Carmela hadn’t really planned to go in to her shop to day at all, would have rather headed right for Saint Cyril’s Cemetery to photograph the oven crypts. But Alyse Eskew’s call late yesterday had set her teeth on edge and caused her to completely forget about bringing her digital camera home with her, so a quick trip to Memory Mine was in the cards.

Pushing open the door to Memory Mine, Carmela flipped on the lights and kicked the door shut. What she’d do, she decided, was grab the camera and hoof it the eight or ten blocks over to Saint Cyril’s Cemetery. If she was really lucky, she’d be able to click off a few shots between raindrops. Then she’d zip back here to the shop and download the photos to her computer. Viewing them on her monitor, a fairly new Hitachi with great color resolution, she’d know immediately if she had her shot. If everything looked okay, she’d go ahead and print them out on special photo paper. Then, she’d sit tight and wait for Rhonda Lee Clayton to show up. That is, assuming the somewhat mercurial Rhonda Lee was still coming and wasn’t curled up in bed nursing a hangover.

That was the plan for sure, Carmela decided, as she dug in her desk drawer, searching for her little camera.

Pawing through a tangle of papers, disks, and scrapbook supply catalogs, Carmela swore that she was going to get organized one of these days, even if it killed her. She couldn’t live her life in perpetual disarray, could she? Maybe she should take up the art of feng shui; then at least there’d be a Zen-like semblance of order to her disorder.

Where is that darn camera anyway? she wondered as Jekyl Hardy’s costume, hanging in the corner of her office, suddenly caught her eye. Seeing the red sequined suit hanging there made her stop and smile. Jekyl’s prized devil costume. A sequined red suit complete with top hat and glittery pitchfork. People in New Orleans truly are mad, she decided. To spend all year planning for Mardi Gras and then spend a month’s salary or more on a costume was . . . what? Insane? No, it only looked insane if you didn’t live here. But, if you were born and bred in New Orleans, that madness was forever in your blood, was part of your visceral heritage. And, sure as shit, the minute Mardi Gras was finished and Ash Wednesday rolled around, you’d find yourself dreaming about next year’s exotic costume or big party idea.

Her fingers skittered across the plastic edge of the camera. Okay, here it is, she told herself.

Carmela flipped the switch on and checked the counter. It looked like . . . what? Maybe twenty shots left?

Carmela racked her brain.

As Carmela headed down Prieur Street toward Saint Cyril’s Cemetery, she felt completely out of step with the rest of the world. Or, at least the world of the French Quarter. Because while she was heading out of the Vieux Carré, it seemed that everyone else was spilling into it.

The French Quarter was definitely ground zero today; streets were cordoned off for twenty blocks. And the few blocks surrounding Jackson Square and the French Market were pandemonium, pure and simple.

Yes, thought Carmela, today the French Quarter is bursting with parades, marching bands, jazz groups, street performers, strippers, and a couple million costumed revelers. To say nothing of the oyster bars, jazz clubs, street vendors, horse-drawn jitneys, and paddle wheelers sitting over on the Mississippi.

Carmela shivered. She’d never been here alone before. And as familiar as she was with the many cemeteries tucked in and around the city of New Orleans, she’d never seen one this empty. So utterly devoid of any human lifeforms. Then again, she’d never visited a cemetery on Fat Tuesday before.

Well, she decided, as she made her way down one of the lanes, she’d snap her photos and get out. Luckily, the rain seemed to be letting up a touch. So she just might get a good shot of the wall ovens. Which were . . .

Carmela stopped in her tracks and gazed around. She’d entered Saint Cyril’s from the Prieur Street entrance, so the wall ovens had to be . . . where?

Her eyes skimmed the tops of tombs, trying to determine just exactly where the wall ovens were located.

Carmela hooked a left and threaded her way through Saint Cyril’s. This was one of New Orleans’s oldest cemeteries, and many of the tombs clearly betrayed their age. Stone faces of angels and saints that had been lovingly carved more than a century ago had been melted by the ravages of time. Many tombstones were badly cracked and chipped and tilted at awkward angles. As Carmela skipped by one row of tombstones, they appeared to gape at her like broken teeth.

Her nerves may have been slightly frayed, but her sense of direction was intact. Carmela spotted the wall ovens from forty feet away.

Good, she breathed. I’ll take a couple quick shots and get out of here. It’s way too creepy without anyone around.

Stopping at a large, flat tomb, Carmela set her purse down and pulled the camera out. She turned it on and checked the battery. The green glow told her everything was a go.

Putting the camera up to her eye, Carmela framed the shot.

Keeping the camera to her eye, she moved a few steps toward the wall ovens, thinking how nice it was to finally be working with an auto-focus camera. So much easier.

She paused, rather liking the composition of her shot. The viewfinder told her she’d be able to capture three of the wall ovens head-on. It was a good shot. Told a complete story.

Holding her breath, Carmela was about to click the shutter when she heard a faint crunch of gravel.

She clicked the shot anyway, then whirled about quickly.

Nothing. Nothing but white, bleached-out tombs. Am I hearing things? Probably. Gotta stop being so jumpy.

She put the camera to her face, deliberately hesitated, then fired off three more shots.

Something felt different.

Like what?

Like the air had been disturbed.

Carmela was suddenly conscious of her heart beating a little quicker, the hair on the back of her neck suddenly beginning to rise.

You’re crazy; there’s nothing here, she told herself.

Carmela fired off five more shots, then got the hell out of there. Walked briskly to the Roman Street entrance instead of going back to the Prieur Street entrance. Better to walk around the outside wall of the cemetery, she decided, even if it is the long way. There are people out here. Living people.