“You’d better get your apparatus fixed posthaste,” warned Carmela. “Because I went from Defcon Four to Defcon One in about two minutes!” Defcon was slang for the Department of Defense’s readiness alert status. Defcon One meant the warheads were about to fly.
“Seven fifteen,” announced a loud mechanical voice.
Ava frowned at Sweetmomma Pam. “Will you turn that wristwatch thing off?” she hissed.
“Carmela,” purred Jade Ella, “please believe me when I say it was a terribly unfortunate accident.” She laughed nervously. “You certainly can’t believe anyone wished you harm?”
Carmela shook her head, still highly suspicious of her little “accident” at Spa Diva. She wondered if Jade Ella figured she might be privy to some inside information about Barty’s murder. Or did Jade Ella have motives more sinister than that? Carmela knew that if Jade Ella did mastermind the malfunctioning control module, that put her squarely in line as the prime murder suspect.
And what on earth was Jade Ella up to with the Click! Gallery-pushing her photographs on Clark Berthume, the owner?
“Jade Ella,” said Carmela, “I got a phone call from Clark Berthume yesterday.”
A knowing grin spread across Jade Ella’s face. “Aren’t you thrilled?” she cooed. “I just knew Clark would go gaga over your work.”
“First of all,” said Carmela, “photography’s not my life’s aspiration. In fact, I do it only for fun. Second, I’m not interested in having any sort of show.”
“Oh, Carmela,” said Jade Ella, “how can you be so callous? Clark has photographers waiting in line for just this kind of break! Please don’t blow it!”
“Carmela.” Natalie Chastain tapped her gently on the shoulder and Jade Ella, sensing an opportune moment, slipped into the crowd.
“Natalie, hello,” said Carmela. And then, because Natalie looked a little frazzled, even dressed up in her rather elegant Roman robe with a wreath of grape leaves circling her head, said, “It looks like it’s going to be a wonderful evening.”
“It does?” Natalie brightened considerably. “Good, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Especially after all our last-minute hassles.”
Carmela hastily introduced Ava and Sweetmomma Pam to Natalie, and then had to do introductions all over again when Monroe Payne suddenly appeared and joined their little cluster.
Wearing a Peking Opera costume of embroidered crimson silk, Monroe authentically looked the part with his dark hair slicked back and drawn into a Chinese topknot set high upon his head.
“Have you seen the art and floral pairings yet?” Monroe asked them, obviously delighted at how everything had turned out.
“No, but we’re going to take a look right now,” Carmela told him, as an older couple wearing matching Medieval lord and lady costumes suddenly descended on Monroe in that assured way moneyed people always have.
The selected artworks were hung on the walls of the ballroom and the corresponding floral arrangements placed directly in front of them on square marble pedestals. The description cards Carmela had created were in little Lucite holders directly in front of the floral arrangements.
As fanciful a concept as Monsters & Old Masters was, Carmela had to admit that many of the artwork and floral pairings were really quite clever.
A bouquet of bright red chili peppers mixed with canary grass and accented with boughs of curly willow was set in a flat ikebana-type vase and paired with a dynamic, brightly colored Japanese print that depicted a Samurai warrior in full battle dress.
A bouquet of silvery-green lamb’s ear and blue salvia was accented with bright green apples and cinnamon sticks and paired most appropriately with a painting that depicted capering wood nymphs.
And dried yarrow and strawflowers, tied with raffia and displayed in a painted ceramic bowl, were paired with a ceramic Day of the Dead sculpture from Guadalajara, Mexico.
As Carmela moved down the row of floral and art pairings, she suddenly found herself staring into the hard face of Glory Meechum.
“Hello, Carmela,” said Glory.
Glory was one of the few guests who hadn’t come in costume. She was wearing a boxy navy blazer with an equally boxy matching skirt. On the other hand, if Glory was trying to pass for the dowdy head matron of a women’s prison or private girls’ school, then she was right on the money costume-wise. Glory also had a nice tall drink clutched firmly in one hand. Probably bourbon and water. From its dark amber appearance, it was obvious the drink had been mixed fairly strong.
“Nice to see you, Glory,” said Carmela. She glanced longingly after Ava and Sweetmomma Pam, who had wandered away. “Congratulations again on your Founder’s Award.”
Glory gave a self-satisfied smile and leaned in slightly. Her eyes were like hard little orbs and she exhaled loudly through her nose. Carmela could smell the bourbon on her breath and sensed that a confrontation might be imminent.
“Too bad you weren’t able to join us,” said Glory. She pulled her mouth into a sneer. “But I guess family doesn’t mean a whole lot to you anymore.”
“Glory…,” said Carmela, tiredly, spreading her hands apart in a peace gesture, “I’d be happy to sit at your table tonight.” This kind of crap just wasn’t worth it, she decided. She’d sit at the damn table and be pleasant if it killed her.
Glory tucked her chin down and peered at Carmela. “That might prove slightly embarrassing for you, Carmela.
Especially since Shamus elected to bring a date tonight. A lovely young woman by the name of Zoe Carvelle, who is most enchanting.” The ice in Glory’s glass clinked like gnashing teeth. Then Glory flashed a triumphant smile, spun unsteadily on her squatty little navy heels, and tottered away.
Carmela stared after her, stunned by Glory’s revelation. Shamus had brought a date. Her estranged husband had brought a date. Wasn’t that just a trip and a half? She was about to be completely humiliated at one of New Orleans ’s major social events. Could things get any worse?
A crowd of masked revelers suddenly swirled around her. Of course they could, she decided. This was New Orleans, after all.
A stark white face with waving strands of long black hair floated in close, startling her.
“Hey there, Carmela.” Dove Duval’s familiar voice suddenly issued forth from this strange apparition. “Having fun?”
Carmela managed to squeak out a one-syllable answer as she took in Dove Duval’s costume. Dove wore a Morticia Addams wig of long, black, straight hair. Her face was powdered stark white, like a performer in a Japanese Kabuki theater. Dove’s lips were outlined in black then filled in with blood red lipstick. Her eyes, rimmed in black, lent an eerie stark contrast, making her look enormously predatory and slightly crazed. And she wore a floor-length black witch’s gown. She looks, Carmela thought, like that bizarre pop star Marilyn Manson.
Dove Duval’s blood red lips pulled themselves into a wide smile. “Aren’t you the liberated woman.”
Carmela figured Dove had to be referring to Shamus and his date. And decided she seriously didn’t want to go there. Instead, Carmela decided to negotiate a countermaneuver. “How did your little photo session go yesterday?” she asked.
Dove blinked rapidly at her. “Pardon?”
“Weren’t you also taking photos when we met in the cemetery yesterday?” Carmela stared at Dove. Someone had taken the photo of her and Boo, scratched it up, then shoved it under her door.
“Why, no,” said Dove. “I don’t know the first thing about taking pictures.”