Photo Finished

Chapter 9

CARMELA couldn’t ever recall having been inside Glory Meechum’s house when the vacuum cleaner wasn’t rumbling full tilt. Cursed with a touch of OCD-obsessive-compulsive disorder-Glory always seemed to be embroiled in a cleanliness snit. Take off your shoes, put a coaster under that drink, don’t sit down till I put a doily on the arm of that chair, and for God’s sake don’t spill on the carpet.

Visiting Glory was like some hellish trip back to the second grade. When teachers constantly hammered at you to wipe your feet, blow your nose, study hard, and flush.

To see Glory’s Garden District house filled with guests was quite a shocker to Carmela. Normally taciturn and vaguely suspicious, Glory wasn’t exactly a spitfire on the New Orleans social scene. In fact, the last social event Carmela remembered attending at Glory’s house was the infamous Inquisition Dinner. When all the relatives had been present just before she’d married Shamus.

And hadn’t that been a barrel of fun.

So this rather large person in the button-straining, splotchy floral print dress who was greeting guests and serving drinks couldn’t be Glory Meechum, could it? wondered Carmela.

Maybe it’s really Martha Stewart wearing a Glory costume. Spooky. And Halloween isn’t until this Saturday.

Glory lumbered over to where Carmela stood uncertainly next to Shamus. Shamus fairly beamed at his older sister. Under Glory’s close scrutiny, Carmela wanted to cower. Instead, she stood her ground and smiled.

Why do I suddenly feel like the too-small center on a football team, trying to muster up the courage to snap the ball while staring into a defensive line made up of three-hundred-pound gorillas?

After giving Shamus a perfunctory peck on the cheek, Glory wasted no time with snappy chitchat. “Drink, Shamus?” she asked. “Bourbon?”

Shamus nodded obediently. “Sounds good.”

Carmela cocked an appraising eye at Shamus. Dressed in a navy blazer and khaki slacks, Shamus looked successful, purposeful, and focused. All the things he really wasn’t.

Glory turned toward Carmela and focused hard, beady eyes upon her. “Carmela?” she said gruffly. “Glass of wine?”

“Merlot if you’ve got it,” said Carmela, gazing around with a slightly dazed expression.

“No red wine,” said Glory. “Only white.” A challenging look accompanied her retort.

“Fine,” said Carmela. “White wine then.” Use your head, she told herself. Of course Glory isn’t about to serve red wine. A drop or two might stain her precious carpet.

“You still running that paper store?” asked Glory.

“Scrapbooking shop,” replied Carmela.

“Whatever,” said Glory as she wandered off toward the bar to alert her bartender.

“Well, this is fun,” said Carmela, gazing up at Shamus. Maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, the earth will open up and swallow me whole.

“Carmela… don’t,” said Shamus. “Glory’s trying, really she is.”

“If that’s trying, I’d hate to see how she handles oblivious,” replied Carmela. “To say nothing of disdainful.”

Shamus took Carmela’s elbow and guided her toward the bar to collect their drinks. “The bourbon and a white wine?” Shamus said politely to the bartender, who was really Glory’s gardener, Gus, tricked out in a white shirt and black cotton jacket. With the sleeves two inches too short for Gus’s bony wrists, and the toggles fastened crookedly, Gus looked more like a disreputable waiter than a green-thumbed genius with magnolias and roses.

Shamus handed Carmela her glass of white wine. “Be nice,” he said, smiling at her. “Try to meet Glory halfway.”

“I’m always nice,” she replied. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a pill.”

Carmela noticed that Gus had plopped a colored umbrella into Shamus’s bourbon. She figured it was Gus’s notion of what a bartender was supposed to do. Shamus, on the other hand, simply glared at the offending umbrella, fished it out with his index finger, and flicked it into one of Glory’s potted plants.

Glancing about, Carmela saw that Glory’s ordinarily bare walls had been spiffed up. Now they were graced by a dozen or so of Shamus’s photographs in contemporary-looking silver frames. Most were moody shots Shamus had taken of the bayous just south of New Orleans. Photos of old cypress trees shrouded in mist, a riot of blue iris that had just come into bloom, a few shots of palmetto forests, and even one of a lurking alligator. Carmela wondered if Shamus had shot that one using a telephoto lens.

“Your photos are very good,” she told Shamus.

Shamus took a sip of bourbon and nodded, pleased that she’d noticed. “They are, aren’t they. I’m getting so much better. Probably working up to my own show.”

“You think so?” said Carmela.

“Oh yeah. For sure,” said Shamus, gazing about the room.

The dinner party turned out to include more Meechum relatives than real invited guests, with Glory and Shamus’s brother, Jeffrey, and a scattering of various and sundry cousins populating the premises. Plus, it wasn’t a dinner party per se. Rather than seating everyone at her large Sheraton dining table, Glory had set up a small table with appetizers. Garden variety stuff, really. More in the genus Munchies than the phylum Appetizer. Munchus ordinarus, Carmela decided, since the offerings consisted of overcooked rumaki, tiny crab cakes, oversauced chicken drummies, and some cherry tomatoes that haphazardly squirted their red liquid contents when bitten into.

On her second trip to the appetizer table, in an attempt to snare a few pieces from a decent-looking wheel of Camembert that had just been brought out, Carmela ran into Monroe Payne. He was chatting with Glory, praising her to high heaven about something.

“Carmela,” said Glory in her loud bray. “Have you met Monroe Payne? Monroe ’s our esteemed director at the New Orleans Art Institute.” Glory pronounced his name Monroe, putting the emphasis on the first syllable of his name.

Carmela smiled politely at Monroe, who was tall, lean, and slightly owlish looking with his round Harry Potter glasses and dark hair combed straight back.

“I think we said hello in the hallway a couple weeks ago,” Carmela said as she balanced her glass of wine and plate of cheese bits while attempting to shake hands with Monroe Payne. “When I was over at the Institute meeting with Natalie Chastain,” she explained.

“Of course,” said Monroe, nodding. “You’re doing some decorating for us.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I’m doing the menu cards and display tags for the Monsters & Old Masters Ball.”

“Wunderbar,” said Monroe, flashing her a wide smile.

“We’re certainly all looking forward to that. ”

Standing at his side, Glory Meechum cleared her throat. “I’m sure you’re aware,” said Monroe, still smiling at Carmela, “that Glory will be receiving a major award Saturday night.”

“Mmn, yes,” said Carmela noncommittally. Glory is getting an award? Well, this is news to me. No wonder Shamus is being so solicitous. Glory obviously sent out the order to round up an audience and I’m one of the pigeons.

“It’s our Founder’s Award,” Monroe Payne went on to explain. “A most prestigious award that only gets handed out every couple years or so.” Monroe turned his high-powered charm on Glory. “But Glory’s been a most generous patron so the award is well deserved.”

Glory fixed a hard stare on Carmela. “I hope you’ll be joining us at my table, Carmela.”

So that’s what this little soiree tonight is all about, mused Carmela. A prelude to Glory’s award. A warm-up.

If there was an uncomfortable moment or two, Monroe Payne didn’t seem to be aware of it.

“I’m trying to convince Glory to underwrite one of our upcoming shows,” Monroe confided to Carmela, while continuing to smile widely at Glory.

“Which show would that be?” asked Carmela, nibbling at her Camembert. Ah, finally something tasty.

“Feminist Art Perspectives of the Lower Mississippi,” replied Monroe.

Carmela stole a quick glance at Glory’s impassive face. Glory underwrite a show on feminist art? Never happen. No way, no how. The word feminist doesn’t exist in her lexicon.

But Monroe continued to rattle on about Glory. “Don’t you know,” he told Carmela, “that Glory is one of our Gold-level patrons. Not only has she donated a significant number of artworks to our museum, but she has followed them up with generous cash gifts as well.” Monroe paused dramatically and took a sip of his drink, trying to avoid the tiny purple umbrella that bobbed about, threatening to poke his eye out. “Everyone wants to donate works of art or have their money go toward purchasing works of art. But nobody ever wants their money to pay the heat bill or buy new display cases or pay the guards’ salaries. But those are some of the necessary evils that are part and parcel of running a large museum.” Monroe Payne gave a hangdog look, as though he sincerely regretted having to dirty his hands dealing with those particular necessary evils.

Carmela nodded politely. This was a side of Glory she didn’t know much about. But having had up close and personal experiences with the strange and wily Glory Meechum, Carmela knew it was likely the woman had set up some sort of nonprofit foundation through the family’s Crescent City Bank. That way Glory could appear civic-minded and magnanimous, while still getting a nice fat tax deduction.

“Did you know, Carmela,” said Glory, “that Founder’s Award recipients get to have their portrait painted?” She gazed down at the carpet, narrowing her eyes at some imaginary speck of lint. Carmela figured Glory was probably itching to pull the vacuum cleaner out of the closet for a fast touch-up. She also wondered if Glory was up to speed on the merits of a Flowbee attachment.

“That’s great about the portrait,” said Carmela, her mouth stuffed with cheese. “Terrific.” This last word came out terrifuff.

“ Monroe was also trained as a painter,” added Glory. “In Italy.” She was trying her darnedest to keep the conversation ball rolling.

Monroe laughed. “Studied painting. Years ago. And I was terrible. It’s no wonder my professors urged me to switch to museology instead.”

At that moment Glory’s housekeeper, Gabriella, came and whispered something in Glory’s ear.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Glory, still being maddeningly polite as she scurried away.

Monroe gazed after Glory with watery eyes. “She’s a wonderful woman,” he told Carmela. “Generous to a fault.”

“Mmn,” murmured Carmela. Is he talking about the same Glory Meechum who kicked me out of Shamus’s house right after he rather unceremoniously took off? The same Glory Meechum who canceled all our joint credit cards? Who tried to get my name stricken from the rolls of the Garden Club?

Monroe continued to mumble platitudes about Glory, but Carmela suddenly wasn’t listening. Instead, she was intently watching Shamus as he talked and joked with a pretty young blond woman who was wearing a short black cocktail dress that had a keyhole cutout in back. Shamus’s left hand kept wandering up to that keyhole cutout. Flagrantly flirting right in front of the not-yet ex-wife, she thought. Where’s my digital camera when I need it? Judge, take a gander at this photo of the unfaithful husband flirting outrageously with another woman. Mental cruelty of the worst kind, wouldn’t you say?

“Mrs. Meechum?” said Monroe, his voice firm, as though he were repeating himself. “Carmela?”

Carmela blinked, turned her head, stared into Monroe Payne’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were saying…?”

“That was some nasty business last weekend. With the fellow who owned the shop next to yours?”

“Bartholomew Hayward,” said Carmela. “Yes, it was quite a shocker.”

“Do you know… are the police close to catching someone?” Monroe asked. “Or has that already been in the papers? I’ve been so frantic at the Institute finalizing plans for Monsters & Old Masters, I’m afraid I haven’t stayed all that well informed.”

Carmela shook her head. “You haven’t missed anything so far. But the police do seem to be focused on Billy Cobb, Barty Hayward’s young assistant.”

“From the hesitancy in your voice, I’m guessing you have other ideas,” said Monroe. “Glory told me how you so cleverly helped Shamus out of a spot of bad luck this past year.”

“Well, I wish I could shine that lucky star on Billy,” said Carmela. “He’s the nephew of one of my best friends and she’s very upset that he’s come under suspicion. Maybe you know my friend… Tandy Bliss?”

“Tandy and Darwin Bliss. Of course I know them,” said Monroe. “It’s good of you to be so involved. The world would be a far better place if more people were independent thinkers like you.” He glanced around quickly, as if making sure no one would overhear. “You have a suspect in mind?” he asked.

Carmela pursed her lips and a tiny frown creased her forehead. “Not exactly. Let’s just say I’m trying to follow up on a couple clues.”

“Clues that the police uncovered?” said Monroe with an encouraging look.

Carmela hesitated, not wanting to say too much. “Actually, I think the police would pretty much discount what I believe might be important.”

“Then be careful,” warned Monroe. “After having spent more years than I care to admit embroiled in the world of art and antiquities, I know that nefarious people abound. Which means that Bartholomew Hayward probably had any number of enemies.”

Carmela considered Monroe Payne’s words. They pretty much followed her line of thinking, too.

Monroe leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Lots of backbiting and strange goings-on in the art world,” he murmured in a low voice. “Would you believe that a person who resides right here in our very own Garden District once tried to palm off a sixteenth-century painting that disappeared from the collection of a prominent Dutch family during World War II?” He reared back and shook his head. “Shameful.”

“I hear a lot of stolen World War II artwork has resurfaced,” said Carmela.

Monroe grimaced. “Has for some time now. It just isn’t discussed in polite society.”

“I’m getting that same feeling about Barty Hayward’s murder,” said Carmela. “Which is why all of us at the shop have been struggling to get a handle on it.”

“Again,” said Monroe, flashing her a concerned look, “please exercise caution.”

“Don’t worry,” said Carmela. “I’m not about to stumble headlong into trouble. By the way, will you be attending Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral tomorrow?”

One of Monroe ’s hands fluttered to his chest. “Unfortunately, I barely knew the man. How about you?”

“Yes, I believe I will be attending,” said Carmela, making up her mind on the spur of the moment. She didn’t really have a decent reason for going, only a huge dollop of curiosity.

Then, because Monroe Payne was still peering at her with a slightly inquisitive smile, Carmela decided she’d better come up with a good reason to explain her attendance. “Since Barty Hayward was my neighbor,” she said piously, “it seems only proper.”

“I agree,” said Monroe, bobbing his head. “It’s only proper.”