Laura Childs - Photo Finished

It was tight quarters in her office and the chair was none too comfy, but Lieutenant Babcock didn’t seem to mind.

“What brings you back to Memory Mine?” asked Carmela. “Still looking for a birthday gift for that scrapbooking sister of yours?”

He smiled mildly.

Lieutenant Babcock was a pretty cool customer, Carmela decided. Really knew how to play it close to the vest. He was also one of those people who left lots of gaps in the conversation. The kind of gaps an extremely nervous person, someone who had something to hide, would probably struggle to fill in.

“Actually,” said Babcock, crossing his legs, “I’m doing a little research on paint.” His pleasant smile never wavered. “Gilt paint.”

“Would that be the type of gilt paint that was found on a certain scissors?” asked Carmela.

“It would.”

“Mn-hm,” she said noncommittally.

“It might also be the type of paint used on certain scrapbook pages.”

Carmela leaned back in her chair and her heart did a tiny flip-flop.

“I don’t believe it’s the same type of paint at all,” she said. She knew most of her paint was acrylic-based and assumed the paint found on the latex gloves was oil-based. Most paints and stains used in furniture refinishing were oil-based.

“Still,” said Lieutenant Babcock, “it might be worthwhile for our lab to run a few tests.”

“Is one of my customers under suspicion?” she asked. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Babcock gave her a mild smile. “Not at all. We’re simply attempting to rule people out.”

“Like you tried to rule out Billy Cobb?”

“Billy Cobb is no angel,” said Babcock.

“Billy Cobb is also not a murderer,” replied Carmela.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Yes, I do. I am.” Carmela fought to keep her voice even.

Babcock suddenly leaned forward, an expression of grave concern on his face. “Can I be perfectly frank with you?”

“Please,” said Carmela. It had pretty much been her experience that anyone who said they wanted to be perfectly frank with you was probably setting you up for a nice juicy lie.

“We’re not making a lot of forward progress in this investigation,” said Lieutenant Babcock, as though he were letting her in on a big secret. “We need all the help we can get.”

“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.”

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.