Postcards from the Dead (22 page)

Chapter 24

T
ANDY
was gone by the time Carmela made it back to her shop. But two more scrappers were seated at the back table.

“Do they know we’re closing at three o’clock today?” Carmela asked Gabby.

Gabby nodded. “I told them. They’re cool.” She smiled. “Everything okay with Babcock? He’s still coming to the party tonight?”

“He’s coming,” said Carmela, “just not with me.”

“You two having problems?”

“Nothing we haven’t faced before,” said Carmela quickly. “He’s just hard at work on all sorts of things.”

“I imagine he is,” said Gabby.

Carmela wandered back to where Susan, one of her regulars, was scanning a rack full of rubber stamps. “Help you with anything?” she asked.

“Anything new come in?” asked Susan, squinting at the floral image she’d just stamped. “You know what a stampaholic I am.”

“Let me see,” said Carmela, perusing her inventory. “Oh, I bet you haven’t seen these Renaissance stamps yet with images taken from Italian paintings.”

“I have not seen them,” said Susan, “and I can tell you right now, I want them.”

“Well . . . good,” said Carmela. If only every sale were that easy!

* * *

“OH HEY,” CALLED GABBY, “THE CHICKEN WIRE GUYS
are here.”

“Thank goodness,” said Carmela, scooting up to the front of the store. Every year, right before Fat Tuesday, the really big blowout day, she had a couple of guys show up and stretch chicken wire across her front window. It was a smart precaution, since every year, drinks, debris, and even people were tossed through plate-glass storefront windows throughout the French Quarter. Again, just another one of the heartwarming traditions of Mardi Gras.

“Between the chicken wire and the cameras we should be covered,” said Gabby. “Ain’t nobody gonna get in here!”

“Not unless they’re invited,” agreed Carmela. Then her eyes widened as the front door opened and Marcus Joubert stepped in.

“Greetings,” said Joubert. He gave Carmela a friendly smile and aimed an offhand wave at Gabby.

“Well, hello,” said Carmela, as Gabby gave a terse nod and suddenly got busy sorting packets of silver and turquoise beads.

“I just wanted to pop in and thank you for coming to my open house,” said Joubert. “And for bringing your lovely friend, Ava.”

“She had a blast,” said Carmela.

Joubert’s eyes darted around the shop. “Are you going to be open tomorrow?”

“Nope,” said Carmela. “Tomorrow we’re closed. It’ll be way too crazy in the French Quarter.” She paused. “Why? You’re going to be open?”

“Probably for a few hours,” said Joubert. “Test the water, so to speak.”

“I hope you’re planning to get the chicken wire treatment.”

Joubert shifted nervously. “Do you think I should?”

“Absolutely,” said Carmela. “Unless you want a couple of drunks waking up in your sarcophagus. Just go outside and talk to the two guys who are working on my window. They’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” said Joubert.

“You’re welcome,” said Carmela, as the door whooshed closed behind him.

“Welcome?” Gabby muttered. “Not in here. In fact, that guy’s about as welcome as a nest of fire ants.”

* * *

BY THREE O’CLOCK, MEMORY MINE HAD EMPTIED OUT
and Carmela and Gabby were ready to lock up.

“Security cameras turned on?” asked Gabby, as she gathered up her coat and purse.

“Oh yeah,” said Carmela. “They’ll be running 24/7. Tate Mackie even set it up so I can monitor them from my smartphone. I’m all teched out.”

“Which probably beats an armed guard and a moat full of alligators,” said Gabby. She paused. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Baby’s big bash,” said Carmela. “Oh, did I tell you KBEZ was going to be there?”

“Baby really agreed to that?”

“Guess so. Anyway, they’re going to shoot some footage for their documentary, so be sure to wear a costume that’s over the top!”

“I’m coming as Annie Oakley, so I’ll leave the craziness to you.”

“Good thing I’m off to shop the Voodoo Couture line with Ava,” laughed Carmela.

“Get ready for your close-up!” said Gabby, chuckling.

* * *

CARMELA DASHED THE FEW BLOCKS TO JUJU VOODOO
and found the place swarming with tourists. “You about ready?” she asked Ava, even though Ava was mobbed.

Ava threw her hands in the air. “Not hardly,
cher
. Look at this place, I’m up to my eyeballs in customers!”

Carmela grinned. “Cool your jets, sweetie, we’ve got time.” She wondered why shopkeepers and restaurateurs always got upset when they were busy. Busy was good. Busy meant you were making money. Busy meant you could pay the rent this month and then some.

Wandering to the back of Ava’s shop, where the atmosphere was a little quieter, Carmela stopped to test a bottle of Voodoo Amour perfume. Mmm, a nice tropical scent, maybe a hint of vanilla and frangipani? But would it attract love? Or help intensify desire? That was the million-dollar question.

And what about Ava’s saint candles? If you lit a St. Paul candle, it was supposed to protect you from snakes. Good for cruising the bayous, she supposed. St. Thomas Aquinas was the patron saint of scholars. And here was one she should probably pick up for Babcock. St. Michael, patron saint of police officers. Perhaps lighting this candle would magically assist him in solving Kimber’s murder.

Ava was suddenly by her side. “Take that one if you want. It’s been sitting on the shelf just gathering dust.”

“What if it’s lost its juju?” asked Carmela. “Its magic?”

“That candle is one hundred percent guaranteed to work,” Ava promised. “And here, take this one, too.” She thrust a second candle into Carmela’s hands. “St. Andrew, patron saint of spinsters. Lot of good
he’s
done me!” She adjusted her tight V-neck sweater, the better to show off her tight décolletage, then said, “Let’s hit the trail, cupcake. I can’t wait to slither my bodacious bod into one of those dresses for tonight’s party.”

“I gotta show you something first,” said Carmela. She pulled out her phone, jumped on the Internet, and pulled up the Web site Tate Mackie had shown her. Entered her password and . . . bingo!

“Whoa!” said Ava. “That’s the front door of your shop. How very cool.”

“Gonna catch that postcard jerk,” said Carmela.

“Just think,” said Ava, “with technology like that, you can solve a crime and still party your head off at Mardi Gras!”

* * *

MAGAZINE STREET WAS ONE OF THE COOL STREETS IN
New Orleans—a colorful, cosmopolitan stretch where boutiques, trendy restaurants, jazz clubs, avant-garde shops, and art galleries had clustered and thrived. The Latest Wrinkle, Carmela’s favorite resale shop, was here. So was Lacy Lady, the upscale retail shop that carried the Voodoo Couture line.

“There it is!” Ava squealed. “Lacy Lady! I can feel a pulsing vibe already!”

“I think that’s my transmission,” said Carmela, as she nosed her aging sports car into an empty parking spot on the street.

“I just wanna look like a million bucks tonight,” Ava sang out as she jumped from the car and sprinted for the door.

“And I just want to keep a low profile,” sighed Carmela.

“Then you
didn’t
come to the right place,” called Ava.

* * *

LACY LADY WAS A SPARKLING LITTLE JEWEL BOX OF A
shop. There were stacks of J Brand and True Religion jeans, racks of Cosabella lingerie, hand-painted silk scarves, trays of enormous statement rings by Yves Saint Laurent, bangles by Stella McCartney, skinny T-shirts, racks of elegant evening gowns, a display of neon-colored faux furs, and an old-fashioned dressing table that held long leather gloves, strands of opera pearls, and enormous vintage brooches.

“Tasty, tasty,” murmured Ava. A slinky black peignoir paired with black velvet cage boots had caught her eye. “Ooh, and there’s Sally. Hey, girl, how you doin’?”

“Ava,” said Sally Barnes, exchanging air kisses. “And Carmela. Welcome.” Sally was the boutique’s manager, a skinny blonde who always wore impossibly skinny jeans, sky-high Manolos, and what Carmela had come to think of as slightly skanky tops.

“I hope you’ve got some good stuff for us,” gushed Ava.

“Not to worry,” said Sally. “I’ve already gone through the new Voodoo Couture line and pulled a few pieces.”

“An edit,” said Carmela, thankful that someone else, someone with more fashion savvy than she, was making decisions.

But Ava, being Ava, just laughed and said, “I only want to try on the super-sexy stuff. The va-va-voom pieces.”

“We like to think all our clothes are inherently sexy,” said Sally, tactfully. “It’s how a woman carries them off, how she lets her inner self shine through, that’s the true test.”

“Well put,” said Carmela.

“However,” said Sally, “I do have one piece in particular that’s rather special.”

“Let’s have a look,” said Ava.

Sally ran practiced fingers through a metal rack jammed full of clothes. “This dress,” she said, pulling out a full-length strapless gown. “It’s called Gothique Lady. You see? A lovely green velvet bodice laced with silver studs, then an enormously full ball skirt of black silk.”

“That’s it!” declared Ava. “That’s my dress!”

“You want to try it on?” asked Sally, delighted by Ava’s enthusiasm.

“Absolutely,” said Ava. In one fluid motion, she grabbed the dress and zipped into a dressing room.

Sally, still amused, gazed at Carmela. “Now you.”

“Gulp,” said Carmela.

“Don’t want to be such a spectacle?” asked Sally.

“If we can tone it down a little, that’d be good,” agreed Carmela.

Sally went back to her rack. “Maybe . . . no. Too revealing.” She continued her search. “But how about this?” She pulled out a long black velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline and long sleeves edged with ruffles of black lace.

“I’ll give it a try,” said Carmela.

But when Carmela and Ava both came out of their dressing rooms, Ava started laughing hysterically.

“You look like a Goth version of Betsy Ross!” howled Ava. “The long sleeves, the ruffles!”

“She looks great,” said Sally, through clenched lips.

Carmela put her hands on her hips and gazed in the mirror. She did look like somebody who’d stepped out of the Revolutionary War era. Or someone of that ilk who was in mourning. But, hey, the dress covered what it was supposed to cover and, wonder of wonders, made her waist look teeny-tiny. Which was always a good thing.

“I like it,” said Carmela. After all, she was wearing it for one night only. And she’d be attending a masked ball where everyone would be dressed a little goofy.

“Maybe . . . she needs a headpiece?” suggested Ava.

Sally swept in and pinned a swoop of black feather atop Carmela’s head.

“You think?” said Carmela.

“Oh, much better,” said Ava.

Carmela couldn’t tell if Ava was serious or putting her on. “You guys don’t think the feather’s too Big Bird?”

“It’s great,” said Sally. “Really.”

“Hmm,” said Ava, not to be left out. “Maybe I need a headpiece?”

Sally, ever resourceful, pinned a short black veil on Ava.

“Oh my gosh!” said Ava. “Now I look like the Corpse Bride!”

“That’s a good thing?” asked Carmela.

“From the Tim Burton film,” gushed Ava. “One of my all-time faves.”

“Guess I missed that one,” murmured Carmela.

“All we need to do is add a few pieces of jewelry,” said Sally, “and I’d say you ladies are good to go.”

“Are we ever,” said Ava.

“What are we supposed to be again?” asked Carmela. “What kind of costumes are we wearing?”

“Dunno,” said Ava. “Gothic rich bitch? Eurotrash witch? Wacky fashionista? Take your pick.”

“Ah,” said Carmela. “Now I get it.”

Ava flounced her way over to the three-way mirror again and smiled at her thrice-reflected image. “You think I need jewelry?”

“Why stop now?” said Carmela.

“Maybe a necklace of jet-black beads and a huge statement ring?”

“Sure,” said Carmela. “Maybe even a tiara and a scepter. Who knows, you could end up knighting someone.”

“I love that!” said Ava.

While Sally was up front selecting jewelry, Carmela said to Ava, “The costume shop called earlier today. That Canio clown costume’s been rented again.”

Ava’s finely plucked brows rose in twin arcs. “Do they know who rented it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Carmela. She hesitated, then said, “But I sure hope . . . no, I shouldn’t say that.”

“What?” said Ava.

“I hope your friend Sullivan Finch doesn’t turn up wearing it.”

Ava looked suddenly unhappy. “Ah jeez, why would you say that?”

“You know . . . his painting the other night?”

“You have a very dark and suspicious mind,” said Ava.

“I can have, yes. And right now I’m trying to be extra cautious.”

“Mark my words,” said Ava, “when Sully shows up tonight he’ll be looking fine!” She held up an index finger. “But I do share your concern, especially after seeing that sneaky little clown on video. So we better keep an eye out for that costume.”

“With something like eight hundred thousand visitors plus the entire population of New Orleans celebrating Mardi Gras,” said Carmela, “it’s going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“Still,” said Ava, “you never can tell.”

Chapter 25

I
F
the French Quarter was the crown jewel of New Orleans, then the Garden District was its lush sister. Elegant, old world, and opulent, but decaying just enough so that it possessed a mysterious Miss Havisham quality. Here, authors such as Truman Capote and Anne Rice had fallen under its spell, inhaled its rarefied air, and penned their magic. Here, block after block of elegant mansions were tucked amid whispers of foliage and private gardens, all of which harked back to an earlier, more graceful era when carriages, mint juleps on silver trays, and liveried help reigned supreme.

Tonight, however, most Garden District homes glistened like fancy baubles. Lights, action, party! The night air sizzled with electricity, and Baby Fontaine’s palatial home seemed to be at the nexus of it all. Lights blazed in every one of the tall, elegant windows, music floated up into the blue-black sky, and a steady stream of eager guests poured up the front walk, eager to dance, carouse, and tip back drinks.

“How do I look?” asked Ava. She was poised on the curb, adjusting her bodice and fluffing her hair. Basically preening.

“You’re a knockout,” said Carmela. “How about me?” She plucked at a ruffled sleeve.

“Like you should be sewing stars on a flag,” said Ava.

“That bad?”

“Not bad,
cher
, just different. If you want to make Shamus jealous, it’s totally the wrong outfit.”

“Who said anything about making Shamus jealous?” squawked Carmela. Then she did a double take. “Wait a minute, who says Shamus is even going to
be
there tonight?”

Ava looked suddenly nervous, like she’d let the proverbial cat out of the bag. “Well, he is. He and that wacked-out sister of his. Baby told me so herself.”

Carmela wasn’t thrilled. “That’s all I need. Shamus and Babcock in the same room.”

Ava clutched her hands together and struck a dramatic pose. “I think it could pan out to be a very romantic, old-fashioned moment. They could fight a duel over you!”

Carmela snorted. “They’ll probably just ignore me.”

“Never happen,” said Ava. “’Cause even with that dress, you still look dang cute.”

“Oh . . . put on your mask,” said Carmela. She’d cut eyeholes into thin strips of fine black lace, so all they had to do was tie them on. Instant mask.

“I hate to cover my face,” said Ava, “since I’m wearing purple eye glitter and went to the trouble of gluing on two sets of false eyelashes.”

“Here,” said Carmela. “Take my mask, it’s got bigger eyeholes.”

* * *

“WELL, I DECLARE,” SAID DEL FONTAINE, BABY’S
handsome husband, as he greeted them at the front door. “It’s Madame Goth and . . . er . . .” He peered at Carmela, trying to figure out her costume. “A lovely character straight out of
Barry
Lyndon
.”

“Works for me,” said Carmela.

“Delighted you could make it,” said Del, taking her hand. A prominent attorney, he was dressed as a Chinese emperor, complete with long brocade robe. “Oh sweetheart,” he drawled to Baby. “Do come and greet our lovely guests.”

Baby, dressed in a diaphanous white toga with quivering gold fairy wings on her back, flew across the palatial marble-floored entry to greet them. She embraced them with hugs and cooed greetings, even as she admired their costumes. “Ava!” she cried, “you look so netherworld. And Carmela, you’re a . . .” She cocked her head. “A lovely black moth!”

“That’s me,” said Carmela. “Mothra. Just winged in from Japan.” She glanced around, noticed things looked different, and exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, Baby, don’t tell me you redecorated again?”

Baby gave a hopeful but slightly guilty smile. “The pink silk just wasn’t working. Complementary to the complexion, of course, but Del felt it was a trifle girly.”

“So you went with imported toile and raw silk?” said Carmela. A blue-and-white pattern covered one wall, while another was padded in cream-colored tufted raw silk. It was glamorous Park Avenue and Old World New Orleans, all at the same time.

“Well, yes, I did make a few changes,” said Baby. “Do you like it?”

“It’s fantastic!” said Carmela. “Like slumming at Versailles.”

“And it does match my Louis the Sixteenth chairs,” drawled Baby.

“Are the TV people here yet?” asked Ava. She craned her neck, trying to peer over the crowd.

“They’re here,” said Baby, “and they’re out back conducting their interviews.” She smiled at Carmela. “It was kind of you to recommend me.”

“Au contraire,” said Carmela, “it was kind of you to invite them. Most people wouldn’t want a TV crew tromping through their home.”

“It’s just three more people,” said Baby, “and what’s three more guests when the list already tops three hundred? But here I am, jabbering away when you should be enjoying the party. Go on in and mingle, enjoy the buffet! Tip a glass of champagne!”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Ava, grabbing Carmela’s hand and tugging her into the fray of guests.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Carmela asked, as they pushed their way through a crowded parlor into a packed living room. Ethereal strands of purple and green fluttered from the chandelier; a hundred gold candles flickered on the mantel above the fireplace. A man in a Charlie Chaplin costume tipped his hat at them; a werewolf snarled.

“Bar,” said Ava. “Gotta be here around here someplace.” She paused. “Ooh, a waiter bearing champagne on a silver tray! Even better.”

They rocked to a stop in front of a white-coated waiter wearing a Blue Man mask and grabbed their drinks. Then they raised fluted glasses of champagne in a toast to each other.

“Here’s to my date,” said Ava, “if he manages to find his way here.”

“Ditto that,” said Carmela, wondering if Babcock would find time to put in an appearance.

“Why is it,” asked Ava, “that two hot, highly desirable chicks have to make a grand entrance all by our lonesome?”

“Because the guys we’re dating are workaholics?” said Carmela.

“Can an artist be a workaholic?” asked Ava. “I thought they just laid around all day in a dusty garret, smoking stinky French cigarettes and drinking cheap Chianti, dabbling paint when the mood struck.”

“I think artists are a lot more into marketing these days,” said Carmela. Truth be told, she wasn’t all that keen on Sullivan Finch showing up here at all. In fact, if Finch decided to bail on Ava, it would be totally fine with her.

“Woo-ee!” yelped Tandy, as she galloped up to join them with Gabby in tow. Tandy was dressed as Harry Potter, while Gabby was in her Annie Oakley costume, complete with lariat.

“Can you rope a dogie with that lariat?” asked Ava.

“Only if it’s six inches in front of me,” laughed Gabby.

* * *

CARMELA AND AVA FOUND ED BANISTER, RALEIGH,
and Zoe out in Baby’s gazebo, a tall glass and wrought-iron structure that always reminded Carmela of a human terrarium. Two brilliant floodlights blazed as Raleigh manned the video camera. Zoe, who was dressed as a witch, appeared to be interviewing the Phantom of the Opera. Ed Banister, dressed as Thomas Jefferson, looked on with smiling approval. Raleigh wore his usual costume of polo shirt and khakis.

Ava nudged Carmela. “Think I could get on camera again?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Carmela.

Ava gave a quick hip twitch. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me with Banister?”

“I could probably do that.” Carmela sidled up to Banister and said, “How’s it going?”

“Just wonderful,” said Banister. He grabbed Carmela’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Again, I can’t thank you enough for putting in a good word for us. This party puts the maraschino cherry on the whipped cream for our documentary. The pièce de résistance.”

“I take it you already got some good interviews,” said Carmela.

“Did we ever,” said Banister. “Some really nice sound bites from a lot of Garden District people.” He said it in hushed tones, obviously impressed by the caliber of people here tonight.

“Do you think Zoe would be interested in interviewing my friend Ava again?”

“Voodoo shop Ava,” said Banister, remembering. “Sure, no problem.”

* * *

WHILE AVA WAS BEING INTERVIEWED, CARMELA
slipped back in to join the party. Big mistake. Because the minute she set a dainty little bootie inside the living room, Glory Meechum cornered her. Dressed in her usual shapeless black dress, clutching a tumbler of amber liquid, Glory looked wonky, angry, and already pickled.

“Nice costume, Glory,” said Carmela. “And I love your mask.” Glory wasn’t wearing a mask.

Glory’s mouth puckered into an unhappy O and she snarled, “I still can’t believe you’re going to sell Shamus’s house.”

Carmela noted that there was no preamble, no
Hi, how are you
. And definitely no
Gee, it’s grand to see my ex-sister-in-law
.

“We’ve been over this before,” said Carmela. “Endlessly, in fact. It’s now
my
house. Therefore, in the eyes of the law, and with the blessing of choirs of angels above, it’s mine to sell. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“A travesty,” spat Glory. She swished her drink around in her glass, then took a big slug.

Carmela glanced about the crowded room. If Glory was here, could Shamus be far behind? She hoped not. She was a damsel in distress who needed serious rescuing. There was a group of vampires swirling nearby, some Venetian lords and ladies, two Scarlett O’Haras circling each other warily, as if getting ready for a catfight, and . . . Ah, there he was, scrunched in the corner, probably droning on about hunting, fishing, or gun dogs, with a gaggle of men equally indolent-looking as he was.

Carmela waved a hand. “Shamus!” He was dressed as a riverboat gambler, complete with cutaway jacket, panama hat, and string tie.

Shamus’s eyes flicked her way, then back, as he pretended not to notice.

“Maybe Cousin Emil could
rent
the place,” mumbled Glory. One eye stared directly at Carmela, the other twitched left.

Carmela could barely recall Glory’s cousin Emil, but knew he was in his eighties and spent pretty much all of his time in a wheelchair. Thus, Cousin Emil probably wasn’t a great candidate to be lord and master of an enormous three-story manse that required maximum upkeep just to prevent the siding and roof beams from decomposing in the Louisiana heat and humidity. To say nothing of termites and other critters that threatened to take up residency.

“Shamus!” Carmela called again. When he continued to ignore her, Carmela edged toward him as Glory trailed along, still ranting her discontent.

Finally, Shamus pulled himself away from his group and came over to join them. “What?” he asked bluntly.

“Glory needs a refresher on her drink,” said Carmela.

“I can get it myself!” Glory snorted, as she teetered away.

Shamus stared grudgingly at Carmela. “You needed me for
that
?”

“I needed you to break up our little party of two and get her off my back.”

“Glory
can
be persistent,” smiled Shamus.

“She’s tenacious as a pit bull,” said Carmela. “And twice as mean.”

“Hey,” said Shamus. He pulled a fat Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and twiddled it between his fingers. “I got a major bone to pick with you.”

Carmela patted at her hair, which seemed to be going bouffant on her, rising like a pan of Jiffy Pop from the warmth of all the close-packed bodies. “Now what?”

“You promised to call off your enforcer friends.”

“Really, Shamus,” said Carmela, “what are you talking about?”

“Your cop buddies. They were pestering Sugar Joe again this morning!”

This was news to Carmela. “Who was?” she asked. She was pretty sure Sugar Joe was off the hook.

“Your boyfriend’s chief henchman,” said Shamus.

“You mean Bobby Gallant?”

“That’s the guy.” More rapid twiddling of his cigar.

“I imagine they’re just looking at all the angles,” said Carmela. “I can’t help that.”

“Sure, you can,” said Shamus. “Just make a deal with your boyfriend.” Shamus leered at her. “Tell him you’ll give him a little somethin’ somethin’ for backing off.”

Carmela stared at Shamus. “You want me to bribe an officer of the law with sexual favors?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Get lost,” said Carmela.

* * *

AVA GRABBED CARMELA FROM BEHIND. “I DID IT!”
she squealed. “I got interviewed again! And you know what? The documentary KBEZ is doing might even appear on TV! I mean, like,
network
TV. TruTV or the Travel Channel!”

“Big-time,” said Carmela. “You’ll have Hollywood agents knocking at your door. You’ll be right up there with the Kardashians.”

“You think?”

“One can only hope,” said Carmela, as they surveyed the party guests.

“Mmm,” said Ava, “who’s the silver fox over there?” Ava sometimes had a thing for older men.

Carmela glanced around and saw Whit Geiger, dressed in a bishop’s robe and holding a gold scepter, conversing with a group of guests.
Holy purgatory, Whit Geiger!
“You mean the bishop over there?”

Ava dimpled prettily. “He’s got that fat cat look I kind of go for.”

“No,” said Carmela, “I don’t think you’d like that one. I don’t think you’d like him at all.”

They strolled into the dining room, where the twenty-foot-long buffet table beckoned enticingly.

Baby’s dinner buffets were legendary, and this one was no exception. Enormous sterling silver serving trays and chafing dishes were piled high with shrimp stuffed with crabmeat, fried oysters, pan-seared salmon drenched with citrus beurre blanc, veal chops stuffed with bacon and fontina cheese, plump duck sausages, fried plantains, and spicy red beans and rice. Caterers in white jackets seemed to hover like moths, ready to replenish at a moment’s notice.

“Some nice light treats,” observed Ava. “Ought to tide us over for a while.”

“Take a look at the desserts.” Carmela giggled. She had a passion for sweets and was known to indulge.

There was crème brûlée, praline cheesecake, banana nut bread pudding with whiskey sauce, chocolate mousse, and an enormous king cake.