Carmela shook her head. “You haven’t missed anything so far. But the police do seem to be focused on Billy Cobb, Barty Hayward’s young assistant.”

“From the hesitancy in your voice, I’m guessing you have other ideas,” said Monroe. “Glory told me how you so cleverly helped Shamus out of a spot of bad luck this past year.”

“Well, I wish I could shine that lucky star on Billy,” said Carmela. “He’s the nephew of one of my best friends and she’s very upset that he’s come under suspicion. Maybe you know my friend… Tandy Bliss?”

“Tandy and Darwin Bliss. Of course I know them,” said Monroe. “It’s good of you to be so involved. The world would be a far better place if more people were independent thinkers like you.” He glanced around quickly, as if making sure no one would overhear. “You have a suspect in mind?” he asked.

Carmela pursed her lips and a tiny frown creased her forehead. “Not exactly. Let’s just say I’m trying to follow up on a couple clues.”

“Clues that the police uncovered?” said Monroe with an encouraging look.

Carmela hesitated, not wanting to say too much. “Actually, I think the police would pretty much discount what I believe might be important.”

“Then be careful,” warned Monroe. “After having spent more years than I care to admit embroiled in the world of art and antiquities, I know that nefarious people abound. Which means that Bartholomew Hayward probably had any number of enemies.”

Carmela considered Monroe Payne’s words. They pretty much followed her line of thinking, too.

Monroe leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Lots of backbiting and strange goings-on in the art world,” he murmured in a low voice. “Would you believe that a person who resides right here in our very own Garden District once tried to palm off a sixteenth-century painting that disappeared from the collection of a prominent Dutch family during World War II?” He reared back and shook his head. “Shameful.”

“I hear a lot of stolen World War II artwork has resurfaced,” said Carmela.

Monroe grimaced. “Has for some time now. It just isn’t discussed in polite society.”

“I’m getting that same feeling about Barty Hayward’s murder,” said Carmela. “Which is why all of us at the shop have been struggling to get a handle on it.”

“Again,” said Monroe, flashing her a concerned look, “please exercise caution.”

“Don’t worry,” said Carmela. “I’m not about to stumble headlong into trouble. By the way, will you be attending Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral tomorrow?”

One of Monroe ’s hands fluttered to his chest. “Unfortunately, I barely knew the man. How about you?”

“Yes, I believe I will be attending,” said Carmela, making up her mind on the spur of the moment. She didn’t really have a decent reason for going, only a huge dollop of curiosity.

Then, because Monroe Payne was still peering at her with a slightly inquisitive smile, Carmela decided she’d better come up with a good reason to explain her attendance. “Since Barty Hayward was my neighbor,” she said piously, “it seems only proper.”

“I agree,” said Monroe, bobbing his head. “It’s only proper.”

Chapter 10

A subtropical wave that had originated off the coast of Africa in mid-October had leisurely swooshed its way across the Atlantic and bumped into the broad area of low pressure that now hovered in the western Caribbean. Meteorologists, stunned to see signs of a hurricane percolating so late in the season, nevertheless recognized the telltale banding-type eye in their satellite imagery. Hoping the unseasonable storm would decelerate and peter out on its own, they were dismayed when a large mid- to upper-level trough moved into the central United States and slowly began edging the storm northward toward the Gulf coast.

Rain sputtered down on mourners that had gathered in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 around the grave that would soon serve as Bartholomew Hayward’s final resting place. Shivering against the raw wind, huddled under a cluster of black umbrellas, the morning’s funeral contingent resembled a patch of slick, oversized toadstools.

Carmela had arrived a little late. Hurrying through the ornate black wrought-iron gate on Washington Avenue, she’d crunched her way down the white gravel lanes that wound past ancient above-ground tombs, then slipped into place next to Baby.

Someone, Carmela didn’t know who, was right in the middle of a heartfelt eulogy to Bartholomew Hayward. The man, slightly built with an Ichabod Crane face and a terrible comb-over, was praising Barty’s sense of humor and mourning the fact he’d no longer be part of the French Quarter.

Carmela gazed around curiously at the rest of the mourners. Most were sedate-looking males, probably antique shop owners. Bartholomew Hayward had been a member of a loosely organized group known as the Vieux Carré Antique Shop Owners. They sometimes organized antique shop “crawls” and advertised their various shops together.

True to her promise, Jade Ella was also present, wearing a flouncy, low-cut red dress and gobs of shining jewelry, clutching a Judith Leiber handbag that turned out to be a jeweled pig. Perched pertly on a black folding chair, Jade Ella did indeed look like Mrs. Bling Bling. Lots of rocks, lots of glam.

Could Jade Ella have knocked off her husband? wondered Carmela. If she had, would she have shown up at his funeral flaunting a red dress and all that glitz? Only if she was certifiably crazy. Or maybe smart like a fox.

Baby nudged Carmela with one shoulder. Dressed in a black suit with a nipped-in waist, Baby looked refined and elegant. Carmela herself had hurriedly tossed on a black cashmere crew neck sweater and black slacks that morning. In the dim light of her apartment, the outfit had seemed sedate, more than appropriate for a funeral. Now she suddenly felt like she was dressed like a second-story artist. All she needed was a black mask and bag to stash the goods in.

“Bad news,” Baby whispered to Carmela.

Carmela frowned, not quite sure what Baby was referring to.

“It would appear our Billy skipped town last night,” Baby said under her breath.

You could’ve knocked Carmela over with a feather.

“What?” she said, trying to exercise some restraint in her response. As it was, a few eyebrows shot up around her. “You gotta be kidding!” she hissed.

“Shush!” Baby put a finger to her mouth. People were definitely beginning to stare.

Carmela plucked at Baby’s sleeve, but Baby merely shook her head and continued to focus on the proceedings. Any further elaboration of her tantalizing news would have to wait.

Two more eulogies droned by, then the minister passed out little paper songbooks. The mourners pulled themselves together and managed to belt out a slightly off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace.” That concluded, a small contingent of the mourners, presumably the Tulane alums, broke into a rousing chorus of the Tulane Fight Song.

Green Wave, Green Wave

Hats off to thee.

We’re out to

Fight Fight Fight

For our victory.

This college fight song was performed perfectly on key and with far more pep and energy than the sad hymn that preceded it.

Finally, the minister rendered his final blessing and Bartholomew Hayward’s funeral was officially concluded.

“Baby!” cried Carmela, finally able to talk out loud. “What’s up with Billy?”

Furrows appeared in Baby’s patrician brow. “All I know is that Del was on the phone early this mornin’ and that Billy was nowhere to be found.”

“He’d been living at home?” asked Carmela.

Baby gave a brisk nod. “With his parents, Donny and Lenore.”

“So what happened?” asked Carmela.

Baby dropped her voice a notch. “Apparently Billy went out last night and never came back.”