“I’d love to take credit for everything,” Quigg told them ebulliently, slapping Chef Ricardo on the back, “but my head chef, Chef Ricardo Gaspar, is the real genius.”

Baby and Del applauded with great enthusiasm, then everyone at the table joined in, with a spatter of applause coming from surrounding tables as well.

Ava immediately caught the eye of Chef Ricardo. He sped to her side with the swiftness of a man questing after the holy grail. Or, more like, lusting after it.

“You like more sweet potato casserole, miss?” he asked her.

Ava tilted her chin up and eyed him carefully. “I’m fine.”

But Chef Ricardo was not to be deterred. “Another glass of wine? I get you better wine. French wine, not cheap domestic.” Obviously, Chef Ricardo considered drinking California wine tantamount to drinking pig swill.

“Now you’re talking my language, sweetie.” Ava, always delighted to be fawned over, fixed Chef Ricardo with a dazzling smile.

He leaned in close to her and inhaled deeply. “Lovely perfume, miss. Very sensual.” Chef Ricardo narrowed his eyes and uttered a low Lothario growl. Then he was off on his quest for better wine. French wine.

“What was that all about, miss?” asked Carmela.

Ava fanned herself nervously. “I think it’s that Banana Frango facial I had earlier. It’s still giving off kind of a heady aroma.” She gave Carmela a sideways glance. “Honey, do you still see Chef Ricardo as a viable suspect? ’Cause, truth be known, I think the man is kinda cute. And, you know, I never was all that fond of Bartholomew Hayward.”

“Go for it,” said Carmela.

As tuxedo-clad waiters cleared away remnants of Chef Ricardo’s calorie-loaded desserts-cranberry bread pudding and elegant lemon bars-the orchestra tuned up and the dancing began.

Baby and Del immediately headed for the dance floor to kick off the evening with a tango. Other couples, captivated by the sensuous music, their emotions fueled by the free flow of drinks, rushed to join them. And Carmela finally got her first clear, unobstructed view of Shamus’s table.

But Shamus was no longer sitting down. Instead, he was heading determinedly for her table. With Zoe in tow!

“Oops,” exclaimed Carmela, “gotta run.”

“Where you going?” called Tandy.

“Ladies’ room,” said Carmela. She jumped to her feet, grabbed for her beaded evening bag. But in her state of panic, the bag slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor and she had to dive under the table for what she hoped would be a fast retrieval.

“Carmela,” said Shamus. “I’d like you to meet Zoe.” Great, thought Carmela, Shamus just introduced his date to my butt.

Embarrassed, Carmela backed out from under the table and scrambled hastily to her feet.

“Hi there, howdja do?” she mumbled hastily. Pumping Zoe’s hand, not bothering to really look at her, Carmela tried to make a break for it, but Shamus moved left to block her.

Damn. Guess you can’t outflank an old quarterback. Especially one who can still scramble.

“I understand you’re very creative,” said Zoe politely.

“Carmela did all the menu cards,” volunteered Ava. She’d jumped up suddenly to help Carmela in whatever way she could. “And the cards with the floral and art descriptions, too.” Now she moved in on Zoe like a lioness circling her prey.

“Zoe manages a clothing store,” Shamus told them. “The Hive.” He paused. “Perhaps you ladies have heard of it?”

“Nice place,” said Carmela, feeling just a tiny ripple of intimidation. The Hive was a very upscale boutique located on Magazine Street. It carried many of the top designers like Versace, Ungaro, and Armani. She’d heard that they’d recently added a men’s line, too.

“Listen,” said Ava, moving in on Zoe, “I’ve been looking for a hot pink slip dress. Do you have anything remotely similar to that? Better yet, do you have any hot pink shoes? Something strappy and fun.” Ava gave a long sigh. “It’s so difficult to find the perfect designer piece…”

Shamus looked on with amusement as Ava rattled away and Zoe rattled back.

Carmela faced Shamus. “You don’t have a costume,” she told him. He wore a black turtleneck under a black jacket, and Carmela wondered where that little fashion faux pas had originated. Shamus had always told her he despised turtlenecks.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding his arms out, obviously wanting Carmela’s reaction to his new look. Expecting a compliment.

“If you swabbed white greasepaint on your face you could pass for a mime,” Carmela snapped.

Shamus looked stung. “You know I despise mimes.”

Carmela shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

Shamus glowered at her. “This hostile attitude you’ve adopted,” he said. “It’s not one bit flattering. I hope you don’t intend to keep it up all night.” Shamus was so mad, he stomped off and left Zoe standing there with Ava.

“Only as long as I have to,” Carmela called to Shamus’s retreating backside.

Ava stopped chattering and the three of them stood staring at each other. Finally Zoe spoke up. “You’re very pretty,” she told Carmela. “Shamus said you were pretty.” She appraised Carmela with a careful eye, like a budding plastic surgery aficionado. “You have very full lips. I’ve been thinking of having my lips enhanced. There’s a plastic surgeon up in Baton Rouge who’s supposed to be a genius…”

“Implants,” replied Ava, gesturing at Carmela’s lips.

“Really,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “They look very natural.”

“You want natural,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s cheekbones.”

Zoe’s eyes widened even more. “Implants, too?”

Ava nodded. “The surgeon made two teensy little incisions inside her mouth, then slipped these little plastic pieces right in. I tell you, the girl’s put together with spit and clay.”

Zoe was clearly fascinated. “I’ve heard about cheek implants. Did they hurt?” she asked Carmela.

“Never felt a thing,” replied Carmela.

“But if you want realistic,” said Ava, “take a gander at Carmela’s eyes.”

Now Zoe was completely confused. “Her eyes?” She threw Carmela a questioning glance.

Carmela, who’d never had an implant or a collagen injection in her life, just nodded. “Had ’em done two years ago,” she said. “Love ’em.”

Ava lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmela was born with brown eyes. Didn’t the surgeons do a fabulous job?”

Zoe’s pouty mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh yes, they did,” she marveled. “And I had no idea they could even do a transplant procedure like that. Wow.”

“Biosynthetics,” purred Ava. “Isn’t medical science amazing?”

“Yes, it is,” said Zoe, feeling that she’d developed a real kinship with the two women.

“You’re evil,” Carmela told Ava as Zoe headed back to her table. “Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“And you’re not?” asked Ava. She gave a slow wink.

“Having fun?” she asked.

“I am now,” said Carmela. But ten minutes later, Shamus was back in her face, begging for help.

Carmela stared at him, wondering where he found the nerve. “You want my help?” she asked. The man was certainly born with an extra helping of chutzpah.

“There’s a problem with Glory,” Shamus hissed, plucking at Carmela’s sleeve. “Hurry up! We’ve got a dire emergency on our hands!”

As Shamus pulled her across the ballroom, Carmela noted that suddenly, somehow, Shamus considered the two of them complicit again. Now we have an emergency. On our hands.

Glory Meechum was slumped in her chair, one chubby hand still stubbornly clasped around a glass of bourbon. Her older brother, Jeffrey, a pear-shaped banker in a drab gray suit, stared at her helplessly. Two useless banker cousins sat nervously twiddling their thumbs.

“She just drank too much bourbon!” exclaimed Carmela as she surveyed the situation. Over the past couple years Carmela had seen Glory sock it away pretty good, but she’d never seen her this drunk. Glory’s face was doughy and slack, her lipstick smudged and smeared. Not a positive sign.