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Chapter 21

“CARMELA,” said Gabby, her face scrunched into a worried grimace, “I think Stuart’s havin’ one of his low blood sugar attacks.”

“Um… didn’t Stuart just eat, Gabby?” Carmela had just poured glass after glass of sugar-enhanced orange juice down Glory Meechum’s gullet to revive her, and now Gabby was pressing her about yet another health crisis. What am I? An ER doc?

Gabby gestured helplessly at her husband, who was sprawled in his chair, staring up at Ava with a foolish grin. “He didn’t eat that much,” explained Gabby. “He was pretty busy jumping up and down, gallivanting around to neighboring tables, and saying how-do to folks.”

“Uh-huh,” said Carmela. “Trying to sell cars?”

“Lester Dorian did mention that he might be trading in his Cadillac, and Stuart was trying to get him to go for the big Toyota.”

“With the luxury package,” said Carmela.

“Of course,” said Gabby. “And the GPS. Anyway,” she continued, “the food’s all cleared away and since you’re personally acquainted with the caterer and his head chef, I thought maybe you could… you know…”

“Get some food for Stuart,” said Carmela.

“Could you do that?” asked Gabby. “I really hate to leave Stuart sitting here all by himself. He’s so shaky and rambling. You never know what could happen.”

Right, thought Carmela. Stuart might get spirited off by forest elves. Or, worse yet, rival car dealers. “Okay, Gabby, but just hold on a minute, okay?”

“How come everybody’s droppin’ like flies?” asked Ava as she dug in her evening bag for a packet of Clorets. “It’s like we’re on one of those big cruise ships or something.”

“That’s right,” said Carmela, “the Voyage of the Damned. Now, for the pièce de résistance all we need is a rousing case of Legionnaires’ disease.”

“Chew this,” Ava instructed Stuart as she shook a Cloret out of the package and handed it to him. “No, honey, don’t just swallow it in one gulp, it’s not a pill.” Ava sighed mightily as she passed him another Cloret. “Here. Try it again. And this time chew!”

Carmela checked her watch as she sped across the ballroom. Five minutes to nine. Where had the evening gone? Had she even had a few moments to relax and have a bit of fun? Hell no.

In fact, she was beginning to feel like some poor shlub in a Marx Brothers comedy where everything was spiraling out of control. Not only did she have to find a couple bites of food for Stuart, preferably something sweet and chewy, she had to surreptitiously meet Billy Cobb at the side door, try to locate Lt. Edgar Babcock, and then see if she could engineer some sort of truce between Billy and the New Orleans Police Department. Could she really pull all that off? Only if she was suddenly brandishing a bright blue Superwoman cape and a pair of silver bracelets.

As Carmela breezed down the corridor that led toward the employee lunchroom and administrative offices, she thought about how she’d been forced to abandon her original plan.

So much for my notion of finding the real killer. I gave it a shot and failed miserably. Ran across a few suspicious people, but never found any concrete evidence that linked them to Barty Hayward’s murder. And, Lord knows, you have to have evidence.

Carmela turned into the small kitchen. Two women were beginning the daunting task of washing dishes and stacking plates.

“Is there any bread pudding left?” Carmela asked.

One of the women shrugged. “Check next door.” Carmela popped next door to the employee lunchroom. The long tables were piled with a jumble of boxes, food platters covered with plastic wrap, and half-empty silver serving platters. Waiters rushed in and out, depositing empty wine decanters, serving utensils, and bread baskets. Nobody seemed to notice her.

Poking through the debris on one table, Carmela found a large cake pan that still contained a few lemon bars sprinkled generously with powdered sugar. She searched around, found a small china dessert plate, and scooped two of the lemon bars onto the plate. They were a little squishy by now, but Carmela decided Stuart would just have to rough it.

Glancing at her watch, Carmela saw it was almost time to meet Billy at the Perrier Street door.

Uh-oh, better take care of that first.

Clutching her plate of lemon bars, Carmela slipped out of the lunchroom and made her way farther down the corridor, away from the bright lights and clatter into semi-darkness and quiet. Natalie Chastain’s office was down this way. So was Monroe Payne’s office and those of the various curators.

Carmela’s plan was simple if not simplistic: Put Billy at ease, try to get him to come inside with her, then quietly reason with him. And then, at the magic moment, Lt. Edgar Babcock would appear. Helpful and rational. An honest, forthright representative of the New Orleans Police Department who would help straighten things out.

Good heavens, she thought to herself, isn’t this a grand fantasy? I’m really making this guy Babcock into a regular Dudley Do-Right.

When Carmela was halfway down the corridor, hurrying to meet Billy, one of the lemon bars slipped off the plate. Tumbled end over end and landed with a splotch, the white powdered sugar spilling out around it.

Nice going, klutz.

Carmela wrinkled her nose and stared down at the mess.

Okay, one lemon bar down, one to go. We’ll deal with this happy little accident on the return trip.

AT FIRST CARMELA THOUGHT BILLY HAD STOOD her up. She pushed open the heavy metal door, leaned out, peered into swirling darkness as rain pelted down and lightning strobed in the sky overhead.

Then she saw him. Walking swiftly toward her, splashing haphazardly through puddles of standing water. Billy’s head was tucked down and the collar of his dark blue pea coat was turned up against the battering wind and rain.

“Billy, over here,” Carmela called, waving to him.

Billy ducked through the doorway in a cold wash of rain, then the door snicked shut behind him.

Carmela put a hand on Billy’s shoulder and exhaled slowly. The boy looked cold and drenched, his youthful face tired and drawn. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up,” she told him. Now that he was actually here, she wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed.

Billy faced her as he slowly dripped water on the marble floor. “Do you have the money?” he asked tiredly. His eyes sought out the plate she was clutching. “What’s that?”

“Lemon bar,” said Carmela, thrusting the plate into his hands. “Listen, Billy, did you know about Barty’s storage space across the river?”

Billy accepted the plate and frowned. “I knew about it, yeah.”

“You used to go over there with him?” she asked.

The boy shook his head. “Nope.”

“But you talked to Barty about it?”

Billy gave a shrug. “Not really. I just heard him mention it a couple times.”

“To people in the store?” Carmela asked.

Billy thought for a minute. “More like on the phone, I think.”

“On the phone,” repeated Carmela.

“Yeah,” said Billy. “He was probably talkin’ to the delivery guys. I think that’s where Barty had ’em take the really crappy stuff.”

“You’re sure?” asked Carmela as, around the corner, she heard a sudden shuffle of footsteps.

Carmela touched a warning finger to her lips… Shhhh… as she and Billy flattened against the wall.

The footsteps stopped, then there was the distinct jingle of keys. Someone must be letting themselves into one of the offices, Carmela decided. Maybe Natalie?

She peeked around the corner, caught a flash of rich red silk. No, that had to be Monroe Payne in his Peking Opera costume. Probably come to fetch Glory’s Founder’s Award. The presentation was probably going to kick off fairly soon and Glory would receive her fancy engraved trophy now that she was back on her feet.

Okay now, how am I going to find Edgar Babcock… and drag Billy to meet him?

There was a sudden cry of dismay, then Monroe uttered a single low word: “Damn.”

Oops, thought Carmela, I think Monroe Payne just stepped in that lemon bar.

She poked her head out slightly to take a look. In the dim light she could see Monroe hopping along, trying to scrape something off the bottom of his shoe. Yellow goop, no doubt.

Sorry, Monroe.

As Carmela and Billy stood there in silence, someone else came clattering down the hallway. There was a low exchange of voices, something about a disgruntled donor, and Carmela also heard Monroe mutter, “Idiot food-service people.” Then Monroe and whoever it was that had spoken to him hurried back down the hallway, away from them.

Now it was Billy’s turn to stick his head around the corner for a quick peek.

“Are they gone?” hissed Carmela.

Billy nodded.

“Come on, then,” said Carmela, plucking at his jacket. “Let’s go.”

But Billy was suspicious. “Go where?”

“Uh… just down the hall a little. We’ve got to talk.”

Reluctantly, Billy allowed Carmela to pull him down the corridor in the direction Monroe Payne had just retreated.

When they got to the now-decimated lemon bar, Carmela glanced down at the mess, then paused. What the…?

“What’s wrong?” asked Billy.

“Got to get more light,” she muttered. “Take a closer look at something.”

Monroe Payne’s office door was open a couple inches. Voilà. Perfect. In his haste, Monroe had left his office unlocked.

Pushing the door open, Carmela’s eyes searched the darkness. A small lamp burned on Monroe ’s expansive mahogany desk. But not enough candlepower for her purposes. Carmela searched around the door frame for a light switch, finally found it, hit it with her hand.

Yellow light spilled into the hallway and Carmela was finally able to get a good look at the splotched lemon bar.

“What?” asked Billy, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, obviously aching to get the hell out of there.

But Carmela’s eyes had traveled to the wide arc of powdered sugar that was spread out around the mess in the corridor.

“Oh no,” she breathed.

Carmela bent down on one knee, staring, not quite believing. And like a cartographer reading the latitude and longitude of a map, her index finger traced above a faint gridlike pattern that was imprinted in the spill of powdered sugar.

“What?” asked Billy, picking up on her radical shift in attitude. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Close,” said Carmela hoarsely. She grabbed Billy by the lapels, pulled him into Monroe ’s office. “We’ve got to check something out,” she told him.

“What?” he asked.

“Shhh,” she said as her eyes flicked around his office, taking everything in.

Monroe Payne’s office was twice the size of Natalie Chastain’s. He had a large executive desk, two leather club chairs facing it, and, over by the window, a nice-looking round wooden conference table with four chairs pulled in around it. Two of his walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases stacked with oversized art books, Chinese ceramics, pre-Columbian vases, Greek urns, and some rolled-up Japanese hand scrolls. Exactly the mishmash of objects you’d expect to find in a museum director’s office.

Carmela’s eyes fell on a closet door.

Let’s just take a quick look-see.

She pulled at the closet door, grimaced as it swung open with a loud creak.

And found… clothes. Thud.

There was a khaki raincoat, a couple light blue shirts, a gray tweed sport coat, a couple striped rep ties tossed carelessly over a wooden hanger.

Carmela stared at these items, bit her lower lip, exhaled slowly. And wondered if her snap assumption about Monroe Payne had been that off base.

Hmm. Maybe.

She dropped to her knees, pawed haphazardly around on the closet floor. And came up with… what else?… a pair of shoes. Nice brown leather wing tips that looked to be maybe a size ten or eleven. She picked one up and held it for a moment, the leather feeling cool and slick in her hand. Then, pulling in a deep breath, Carmela turned one of the wing tips over.

And saw the letters GC imbedded in the rubber.

GC! Ohmygod!

Carmela righted the shoe, peered inside. Giorgio Cortina. GC was Giorgio Cortina, the shoe’s Italian manufacturer. A men’s shoe manufacturer!

Carmela closed her eyes and a shiver of excitement coursed through her.

Bartholomew Hayward and Monroe Payne must have had business dealings together. Business dealings that went terribly wrong!

Is this enough evidence to tie Monroe Payne to Bartholomew Hayward’s murder and clear Billy? It has to be. Carmela paused, thinking hard. But what about motive?

No. She decided she had to forgo worrying about motive for now. The first order of business was for her and Billy to get the hell out of this office and find Lt. Edgar Babcock.

“What the hell’s going on?” Billy demanded suddenly. He’d been watching her closely, shifting about nervously.

“We’ve got a big problem,” Carmela told him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, wary.

Carmela stared at him. “I think Monroe Payne killed Bartholomew Hayward.”

“What!” It took Billy a few seconds to digest this. “You’re talking about that museum guy?” he asked.

“Right,” said Carmela. “Did he hang around Menagerie Antiques? Was he a friend of Barty’s?”

“Tall guy? Slicked-back hair?” asked Billy.

“Yes, yes!” said Carmela. “Monroe Payne.” She glanced about nervously. They really did have to get out of there.

“He was at the shop sometimes,” said Billy. “But I wouldn’t call them friends.” His face contorted. “Jeez, if you think… well, shouldn’t we call the cops or something?”

“Exactly my thinking,” said Carmela, noting how quickly Billy’s attitude about cops had flip-flopped. But her heart suddenly sank as she heard footsteps coming back. “Quick,” she whispered to Billy as she pawed for the switch and doused the light. “Get in the closet.” She gave Billy a rough shove, was about to dive in herself when…

Click.

Carmela’s heart beat a timpani solo as the office door swung slowly open.

Uh-oh. Bad timing. Very bad timing.

A shadowy figure leaned in.

Could Lieutenant Babcock have somehow found his way to this office? Could she be that lucky? Carmela gazed apprehensively into the darkness, but the tiny spill of light from the desk lamp wasn’t enough to illuminate the figure in the doorway.

“Hello, Carmela.” The voice rang cold as tempered steel, but held a note of arrogance as well.

Oh no!

Monroe Payne stepped slowly into the light. And any hope Carmela had of Lt. Edgar Babcock magically showing up suddenly died.

Slowly, like a bad dream playing out in slow motion, Monroe Payne raised his arm. He held a gun. An ugly little snub-nosed Beretta. Not a terrible amount of stopping power, but certainly enough to do the job at close range.

Carmela stared at Monroe, feeling stupid, useless, and sick to her stomach. She wanted to cry, to rage, to plead. This wasn’t how the scenario was supposed to play out! This was all wrong!

Monroe took a measured step closer to Carmela and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you.” He stared at the upended shoe in her hand. “You and your stupid investigating. Had to go snooping around! Get suspicious about footprints and acquisition numbers.” He waggled a finger at her. “Well, we certainly can’t have that.”

Still clutching the shoe, Carmela tried to discreetly heft her handbag. Could she smack Monroe in the face with it? Rake him with the sharp beads? Could she rush at him full tilt, then duck and spin past him?

But that would leave poor Billy still hunkered down in the closet.

“You and I are going for a little ride,” said Monroe. His voice was cold, menacing. Carmela could imagine the final destination of that little ride. Bayou with quicksand? Mississippi River backwater? Gator-infested swamp?

But now there was the faint sound of more footsteps approaching.

“Carmela?” A tentative voice echoed from down the corridor. It was Ava. “Are you down here, honey?”

“Don’t make a sound,” snarled Monroe.

Carmela stared at him, took a calculated risk. “Call the police, Ava!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the distinct sound of Ava retreating posthaste. Of her clattering down the corridor and letting out a mighty yell.

“You bitch!” screamed Monroe. Gun raised, he turned toward the door and as he did, Carmela swung her beaded bag at him. If she could rake his cheek, knock him off balance…

But pffft, like a swift-moving phantom, Monroe Payne was gone. He’d spun on his pricey Italian loafers and slipped out the door as quickly and silently as he’d entered.

Carmela hesitated for a few shocked seconds, then moved toward the door.

A second high-pitched scream ricocheted down the marble hallway.

What on earth? thought Carmela. She flung herself around the corner, pounded down the hallway in the direction of the piercing scream.

Thirty feet down, outside the lunchroom, a small knot of people milled about. From the startled looks on their faces, they seemed collectively stunned.

“What happened?” cried Carmela. “Who screamed?” Chef Ricardo pushed his way through the knot to Carmela, his arms cartwheeled frantically. “He took her! The man with the gun took her!”

Monroe Payne took Ava? No, he couldn’t have. Ava’s lean and strong from twice-weekly Tae-Bo classes. Plus she had a head start on Monroe.

As if on cue, Ava suddenly appeared. “Sweetmomma Pam!” she cried. “She followed me down here and Monroe Payne grabbed her! He was waving a gun around and he just picked her up like a rag doll and held her in front of him!”

“Like a human shield!” added Chef Ricardo.

Carmela’s heart filled with dread. “Quick! Where did they go?” she asked.

“Outside the building!” Chef Ricardo told Carmela, gesturing wildly.

“Where did who go?” asked Shamus, suddenly appearing in the fray.

Ava’s face blanched white. “Monroe Payne kidnapped my poor granny!” she shrieked.

“Good Lord,” said Shamus, stunned. He looked at Carmela. “Really?”

She gave a sick nod.

Alarmed by the shouting, another glut of people suddenly poured into the hallway. As if in a dream, Carmela saw Baby, Del, Tandy, and Quigg Brevard stream toward them. Billy Cobb hurried down the hallway from the opposite direction, still carrying the plate with the lemon bar.

“Sweetmomma Pam was kidnapped?” cried Baby, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god! That dear sweet lady!”

“We gotta get her back!” shrilled Ava.

“Find Lieutenant Edgar Babcock,” Carmela told her. “Now!”

“Where?” pleaded Ava, verging on hysteria.

“He’s here somewhere,” said Carmela. “Just yell your head off and find him,” ordered Carmela. “Shamus’ll help you.”

“Billy?” called Tandy in a quavering voice as she suddenly caught sight of her nephew. “What are you doing here?”

But Billy was roundly ignored for the time being as Ava, now the center of attention, clawed frantically at Carmela’s sleeve. “We gotta get her back!” she insisted. “I’ll just die if anything happens to her!”

“We find her!” said Shamus, who looked clearly confused.

“Nothing’s going to happen to Sweetmomma,” said Carmela determinedly.

Tears streamed down Ava’s face. “Promise me!”

“I swear,” said Carmela. “On my daddy’s grave. Now go!”