Ava sighed. “Actually, I’ve let myself go. I’ve been trying to convince myself that cellulite is really fancy French fat, but it’s not working.”
Carmela stared across the table at Ava. She had the lean, sinewy body of a New York fashion model.
“Now Sweetmomma Pam is entirely different,” said Ava. “She’s blessed with a fiery metabolism. That old lady can chow down like a stevedore and never gain an ounce.”
“How
“She’s a TV junkie,” said Ava.
“Watching soaps?” asked Carmela.
“No, ordering stuff off infomercials. Yesterday Sweetmomma Pam decided she simply couldn’t live without a Flowbee and some kind of greaseless chicken cooker.” Ava paused. “Yech, who’d want to eat greaseless chicken?”
“I’ve seen the ads for the chicken cooker thing,” said Carmela. “But what on earth is a Flowbee?”
Ava made a face. “Some kind of weird attachment you stick on the end of your vacuum cleaner. It sucks up your hair and cuts it at the same time.”
“Let’s hope,” said Carmela, “that Sweetmomma Pam never discovers the Internet. Or eBay!”
“Amen,” said Ava, as their bread pudding was delivered to their table.
Carmela continued to listen with great amusement to Ava as she babbled on about the trials and tribulations of having a seventy-nine-year-old woman as her houseguest. More than once, she had to put down her fork and indulge in a good belly laugh.
Sweetmomma Pam is something else. Or maybe this rum sauce is finally getting to me, loosening me up. Anyway, it feels good to laugh.
Still, all through dessert, Carmela kept a watchful eye out for the hot-tempered Chef Ricardo.
Chapter 3
AT three thirty that afternoon Carmela found herself back at Memory Mine. By the time Bartholomew Hayward’s body had been packed into the ambulance the night before, by the time they’d all finished giving statements to the police, it had been too late to do more than a cursory cleanup.
The place was still a mess.
Papers, stencils, colored markers, and orange-handled scissors were scattered everywhere. Her back office was catty-wampus and redolent with the remains of shrimp chowder and now-petrified popovers. And the two big folding tables she’d rented from Party Central had to be taken down and stashed somewhere until they could be returned. After all, tomorrow was Monday. Business as usual.
Business as usual. Right. I wonder what business will happen next door tomorrow. Will Billy open up the shop and soldier on, trying to run things? Or will Jade Ella, Barty’s soon-to-be ex who hasn’t spoken to him in months, suddenly step in to manage things?
She shrugged. There was also the possibility that Menagerie Antiques might just remain dark and shuttered, an ominous reminder of that night’s terrible events.
Carmela worked quickly, staying focused on her tasks and making short order of the cleanup. Luckily, the shop was compact in size and fairly well organized. It was easy to replace pens, colored pencils, all the various pairs of scissors with their decorative edges…
Scissors. Oh, please don’t tell me I stock the same brand of scissors that ended up in Barty Hayward’s throat last night!
Carmela rushed to the front of the shop where she had a display of Sure Cut and KeenCo scissors. She scanned the ripple, scalloped, and wave-edged scissors, too, which were packaged in clear blister packs and hung on metal holders.
No. Whew. I didn’t think so.
For some reason, Carmela felt relieved. As though she, personally, were somehow off the hook.
But at the same time, she also knew she probably shouldn’t have let Gabby go tripping out into the back alley so late at night. That had probably been poor judgment on her part. After all, stumbling upon Barty Hayward’s dead body would probably leave the poor girl spooked for quite some time.
Carmela nursed her guilt until all the rubber stamps were put away, all the various 8 1/2 “?11” and 12”?12” papers were gathered up, checked to make sure there weren’t any crinkles or folded corners, then carefully returned to their rightful places in the flat files.
Now, the last thing I have to do is break down these darned folding tables.
Carmela grunted and groaned, until she had the metal legs folded flat and the heavy six-foot tables leaning up against the back wall.
No, this is not going to work. Sure as shootin’ we’re going to want to dig into those files first thing tomorrow. Okay then, where can I stash these tables until I get someone to help me return them?
There was only one place. Outside. In the back alley.
Eeeyuh. Really? Out there?
Tentatively, Carmela pushed open the back door. She knew in her heart that the tables would be fine if left out here overnight. In fact, if Billy Cobb came in to work tomorrow, and she had a feeling he probably would because he was just that kind of fellow, she could get Billy to help her move them into his back workroom for safekeeping. There was always plenty of space in the workroom.
Tugging, shoving, and grunting, Carmela maneuvered the two tables outside and down the two back steps. With one final effort, she muscled them into place and propped them up against the dingy back wall of her store.
When Carmela was satisfied that the tables blended in fairly well with the dark bricks of the building and probably wouldn’t be noticed by anyone passing by, she breathed a sigh of relief. That job was finally done.
Carmela turned around slowly and stared down the alley that, just eighteen hours earlier, had been the scene of a violent and terrible crime.
The words
Last night, black and yellow crime scene tape had been taped and strung everywhere, like a crazed spider’s web. Now, just a few desultory strands remained to flap in the wind. A few cars had undoubtedly roared through here, the drivers oblivious.
Carmela stared at the spot where Bartholomew Hayward had been murdered. There was no white chalk outline of the body like you always saw in movies, just a splotch of red spray paint at the point where Bartholomew Hayward’s head had connected with the rough cobblestones.
And where the orange scissors had connected with him. The police had been super diligent last night about taking crime scene photos and had gone to great lengths to attempt to obtain fingerprints. Now, fine white powder covered everything. It clung to the back door of Carmela’s shop and the back door of Menagerie Antiques. Powder residue also covered the Dumpster and nearby telephone poles. The darned stuff had even been on Carmela’s car this morning, until she’d run it through the Suds-o-Matic up on Marais Street.
Carmela stared around, her natural curiosity aroused. It was a trait that sometimes got the best of her, often led her into trouble. Today that curiosity was prodding her to wonder exactly how the night’s murderous events had played out.
Let’s see, how had Gabby told it? Oh, yeah…
Carmela took four measured steps forward.
Gabby said she was right about here when she heard the sound of a bottle breaking at the far end of the block. She tossed the car keys up in the air and missed the catch. Then, just as she heard the keys drop, she heard something… a noise… over by the Dumpster.
Carmela’s eyes were naturally drawn to the big brown hulking Dumpster.
So someone had been hiding beside or behind the Dumpster. Then when Gabby paused, or looked over, or whatever she did, they sprinted off down the alley.
Carmela now focused on the back door of Menagerie Antiques. She wondered if somebody had shown up at Barty’s back door and lured him outside. Or some kind of furniture shipment had arrived.
Hadn’t he said a shipment was coming? Sure he did. Then why didn’t I hear the truck?
The answer to that was simple. Because everyone had been talking, laughing, and having a grand old time. Because the noise level inside Memory Mine had been pretty high that night.
Crossing her arms, tapping a foot against the cobblestones, Carmela continued to puzzle out what might have taken place.
Okay, let’s just say somebody came knocking at Barty’s back door. Barty stepped out, closed the door behind him. Then Barty and his unknown assailant began to talk, argue, struggle, whatever. Then this unknown assailant stabbed him.
Carmela stared down at the red squirt of paint that delineated where Bartholomew Hayward’s body had lain.
Then maybe this assailant was startled when he heard Gabby click open the back door. So he squirreled himself behind the Dumpster. That would be the most logical hiding place.
Carmela paced off a few steps to the Dumpster.
She hesitated a split second, then squeezed in between its rusting hulk and the grubby brick wall. Glancing about, she didn’t see anything that struck her as particularly interesting. Or threatening. More fingerprint dust residue. A couple cigarette butts lying on the ground, stuck between the cracks of cobblestones. Gingerly, Carmela lifted the heavy lid of the Dumpster and peered in. A malodorous scent wafted up from its dark interior. Stale beer, rotted food, Lord knew what else.
Okay, stick with this, she told herself as she let the lid slam down.
When Gabby heard a weird noise and looked around, the murderer… because this wasn’t just an assailant anymore, but a bona fide murderer… tore off down the alley.
Carmela eased herself out from behind the Dumpster and started walking slowly down the alley in the same direction Barty’s murderer had fled. In her mind’s eye, she was trying to picture the exact escape route the perpetrator might have taken. Head down this alley, pop out on Royal Street, get lost in the crowd. Pouf, it was that easy.
A few shreds of newspaper swirled about Carmela’s ankles as she continued down the alley. A couple
