Photo Finished (13 page)

“Owl in the Moonlight,”
said Baby, recalling the exact title. She had worked as a docent at the New Orleans Art Institute for years and was fairly knowledgeable when it came to its permanent collection. Carmela could have kissed Baby for her correct and rather snappy answer.

“Why, yes, that's it,” said Dove Duval, a hint of uncertainty suddenly registering in her voice. It was slowly dawning on her that she wasn't the only one in the room who had an “in” with the museum crowd.

“What kind of arrangement are you doing?” asked Gabby, trying to diffuse the tension that suddenly hung in the air.

“Poppy heads, branches of curly willow, dried feverfew, and possibly some Dutchman's trousers if I can get them. All arranged in a moss-filled wire basket,” Dove told her.

“Pretty,” Tandy replied, although the brittle tone of her voice indicated otherwise.

But Dove Duval seemed not to notice. “How much ribbon is left?” she asked.

Carmela unwound the spool of ribbon and measured it against a yardstick that was taped across the back of the counter. “An inch short of two yards. Hope that's enough to do the trick.”

“It's more than enough,” Dove told her crisply. She turned to Gabby. “I need to pick up a few other things, too.”

“Of course,” said Gabby, reaching for a wicker shopping basket. “Not a problem.”

 

 

“WHY DOES THAT WOMAN PUT ME ON EDGE?” Carmela asked after Dove Duval had departed. “She's a good customer. I
try
to like her.”

“Maybe because there's not all that much to like?” suggested Tandy.

“She's awfully pretentious,” added Gabby. “Last Saturday night, right before the Bartholomew Hayward debacle, Dove was bragging to everyone about how she was probably going to get named to the museum's board of directors.”

“Gosh,” said Baby, crinkling her nose, “I just don't think that's going to happen in the near future. I really don't.”

“Do you know something we don't?” asked Tandy.

“Could be,” Baby replied as she applied streaks of both bright yellow and dark green oil crayon to her stamped apple leaf image, then smudged both colors gently to achieve a lovely shaded effect.

“Dove certainly seemed to be stocking up on things,” remarked Tandy.

Gabby nodded. “I get the feeling Dove has been bitten by the entertaining bug and plans to design a lot of invitations. She bought card stock, raffia, some of those new brass templates, casting molds, some more gilt paint, and a new pair of scissors.”

“Gilt paint?” said Carmela.

“Scissors!” yelped Tandy. “What kind?”

Gabby looked suddenly stricken. “Paper-cutting scissors. The stainless steel ones by Capers Cutlery.”

The women glanced around the table at each other with wide-eyed looks. As if part of a Vulcan mind meld, everyone seemed to be focused on the same thought until Tandy finally asked: “What do you think Dove did with her old scissors?”

The tension was suddenly so thick inside Carmela's shop you could've cut it with a scissors.

C
ARMELA couldn't ever recall having been inside Glory Meechum's house when the vacuum cleaner wasn't rumbling full tilt. Cursed with a touch of OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder—Glory always seemed to be embroiled in a cleanliness snit.
Take off your shoes, put a coaster under that drink, don't sit down till I put a doily on the arm of that chair, and for God's sake don't spill on the carpet.

Visiting Glory was like some hellish trip back to the second grade. When teachers constantly hammered at you to wipe your feet, blow your nose, study hard, and flush.

To see Glory's Garden District house filled with guests was quite a shocker to Carmela. Normally taciturn and vaguely suspicious, Glory wasn't exactly a spitfire on the New Orleans social scene. In fact, the last social event Carmela remembered attending at Glory's house was the infamous Inquisition Dinner. When all the relatives had been present just before she'd married Shamus.

So this rather large person in the button-straining, splotchy floral print dress who was greeting guests and serving drinks couldn't be Glory Meechum, could it?
wondered Carmela.

Glory lumbered over to where Carmela stood uncertainly next to Shamus. Shamus fairly beamed at his older sister. Under Glory's close scrutiny, Carmela wanted to cower. Instead, she stood her ground and smiled.

After giving Shamus a perfunctory peck on the cheek, Glory wasted no time with snappy chitchat. “Drink, Shamus?” she asked. “Bourbon?”

Shamus nodded obediently. “Sounds good.”

Carmela cocked an appraising eye at Shamus. Dressed in a navy blazer and khaki slacks, Shamus looked successful, purposeful, and focused. All the things he really wasn't.

Glory turned toward Carmela and focused hard, beady eyes upon her. “Carmela?” she said gruffly. “Glass of wine?”

“Merlot if you've got it,” said Carmela, gazing around with a slightly dazed expression.

“No red wine,” said Glory. “Only
white.
” A challenging look accompanied her retort.

“Fine,” said Carmela. “White wine then.”
Use your head,
she told herself.
Of course Glory isn't about to serve red wine. A drop or two might stain her precious carpet.

“You still running that paper store?” asked Glory.

“Scrapbooking shop,” replied Carmela.

“Whatever,” said Glory as she wandered off toward the bar to alert her bartender.

“Well, this is fun,” said Carmela, gazing up at Shamus.
Maybe, if I'm really, really lucky, the earth will open up and swallow me whole.

“Carmela . . . don't,” said Shamus. “Glory's trying, really she is.”

“If that's trying, I'd hate to see how she handles oblivious,” replied Carmela. “To say nothing of disdainful.”

Shamus took Carmela's elbow and guided her toward the bar to collect their drinks. “The bourbon and a white wine?” Shamus said politely to the bartender, who was really Glory's gardener, Gus, tricked out in a white shirt and black cotton jacket. With the sleeves two inches too short for Gus's bony wrists, and the toggles fastened crookedly, Gus looked more like a disreputable waiter than a green-thumbed genius with magnolias and roses.

Shamus handed Carmela her glass of white wine. “Be nice,” he said, smiling at her. “Try to meet Glory halfway.”

“I'm always nice,” she replied. “You're the one who's been acting like a pill.”

Carmela noticed that Gus had plopped a colored umbrella into Shamus's bourbon. She figured it was Gus's notion of what a bartender was supposed to do. Shamus, on the other hand, simply glared at the offending umbrella, fished it out with his index finger, and flicked it into one of Glory's potted plants.

Glancing about, Carmela saw that Glory's ordinarily bare walls had been spiffed up. Now they were graced by a dozen or so of Shamus's photographs in contemporary-looking silver frames. Most were moody shots Shamus had taken of the bayous just south of New Orleans. Photos of old cypress trees shrouded in mist, a riot of blue iris that had just come into bloom, a few shots of palmetto forests, and even one of a lurking alligator. Carmela wondered if Shamus had shot that one using a telephoto lens.

“Your photos are very good,” she told Shamus.

Shamus took a sip of bourbon and nodded, pleased that she'd noticed. “They are, aren't they. I'm getting so much better. Probably working up to my own show.”

“You think so?” said Carmela.

“Oh yeah. For sure,” said Shamus, gazing about the room.

The dinner party turned out to include more Meechum relatives than real invited guests, with Glory and Shamus's brother, Jeffrey, and a scattering of various and sundry cousins populating the premises. Plus, it wasn't a dinner party per se. Rather than seating everyone at her large Sheraton dining table, Glory had set up a small table with appetizers. Garden variety stuff, really. More in the genus
Munchies
than the phylum Appetizer.
Munchus ordinarus,
Carmela decided, since the offerings consisted of overcooked rumaki, tiny crab cakes, oversauced chicken drummies, and some cherry tomatoes that haphazardly squirted their red liquid contents when bitten into.

On her second trip to the appetizer table, in an attempt to snare a few pieces from a decent-looking wheel of Camembert that had just been brought out, Carmela ran into Monroe Payne. He was chatting with Glory, praising her to high heaven about something.

“Carmela,” said Glory in her loud bray. “Have you met Monroe Payne? Monroe's our esteemed director at the New Orleans Art Institute.” Glory pronounced his name
Mon
roe, putting the emphasis on the first syllable of his name.

Carmela smiled politely at Monroe, who was tall, lean, and slightly owlish looking with his round Harry Potter glasses and dark hair combed straight back.

“I think we said hello in the hallway a couple weeks ago,” Carmela said as she balanced her glass of wine and plate of cheese bits while attempting to shake hands with Monroe Payne. “When I was over at the Institute meeting with Natalie Chastain,” she explained.

“Of
course,
” said Monroe, nodding. “You're doing some decorating for us.”

“Actually,” said Carmela, “I'm doing the menu cards and display tags for the Monsters & Old Masters Ball.”

“Wunderbar,”
said Monroe, flashing her a wide smile.

“We're certainly all looking forward to
that.
”

Standing at his side, Glory Meechum cleared her throat. “I'm sure you're aware,” said Monroe, still smiling at Carmela, “that Glory will be receiving a major award Saturday night.”

“Mmn, yes,” said Carmela noncommittally.
Glory is getting an award? Well, this is news to me. No wonder Shamus is being so solicitous. Glory obviously sent out the order to round up an audience and I'm one of the pigeons.

“It's our Founder's Award,” Monroe Payne went on to explain. “A most prestigious award that only gets handed out every couple years or so.” Monroe turned his high-powered charm on Glory. “But Glory's been a most generous patron so the award is well deserved.”

Glory fixed a hard stare on Carmela. “I hope you'll be joining us at my table, Carmela.”

So that's what this little soiree tonight is all about,
mused Carmela.
A prelude to Glory's award. A warm-up.

If there was an uncomfortable moment or two, Monroe Payne didn't seem to be aware of it.

“I'm trying to convince Glory to underwrite one of our upcoming shows,” Monroe confided to Carmela, while continuing to smile widely at Glory.

“Which show would that be?” asked Carmela, nibbling at her Camembert.
Ah, finally something tasty.

“Feminist Art Perspectives of the Lower Mississippi,” replied Monroe.

Carmela stole a quick glance at Glory's impassive face.
Glory underwrite a show on feminist art? Never happen. No way, no how. The word
feminist
doesn't exist in her lexicon.

But Monroe continued to rattle on about Glory. “Don't you know,” he told Carmela, “that Glory is one of our Gold-level patrons. Not only has she donated a significant number of artworks to our museum, but she has followed them up with generous
cash
gifts as well.” Monroe paused dramatically and took a sip of his drink, trying to avoid the tiny purple umbrella that bobbed about, threatening to poke his eye out. “Everyone wants to donate works of art or have their money go toward
purchasing
works of art. But nobody ever wants their money to pay the heat bill or buy new display cases or pay the guards' salaries. But those are some of the necessary evils that are part and parcel of running a large museum.” Monroe Payne gave a hangdog look, as though he sincerely regretted having to dirty his hands dealing with those particular necessary evils.

Carmela nodded politely. This was a side of Glory she didn't know much about. But having had up close and personal experiences with the strange and wily Glory Meechum, Carmela knew it was likely the woman had set up some sort of nonprofit foundation through the family's Crescent City Bank. That way Glory could appear civic-minded and magnanimous, while still getting a nice fat tax deduction.

“Did you know, Carmela,” said Glory, “that Founder's Award recipients get to have their portrait painted?” She gazed down at the carpet, narrowing her eyes at some imaginary speck of lint. Carmela figured Glory was probably itching to pull the vacuum cleaner out of the closet for a fast touch-up. She also wondered if Glory was up to speed on the merits of a Flowbee attachment.

“That's great about the portrait,” said Carmela, her mouth stuffed with cheese. “Terrific.” This last word came out
terrifuff.

“Monroe was also trained as a painter,” added Glory. “In Italy.” She was trying her darnedest to keep the conversation ball rolling.

Monroe laughed. “
Studied
painting. Years ago. And I was terrible. It's no wonder my professors urged me to switch to museology instead.”

At that moment Glory's housekeeper, Gabriella, came and whispered something in Glory's ear.