Laura Childs: Photo Finished

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” murmured Gabby. “Martini drinkers are awfully particular.”

“You talking about your husband, honey?” asked Baby. Gabby was married to Stuart Mercer-Morris. The Mercer-Morris family that owned beaucoup plantations and car dealerships.

Gabby nodded. “Stuart’s a martini purist. His idea of the perfect dry martini is a big splash of gin and then a contemplative moment where he only imagines a shot of vermouth.”

“No olive?” asked Tandy.

Gabby shook her head.

“You say the vodka’s pink?” asked Carmela with a crooked grin. “Maybe you could create a vodka drink that’s an homage to the end of the Cold War.” She waited a beat, then dropped her punch line. “Call it Pinko.”

“Love it!” giggled Baby.

“Gosh, Carmela,” exclaimed Gabby, “you really should be in marketing.”

“I was in marketing,” Carmela reminded her. “Two years of designing labels for Turtle Chili, Catahoula Catsup, and Big Easy Étouffée.” Carmela had been, in fact, low man on the totem pole when she’d worked for the in-house design group at Bayou Bob’s Foods.

“We’re delighted you chose to open your scrapbook shop instead,” said Baby, reaching across the table to squeeze Carmela’s hand. “We love coming here.”

A door scraped open at the very back of the shop.

“Judging from all that raucous laughter, I guess everyone has thoroughly embraced the idea of an all-night crop,” called a familiar voice.

Carmela’s head whirled around. “Ava?”

“Who else?” said Ava. The back door closed behind her with a whoosh and she sauntered in, leading a small fawn-colored dog on a leash. A very wrinkled dog.

“Hey there, Boo,” exclaimed Gabby, easing off her chair and kneeling down to pet Carmela’s little dog. Boo, every inch a lady, held out her delicate Shar-Pei paw in greeting.

Ava shrugged out of her fringed leather jacket and tossed back her wild mane of auburn hair. “We just had a nice walk-walk, then we did our doo-doo in the alley,” said Ava. “Now we’re here to say hewwo to Momma.”

Gabby took Boo’s paw in her hand and waved it at Carmela. “Hewwo, Momma,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

“Good lord,” declared Tandy. “Why is it people always feel compelled to talk baby talk to dogs?” Although Tandy was crazy over kids, especially her grandchildren, no one would ever call her a pet fancier.

“Because dogs are just like children,” offered Baby, who had reared and loved dozens of blue-eyed Catahoula hounds of her own. “Dogs are gentle, innocent, trusting creatures.”

“Hell-o,” said Tandy. “You honestly think children are innocent, trusting creatures? You’d change your tune fast enough if you were stuck with my sister-in-law’s tribe. Those kids make the bushmen of Borneo look like a bunch of Methodist ministers.” She paused, gazing around the table at the bemused group. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” she told them. “I’m Methodist.”

“Anyway,” said Ava, “I assume it’s okay for Boo to stay?”

There were affirmative murmurs from everyone as Gabby unfurled a blanket for Boo to cozy up on.

“Just don’t let her nibble any glue sticks,” advised Carmela. “She has a very touchy tummy.”

“Tell me about it,” said Ava, unsnapping Boo’s leather leash. “One time Boo gnawed apart a sisal rug in my store and then oopsied all over the floor. Afterwards, we had to pull strands of sisal out of her mouth like we were reeling in fishing line. Lucky it didn’t get kinked around her-”

Carmela stood up so fast her chair almost tipped over. “Ava, do you think you could help Gabby serve the popovers? She’s been keeping everything warm in the back office.”

“Oh, sure thing,” said Ava, checking her watch. “Gosh, it’s after nine. I guess you guys are pretty hungry by now.”

Ava Grieux, formerly Mary Ann Sommersby of Mobile, Alabama, was the proprietor of the Juju Voodoo and Souvenir Shop over on Esplanade Avenue. Carmela had met Ava after she was tossed out of Shamus’s Garden District home by Glory Meechum, Shamus’s older sister. Ava lived in an apartment above her voodoo shop and managed the two little apartments on the bougainvillea-filled courtyard behind her shop where Carmela had finally ended up renting a place.

“Whatcha serving, honey?” asked Tandy as she pulled a scissors from her bag and proceeded to cut a deckled edge on a sheet of mulberry paper. She was going to use it as a backdrop for a grouping of photos.

“Shrimp chowder and pecan popovers,” said Carmela. “The chowder recipe is one of my momma’s favorites and the popover recipe is Baby’s.”

Baby nodded and adjusted the Hermès silk scarf that sat coiled like a perfect smoke ring around her neck and shoulders. “Actually, my Aunt Cecily’s,” she amended. “She grew up on a pecan plantation in Bossier Parish, don’t you know?”

Carmela turned toward one of the flat files to pull out a sheet of vellum paper to also try with Tandy’s scrapbook layout when a second sharp rap sounded at the back door.

Baby arched her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “Another late arrival?”

Carmela frowned. “We weren’t expecting anyone else.” The cobblestone alley out back was awfully dark and dreary. And, besides the utterly fearless Ava, nobody in their right mind ever came in that way.

Indeed, the alley behind Memory Mine and the neighboring Menagerie Antiques was so dark and narrow it was used only for deliveries to the various neighboring businesses.

Carmela hurried to the back door, flipped the latch, and pulled the door open.

“Carmela,” said a deadpan voice.

Bartholomew Hayward, proprietor of Menagerie Antiques, stood gazing at her with a look of sublime dissatisfaction on his normally unhappy face.

“Barty,” Carmela said. “Come in. You just missed Jade Ella. She stopped by a few minutes ago.”

Bartholomew followed Carmela a few steps inside, pointedly ignoring her reference to his soon-to-be ex-wife. “ You’re certainly open late,” he said in a tone that was almost accusing.

“We’re having an all-night crop,” Carmela explained. She waved a hand to indicate the three tables of women who were engrossed in their various scrapbooking and craft projects. She noted that Dove Duval and Mignon Wright, who’d been seated at the first table, had finished packing their craft bags and were now headed out the front door.

Bartholomew Hayward continued to stand in Carmela’s back hallway like an imperious ballet master surveying his ballet corps. “You’re going to have to move your car,” he announced in a petulant tone.

Gabby poked her head out of the temporary kitchen that was really Carmela’s office. “Billy said it was okay to leave Carmela’s car there.”

Carmela flashed an inquisitive glance at Gabby.

“I took him a popover and some honey butter maybe an hour ago,” Gabby explained.

“Well, it isn’t all right,” said Bartholomew. “In fact, Billy had no right to grant you permission. I’m expecting a delivery later on and I’m sure you’re well aware that parking is absolutely horrendous around here. Besides which, those two parking spots out back are specifically leased to me.”

“I’ll move my car,” Carmela assured him. She sure didn’t need Bartholomew Hayward creating a stinky scene when the evening seemed so alive with creativity and wonderful karma.

“Excellent,” said Bartholomew. He still wore a dubious expression on his face, which indicated it wasn’t really excellent at all. In fact, he looked as though he didn’t quite believe Carmela. Or had expected her to put up more of a fuss.