Ava Grieux had donated a couple of sisal rugs, claiming they were “too upscale” for her shop, whatever that meant.

The rest of the furnishings were little touches Carmela had found in the bargain back rooms of French Quarter antique shops. An ornate framed mirror with some of the gilt scuffed off. A piece of wrought iron that had once been part of a balustrade on some grand old home and now functioned as a dandy shelf for Carmela’s collection of antique children’s books. Brass candle holders that were so oversized they looked like they must have once resided in a church.

It wasn’t the sprawling grandeur of the Garden District, that was for sure. But her apartment did reflect the quirky charm and old world ambiance of the French Quarter. Punchy yet relaxed, a little bit decadent, definitely Belle Epoque. A distinct flavor that could only be found in this birthplace of New Orleans.

Carmela knew that most visitors, once captivated by the French Quarter’s spell, would give their eyeteeth to live here. And all she had to do was get tossed out of her own home. Correction, get tossed out of Shamus’s home.

Carmela was in a downer mood tonight and knew it. Then again, who wouldn’t be after seeing poor Jimmy Earl Clayton get handed down from his sea serpent float and laid out pathetically in the middle of the street for all to see?

It was an ignominious moment for one of the Pluvius krewe’s big muckety-mucks. And not exactly the best way to cap off their gala torchlight parade.

Had Jimmy Earl been resuscitated at the hospital? Carmela wondered. She certainly hoped so. They’d probably taken Jimmy Earl to Saint Ignatius Hospital, where they had a crack ER team.

The more Carmela thought about it, she more she figured the poor man must have suffered some sort of cardiac incident. That would account for his terrible palor, his inability to breathe, right?

Jimmy Earl was young, mid-thirties, still in fairly good shape. But in a city that dined nightly on crawfish bisque, deep-fried shrimp, andouille sausage, fried oyster po’boys, and bread pudding with whiskey sauce, early onset heart attacks weren’t exactly unheard of.

Carmela grabbed a carton of orange juice from her small refrigerator and poured herself a glass. Stepping out of her shoes, she padded back across the floor to an antique wicker lounge chair that had been bolstered with down-filled cushions. She flopped down and nestled in. Stretching her legs out, she caught the matching footstool with her toe, pulled it toward her.

Ah, that was better. Now she could kick back and relax. Carmela took a sip of juice, savoring the sweet, fruity taste, and closed her eyes.

For one split second tonight, when she’d seen that poor limp body in the white mask and tunic being hauled off the sea serpent float, Carmela had experienced a terrible moment when she’d imagined that it might be Shamus. Somehow, her mind had flashed on the idea that Shamus had been up there, riding in the Pluvius parade with his old krewe, and that something bizarre had befallen him.

But, of course, she’d known it couldn’t have been Shamus. Shamus wasn’t a member of the Pluvius krewe anymore. When he renounced his old life, he’d renounced everything. Gone cold turkey. Bid adios to her, his job, his social obligations.

There was no way Shamus would have been riding on that float.

Experiencing an unexpected flood of relief, Carmela was suddenly angry with herself.

Why had she thought it might be Shamus? How had that thought insinuated itself in her head?

Better yet, why would she even care? Wasn’t she still furious at Shamus? Yes, she was. Of course she was.

Footsteps scraped across cobblestones in the courtyard outside her door and Boo, suddenly roused, let loose with a mournful howl. In almost perfect synchronization, the doorbell rang.

Carmela pulled herself out of the chair, ambled to her front door, opened it as much as the safety chain would allow.

Two uniformed police officers peered in at her.

“Ma’am?” said one.

“Yes?” said Carmela pleasantly.

The two officers continued to stare in at her.

Suddenly, reluctantly, Carmela had a pretty good idea of why the two policemen were here.

“Has something happened at the store?” Carmela asked then sighed deeply. Most business owners, the smart business owners, reinforced their store windows with wooden barriers and chicken wire during Mardi Gras. It was a good preventive measure that kept the party hearty hordes from trampling or pushing their way through your plate-glass windows. If the police were here, it was a pretty good indication something like that had happened. That the front window had been busted in or at the very least cracked. Darn. And she’d just put in a brand-new display.

“Ma’am . . .” one of the officers was saying.

“It’s the front window, isn’t it?” said Carmela as she unhooked the chain and reluctantly pulled the door open. “I could just kick myself. I knew I should have—” she began, even as she wondered if her insurance would cover it.

“It’s not your window, ma’am,” said the officer whose name tag read Robineau. He hesitated. “We’re here about your husband.”

Carmela was so surprised she took a step backward. Boo, who’d been milling about at her knees for the past minute, suddenly pressed forward for a good, investigatory sniff of the two men who stood in the doorway.

“My husband?” said Carmela. What could this be about?

“Yes ma’am,” said Officer Robineau as he continued in that maddeningly polite procedural manner that many policemen adopt. “You are the wife of Shamus Allan Meechum?”

“Estranged wife,” Carmela replied. “Shamus and I are separated.”

“Well, ma’am,” continued Robineau, “Mr. Meechum’s been taken in for questioning.”

Carmela frowned. Why would the police want to question Shamus? What on earth has he done to warrant being taken into custody by the police? Gotten drunk and propositioned one of New Orleans’s social doyennes? Carmela cleared that thought from her mind. No, that would be no big deal. During Mardi Gras that kind of social impropriety was par for the course.

“He’s been arrested?” Carmela asked with some trepidation.

“No, ma’am,” the second policeman, Officer Reagan, chimed in. “Not formally charged, nothin’ like that. It’s just like my partner said. Mr. Meechum is being questioned .” Officer Reagan paused. “We’d like to ask you a few questions as well.”

“You want to tell me exactly what this is about?” Carmela asked, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice.

Officer Reagan, who bore the sad look of a betrayed bloodhound said, “Your husband is being questioned concerning the apparent murder of Jimmy Earl Clayton.”

Stunned, Carmela put a hand to her heart. “Jimmy Earl is dead?”

Officer Reagan nodded slowly.

This was shocking news to Carmela. Somehow, she’d been fairly sure the brilliant doctors at Saint Ignatius would work their medical magic on Jimmy Earl. That they’d EKG, EEG, or ECG him so he’d live to play the fool in yet another Mardi Gras celebration.

“Oh, no,” said Carmela, “poor Jimmy Earl. Such sad news. I thought for sure he’d . . .” her voice faltered. “I hoped it was something the doctors could easily fix. But this . . .” Shaking her head, Carmela motioned the two officers in. “Perhaps you’d better come in . . . tell me all about it.”