Laura Childs - Photo Finished

Okay, let’s just say somebody came knocking at Barty’s back door. Barty stepped out, closed the door behind him. Then Barty and his unknown assailant began to talk, argue, struggle, whatever. Then this unknown assailant stabbed him.

Carmela stared down at the red squirt of paint that delineated where Bartholomew Hayward’s body had lain.

Then maybe this assailant was startled when he heard Gabby click open the back door. So he squirreled himself behind the Dumpster. That would be the most logical hiding place.

Carmela paced off a few steps to the Dumpster.

She hesitated a split second, then squeezed in between its rusting hulk and the grubby brick wall. Glancing about, she didn’t see anything that struck her as particularly interesting. Or threatening. More fingerprint dust residue. A couple cigarette butts lying on the ground, stuck between the cracks of cobblestones. Gingerly, Carmela lifted the heavy lid of the Dumpster and peered in. A malodorous scent wafted up from its dark interior. Stale beer, rotted food, Lord knew what else.

Okay, stick with this, she told herself as she let the lid slam down. What happened next?

When Gabby heard a weird noise and looked around, the murderer… because this wasn’t just an assailant anymore, but a bona fide murderer… tore off down the alley.

Carmela eased herself out from behind the Dumpster and started walking slowly down the alley in the same direction Barty’s murderer had fled. In her mind’s eye, she was trying to picture the exact escape route the perpetrator might have taken. Head down this alley, pop out on Royal Street, get lost in the crowd. Pouf, it was that easy.

A few shreds of newspaper swirled about Carmela’s ankles as she continued down the alley. A couple geaux cups, plastic take-away glasses from a nearby bar, had rolled up against a brick wall.

The police searched around for clues, but came up empty. The closer Carmela got to Royal Street, the more she knew her search was futile. Not much here. An empty cigarette pack, a smashed whisky bottle. Obviously not a highly trafficked alley.

Nothing, she thought. No wonder the police are positively clueless.

Five feet from the end of the alley, a faint glint caught Carmela’s eye. She stopped and leaned down. Studied the shiny little object. Couldn’t believe her eyes!

That’s one of my pendants! I must have dropped the darn thing last night when I bobbled the tray climbing out of my car.

Carmela frowned and stared at the embossed gold disk with the fleur-de-lis design. It was definitely one she’d painstakingly stamped out of clay then rubbed with gold paint some two days ago.

But how the heck did the darned thing get way down here?

Carmela reached down to pick up the pendant, hesitated, suddenly inhaled sharply.

One edge of the pendant was seriously flattened. And bore a rather strange impression. One she certainly hadn’t stamped there.

Oh my god!

Could it be… a partial imprint from the heel of a shoe?

Carmela’s eyes bugged out as she was struck with the full implication.

Did Barty Hayward’s murderer step on this? The darned thing had obviously been lying somewhere near my car. And neither the clay nor the paint was completely dry. Could the clay pendant have clung to the bottom of the murderer’s heel, then suddenly flown off right here? Sure, it could have.

Carmela’s theory sounded plausible to her, but would the police see it the same way? No, probably not.

They’d already called in their detectives, uniformed officers, and crime scene technicians to the scene. The whole lot of them had shuffled around, scowling, smoking, cracking jokes, and making official grumblings. Then they’d packed up and left. Hadn’t really bothered to quiz her or her customers all that much.

So what do I do now?

Her instincts told her exactly what to do.

Reaching into her pocket, Carmela pulled out a Kleenex tissue. Carefully, without touching the top of the little handcrafted medallion, she scooped it up.

Okay, now what?

Carmela stared at the squashed medallion.

What I should do is take a digital photo. Then show it to Gabby or Tandy or Baby and see what they think. It’s got these weird initials on it. Maybe they’ll know if that’s a designer logo or something.

The notion encouraged her. At least she’d be doing something positive.

Can I get a good enough photo of it?

That thought made her smile.

Of course I can, especially if I sprinkle the medallion with some of that embossing powder I use to enhance rubber-stamped images on cards and invitations. After all, embossing powder probably isn’t all that different from the powder real forensic labs use.

As she hurried back to her store, Carmela found herself on edge and curiously excited.

Look at me. All worked up over finding what could turn out to be a very weird clue to a real-life killer. Am I completely nuts or what?

Please, she told herself, don’t even answer that.

THEY say the devil sometimes pops up when you least expect him. Unpredictably, unforeseeably, certainly unwelcome. Such was the case when Carmela heard a sharp knock on her door that evening.

She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Who’s plotzing around out there this time of night? Ava? Can’t be, I just had a gab with her an hour ago. Told her all about the medallion with the heel impression.

Carmela rose from the creaky wicker chaise lounge where she’d been curled up, surfing her seventy-five cable channels, searching for a scintillating forensic TV show, and padded to the front door in her stocking feet. Rolling over in her cozy L. L. Bean dog bed, Boo uttered a half-hearted yip, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. A wet snore gurgled from her well-padded muzzle.

Some watchdog you are, thought Carmela.

Carmela peered through the peephole in the door. Shamus Allan Meechum was standing there in the small courtyard outside her apartment. Her tall, curly-haired, good-looking, soon-to-be ex-husband.

Shamus! What the heck does he want?

Reluctantly, Carmela took the chain off the door and let him in.

“Hey, babe.” Shamus gave a lazy smile as he brushed by her, his larger-than-life personality immediately insinuating itself in the confines of her small apartment.

Carmela closed the door and gave a quizzical glance.

What just happened here? I was cozied up, skimming a magazine and surfing channels, when suddenly this big galoot breezes in and changes the entire character of my place.

She peered at her apartment with its coral red walls, earth-tone sisal rug, and flea market furniture that had been reupholstered in cream-colored cotton duck fabric. Along with some antique shop buys, most from scratch-and-dent rooms, she’d managed to concoct a semblance of casual chic. But Shamus’s presence seemed to throw off the whole atmosphere . Suddenly, everything felt tilted and out of focus.

The notion that Shamus had waltzed in and impacted the character of her home greatly perturbed Carmela. Which meant she didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What do you want?” she asked Shamus bluntly.

Shamus, ever the Southern gentleman, favored Carmela with a look that fairly dripped with concern. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said in the soft accent he’d picked up from his mother, who hailed from Baton Rouge.

“Why?” Carmela asked in a neutral tone.

“Carmela,” Shamus replied with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I heard about Bartholomew Hayward’s murder last night.” He shook his head. “Poor Barty. Terrible thing. He went to Tulane, you know.”

“Do tell,” said Carmela. Shamus had gone to Tulane and considered all Tulane alumni kindred spirits.