Chapter 16

FRIDAY morning dawned dark and dreary. Carmela pulled on a pair of gray wool slacks, a peachy-pink sweater, then a lightweight camel-colored suede jacket.

She’d dreamed about that darned shrimp-processing plant all night. Strange, nightmare images that involved knives, dank conveyor belts, and the layer of feltlike dust that seemed mounded over everything.

And she’d thought fleetingly about that number on the back of the oil painting, too. NMA92107.

What did it mean exactly?

When she arrived at Memory Mine, Carmela decided the easiest way to do some fast research would be to phone Natalie Chastain. She was a museum registrar, after all. It was her bailiwick to know about such things.

But when she dialed Natalie’s number, the phone rang and rang. Carmela was about to give up, when she heard a loud click and then someone came on the line.

“Natalie’s office,” said a male voice.

“Hi there,” said Carmela. “Natalie around?”

“Sorry,” came the voice. “I’m not sure where she’s off to at the moment.”

“Mr. Payne?” asked Carmela.

“Yes, this is Monroe Payne. To whom am I speaking, please?”

“It’s Carmela, Carmela Bertrand. I’m doing the-”

“The menu cards!” said Monroe with a smile in his voice.

“Of course. I’ll tell Natalie you called.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, hesitating slightly, “I had a quick question. Quite unrelated to menu cards.”

“Perhaps I can help?” said Monroe.

Should I? wondered Carmela. Why not? He’s a smart guy, too.

“If you found a series of numbers on the back of a painting, what would that mean to you?” she asked.

“You’re talking about acquisition numbers?” asked Monroe.

“I guess that’s it,” said Carmela. “Hmm.”

“Or deacquisiton numbers,” continued Monroe.

“Deacquistion?” said Carmela. “That’s what-getting rid of a piece of art? Do museums ever do that?”

“Actually,” said Monroe, “they do it all the time. Have private sales, sell to dealers, sell at auction.”

“All museums do this?” asked Carmela.

“Unless they’ve got a storage area with climate-controlled vaults the size of Texas,” Monroe laughed. “Good Lord, you’d be surprised at the things people donate to museums. Old photographs, archaeological relics… someone once tried to give us an elephant’s foot.”

Carmela chatted with Monroe Payne for a few more minutes, then hung up. His information had been valuable, but it hadn’t led anywhere.

Oh well.

“You off now?” asked Gabby as she popped her head into Carmela’s office.

Carmela jumped up, grabbing her handbag and digital camera. “Yup. If anybody calls, just tell ’em I’ll be hanging out in Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARS RATTLED BY ON PRYTANIA AS CARMELA, accompanied by Boo, picked her way through the fog-shrouded graves of Lafayette Cemetery. Two days earlier, when she’d come here for the funeral of Bartholomew Hayward, the place had been fairly well populated by the living: mourners for Barty’s funeral, attendees for two other graveside services that had been going on that morning, plus the inevitable flocks of sightseers, tour groups, and amateur vampire hunters. Today, though, just a few stragglers wandered about.

Of all the cemeteries scattered throughout New Orleans, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 was one of Carmela’s favorites. It was incredibly old, highly atmospheric, and chock-full of history.

Established in 1833, Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, like most New Orleans cemeteries, had been borne out of terrible necessity, when pestilence, yellow fever, and cholera ravaged the city. Those epidemics often claimed thousands of lives, all in one hideous swoop.

Because New Orleans had been built below sea level, early residents soon learned a bitter lesson. Bodies of their loved ones that were buried underground had a nasty habit of finding their way back to the surface. So it didn’t take long for the aboveground cemetery to be devised. Crypts, mausoleums, and oven vaults were constructed aboveground to receive the bodies of the deceased.

Many of the larger structures bore a keen resemblance to Roman ruins; others spookily sported several stories, like condos for the dead. But what Carmela was most fascinated by were the ancient single tombs. These were three to four feet high and six feet long and resembled whitewashed grave vaults. Many were crumbling and decrepit now, due to the ravages of time, vandalism, and the merciless heat and humidity. Many of these tombs had once been embellished with images of angels, saints, and other heavenly accouterments, which had long since eroded and melted into ghostly forms.

These were the exact images Carmela planned to photograph, then plug into her computer. Once these images were enlarged, she’d print them out on paper as a sort of pattern. Taping these paper patterns to hollowed-out pumpkins, she would use a wood gouge to carve away the background, ending up with a nifty stencil effect. When lights were inserted, her tombstone images would appear in dark outlines against a glowing orange background.

Because there were so many eerie old graves to choose from, Carmela snapped away with her camera, wandering freely among the tombs as Boo trailed on the leash behind her. As she rounded a large multicolumned mausoleum, Carmela ran headlong into Dove Duval.

“Dove!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her thudding heart.

Dove Duval pulled up short, as well. “Why, hello, Carmela,” she said sweetly. “Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

For the third day in a row, rain drizzled down and clouds hung low. The wind delivered a nasty, damp chill and the weather forecasters were still talking hurricane. Lovely day? Carmela figured Dove had to be kidding.

Dove held her umbrella aloft and pressed in uncomfortably close to Carmela. “You must be working on one of your little projects,” Dove purred.

Carmela didn’t much like the way Dove said the word projects. Tugging on the leash, Carmela instantly telegraphed an alert to Boo. And Boo, never a terribly friendly dog to begin with, slid her gums back over her sharp white teeth and uttered a low growl. Grrrrrrr.

Unsettled, Dove took a step backward. “Such a charming creature,” she observed dryly. “Is your dog always this friendly?”

“She’s a Chinese Shar-Pei,” Carmela explained. “Not exactly your warm fuzzy breed. More on the order of chilly-wrinkley. Shar-Peis tend to regard most outsiders as sworn enemies.” Carmela kept a grin pasted on her face even though she didn’t feel particularly smiley toward Dove. “I think it hearkens back to the invasion of Genghis Khan,” she added. Whatever the heck that means, thought Carmela.

But Dove Duval, obviously no genius when it came to history, seemed to accept Carmela’s remark at face value. “I see,” she said.

“And you’re just out for a stroll?” Carmela asked, noting that Boo was holding her tail down instead of in its usual tight curl. The dog was definitely not getting good vibes from Dove.

What are you really doing here, Dove Duval? wondered Carmela. How come you’re lurking around Bartholomew Hayward’s grave? Have you really come for an innocent ramble through the cemetery or are you here to gloat over your handiwork?

“Isn’t this what folks here like to do?” asked Dove, gazing about in what seemed to be a state of blissful rhapsody. “Wander these marvelous old cemeteries and commune with the dead? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I was just snapping a few photos.” She didn’t much feel like explaining her jack-o’lantern-carving project to Dove. In fact, she didn’t feel like explaining anything to her.

“Probably for one of your many scrapbooks,” said Dove, poking bits of choppy blond hair behind her ears. “You’re so creative.” She was obviously dying to know more.