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Chapter 11

THE French Market between Decatur and North Peters Streets had been standing for well over one hundred and fifty years. A large, almost open-air building, the French Market bustled with vendors, food stands, and souvenir shops. Strands of braided garlic, known as prayer beads, hung from the rafters above the various farmers’ market stalls that brimmed with brightly colored produce.

Here you could also buy grilled alligator on a stick, honest-to-goodness Creole pecan pralines, and jars of mind-blowing hot sauce.

At the uptown end of the market sat Café Du Monde. Open twenty-four hours a day, this landmark institution was famous for its beignets, square doughnuts sans holes and liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar, as well as its inventive blend of chicory coffee and steamed milk, known forever as café au lait.

As Carmela hurried down the jostling center aisle to meet Jekyl Hardy, she was reminded just how tacky, wacky, and infinitely appealing the French Market really was. Smells of cinnamon and cardamom perfumed the air, and a lovely mélange of accents-Creole, Cajun, Louisianan, and African American-floated past her. Though Carmela didn’t exactly have time for coffee with Jekyl today, she was here anyway. Because they were good friends, they tried to make time for each other at least once a week.

Lean and wiry, his dark hair pulled into a small, sleek ponytail, Jekyl Hardy sat at a creaky wooden table sipping a double espresso. Dressed impeccably in his traditional black, Jekyl looked ethereal and slightly predatory, not unlike the infamous vampire Lestat who frequented New Orleans via Anne Rice’s novels. As the head float designer for the Pluvius and Nepthys krewes, Jekyl Hardy was generally in a state of sublime excitation once Mardi Gras loomed on the horizon. But for right now, Jekyl was focused mainly on his business of art and antique consulting. As he’d once confided to Carmela, “the float building’s for sport; the art and antiques consulting is for money.”

Carmela slipped into the chair across from Jekyl. “Boo!” she said by way of announcing herself.

He gazed at her morosely. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Jekyl, you love Halloween. You’re the only man I know who’s got a walk-in closet devoted just to costumes.”

“I don’t love it this year,” he told her.

“What’s wrong?” asked Carmela as she tucked her handbag under her chair, quickly ordered a coffee, and leaned in to listen to him.

“If I ever volunteer for Monsters & Old Masters again, kindly drag me into a swamp and shoot me with a silver bullet.”

“That bad?” asked Carmela.

“How do I let myself get talked into these things?” moaned Jekyl. “It’s taken a committee of five people forever to decide on twenty simple works of art.”

Carmela grinned. Jekyl was notorious for letting himself get stretched too thin. He might be a whirling dervish of activity, but nobody could be a volunteer with the Children’s Art Association, the Humane Society, and the Art Institute, head two float-building krewes for Mardi Gras, and run a consulting business. It wasn’t humanly possible.

“Natalie told me the list of artworks would be finalized by end of day tomorrow,” said Carmela. “Anyway, it better be. I’m the one doing the description tags for Saturday night’s event.”

Jekyl sighed, then took another sip of espresso. “Monroe Payne may be a wildly creative museum director, but he’s also very well named. Just as his name implies, the man can be an incredible pain. He’s constantly changing his mind.”

“I met Monroe Payne the other night,” said Carmela. “When I was at Glory’s house.”

Jekyl Hardy pulled his lips into a wicked smile. “Sleeping with the enemy, are we?”

“Nope,” said Carmela, “just plain old socializing.”

“Of that I approve,” said Jekyl. “But I hope filing for divorce remains numero uno on your personal agenda, my dear Ms. Bertrand.”

Carmela nodded her head in the affirmative.

“You sure about that?” prodded Jekyl. He’d been through more than a few go-rounds with Carmela on this divorce business. He pushing, she resisting.

Now Carmela looked downright sad. “Afraid so,” she said.

Jekyl reached over and touched one of her hands. “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you upset. Honest.”

Carmela managed a smile. “You didn’t upset me, Jekyl. I upset me.” No, Shamus upset me. Still burned into her memory was the image of the blond in the black cocktail dress with Shamus’s hand roving toward that keyhole cutout. Cad.

Jekyl waved a hand. “Sorry I’m so tediously distracted today, but I gave Natalie my solemn promise that I’d design a couple killer jack-o’-lanterns to light the museum’s front entrance Saturday night… and now I have this last-minute thing I might have to do.”

“What thing is that?” Carmela asked.

“There’s a big antiques conference up in St. Louis this weekend, and one of the speakers, a real antiques honcho, had to cancel. So they called me this morning and asked me to pinch-hit. All expenses paid plus a fairly decent stipend.” Jekyl rolled his eyes. “Plus there are undoubtedly connections to be made.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” said Carmela, always a big “seize the moment” proponent.

Jekyl Hardy fidgeted. “I don’t know… ”

They both paused, listening to the mellow saxophone strains that wafted over from nearby street musicians. Even in the rain, the street musicians were cranking out their moody, bluesy tunes. Carmela hoped the tourists were generous, pitching their quarters and dollar bills into the musicians’ open, empty felt-lined cases. ’Cause these guys were good.

“Tell you what,” said Carmela. “You go to St. Louis and I’ll carve the jack-o’-lanterns for Natalie.”

“How are you going to manage that, pray tell?” asked Jekyl. “Your schedule’s got to be as jammed as mine.”

“I’ll corral Ava and we’ll make time.”

“Really?” asked Jekyl, a hopeful look lighting his face.

“No problem,” said Carmela. You go to St. Louis and be a star. Whip ’em into a frenzy with that great ‘Fakes and Forgeries’ talk you do.”

Can I get all this done? Carmela wondered. Sure I can. Of course I can. Gulp.

“A thousand blessings on your head,” proclaimed Jekyl.

BY THE TIME CARMELA FINISHED A FEW ERRANDS and got back to Memory Mine, it was after five. The sign hanging on the front door said CLOSED, and Gabby was nowhere to be found.

Of course Gabby’s gone, Carmela told herself. Closed means closed. Gabby went home to make dinner for Stuart, the car czar.

Stuart was notorious for having low blood sugar. When Stuart didn’t eat on time, all hell broke loose. He once gobbled half a dozen Three Musketeers bars during the last quarter of a New Orleans Saints game because he claimed he was suffering from a low blood sugar “attack” brought on by his beloved team’s desultory performance.

Carmela shuffled back toward her office. She wanted to take a couple scrapbook pages with her to Bon Tiempe. Quigg Brevard might think he knew what he wanted, but Carmela still wanted to do a little show-and-tell. And she for sure wanted Quigg to look at the sample scrapbook pages she’d put together for Lotus Floral and the pages she’d done for Romanoff’s Bakery.

Okay, where the heck are those pages? Where did I put them?

Carmela whipped open three drawers in the flat file in rapid succession, but came up empty. Frowning, she decided the pages had to be stashed somewhere in this cubbyhole of an office.

Cramped, crowded, and cluttered, her office wasn’t exactly a model office deserving of a center spread in Architectural Digest. In fact, her office was definitely due for a makeover. Or a cleanup. Or maybe even a full-scale intervention.

Carmela wondered if there were twelve-step programs for junk junkies, then decided there had to be. There were twelve-step programs for everything else. Heck, there were probably twelve-step programs for people who ate glue.

Finally, in the bottom drawer of her battered wooden desk, Carmela found the scrapbook pages she’d been searching for.

Hah! Gotcha.

Now she had to beat feet home, hit the shower, and wiggle into a cute little dress.

Right?

As if in answer to her question, a sharp knock sounded at her back door.

Ava? No, can’t be. Tonight Ava’s supposed to be shepherding Sweetmomma Pam to an early dinner at Brennan’s and then a jazz concert at Pete Fountain’s club over in the Hilton.

So who’s tapping on my back door? Quoth the Raven, Nevermore?

Carmela padded to the door and hesitated. Putting an ear to the heavy reinforced steel door, she listened for a couple seconds, but could hear nothing.

“Who’s there?” she called, then added in an emphatic tone: “I’m sorry, but the shop is closed.”

“Carmela?” came a low muffled voice. “It’s me.”

“Who’s me?” she called warily.

“Billy. I-”

Flinging open the door, Carmela was stunned to find Billy Cobb standing at her back door. Looking utterly forlorn and bedraggled in a faded checked shirt and frayed blue jeans, he was the last person she expected to turn up here.

“Billy! What on earth…?” Carmela began.

But Billy simply stared at her and continued to look mournful.

Carmela did a fast scan of the alley. Then she reached out, plucked at Billy’s shirtsleeve, and reeled him in. “Get in here,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you know everyone is looking for you? The police are looking for you, for goodness’ sake. And your poor family… well, they’re worried sick!”

Under her prodding, Billy Cobb hustled himself inside and closed the heavy door behind him.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Carmela asked.

Billy screwed up his face in a look of sublime unhappiness. “I… I don’t know what’s going on.”

Always a results-oriented person, this was not the answer Carmela wanted to hear. She decided to take a different approach in her line of questioning.

“Billy, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened last Saturday night, did you?” she asked.

“No, of course not!”

Carmela stared at him. He looked believable, sounded believable.

“The police are trying to railroad me,” he protested.

“Any idea why?” she asked.

“I think because I’m convenient,” he said, one hand raking through his mop of hair.

Carmela stared at Billy. He was a kid who’d been in trouble with the law, he wasn’t a property owner or a business owner, and he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was sure this wasn’t the first time the police had taken the path of least resistance.

“Listen, Billy, did Bartholomew Hayward get a lot of late-night deliveries?”

Billy shook his head. “I dunno. If he did, he always took care of them himself.”

“Do you have any idea who killed Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Carmela.

Something akin to fear crept into Billy’s expression. “No, of course not,” he answered. “But…” He cast his eyes downward.

“Billy,” said Carmela, her voice softening, “has someone threatened you?”

Billy’s mouth twitched, but no words issued forth. Finally he nodded. “Just tell my family I’m okay, will you? Can you do that for me?”

“I’d like to do more than that,” said Carmela. “I’d like to help if I can.”

“Then stay out of it,” pleaded Billy. “Because right now, the best thing for me to do is disappear for a while.” He spun back toward the door and grasped the doorknob.

“Billy,” said Carmela. She grabbed a pad of paper, scrawled her cell phone number on it, and pressed it into his hand. “Call me, will you? Let me know you’re okay.”

Billy pulled open the door and a gush of cold, damp air swept in. He hesitated, his back to Carmela. “I’ll try…”

And with that, Billy Cobb was out the door.

“Billy, please…,” said Carmela.

But he’d already melted into the darkness.