Photo Finished

Damn, thought Carmela.

“Ten o’clock!” boomed a tinny, mechanical voice.

Startled, not knowing where yet another strange voice was coming from, Monroe jerked his head wildly just as Sweetmomma Pam turned toward him. The sharp beak of her mask caught him squarely in his right eye.

“My eye!” he screamed.

Howling with pain, Monroe clutched at his face and fumbled his gun. Seconds later, it clattered noisily on the wood-planked floor.

“Rush him!” yelled Shamus.

“No!” screamed Lieutenant Babcock. “Stay back!” Chef Ricardo, never at a loss for action, grabbed one of the rusty knives from the old guillotine table and tossed it. It whooshed through the air, then hit with a loud thwack, remarkably pinning the fold of red fabric that contained Monroe Payne’s upraised arm to the wall.

Everyone gasped. It was a stunt worthy of an Indiana Jones movie.

“Jeez,” marveled Quigg, “you hit him.”

“I meant to,” said Chef Ricardo, pleased with what had to be a lucky, once-in-a-lifetime throw.

Lieutenant Babcock scrambled for the dropped gun as Monroe let loose with a second fearsome shriek that would’ve done a wounded animal proud.

“Yeoow!” he screamed. “I’ve been stabbed!”

Men, thought Carmela as she rushed forward and swept Sweetmomma Pam into her arms. Always with the theatrics.

“Get a doctor!” Monroe ’s outraged screams had turned to shouts and angry whimpers now. He stared fiercely at Carmela as she led Sweetmomma Pam a safe distance away, even as he held a trembling hand to his injured eye. “She attacked me with her beak!” he snarled. “Pecked me like a nasty bird from an Alfred Hitchcock movie!”

“Shut up,” barked Lieutenant Babcock as he wrested the knife from the fabric that pinned Monroe Payne to the wall, then tossed it to the floor out of reach. Then, with little wasted effort, the lieutenant snapped a pair of handcuffs on Monroe.

Monroe stared sullenly at Chef Ricardo. “That idiot threw a knife at me!”

Chef Ricardo stepped forward and peered at the ripped fabric and creased flesh with a proprietary glance. “Ees nothing,” he said scornfully. “Barely a flesh wound.”

“Sweetmomma Pam?” Ava Grieux, hair unpinned and swirling about her shoulders, teetered in the front doorway, a look of pure terror on her lovely face.

“Ava!” said Carmela, startled by her friend’s sudden appearance. “Sweetmomma Pam’s just fine. But how did you get here?”

“She came with me,” said Lieutenant Babcock. He pulled a radio from his belt and spoke rapidly into it, requesting a backup squad as well as an ambulance.

Shamus smiled broadly. Sweetmomma Pam was safe, the cops were taking over, the drama seemed to be wrapping up.

But Carmela wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Bartholomew Hayward had been stabbed. She’d been threatened and shot at. Sweetmomma Pam had been kidnapped. And Billy Cobb had been falsely accused and almost arrested!

Like an overworked image from a grade B horror film, Carmela felt a sheet of red descend before her eyes. And, in the tick of a single synapse, felt herself slip from fear into full-blown rage. Neurons popped like errant firecrackers inside her brain as a wave of anger engulfed her.

Baring her teeth in a snarl, Carmela hurled herself at Monroe Payne, grabbing tufts of red silk with both fists. “You arrogant asshole,” she yelled, “who do you think you are! Murdering… thieving…”

Shamus’s eyebrows shot up. He stepped forward and put a tentative hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Hey, Carmela, take it easy. It’s over, you don’t have to make a big scene.”

But Carmela was not to be deterred. She delivered a sharp kick to Monroe ’s knees and yanked savagely again at his costume. “Blustering bully!” she screamed. “Kidnapping Ava’s grandmother! Stabbing Bartholomew Hayward! You’re pitiful… pathetic!”

Lieutenant Babcock watched her with a slack jaw. This was a side to the seemingly mild-mannered Carmela Bertrand he’d never have guessed at.

“Get her off me!” yelped Monroe. “The woman’s gone insane!”

Shamus continued to pull at Carmela. “Ease off, Carmela, it’s over.”

She refused to look at him. “No, it isn’t! It’s not over ’til I say it’s over!”

“Come on, honey,” Shamus entreated. “Back off, okay? You’re scaring the crap out of me… and, besides, you’re tearing the poor man’s dress.”

Abruptly, Carmela released her hold on Monroe Payne. He fell back against the wall, angry, shaken, and nervous that a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound woman had been poised to clean his clock.

Carmela turned and stared into Shamus’s brown eyes, allowing his words to slowly penetrate her consciousness. “What did you say?” she asked.

He shrugged gently. “You were tearing his dress?”

A hint of a grin dimpled Carmela’s face. Shamus stared at her for a second, then his mouth began to twitch as well. “I thought you were gonna kill him,” said Shamus. He gave an elaborate mock wipe at his brow. “Cripes.”

Then the tension fell away and Carmela and Shamus threw their arms around each other, hugging and patting each other on the back, reassuring one another that everything was okay.

“Did I just miss something?” asked Quigg Brevard, scratching his head.

Ava shook her head. “Jeez, Carmela. Just when it looked like you were over that louse…”

Sweetmomma Pam crinkled her old eyes and beamed. “Soul mates,” she whispered. “I can see it in their eyes.”

Chapter 23

MONROE Payne confessed to everything. First in drips and drops, then in a long, rambling, self-effacing story in which he also named two other art dealers from Miami whom he swore were also “embroiled” in the scam.

“So this was all about art forgeries,” said Carmela.

Everyone had trooped back to Quigg’s restaurant afterward for some rapid decompression. Of course, in New Orleans, rapid decompression could easily allow for generous drinks and seriously fine food.

Baby and Del, Tandy and Darwin, and Gabby and Stuart had also been summoned. And now they were gathered around the tables at Bon Tiempe, as well.

“They found oil paintings with museum labels still on them stashed in those old blast freezers,” said Quigg. “Apparently Monroe Payne and Bartholomew Hayward were in cahoots. Monroe would steal an original and paint a forgery. Then Bartholomew Hayward would handle the sale of the original painting via the crooked art dealers in Miami.”

“With the forged piece going back on the walls of the New Orleans Art Institute,” said Carmela.

Now Lt. Edgar Babcock spoke up. “It looks that way. I think when all this gets out, the board of directors at the New Orleans Art Institute is going to have a lot of explaining to do. They’re going to have some very unhappy donors.” He looked around at the still-stunned faces. “The Norton Museum, too. In Palm Beach. They had someone working on the inside there, too. With the dealers trading stolen paintings back and forth.”

“So no one would recognize them,” said Baby. She shook her head sadly and Del clasped her hand. Baby was still stunned that her beloved Art Institute was part of such a terrible scandal.

Carmela took a sip of wine and thought about the photos Quigg had given her. The ones that depicted Barty Hayward hosting his American Painters Expo. Had those been stolen paintings? Probably. Probably stolen from the Norton Museum or whatever other Florida museum had been part of the scam. And she remembered something else, too. Natalie Chastain sitting in her office, accepting a painting from Monroe Payne and frowning when she touched the frame. And… what else? Maybe wiping a bit of gilt paint from her hand?

Carmela nodded to herself. Of course. Gilt paint that wasn’t completely dry. It was probably the same gilt paint that had been on the murder weapon.

Carmela stood up and wandered over to the marble sideboard to pour herself another glass of wine. No wonder Bartholomew Hayward had such an endless supply of paintings. He was part of a major conspiracy to rob public museums and reap obscene profits. Of course, with such high stakes, it wasn’t surprising Barty Hayward and Monroe Payne had gotten into some kind of argument. One that had ended disastrously for Barty Hayward.

Shamus noticed Carmela standing alone and casually walked over to join her. Touching her shoulder gently, he asked, “Are you okay?”

She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”

“God, you’re feisty.” There was nothing but admiration in his voice.

Her smile wavered. “I am? Really?”

Shamus snorted. “ ’Course you are.” He paused, gazed down at his shoes. Normally talkative and glib, Shamus seemed at a loss for words.

Carmela put a hand on Shamus’s jacket, then walked her fingers up his lapel. “You don’t really look like a mime, you know.”

A smile twitched on his face. “Thanks. You had me worried.” Shamus looked suddenly sheepish. “Carmela… I didn’t mean those things I said before. You’re still very much a part of the family.”

Carmela’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

They stood for a few moments, shoulders touching. Carmela noticed that Ava was snuggled in the protective arms of Chef Ricardo. She grinned to herself. Some matchmaker she was. She’d had her eye on Lieutenant Babcock for Ava, but Ava had ended up with the hot-tempered chef. That was the thing about chemistry between men and women. Kapow-you never knew what would happen.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Carmela.

“About what?” asked Shamus.

“A joint photography show.”

A look of surprise spread across Shamus’s handsome face. “Aren’t you the creative thinker.”

“Of course, I’ll have to go meet with Clark Berthume. Show him your stuff, try to get him to agree to it…,” said Carmela.