Photo Finished

Wearing a Peking Opera costume of embroidered crimson silk, Monroe authentically looked the part with his dark hair slicked back and drawn into a Chinese topknot set high upon his head.

“Have you seen the art and floral pairings yet?” Monroe asked them, obviously delighted at how everything had turned out.

“No, but we’re going to take a look right now,” Carmela told him, as an older couple wearing matching Medieval lord and lady costumes suddenly descended on Monroe in that assured way moneyed people always have.

The selected artworks were hung on the walls of the ballroom and the corresponding floral arrangements placed directly in front of them on square marble pedestals. The description cards Carmela had created were in little Lucite holders directly in front of the floral arrangements.

As fanciful a concept as Monsters & Old Masters was, Carmela had to admit that many of the artwork and floral pairings were really quite clever.

A bouquet of bright red chili peppers mixed with canary grass and accented with boughs of curly willow was set in a flat ikebana-type vase and paired with a dynamic, brightly colored Japanese print that depicted a Samurai warrior in full battle dress.

A bouquet of silvery-green lamb’s ear and blue salvia was accented with bright green apples and cinnamon sticks and paired most appropriately with a painting that depicted capering wood nymphs.

And dried yarrow and strawflowers, tied with raffia and displayed in a painted ceramic bowl, were paired with a ceramic Day of the Dead sculpture from Guadalajara, Mexico.

As Carmela moved down the row of floral and art pairings, she suddenly found herself staring into the hard face of Glory Meechum.

“Hello, Carmela,” said Glory.

Glory was one of the few guests who hadn’t come in costume. She was wearing a boxy navy blazer with an equally boxy matching skirt. On the other hand, if Glory was trying to pass for the dowdy head matron of a women’s prison or private girls’ school, then she was right on the money costume-wise. Glory also had a nice tall drink clutched firmly in one hand. Probably bourbon and water. From its dark amber appearance, it was obvious the drink had been mixed fairly strong.

“Nice to see you, Glory,” said Carmela. She glanced longingly after Ava and Sweetmomma Pam, who had wandered away. “Congratulations again on your Founder’s Award.”

Glory gave a self-satisfied smile and leaned in slightly. Her eyes were like hard little orbs and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Carmela could smell the bourbon on her breath and sensed that a confrontation might be imminent.

“Too bad you weren’t able to join us,” said Glory. She pulled her mouth into a sneer. “But I guess family doesn’t mean a whole lot to you anymore.”

“Glory…,” said Carmela, tiredly, spreading her hands apart in a peace gesture, “I’d be happy to sit at your table tonight.” This kind of crap just wasn’t worth it, she decided. She’d sit at the damn table and be pleasant if it killed her.

Glory tucked her chin down and peered at Carmela. “That might prove slightly embarrassing for you, Carmela.

Especially since Shamus elected to bring a date tonight. A lovely young woman by the name of Zoe Carvelle, who is most enchanting.” The ice in Glory’s glass clinked like gnashing teeth. Then Glory flashed a triumphant smile, spun unsteadily on her squatty little navy heels, and tottered away.

Carmela stared after her, stunned by Glory’s revelation. Shamus had brought a date. Her estranged husband had brought a date. Wasn’t that just a trip and a half? She was about to be completely humiliated at one of New Orleans ’s major social events. Could things get any worse?

A crowd of masked revelers suddenly swirled around her. Of course they could, she decided. This was New Orleans, after all.

A stark white face with waving strands of long black hair floated in close, startling her.

“Hey there, Carmela.” Dove Duval’s familiar voice suddenly issued forth from this strange apparition. “Having fun?”

Carmela managed to squeak out a one-syllable answer as she took in Dove Duval’s costume. Dove wore a Morticia Addams wig of long, black, straight hair. Her face was powdered stark white, like a performer in a Japanese Kabuki theater. Dove’s lips were outlined in black then filled in with blood red lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed in black, lent an eerie stark contrast, making her look enormously predatory and slightly crazed. And she wore a floor-length black witch’s gown. She looks, Carmela thought, like that bizarre pop star Marilyn Manson.

Dove Duval’s blood red lips pulled themselves into a wide smile. “Aren’t you the liberated woman.”

Carmela figured Dove had to be referring to Shamus and his date. And decided she seriously didn’t want to go there. Instead, Carmela decided to negotiate a countermaneuver. “How did your little photo session go yesterday?” she asked.

Dove blinked rapidly at her. “Pardon?”

“Weren’t you also taking photos when we met in the cemetery yesterday?” Carmela stared at Dove. Someone had taken the photo of her and Boo, scratched it up, then shoved it under her door.

“Why, no,” said Dove. “I don’t know the first thing about taking pictures.”

Carmela gave a long sigh. Dove wasn’t about to give her anything. “Did you finally get your floral arrangement done?” she asked.

That little question produced a flurry of animation and activity. Encouraged by Carmela’s apparent interest, infinitely proud to show off her handiwork, aspiring for recognition, Dove Duval grasped Carmela’s arm and pulled her down along the wall of artworks.

“Like it, Carmela?”

They stopped in front of the owl painting, Owl in the Moonlight. True to her word, Dove had composed an arrangement using poppy heads, dried feverfew, and bright orange Dutchman’s trousers.

“Wonderful,” replied Carmela, gazing at the moss-filled wire basket that was tied with velvet ribbon from her store.

“I just love being artistic,” said Dove. With her exaggerated accent, it sounded like she said I just love being autistic.

IT TOOK A GOOD TEN MINUTES FOR CARMELA TO finally pull herself away from Dove Duval, make her way through the crowd, then finally locate the large circular table that Baby and Del had reserved. When she finally got there, feeling more than a little discombobulated, everyone was already seated. Baby and Del. Tandy and Darwin. Gabby and her husband, Stuart. And Ava and Sweetmomma Pam. An extra place setting had been added for Ava’s grandmother, and she now sat perched expectantly on a folding chair.

After a flurry of greetings, hugs, and air kisses, Carmela slipped into the chair next to Ava.

“Shamus brought a date,” she told her friend in a low whisper.

Ava lifted an eyebrow and held it for a second, letting it quiver in disbelief. “Shamus brought a date?” she whispered back. “Date with a capital D?”

“Zoe,” said Carmela. The sick, sinking feeling that had begun in her stomach now seemed to have spread through her entire body. “Zoe with a capital Z.”

“Oh, honey!” Ava grasped Carmela’s hand and gave her a look of pure commiseration.

And, as everyone around her clinked glasses, noshed hors d’oeuvres, and made small talk, Carmela sat and tried to puzzle out what she could do to avoid being introduced to Zoe. Something. Anything. Even faking an epileptic seizure would be preferable and slightly less embarrassing than having to smile and shake hands with your husband’s date. Especially in a room full of scrutinizing society folk who loved nothing better than watching other people squirm like a bug on a pin.

Ava, her curiosity roused, craned her neck and peered across a sea of tables, trying to catch a look at Shamus’s date. “Hmm. I think I see her.”

“Dog?” asked Carmela.

“Actually,” said Ava, “she’s rather striking.”

On the pretext of reaching for a decanter of wine, Carmela half-stood and craned her neck as well. Finally she spotted Shamus, then Zoe sitting next to him. There was something familiar about her.

Damn. It’s the woman in the keyhole dress. Has to be.

“She certainly is striking,” agreed Carmela. “And youthful.”

Ava nodded. “Particularly if your taste runs toward emaciated girls with a head full of hair extensions.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Carmela.

Ava plucked the wine decanter from Carmela’s hand and refilled her own glass. “And, if you ask me, I’m thinking her ta-ta’s aren’t the genuine article, either.”

Once the main entree of roast duck had been served, Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo stopped by their table. Carmela made hasty introductions and there were hand-shakes and compliments all around.

“I’d love to take credit for everything,” Quigg told them ebulliently, slapping Chef Ricardo on the back, “but my head chef, Chef Ricardo Gaspar, is the real genius.”

Baby and Del applauded with great enthusiasm, then everyone at the table joined in, with a spatter of applause coming from surrounding tables as well.

Ava immediately caught the eye of Chef Ricardo. He sped to her side with the swiftness of a man questing after the holy grail. Or, more like, lusting after it.

“You like more sweet potato casserole, miss?” he asked her.

Ava tilted her chin up and eyed him carefully. “I’m fine.”

But Chef Ricardo was not to be deterred. “Another glass of wine? I get you better wine. French wine, not cheap domestic.” Obviously, Chef Ricardo considered drinking California wine tantamount to drinking pig swill.

“Now you’re talking my language, sweetie.” Ava, always delighted to be fawned over, fixed Chef Ricardo with a dazzling smile.

He leaned in close to her and inhaled deeply. “Lovely perfume, miss. Very sensual.” Chef Ricardo narrowed his eyes and uttered a low Lothario growl. Then he was off on his quest for better wine. French wine.

“What was that all about, miss?” asked Carmela.

Ava fanned herself nervously. “I think it’s that Banana Frango facial I had earlier. It’s still giving off kind of a heady aroma.” She gave Carmela a sideways glance. “Honey, do you still see Chef Ricardo as a viable suspect? ’Cause, truth be known, I think the man is kinda cute. And, you know, I never was all that fond of Bartholomew Hayward.”

“Go for it,” said Carmela.

As tuxedo-clad waiters cleared away remnants of Chef Ricardo’s calorie-loaded desserts-cranberry bread pudding and elegant lemon bars-the orchestra tuned up and the dancing began.