Photo Finished

Chapter 16

FRIDAY morning dawned dark and dreary. Carmela pulled on a pair of gray wool slacks, a peachy-pink sweater, then a lightweight camel-colored suede jacket.

She’d dreamed about that darned shrimp-processing plant all night. Strange, nightmare images that involved knives, dank conveyor belts, and the layer of feltlike dust that seemed mounded over everything.

And she’d thought fleetingly about that number on the back of the oil painting, too. NMA92107.

What did it mean exactly?

When she arrived at Memory Mine, Carmela decided the easiest way to do some fast research would be to phone Natalie Chastain. She was a museum registrar, after all. It was her bailiwick to know about such things.

But when she dialed Natalie’s number, the phone rang and rang. Carmela was about to give up, when she heard a loud click and then someone came on the line.

“Natalie’s office,” said a male voice.

“Hi there,” said Carmela. “Natalie around?”

“Sorry,” came the voice. “I’m not sure where she’s off to at the moment.”

“Mr. Payne?” asked Carmela.

“Yes, this is Monroe Payne. To whom am I speaking, please?”

“It’s Carmela, Carmela Bertrand. I’m doing the-”

“The menu cards!” said Monroe with a smile in his voice.

“Of course. I’ll tell Natalie you called.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, hesitating slightly, “I had a quick question. Quite unrelated to menu cards.”

“Perhaps I can help?” said Monroe.

Should I? wondered Carmela. Why not? He’s a smart guy, too.

“If you found a series of numbers on the back of a painting, what would that mean to you?” she asked.

“You’re talking about acquisition numbers?” asked Monroe.

“I guess that’s it,” said Carmela. “Hmm.”

“Or deacquisiton numbers,” continued Monroe.

“Deacquistion?” said Carmela. “That’s what-getting rid of a piece of art? Do museums ever do that?”

“Actually,” said Monroe, “they do it all the time. Have private sales, sell to dealers, sell at auction.”

“All museums do this?” asked Carmela.

“Unless they’ve got a storage area with climate-controlled vaults the size of Texas,” Monroe laughed. “Good Lord, you’d be surprised at the things people donate to museums. Old photographs, archaeological relics… someone once tried to give us an elephant’s foot.”

Carmela chatted with Monroe Payne for a few more minutes, then hung up. His information had been valuable, but it hadn’t led anywhere.

Oh well.

“You off now?” asked Gabby as she popped her head into Carmela’s office.

Carmela jumped up, grabbing her handbag and digital camera. “Yup. If anybody calls, just tell ’em I’ll be hanging out in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARS RATTLED BY ON PRYTANIA AS CARMELA, accompanied by Boo, picked her way through the fog-shrouded graves of Lafayette Cemetery. Two days earlier, when she’d come here for the funeral of Bartholomew Hayward, the place had been fairly well populated by the living: mourners for Barty’s funeral, attendees for two other graveside services that had been going on that morning, plus the inevitable flocks of sightseers, tour groups, and amateur vampire hunters. Today, though, just a few stragglers wandered about.

Of all the cemeteries scattered throughout New Orleans, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of Carmela’s favorites. It was incredibly old, highly atmospheric, and chock-full of history.

Established in 1833, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, like most New Orleans cemeteries, had been borne out of terrible necessity, when pestilence, yellow fever, and cholera ravaged the city. Those epidemics often claimed thousands of lives, all in one hideous swoop.

Because New Orleans had been built below sea level, early residents soon learned a bitter lesson. Bodies of their loved ones that were buried underground had a nasty habit of finding their way back to the surface. So it didn’t take long for the aboveground cemetery to be devised. Crypts, mausoleums, and oven vaults were constructed aboveground to receive the bodies of the deceased.

Many of the larger structures bore a keen resemblance to Roman ruins; others spookily sported several stories, like condos for the dead. But what Carmela was most fascinated by were the ancient single tombs. These were three to four feet high and six feet long and resembled whitewashed grave vaults. Many were crumbling and decrepit now, due to the ravages of time, vandalism, and the merciless heat and humidity. Many of these tombs had once been embellished with images of angels, saints, and other heavenly accouterments, which had long since eroded and melted into ghostly forms.

These were the exact images Carmela planned to photograph, then plug into her computer. Once these images were enlarged, she’d print them out on paper as a sort of pattern. Taping these paper patterns to hollowed-out pumpkins, she would use a wood gouge to carve away the background, ending up with a nifty stencil effect. When lights were inserted, her tombstone images would appear in dark outlines against a glowing orange background.

Because there were so many eerie old graves to choose from, Carmela snapped away with her camera, wandering freely among the tombs as Boo trailed on the leash behind her. As she rounded a large multicolumned mausoleum, Carmela ran headlong into Dove Duval.

“Dove!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her thudding heart.

Dove Duval pulled up short, as well. “Why, hello, Carmela,” she said sweetly. “Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

For the third day in a row, rain drizzled down and clouds hung low. The wind delivered a nasty, damp chill and the weather forecasters were still talking hurricane. Lovely day? Carmela figured Dove had to be kidding.

Dove held her umbrella aloft and pressed in uncomfortably close to Carmela. “You must be working on one of your little projects,” Dove purred.

Carmela didn’t much like the way Dove said the word projects. Tugging on the leash, Carmela instantly telegraphed an alert to Boo. And Boo, never a terribly friendly dog to begin with, slid her gums back over her sharp white teeth and uttered a low growl. Grrrrrrr.

Unsettled, Dove took a step backward. “Such a charming creature,” she observed dryly. “Is your dog always this friendly?”

“She’s a Chinese Shar-Pei,” Carmela explained. “Not exactly your warm fuzzy breed. More on the order of chilly-wrinkley. Shar-Peis tend to regard most outsiders as sworn enemies.” Carmela kept a grin pasted on her face even though she didn’t feel particularly smiley toward Dove. “I think it hearkens back to the invasion of Genghis Khan,” she added. Whatever the heck that means, thought Carmela.

But Dove Duval, obviously no genius when it came to history, seemed to accept Carmela’s remark at face value. “I see,” she said.

“And you’re just out for a stroll?” Carmela asked, noting that Boo was holding her tail down instead of in its usual tight curl. The dog was definitely not getting good vibes from Dove.

What are you really doing here, Dove Duval? wondered Carmela. How come you’re lurking around Bartholomew Hayward’s grave? Have you really come for an innocent ramble through the cemetery or are you here to gloat over your handiwork?

“Isn’t this what folks here like to do?” asked Dove, gazing about in what seemed to be a state of blissful rhapsody. “Wander these marvelous old cemeteries and commune with the dead? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I was just snapping a few photos.” She didn’t much feel like explaining her jack-o’lantern-carving project to Dove. In fact, she didn’t feel like explaining anything to her.

“Probably for one of your many scrapbooks,” said Dove, poking bits of choppy blond hair behind her ears. “You’re so creative.” She was obviously dying to know more.

But Carmela was not forthcoming.

“You’re very tight with Baby Fontaine, aren’t you?” Dove said finally.

“She’s one of my dearest friends.”

Dove cocked her head to one side. “Baby comes from an old family?”

“Pretty old,” said Carmela. “Her grandfather was mayor of New Orleans back in the twenties.”

“Very impressive,” said Dove. “And she’s chaired a lot of committees for the Art Institute?”

Carmela nodded. “She’s had her share.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Dove. “I’ve spoken with Monroe Payne a few times about a possible winter fund-raiser.”

“Okay,” said Carmela. So that was it. Dove was bound and determined to chair her own fund-raiser. She probably assumed that, once you were chairman of an event, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to a seat on the board of directors. Carmela knew it was actually a very long and arduous leap.

“And although my concept is still a little looseygoosey,” continued Dove, “I’ve been tossing around the idea of an upscale food event. A tasting, to be precise.”

“You mean like a wine tasting?” asked Carmela.

“Because the docents at the Zoological Society are already doing that. Have been for five or six years now.”

“I was actually considering something a tad more upscale,” said Dove, her eyes gleaming. “Perhaps a caviar and vodka tasting. Maybe give it a catchy name. Call it Night of the Czars or something like that. What do you think?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Might work.”

Dove looked at her sharply. “Monroe Payne was extremely enthusiastic, Carmela.”

“He’d be the one to know. From what I hear, Monroe Payne has definitely got his finger on the pulse of the donors.” Carmela tugged at Boo’s leash and the two of them started to edge away.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” said Dove.

“Nice seeing you,” said Carmela, deciding she was pretty close to making a clean break.

“Have fun now,” said Dove, waggling her fingers and pulling her dark green velvet cape about her shoulders. “See you tomorrow night.” She paused. “And Carmela…”

Carmela hesitated, a slight frown crossing her face. “Yes?”

“I can’t wait for you to see my arrangement!”

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE GOT BACK TO HER SHOP that Carmela had a chance to take a look at the photographs Quigg Brevard had given her. But first, of course, she had to drop off her car at home, put Boo in the apartment, then pop across the courtyard to say hello to Ava and Tyrell, who were practically going berserk from all the customers who were crowded inside their little incense-filled store. Then Carmela hotfooted it back to Memory Mine on Governor Nicholls Street.

“Hey there,” said Gabby, who was demonstrating some new templates for a couple customers. “Help yourself to some pumpkin soup. It’s in the back room.”

“You cooked?”

Gabby put a hand to her forehead, simulating utter shock. “Surely you jest. No, Baby dropped off a pot of soup earlier. Said she had tons of pumpkin meat left over.”

“I’ll just bet she does,” said Carmela.

With a mug of Baby’s pumpkin soup heating in the microwave, Carmela sat down at her desk and spread out the photos Quigg Brevard had given her. Most were your fairly typical party shots. Not the lampshade-on-your-head variety, but still all the subjects looked fairly garrulous and affable. Men and women flirting, toasting, hugging, kissing.

There were several shots of a wedding reception, with a bride in a big poufy dress that looked a little like a wedding cake itself. And, surprise, surprise, there were also a few photos of Bartholomew Hayward hosting a summer soiree on the back patio of Bon Tiempe.

The timer on the microwave dinged and Carmela jumped up to fetch her soup. It was steaming like mad, but she took a sip anyway. Wonderful. Baby was a superb cook, even though she was forever claiming she wasn’t and usually opted to have her dinner parties catered.

Carmela carried her mug of soup back to her desk and focused, once again, on the photos of Bartholomew Hayward’s party. She could faintly recall that the summer before, Barty had staged a big promotion that he’d called his American Painters Expo. It had been by invitation only and she hadn’t been one of the chosen. But, judging from the attendees in the photograph, quite a few socially prominent art lovers had RSVP’d and shown up to peruse his selection of rather enchanting paintings.

In two shots Carmela could clearly see that paintings in large, decorative frames had been set up on easels ringing the courtyard. And that the guests were drinking, chowing down, and actually gazing at the paintings with what could only be called rapt attention. Carmela wondered how successful the event had been and then decided that, with the huge resurgence in art collecting and art investing today, Barty had probably made himself a small fortune. She also wondered how authentic they were, although from the looks of things, the paintings looked surprisingly good. Far better than Barty’s other merchandise.

“Carmela?”

Carmela turned her head and raised her eyebrows at Gabby. “Need some help?” she asked. She set her mug down. “I can sure…”

“It’s not that,” said Gabby, fidgeting. She dropped her voice. “That police detective is back.”

“Lieutenant Babcock?”

Gabby gave a tight nod. “He wants to talk to you.”

“No problem,” said Carmela. “Send the gentleman back.” By the time she’d scooped up all the photos and deposited them in the top drawer of her desk, Edgar Babcock was standing in her doorway.

“Please,” she said, indicating a slightly rickety director’s chair, “have a seat.”

It was tight quarters in her office and the chair was none too comfy, but Lieutenant Babcock didn’t seem to mind.

“What brings you back to Memory Mine?” asked Carmela. “Still looking for a birthday gift for that scrapbooking sister of yours?”

He smiled mildly.

Lieutenant Babcock was a pretty cool customer, Carmela decided. Really knew how to play it close to the vest. He was also one of those people who left lots of gaps in the conversation. The kind of gaps an extremely nervous person, someone who had something to hide, would probably struggle to fill in.

“Actually,” said Babcock, crossing his legs, “I’m doing a little research on paint.” His pleasant smile never wavered. “Gilt paint.”

“Would that be the type of gilt paint that was found on a certain scissors?” asked Carmela.

“It would.”

“Mn-hm,” she said noncommittally.

“It might also be the type of paint used on certain scrapbook pages.”

Carmela leaned back in her chair and her heart did a tiny flip-flop.

“I don’t believe it’s the same type of paint at all,” she said. She knew most of her paint was acrylic-based and assumed the paint found on the latex gloves was oil-based. Most paints and stains used in furniture refinishing were oil-based.

“Still,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “it might be worthwhile for our lab to run a few tests.”

“Is one of my customers under suspicion?” she asked. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Babcock gave her a mild smile. “Not at all. We’re simply attempting to rule people out.”

“Like you tried to rule out Billy Cobb?”

“Billy Cobb is no angel,” said Babcock.

“Billy Cobb is also not a murderer,” replied Carmela.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Yes, I do. I am.” Carmela fought to keep her voice even.

Babcock suddenly leaned forward, an expression of grave concern on his face. “Can I be perfectly frank with you?”

“Please,” said Carmela. It had pretty much been her experience that anyone who said they wanted to be perfectly frank with you was probably setting you up for a nice juicy lie.

“We’re not making a lot of forward progress in this investigation,” said Lieutenant Babcock, as though he were letting her in on a big secret. “We need all the help we can get.”

“And you want my help?” said Carmela.

“Do you have any to give?”

Carmela hesitated. Actually, this man did seemed rather committed. And, because her bullshit detector didn’t seem to be going off too badly, she decided he might even be one of the honest ones. She wondered if there was any way she could bring Billy Cobb together with Lieutenant Babcock. Convince Billy to turn himself in. And, at the same time, convince Babcock to focus on what she deemed was the real investigation. If Billy’s name could be cleared, the police could get back to searching for the real murderer.

But Billy was hiding out God knew where. And Carmela had no way to reach him. Billy had her phone number, but would he call? That was the $64,000 question.

Lieutenant Babcock cleared his throat. “It would help enormously,” he said, “if you could give us sample bottles of all the gilt paint you carry here in your shop.”

“To rule us out,” said Carmela.

Lieutenant Babcock offered her a sad smile and Carmela wondered for about the twentieth time if she should say something to him about Jade Ella Hayward and Dove Duval. In her book, both women seemed incredibly suspicious. If there was any ruling out-or in-to be done, they were a good place to start.

But she didn’t. At this point, it seemed that any accusations on her part would just come across as smoke screen or sour grapes.

BY FIVE THIRTY, GABBY HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR the day, and Carmela was ready to call it quits. She’d fiddled unhappily at her computer, torn between wondering about Billy Cobb’s innocence and placing a couple Internet orders for restocks on paper and craft boxes. Now, just as she was about to switch the phone over to the answering service, it started to ring.

Rats, she thought as she picked up the phone, don’t let it be another customer. God bless ’em all, but I’m wrecked. Totally wrecked.

“Carmela?” came a glib-sounding voice. “Carmela Bertrand?”

“Yes?”

“Glad I caught you. This is Clark Berthume from Click! Gallery.” There was a pause. “You know our shop?”

“Yes,” she said again, wondering what on earth this was all about. And suddenly leaping to the conclusion that perhaps Shamus had finally gotten the photography show he’d wanted. So Clark Berthume was calling to ask… what? To design some sort of invitation or poster or something?

“A friend of mine, Jade Ella Hayward, passed along a few photos you took,” said Clark effusively. “I daresay, I was absolutely bowled over by them.”

“You’re calling about my photos?” said Carmela, suddenly at a loss for words. “What photos?”

“Why, the fashion sequence you did for Spa Diva, of course.”

“No, no,” protested Carmela. “There was no fashion sequence.” She glanced about as if hoping someone would rush to her rescue. No one did. No one was there. “There must be some terrible mistake,” Carmela laughed. “I was horsing around in the park a few weeks ago at the same time Jade Ella had a fashion shoot going on. Just for fun, I took a few shots of the models, too. Alongside the hired photographer. The real photographer.” Carmela took a deep breath. “So you see, they’re not fashion shots at all.”

“But you printed them and passed them on to Jade Ella.”

Carmela racked her brain. She guessed she did. “I guess I did.”

“And she used one of them on the cover of her brochure,” said Clark Berthume.

Carmela chewed at her lip. “Could be.”

“Well, the shots look extremely professional to me,” said Clark Berthume. “In fact, you seem to have captured a certain blasé high fashion attitude and quirky sense of style. Which brings me to the reason I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a small show?”

“A show?” Carmela’s voice rose in a surprised squawk. “Me?”

There was a polite chuckle. “Well, that would be the general idea, yes.”

“Perhaps I didn’t completely make my point,” protested Carmela, still stunned by the invitation. “I’m not a professional photographer.” Photography, to her, still seemed like more of a by-product of scrapbooking. Shamus was the one with professional aspirations, wasn’t he?

“Miss Bertrand,” said Clark Berthume, “the black-and-white prints I have spread out on my desk at the moment are really quite stunning. They tell me you’re a very fine photographer.”

Damn Jade Ella, thought Carmela. Why did she do this? Why did she have to show those stupid photos to Clark Berthume?

“Can I call you back?” stuttered Carmela.

“Not a problem,” said Clark Berthume. “When can I expect to hear from you?”

Next year. Never. “Next week?” asked Carmela. “Monday afternoon at the latest,” cautioned Clark Berthume. “I’m trying to fix the schedule.”