THE sky was stormy and restless as Carmela, Ava, and Sweetmomma Pam climbed the steps of the Art Institute. Waiting at the top were flickering jack-o’-lanterns with mirthful grins and a bevy of junior volunteers costumed as ghosts and passing out green glow sticks.
“How’d you get those jack-o’-lanterns here?” asked Ava. She was wearing a skin-tight silver sequined gown that clung to her body seductively. Most of her face was painted silver to match, and her eyeliner consisted of a tiny strip of miniature silver sequins. Her hair was pulled into an updo and threaded with gemstones, giving her the appearance of a fanciful cockatiel.
“Natalie Chastain stopped by and picked them up,” said Carmela, who was equally tricked out in a black and white harlequin-patterned gown. She’d forgone the face paint, however, and instead wore a black mask with a sparkling pavé surface and black ostrich plumes that curved away from either side of her face. “She’s got this big old honkin’ Chrysler she calls her jungle cruiser,” added Carmela.
“Neato,” sang Sweetmomma Pam as she scampered up the stairs, greatly excited by the prospect of attending such a gala ball.
Ava studied the harlequin gown Carmela was wearing. “Your butt looks real good in that dress, honey.”
“Thank you,” said Carmela. At the last minute she’d changed from a gold peasant-style gown to the more flamboyant harlequin gown. Dressing to catch someone’s eye tonight? Could be.
“You still feelin’ hot flashes from that mud wrap this morning?” asked Ava.
“Hot flashes!” exclaimed Sweetmomma Pam, who was dressed adorably in a 1920s-era gold flapper dress complete with beaded headband and gold leather bird mask with a wicked-looking curved beak that had to be a good six inches long. “Never had ’em, never will!”
“I think I finally cooled down,” said Carmela, fanning herself even though the evening had turned chilly.
Like Cerberus guarding the entrance to Hades, Jade Ella Hayward met them at the entrance to the ballroom. She was glammed out in a jaguar print silk blouse that wrapped around her slim waist, then tied in front with a coquettish pussycat bow. The blouse topped a pencil thin black leather skirt and what had to be Manolo Blahnik heels, also jaguar-spotted. A very spendy outfit, Carmela decided. Jade Ella must have dipped into the insurance money already.
“Carmela,” Jade Ella intoned, rolling her eyes and scrunching up her face, getting ready to launch an all-out abject apology. “Greta told me what happened. I’m soooo sorry.” She nervously fingered the matching jaguar-spotted mask she had clutched in her hands.
“Poor Carmela was almost pan-fried like a catfish,” said Ava, jumping in, always at the ready to defend her friend. “She could have been seriously injured!”
“I know. I heard. We’re still having problems with the master control module,” Jade Ella explained. “You see, everything at Spa Diva is computerized. From the music to the lighting to the treatment apparatus. Very high tech, but terribly sensitive, too. If something’s just the teensiest bit off, well…”
“You’d better get your apparatus fixed posthaste,” warned Carmela. “Because I went from Defcon Four to Defcon One in about two minutes!” Defcon was slang for the Department of Defense’s readiness alert status. Defcon One meant the warheads were about to fly.
“Seven fifteen,” announced a loud mechanical voice.
Ava frowned at Sweetmomma Pam. “Will you turn that wristwatch thing off?” she hissed.
“Carmela,” purred Jade Ella, “please believe me when I say it was a terribly unfortunate accident.” She laughed nervously. “You certainly can’t believe anyone wished you harm?”
Carmela shook her head, still highly suspicious of her little “accident” at Spa Diva. She wondered if Jade Ella figured she might be privy to some inside information about Barty’s murder. Or did Jade Ella have motives more sinister than that? Carmela knew that if Jade Ella did mastermind the malfunctioning control module, that put her squarely in line as the prime murder suspect.
And what on earth was Jade Ella up to with the Click! Gallery-pushing her photographs on Clark Berthume, the owner?
“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, “I got a phone call from Clark Berthume yesterday.”
A knowing grin spread across Jade Ella’s face. “Aren’t you thrilled?” she cooed. “I just knew Clark would go gaga over your work.”
“First of all,” said Carmela, “photography’s not my life’s aspiration. In fact, I do it only for fun. Second, I’m not interested in having any sort of show.”
“Oh, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “how can you be so callous? Clark has photographers waiting in line for just this kind of break! Please don’t blow it!”
“Carmela.” Natalie Chastain tapped her gently on the shoulder and Jade Ella, sensing an opportune moment, slipped into the crowd.
“Natalie, hello,” said Carmela. And then, because Natalie looked a little frazzled, even dressed up in her rather elegant Roman robe with a wreath of grape leaves circling her head, said, “It looks like it’s going to be a wonderful evening.”
“It does?” Natalie brightened considerably. “Good, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Especially after all our last-minute hassles.”
Carmela hastily introduced Ava and Sweetmomma Pam to Natalie, and then had to do introductions all over again when Monroe Payne suddenly appeared and joined their little cluster.
Wearing a Peking Opera costume of embroidered crimson silk, Monroe authentically looked the part with his dark hair slicked back and drawn into a Chinese topknot set high upon his head.
“Have you seen the art and floral pairings yet?” Monroe asked them, obviously delighted at how everything had turned out.
“No, but we’re going to take a look right now,” Carmela told him, as an older couple wearing matching Medieval lord and lady costumes suddenly descended on Monroe in that assured way moneyed people always have.
The selected artworks were hung on the walls of the ballroom and the corresponding floral arrangements placed directly in front of them on square marble pedestals. The description cards Carmela had created were in little Lucite holders directly in front of the floral arrangements.
As fanciful a concept as Monsters & Old Masters was, Carmela had to admit that many of the artwork and floral pairings were really quite clever.
A bouquet of bright red chili peppers mixed with canary grass and accented with boughs of curly willow was set in a flat ikebana-type vase and paired with a dynamic, brightly colored Japanese print that depicted a Samurai warrior in full battle dress.
A bouquet of silvery-green lamb’s ear and blue salvia was accented with bright green apples and cinnamon sticks and paired most appropriately with a painting that depicted capering wood nymphs.
And dried yarrow and strawflowers, tied with raffia and displayed in a painted ceramic bowl, were paired with a ceramic Day of the Dead sculpture from Guadalajara, Mexico.
As Carmela moved down the row of floral and art pairings, she suddenly found herself staring into the hard face of Glory Meechum.
“Hello, Carmela,” said Glory.
Glory was one of the few guests who hadn’t come in costume. She was wearing a boxy navy blazer with an equally boxy matching skirt. On the other hand, if Glory was trying to pass for the dowdy head matron of a women’s prison or private girls’ school, then she was right on the money costume-wise. Glory also had a nice tall drink clutched firmly in one hand. Probably bourbon and water. From its dark amber appearance, it was obvious the drink had been mixed fairly strong.
“Nice to see you, Glory,” said Carmela. She glanced longingly after Ava and Sweetmomma Pam, who had wandered away. “Congratulations again on your Founder’s Award.”
Glory gave a self-satisfied smile and leaned in slightly. Her eyes were like hard little orbs and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Carmela could smell the bourbon on her breath and sensed that a confrontation might be imminent.
“Too bad you weren’t able to join us,” said Glory. She pulled her mouth into a sneer. “But I guess family doesn’t mean a whole lot to you anymore.”
“Glory…,” said Carmela, tiredly, spreading her hands apart in a peace gesture, “I’d be happy to sit at your table tonight.” This kind of crap just wasn’t worth it, she decided. She’d sit at the damn table and be pleasant if it killed her.
Glory tucked her chin down and peered at Carmela. “That might prove slightly embarrassing for you, Carmela.
Especially since Shamus elected to bring a date tonight. A lovely young woman by the name of Zoe Carvelle, who is most enchanting.” The ice in Glory’s glass clinked like gnashing teeth. Then Glory flashed a triumphant smile, spun unsteadily on her squatty little navy heels, and tottered away.
Carmela stared after her, stunned by Glory’s revelation. Shamus had brought a date. Her estranged husband had brought a date. Wasn’t that just a trip and a half? She was about to be completely humiliated at one of New Orleans ’s major social events. Could things get any worse?
A crowd of masked revelers suddenly swirled around her. Of course they could, she decided. This was New Orleans, after all.
A stark white face with waving strands of long black hair floated in close, startling her.
“Hey there, Carmela.” Dove Duval’s familiar voice suddenly issued forth from this strange apparition. “Having fun?”
Carmela managed to squeak out a one-syllable answer as she took in Dove Duval’s costume. Dove wore a Morticia Addams wig of long, black, straight hair. Her face was powdered stark white, like a performer in a Japanese Kabuki theater. Dove’s lips were outlined in black then filled in with blood red lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed in black, lent an eerie stark contrast, making her look enormously predatory and slightly crazed. And she wore a floor-length black witch’s gown. She looks, Carmela thought, like that bizarre pop star Marilyn Manson.
Dove Duval’s blood red lips pulled themselves into a wide smile. “Aren’t you the liberated woman.”
Carmela figured Dove had to be referring to Shamus and his date. And decided she seriously didn’t want to go there. Instead, Carmela decided to negotiate a countermaneuver. “How did your little photo session go yesterday?” she asked.
Dove blinked rapidly at her. “Pardon?”
“Weren’t you also taking photos when we met in the cemetery yesterday?” Carmela stared at Dove. Someone had taken the photo of her and Boo, scratched it up, then shoved it under her door.
“Why, no,” said Dove. “I don’t know the first thing about taking pictures.”
Carmela gave a long sigh. Dove wasn’t about to give her anything. “Did you finally get your floral arrangement done?” she asked.
That little question produced a flurry of animation and activity. Encouraged by Carmela’s apparent interest, infinitely proud to show off her handiwork, aspiring for recognition, Dove Duval grasped Carmela’s arm and pulled her down along the wall of artworks.
“Like it, Carmela?”
They stopped in front of the owl painting, Owl in the Moonlight. True to her word, Dove had composed an arrangement using poppy heads, dried feverfew, and bright orange Dutchman’s trousers.
“Wonderful,” replied Carmela, gazing at the moss-filled wire basket that was tied with velvet ribbon from her store.
“I just love being artistic,” said Dove. With her exaggerated accent, it sounded like she said I just love being autistic.
IT TOOK A GOOD TEN MINUTES FOR CARMELA TO finally pull herself away from Dove Duval, make her way through the crowd, then finally locate the large circular table that Baby and Del had reserved. When she finally got there, feeling more than a little discombobulated, everyone was already seated. Baby and Del. Tandy and Darwin. Gabby and her husband, Stuart. And Ava and Sweetmomma Pam. An extra place setting had been added for Ava’s grandmother, and she now sat perched expectantly on a folding chair.
After a flurry of greetings, hugs, and air kisses, Carmela slipped into the chair next to Ava.
“Shamus brought a date,” she told her friend in a low whisper.
Ava lifted an eyebrow and held it for a second, letting it quiver in disbelief. “Shamus brought a date?” she whispered back. “Date with a capital D?”
“Zoe,” said Carmela. The sick, sinking feeling that had begun in her stomach now seemed to have spread through her entire body. “Zoe with a capital Z.”
“Oh, honey!” Ava grasped Carmela’s hand and gave her a look of pure commiseration.
And, as everyone around her clinked glasses, noshed hors d’oeuvres, and made small talk, Carmela sat and tried to puzzle out what she could do to avoid being introduced to Zoe. Something. Anything. Even faking an epileptic seizure would be preferable and slightly less embarrassing than having to smile and shake hands with your husband’s date. Especially in a room full of scrutinizing society folk who loved nothing better than watching other people squirm like a bug on a pin.
Ava, her curiosity roused, craned her neck and peered across a sea of tables, trying to catch a look at Shamus’s date. “Hmm. I think I see her.”
“Dog?” asked Carmela.
“Actually,” said Ava, “she’s rather striking.”
On the pretext of reaching for a decanter of wine, Carmela half-stood and craned her neck as well. Finally she spotted Shamus, then Zoe sitting next to him. There was something familiar about her.
Damn. It’s the woman in the keyhole dress. Has to be.
“She certainly is striking,” agreed Carmela. “And youthful.”
Ava nodded. “Particularly if your taste runs toward emaciated girls with a head full of hair extensions.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Carmela.
Ava plucked the wine decanter from Carmela’s hand and refilled her own glass. “And, if you ask me, I’m thinking her ta-ta’s aren’t the genuine article, either.”
Once the main entree of roast duck had been served, Quigg Brevard and Chef Ricardo stopped by their table. Carmela made hasty introductions and there were hand-shakes and compliments all around.
“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.
Shamus put a hand protectively on one of Glory’s broad shoulders. “That’s not the real problem. She only had a couple drinks this evening, but she’s been taking this new medicine for her OCD. My guess is the combination of booze and pills must’ve packed a real wallop.”
“That lady’s stoned, all right,” said Ava, who had followed Carmela to Shamus’s table. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” Ava peered into Glory’s glazed eyes. “Oh yeah, look at her pupils. She’s gone.”
“She’s gone,” repeated Sweetmomma Pam, who had tagged along as well.
“Carmela, do something!” wailed Shamus.
Startled, wondering why this little family emergency had suddenly been thrust on her shoulders, Carmela whipped her head toward him. “Face it, Shamus, Glory’s zonked.”
“Carmela… please! You’ve got to do something,” Shamus begged as Baby and Del, curious as to what was going on, sidled up to the table as well.
“The woman’s clearly stoned, Shamus, what do you want me to do?” Carmela snapped. “Fire up the light show and throw some Jefferson Airplane on the turntable?”
“You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” grumped Shamus.
Carmela hesitated. Shamus was probably right. She was being a tad bitchy. But wasn’t she enjoying this little spectacle as well?
Oh yeah. What goes around comes around, Miss Glory Meechum. Spread enough bad karma around and it’ll come back and chomp you in the butt.
“This is Glory’s big night,” pleaded Shamus. “She’s supposed to receive her Founder’s Award!”
“Might I offer a suggestion?” said Baby. She stood on the sidelines, looking cool and somewhat detached in her Marie Antoinette costume, but also helping to block this rather embarrassing scene from other prying eyes.
“Whaaaa?” mumbled Glory, rolling her head. Neither eye seemed to be able to focus on the same thing. With her head sunk on her chest and her eyes looking wonky and rolling out to the sides, Carmela thought Glory resembled a Mississippi channel catfish.
“Now mind you,” said Baby, “not that I know this first-hand. But I did attend college in the late sixties.”
Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Lots of psychedelics back then. Powerful stuff.”
“And I did hear rumors… realize, these were only rumors,” said Baby, “that several spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in a glass of orange juice could bring a person down from a nasty high. Something about increasing glucose and balancing blood sugar levels.”
“Kind of like a diabetic,” breathed Ava. “That’s good.”
“Shamus, go tell Monroe Payne to hold off on that Founder’s Award presentation,” announced Carmela. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Glory like she was a science project. “Let’s go ahead and try Baby’s sugar and orange juice suggestion. Glory’s in no condition to walk out on a stage. Let alone stumble through an acceptance speech.”
“I don’t know,” said Baby, “I’ve seen lots of men do it.”
“But that’s men, honey,” interjected Ava. “In the South men are expected to get a little tipsy at social occasions. It’s their birthright.”
“Hear, hear,” said Baby’s husband, Del, grinning.