Free Photo Finished by Laura Childs

lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Before Gabby went out the back door and rather unceremoniously stumbled upon Bartholomew Hayward’s bleeding body.”
    Gabby turned to Carmela. “That’s right, she did. Remember? She and Mignon. They were the ones who bought a bunch of those new rubber stamps. I think they’re planning to make holiday invitations or something.”
    â€œWill someone please tell me who Dove Duval is?” demanded Dawn. “And is this woman related to the Duvals who live over in St. Landry Parish?”
    â€œShe is,” said Baby. “Sort of.” Baby gazed around the table, her bright blue eyes lighting up as she told her story. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Dove Duval is what you’d call a faux Southerner. Originally, she was the Mrs. of Dr. and Mrs. Marvin Fleckstein of Montclair, New Jersey. Marvin Fleckstein being a self-proclaimed orthodontia king. But, times being what they are, and marriages not always that permanent, Dove and the dentist decided to divorce a year or so ago. On a trip to New Orleans, where Dove came to heal her wounded psyche and dip her beak into what was supposedly a pleasingly plump settlement, Dove met up with a certain Taurean Duval. The husband market being as precarious as the stock market, Dove wasted no time. She pounced quickly and is now Mrs. Taurean Duval.”
    â€œWhat does Taurean Duval do?” asked Byrle.
    â€œOwns the Dydee-doo Diaper Service,” said Baby.
    â€œThis is all very interesting,” said Gabby, a frown creasing her normally placid face, “but why on earth would Dove Duval have it in for Bartholomew Hayward?”
    â€œI was getting to that,” said Baby. “Apparently, in her headlong rush to become an instant Southern lady and receive friends and visitors in her newly acquired Garden District home, Dove Duval nee Fleckstein purchased an entire truckload of what was touted to be genuine Southern plantation antiques.”
    â€œLet me guess,” said Carmela, “some of them turned out to be fakes.”
    â€œYes!” exclaimed Baby. “How did you know?” Carmela shrugged. She’d seen the trucks pulling up late at night to Barty’s back door. She knew he’d been doing some heavy-duty distressing and refinishing in his back room. Many of the pieces Barty sold were genuine, but there couldn’t be that much old pecan and cypress left on the face of the earth.
    â€œSo Dove Duval could have been more than just a little upset with Bartholomew Hayward,” said Gabby. “She could have been furious.”
    â€œWhy didn’t she just sue him?” asked Byrle.
    â€œShe was probably too embarrassed,” said Baby.
    â€œWouldn’t you be? After being flimflammed?”
    â€œThen the question remains,” said Byrle. “Was Dove furious enough to kill him? To stab him with a scissors?”
    The women all paused and looked at each other. In Louisiana, men had been known to kill each other in disputes over prized coon hounds. In many ways there was still a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of mentality in the South. But did the transplanted Dove possess that same kind of hair trigger? That was the unanswered issue that seemed to perch like a giant question mark on the table.
    â€œSo tell me,” said Dawn, breaking the tension of the moment, “did Dove Duval finally get rid of all the fakes Barty unloaded on her?”
    â€œYes, she did, honey,” replied Baby. “Dove unloaded them at a flea market over in Baton Rouge. She has since hired a professional decorator in her quest to have her home featured in Southern Living. ” Baby paused. “I understand her new decor is quite eclectic.”
    â€œDefine eclectic,” said Byrle as she cropped a large photo into quarters, then prepared to edge each piece with gold foil tape.
    Baby’s face assumed an impish grin. “It means