“And is Jade Ella a noninvolved party?” asked Carmela, who was starting to enjoy herself in this little cat-and-mouse game with Reed Bigelow.

The man continued to look unhappy. “Not exactly,” he said.

“So Jade Ella’s a suspect?”

“Not exactly,” he told her.

“Let me get this straight,” said Carmela. “From what you’ve determined so far, Jade Ella is a non-noninvolved party, yet she hasn’t been elevated to murder suspect.”

Bigelow narrowed his eyes. “You got a funny way of putting things, lady.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Carmela. The phone next to her shrilled and she casually reached over to pick it up. After listening for a few seconds, Carmela covered the mouthpiece and turned toward the back of the shop.

“It’s the Merci Beaucoup Bakery,” she called to Tandy, Byrle, Gabby, and Sweetmomma Pam. “They’re checking to see if we want lunch delivered today. Do we?”

“Ooh,” exclaimed Byrle. “How about muffulettas?”

“Yum,” said Tandy.

Besides the po’boy, the muffuletta was the other signature sandwich of Louisiana. Back in the early 1900s, a Sicilian grocer, gastronomically inclined, combined various meats, cheeses, and olive relish onto a round, seeded muffuletta loaf, thus launching a deliciously enduring trend. Although there were endless variations on the muffuletta sandwich, they all shared one thing in common-muffulettas were wonderfully messy to eat.

“Salami and cheese for me,” called Tandy.

“Tell ’em to skip the capers on mine,” said Byrle.

“I’m dying for an oyster po’boy,” screeched Sweetmomma Pam.

Carmela smiled sweetly at the unhappy little man who hovered nearby. “This lunch thing will probably take a while to sort out,” she told him. “I’m gonna have to get back to you.”

Chapter 14

THESE are terrific,” murmured Natalie Chastain as she turned over one of the menu cards and studied it. “Really terrific.”

“Thanks,” said Carmela. “It’s been a fun project.” And praise be for the nimble fingers of Sweetmomma Pam.

“Where would we be without volunteers like you?” Natalie asked, then quickly grinned and held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. I know where we’d be. Up a creek without a paddle.”

Carmela and Sweetmomma Pam had finished the menu cards and Baby’s martini glasses by two that afternoon. Carmela had immediately tossed everything into her car (she’d taken to parking in back of Menagerie Antiques now, since nobody was ever there) and headed across town to the Art Institute. Now, as she stood in Natalie’s cramped office, surveying floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with Chinese bronzes, kachina dolls, Greek vases, and various and sundry pieces of antique silver, the large black and white institutional clock that hung on the wall was just creeping toward two thirty.

“I’ll have the description tags for you tomorrow afternoon,” Carmela told her as she studied the final copy Natalie had just handed her. She also silently thought to herself, I’m really gonna have to book it.

Natalie nodded, sublimely pleased. “And I understand you’ll also be carving our jack-o’-lanterns.” She flashed Carmela a quizzical glance. “Carmela, how do you manage it all?”

Carmela shrugged. She had no idea. “Just doing a favor for a friend is all. Jekyl got busy.”

“Jekyl got smart and left town,” sighed Natalie. “I should follow his good example. The preparations for Saturday night’s Monsters & Old Masters are killing me. Are killing everyone here,” she amended.

“Is that Mrs. Meechum I hear?” a friendly voice called from out in the hallway.

Carmela swiveled her head just in time to see Monroe Payne step through the doorway. Dressed in a dark suit, carrying a small painting in his hand, he looked sedate and suave.

“Hello there,” Carmela said, pleased to see him again.

Monroe dropped his voice an octave and gave her a warm smile, the kind he usually reserved only for big-buck donors. “Natalie’s been telling me what an absolute angel you’ve been, Carmela. Helping us with the menu cards and the description tags… Speaking of which, here’s our final piece.” He handed the small oil painting over to Natalie.

“Wonderful,” she said.

“And of course you’ll be in attendance Saturday night?” Monroe said, smiling at Carmela. He glanced quickly at Natalie, suddenly flustered. “Please tell me we sent complimentary tickets to Mrs. Meechum.”

“Carmela. Just call me Carmela.” Actually, she had never changed her name to Meechum in the first place. “And don’t worry about complimentary tickets. I’m already sitting at Baby and Del Fontaine’s table. They invited me way back when. Months ago, really.”

Natalie Chastain gently set the oil painting down on her desk, frowned slightly, then pawed through a jumble of papers. She suddenly looked puzzled as something caught her eye. “Don’t quote me on this, Carmela, but I think you’re going to end up with place cards at two different tables. I distinctly remember your husband telling me you’d be sitting with him, since his sister is slated to receive our Founder’s Award Saturday night.”

“That sounds exactly like something Shamus would do,” said Carmela, fuming inside. She was pretty sure she’d made it crystal clear to Shamus that she was sitting with Baby and Del and the rest of the gang.

“Problem?” asked Natalie.

“You’ll just have to make like a social butterfly,” said Monroe, sensing Carmela’s discomfort and trying his best to give the apparent mix-up a lighthearted spin. “And flit freely from one table to another. Maybe even bring a second costume so no one will be the wiser.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Carmela told him, although she was really thinking about wringing Shamus’s scrawny neck. “Natalie,” she said, holding up a finger. “Tags for the art and floral displays tomorrow.”

Natalie bobbed her head gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

RAIN WAS STILL SPATTERING DOWN WHEN CARMELA swung her car back down Napoleon Avenue and headed for the Garden District. Here were sixty-six blocks of palatial splendor, elegant antebellum mansions constructed in the 1840s and ’50s to house the socially and financially prominent. Today, most homes were painted in delicate soft pastels and trimmed in white. Many had been made even grander over the years by the addition of Greek columns, expansive verandahs, second-story porticos, and intricate wrought-iron fences and balustrades.

Stately and majestic, the oak tree reigned supreme in the Garden District; its great languid bows formed imposing archways over many of the streets. Lavish gardens surrounding the homes, originally cultivated to shield residents from the stench of nearby slaughterhouses, boasted towering stands of crape myrtle, bougainvillea, oleander, and camellias. In spring, the yards of most Garden District homes were a riot of flowering azaleas.

As Carmela pulled her car in front of Baby’s house and got out, she could hear the faint clang of the old streetcar as it rattled its way down St. Charles Avenue, just a few blocks over. Dating back to 1835, it was the oldest streetcar line still operating in the United States and its thirteen-mile route still served as a commuter train for New Orleans residents.

Baby Fontaine lived on Third Street in a palatial Italianate home with double doors of glass and wrought iron. Pale pink silk covered the walls of the front entry hall, where an enormous crystal chandelier dangled and a huge circular stairway curled dramatically upward.

“Carmela!” called Baby as she ran to greet her, all rustling silk and smelling of Joy, the perfume she considered her signature scent. “Come in, come in,” she enthused.

Charles Joseph, the Fontaines’ longtime maintenance man, had admitted Carmela and was now dispatched to Carmela’s car with orders to carefully ferry in the newly decorated glassware. Charles Joseph, who kept the furnace purring, the air conditioner humming, and the ancient copper pipes flowing as well as could be expected in the grand old house, was a tall, solemn, gray-haired man with a heroic handlebar mustache. Carmela thought he looked exactly like one of the old French pirates who had fought alongside Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte to help save the city of New Orleans during the War of 1812.