Laura Childs: Photo Finished

Ava took another sip of her mimosa and gave Carmela a searching look. “Who do you think did it?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Carmela shrugged, shook her head. She’d been asking herself that same question for the past fifteen hours. It was highly probable that the previous night’s tragic events had been a random robbery, a casualty of life in the charming but rather dangerous French Quarter, where great architecture rubbed uneasy shoulders with bad behavior. On the other hand, Bartholomew Hayward could have been purposely singled out. Someone could have wanted the man out of the way for good.

“No idea,” Carmela told Ava. “But the whole event does inspire chills.”

“What do you… did you know… about Bartholomew Hayward?” asked Ava.

Carmela had to think about Ava’s question. Bartholomew Hayward had always been rather standoffish and sour, barely exchanging more than a few sentences with her in the eighteen months since her scrapbook shop had moved in next to him. The displays in Barty Hayward’s front window had always been tasty… mostly spectacular oil paintings, Tiffany lamps, and Chinese vases. But some of the larger pieces in his store, particularly the furniture, seemed… questionable. On the few occasions Carmela had stayed late to work on the books, redo her front window, or complete a scrapbook project, she’d noticed covered trucks rumbling up to Bartholomew Hayward’s back door. Trucks that seemed to be filled with fairly new pieces of furniture. Carmela knew that in the antique business, it wasn’t unusual for middlemen or dealers to take an old serving board or dressing table, break it up, and then use a smattering of the authentic parts to construct three or four new pieces.

But rather than relating all this to Ava, Carmela simply said, “Bartholomew Hayward always seemed like pretty much of a loner.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ava. “Which explains why he’s in the throes of a nasty divorce.” Ava extended a hand and wiggled her fingers, beckoning Carmela to give her more. “But you must have some suspicions.”

Carmela shook her head. “Nothing specific. Although I don’t think it was random like one of the police detectives theorized last night.”

“Cold-blooded murder then,” whispered Ava, obviously enjoying this immensely.

“Or some sort of confrontation gone bad,” surmised Carmela. “The assault itself on Barty might not have been premeditated.” She paused. “But it might have… evolved into murder?” She tried the idea out, decided it might hold water.

“With who as a suspect?” prompted Ava.

“Could be anyone,” replied Carmela. “A disgruntled customer, a vendor who got stiffed, an unhappy employee.”

“Employee? Good heavens, you’re not thinking of Billy Cobb, are you?” exclaimed Ava.

“No, not Billy.” Carmela smiled. “He’s a good kid. And apparently a very hard worker. Really, the murderer could be anyone.” Carmela picked up one of the menus the waiter had left for them and scanned the list of entrees. Everything sounded incredible. “We should think about ordering,” she told Ava.

Ava squinted at the freshly printed parchment paper where the entree choices were listed. “Escolar,” she read slowly. “Wasn’t Escolar the name of a drug kingpin?”

“That’s Escobar,” said Carmela, thinking. Oh, oh. I forgot how picky Ava can be when it comes to food. “Escolar is particularly tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

“Still is,” Carmela told her friend. “But it’s a fish, too. Tasty, with nice firm white meat.”

Ava wrinkled her nose. “I think I might need somethin’ a tad more traditional,” she drawled. Ava was okay with familiar fare such as crawfish étouffée and blackened catfish, but she was having trouble with the notion of grilled escolar served over sweet red peppers and lavishly garnished with tarragon butter.

“What do they call this style of food again?” Ava asked.

“Local food critics, such as they are, credentialed or not, have dubbed it Cajun Fusion,” replied Carmela.

“Mmn,” murmured Ava, clearly not impressed. “Look at this,” she went on, scanning the menu. “Crab fritters on avocado with citrus dressing. Everybody knows you serve crab fritters with red beans and rice. Honey, this is more like Cajun Confusion.”

“Bon Tiempe’s supposed to be one of the hottest places in town,” said Carmela. “Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s the best,” she hastily explained. There was a greasy little hole-in-the-wall joint down the block from her that served the best oyster po’boys, bar none.

Ava laid her menu down and gazed around. Every table was filled, the bar was bustling, and a line had formed just inside the front door. “The joint does seem to be jumping,” she admitted. Languidly, she lifted her hair from off the back of her neck and let it fall in lush waves. “And the owner, the good-looking fellow who’s standing over there talking to the woman with the peculiar red hair. What’s his name? Craig?… Grigg?”

“Quigg,” said Carmela. “Quigg Brevard.”

“He’s not only adorable,” said Ava in a stage whisper, “I hear he’s the last of a dying breed… an eligible bachelor.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” replied Carmela, who actually had thought about it, but didn’t want to stare at the man and make an idiot of herself.

“Well, he’s noticed us. In fact, oh… hang on to your pantyhose, sweetums… I think Monsieur le restaurateur is charting a direct course to our table!”

Carmela had met Quigg Brevard, Bon Tiempe’s owner, at a dinner party some two months earlier. In fact, she’d found herself seated next to him. Quigg Brevard had proved to be charming, witty, and handsome.

So why don’t I want anything to do with him? wondered Carmela. Shamus is history and life has to go on, right? Kind of like the Big Muddy, which, come hell or high water, just keeps rolling toward the Gulf. Maybe I’m scared to do something. I’m afraid to take a chance and put myself out there like a yutz. Yeah, that’s probably it. That and the fact that I’m still carrying this darned torch.

Quigg Brevard had indeed made a beeline for their table.

“I heard you had some trouble at your store last night,” he said, flashing a wide, dimpled grin at Carmela. Obviously, he remembered her rather well.

“Not exactly at my store,” said Carmela. She suddenly felt slightly flushed and wondered if it was the mimosa cocktail she’d just tossed down or because Quigg Brevard’s piercing brown eyes were focused so intently on her.

“Hi, I’m Ava Grieux,” said Ava, delicately offering a hand to Quigg. “And technically, the murder occurred behind Carmela’s store. In the alley.”

“Charmed to meet you, Miss Grieux.” Quigg executed a gentlemanly half-bow. “And you’re looking particularly lovely this morning also, Ms. Bertrand.”

Carmela smiled back at him, giving praise to the heavens that she’d taken time to apply eyeliner and had worn her almost-Chanel jacket.

“How did you hear about Barty Hayward?” Ava asked. “Was it on the news?”

Quigg tugged at the perfect cuffs of the perfect white shirt that peeked from his impeccably tailored navy jacket. “Are you kidding?” he asked, his expressive eyebrows shooting up. “Rumors have been spreading like wildfire. Half the people eating here are speculating about Barty Hayward’s demise. And those are people who live all over the city… in the French Quarter, Faubourg Marigny, Garden District, and here in the Bywater. I tell you, everybody’s heard about it by now. And everybody’s got a theory.”

There was a sudden cataclysmic crash as the chef at the marble-topped sideboard drove a meat cleaver down, lopping off the head of a giant smoked sturgeon.