Shamus put a hand protectively on one of Glory’s broad shoulders. “That’s not the real problem. She only had a couple drinks this evening, but she’s been taking this new medicine for her OCD. My guess is the combination of booze and pills must’ve packed a real wallop.”

“That lady’s stoned, all right,” said Ava, who had followed Carmela to Shamus’s table. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” Ava peered into Glory’s glazed eyes. “Oh yeah, look at her pupils. She’s gone.”

“She’s gone,” repeated Sweetmomma Pam, who had tagged along as well.

“Carmela, do something!” wailed Shamus.

Startled, wondering why this little family emergency had suddenly been thrust on her shoulders, Carmela whipped her head toward him. “Face it, Shamus, Glory’s zonked.”

“Carmela… please! You’ve got to do something,” Shamus begged as Baby and Del, curious as to what was going on, sidled up to the table as well.

“The woman’s clearly stoned, Shamus, what do you want me to do?” Carmela snapped. “Fire up the light show and throw some Jefferson Airplane on the turntable?”

“You don’t have to be so nasty about it,” grumped Shamus.

Carmela hesitated. Shamus was probably right. She was being a tad bitchy. But wasn’t she enjoying this little spectacle as well?

Oh yeah. What goes around comes around, Miss Glory Meechum. Spread enough bad karma around and it’ll come back and chomp you in the butt.

“This is Glory’s big night,” pleaded Shamus. “She’s supposed to receive her Founder’s Award!”

“Might I offer a suggestion?” said Baby. She stood on the sidelines, looking cool and somewhat detached in her Marie Antoinette costume, but also helping to block this rather embarrassing scene from other prying eyes.

“Whaaaa?” mumbled Glory, rolling her head. Neither eye seemed to be able to focus on the same thing. With her head sunk on her chest and her eyes looking wonky and rolling out to the sides, Carmela thought Glory resembled a Mississippi channel catfish.

“Now mind you,” said Baby, “not that I know this first-hand. But I did attend college in the late sixties.”

Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Lots of psychedelics back then. Powerful stuff.”

“And I did hear rumors… realize, these were only rumors,” said Baby, “that several spoonfuls of sugar dissolved in a glass of orange juice could bring a person down from a nasty high. Something about increasing glucose and balancing blood sugar levels.”

“Kind of like a diabetic,” breathed Ava. “That’s good.”

“Shamus, go tell Monroe Payne to hold off on that Founder’s Award presentation,” announced Carmela. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Glory like she was a science project. “Let’s go ahead and try Baby’s sugar and orange juice suggestion. Glory’s in no condition to walk out on a stage. Let alone stumble through an acceptance speech.”

“I don’t know,” said Baby, “I’ve seen lots of men do it.”

“But that’s men, honey,” interjected Ava. “In the South men are expected to get a little tipsy at social occasions. It’s their birthright.”

“Hear, hear,” said Baby’s husband, Del, grinning.

“CARMELA,” said Gabby, her face scrunched into a worried grimace, “I think Stuart’s havin’ one of his low blood sugar attacks.”

“Um… didn’t Stuart just eat, Gabby?” Carmela had just poured glass after glass of sugar-enhanced orange juice down Glory Meechum’s gullet to revive her, and now Gabby was pressing her about yet another health crisis. What am I? An ER doc?

Gabby gestured helplessly at her husband, who was sprawled in his chair, staring up at Ava with a foolish grin. “He didn’t eat that much,” explained Gabby. “He was pretty busy jumping up and down, gallivanting around to neighboring tables, and saying how-do to folks.”

“Uh-huh,” said Carmela. “Trying to sell cars?”

“Lester Dorian did mention that he might be trading in his Cadillac, and Stuart was trying to get him to go for the big Toyota.”

“With the luxury package,” said Carmela.

“Of course,” said Gabby. “And the GPS. Anyway,” she continued, “the food’s all cleared away and since you’re personally acquainted with the caterer and his head chef, I thought maybe you could… you know…”

“Get some food for Stuart,” said Carmela.

“Could you do that?” asked Gabby. “I really hate to leave Stuart sitting here all by himself. He’s so shaky and rambling. You never know what could happen.”

Right, thought Carmela. Stuart might get spirited off by forest elves. Or, worse yet, rival car dealers. “Okay, Gabby, but just hold on a minute, okay?”

“How come everybody’s droppin’ like flies?” asked Ava as she dug in her evening bag for a packet of Clorets. “It’s like we’re on one of those big cruise ships or something.”

“That’s right,” said Carmela, “the Voyage of the Damned. Now, for the pièce de résistance all we need is a rousing case of Legionnaires’ disease.”

“Chew this,” Ava instructed Stuart as she shook a Cloret out of the package and handed it to him. “No, honey, don’t just swallow it in one gulp, it’s not a pill.” Ava sighed mightily as she passed him another Cloret. “Here. Try it again. And this time chew!”

Carmela checked her watch as she sped across the ballroom. Five minutes to nine. Where had the evening gone? Had she even had a few moments to relax and have a bit of fun? Hell no.

In fact, she was beginning to feel like some poor shlub in a Marx Brothers comedy where everything was spiraling out of control. Not only did she have to find a couple bites of food for Stuart, preferably something sweet and chewy, she had to surreptitiously meet Billy Cobb at the side door, try to locate Lt. Edgar Babcock, and then see if she could engineer some sort of truce between Billy and the New Orleans Police Department. Could she really pull all that off? Only if she was suddenly brandishing a bright blue Superwoman cape and a pair of silver bracelets.

As Carmela breezed down the corridor that led toward the employee lunchroom and administrative offices, she thought about how she’d been forced to abandon her original plan.

So much for my notion of finding the real killer. I gave it a shot and failed miserably. Ran across a few suspicious people, but never found any concrete evidence that linked them to Barty Hayward’s murder. And, Lord knows, you have to have evidence.

Carmela turned into the small kitchen. Two women were beginning the daunting task of washing dishes and stacking plates.

“Is there any bread pudding left?” Carmela asked.

One of the women shrugged. “Check next door.” Carmela popped next door to the employee lunchroom. The long tables were piled with a jumble of boxes, food platters covered with plastic wrap, and half-empty silver serving platters. Waiters rushed in and out, depositing empty wine decanters, serving utensils, and bread baskets. Nobody seemed to notice her.

Poking through the debris on one table, Carmela found a large cake pan that still contained a few lemon bars sprinkled generously with powdered sugar. She searched around, found a small china dessert plate, and scooped two of the lemon bars onto the plate. They were a little squishy by now, but Carmela decided Stuart would just have to rough it.

Glancing at her watch, Carmela saw it was almost time to meet Billy at the Perrier Street door.

Uh-oh, better take care of that first.

Clutching her plate of lemon bars, Carmela slipped out of the lunchroom and made her way farther down the corridor, away from the bright lights and clatter into semi-darkness and quiet. Natalie Chastain’s office was down this way. So was Monroe Payne’s office and those of the various curators.

Carmela’s plan was simple if not simplistic: Put Billy at ease, try to get him to come inside with her, then quietly reason with him. And then, at the magic moment, Lt. Edgar Babcock would appear. Helpful and rational. An honest, forthright representative of the New Orleans Police Department who would help straighten things out.