Laura Childs: Photo Finished

Ava strolled out of the back office carrying a silver tray piled high with giant pecan popovers. “Hey, Barty, grab yourself a popover,” she said, tipping the tray toward him.

“No, thank you,” he said in his clipped tone. Then he spun on his heels and was out the back door in a flash.

“Bring those right over here, Ava, I’d love one,” said Tandy after the door had swung shut behind Bartholomew. “That man is such a sourpuss,” she declared. “I wish Billy wasn’t working for him, but the boy is just nuts over antiques.” Billy Cobb was Tandy’s nephew. He’d been working as an assistant to Bartholomew for the past six months or so.

“Billy plans to open his own antique shop someday,” added Tandy, obviously proud of her nephew.

“I bet he will,” said Baby, ever the cheerleader.

“Do you know Billy goes cruising up the River Road in that old truck of his, going to tag sales and yard sales?” said Tandy. “When he finds something nice, like an old wooden ice chest or a picture frame, he brings it home and refinishes it. Does a remarkable job, too. Then he takes his restored treasures over to the Sunday flea market at the fairgrounds in Livingston Parish. Lenore says he’s already cleared something like two thousand dollars.”

“Billy has a very enterprising spirit,” said Gabby. “Plus I think some of Bartholomew Hayward’s customers find him far nicer to deal with than Barty himself.”

“Lord sakes, don’t ever say that in front of Barty,” warned Tandy. “He’d fire Billy for sure if he thought his customers were tight with him.” She shook her head in a gesture of exasperation. “If you only knew what that poor boy puts up with…”

Carmela nodded. She had a pretty good idea of how tough it might be to work for Barty Hayward. The man was a legend in his own mind. Arrogant, overbearing, and not particularly friendly. Plus his prices were awfully high and the authenticity of his furniture often seemed questionable.

“Billy’s a good kid,” said Carmela as she slid a sheet of pink vellum in front of Tandy. “I’m sure he’ll do fine.”

“I hope so,” said Tandy as she moved one of her family photographs around, looking for the best placement on the page.

“How about using this vellum to ghost over that group shot of your grandkids?” asked Carmela.

Tandy beamed. “Perfect,” she declared. “Give it a nice soft-focus quality.”

Gabby emerged from Carmela’s office, balancing another heavy tray laden with mugs filled with steaming shrimp chowder. “Now be careful everyone,” she warned. “Push your scrapbooks and such aside. We don’t want any accidental spills ruining all your hard work.” There was a two-minute flurry while everyone slipped photos, papers, and projects into plastic protective envelopes. Then, as Gabby began to pass around mugs of chowder, the aroma of shrimp, onions, and cayenne pepper permeated the air.

“Is this strictly formal or are we allowed to dunk?” asked Baby as she tore off a hunk of popover and tentatively dipped it into her chowder.

“Please do,” insisted Carmela. “And you’ll have to adhere to our strict rationing policy tonight. Due to our overzealous kitchen crew, you’re expected to snarf down a minimum of three popovers per person!”

“Yum,” said Tandy, who weighed barely a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Carmela,” said Gabby, returning from her rounds with an empty tray. “Your car?”

“Holy smokes,” said Carmela, scrambling to her feet. “I almost forgot.” She dug in her jeans for the keys. “Barty’s probably going to have a hissy fit if I don’t get moving.”

Gabby set down the tray and put out a hand. “Here, give me the keys. I’ll go move your car.”

“You sure?” asked Carmela. She’d parked out back a few hours earlier to make it easier to ferry in boxes of rubber stamps, colored ink pads, and a lacquer tray filled with fun earrings and pendants. She’d created the pendants by pressing rubber stamps into clay. Because they were somewhat sizable, the pendants hadn’t been completely dry, and it had been just her luck to bobble the tray in the dark. Almost as though she’d had a premonition that Barty Hayward was skulking around somewhere, trying to prohibit any possible infringement on his parking spaces.

“You should stay here at the store,” said Gabby. “After all, it’s your show.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much luck finding another parking space close by,” Carmela told Gabby. Indeed, parking in the French Quarter was nearly impossible. Police cars continually prowled the narrow streets and any cars parked in unauthorized zones were immediately towed. “You’ll probably have to drive way over to Esplanade.” Esplanade was where Carmela lived. Where her overpriced monthly parking spot was located.

“No problem.” Gabby grinned. “Besides, I always wanted to get behind the wheel of your Mercedes and take it for a spin.”

“Then knock yourself out,” she said, passing the keys to Gabby and suddenly recalling the circumstances that had precipitated her getting the sharp little 500 SL. An issue involving Shamus had come to a head the previous March. On Mardi Gras day, in fact. And her beloved vintage Cadillac, the one she’d nicknamed Samantha, had been completely totaled in a nasty accident.

Overcome with a sense of love, shame, drama, indebtedness, whatever, Shamus had decided to present her with a brand-new Mercedes sports car. It was a hot and truly gorgeous car, and Carmela had been consumed with countless hours of guilt once she’d finally accepted it.

But I also love that car, Carmela reminded herself. And back then, Shamus was making positive signs toward reconciliation. Funny how all that seems to have totally evaporated. So what should I do now about what appears to be a somewhat murky future? File for divorce and move on? Yeah, maybe. Keep the car? Oh sure.

“That’s a cute sweater,” remarked Baby, as Gabby shrugged into a heavy cardigan. I like that nubby look.”

“Gettin’ cold out,” said Gabby, grabbing her purse. “Be back in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

PULLING OPEN THE BACK DOOR, GABBY STEPPED outside and was immediately enveloped in darkness. Spooky, she thought to herself and wished she’d asked someone to keep a watchful eye out, just until she climbed into Carmela’s car and popped the locks on the doors.

As Gabby headed for the car, strains of music drifted out from the C.C. Club next door and from Dr. Boogie’s down the block. At the end of the block, where the alley emerged onto Royal Street, there was a muffled clunk, then the crash of glass.

Startled, Gabby’s head jerked, and she scanned the alley warily. She didn’t see anyone lurking in the shadows. Still, this wasn’t the best place to be walking alone on a Saturday night.

She tossed the car keys up in a casual, whistling-in-the-dark sort of gesture. But grabbing for them, Gabby fumbled the recovery and was dismayed when she heard a faint clink as they hit the ground.

Gabby peered downward.

A sudden scraping noise, dull but distinct, sounded somewhere off to her right.

Gabby froze, her attention suddenly riveted on the hulking metal Dumpster some twenty feet away. She wondered if someone might be over there. Crouched down. Hiding.

As if on cue, the moon slid out from behind flimsy cloud cover and spilled eerie light into the dark alley.

And at that very moment, someone… Gabby’s fleeting impression was that it might have been a woman… bolted from behind the Dumpster and headed down the alley toward Royal Street. But whoever it was kept close to the rear of the buildings as they ran, staying in darkness.

Heart pounding wildly, Gabby put a hand to her chest, trying to steady her nerves, willing herself to breathe a sigh of relief.