Laura Childs: Photo Finished

That’s when she saw the body.

A man. Sprawled directly in front of her on the cobblestones, limbs awkwardly askew. Surrounded by a puddle of shiny black… ohmygod… was that blood?

Gabby let loose a blood-curdling scream. A scream that began in the pit of her stomach, resonated in her throat, and cut through the raucous night sounds of the French Quarter like a knife.

CARMELA, WHO WAS SEATED CLOSEST TO THE back door, heard Gabby’s shriek of terror. And pounded out the door in a flash. Ava, no slouch herself in the reaction department, was right behind her.

“Gabby!” cried Carmela, bursting through the door, fully expecting to find her assistant half beaten to death or in the process of being kidnapped.

Instead, like Lot ’s wife turned to a pillar of salt, Gabby was standing stock still in the middle of the alley.

Carmela pulled up short beside her. “Gabby?” she asked quietly, staring at Gabby’s stunned face. Clearly, something was very wrong. Gabby appeared to be in shock.

Gabby’s eyes were round as saucers as she pointed toward the ground. “Look,” said Gabby, her voice sounding tremulous and disconnected.

Carmela’s eyes, which were adjusting rapidly to the darkness now, followed Gabby’s finger downward. To the body that lay sprawled on the ground.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ava, who had skidded to a stop directly behind Carmela and also spotted the body. Ava spun on her fashionably stacked mock croc heels and bounded back into the scrapbook store. “Somebody call nine-one-one,” she yelped. “We need an ambulance out back! Now!”

Still paused in the alley, Carmela gazed down at the body with a mixture of curiosity and horror. Close as she could tell, the person sprawled on the cobblestones was Bartholomew Hayward.

Oh my god… but I just talked to Barty Hayward a few moments ago. What could have happened? Who could have…?

Suddenly, almost in a gesture of reverence, Gabby knelt down beside Bartholomew, as though she were preparing to minister to the body. Gabby’s hand reached out tentatively, then stopped just inches short of Bartholomew’s neck. There, imbedded to its hilt, was a large orange-handled scissors.

Carmela sensed more than saw that Gabby was about to reach for the protruding scissors. Was going to grasp it and pull it from the poor man’s neck.

Carmela, figuring it had to be the murder weapon, suddenly barked at Gabby: “Don’t touch that!”

Reacting to the harshness in Carmela’s voice, Gabby snatched her hand away as though she’d just been burned.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. Now all of Carmela’s customers were pouring out the back door into the alley. The mournful wail and advancing whoop whoop of sirens mingled with the strains of jazz and Zydeco music, creating a strange, disjointed cacophony.

A light burst on above the back door of Menagerie Antiques, and a metal door clanked open. Billy Cobb, Bartholomew Hayward’s young assistant, emerged, looking startled.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” called Billy. “I heard someone scream.” Billy stopped in his tracks the instant he spotted the body, then turned to stare at Carmela, who stood closest to it. “Is that Mr. Hayward?” Billy asked in a small voice. “Is he all right?”

Carmela reached down and gently touched the pulse point on the other side of Bartholomew Hayward’s neck. There was nothing to indicate the man was still alive. No movement, no breath sounds, no pulse.

Tentatively, Billy Cobb crossed the twenty feet of alley that separated them.

“Is Mr. Hayward all right?” Billy asked again. His face looked pinched and pale in the dim light, his demeanor hushed.

Carmela straightened up, placed her hands firmly on Gabby’s shoulders, walked the girl back a few paces. She was keenly aware that, in a city that boasted forty-one cemeteries, swarms of vampire groupies, and an ever-increasing murder rate, death rubbed familiar shoulders with everyone each and every day. Still… in the trickle of moonlight, Barty Hayward’s blood glistening like India ink against the pavement was a shocking affront to the senses.

“No, Billy,” said Carmela slowly. “Mr. Hayward is definitely not all right.” Swiveling her head, Carmela saw concern turn to horror on the faces of her customers who were fanned out behind her. This evening’s over, she thought.

As they all huddled wordlessly, waiting for the paramedics and police to arrive, Carmela’s mind flashed on the image of the little sign that still hung in the front window of her store: CROP TILL YOU DROP.

Prophetic words, indeed.

SILVERWARE clinked gently against china, crystal champagne glasses sparkled under antique chandeliers, soft jazz mingled with gentle Southern drawls. At a side table, a chef in a white smock and towering white hat sizzled fresh creamery butter along with sugar, brandy, and egg yolks in a brass chafing dish, creating the perfect sauce to complement the restaurant’s heavy-duty bread pudding.

Ava stared over her camellia blossom-garnished mimosa at Carmela. “So Tandy was pretty upset,” said Ava. It was an understatement and she knew it.

“Hysterical,” said Carmela. “In fact, Melinda Harper finally had to slip her a Valium.” Carmela paused, took a quick sip of her own drink, smiled at Ava. “Never underestimate the power of a tried-and-true drug. Especially one from the eighties.”

“Didn’t the police explain to Tandy that the only reason they wanted Billy down at the station was to give a statement?” asked Ava. “I mean, it’s not like they wanted to arrest the boy or anything.”

“Tandy’s always been a little”-Carmela paused, searching for the right phrase-“high strung.”

“Unlike the two of us,” said Ava, unfurling her white linen napkin and settling it across her lap. “Modern women who are utterly unflappable and totally grounded.”

“Completely,” agreed Carmela, who had been known to go ballistic over a millipede in the bathroom or a speck of dust on her contact lens.

The two women were sitting in Bon Tiempe, a new restaurant located in the Bywater area that had recently received rave reviews for its Sunday brunch. Bon Tiempe, which translated literally as “good times,” was housed in what had once been a rambling old Victorian mansion. Now it was a rambling old Victorian restaurant. Its interior was painted a restful sage green; its wood-planked floors were strewn with faded Aubusson carpets. Overhead, mood lighting was delivered compliments of tinkling glass chandeliers, many salvaged from old plantations.

Bon Tiempe’s furnishings were a charming mishmash of styles and eras. Comfortable parlor chairs sat next to Queen Anne chairs, with a couple upholstered Sheraton chairs scattered in for good measure. Sturdy wooden tables of pecan, oak, and pine were set with tall white tapers in silver candleholders and fresh flowers in cut-glass vases. Against the wall was an ornate marble-topped buffet, a curious piece of furniture with carved wooden shelves below and a curlicue wrought-iron backsplash. Today, the buffet was laden with straw baskets overflowing with breads, croissants, and other assorted pastries, as well as large platters of smoked fish and cheese.

With its creaking doors, sagging floors, and atmosphere of genteel decay, Bon Tiempe was definitely in keeping with the general aura that pervaded the whole of New Orleans.

“I’m sorry your all-night crop came to such a screeching halt,” said Ava. After the discovery of Bartholomew Hayward’s body in the alley, nobody had felt much like scrapbooking.

Carmela shrugged. “Try, try, again.”

“You will do it again?”

“Oh sure,” said Carmela. “But probably not until spring. After Mardi Gras, when things have settled down.”