“And you want my help?” said Carmela.

“Do you have any to give?”

Carmela hesitated. Actually, this man did seemed rather committed. And, because her bullshit detector didn’t seem to be going off too badly, she decided he might even be one of the honest ones. She wondered if there was any way she could bring Billy Cobb together with Lieutenant Babcock. Convince Billy to turn himself in. And, at the same time, convince Babcock to focus on what she deemed was the real investigation. If Billy’s name could be cleared, the police could get back to searching for the real murderer.

But Billy was hiding out God knew where. And Carmela had no way to reach him. Billy had her phone number, but would he call? That was the $64,000 question.

Lieutenant Babcock cleared his throat. “It would help enormously,” he said, “if you could give us sample bottles of all the gilt paint you carry here in your shop.”

“To rule us out,” said Carmela.

Lieutenant Babcock offered her a sad smile and Carmela wondered for about the twentieth time if she should say something to him about Jade Ella Hayward and Dove Duval. In her book, both women seemed incredibly suspicious. If there was any ruling out-or in-to be done, they were a good place to start.

But she didn’t. At this point, it seemed that any accusations on her part would just come across as smoke screen or sour grapes.

BY FIVE THIRTY, GABBY HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR the day, and Carmela was ready to call it quits. She’d fiddled unhappily at her computer, torn between wondering about Billy Cobb’s innocence and placing a couple Internet orders for restocks on paper and craft boxes. Now, just as she was about to switch the phone over to the answering service, it started to ring.

Rats, she thought as she picked up the phone, don’t let it be another customer. God bless ’em all, but I’m wrecked. Totally wrecked.

“Carmela?” came a glib-sounding voice. “Carmela Bertrand?”

“Yes?”

“Glad I caught you. This is Clark Berthume from Click! Gallery.” There was a pause. “You know our shop?”

“Yes,” she said again, wondering what on earth this was all about. And suddenly leaping to the conclusion that perhaps Shamus had finally gotten the photography show he’d wanted. So Clark Berthume was calling to ask… what? To design some sort of invitation or poster or something?

“A friend of mine, Jade Ella Hayward, passed along a few photos you took,” said Clark effusively. “I daresay, I was absolutely bowled over by them.”

“You’re calling about my photos?” said Carmela, suddenly at a loss for words. “What photos?”

“Why, the fashion sequence you did for Spa Diva, of course.”

“No, no,” protested Carmela. “There was no fashion sequence.” She glanced about as if hoping someone would rush to her rescue. No one did. No one was there. “There must be some terrible mistake,” Carmela laughed. “I was horsing around in the park a few weeks ago at the same time Jade Ella had a fashion shoot going on. Just for fun, I took a few shots of the models, too. Alongside the hired photographer. The real photographer.” Carmela took a deep breath. “So you see, they’re not fashion shots at all.”

“But you printed them and passed them on to Jade Ella.”

Carmela racked her brain. She guessed she did. “I guess I did.”

“And she used one of them on the cover of her brochure,” said Clark Berthume.

Carmela chewed at her lip. “Could be.”

“Well, the shots look extremely professional to me,” said Clark Berthume. “In fact, you seem to have captured a certain blasé high fashion attitude and quirky sense of style. Which brings me to the reason I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a small show?”

“A show?” Carmela’s voice rose in a surprised squawk. “Me?”

There was a polite chuckle. “Well, that would be the general idea, yes.”

“Perhaps I didn’t completely make my point,” protested Carmela, still stunned by the invitation. “I’m not a professional photographer.” Photography, to her, still seemed like more of a by-product of scrapbooking. Shamus was the one with professional aspirations, wasn’t he?

“Miss Bertrand,” said Clark Berthume, “the black-and-white prints I have spread out on my desk at the moment are really quite stunning. They tell me you’re a very fine photographer.”

Damn Jade Ella, thought Carmela. Why did she do this? Why did she have to show those stupid photos to Clark Berthume?

“Can I call you back?” stuttered Carmela.

“Not a problem,” said Clark Berthume. “When can I expect to hear from you?”

Next year. Never. “Next week?” asked Carmela. “Monday afternoon at the latest,” cautioned Clark Berthume. “I’m trying to fix the schedule.”

Chapter 17

RAIN pounded down as Carmela scampered across her courtyard and jammed her key in the door. Mounds of jaunty bright red bougainvilleas that cascaded from twin urns flanking her front door had been knocked flat. The fountain that normally babbled so gently swirled like a storm drain. Overhead, the night sky pulsed with lightning and crackled with thunder. If this was indeed a hurricane, it seemed aptly poised to unleash its full fury.

Carmela almost missed seeing the envelope someone had slid under her door. Tromped right across it and dripped water all over it, in fact, until she flipped on the light and noticed its white glare staring up at her from the floor.

“What’s this?” Carmela asked Boo as she bent over to pick it up. “Special delivery?”

Ripping open the envelope, Carmela pulled out a small photo that had been stuck inside. And as she stared at it, received the shock of her life.

The photo was of her and Boo walking in the cemetery. That morning!

That someone had spied on her was creepy enough, but the mysterious photographer had taken it one step further and actually vandalized the photo. Carmela’s face had been scratched out with a pin until only paper showed through. Then the pin had been stuck clear through the paper into Boo’s chest, right about where her heart would be. Crude arrows aimed at both of their heads had been drawn with red grease pencil.

Ohmygod. Someone was watching me today! Was it Dove Duval? Or somebody else? Oh, lordy, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

Carmela’s first thought was to call somebody. Ask them to come over as a sort of reinforcement. Because she sure as hell didn’t want to be alone. Feeling threatened and afraid and vulnerable.

Carmela flew to the phone and dialed Ava’s number. Nobody home. She was probably out on a date. Or with Sweetmomma Pam.

What about Baby? No, I can’t call her. She’s busy preparing for her family get-together tomorrow night.

Carmela dialed Gabby’s number. She answered on the first ring.

“Gabby,” said Carmela, “sorry to bother you, but did anybody call while I was out today?”

“Sure,” chirped Gabby. “A couple folks did.” She held her hand over the receiver for a couple seconds while she called: “Just a minute, Stuart. We’ll eat in a second.”

“A couple?” asked Carmela.

“Well… probably more like three or four.”

“And you told them…,” said Carmela, knowing exactly what Gabby had told them.

“Just what you said,” responded Gabby. “That they could find you at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”

CARMELA HUNG UP THE PHONE, WONDERING WHO else she could call. She glanced over at Boo, who lifted her head expectantly.

Shamus? Ooh, I don’t want to do that, do I?

A second look at the scratched and mangled photo changed her mind.

But even after getting Shamus on the phone and explaining her big scare to him, he was not the knight in shining armor she’d hoped he’d be.

“Jeez, Carmela.” Shamus’s voice was flat. “I was just about to head up to Harrisonburg. There’s a Civil War re-enactment going on at Fort Beauregard this weekend.”