Glory Meechum also had a penchant for floral-print dresses. Not demure daisies or elegant roses but big, splotchy prints of indeterminate floral and fauna origin. Certainly not as nature had intended.

When Carmela looked out the window Friday morning and saw Glory Meechum steamrolling down Governor Nicholls Street, headed straight for Memory Mine, her first thought was that Shamus’s older sister looked like an overstuffed parlor chair.

Then the door flew open, and Glory Meechum exploded inward. Plunking her sturdy black leather Queen-of-England-style purse on the front counter, Glory planted chubby hands on Lycra-encased hips.

“You’ve got to help me!” she wailed loudly at Carmela.

Keenly aware that both Baby and Tandy were sitting at the back table and that Gabby was close by in the storeroom, Carmela willed herself to stifle any unseemly urge to giggle. The idea of Glory Meechum coming to her for help was over-the-top ridiculous. Glory had barely even been present at their wedding ceremony and her thinly veiled dislike for Carmela had always hung between them.

Carmela also made up her mind to handle Glory with a fair amount of decorum and try her very best to forestall any shouting match that might threaten to erupt. On Glory’s part, not hers.

“Glory, what’s wrong?” Carmela asked with as much civility as she could muster.

Glory fixed beady, bright eyes on Carmela. “That nasty little Granger Rathbone came looking for Shamus yesterday. Poking his nose into things over at the house.”

The house Glory was referring to was one of three elegant manses in the Garden District that were owned by the Meechum family. According to the Meechum family’s whims, these houses were allowed to be occupied by whomever was most recently married in the family or needed a place to live. Not necessarily in that order and certainly not a family dictum that had ever applied to Carmela.

“Well, have you seen him?” Glory demanded.

Carmela shook her head regretfully. “No. Sorry.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Carmela hesitated. “No,” she said finally. If Shamus wants to talk to his sister, he’ll call her, right?

Glory Meechum threw her hands up in the air, exhaled a gush of air through her nostrils. Her sigh emerged as a distinct snort. “Then, where in heaven’s name is he?” Glory demanded.

“Glory, I don’t know,” said Carmela. “Shamus left me, remember?”

Glory Meechum flashed Carmela an exasperated look, a look that said Oh, give me a break. “Yes, yes, of course,” said Glory hastily, “but I thought for sure you two would keep in touch. That your little spat would eventually blow over.”

But Carmela held her tongue. She simply replied, “Sorry I can’t help you, Glory.” Gosh, she thought, I wish my momma hadn’t instilled so much civility in me. This really could have been fun. Sport, actually.

There was a scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor as Tandy slid her chair back a few inches, jockeying for a better position from which to observe Glory Meechum’s rantings.

“Don’t get me wrong,” thundered Glory as she snatched up her purse and hung it possesively in the crook of her hefty arm. “It’s not Granger Rathbone who concerns me. He’s not nearly smart enough. What worries me is who Granger might be working for.” With that, Glory Meechum spun on her sensible low heels and darted out the door.

“Who was that?” asked Gabby. She emerged from the storeroom with an armful of paper and a startled look on her normally placid face.

“That, my dear girl, was Glory Meechum, Shamus’s big sister,” answered Tandy, obviously relishing the heated exchange she’d just witnessed. “Isn’t she a doozy? The old gal really fancies herself the matriarch of the family.”

Gabby put a hand to her heart. “I don’t mind telling you, that lady frightened me to death. I found the stencils and paisley paper I was looking for five minutes ago, but I was afraid to come out. I thought she might take off on me!”

Baby waved a manicured hand dismissively. “Glory barks like a rabid Rottweiler, but I doubt there’s much real bite in her.” Baby, who owned four Catahoula hounds, adored making dog analogies. There had even been Mardi Gras queen candidates who, over the years, had been referenced as poodles, poms, and pugs.

“Here’s that picture frame stencil you wanted,” said Gabby, passing the stencil, along with a stack of mauve cardstock, to Baby.

“Thank you, dear,” said Baby, who was bound and determined to finish off her daughter’s album of wedding reception pictures with a real flourish.

“If you slide the stencil right to the edge,” suggested Gabby, “I think you can cut two frames from one—” The ringing of the telephone interrupted her.

“Memory Mine,” answered Gabby as she snatched up the phone. Listening for a second, she nodded. “Yes, she’s here. Hang on, please.” Gabby punched the hold button, then turned toward Carmela. “It’s for you. Something about your lease?”

“My gosh, don’t tell me you’ve been here a full year already!” exclaimed Tandy. “Tempus fugit, how time does fly.”

Carmela picked up the phone. “This is Carmela.”

The crackly voice of Hop Pennington from Trident Property Management greeted her on the other end of the line.

“Carmela,” he said cheerfully. “I might have a spot of bad news for you. That nice fellow who has the space next door to you . . .”

“The art dealer?” said Carmela. “Bartholomew Hayward?” Barty Hayward was a self-styled antique impresario with delusions of grandeur. Carmela saw the delivery trucks pulling up at the back door of Barty Hayward’s store. She knew most of his antiques were really replicas and reproductions, and that Barty carefully and surreptitiously aged and distressed them in the workroom behind his store.

“That’s the fellow,” chirped Hop. “He might need your space.”

Hold everything, thought Carmela, just what the heck is going on here?

“What if I need his space?” replied Carmela, thinking quickly.

“What?” sputtered Hop. From the surprise in his voice, Carmela knew he obviously hadn’t considered that scenario. “What are you talking about?” asked Hop.

“Does Bartholomew Hayward have an option on my space?” asked Carmela. She knew that in order for someone to really force her out of her retail space, they had to have some kind of option clause written into their lease. And probably hers, too. And she didn’t recall seeing anything like that.

“Well, he doesn’t have an option per se,” Hop replied slowly. “It’s more like a gentleman’s agreement. Should Mr. Hayward wish to—”

“Tell Mr. Hayward that you’re terribly sorry, but my space simply isn’t available. In fact, I’m probably going to want to sign a five-year lease this time around. Business is booming. And I like it here.”

“Carmela . . .” wheedled Hop Pennington, “it doesn’t work that way.”

“Sure it does,” said Carmela. “In fact, I bet this whole thing will work out just fine if we’re all decent and honest and civilized about it.”

“You know, sugar,” said Hop Pennington, “I don’t own the building. I just work for the management company. I’m really just the hired help.”

Like that makes everything all right? thought Carmela.

“I understand,” said Carmela. “I meant nothing personal. By the way, Hop, who does own the building?”

“Investors,” replied Hop vaguely.

“Which ones?”

“Ah . . . private ones.”

Carmela hung up the phone, more than a little miffed, verging on cold fury. Is this another subtle pressure being exerted from somewhere? And if so, who was doing the exerting?

“CeCe!” called Tandy, who was right in the middle of cutting a group of so-so color photos into small slivers with the idea of piecing them together to form a collage. “I’m so glad you could make it.” CeCe Goodwin, a petite woman with green eyes and a modified shag haircut, strode through the shop and back to the craft table.

“Hello there,” she said to Carmela, sticking her hand out in a friendly, forthright gesture. “It’s great to see you again.” CeCe hoisted a plastic shopping bag into a clear spot on the craft table. “As you-all can probably see, I’m in photo hell right now. I love taking pictures, but my hours at Saint Ignatius are crazy, and I am definitely not making time for myself.” CeCe paused, looking around the table at all the friendly, welcoming faces. “You know . . . not enough bubble baths, candlelit dinners with my hubby, flower arranging, or scrapbooking. Boo-hoo,” she finished with a goofy smile.

“Let’s see what you’ve got there,” said Carmela as CeCe dug into her shopping bag and began scooping out piles of loose color photos.

“CeCe,” exclaimed Tandy as she watched Carmela and CeCe lay stacks of pictures out on the table, “you’ve got as many pictures of your dogs as you do of your kids.”

“Smart woman,” noted Baby. “See, she does have her priorities straight after all. What are their names?”

“Andrew and Livia,” said CeCe.

“She meant the dogs,” said Tandy.

“Oh,” said CeCe. “Coco and Sam Henry.”

“They sound like people names,” observed Gabby.

“Well, dogs are people, too,” said CeCe as she dug into her pile of photos. She turned toward Carmela with an imploring look. “Can you help me, or am I totally beyond redemption?”

Carmela had to laugh. CeCe was turning out to be a real card. In fact, after the earlier antics of Glory Meechum and the sleazy tactics of Hop Pennington, CeCe Goodwin was a welcome breath of fresh air.

“Why don’t we start by organizing your photos,” suggested Carmela. She reached behind her, pulled a handful of oversized, clear plastic envelopes off the shelf. “Let’s put dogs in one, kids in another,” said Carmela. “Vacation photos, relatives, whatever, in the rest.”

“Got tons of husband stuff, too,” said CeCe.

“Fine,” laughed Carmela. “We’re an equal-opportunity scrapbooking store. We’ll allot your husband an envelope as well.” She smiled down at CeCe. “Want a cup of tea or bottle of juice?”

CeCe shook her head. “No thanks. Don’t want to get my hands sticky.”

“How are the arrangements going for your party tomorrow night?” Gabby asked Baby as she continued to cut out a series of ornate frames.

Baby looked over at Gabby and grinned, her pixie face suddenly all aglow.

“Fantastic! You-all know I’m using that new caterer, Signature & Saffron, over on Magazine Street?”

“Mmn,” said Tandy squinting, “I’ve heard wonderful things about them. They’re very avant-garde and chichi. Or at least that’s what I read in that fancy magazine, New Orleans Today. So what delightful little tidbits are in store for us, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

Delighted that she’d finally been asked, Baby’s face lit up with anticipation. “For appetizers they’re doing miniature crawfish cakes, andouille sausage bites, and scallop ceviche. Doesn’t that all sound dreamy?”

“Are you serving the little crawfish cakes with remoulade sauce like Liddy Bosco did a couple weeks ago?” asked Tandy.

“No, honey, if I remember correctly, that was a Creole remoulade that Liddy served,” Baby pointed out. “Signature & Saffron is doing a French remoulade.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Gabby.

“Oh, the French remoulade has capers and anchovies but is sans tomato sauce,” said Baby conspiratorially. “And it’s got a much lighter touch. Effortless, one might say.”

“Especially effortless if one is having the entire gala affair catered,” said Tandy with a wry grin. She reached over and patted Baby’s wrist just to let her know she was kidding, not criticizing. “Then what about your main en trées, honey?” Tandy asked. “What’cha gonna serve for that?”

Baby leaned back, clearly in heaven. “Tiny roasted squab, sweet potato galette, pumpkin risotto, creamy coleslaw of cabbage and jicama . . .”

The women all groaned in anticipation as Baby ticked off her rather fantastic menu.

“I can’t wait, declared Gabby. “Everything sounds simply divine.”

“Divine,” echoed Tandy, nodding her approval.

“Hello there, Ruby,” called Baby, looking up from the scrapbook album she was putting together for her daughter. “Long time no see.” Since she had just seen Ruby Dumaine at Jimmy Earl Clayton’s funeral yesterday morning, her comment was obviously intended to be humorous.

But Ruby Dumaine wasn’t laughing. Dressed in a suit that could only be called crustacean coral, her face was set in a grim mask that would have given even the statues on Easter Island pause.

“Carmela,” Ruby called out in her loud bray, “I have a serious emergency, and I need your help tout de suite.”

Carmela scrambled to the front of her store to see what she could do for Ruby.

“I am in dire need of a guest book,” said Ruby, rolling her eyes as though it was the most important thing in the world. “Specifically for use by my dear daughter, Swan. Don’t you know, so many folks will be dropping by our home over the next couple days to congratulate her. In fact, we’re having a group of people in tonight, then again on Sunday night after the big Bachus parade.”

Carmela nodded, even as she grabbed four albums off the shelf to show Ruby.

“And, of course,” continued Ruby, “we’ll be doing a fancy barbecue Monday night, after everyone returns from watching the Proteus parade. And then there’s the Pluvius queen candidate luncheon on Tuesday.” She threw up her hands as though it was all too much for her, though the smile of self-satisfaction on her face said she was relishing every single moment.

“Of course,” said Carmela. She especially knew about the Pluvius queen candidate luncheon. She’d designed the place cards, after all.

“Any one of these albums should work beautifully for you,” said Carmela as she laid them out carefully on the counter.

Ruby Dumaine fingered the smaller of the four albums, one with a brilliant purple satin cover and creamy pages rimmed with a fine gold line. “This is nice . . .” she began.

The satin cover was a bright royal purple, the purple of kings and queens and royal heraldic banners. Carmela had chosen it specifically for Mardi Gras, since purple, green, and gold were the official Mardi Gras colors. Purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power.

“This must be a very exciting time for Swan,” offered Carmela as she watched Ruby deliberate.

Ruby turned wide eyes on her. “Exciting?” she trumpeted as though Carmela had dared to trivialize the events she’d just spoken of. “This is the most important thing that’s ever happened to us!”

“I’ll bet it is,” said Gabby pleasantly as she brought two more albums to the front of the store for Ruby’s perusal.

But Ruby Dumaine had already made up her mind. She abruptly thrust the purple album into Carmela’s hands. “I’ll take this one,” she said. “It should do very nicely.”

“What’s got into her?” asked Gabby as the door closed behind Ruby Dumaine.

Carmela gave a quizzical smile. “Mother-of-the-queen-candidate jitters?” She was amused to observe that Ruby had also been wearing squatty little low-heeled shoes that must have been dyed to perfectly match her suit. And that the leather on one heel had split.

Gabby nodded knowingly. “You’re right. Must be jitters. Wonder if I’ll be that nuts when I have a daughter?”

“You’ll probably keep the poor girl under lock and key,” came Tandy’s voice from the back.

“No,” said Gabby, “but I know Stuart will.”

“I guess Shelby Clayton has dropped out as Pluvius queen candidate,” said Tandy as she pushed her cropped photos around, trying out different arrangements.

Baby slid one of the frames she’d punched out on top of a photo and positioned it on a sheet of creamy paper that had a background of tiny silver wedding bells. “It should be a shoo-in for Ruby’s daughter then,” she murmured. “Oh well . . .”

“Carmela,” said Tandy suddenly, “are you ever going to show us what you’re working on for Saint Cyril’s?”

After the women had munched their bagels, they went back to their scrapbooking projects. CeCe continued to doggedly organize her photos while Tandy worked on her own album even as she paid rapt attention to Carmela’s efforts on the Saint Cyril’s scrapbook.

“I’m going to create an art montage for the introduction page of the scrapbook,” Carmela explained to them. “A kind of establishing visual that will set the tone all the way through.” She fingered a nubby piece of paper. “I’ll start with this five-by-seven-inch piece of beige paper, then stamp it in brown sepia using this oversized rubber stamp that depicts an architectural rendering.”

“Looks like the doorway to an Italian villa,” said Tandy, peering over her glasses.

“Or a home in the Garden District,” suggested Gabby enthusiastically. She had a serious case of I-want-to-live-there.

“Actually, the design is taken from the front of a Roman tomb,” said Carmela. “I’m hoping it will pass for one of the family crypts in Saint Cyril’s.”

“Perfect,” breathed CeCe. “You could have fooled me.”

“Okay,” said Carmela, “so first I stamp the architectural rendering using brown ink so it looks like sepia. Then I’m going to write over it using a copper ink.”

“What are you writing, honey?” asked Tandy, as Carmela began writing in a flowing longhand.

“It’s a French inscription I found on one of the old tombs at Saint Cyril’s,” said Carmela.

“Neat,” allowed Tandy. “What does it say?”

“Something about peace and eternal rest,” said Carmela.

“Then what?” asked Gabby, fascinated.

“Now I take these dried acanthus leaves and tie them at the top of the page with some metallic copper ribbon,” said Carmela, as she punched two holes, then threaded the ribbon through.

“Wow,” enthused Gabby, “the folks at Saint Cyril’s are going to love this.”

“You think?” said Carmela. “But wait, I’m not done yet.”

“What else?” asked Tandy.

“This finished piece gets mounted on this dark reddish brown paper, which is just slightly larger. You see,” said Carmela, “it gives it a sort of floating mat look. Then I paste that onto a slightly larger ivory sheet of paper with a deckled edge.”

“Wow,” said Tandy, impressed.

“It’s elegant and somber,” said Gabby, eyeing it carefully, “but very scrapbooky.” She sounded slightly envious that Carmela was able to put together such a pretty art montage with seemingly little effort.

“Hey, everybody,” CeCe exclaimed suddenly, “I think I’ve finally got my photos organized!”

Tandy stood up and arched her back in a leisurely stretch. Her collage had actually worked out far better than she’d hoped. Once she’d trimmed away the uninteresting backgrounds and pieced together the shards of what was left, she got a pattern going that was not unlike a stained-glass window. In fact, there was real charm to the jumbled image.

“Isn’t this interesting,” commented Tandy as she picked up one of the envelopes that CeCe had sorted photos into and riffled through it.

“Those pictures are all from Bobby’s Tulane days,” pointed out CeCe. “His birthday is in a couple weeks, so I thought I’d pull together a bunch of mementos and stuff and make him a little memory book. Bobby pretends to be so tough, but he’s really sentimental as hell. You should see him . . . blubbering away at weddings, funerals, football games . . . that sort of thing.”

CeCe had, indeed, pulled together a great many photos of her husband, Bobby. Plus she’d thrown in clippings that related to his fraternity days, an old homecoming button, and a frayed blue ribbon he’d won at a state track meet.

“Darwin’s a big softy, too,” said Tandy, referring to her own husband. “When he participates in those catch-and-release fishing tournaments, he gets so upset if he can’t get the hook out clean,” said Tandy as she continued to peer into the envelope. “If some poor fish gets a torn lip or starts gasping and goes belly up, Darwin really feels bad.”

“The strong but sensitive type,” grinned CeCe. “I know what you mean.”

“You’re right about a memory book being a good birthday present for him,” continued Tandy, “and what great stuff you have to work with. Carmela, do you still have those brown leather-looking photo corners?”

Carmela nodded as she worked. “I’m pretty sure we do.”

“They’d look nice and masculine with all this stuff,” said Tandy.

“I agree,” said Carmela. “Especially if CeCe chose one of the old-fashioned photo albums with the black pages.”

“Oh, my gosh, would you look at this!” said Tandy as she held up a photo and stared pointedly at it.

“Oh, that’s just one of Bobby’s old fraternity pictures,” remarked CeCe. “Wasn’t he adorable? Wasn’t he young?”

“Wasn’t Shamus in Phi Kappa Sigma?” asked Tandy suddenly.

Carmela’s head spun around like a gopher popping up out of a hole. “Yes, he was,” she replied as she paused in her careful application of gold paint to the deckled edges of her montage.

“Lord honey,” exclaimed Tandy excitedly, “I think this fellow in the picture is Shamus. Come over here and look for yourself.”

Frowning slightly, Carmela stood up and made her way around the table.

“Right here,” said Tandy, pointing with a carefully manicured index finger. “See the fellow with the silly grin, standing behind the beer keg?”

Carmela peered at an old color Polaroid that was starting to go orange with age. It was Shamus. But seeing Shamus in the old photo didn’t surprise her half as much as recognizing the young man who was posed next to him. Because it was none other than Dace Wilcox!

The same Dace Wilcox who’d claimed he didn’t know Shamus. Or even remember Shamus from the Pluvius krewe!

Why had Dace lied? Carmela wondered. Was he trying to hide something, or had he simply forgotten?

Gabby,” said Carmela suddenly. “You were at the Pluvius den the other night. Do you remember seeing this man, Dace Wilcox?”

Gabby came around the table and studied the picture, cocking her head to one side. She nodded. “Yes, I know Dace Wilcox. Or at least I’ve met him. And he was there.”

“Talking to Shamus?”

Gabby thought for a moment. “Don’t think so.”

There followed a long moment so pregnant with silence you could’ve heard a pin drop.

“Was he talking with Jimmy Earl?” asked Carmela.

Gabby continued to study the old Polaroid of Shamus and Dace, taken at the Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity at Tulane.

“I think I might have seen the two of them talking,” said Gabby finally.

“Just so we’re absolutely clear on this, Gabby, you saw Dace Wilcox talking with Jimmy Earl Clayton,” said Carmela.

Gabby nodded her head again. “I’m pretty sure I saw ’em together.” Her brows knit together as she suddenly realized what she’d just said. Then she added, “Just before the floats rolled out of the den.”