Sidney St. Cyr, slumped over the video camera that was cradled in his arms, shifted his dark gaze from Carmela to Ava. Even with his black clothing and trademark cape, he looked like the proverbial kid who’d been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Albeit a big kid. And one who should know better.

“What were you doing?” Carmela demanded. “Filming us?”

Sidney licked his lips rapidly and cleared his throat, but no actual words of explanation sprang forth.

“Holy crap!” said Ava, practically baring her teeth, “he was filming us.” She grabbed for Sidney’s camera, but he wrenched it away from her flailing grasp.

“I’m calling Detective Babcock,” said Carmela, reaching in her shoulder bag for her mobile phone.

That finally prompted a startled response from Sidney. “No, don’t!” he cried.

Carmela’s eyes shot daggers at him. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police.”

“Please, let me explain,” begged Sidney. “I really can explain.”

“This better be good,” grumped Ava.

“Talk,” ordered Carmela.

“Last night,” began Sidney, “at Ava’s shop, I realized what you were doing.”

“What are you babbling about now?” demanded Ava.

“You were investigating,” said Sidney. And now his words seemed to emerge with more speed, gathering momentum. “You were investigating me. You had me pegged as a suspect in Melody’s murder.” He cocked his head like an inquisitive magpie and stared at Carmela. “Right?”

Carmela gave a grudging nod.

“All right,” said Sidney, licking his lips again. “At first I was seriously ticked off. Furious, in fact. But then I came up with what I decided was a very big idea.”

“What big idea might that be?” asked Ava. “And please understand, Sidney, I’m not buying a word of this happy crap. In my book you’re just a two-bit, garden-variety stalker!”

Ava’s words emboldened Sidney. “When I realized you two were seriously investigating Melody’s murder, I got the idea to film you.”

Carmela just shook her head, puzzled. “What?”

“Huh?” said Ava.

Sidney’s narrow face blossomed into a crooked grin. “I’m talking about true crime! Don’t you get it? If you two were hot on the trail of the murderer—or even a suspect—I wanted to capture it on film!”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” muttered Ava.

Sidney was rolling now. “The way I figure it, you’ve got it more or less narrowed down.” He focused an intense, almost maniacal gaze on Carmela. “Am I right?”

Carmela stared back. There was a certain bizarre logic to Sidney’s argument.

“So I figured,” continued Sidney, “that if I filmed you two . . . in action . . . it would be like a true crime story. Sort of along the lines of reality TV!”

“You are so off the hook,” said Carmela.

“No way you’re getting anything on TV,” said Ava, dismissively.

But Sidney stood his ground. “If that doesn’t work out, it might be the kind of thing I could add to my ghost walks.”

Ava snorted.

“Or put on YouTube,” said Sidney. “No, really, think about it.” He grinned, his thin lips tilting up like a child’s carved jack-o’-lantern. “It might work, right? Carmela? I might have something, huh?”

“Maybe,” Carmela said without much enthusiasm. “Maybe you’d have something if we had something.”

Sidney’s face fell. “You don’t? You’re not hot on the trail?”

“Hardly,” said Carmela.

“You’re living in Never-Never Land,” Ava told him.

“Well . . . heck,” said Sidney. Their words had knocked the wind out of his sails.

Ava poked Sidney hard in the chest with an index finger. “I’m only gonna tell you this once, Sidney! Stop creeping around and leave us alone before I pop you in the nose!”

“Dealing with them or dating them?” asked Carmela.

“Both,” admitted Ava.

“Still,” said Carmela, “there was a certain childlike logic to his little film project.”

They wandered back toward Jackson Square, heading for the NOMA art appraisal booth.

“Childlike is right,” said Ava. “Hey, there’s the appraisal booth. And there’s Jekyl. Looks like he’s being interviewed . . .”

“By Kimber Breeze,” said Carmela. As they got closer to the booth, she noted that Kimber’s blond hair looked even blonder under the lights.

Ava noticed, too. “Looks like Kimber frosted her hair,” said Ava.

“Permafrost,” snorted Carmela.

They hung back while Jekyl did his slick little patter for the camera.

“It’s always amazing how many truly interesting items people have stashed away in their attics and garages,” said Jekyl, smiling broadly, staring directly into the red eye of the camera, assuming a very professional broadcaster’s stance. “Just the other day a woman showed me what she thought was a pair of sterling silver sugar tongs, but turned out to be George the Third asparagus tongs, hallmarked London 1810.”

“Amazing,” cooed Kimber.

“Earlier today,” continued Jekyl, “a man brought in a Navy cutlass that had been made by the Dufilho firm right here in New Orleans. Worth at least sixty-five hundred dollars.”

Kimber slid closer to Jekyl, the better for her cameraman to get his two-shot. “So you’re inviting folks to bring their mysterious attic treasures down here for a professional appraisal?”

“Not so much a monetary appraisal,” said Jekyl, “more like a historical and cultural perspective. Courtesy, of course, of the New Orleans Museum of Art.” Jekyl gave the camera his very broadest smile. “And we’ll be here until ten tonight and from twelve to six tomorrow, so there’s still plenty of time.”

“You looked like the Cheshire Cat,” Ava told him afterward. “I kept waiting for you to disappear and just your cheesy smile to hover in the air.”

Jekyl lifted a hand and smoothed dark hair that was slicked back in a tight ponytail. “Just trying to be media friendly,” he told her, breezily. “Anytime you’re on camera, it’s excellent exposure.”

“No, it’s not,” said Carmela. “Not in my experience.”

Jekyl hastened to soothe ruffled feathers. “Darlin’,” he said, throwing a skinny arm around Carmela’s shoulders, “you just had a bad run-in with that nasty TV lady. But I’ll bet, in the long run, it was good for business. The name Memory Mine is probably stuck like a burr in the minds of all those viewers.”

“Maybe,” said Carmela, still not convinced.

“And now, my dear,” said Jekyl, turning toward a woman who was waiting in line, “I’m going to lend my eye to this absolutely gorgeous desk clock that this lovely lady just brought in.”

“Jekyl’s a charmer,” said Ava.

“He probably twisted Kimber right around his little finger,” said Carmela. “He does everyone else.”

“That’s what you get when you’ve got a hotshot reputation as an antiques expert and you’re the premier float designer in New Orleans,” said Ava.

“But the Pluvius krewe didn’t ask Jekyl to redo their float for tonight’s parade,” said Carmela. “They recruited some other poor soul.”

“Probably paid them a pittance, too,” said Ava.

“Believe me,” said Carmela, “the Pluvius krewe isn’t known for their generosity.”

“Just their party-hearty ways,” laughed Ava.

They wandered along for a few blocks, ultimately heading for Fire and Ice, their errand unspoken between them. But when they finally arrived at the front door of the jewelry store, Carmela hesitated. “I really don’t want to do this,” she told Ava.

“But you told Garth you’d stop by,” Ava reminded her.

Carmela gave a little shudder. “I know I did, but now I’m regretting it. Garth is at the top of Babcock’s suspect list and from the way Garth was talking earlier . . .”

“You think Garth was trying to tell you something?” asked Ava. “Maybe wanted to . . . confess?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Wouldn’t that be something.” Ava peered nervously at her friend. “So, you gonna go in?”

“Only if you come with me.”

“Sure,” said Ava. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, with that bad mourning jewelry publicity he got, the shop probably won’t be very busy.”

Boy, was she wrong.

Fire and Ice was jammed. Customers clustered around the glass cases, mingled in the aisles, and pushed up against the front windows. It took Carmela and Ava more than a few minutes to negotiate the crowd and reach the back of the store where Garth was fluttering about, pouring flutes of champagne.

“Garth!” said Carmela, waving to him.

Garth smiled at her, finished pouring a glass of champagne, then hastily greeted her. “Can you believe this crowd?” He sounded practically giddy.

“I’m shocked,” Ava told him. “I thought you said business was bad. That you’d experienced a real backlash over that TV report on mourning jewelry.”

“At first business was slow,” said Garth. “But then folks got curious and started trickling in. And now . . .” He swept an arm to indicate the crowd. “Now we’re jammed.”

“Curiosity seekers?” asked Carmela, as Ava wandered off.

“Some,” said Garth. “But a few honest-to-goodness buyers, too.”

“You sounded so down this afternoon,” said Carmela. “When you called.”

“I know I did,” said Garth. “And I really want to apologize for that. I had no business imposing my depression and grief on you. You’ve been nothing but kind and helpful, and it was shameful of me to pay you back that way.”

“No problem,” said Carmela. But, of course, it really was. If Garth had been ready to confess to her, and now his mood was higher than a kite because of an influx of customers, what kind of mental stability did that indicate? Manic-depressive? Of course, now the correct term was bipolar. Still, it meant tremendous mood swings. Which certainly must be what Garth Mayfeldt was experiencing. Right?

“Here,” said Garth, pouring two more glasses of champagne. “You mingle while I show a few estate pieces to Mrs. Roget over there.”

Carmela tapped Ava on the shoulder and handed her a glass of champagne.

“Mmm,” said Ava. “Bubbly.” She took a sip, and then they elbowed their way over to a glass case that contained a wonderful display of pearls. “You see that?” said Ava, tapping her fingers on the top of the case, “Tahitian pearls. The very best kind.”

“I thought Baroque pearls were the best,” said Carmela.

Ava nodded, knowingly. “The older ones are fantastic. But hard to find these days, except maybe in a few fine jewelry stores and auction houses like Christie’s in New York.”

“I didn’t know you were such an expert on pearls,” said Carmela.

“I love ’em,” declared Ava. “Tahitians, Baroques, coin pearls, even mabe pearls.”

“How much would that strand of Tahitian pearls run?” asked Carmela, gazing into the case, finding herself slightly fascinated by the dark luster and elusive gray-green colors of the little baubles.

“Let me put it this way,” said Ava. “I have a single ranched Tahitian on a silver chain, and that cost almost seven hundred dollars.”

“Holy smokes!” said Carmela. Shamus had once bought her a strand of pearls, but they’d been freshwater pearls. Little Rice Krispie-looking things. Not so great.

Ava took another sip of champagne. “So your buddy Garth seems to be in a good mood. And this is only, let’s see . . .” She put a hand to her head. “Two days after his wife’s funeral service. A fast recovery, I’d say.”

Carmela stared at Ava. “You think it’s strange, too.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I think there’s a reason Garth tops Babcock’s suspect list.

I think there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“You don’t think he’s just on some sort of manic high?” asked Carmela. “The grief got to him, so he’s overcompensating with an upbeat, business-is-good attitude? Then he’ll crash in another couple of days?”

“Hey,” said Ava, “do I look like a head shrinker? I’m the one with plastic shrunken heads hanging on my wall.”

“But so authentic looking,” said Carmela.

Ava laughed as she held up her half-empty champagne glass and waggled it slightly. “Gonna get another hit, cher. Hold all wild and crazy thoughts till I get back.”

As Ava pushed off through the crowd, Carmela gazed around Fire and Ice. The bell over the door was da-dinging like crazy, people continued to muscle their way in, and champagne corks continued to pop like firecrackers. Carmela sighed as she was jostled away from the counter, then turned her eyes on the large flat-screen TV that hung on the side wall.

KBEZ was broadcasting live tonight, giving lots of coverage to Galleries and Gourmets as they showed quick clips of people jostling in the French Market, in Jackson Square, and over on Royal Street in the heart of antique shop mania. There was another fast cut to Kimber Breeze, and then she was suddenly live, smiling into the camera, microphone held close to her inflated lips.

“I’m reporting directly from Bourbon Street,” said Kimber. The camera pulled back to reveal Kimber sitting up high in a cherry picker and pointing toward a giant float. Kimber continued, “And I’m sitting directly above the most amazing Pluvius krewe float.”

Carmela watched as the camera panned across a fluttering green-and-gold background, then pulled back again to reveal the head of an enormous Chinese dragon. The dragon’s giant eyes rolled back in their sockets, the mouth suddenly gaped open, and a huge tongue of blue flame leaped out, surrounded by a twinkle of orange.

“What?” said Carmela, standing stock-still among the cluster of customers. There was something familiar about the way that flame had danced and sparkled. She backtracked through recent thoughts and images for a couple of seconds, and then deep inside her head something seemed to ping.

“Oh my Lord,” she breathed. “Could it be?”