Photo Finished

“Not a problem,” said Carmela. “She was perfectly lovely and turned out to be a big help.”

“Really? You don’t have to say that just on my account. I can take it, even if Sweetmomma is kinfolk.”

“Really, she’s welcome any time,” said Carmela.

“You think she’d be welcome Saturday night?” asked Ava.

“You mean…?” said Carmela, not quite tumbling at first to what Ava was asking.

“Saturday night,” continued Ava. “At Monsters & Old Masters.” She sighed heavily. “Here’s the big problema. First Sweetmomma Pam told me she had a date for Saturday night, now she says she’s broken the whole relationship off because the guy turned out to be too much of a chauvinist pig.”

“You’re talking about the fruit guy?” asked Carmela. “The one she was so hot for?”

“That’s the one,” said Ava. “She says it’s over. Kaput. Just one more notch in Sweetmomma Pam’s belt, such as it is.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I see that as a positive.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that Sweetmomma Pam probably had her consciousness raised.” Consciousness raising was a term Carmela’s momma had used a lot when she was growing up. And that Carmela had read about when she’d thumbed through the pages of her momma’s old Ms. magazines. Put into practical usage, Carmela had found that the basic tenets boiled down to two things: Don’t let any fella treat you like a doormat. And don’t let any fella make you feel like he’s smarter or better than you. ’Cause he ain’t. Pretty fine advice actually.

“Of course Sweetmomma Pam is welcome Saturday night,” said Carmela. “Shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Do you think we could squeeze her in with us?” asked Ava, who had also been invited to sit at Baby and Del ’s table. “She’s just a little bit of a thing. Barely a hundred pounds.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” said Carmela.

“Whew,” said Ava. “Now all I have to worry about is coming up with a costume for Sweetmomma Pam.”

“I doubt that’ll be much of a problem for you,” said Carmela. Ava’s closets looked like the costume department for the combined road companies of Hello, Dolly! and The Lion King. Over-the-top theatrical with tons of sequins, feathers, and glitter.

“I hope we’re still on for our visit to Spa Diva Saturday morning,” said Ava. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

After her little run-in with Jade Ella earlier in the evening, Carmela had mixed feelings about using the gift certificates they’d been given. Still, Ava seemed to be counting on it.

“Did you get a load of all the spa treatments they offer?” enthused Ava. “It sounds like a hedonistic paradise. Right up my alley.”

“They list some treatments I’ve never heard of,” said Carmela. “Paraffin peel, hot lava stones, a Brazilian wax. I know what a bikini wax is, but a Brazilian wax?”

Ava chuckled. “Honey, haven’t you seen pictures of those women strutting their stuff on those beaches in Rio? With their teeny-weeny swimsuits kinda scrunched up the crack of their butts?”

Now it was Carmela’s turn to giggle. “Yeah.”

“You’re a smart girl,” said Ava. “Figure it out.” Carmela decided it might be more prudent, if not slightly more modest, to opt for the salt glow body wrap instead.

Chapter 16

FRIDAY morning dawned dark and dreary. Carmela pulled on a pair of gray wool slacks, a peachy-pink sweater, then a lightweight camel-colored suede jacket.

She’d dreamed about that darned shrimp-processing plant all night. Strange, nightmare images that involved knives, dank conveyor belts, and the layer of feltlike dust that seemed mounded over everything.

And she’d thought fleetingly about that number on the back of the oil painting, too. NMA92107.

What did it mean exactly?

When she arrived at Memory Mine, Carmela decided the easiest way to do some fast research would be to phone Natalie Chastain. She was a museum registrar, after all. It was her bailiwick to know about such things.

But when she dialed Natalie’s number, the phone rang and rang. Carmela was about to give up, when she heard a loud click and then someone came on the line.

“Natalie’s office,” said a male voice.

“Hi there,” said Carmela. “Natalie around?”

“Sorry,” came the voice. “I’m not sure where she’s off to at the moment.”

“Mr. Payne?” asked Carmela.

“Yes, this is Monroe Payne. To whom am I speaking, please?”

“It’s Carmela, Carmela Bertrand. I’m doing the-”

“The menu cards!” said Monroe with a smile in his voice.

“Of course. I’ll tell Natalie you called.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, hesitating slightly, “I had a quick question. Quite unrelated to menu cards.”

“Perhaps I can help?” said Monroe.

Should I? wondered Carmela. Why not? He’s a smart guy, too.

“If you found a series of numbers on the back of a painting, what would that mean to you?” she asked.

“You’re talking about acquisition numbers?” asked Monroe.

“I guess that’s it,” said Carmela. “Hmm.”

“Or deacquisiton numbers,” continued Monroe.

“Deacquistion?” said Carmela. “That’s what-getting rid of a piece of art? Do museums ever do that?”

“Actually,” said Monroe, “they do it all the time. Have private sales, sell to dealers, sell at auction.”

“All museums do this?” asked Carmela.

“Unless they’ve got a storage area with climate-controlled vaults the size of Texas,” Monroe laughed. “Good Lord, you’d be surprised at the things people donate to museums. Old photographs, archaeological relics… someone once tried to give us an elephant’s foot.”

Carmela chatted with Monroe Payne for a few more minutes, then hung up. His information had been valuable, but it hadn’t led anywhere.

Oh well.

“You off now?” asked Gabby as she popped her head into Carmela’s office.

Carmela jumped up, grabbing her handbag and digital camera. “Yup. If anybody calls, just tell ’em I’ll be hanging out in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARS RATTLED BY ON PRYTANIA AS CARMELA, accompanied by Boo, picked her way through the fog-shrouded graves of Lafayette Cemetery. Two days earlier, when she’d come here for the funeral of Bartholomew Hayward, the place had been fairly well populated by the living: mourners for Barty’s funeral, attendees for two other graveside services that had been going on that morning, plus the inevitable flocks of sightseers, tour groups, and amateur vampire hunters. Today, though, just a few stragglers wandered about.

Of all the cemeteries scattered throughout New Orleans, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of Carmela’s favorites. It was incredibly old, highly atmospheric, and chock-full of history.

Established in 1833, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, like most New Orleans cemeteries, had been borne out of terrible necessity, when pestilence, yellow fever, and cholera ravaged the city. Those epidemics often claimed thousands of lives, all in one hideous swoop.

Because New Orleans had been built below sea level, early residents soon learned a bitter lesson. Bodies of their loved ones that were buried underground had a nasty habit of finding their way back to the surface. So it didn’t take long for the aboveground cemetery to be devised. Crypts, mausoleums, and oven vaults were constructed aboveground to receive the bodies of the deceased.

Many of the larger structures bore a keen resemblance to Roman ruins; others spookily sported several stories, like condos for the dead. But what Carmela was most fascinated by were the ancient single tombs. These were three to four feet high and six feet long and resembled whitewashed grave vaults. Many were crumbling and decrepit now, due to the ravages of time, vandalism, and the merciless heat and humidity. Many of these tombs had once been embellished with images of angels, saints, and other heavenly accouterments, which had long since eroded and melted into ghostly forms.

These were the exact images Carmela planned to photograph, then plug into her computer. Once these images were enlarged, she’d print them out on paper as a sort of pattern. Taping these paper patterns to hollowed-out pumpkins, she would use a wood gouge to carve away the background, ending up with a nifty stencil effect. When lights were inserted, her tombstone images would appear in dark outlines against a glowing orange background.

Because there were so many eerie old graves to choose from, Carmela snapped away with her camera, wandering freely among the tombs as Boo trailed on the leash behind her. As she rounded a large multicolumned mausoleum, Carmela ran headlong into Dove Duval.

“Dove!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her thudding heart.

Dove Duval pulled up short, as well. “Why, hello, Carmela,” she said sweetly. “Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

For the third day in a row, rain drizzled down and clouds hung low. The wind delivered a nasty, damp chill and the weather forecasters were still talking hurricane. Lovely day? Carmela figured Dove had to be kidding.

Dove held her umbrella aloft and pressed in uncomfortably close to Carmela. “You must be working on one of your little projects,” Dove