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 Monroe, 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.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Glory, still being maddeningly polite as she scurried away.

Monroe gazed after Glory with watery eyes. “She’s a wonderful woman,” he told Carmela. “Generous to a fault.”

“Mmn,” murmured Carmela. Is he talking about the same Glory Meechum who kicked me out of Shamus’s house right after he rather unceremoniously took off? The same Glory Meechum who canceled all our joint credit cards? Who tried to get my name stricken from the rolls of the Garden Club?

Monroe continued to mumble platitudes about Glory, but Carmela suddenly wasn’t listening. Instead, she was intently watching Shamus as he talked and joked with a pretty young blond woman who was wearing a short black cocktail dress that had a keyhole cutout in back. Shamus’s left hand kept wandering up to that keyhole cutout. Flagrantly flirting right in front of the not-yet ex-wife, she thought. Where’s my digital camera when I need it? Judge, take a gander at this photo of the unfaithful husband flirting outrageously with another woman. Mental cruelty of the worst kind, wouldn’t you say?

“Mrs. Meechum?” said Monroe, his voice firm, as though he were repeating himself. “Carmela?”

Carmela blinked, turned her head, stared into Monroe Payne’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were saying…?”

“That was some nasty business last weekend. With the fellow who owned the shop next to yours?”

“Bartholomew Hayward,” said Carmela. “Yes, it was quite a shocker.”

“Do you know… are the police close to catching someone?” Monroe asked. “Or has that already been in the papers? I’ve been so frantic at the Institute finalizing plans for Monsters & Old Masters, I’m afraid I haven’t stayed all that well informed.”