Photo Finished (5 page)

Quigg shrugged. “I don't remember the names of the individual investors. All I know is it was a consortium of fellows. Called themselves Parasol Partners.”

Chef Ricardo's cleaver came down again with a murderous thud and diners at several tables turned to stare.

“I'll bet
he
remembers,” said Ava, nodding wide-eyed at Chef Ricardo, who returned her gaze then gave a flirtatious wink.

“You do get that feeling, don't you?” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard grinned widely, showing off perfect Chiclet teeth. “In the end, their loss was our gain. We're delighted to have Chef Ricardo on staff, though he is temperamental.”

“You've had problems?” asked Carmela politely.

Quigg shrugged. “We've had our share of jealousies and pissing matches, the usual stuff that goes on in restaurant kitchens. You know, petty political maneuverings that end in a scuffle, a few copper pots being hurled. A minor stabbing . . .”

“A stabbing?” asked Carmela. That sounded a lot more serious than simple political maneuvering.

“Well, not a stabbing per se,” laughed Quigg. “Let's just say someone got in the way of a fillet knife.”

“Ouch,” said Ava.

“In the way of one of Chef Ricardo's knives?” Carmela persisted.

Realizing he'd probably said too much already, Quigg held up his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Understand, dear ladies, my
sous
-chef hails from Ecuador, my
saucier
is a native of Haiti, and my pastry chef came here from the Dominican Republic. When Latin tempers flare, unhappy words are often exchanged and unfortunate things occur in the heat of the moment.” He paused. “But enough of kitchen politics. Have you made your selection yet?”

Ava screwed up her face in a look of abject concern. “I'm just not sure about this Cajun Fusion thing.”

“Perhaps you'd be happier with something else?” Quigg observed.

Ava batted her false eyelashes. “I would.” She hadn't been first runner-up in the Mobile, Alabama, Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant for nothing.

“I could have the kitchen prepare something slightly more traditional,” offered Quigg. “
Pain perdu
perhaps, or trout meunière?”
Pain perdu
was the Creole version of French toast, made with French bread. Trout meunière was pan-fried trout with a rich butter sauce.

“
Pain perdu
would be wonderful,” said Ava, “along with some of that thick sliced bacon.”

“I'll tell your waiter, Jerome,” said Quigg. “Now remember”—he held up a finger—“don't judge us entirely by today's menu. I can assure you we haven't abandoned the roots from whence we've come. Tomorrow is Mud Bug Monday: boiled crawfish and hush puppies. And every fourth Thursday is Chicken Pickin' Thursday. Fried chicken with snap peas, dirty rice, and buttered biscuits.” He flashed another of his megawatt smiles. “Ya'll come back now, ya hear?” And he was off to greet a new gaggle of guests who'd just flocked through the front door.

“He likes you,” whispered Ava.

“He's very nice,” replied Carmela, thinking that Quigg Brevard seemed more taken with Ava.

“No, I mean he
really
likes you. As in, don't be surprised if he asks you out,” said Ava.

Carmela's cheeks suddenly glowed a bright pink. “I'm still married,” she told Ava. It wasn't a very good excuse, but it was all she had at the moment.

“I've been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Ava, assuming a stern expression. “I thought you finally decided to file those papers. Get the ball rolling on the big D. Make it official.”

“I've been awfully busy,” lied Carmela.

“You've been a coward,” accused Ava. “Face it, cookie, Shamus is history. He's not coming back. He's gone wild mustang on you. He got himself a snort of freedom and he likes it too much to give it up.” Ava paused, realizing she'd maybe come across a little too rough. “I'll tell you one thing,” she said, her voice softening. “Cut yourself loose from Shamus Allan Meechum and you'll find a whole new world opening up for you. Nice respectable men like Quigg Brevard. You could do worse.”

“Agreed,” said Carmela, fumbling in her purse for a Rolaid.

Twenty minutes later, Carmela was scraping up her last morsel of escolar when what seemed to be a full-scale shouting match suddenly erupted in the kitchen. There was a quick shuffle of footsteps as Quigg Brevard hustled the length of the dining room, then pushed his way through the swinging door into the kitchen. A sudden sharp increase in the decibel level ensued, then the door swung closed with a
thwack
and silence prevailed.

“Fun place to work, huh?” remarked Ava.

“Reminds me of the Gator Grove Cafe over in Algiers,” said Carmela. “When I was waiting tables senior year in college, a fry cook tried to eviscerate a surly busboy with a potato peeler.”

“That'd do the trick,” Ava said with a nod.

“Can I interest you in dessert, ladies?” Their waiter, Jerome, was suddenly hovering tableside, probably nervous about the shouting match that had gone on in the kitchen. “Bread pudding or our homemade granita?”

“Nothing for me,” said Carmela.

“Bread pudding,” said Ava. “But don't just drizzle a teeny bit of sauce on it. Really drench it.”

The waiter bowed, a faint smile playing at his lips. “As you wish,
madame.
”

“How can you eat like that and stay a size six?” asked Carmela. She herself was an eight and had to constantly struggle to keep a tight rein on things.

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
is
Sweetmomma Pam?” Carmela asked. Sweetmomma Pam was Ava's maternal grandmother. She'd blown into town a few days ago on the pretext of sightseeing and was just about driving poor Ava bonkers. That was one of the reasons Ava had wanted to go out to brunch today. To get a much-needed reprieve from Sweetmomma Pam.

“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.

Still, all through dessert, Carmela kept a watchful eye out for the hot-tempered Chef Ricardo.

A
T 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.

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. . . .

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.

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
“×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.

Carmela grunted and groaned, until she had the metal legs folded flat and the heavy six-foot tables leaning up against the back wall.

There was only one place. Outside. In the back alley.

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
returning to the scene of the crime
suddenly rumbled through her brain, causing her to shudder. She noted that, already, the October sun hung precariously low and the back alley was etched with shadows.

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.