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Baby arched her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “Another late arrival?”

Carmela frowned. “We weren't expecting anyone else.” The cobblestone alley out back was awfully dark and dreary. And, besides the utterly fearless Ava, nobody in their right mind ever came in that way.

Indeed, the alley behind Memory Mine and the neighboring Menagerie Antiques was so dark and narrow it was used only for deliveries to the various neighboring businesses.

Carmela hurried to the back door, flipped the latch, and pulled the door open.

“Carmela,” said a deadpan voice.

Bartholomew Hayward, proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, stood gazing at her with a look of sublime dissatisfaction on his normally unhappy face.

“Barty,” Carmela said. “Come in. You just missed Jade Ella. She stopped by a few minutes ago.”

Bartholomew followed Carmela a few steps inside, pointedly ignoring her reference to his soon-to-be ex-wife. “
You're
certainly open late,” he said in a tone that was almost accusing.

“We're having an all-night crop,” Carmela explained. She waved a hand to indicate the three tables of women who were engrossed in their various scrapbooking and craft projects. She noted that Dove Duval and Mignon Wright, who'd been seated at the first table, had finished packing their craft bags and were now headed out the front door.

Bartholomew Hayward continued to stand in Carmela's back hallway like an imperious ballet master surveying his ballet corps. “You're going to have to move your car,” he announced in a petulant tone.

Gabby poked her head out of the temporary kitchen that was really Carmela's office. “Billy said it was okay to leave Carmela's car there.”

Carmela flashed an inquisitive glance at Gabby.

“I took him a popover and some honey butter maybe an hour ago,” Gabby explained.

“Well, it
isn't
all right,” said Bartholomew. “In fact, Billy had no right to grant you permission. I'm expecting a delivery later on and I'm sure you're well aware that parking is absolutely
horrendous
around here. Besides which, those two parking spots out back are specifically leased to
me.
”

“I'll move my car,” Carmela assured him. She sure didn't need Bartholomew Hayward creating a stinky scene when the evening seemed so alive with creativity and wonderful karma.

“Excellent,” said Bartholomew. He still wore a dubious expression on his face, which indicated it wasn't
really
excellent at all. In fact, he looked as though he didn't quite believe Carmela. Or had expected her to put up more of a fuss.

Ava strolled out of the back office carrying a silver tray piled high with giant pecan popovers. “Hey, Barty, grab yourself a popover,” she said, tipping the tray toward him.

“No, thank you,” he said in his clipped tone. Then he spun on his heels and was out the back door in a flash.

“Bring those right over here, Ava,
I'd
love one,” said Tandy after the door had swung shut behind Bartholomew. “That man is
such
a sourpuss,” she declared. “I wish Billy wasn't working for him, but the boy is just nuts over antiques.” Billy Cobb was Tandy's nephew. He'd been working as an assistant to Bartholomew for the past six months or so.

“Billy plans to open his own antique shop someday,” added Tandy, obviously proud of her nephew.

“I bet he will,” said Baby, ever the cheerleader.

“Do you know Billy goes cruising up the River Road in that old truck of his, going to tag sales and yard sales?” said Tandy. “When he finds something nice, like an old wooden ice chest or a picture frame, he brings it home and refinishes it. Does a remarkable job, too. Then he takes his restored treasures over to the Sunday flea market at the fairgrounds in Livingston Parish. Lenore says he's already cleared something like two thousand dollars.”

“Billy has a very enterprising spirit,” said Gabby. “Plus I think some of Bartholomew Hayward's customers find him far nicer to deal with than Barty himself.”

“Lord sakes, don't ever say that in front of Barty,” warned Tandy. “He'd fire Billy for sure if he thought his customers were tight with him.” She shook her head in a gesture of exasperation. “If you only knew what that poor boy puts up with. . . .”

Carmela nodded. She had a pretty good idea of how tough it might be to work for Barty Hayward. The man was a legend in his own mind. Arrogant, overbearing, and not particularly friendly. Plus his prices were awfully high and the authenticity of his furniture often seemed questionable.

“Billy's a good kid,” said Carmela as she slid a sheet of pink vellum in front of Tandy. “I'm sure he'll do fine.”

“I hope so,” said Tandy as she moved one of her family photographs around, looking for the best placement on the page.

“How about using this vellum to ghost over that group shot of your grandkids?” asked Carmela.

Tandy beamed. “Perfect,” she declared. “Give it a nice soft-focus quality.”

Gabby emerged from Carmela's office, balancing another heavy tray laden with mugs filled with steaming shrimp chowder. “Now be careful everyone,” she warned. “Push your scrapbooks and such aside. We don't want any accidental spills ruining all your hard work.” There was a two-minute flurry while everyone slipped photos, papers, and projects into plastic protective envelopes. Then, as Gabby began to pass around mugs of chowder, the aroma of shrimp, onions, and cayenne pepper permeated the air.

“Is this strictly formal or are we allowed to dunk?” asked Baby as she tore off a hunk of popover and tentatively dipped it into her chowder.

“Please do,” insisted Carmela. “And you'll have to adhere to our strict rationing policy tonight. Due to our overzealous kitchen crew, you're expected to snarf down a minimum of three popovers per person!”

“Yum,” said Tandy, who weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Carmela,” said Gabby, returning from her rounds with an empty tray. “Your car?”

“Holy smokes,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet. “I almost forgot.” She dug in her jeans for the keys. “Barty's probably going to have a hissy fit if I don't get moving.”

Gabby set down the tray and put out a hand. “Here, give me the keys. I'll go move your car.”

“You sure?” asked Carmela. She'd parked out back a few hours earlier to make it easier to ferry in boxes of rubber stamps, colored ink pads, and a lacquer tray filled with fun earrings and pendants. She'd created the pendants by pressing rubber stamps into clay. Because they were somewhat sizable, the pendants hadn't been completely dry, and it had been just her luck to bobble the tray in the dark. Almost as though she'd had a premonition that Barty Hayward was skulking around somewhere, trying to prohibit any possible infringement on his parking spaces.

“You should stay here at the store,” said Gabby. “After all, it's your show.”

“I don't think you're going to have much luck finding another parking space close by,” Carmela told Gabby. Indeed, parking in the French Quarter was nearly impossible. Police cars continually prowled the narrow streets and any cars parked in unauthorized zones were immediately towed. “You'll probably have to drive way over to Esplanade.” Esplanade was where Carmela lived. Where
her
overpriced monthly parking spot was located.

“No problem.” Gabby grinned. “Besides, I always wanted to get behind the wheel of your Mercedes and take it for a spin.”

“Then knock yourself out,” she said, passing the keys to Gabby and suddenly recalling the circumstances that had precipitated her getting the sharp little 500 SL. An issue involving Shamus had come to a head the previous March. On Mardi Gras day, in fact. And her beloved vintage Cadillac, the one she'd nicknamed Samantha, had been completely totaled in a nasty accident.

Overcome with a sense of love, shame, drama, indebtedness, whatever, Shamus had decided to present her with a brand-new Mercedes sports car. It was a hot and truly gorgeous car, and Carmela had been consumed with countless hours of guilt once she'd finally accepted it.

But I also love that car,
Carmela reminded herself.
And back then, Shamus was making positive signs toward reconciliation. Funny how all that seems to have totally evaporated. So what should I do now about what appears to be a somewhat murky future? File for divorce and move on? Yeah, maybe. Keep the car? Oh sure.

“That's a cute sweater,” remarked Baby, as Gabby shrugged into a heavy cardigan. I like that nubby look.”

“Gettin' cold out,” said Gabby, grabbing her purse. “Be back in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

 

 

PULLING OPEN THE BACK DOOR, GABBY STEPPED outside and was immediately enveloped in darkness.
Spooky,
she thought to herself and wished she'd asked someone to keep a watchful eye out, just until she climbed into Carmela's car and popped the locks on the doors.

As Gabby headed for the car, strains of music drifted out from the C.C. Club next door and from Dr. Boogie's down the block. At the end of the block, where the alley emerged onto Royal Street, there was a muffled
clunk
, then the crash of glass.

Startled, Gabby's head jerked, and she scanned the alley warily. She didn't see anyone lurking in the shadows. Still, this wasn't the best place to be walking alone on a Saturday night.

She tossed the car keys up in a casual, whistling-in-the-dark sort of gesture. But grabbing for them, Gabby fumbled the recovery and was dismayed when she heard a faint
clink
as they hit the ground.

Gabby peered downward.

A sudden scraping noise, dull but distinct, sounded somewhere off to her right.

Gabby froze, her attention suddenly riveted on the hulking metal Dumpster some twenty feet away. She wondered if someone might be over there. Crouched down. Hiding.

As if on cue, the moon slid out from behind flimsy cloud cover and spilled eerie light into the dark alley.

And at that very moment, someone . . . Gabby's fleeting impression was that it might have been a woman . . . bolted from behind the Dumpster and headed down the alley toward Royal Street. But whoever it was kept close to the rear of the buildings as they ran, staying in darkness.

Heart pounding wildly, Gabby put a hand to her chest, trying to steady her nerves, willing herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

That's when she saw the body.

A man. Sprawled directly in front of her on the cobblestones, limbs awkwardly askew. Surrounded by a puddle of shiny black . . . ohmygod . . . was that blood?

Gabby let loose a blood-curdling scream. A scream that began in the pit of her stomach, resonated in her throat, and cut through the raucous night sounds of the French Quarter like a knife.

 

 

CARMELA, WHO WAS SEATED CLOSEST TO THE back door, heard Gabby's shriek of terror. And pounded out the door in a flash. Ava, no slouch herself in the reaction department, was right behind her.

“Gabby!” cried Carmela, bursting through the door, fully expecting to find her assistant half beaten to death or in the process of being kidnapped.

Instead, like Lot's wife turned to a pillar of salt, Gabby was standing stock still in the middle of the alley.

Carmela pulled up short beside her. “Gabby?” she asked quietly, staring at Gabby's stunned face. Clearly, something was very wrong. Gabby appeared to be in shock.

Gabby's eyes were round as saucers as she pointed toward the ground. “Look,” said Gabby, her voice sounding tremulous and disconnected.

Carmela's eyes, which were adjusting rapidly to the darkness now, followed Gabby's finger downward. To the body that lay sprawled on the ground.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ava, who had skidded to a stop directly behind Carmela and also spotted the body. Ava spun on her fashionably stacked mock croc heels and bounded back into the scrapbook store. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” she yelped. “We need an ambulance out back! Now!”

Still paused in the alley, Carmela gazed down at the body with a mixture of curiosity and horror. Close as she could tell, the person sprawled on the cobblestones was Bartholomew Hayward.

Suddenly, almost in a gesture of reverence, Gabby knelt down beside Bartholomew, as though she were preparing to minister to the body. Gabby's hand reached out tentatively, then stopped just inches short of Bartholomew's neck. There, imbedded to its hilt, was a large orange-handled scissors.

Carmela sensed more than saw that Gabby was about to reach for the protruding scissors. Was going to grasp it and pull it from the poor man's neck.

Carmela, figuring it had to be the murder weapon, suddenly barked at Gabby: “Don't touch that!”

Reacting to the harshness in Carmela's voice, Gabby snatched her hand away as though she'd just been burned.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. Now all of Carmela's customers were pouring out the back door into the alley. The mournful wail and advancing
whoop whoop
of sirens mingled with the strains of jazz and Zydeco music, creating a strange, disjointed cacophony.

A light burst on above the back door of Menagerie Antiques, and a metal door clanked open. Billy Cobb, Bartholomew Hayward's young assistant, emerged, looking startled.

“What's wrong? What's going on?” called Billy. “I heard someone scream.” Billy stopped in his tracks the instant he spotted the body, then turned to stare at Carmela, who stood closest to it. “Is that Mr. Hayward?” Billy asked in a small voice. “Is he all right?”