“Honey, I use anything and everything I can find,” said Ava. “Cuticle sticks, my fingers, a hair dryer. Leather is a very plastic material, so it moves and molds.”

“You’re really amazing,” marveled Carmela. “The patterns, all those pieces…”

“Oh, give me a break,” said Ava, pushing a frizzle of auburn hair out of her eyes. “And you’re not creative? Look at all the stuff you do! Scrapbooking, rubber stamping, crime solving…”

“Crime solving?” said Carmela with feigned innocence.

“Don’t play coy with me, cookie. I know you’re dying to figure out who whacked Bartholomew Hayward.”

Carmela snorted.

Ava peered at her sharply. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Aside from the fact that it happened right behind my store and in front of my number one employee, yes, I am,” replied Carmela. “Especially if it will help bring some peace to Billy and Tandy and their family. Problem is, there seem to be a number of people who were pretty ticked off at Barty Hayward.”

“The almost ex-wife,” said Ava. “Jade Ella. The one who gave you those complimentary passes so we can get waxed, buffed, and sloughed at Spa Diva.”

“She dropped by the shop today,” said Carmela. “Claims she’s going to launch her own makeup line and dance on her husband’s grave.”

“Charming lady,” said Ava. “Enterprising and spiteful. Remind me never to get on her bad side.”

“She also seemed surprised that the police were questioning Billy Cobb.”

“Honey, I’m surprised the police are questioning him,” exclaimed Ava. “He always seemed like a pretty innocuous kid.”

Carmela took a deep breath. “Dove Duval was awfully upset at Barty Hayward, too.”

Ava frowned. “Wasn’t Dove Duval at your shop Saturday night?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Carmela, who then proceeded to tell Ava about the load of faux antiques that Barty Hayward had stuck Dove with.

“Would you really kill someone over cheap replica furniture?” questioned Ava. “Personally, I think I would’ve just clobbered Barty with an andiron or something. Try to get him to see the error of his ways.”

“Bartholomew Hayward didn’t just stick Dove Duval with a load of bad furniture,” said Carmela. “He made her look foolish. When a person is shamed or made to look ridiculous in front of others, that can often plant the seeds for bitterness and hatred. And serious retaliation.”

“I see what you mean,” said Ava thoughtfully. “And I gather from the way you quizzed Quigg Brevard yesterday that you have a few suspicions about his good-looking chef… what’s the fellow’s name? Have meat cleaver, will travel?”

“Chef Ricardo,” said Carmela.

“Right,” said Ava. “You think instead of snipping herbs for his remoulade sauce the good chef might have used his kitchen shears to snip Barty Hayward’s jugular?”

“I think Bon Tiempe is close enough to Menagerie Antiques that, somewhere between the étouffée and the crème caramel, Chef Ricardo could have found time to high-tail it over and do the deed,” offered Carmela.

Ava beamed. “That’s what I like about you, Carmela Bertrand. You’re a very suspicious person. Always thinking the worst of people.”

“I do not,” said Carmela. “I’m just… careful. And realistic, too. I think it has something to do with my genetic code.” Carmela’s father, who had died in a barge accident on the Mississippi when she was just seven, had been one hundred percent Norwegian. Her mother, who lived across the river in Algiers, was full-blooded Cajun. It was a slightly hodgepodge pedigree, the Norwegian part tempered and cool, the Cajun part more than a little impulsive.

A tough balancing act. No wonder Shamus and I can’t seem to find any middle ground.

“You were telling me earlier about the good-looking detective who dropped by your store?” prompted Ava.

“To pick up a copy of my customer list,” said Carmela.

“Probably just a formality,” said Ava.

“That’s what they always say in the movies,” said Carmela. That’s what they always say when they’re really closing in on a suspect.

“Well, life’s pretty much a movie script, isn’t it?” asked Ava. “Your life is, anyway. Mine’s a colossal snooze right now.” She stood up and stretched, arms overhead, her pink silk T-shirt lifting to reveal bare skin and an amazingly taut stomach. “Tell me,” said Ava. “What’s new on the home front with the wayward hubby?”

“Not much,” said Carmela. She paused. “I told Shamus I’d go to dinner with him tomorrow night.”

“A date,” declared Ava, rolling her eyes. “Now doesn’t that sound cozy as hell. And which five-star restaurant will be sending its minions out to bow and scrape in your glorified presence? Could it be Antoine’s or Commander’s Palace? K-Paul’s or NOLA?” Ava rattled off the names of a smattering of crème de la crème restaurants in New Orleans.

Carmela made a wry face, knowing exactly what Ava’s reaction would be. “It’s not like that at all. Shamus and I aren’t going on a date date. We’re having dinner at Glory’s house.”

“Glory Meechum’s? Eeeyew,” grimaced Ava. “Big sister Glory has always impressed me as one hard-assed woman. In fact, truth be known and all cards face up on the table, Glory Meechum scares the bejeebers outa me. She reminds me of that crazy actress who played Jessica Lange’s momma in that movie Frances. You know, the momma kept up a respectable appearance on the outside, but inside she had a very sinister soul.”

“Shamus always speaks highly of Glory,” offered Carmela.

“Isn’t Glory the senior vice president at Crescent City Bank?” asked Ava. “Doesn’t Glory control the distributions from Shamus’s trust fund?”

“Well… yes. I suppose she does,” said Carmela.

“There’s your real family dynamics, honey. Shamus is a smart boy. No way is he going to bite the hand that feeds him.” Ava picked up a camel hair brush, dipped it in shimmering green paint, and deftly applied a few judicious highlights to one of her mask components. “On the other hand,” she said, “every Southern family’s got their fair share of crazies in the attic. Lord knows, I do.”

Chapter 8

“YOU’RE late!” declared Tandy as Carmela came chugging through the front door, more than a little behind schedule on Tuesday morning.

Carmela stopped dead in her tracks, then a huge smile spread across her face. “Tandy!” she cried. Sitting at the back craft table were Tandy Bliss, looking decidedly less frazzled, and Baby Fontaine, looking lovely as ever. Gabby hovered at the front counter, pulling out various scrapbook albums and extolling their merits for a couple of interested customers. “Need any help, Gabby?” Carmela asked.

Gabby shook her head. “We’re fine.”

“More than fine,” said one of the customers with her, a small dark-haired woman with mischievous-looking eyes.

“I’m just getting into this scrapbook thing and I adore it!”

“Watch out, it’s contagious,” Carmela told her as she hurried toward the back of her store.

“Look who’s feeling considerably more chipper today,” said Baby.

“Let me guess,” said Carmela, “the police have shifted their focus off Billy Cobb.”

“Nooo,” said Tandy, “not entirely. But thanks to Baby’s high-powered lawyering husband, they’re being a tad more careful with their accusations.”

“Hoo yah,” said Carmela, sitting down at the table. “Glad to hear it. There’s nothing better than having one of the city’s movers and shakers on your side.”

“Telling the New Orleans police when to move and what to shake,” said Tandy.

Baby arched her neck, secure in the notion that one of her adopted baby chicks was happy and content for the time being. “Okay now,” she said in her best schoolmarm voice, “Carmela promised to help us design labels today.”

“I brought in a couple jars of that strawberry jam,” said Tandy. She reached into her bag, plunked two squat jars on the table. They were the size of large squared-off mustard jars and had plain gold tops.