain ignited deep within her heart. Shamus used to look at me like that, she told herself. Shamus used to take me out for romantic dinners that lasted for hours. Shamus would debate over the merits of a Bordeaux or a Burgundy, just to make me happy.

Carmela blinked, tried to yank herself back to the here and now.

Shamus isn’t in my life anymore, she told herself firmly. Not because I don’t want him, but because he doesn’t seem to want me. Grow up, girl. Wake up and smell the gumbo. March yourself into a lawyer’s office and file for that divorce so you can start living your life again. And start dating nice men like this.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Quigg.

Carmela stiffened and sat up straight. Looking around hastily, her eyes fell on Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be creating something magical with trout, almonds, and white wine.

“I was thinking what a fabulous dinner we just had,” she lied.

Quigg looked pleased.

Carmela nodded toward Chef Ricardo. “I’ll bet you wish you could clone him.”

Quigg nodded fervently. “The man’s an absolute genius. A food alchemist.”

Carmela watched as Chef Ricardo slid a fillet knife into the body of the large, plump, butter-browned trout, flipped it open casually, and lifted out the spine. Carmela shivered, imagining that knife sliding into a person.

“Tough being a chef, though,” she said. “Working every night. Weekends, too.”

“He doesn’t work every night. Sometimes we let him off for good behavior.”

“Was he working last Saturday night?” Carmela asked.

Quigg’s brows knit together. “Why do you ask?”

Carmela shrugged. “No reason.”

Quigg rolled his eyes. “Chef Ricardo did not stab Bartholomew Hayward,” he told her emphatically. “You’re being overly suspicious and probably watch far too many episodes of Law and Order. Reruns and syndication are not necessarily a good thing.”

“So he was here,” said Carmela.

“As a matter of fact, he was off last Saturday night.”

“Really,” said Carmela.

Quigg chuckled. “But he’ll be doing double duty this Saturday night since we’re also catering the bash over at the Art Institute.” He paused. “Does that make you happy?”

“The Monsters & Old Masters Ball?” asked Carmela. Well, this is a coincidence.

“That’s the one,” said Quigg. “Say, you gonna be there?” His dark eyes sparkled. He was obviously amused by Carmela’s amateur sleuthing.

Carmela ducked her head. “Yes, I am.”

“Terrific,” enthused Quigg. “Save me a dance, will you? Or a monster hop or whatever the heck’s going on there.”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela playfully. “Are you coming in costume? It’s Halloween, after all.”

“Are you kidding?” said Quigg. “I’ll be the poor sap dressed in a tux. Just think of me as Lurch from The Addams Family. Say”-he turned suddenly serious-“how was that funeral this morning?”

“Funereal,” Carmela told him. “Except for Barty Hayward’s wife, Jade Ella, who served as the one bizarre bright spot in the whole thing. She wore a red dress and did everything but dance on Barty’s grave.” Carmela glanced over at Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be focused intently on their conversation even as he garnished his trout with a medley of asparagus and roasted red pepper.

“Jade Ella has always seemed like a very unusual woman,” said Quigg thoughtfully. “She’s dined here several times and each time she’s been accompanied by a different male escort. I get the distinct feeling she’s the one who prefers calling the shots.”

“Jade Ella’s a real pistol,” allowed Carmela. And a viable suspect, too. Not unlike Chef Ricardo.

“So,” said Quigg, smiling at Carmela. “You’re willing to put together those scrapbooks? You’ll take a stab at it?”

“Interesting choice of words,” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard stood up and shook his head. “I’ll get those photos for you, Carmela.”

Chapter 13

CLICK click click. Boo’s toenails clicked daintily across the floor as Carmela led her into the store on her leash. Outside, rain poured down in sheets. Carmela didn’t ordinarily bring Boo to her shop, but today Ava wasn’t going to be around to let her out and it was far too blustery to leave Boo outside in the courtyard.

“Hey there, pups,” called Gabby as she grabbed a towel and knelt down to wipe Boo’s wet paws. In typical Shar-Pei fashion, Boo immediately gave a good shake, then plopped herself down and scrunched her feet underneath her plump little body, trying to hide her paws.

“How come Boo came along today?” asked Gabby, still struggling to find a paw beneath all those ample wrinkles.

“Ava went to the retail buyers market today. And it didn’t seem right to impose on Tyrell.”

Tyrell Burton was Ava’s sometime assistant. A grad student at Tulane who was studiously earning his MA in history, Tyrell was an African American whose great- grandmother had emigrated from Haiti almost a hundred years ago. Because great-grandma had been known to dabble in voodoo, Tyrell felt himself uniquely qualified to work at Ava’s store. His Haitian heritage, combined with a knack for being exceedingly glib, made Tyrell a favorite with tourists. And he never tired of spinning a few good yarns just for their benefit.

Carmela shrugged out of her raincoat and, in a motion not unlike Boo’s, gave it a good shake. Droplets of water flew everywhere.

“Hey,” scolded Gabby, grabbing a roll of paper towels and kneeling down to wipe the floor. “I don’t know which one of you is messier. You or Boo.”

“Oops, sorry,” said Carmela, bending down to help sop up water. It wouldn’t do for unsuspecting customers to slip on the wet floor and take a nasty header.

“No problem,” said Gabby, who sometimes seemed happiest when she was cleaning up after someone.

Maybe Stuart is a secret slob, thought Carmela. Gabby always seems so pleased when there’s a mess to clean up. Maybe Stuart, the Toyota King, leaves his underwear in a ball at night or slops toothpaste all over the sink. Carmela chuckled to herself for a moment, until she remembered the awful truth. Wait a minute, what am I thinking? All men do that stuff. Somewhere along the line, the sloppiness factor has been embedded in their genetic code.

“What are you chuckling about?” Gabby asked.