Photo Finished

It could just as easily have been her heart.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, EMERGING FROM THE shower, still trying to get rid of the feel of that morning’s mineral mud treatment, Carmela’s phone jingled again.

Slipping into a terry cloth bathrobe, Carmela padded across the slick floor and wondered tiredly if it was Shamus again. Calling to crab at her some more.

But this time it was her cell phone ringing from the depths of her handbag. And the caller turned out to be… surprise, surprise… Billy Cobb!

“Carmela,” he said.

“Yes, Billy,” she said breathlessly. She sat down on the edge of her bed, stared down at her well-scrubbed pink toes.

“You’ve always been friendly and nice to me, Carmela.” He paused. “Would you give my family a message?”

“Of course,” she told him, even as she warned herself to proceed with extreme caution. “Listen, Billy…” She hesitated, wondering how best to phrase this. “Did you by any chance slip something under my door last night?”

“Huh?” said Billy. “No. Why?” When Carmela didn’t answer, he said, “I only called ’cause I’m for sure leaving town tonight. If you could tell Aunt Tandy…”

“Billy… no.” Carmela tried to harness her jumbled thoughts. “Listen, Billy, I need to talk to you. In person. Can you meet me at the Art Institute tonight?”

“Why?” asked Billy, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Because… uh…” Carmela struggled to come up with a plausible excuse, hated herself for concocting an outright lie. “Because your aunt has something for you.”

“Money?”

“I’m not sure… I think so.” Oh, she thought to herself, this is awful.

“I guess I could stop by then.”

“You know where the Art Institute is?”

“I know where it is,” said Billy. “I’ve been there.”

“Okay then,” said Carmela. “Nine o’clock. Come to the side door. The one on Perrier Street that leads to the administration offices.”

“I’ll find it.”

With a sigh of relief, Carmela hung up the phone. Now she wondered if it was going to be possible to negotiate something with Lieutenant Babcock. It would be a long shot, but she felt she had to give it a try.

Carmela dug in her purse, found the business card Lieutenant Babcock had given her a few days earlier. Then she phoned the number, was put on hold by a disinterested-sounding officer, and had to wait a good five minutes before the officer told her she was being patched through. Probably to his home number, Carmela decided. It was, after all, Saturday afternoon.

There was a click and a whir and then Lieutenant Babcock was on the line. “Babcock here.” He sounded busy and distracted.

Uh-oh, bad timing? Again?

“Lieutenant Babcock? Hello. This is Carmela Bertrand.”

“The scrapbook lady,” Lieutenant Babcock responded. Now there was a little more warmth to his voice. “Hello, yourself.”

“Yeah, hi,” Carmela said, flustered. “I was wondering if you came up with anything on your paint tests.” She didn’t really give a hoot about the paint tests, but it seemed like a good gambit to get the conversation rolling.

“I don’t know,” said Lieutenant Babcock. “I’m pretty sure the labs are still working on it. Probably gonna take a few days.”

Carmela hesitated. “What I’m about to ask you is going to sound a trifle presumptuous, but would you…” She fumbled with her question. “I mean could you possibly meet me at the Art Institute tonight?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly.

And then, because Edgar Babcock was the smart cookie Carmela knew he was, with a cop’s innate savvy and a nose for ferreting out trouble, he asked her directly, “Does this have something to do with Billy Cobb?”

“It does,” admitted Carmela. “At least I hope it does.” She waited, but he didn’t ask for any more of an explanation. “Listen, if you have other plans tonight…”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Okay then,” she said, thinking, I gotta introduce this guy to Ava. There’s something about him that’s very appealing. He’s got that quiet self-assurance.

“What time?” Babcock asked.

Carmela asked him to meet her around nine fifteen, figuring that would give her just enough time to convince Billy Cobb to abandon his plan to flee the state. Then she hung up, thinking, Am I nuts or what? I’m trying to get a guy to turn himself in and I’m also thinking about playing matchmaker at the same time.

She knew this was precisely the problem with having that Cawegian heritage. Cool rationalization mixed with red hot emotion. Which meant the wires were definitely crossed.

Chapter 20

THE sky was stormy and restless as Carmela, Ava, and Sweetmomma Pam climbed the steps of the Art Institute. Waiting at the top were flickering jack-o’-lanterns with mirthful grins and a bevy of junior volunteers costumed as ghosts and passing out green glow sticks.

“How’d you get those jack-o’-lanterns here?” asked Ava. She was wearing a skin-tight silver sequined gown that clung to her body seductively. Most of her face was painted silver to match, and her eyeliner consisted of a tiny strip of miniature silver sequins. Her hair was pulled into an updo and threaded with gemstones, giving her the appearance of a fanciful cockatiel.

“Natalie Chastain stopped by and picked them up,” said Carmela, who was equally tricked out in a black and white harlequin-patterned gown. She’d forgone the face paint, however, and instead wore a black mask with a sparkling pave surface and black ostrich plumes that curved away from either side of her face. “She’s got this big old honkin’ Chrysler she calls her jungle cruiser,” added Carmela.

“Neato,” sang Sweetmomma Pam as she scampered up the stairs, greatly excited by the prospect of attending such a gala ball.

Ava studied the harlequin gown Carmela was wearing. “Your butt looks real good in that dress, honey.”

“Thank you,” said Carmela. At the last minute she’d changed from a gold peasant-style gown to the more flamboyant harlequin gown. Dressing to catch someone’s eye tonight? Could be.

“You still feelin’ hot flashes from that mud wrap this morning?” asked Ava.

“Hot flashes!” exclaimed Sweetmomma Pam, who was dressed adorably in a 1920s-era gold flapper dress complete with beaded headband and gold leather bird mask with a wicked-looking curved beak that had to be a good six inches long. “Never had ’em, never will!”

“I think I finally cooled down,” said Carmela, fanning herself even though the evening had turned chilly.

Like Cerberus guarding the entrance to Hades, Jade Ella Hayward met them at the entrance to the ballroom. She was glammed out in a jaguar print silk blouse that wrapped around her slim waist, then tied in front with a coquettish pussycat bow. The blouse topped a pencil thin black leather skirt and what had to be Manolo Blahnik heels, also jaguar-spotted. A very spendy outfit, Carmela decided. Jade Ella must have dipped into the insurance money already.

“Carmela,” Jade Ella intoned, rolling her eyes and scrunching up her face, getting ready to launch an all-out abject apology. “Greta told me what happened. I’m soooo sorry.” She nervously fingered the matching jaguar-spotted mask she had clutched in her hands.

“Poor Carmela was almost pan-fried like a catfish,” said Ava, jumping in, always at the ready to defend her friend. “She could have been seriously injured!”

“I know. I heard. We’re still having problems with the master control module,” Jade Ella explained. “You see, everything at Spa Diva is computerized. From the music to the lighting to the treatment apparatus. Very high tech, but terribly sensitive, too. If something’s just the teensiest bit off, well…”

“You’d better get your apparatus fixed posthaste,” warned Carmela. “Because I went from Defcon Four to Defcon One in about two minutes!” Defcon was slang for the Department of Defense’s readiness alert status. Defcon One meant the warheads were about to fly.

“Seven fifteen,” announced a loud mechanical voice.

Ava frowned at Sweetmomma Pam. “Will you turn that wristwatch thing off?” she hissed.

“Carmela,” purred Jade Ella, “please believe me when I say it was a terribly unfortunate accident.” She laughed nervously. “You certainly can’t believe anyone wished you harm?”

Carmela shook her head, still highly suspicious of her little “accident” at Spa Diva. She wondered if Jade Ella figured she might be privy to some inside information about Barty’s murder. Or did Jade Ella have motives more sinister than that? Carmela knew that if Jade Ella did mastermind the malfunctioning control module, that put her squarely in line as the prime murder suspect.

And what on earth was Jade Ella up to with the Click! Gallery-pushing her photographs on Clark Berthume, the owner?

“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, “I got a phone call from Clark Berthume yesterday.”

A knowing grin spread across Jade Ella’s face. “Aren’t you thrilled?” she cooed. “I just knew Clark would go gaga over your work.”

“First of all,” said Carmela, “photography’s not my life’s aspiration. In fact, I do it only for fun. Second, I’m not interested in having any sort of show.”

“Oh, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “how can you be so callous? Clark has photographers waiting in line for just this kind of break! Please don’t blow it!”

“Carmela.” Natalie Chastain tapped her gently on the shoulder and Jade Ella, sensing an opportune moment, slipped into the crowd.

“Natalie, hello,” said Carmela. And then, because Natalie looked a little frazzled, even dressed up in her rather elegant Roman robe with a wreath of grape leaves circling her head, said, “It looks like it’s going to be a wonderful evening.”

“It does?” Natalie brightened considerably. “Good, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Especially after all our last-minute hassles.”

Carmela hastily introduced Ava and Sweetmomma Pam to Natalie, and then had to do introductions all over again when Monroe Payne suddenly appeared and joined their little cluster.