Laura Childs: Photo Finished

So shattering was the noise that Carmela and Ava both flinched.

“Hah!” exclaimed Quigg. “That fellow’s probably in a good mood over the news.”

“The chef?” asked Carmela, with a slight frown, wondering why on earth the chef would be happy over news of Barty’s death.

“That’s Chef Ricardo Gaspar,” explained Quigg, lowering his voice. “Poor fellow’s restaurant went belly-up last year when Bartholomew Hayward pulled the plug on financing.”

Carmela turned in her chair to study the chef, a swarthy, determined-looking man with dark eyes and sharp features.

“I heard about that,” said Ava. “A group of businessmen put money into a couple restaurants that didn’t work out.”

“That’s not exactly true,” said Quigg. “The backers, the consortium, really didn’t give the restaurants much of a chance to find their niche or turn a profit. From all reports, Chef Ricardo was doing a fabulous job running Scaloppina. The place was steadily picking up steam and they’d garnered some very favorable reviews. But”-he gestured with his hands-“what can you do in six months? In my estimation, it takes a good two years to get a place up and running and really find your market.”

“Who else was backing Chef Ricardo’s restaurant?” asked Carmela. “Besides Bartholomew Hayward?”

Quigg shrugged. “I don’t remember the names of the individual investors. All I know is it was a consortium of fellows. Called themselves Parasol Partners.”

Chef Ricardo’s cleaver came down again with a murderous thud and diners at several tables turned to stare.

“I’ll bet he remembers,” said Ava, nodding wide-eyed at Chef Ricardo, who returned her gaze then gave a flirtatious wink.

“You do get that feeling, don’t you?” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard grinned widely, showing off perfect Chiclet teeth. “In the end, their loss was our gain. We’re delighted to have Chef Ricardo on staff, though he is temperamental.”

“You’ve had problems?” asked Carmela politely.

Quigg shrugged. “We’ve had our share of jealousies and pissing matches, the usual stuff that goes on in restaurant kitchens. You know, petty political maneuverings that end in a scuffle, a few copper pots being hurled. A minor stabbing…”

“A stabbing?” asked Carmela. That sounded a lot more serious than simple political maneuvering.

“Well, not a stabbing per se,” laughed Quigg. “Let’s just say someone got in the way of a fillet knife.”

“Ouch,” said Ava.

“In the way of one of Chef Ricardo’s knives?” Carmela persisted.

Realizing he’d probably said too much already, Quigg held up his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Understand, dear ladies, my sous -chef hails from Ecuador, my saucier is a native of Haiti, and my pastry chef came here from the Dominican Republic. When Latin tempers flare, unhappy words are often exchanged and unfortunate things occur in the heat of the moment.” He paused. “But enough of kitchen politics. Have you made your selection yet?”

Ava screwed up her face in a look of abject concern. “I’m just not sure about this Cajun Fusion thing.”

“Perhaps you’d be happier with something else?” Quigg observed.

Ava batted her false eyelashes. “I would.” She hadn’t been first runner-up in the Mobile, Alabama, Miss Teen Sparkle Pageant for nothing.

“I could have the kitchen prepare something slightly more traditional,” offered Quigg. “ Pain perdu perhaps, or trout meunière?” Pain perdu was the Creole version of French toast, made with French bread. Trout meunière was pan-fried trout with a rich butter sauce.

“Pain perdu would be wonderful,” said Ava, “along with some of that thick sliced bacon.”

“I’ll tell your waiter, Jerome,” said Quigg. “Now remember”-he held up a finger-“don’t judge us entirely by today’s menu. I can assure you we haven’t abandoned the roots from whence we’ve come. Tomorrow is Mud Bug Monday: boiled crawfish and hush puppies. And every fourth Thursday is Chicken Pickin’ Thursday. Fried chicken with snap peas, dirty rice, and buttered biscuits.” He flashed another of his megawatt smiles. “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?” And he was off to greet a new gaggle of guests who’d just flocked through the front door.

“He likes you,” whispered Ava.

“He’s very nice,” replied Carmela, thinking that Quigg Brevard seemed more taken with Ava.

“No, I mean he really likes you. As in, don’t be surprised if he asks you out,” said Ava.

Carmela’s cheeks suddenly glowed a bright pink. “I’m still married,” she told Ava. It wasn’t a very good excuse, but it was all she had at the moment.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Ava, assuming a stern expression. “I thought you finally decided to file those papers. Get the ball rolling on the big D. Make it official.”

“I’ve been awfully busy,” lied Carmela.

“You’ve been a coward,” accused Ava. “Face it, cookie, Shamus is history. He’s not coming back. He’s gone wild mustang on you. He got himself a snort of freedom and he likes it too much to give it up.” Ava paused, realizing she’d maybe come across a little too rough. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, her voice softening. “Cut yourself loose from Shamus Allan Meechum and you’ll find a whole new world opening up for you. Nice respectable men like Quigg Brevard. You could do worse.”

“Agreed,” said Carmela, fumbling in her purse for a Rolaid.

Do I have heartburn? No, just a broken heart. Will the Rolaid fix it? Hey, at least a girl can pretend.

Twenty minutes later, Carmela was scraping up her last morsel of escolar when what seemed to be a full-scale shouting match suddenly erupted in the kitchen. There was a quick shuffle of footsteps as Quigg Brevard hustled the length of the dining room, then pushed his way through the swinging door into the kitchen. A sudden sharp increase in the decibel level ensued, then the door swung closed with a thwack and silence prevailed.

“Fun place to work, huh?” remarked Ava.

“Reminds me of the Gator Grove Cafe over in Algiers,” said Carmela. “When I was waiting tables senior year in college, a fry cook tried to eviscerate a surly busboy with a potato peeler.”

“That’d do the trick,” Ava said with a nod.

“Can I interest you in dessert, ladies?” Their waiter, Jerome, was suddenly hovering tableside, probably nervous about the shouting match that had gone on in the kitchen. “Bread pudding or our homemade granita?”

“Nothing for me,” said Carmela.

“Bread pudding,” said Ava. “But don’t just drizzle a teeny bit of sauce on it. Really drench it.”

The waiter bowed, a faint smile playing at his lips. “As you wish, madame.”

“How can you eat like that and stay a size six?” asked Carmela. She herself was an eight and had to constantly struggle to keep a tight rein on things.

Ava sighed. “Actually, I’ve let myself go. I’ve been trying to convince myself that cellulite is really fancy French fat, but it’s not working.”

Carmela stared across the table at Ava. She had the lean, sinewy body of a New York fashion model.

“Now Sweetmomma Pam is entirely different,” said Ava. “She’s blessed with a fiery metabolism. That old lady can chow down like a stevedore and never gain an ounce.”

“How is Sweetmomma Pam?” Carmela asked. Sweetmomma Pam was Ava’s maternal grandmother. She’d blown into town a few days ago on the pretext of sightseeing and was just about driving poor Ava bonkers. That was one of the reasons Ava had wanted to go out to brunch today. To get a much-needed reprieve from Sweetmomma Pam.