“Penny for your thoughts,” said Quigg.

Carmela stiffened and sat up straight. Looking around hastily, her eyes fell on Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be creating something magical with trout, almonds, and white wine.

“I was thinking what a fabulous dinner we just had,” she lied.

Quigg looked pleased.

Carmela nodded toward Chef Ricardo. “I’ll bet you wish you could clone him.”

Quigg nodded fervently. “The man’s an absolute genius. A food alchemist.”

Carmela watched as Chef Ricardo slid a fillet knife into the body of the large, plump, butter-browned trout, flipped it open casually, and lifted out the spine. Carmela shivered, imagining that knife sliding into a person.

“Tough being a chef, though,” she said. “Working every night. Weekends, too.”

“He doesn’t work every night. Sometimes we let him off for good behavior.”

“Was he working last Saturday night?” Carmela asked.

Quigg’s brows knit together. “Why do you ask?”

Carmela shrugged. “No reason.”

Quigg rolled his eyes. “Chef Ricardo did not stab Bartholomew Hayward,” he told her emphatically. “You’re being overly suspicious and probably watch far too many episodes of Law and Order. Reruns and syndication are not necessarily a good thing.”

“So he was here,” said Carmela.

“As a matter of fact, he was off last Saturday night.”

“Really,” said Carmela.

Quigg chuckled. “But he’ll be doing double duty this Saturday night since we’re also catering the bash over at the Art Institute.” He paused. “Does that make you happy?”

“The Monsters & Old Masters Ball?” asked Carmela. Well, this is a coincidence.

“That’s the one,” said Quigg. “Say, you gonna be there?” His dark eyes sparkled. He was obviously amused by Carmela’s amateur sleuthing.

Carmela ducked her head. “Yes, I am.”

“Terrific,” enthused Quigg. “Save me a dance, will you? Or a monster hop or whatever the heck’s going on there.”

“I don’t know,” said Carmela playfully. “Are you coming in costume? It’s Halloween, after all.”

“Are you kidding?” said Quigg. “I’ll be the poor sap dressed in a tux. Just think of me as Lurch from The Addams Family. Say”-he turned suddenly serious-“how was that funeral this morning?”

“Funereal,” Carmela told him. “Except for Barty Hayward’s wife, Jade Ella, who served as the one bizarre bright spot in the whole thing. She wore a red dress and did everything but dance on Barty’s grave.” Carmela glanced over at Chef Ricardo, who seemed to be focused intently on their conversation even as he garnished his trout with a medley of asparagus and roasted red pepper.

“Jade Ella has always seemed like a very unusual woman,” said Quigg thoughtfully. “She’s dined here several times and each time she’s been accompanied by a different male escort. I get the distinct feeling she’s the one who prefers calling the shots.”

“Jade Ella’s a real pistol,” allowed Carmela. And a viable suspect, too. Not unlike Chef Ricardo.

“So,” said Quigg, smiling at Carmela. “You’re willing to put together those scrapbooks? You’ll take a stab at it?”

“Interesting choice of words,” said Carmela.

Quigg Brevard stood up and shook his head. “I’ll get those photos for you, Carmela.”

CLICK click click. Boo’s toenails clicked daintily across the floor as Carmela led her into the store on her leash. Outside, rain poured down in sheets. Carmela didn’t ordinarily bring Boo to her shop, but today Ava wasn’t going to be around to let her out and it was far too blustery to leave Boo outside in the courtyard.

“Hey there, pups,” called Gabby as she grabbed a towel and knelt down to wipe Boo’s wet paws. In typical Shar-Pei fashion, Boo immediately gave a good shake, then plopped herself down and scrunched her feet underneath her plump little body, trying to hide her paws.

“How come Boo came along today?” asked Gabby, still struggling to find a paw beneath all those ample wrinkles.

“Ava went to the retail buyers market today. And it didn’t seem right to impose on Tyrell.”

Tyrell Burton was Ava’s sometime assistant. A grad student at Tulane who was studiously earning his MA in history, Tyrell was an African American whose great-grandmother had emigrated from Haiti almost a hundred years ago. Because great-grandma had been known to dabble in voodoo, Tyrell felt himself uniquely qualified to work at Ava’s store. His Haitian heritage, combined with a knack for being exceedingly glib, made Tyrell a favorite with tourists. And he never tired of spinning a few good yarns just for their benefit.

Carmela shrugged out of her raincoat and, in a motion not unlike Boo’s, gave it a good shake. Droplets of water flew everywhere.

“Hey,” scolded Gabby, grabbing a roll of paper towels and kneeling down to wipe the floor. “I don’t know which one of you is messier. You or Boo.”

“Oops, sorry,” said Carmela, bending down to help sop up water. It wouldn’t do for unsuspecting customers to slip on the wet floor and take a nasty header.

“No problem,” said Gabby, who sometimes seemed happiest when she was cleaning up after someone.

Maybe Stuart is a secret slob, thought Carmela. Gabby always seems so pleased when there’s a mess to clean up. Maybe Stuart, the Toyota King, leaves his underwear in a ball at night or slops toothpaste all over the sink. Carmela chuckled to herself for a moment, until she remembered the awful truth. Wait a minute, what am I thinking? All men do that stuff. Somewhere along the line, the sloppiness factor has been embedded in their genetic code.

“What are you chuckling about?” Gabby asked.

“Nothing,” Carmela told her, a little ashamed of her flight of fancy over Stuart’s messiness. Carmela gazed toward the back of the store where Tandy and Byrle sat huddled at the big craft table. It didn’t look like much scrapbooking was going on, but they were certainly deep in conversation.

“What’s the story back there?” Carmela asked.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Tandy’s pretty hysterical about Billy skipping town like he did. And she’s waiting to talk to you. She says you’re always such a calming influence.”

“Me?” Carmela snorted. “First time I’ve ever heard that. Usually I’m the one who gets accused of upsetting the proverbial apple cart.”

“Hey,” Gabby grinned, “accept the compliment.”

“I will,” said Carmela as she strode to the back of the store, Boo scurrying after her.

“Carmela,” said Tandy, her hypothyroidal eyes fixing on her. “We have to talk.”

Carmela slid into a chair across from Tandy and Byrle. Tandy reached across the table and grasped for Carmela’s hands. “Things are so bad,” she whispered harshly, her lower lip beginning to quiver. “Donny and Lenore are just beside themselves with worry. And I didn’t sleep a wink all night myself. I kept turning this whole thing over and over in my mind. Does Billy know something? Is Billy somehow involved?” Tandy’s thin hands suddenly slipped out of Carmela’s and she swiped at the tears streaming down her thin, pale cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “This is very embarrassing.”

Byrle patted Tandy’s shoulder. “There, there,” she said, sympathy in her voice. “What’s a few tears in front of friends?”

“We’re pretty positive Billy has left the state,” said Tandy, snuffling harder. “He’s got cousins over in Biloxi, so he could be headed that way.” Tandy fumbled in her purse, pulled out a large white hanky, and blew her nose loudly.

Carmela stared at Tandy. Her dear friend was obviously in a world of hurt and she so wanted to help. But will telling Tandy that I spoke to Billy last night make things any better? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

“The thing of it is,” continued Tandy, “the police are really on Billy’s case now. His little disappearing act has them convinced of his guilt.”