Photo Finished

purred.

Carmela didn’t much like the way Dove said the word projects. Tugging on the leash, Carmela instantly telegraphed an alert to Boo. And Boo, never a terribly friendly dog to begin with, slid her gums back over her sharp white teeth and uttered a low growl. Grrrrrrr.

Unsettled, Dove took a step backward. “Such a charming creature,” she observed dryly. “Is your dog always this friendly?”

“She’s a Chinese Shar-Pei,” Carmela explained. “Not exactly your warm fuzzy breed. More on the order of chilly-wrinkley. Shar-Peis tend to regard most outsiders as sworn enemies.” Carmela kept a grin pasted on her face even though she didn’t feel particularly smiley toward Dove. “I think it hearkens back to the invasion of Genghis Khan,” she added. Whatever the heck that means, thought Carmela.

But Dove Duval, obviously no genius when it came to history, seemed to accept Carmela’s remark at face value. “I see,” she said.

“And you’re just out for a stroll?” Carmela asked, noting that Boo was holding her tail down instead of in its usual tight curl. The dog was definitely not getting good vibes from Dove.

What are you really doing here, Dove Duval? wondered Carmela. How come you’re lurking around Bartholomew Hayward’s grave? Have you really come for an innocent ramble through the cemetery or are you here to gloat over your handiwork?

“Isn’t this what folks here like to do?” asked Dove, gazing about in what seemed to be a state of blissful rhapsody. “Wander these marvelous old cemeteries and commune with the dead? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I was just snapping a few photos.” She didn’t much feel like explaining her jack-o’lantern-carving project to Dove. In fact, she didn’t feel like explaining anything to her.

“Probably for one of your many scrapbooks,” said Dove, poking bits of choppy blond hair behind her ears. “You’re so creative.” She was obviously dying to know more.

But Carmela was not forthcoming.

“You’re very tight with Baby Fontaine, aren’t you?” Dove said finally.

“She’s one of my dearest friends.”

Dove cocked her head to one side. “Baby comes from an old family?”

“Pretty old,” said Carmela. “Her grandfather was mayor of New Orleans back in the twenties.”

“Very impressive,” said Dove. “And she’s chaired a lot of committees for the Art Institute?”

Carmela nodded. “She’s had her share.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Dove. “I’ve spoken with Monroe Payne a few times about a possible winter fund-raiser.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. So that was it. Dove was bound and determined to chair her own fund-raiser. She probably assumed that, once you were chairman of an event, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to a seat on the board of directors. Carmela knew it was actually a very long and arduous leap.

“And although my concept is still a little looseygoosey,” continued Dove, “I’ve been tossing around the idea of an upscale food event. A tasting, to be precise.”

“You mean like a wine tasting?” asked Carmela.

“Because the docents at the Zoological Society are already doing that. Have been for five or six years now.”

“I was actually considering something a tad more upscale,” said Dove, her eyes gleaming. “Perhaps a caviar and vodka tasting. Maybe give it a catchy name. Call it Night of the Czars or something like that. What do you think?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Might work.”

Dove looked at her sharply. “Monroe Payne was extremely enthusiastic, Carmela.”

“He’d be the one to know. From what I hear, Monroe Payne has definitely got his finger on the pulse of the donors.” Carmela tugged at Boo’s leash and the two of them started to edge away.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” said Dove.

“Nice seeing you,” said Carmela, deciding she was pretty close to making a clean break.

“Have fun now,” said Dove, waggling her fingers and pulling her dark green velvet cape about her shoulders. “See you tomorrow night.” She paused. “And Carmela…”

Carmela hesitated, a slight frown crossing her face. “Yes?”

“I can’t wait for you to see my arrangement!”

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE GOT BACK TO HER SHOP that Carmela had a chance to take a look at the photographs Quigg Brevard had given her. But first, of course, she had to drop off her car at home, put Boo in the apartment, then pop across the courtyard to say hello to Ava and Tyrell, who were practically going berserk from all the customers who were crowded inside their little incense-filled store. Then Carmela hotfooted it back to Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street.

“Hey there,” said Gabby, who was demonstrating some new templates for a couple customers. “Help yourself to some pumpkin soup. It’s in the back room.”

“You cooked?”

Gabby put a hand to her forehead, simulating utter shock. “Surely you jest. No, Baby dropped off a pot of soup earlier. Said she had tons of pumpkin meat left over.”

“I’ll just bet she does,” said Carmela.

With a mug of Baby’s pumpkin soup heating in the microwave, Carmela sat down at her desk and spread out the photos Quigg Brevard had given her. Most were your fairly typical party shots. Not the lampshade-on-your-head variety, but still all the subjects looked fairly garrulous and affable. Men and women flirting, toasting, hugging, kissing.

There were several shots of a wedding reception, with a bride in a big poufy dress that looked a little like a wedding cake itself. And, surprise, surprise, there were also a few photos of Bartholomew Hayward hosting a summer soiree on the back patio of Bon Tiempe.

The timer on the microwave dinged and Carmela jumped up to fetch her soup. It was steaming like mad, but she took a sip anyway. Wonderful. Baby was a superb cook, even though she was forever claiming she wasn’t and usually opted to have her dinner parties catered.

Carmela carried her mug of soup back to her desk and focused, once again, on the photos of Bartholomew Hayward’s party. She could faintly recall that the summer before, Barty had staged a big promotion that he’d called his American Painters Expo. It had been by invitation only and she hadn’t been one of the chosen. But, judging from the attendees in the photograph, quite a few socially prominent art lovers had RSVP’d and shown up to peruse his selection of rather enchanting paintings.

In two shots Carmela could clearly see that paintings in large, decorative frames had been set up on easels ringing the courtyard. And that the guests were drinking, chowing down, and actually gazing at the paintings with what could only be called rapt attention. Carmela wondered how successful the event had been and then decided that, with the huge resurgence in art collecting and art investing today, Barty had probably made himself a small fortune. She also wondered how authentic they were, although from the looks of things, the paintings looked surprisingly good. Far better than Barty’s other merchandise.

“Carmela?”

Carmela turned her head and raised her eyebrows at Gabby. “Need some help?” she asked. She set her mug down. “I can sure…”

“It’s not that,” said Gabby, fidgeting. She dropped her voice. “That police detective is back.”

“Lieutenant Babcock?”

Gabby gave a tight nod. “He wants to talk to you.”

“No problem,” said Carmela. “Send the gentleman back.” By the time she’d scooped up all the photos and deposited them in the top drawer of her desk, Edgar Babcock was standing in her doorway.

“Please,” she said, indicating a slightly rickety director’s chair, “have a seat.”

It was tight quarters in her office and the chair was none too comfy, but Lieutenant Babcock didn’t seem to mind.

“What brings you back to Memory Mine?” asked Carmela. “Still looking for a birthday gift for that scrapbooking sister of yours?”

He smiled mildly.

Lieutenant Babcock was a pretty cool customer, Carmela decided. Really knew how to play it close to the vest. He was also one of those people who left lots of gaps in the conversation. The kind of gaps an extremely nervous person, someone who had something to hide, would probably struggle to fill in.

“Actually,” said Babcock, crossing his legs, “I’m doing a little research on paint.” His pleasant smile never wavered. “Gilt paint.”

“Would that be the type of gilt paint that was found on a certain scissors?” asked Carmela.

“It would.”

“Mn-hm,” she said noncommittally.

“It might also be the type of paint used on certain scrapbook pages.”

Carmela leaned back in her chair and her heart did a tiny flip-flop.

“I don’t believe it’s the same type of paint at all,” she said. She knew most of her paint was acrylic-based and assumed the paint found on the latex gloves was oil- based. Most paints and stains used in furniture refinishing were oil-based.

“Still,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “it might be worthwhile for our lab to run a few tests.”

“Is one of my customers under suspicion?” she asked. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Babcock gave her a mild smile. “Not at all. We’re simply attempting to rule people out.”

“Like you tried to rule out Billy Cobb?”

“Billy Cobb is no angel,” said Babcock.

“Billy Cobb is also not a murderer,” replied Carmela.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Yes, I do. I am.” Carmela fought to keep her voice even.

Babcock suddenly leaned forward, an expression of grave concern on his face. “Can I be perfectly frank with you?”

“Please,” said Carmela. It had pretty much been her experience that anyone who said they wanted to be perfectly frank with you was probably setting you up for a nice juicy lie.