Photo Finished

“Um… actually I’m separated,” Carmela explained.

“Separated,” snorted Sweetmomma Pam. “That’s nothin’ but a fancy term for a bad marriage. In my book a woman’s either married or she’s not. There shouldn’t be any middle ground.”

Darn it, thought Carmela, Sweetmomma Pam is probably right. There shouldn’t be any middle ground. Either Shamus and I should stick together through thick or thin, or we should get that divorce. So why is it I’m still hovering in marital purgatory? Stuck right smack dab in the middle, not knowing what’s going on. Not knowing if we’re gonna divorce or reconcile.

Sweetmomma Pam suddenly turned her attention to Tandy, sitting across the table from her. Tandy was using one of her objets trouves-found objects. In fact, Tandy was big on found objects. She’d once done an entire scrapbook using fabric scraps, old buttons, and angel charms as accent pieces.

Today Tandy was designing a scrapbook page using the front of a Wheaties box. She had cut away the picture of the sports hero du jour and replaced it with a photo of one of her grandsons whacking out a homer in a Little League game. The headline now read SLUGFEST OF CHAMPIONS.

“Who’s that fella?” asked Sweetmomma Pam, poking a finger at the grinning sports hero Tandy had discarded. “The one that got eighty-sixed.”

Not a serious sports fan, Tandy shrugged. “I don’t really know. Probably some hotshot named Barry or Bobby or Bubba.”

Sweetmomma Pam wrinkled her nose and smiled. “This is fun.” One of her sharp elbows jabbed at Carmela’s ribs.

“Eleven o’clock,” a mechanical voice announced brightly.

Tandy jumped in her seat. “What on earth was that?”

Sweetmomma Pam stuck her skinny wrist out. “My talking watch. Ain’t it a pip? I ordered it off the TV.”

“That voice sounds like it’s been sucking helium,” exclaimed Tandy.

“It’s amazing what they can put on a chip these days,” added Byrle.

But Sweetmomma Pam’s watch had also told Carmela that they were definitely making progress on the menu cards. They’d been at it a half hour and were more than halfway done.

“You’re an absolute whiz,” Carmela told her. And she was, too. Sweetmomma Pam’s gnarled fingers had been working double time, deftly sticking on the little photo corners. In fact, Carmela had finished her stamping and was moving on to her next last-minute project. Glassware for Baby’s party.

Baby was in the throes of decorating her palatial Garden District home for Halloween and was planning to throw a huge party for her family on Saturday night, just a few short hours before she and husband Del scampered off to the Monsters & Old Masters Ball. Baby had wanted to create something really special for her dinner table and Carmela (scrapbook and craft masochist that she was) had promised Baby she’d decorate some glassware for her.

So, early this morning, Gabby had accepted delivery of two dozen martini glasses. Not the garden variety kind, but whopping, oversized, long-stemmed martini glasses that you could really serve a serious drink in.

“Watcha gonna do with those, cher?” asked Byrle. She eyed the giant martini glasses expectantly as Carmela pulled them from the confines of their carton.

Carmela held up a finger. “Give me a minute and I’ll show you.”

She opened a stamp pad of black ink, rocked a rubber stamp against it gently, then applied the stamp to the side of one of the martini glasses. When Carmela removed the stamp, there remained the perfect image of a spider.

“A spider… cool,” said Sweetmomma Pam.

Carmela spun the glass around and carefully added another dozen or so spiders until the little arachnids appeared to be crawling all over the martini glass.

“That’s quite a Halloween effect,” said Tandy. One eyebrow was raised. She didn’t dislike the spider effect, it was just taking her a while to warm up to the idea of spiders.

“What the heck is Baby gonna serve in that?” asked Byrle.

“Something she calls a Monster Slosh,” said Carmela.

“Dear lord, a drink that size, one surely would get sloshed,” said Sweetmomma Pam with a gleam in her eye.

“What’s in a Monster Slosh?” asked Tandy.

“Ginger beer, lime juice, and a shot of dark rum,” said Carmela. “Baby’s gonna serve it on the rocks with a gummy worm dangling over the side for garnish. And maybe a lump of dry ice for a nice spooky fog effect.”

“Baby really loves to go all out,” remarked Tandy.

Carmela smiled as she held up her handiwork. “Don’t we all,” she said.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, CARMELA’S GOOD MOOD evaporated when a disheveled-looking man entered her shop and introduced himself as Reed Bigelow. Dark haired, dark complected, and seemingly dark tempered, Reed Bigelow had a nose that looked as sharp as the bill of a hawk.

He thrust his embossed business card into Carmela’s hand. “I represent the Harget Brown Insurance Company,” he told her. “Offices in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Shreveport, and Alexandria.” He rocked back on his heels, the picture of pride and puffery, as he hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his trench coat and waited for Carmela to react.

Carmela studied the man’s card, wondering exactly what reaction it was supposed to elicit from her. Stunned silence? Respect? “Life insurance or business insurance?” she finally asked him, since it wasn’t readily apparent from his card.

He shrugged. “Does it matter? I just want to ask a few questions.”

Carmela gave an answering shrug, then handed the card back to a surprised Reed Bigelow. “Excuse me,” she said, “I have customers to attend to.”

“Look, lady…” The insurance man was suddenly right behind her, dogging her steps.

Carmela stopped and turned. “Oh,” she said, a look of surprise registering on her face. “I guess it does matter.” Don’t try to bully me, friend. I haven’t lived in the South all my life and dealt with blustering men without picking up a trick or two. Fact is, it’s a little bit like handling bull elephants. Kindness combined with brute force.

Carmela smiled to herself. Now why couldn’t she use that line of reasoning with Shamus? Good question.

He had already backed way off, partly because of Carmela’s no-nonsense attitude and partly because of the audience he had suddenly acquired. “Look,” he explained, mindful that several pairs of eyes were now focused on him, “I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot here. It’s just that I’ve got this crazy lady constantly calling my office and haranguing me. When you gonna mail out the check, Reed? When do you think I’m finally gonna get a settlement?” By raising his voice and putting a little wheedle into his tone, Reed Bigelow had managed to do a fairly good imitation of Jade Ella Hayward.

“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, trying her best to suppress a knowing smile.

“Bingo,” he said unhappily, trying to figure out some way to get his business card back into Carmela’s hands. Much to his dismay, she had stuck her hands deep into the pockets of the craft apron she always wore when she did rubber stamping.

“When is Jade Ella going to get her payoff?” asked Carmela, who was suddenly more than curious. “And I assume this is life insurance.”

Bigelow nodded as he scrunched his face into a grimace. “That’s the thing of it,” he said. “These situations are extremely hard to predict. There are no hard-and- fast rules. In most cases, once the deceased is buried, our company cuts a check. However, in situations where a homicide has occurred”-he suddenly lowered his voice-“then we have to make sure that the beneficiary is what you’d call a noninvolved party.”

“And is Jade Ella a noninvolved party?” asked Carmela, who was starting to enjoy herself in this little cat-and-mouse game with Reed Bigelow.

The man continued to look unhappy. “Not exactly,” he said.

“So Jade Ella’s a suspect?”

“Not exactly,” he told her.

“Let me get this straight,” said Carmela. “From what you’ve determined so far, Jade Ella is a non-noninvolved party, yet she hasn’t been elevated to murder suspect.”

Bigelow narrowed his eyes. “You got a funny way of putting things, lady.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Carmela. The phone next to her shrilled and she casually reached over to pick it up. After listening for a few seconds, Carmela covered the mouthpiece and turned toward the back of the shop.

“It’s the Merci Beaucoup Bakery,” she called to Tandy, Byrle, Gabby, and Sweetmomma Pam. “They’re checking to see if we want lunch delivered today. Do we?”

“Ooh,” exclaimed Byrle. “How about muffulettas?”

“Yum,” said Tandy.

Besides the po’boy, the muffuletta was the other signature sandwich of Louisiana. Back in the early 1900s, a Sicilian grocer, gastronomically inclined, combined various meats, cheeses, and olive relish onto a round, seeded muffuletta loaf, thus launching a deliciously enduring trend. Although there were endless variations on the muffuletta sandwich, they all shared one thing in common-muffulettas were wonderfully messy to eat.

“Salami and cheese for me,” called Tandy.

“Tell ’em to skip the capers on mine,” said Byrle.

“I’m dying for an oyster po’boy,” screeched Sweetmomma Pam.

Carmela smiled sweetly at the unhappy little man who hovered nearby. “This lunch thing will probably take a while to sort out,” she told him. “I’m gonna have to get back to you.”

Chapter 14

THESE are terrific,” murmured Natalie Chastain as she turned over one of the menu cards and studied it. “Really terrific.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela. “It’s been a fun project.” And praise be for the nimble fingers of Sweetmomma Pam.