“I hope you don’t have to do an arrangement to complement the devil tapestry,” said Carmela. Her good friend Jekyl Hardy was on the committee to select artworks for that year’s Monsters & Old Masters and she recalled Jekyl laughing over one of the works, a Medieval tapestry with pitchfork-toting devils capering across the bottom.
On the other hand, Carmela thought to herself, what a kick if Dove did draw short straw and ended up with that tapestry. From what Jekyl told me, it’s pretty ghastly.
“Au contraire,” said Dove, continuing to feign a Southern accent. “I lucked out and got that darling little owl painting by Rafael Rodrigue. You know, the one in the gold Renaissance-style frame?” Dove cocked a single eyebrow, again exuding a slight hint of superiority.
“Owl in the Moonlight,” said Baby, recalling the exact title. She had worked as a docent at the New Orleans Art Institute for years and was fairly knowledgeable when it came to its permanent collection. Carmela could have kissed Baby for her correct and rather snappy answer.
“Why, yes, that’s it,” said Dove Duval, a hint of uncertainty suddenly registering in her voice. It was slowly dawning on her that she wasn’t the only one in the room who had an “in” with the museum crowd.
“What kind of arrangement are you doing?” asked Gabby, trying to diffuse the tension that suddenly hung in the air.
“Poppy heads, branches of curly willow, dried feverfew, and possibly some Dutchman’s trousers if I can get them. All arranged in a moss-filled wire basket,” Dove told her.
“Pretty,” Tandy replied, although the brittle tone of her voice indicated otherwise.
But Dove Duval seemed not to notice. “How much ribbon is left?” she asked.
Carmela unwound the spool of ribbon and measured it against a yardstick that was taped across the back of the counter. “An inch short of two yards. Hope that’s enough to do the trick.”
“It’s more than enough,” Dove told her crisply. She turned to Gabby. “I need to pick up a few other things, too.”
“Of course,” said Gabby, reaching for a wicker shopping basket. “Not a problem.”
“WHY DOES THAT WOMAN PUT ME ON EDGE?” Carmela asked after Dove Duval had departed. “She’s a good customer. I try to like her.”
“Maybe because there’s not all that much to like?” suggested Tandy.
“She’s awfully pretentious,” added Gabby. “Last Saturday night, right before the Bartholomew Hayward debacle, Dove was bragging to everyone about how she was probably going to get named to the museum’s board of directors.”
“Gosh,” said Baby, crinkling her nose, “I just don’t think that’s going to happen in the near future. I really don’t.”
“Do you know something we don’t?” asked Tandy.
“Could be,” Baby replied as she applied streaks of both bright yellow and dark green oil crayon to her stamped apple leaf image, then smudged both colors gently to achieve a lovely shaded effect.
“Dove certainly seemed to be stocking up on things,” remarked Tandy.
Gabby nodded. “I get the feeling Dove has been bitten by the entertaining bug and plans to design a lot of invitations. She bought card stock, raffia, some of those new brass templates, casting molds, some more gilt paint, and a new pair of scissors.”
“Gilt paint?” said Carmela.
“Scissors!” yelped Tandy. “What kind?”
Gabby looked suddenly stricken. “Paper-cutting scissors. The stainless steel ones by Capers Cutlery.”
The women glanced around the table at each other with wide-eyed looks. As if part of a Vulcan mind meld, everyone seemed to be focused on the same thought until Tandy finally asked: “What do you think Dove did with her old scissors?”
The tension was suddenly so thick inside Carmela’s shop you could’ve cut it with a scissors.
Chapter 9
CARMELA couldn’t ever recall having been inside Glory Meechum’s house when the vacuum cleaner wasn’t rumbling full tilt. Cursed with a touch of OCD-obsessive-compulsive disorder-Glory always seemed to be embroiled in a cleanliness snit. Take off your shoes, put a coaster under that drink, don’t sit down till I put a doily on the arm of that chair, and for God’s sake don’t spill on the carpet.
Visiting Glory was like some hellish trip back to the second grade. When teachers constantly hammered at you to wipe your feet, blow your nose, study hard, and flush.
To see Glory’s Garden District house filled with guests was quite a shocker to Carmela. Normally taciturn and vaguely suspicious, Glory wasn’t exactly a spitfire on the New Orleans social scene. In fact, the last social event Carmela remembered attending at Glory’s house was the infamous Inquisition Dinner. When all the relatives had been present just before she’d married Shamus.
And hadn’t that been a barrel of fun.
So this rather large person in the button-straining, splotchy floral print dress who was greeting guests and serving drinks couldn’t be Glory Meechum, could it? wondered Carmela.
Maybe it’s really Martha Stewart wearing a Glory costume. Spooky. And Halloween isn’t until this Saturday.
Glory lumbered over to where Carmela stood uncertainly next to Shamus. Shamus fairly beamed at his older sister. Under Glory’s close scrutiny, Carmela wanted to cower. Instead, she stood her ground and smiled.
Why do I suddenly feel like the too-small center on a football team, trying to muster up the courage to snap the ball while staring into a defensive line made up of three-hundred-pound gorillas?
After giving Shamus a perfunctory peck on the cheek, Glory wasted no time with snappy chitchat. “Drink, Shamus?” she asked. “Bourbon?”
Shamus nodded obediently. “Sounds good.”
Carmela cocked an appraising eye at Shamus. Dressed in a navy blazer and khaki slacks, Shamus looked successful, purposeful, and focused. All the things he really wasn’t.
Glory turned toward Carmela and focused hard, beady eyes upon her. “Carmela?” she said gruffly. “Glass of wine?”
“Merlot if you’ve got it,” said Carmela, gazing around with a slightly dazed expression.
“No red wine,” said Glory. “Only white.” A challenging look accompanied her retort.
“Fine,” said Carmela. “White wine then.” Use your head, she told herself. Of course Glory isn’t about to serve red wine. A drop or two might stain her precious carpet.
“You still running that paper store?” asked Glory.
“Scrapbooking shop,” replied Carmela.
“Whatever,” said Glory as she wandered off toward the bar to alert her bartender.
“Well, this is fun,” said Carmela, gazing up at Shamus. Maybe, if I’m really, really lucky, the earth will open up and swallow me whole.
“Carmela… don’t,” said Shamus. “Glory’s trying, really she is.”
“If that’s trying, I’d hate to see how she handles oblivious,” replied Carmela. “To say nothing of disdainful.”
Shamus took Carmela’s elbow and guided her toward the bar to collect their drinks. “The bourbon and a white wine?” Shamus said politely to the bartender, who was really Glory’s gardener, Gus, tricked out in a white shirt and black cotton jacket. With the sleeves two inches too short for Gus’s bony wrists, and the toggles fastened crookedly, Gus looked more like a disreputable waiter than a green-thumbed genius with magnolias and roses.
Shamus handed Carmela her glass of white wine. “Be nice,” he said, smiling at her. “Try to meet Glory halfway.”
“I’m always nice,” she replied. “You’re the one who’s been acting like a pill.”
Carmela noticed that Gus had plopped a colored umbrella into Shamus’s bourbon. She figured it was Gus’s notion of what a bartender was supposed to do. Shamus, on the other hand, simply glared at the offending umbrella, fished it out with his index finger, and flicked it into one of Glory’s potted plants.