Glory Meechum had produced a giant ring of keys that had admitted them into the bank lobby, taken them beyond the teller cages, and finally into the inner sanctum of executive offices. As a senior vice president herself, Glory had punched in the code numbers on the various keypads at the different checkpoints to alert the security company that she was in the bank but that everything was just fine.

Strangely enough, Glory had left Carmela alone for most of the time. She had hung around for the first twenty minutes, while Carmela went through Shamus’s appointment book and desk drawers, then poked through a few piles of paper that sat on his credenza. But then Glory had drifted down to her own office, and now Carmela could hear the faint strains of a radio playing. Well, that was just fine with her. It was easier to work alone than under Glory Meechum’s stolid gaze.

Carmela sighed and gazed around Shamus’s office. It was just as she’d suspected it would be. Like a scene out of The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Shamus’s calendar was still turned to the day he’d walked out, some six months ago. His pen lay where he’d set it down. A letter was waiting to be signed. Carmela glanced at it, hoping it wasn’t an important letter, that some poor soul hadn’t put his entire life on hold while waiting to hear if his mortgage application had been approved.

But, no, it was just something about interest rates. Besides, Shamus hadn’t handled residential loans, he’d only worked on commercial loans. What did they call that again? Carmela wondered. Oh, yeah, mortgage banking. She guessed that telling people you were a mortgage banker sounded a whole lot fancier than just saying you were a loan officer. People who worked in banks were funny that way. They always had to have a fancy title.

She’d also learned long ago that, in a bank, everybody and his brother-in-law was a vice president. Those titles were handed out like candy to kindergarten kids. Apparently, customers felt much happier and more secure when they knew they were dealing with a vice president. Of course, they probably still got the same crappy service, but since it was coming from a vice president, there was justification for it, right? After all, vice presidents were busy people! Vice presidents had a lot on their plate! Vice presidents were . . . vice presidents!

Carmela snorted. Hah! Right. Just like Shamus and Glory and the rest of the Meechum family. Their big break had really come from having a great-great-granddaddy who’d had the cold cash and the good foresight to start a bank. Then, all the following generations of Meechums really had to do was tread carefully in the proverbial family footsteps. If the bank’s interest rates on savings accounts and CDs weren’t too high, and if the bank was prudent when extending loans, then the business would essentially be self-perpetuating.

Carmela had even learned early on from Shamus how exceedingly simple it was to start a bank. All you needed was about a hundred thousand dollars in your hot little hand, and you could go ahead and apply for that all-important charter from the federal government. A hundred thousand dollars—that was all it took! Far less than most people paid for a house these days!

Then again, Carmela had decided that a lot of things in business didn’t make sense. How could a giant accounting firm with everything to lose cover up for an unscrupulous utility? How could major corporations suddenly go bankrupt? Who was the genius who thought they could sell fifty-pound bags of dog food via the Internet? Wasn’t anybody thinking? Wasn’t anybody looking ahead? Wasn’t anyone minding the store?

Kneeling down in front of a squat, silver filing cabinet, Carmela pulled out the top drawer. Running her fingers across the plastic file tabs, she skimmed the labels. Delphi Corp., deYoung & Company, Crowell Ltd., Theriot & Partners. Everything very neat and businesslike.

Carmela racked her brain.

Carmela ripped the file folder from the cabinet, eager to see what was inside.

The top sheet was an application for a bridge construction loan, whatever that was. An application that had been turned down. By Shamus.

Carmela frowned, slumped down into a sitting position, cross-legged on the carpet.

Carmela skimmed through every paper contained in the folder. There were about ten pages. Nowhere did she find a mention of Jack Dumaine. Or even Jimmy Earl Clayton.

How strange, thought Carmela. Here I thought I was on to something big, and everything I’ve found so far has just made things even more confusing and tangled.

“Carmela!” Glory Meechum’s shrill voice roused Carmela from her jumble of thoughts.

“I’m almost done, Glory,” Carmela called back. She grabbed the Theriot file, hesitated a split second, then folded it in half and jammed it in her handbag.

Have to give this a little more thought, she decided with a slight twinge of guilt. At the very least she could possibly bring it up to Shamus. That is, if the old boy came skulking by her apartment for another nocturnal visit.

Carmela sprang up from her cross-legged position on the floor and yanked open the office door. “Hey there,” she said to Glory, who stared in at her with suspicious eyes.

“You find anything?” demanded Glory.

Carmela assumed a wistful expression and shook her head sadly. “No, not really.” She hoped she projected total innocence and guile.

“Hmph,” said Glory. “Chased all the way down here on Sunday for naught.”

Carmela smiled ruefully. I’m back to being the family dingbat again, she decided. I was Glory’s big ally for a few short moments, but now I’m relegated to dingbat status once again. Well, at least it’s a role I’ve had some experience with.

Today, Carmela was headed for the Chamberlain Center out near Audubon Park. If memory served her correctly, Jekyl Hardy should be there, teaching the kids the fundamentals of still life drawing.

He was there, all right, along with a couple other volunteers. They were warning a group of squirming kids to “Please do not eat the apples, oranges, grapes, and pears. Please do not eat any of the props!”

Carmela saw that, like kids everywhere, they were steadfastly ignoring the volunteer artists’ pleadings. Orange peels littered the floor as the rowdy children feasted mightily on the forbidden fruit and drew on each other’s faces with paint.

“Carmela!” exclaimed Jekyl Hardy when he saw her. “Come over here and help me! These little darlings are completely out of control.”

He good-naturedly snatched a pear from the sticky hands of a beautiful little African American girl. “Ar iella,” he warned. “You’ve already eaten two apples. These are to paint!” She giggled and proceeded to mix her yellow with her blue to produce a luminous pool of green.

“Good,” Jekyl told her as she made an artful brush-stroke across her canvas, “that’s a very auspicious start. Oh, you brought your dog,” he exclaimed to Carmela. “She’s very cute.” Jekyl knelt down and faced Boo. “Can you shake?” he asked her. “Can you shake hands?”

Boo, an old pro at shaking hands, promptly sat on her butt and stuck her right paw in the air. “Good girl,” said Jekyl. He took her paw, pumped it gently, then released it. Boo, loving the attention, promptly stuck her left paw out at him.

“Oh, I see she’s ambidextrous,” laughed Jekyl, patting her. “That talent can come in handy.”

“She’s a show-off,” said Carmela. “And don’t let that sweet little face fool you. She’ll steal one of those oranges if you don’t watch out. Toss it around like a tennis ball and then eviscerate it.”

Jekyl Hardy threw up his hands. “So what else is new? Oh, honey,” he said, clasping Carmela’s arm tightly. “I am sooo sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get you all upset. And I really didn’t foresee the bizarre antics of Ruby Dumaine. I think Tandy was right, she must have been sipping absinthe.”

“I believe it,” said Carmela. “That woman packs a lot of punch when she sets her mind to it.”

“But hey,” said Jekyl. “What’s with you? Where did you sneak off to last night? Did you go out chasing leads in the great Shamus mystery? Or were you just chasing around?”

“Jekyl, you have no idea,” sighed Carmela. “This whole thing just gets stranger and stranger.”

“Do tell,” said Jekyl. He turned to the little boy at the table next to him. “Carlyle, I love that arrangement. So unconventional. Now don’t be afraid to add in some highlights. Red on top of purple is good.”

As she was watching Jekyl interact with the kids, Carmela felt a tug on the back of her T-shirt. “Can we take your dog outside and play with him?” asked a little boy.

“Her name is Boo, and she’s a she,” said Carmela. “And yes, you certainly may. But please lead her out this side door here so you’ll be in the fenced-in play area, okay?”

Two more kids put their hands gently on Boo’s shoulders and marched out to the playground with her. Gosh, thought Carmela, this is nice. This is so sane after hanging out with the likes of Glory Meechum this morning.

Jekyl Hardy turned back to Carmela with a smile. “Now, what were you saying?”

“Jekyl, you did the floats for the Pluvius krewe. . . .” said Carmela.

“Indeed I did,” declared Jekyl. “Twenty magnificent oceania-themed beauties. Some of my finest work, I might add.”

“Do you know a Pluvius krewe member by the name of Theriot?

Jekyl Hardy rolled his eyes upward, thinking. “Theriot . . . Theriot . . . Michael Theriot? Yes, I think I might have bumped shoulders with him. Is he a somewhat portly fellow?”

“I have no idea,” said Carmela. “I’ve never met him.”

“You know who’s probably more plugged in?” said Jekyl. “My assistant, Thomas Waite.” Jekyl pulled a tomato-red StarTac from his pocket and promptly hit the speed dial. “Thomas knows everyone,” Jekyl assured Carmela. “And he keeps lists of all the Pluvius committees.”

“Thomas?” said Jekyl when his call was finally answered. “Yes, it’s Jekyl here. Say, a dear friend of mine is trying to glean some information on one of the Pluvius krewe members. A Mr. Michael Theriot. Do you know him?”

Jekyl winked at Carmela and gave an exaggerated nod as he listened to Thomas on the other end of the line. Finally, Jekyl thanked his assistant and hung up.

“Here’s the scoop,” said Jekyl in a conspiratorial tone. “Michael Theriot is one of the newer Pluvius members. And by that I mean maybe two or three years with the krewe, since some of the other fellows have been with it for just eons. It seems this Theriot is some kind of real estate mover and shaker, or claims he is, anyway. Of course, you never know for sure with these business types. I say give me an artsy type any day. They may be poor as church mice, but they’re generally a lot more honest. Anyway,” continued Jekyl, “this Theriot has a reputation as a real gung-ho volunteer. He was on the parade route committee, the marching band committee, and the refreshment committee.”

Carmela stared at Jekyl. “The refreshment committee,” she repeated.

“Yes,” said Jekyl. “And Thomas says that—oh, my God!” Jekyl suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth. “You don’t suppose . . .” His eyes widened; his mouth fell open. “I mean, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he sputtered. “That horrible thing with Jimmy Earl? Wow . . . I wonder if the police took a hard look at who was serving drinks that night. Or who mixed the drinks.”

“I always assumed they did,” said Carmela. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“No you don’t!” Carmela was out of her car in a split second. “Not on Samantha’s backseat!” She yanked open the rear door and grabbed the terry cloth towel she kept stashed back there for just such occasions. She positioned it under Boo’s chin in anticipation of a second outpouring. Annoyed, Boo promptly jerked her head away and gave a violent shake. Tendrils of yellow gunk flew everywhere, decorating the interior of Carmela’s car.

“Boo, we talked about this,” said Carmela firmly. “No oranges and no spinning on the merry-go-round. Evidently you once again flung caution to the wind and did both.” Carmela mopped gingerly at the backseat of the car. Boo, who seemed to have made a speedy recovery, now licked her paws happily with that amazing nonchalance dogs often have. Sick? Who me? Nah. Never happened.

As Carmela pulled into her parking space in the alley behind her apartment, Ava was just returning from a trip to the market. “Hey,” she called to Ava, “you ever make it to Brennan’s?”

Ava shifted her grocery bag from one arm to the other. “No. I ended up at Cardamom’s with some other friends. Obviously not you.”

Carmela jumped from her car, hauled Boo out of the back.

“What’s that awful smell?” asked Ava, wrinkling her nose.

“Air freshener,” said Carmela. “That car wash down on Marais Street is letting me try out some new chemicals they developed. Smells real bad at first, but then the interior of your car reverts to that pleasant new car smell.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Well, it smells like dog puke, if you ask me. In fact, it’s amazing what companies will try to foist on an unsuspecting public.”

“Hey,” said Carmela. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight. I made jambalaya the other night, and I’ve still got gallons.”

“Why don’t you come to the Bachus parade with me?” asked Ava. “I’m supposed to meet Smoochy Peabody and some of his friends over at Tipitina’s.”

“To tell you the truth, Ava, I’m kind of paraded out,” admitted Carmela. In the final twelve days of Mardi Gras there were something like fifty different parades. The whole thing could really set your head to spinning.

Ava brushed back a mass of auburn hair and rocked back on the heels of her espadrilles. “You want to talk, huh?”

“Kind of,” admitted Carmela.

“You found something out today?” inquired Ava.

“I did,” said Carmela, “but I’m not exactly sure what it means.”

Ava put a hand to the side of her face to shade it from the late-afternoon sun. “To tell you the truth,” she said,

“I’m a little bit paraded out myself. What say I drop by in an hour or so? Would that work?”

“I’ll heat up that jambalaya,” said Carmela. “And chill a bottle of wine.”

“You might want to chill two bottles,” suggested Ava. “And while you’re at it, better wipe that yellow glop off your dog’s chin.”