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Chapter 10

A subtropical wave that had originated off the coast of Africa in mid-October had leisurely swooshed its way across the Atlantic and bumped into the broad area of low pressure that now hovered in the western Caribbean. Meteorologists, stunned to see signs of a hurricane percolating so late in the season, nevertheless recognized the telltale banding-type eye in their satellite imagery. Hoping the unseasonable storm would decelerate and peter out on its own, they were dismayed when a large mid- to upper-level trough moved into the central United States and slowly began edging the storm northward toward the Gulf coast.

Rain sputtered down on mourners that had gathered in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 around the grave that would soon serve as Bartholomew Hayward’s final resting place. Shivering against the raw wind, huddled under a cluster of black umbrellas, the morning’s funeral contingent resembled a patch of slick, oversized toadstools.

Carmela had arrived a little late. Hurrying through the ornate black wrought-iron gate on Washington Avenue, she’d crunched her way down the white gravel lanes that wound past ancient above-ground tombs, then slipped into place next to Baby.

Someone, Carmela didn’t know who, was right in the middle of a heartfelt eulogy to Bartholomew Hayward. The man, slightly built with an Ichabod Crane face and a terrible comb-over, was praising Barty’s sense of humor and mourning the fact he’d no longer be part of the French Quarter.

Carmela gazed around curiously at the rest of the mourners. Most were sedate-looking males, probably antique shop owners. Bartholomew Hayward had been a member of a loosely organized group known as the Vieux Carré Antique Shop Owners. They sometimes organized antique shop “crawls” and advertised their various shops together.

True to her promise, Jade Ella was also present, wearing a flouncy, low-cut red dress and gobs of shining jewelry, clutching a Judith Leiber handbag that turned out to be a jeweled pig. Perched pertly on a black folding chair, Jade Ella did indeed look like Mrs. Bling Bling. Lots of rocks, lots of glam.

Could Jade Ella have knocked off her husband? wondered Carmela. If she had, would she have shown up at his funeral flaunting a red dress and all that glitz? Only if she was certifiably crazy. Or maybe smart like a fox.

Baby nudged Carmela with one shoulder. Dressed in a black suit with a nipped-in waist, Baby looked refined and elegant. Carmela herself had hurriedly tossed on a black cashmere crew neck sweater and black slacks that morning. In the dim light of her apartment, the outfit had seemed sedate, more than appropriate for a funeral. Now she suddenly felt like she was dressed like a second-story artist. All she needed was a black mask and bag to stash the goods in.

“Bad news,” Baby whispered to Carmela.

Carmela frowned, not quite sure what Baby was referring to.

“It would appear our Billy skipped town last night,” Baby said under her breath.

You could’ve knocked Carmela over with a feather.

“What?” she said, trying to exercise some restraint in her response. As it was, a few eyebrows shot up around her. “You gotta be kidding!” she hissed.

“Shush!” Baby put a finger to her mouth. People were definitely beginning to stare.

Carmela plucked at Baby’s sleeve, but Baby merely shook her head and continued to focus on the proceedings. Any further elaboration of her tantalizing news would have to wait.

Two more eulogies droned by, then the minister passed out little paper songbooks. The mourners pulled themselves together and managed to belt out a slightly off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace.” That concluded, a small contingent of the mourners, presumably the Tulane alums, broke into a rousing chorus of the Tulane Fight Song.

Green Wave, Green Wave

Hats off to thee.

We’re out to

Fight Fight Fight

For our victory.

This college fight song was performed perfectly on key and with far more pep and energy than the sad hymn that preceded it.

Finally, the minister rendered his final blessing and Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral was officially concluded.

“Baby!” cried Carmela, finally able to talk out loud. “What’s up with Billy?”

Furrows appeared in Baby’s patrician brow. “All I know is that Del was on the phone early this mornin’ and that Billy was nowhere to be found.”

“He’d been living at home?” asked Carmela.

Baby gave a brisk nod. “With his parents, Donny and Lenore.”

“So what happened?” asked Carmela.

Baby dropped her voice a notch. “Apparently Billy went out last night and never came back.”

“Is that a fact?” said Carmela, gazing across the open grave to where Jade Ella was smiling and shaking hands, bouncing about like a debutante at her coming-out party. Carmela had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined that Billy Cobb might be one bit guilty.

And now Billy’s taken off into the night. Why? Is he actually running from the police?

She’d have to think about that one.

Why do people run from the police? Elementary, my dear Watson. Because they’re guilty. But Billy isn’t guilty, is he?

Carmela sighed. For all the thought she’d given this, she seemed to be going nowhere. And the meager clues she’d been able to garner seemed utterly useless. The little medallion with the GC insignia ground into it hadn’t led anywhere. Maybe it never would.

“This sure throws a wrench into things,” muttered Carmela.

“Doesn’t it just,” agreed Baby. She pulled a gold silk scarf from her perfect leather handbag and wound it around her neck.

“Tandy’s gonna freak out,” said Carmela.

“No, dear, Tandy’s gonna go ballistic,” said Baby. She hesitated, a slightly stricken look on her face.

“What?” asked Carmela, sensing more.

“There’s more,” said Baby, really looking worried now.

“Judging from the look on your face I’d say there’s a real problem,” said Carmela. “Tell me.”

“It seems our Billy has a police record,” whispered Baby.

“Oh, shit,” said Carmela. “What? What’d Billy do?”

“Small potatoes stuff, mostly,” said Baby. “A few years back, Billy stole a Jaguar XKE in order to impress a prom date.”

“At least he exhibits good taste in cars,” said Carmela. “What else?”

“He got pulled in for smoking pot,” said Baby.

“That’s not good,” said Carmela.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” said Baby. “I never in my wildest dreams saw this coming. I always figured Billy was clean as a whistle.”

“Maybe he is,” said Carmela. She was about to say more, when she saw Jade Ella heading toward them.

“Jade Ella,” said Baby, extending a hand gracefully, “my sincere condolences.”

“Ain’t this a hoot?” exclaimed Jade Ella, taking Baby’s hand. Her eyes shone brightly and her thick, dark hair swished at her shoulders. Carmela decided that Jade Ella looked a little like Cleopatra on Dexedrine. “Talk about dancing on someone’s grave,” Jade Ella babbled on. “But when your ticket is punched, what can you do?”

Carmela studied Jade Ella carefully. Drugs. The woman has to be on drugs. Because Bartholomew Hayward had more than just his ticket punched. The poor man had his throat gouged open.

“Will you keep the shop going?” Carmela asked.

“Why?” said Jade Ella playfully. “Do you need more space?”

“No,” said Carmela slowly. “I was just thinking about the customers and the rather large inventory Barty has amassed. Business considerations, really.”

Jade Ella waved a hand. “Not the sort of thing I want to worry about right now. The store will just have to take care of itself while I get Spa Diva up and running.” She waggled a finger at them. “I expect the two of you to be among our first customers.”

She doesn’t know about Billy, Carmela suddenly realized. She doesn’t know that Billy’s taken off. Should I tell her?

Carmela gave a quick glance toward Baby, whose smile remained frozen in place.

Baby’s not about to say anything. So neither will I. Jade Ella has such a snitty, irreverent attitude about her husband’s death that I’ll be darned if I’m going to bring her into the loop. Besides, she’s just crazy enough to have masterminded some kind of weird plot against Barty.

Carmela watched as Jade Ella moved off into the crowd. Then, lost in thought, Carmela stared out across the whitewashed graves. Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of the city’s oldest cemeteries and most of the graves testified to that fact. Many were cracked and crumbling. Lacy moss crawled up some of the tombs; sleeping angels, their faces eroded with time, kept watch on others.

This may be a place of dark beauty, Carmela thought to herself, but it’s also a place of unrelenting sadness.

Baby touched at Carmela’s elbow. “Sweetie,” she said, “you seem so sad all of a sudden. Want to catch lunch at Commander’s Palace?”

Carmela pulled herself from her dark thoughts and nodded. “Excellent idea.” Commander’s Palace was the rather tony restaurant directly across Washington Avenue from Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. A former speakeasy, the famed turreted turquoise and white Victorian building was the only restaurant to grace the Garden District and it was where TV chef Emeril Lagasse got his start. Though it had long since evolved into a New Orleans institution, Commander’s Palace still enjoyed a reputation as one of New Orleans ’s premier restaurants.

Baby cast a worried glance at the sky as they hurried across the street. “This rain could put a terrible damper on Halloween.”

“Weatherman says there’s a tropical depression brewing out over the Gulf of Mexico,” said Carmela.

Baby frowned. “Can’t be. It’s way too late in the season.” “Tell me about it,” said Carmela. She’d lived in and about New Orleans all her life and the traditional hurricane season generally stretched from June to early October. Still… if an anomaly was going to occur, this seemed to be the place. New Orleans seemed to be ground zero for all manner of strange events, the least of which were hurricanes.

And don’t forget, Carmela told herself, New Orleans’s most famous rum drink is named… what else? The Hurricane!

COMMANDER’S PALACE WAS WARM AND COZY, THE perfect rainy day lunch spot, and Carmela and Baby lucked out by scoring one of the coveted window tables. As Carmela dug in her black leather bag for a Kleenex, Baby spotted a packet of photos.

“May I?” she asked, plucking them from Carmela’s bag.

“Go ahead,” said Carmela. The photos were shots she’d taken a week earlier on a walk through Audubon Park, a 340-acre park that had once been an old sugar cane plantation. Carmela decided it might be fun to get someone’s reaction to them.

“Oh, these are terrific,” cooed Baby.

“Really?” Carmela hadn’t counted on such a favorable review.

“Absolutely,” said Baby as she eagerly scanned the photos. “Very professional looking. Did you print them yourself? ”

Carmela nodded. Photography had changed so much in the last couple years, what with the advent of digital cameras and color printers. Color prints that used to take days and cost a pretty penny to process could now be done in minutes in your own home or office.

“You should have your own show,” declared Baby. “You’re certainly good enough.”

“Hardly,” said Carmela, but she was pleased all the same. When she and Shamus were first dating, she had taken a photography class with him, at his urging. It looked like all the lectures on lighting, composition, and visual text were paying off now.

Just as Carmela finished ordering her eggs de la Salle, a fabulous house specialty that was served with crab cakes and wild mushrooms, her cell phone shrilled.

“ ’Scuse me,” she told Baby, who was still debating over whether to order the turtle soup. “It’s probably Gabby at the store.” Carmela snatched up her phone, punched on her Receive button, and said “Hello.”

“I adore a woman with a morbid streak,” came a rich, resonant male voice.

What? Who on earth is this? wondered Carmela.

“It’s Quigg Brevard,” the voice quickly explained. “I phoned your shop and your assistant assured me you were out wandering the byways of Lafayette Cemetery. I presume you were pondering the great hereafter and soaking up the mournful atmosphere.”

“It wasn’t exactly a pleasure jaunt,” Carmela told him. “I was attending a funeral.”

There was a short pause, then Quigg Brevard said, “Of course, for Bartholomew Hayward.”

“Bingo,” said Carmela, even as she wondered exactly why Quigg Brevard had called. As if you don’t know, you coy girl.

“Listen,” said Quigg, “I need to get some kind of scrapbook put together.”

Oops, survey says… wrong answer! Better tuck that massive ego away for safekeeping.

“You being the proverbial scrapbook lady,” continued Quigg, “I thought we could sit down and talk about a possible project.”

“What kind of scrapbook are you thinking about?” asked Carmela. She put her hand across the phone and murmured a hasty “Sorry” to Baby. Baby, who was engrossed in perusing the wine list while reapplying her lip gloss, smiled and nodded, not in the least bit put off.

“Something that will showcase our party room and catering services,” said Quigg. “And probably our wedding and banquet capabilities, too.”

Carmela nodded. More and more, businesses were noting the merits of putting together scrapbooks to illustrate their products and services. Interior designers had been doing it for years, visually demonstrating to clients their befores and afters. Now floral designers, orthodontists, landscapers, and wedding planners were jumping on the bandwagon and flocking to her shop. Asking questions, taking lessons, buying supplies, and… praise be… even requesting that Carmela put together professional scrapbooks for them.

“When would you like to get together?” Carmela asked Quigg, mentally going over the free time she had available in the coming week.

Yeah, next week is pretty open, that should probably work.

“How about tonight?” Quigg proposed.

“Tonight?” squawked Carmela.

“Absolutely. No time like the present,” Quigg said in his smooth yet enthusiastic manner. “Why don’t you drop by Bon Tiempe around sevenish? And please… come prepared for dinner. Plying you with fine food and wine is the least I can do for requesting your presence at such short notice.”

Charmed and more than just a little bit intrigued, Carmela told Quigg that seven o’clock would work just fine with her. And as she slid her cell phone back into her purse, she decided she’d better make a detour back to her apartment after work. So she could slip into something a touch more appealing.