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have been disrupted. Somehow, it didn’t feel quite so cozy and safe anymore.
    “But someone slipped in,” said Carmela.
    “And the dogs didn’t hear anything?”
    “There was nary a bark, grunt, or growl all night.”
    Ava handed the card back to Carmela, gingerly, like she was disposing of a dead mouse. “I gotta hustle my bustle and get ready for work,” said Ava, “’cause Mardi Gras’s my second-busiest season next to Halloween. But let’s try to put our heads together tonight. See if we can figure this shit out. See if anything . . . relates.”
    “Come over for dinner,” said Carmela. “We’ll take a look at that DVD I’m supposed to pick up from Raleigh.”
    Ava cocked an index finger at her. “There’s a plan.”
    * * *
    BY THE TIME CARMELA WALKED IN THE FRONT DOOR of Memory Mine, she was ready to blow off the whole postcard mystery. The sun was shining, any number of Mardi Gras parties would be in full swing this weekend, and she knew she was quite possibly the luckiest girl in the world. The fact that she owned her own scrapbook shop made it possible for her to be amazingly inventive with paper, photos, and other fun crafty items, as well as hang out with other crafty women. In other words, Carmela earned her living doing what she loved most. And, really, how many people could genuinely claim that?
    Those warm, fuzzy feelings lasted for about thirty seconds. Until she stepped inside her shop and was stopped by the worried face of Gabby Mercer-Morris, her assistant.
    “You saw the news,” said Carmela. It was a statement, not a question.
    “Yes, I did,” said Gabby, making nervous gestures with her hands. Gabby possessed a sincere, caring manner and an open, demure face with guileless eyes. She reminded Carmela of a sweet-natured sorority sister. In fact, Gabby also dressed in twinsets and today wore a peppermint-green cashmere sweater set teamed with a soft dove-gray wool skirt. Gabby’s dark hair was shoulder length and she continued to brush it back nervously, still not wanting to believe the news about Kimber Breeze.
    “The whole thing was pretty awful,” said Carmela. Now she felt guilty for feeling so upbeat just a few moments earlier.
    “I can’t believe you were there,” said Gabby. “I mean, you show up to do an innocent little interview and find yourself smack-dab in the thick of things.”
    “Luck of the draw,” said Carmela.
    “I’d call it bad luck,” said Gabby, shaking her head with regret. “Why does something like that have to happen right in the middle of Mardi Gras? Lord knows, New Orleans gets enough negative press for all the drinking and carousing that goes on here.” Gabby was suddenly fired up and rolling. “And let’s not forget the immodest women who shake their beads and everything else up there on those second-floor balconies.”
    “You realize,” said Carmela, “that last year’s Mardi Gras brought more than three hundred fifty million dollars into the city.”
    “True,” Gabby admitted. “It does contribute to our economy.”
    “And lots of visitors find their way to us,” Carmela pointed out.
    “I understand that,” said Gabby. “And I’m sure we’ll be crazy busy over the next few days. In fact, I’m thankful we’ll be busy.”
    “Me, too,” said Carmela. “A good spurt of business could really fluff this month’s bottom line.” Business could always be better. But that was pretty much the story all over New Orleans.
    “But have you seen the paper?” asked Gabby. She waved a copy of the Times-Picayune in front of Carmela. “I mean . . . it isn’t good.”
    A sick feeling lodged in the pit of Carmela’s stomach. “Uh . . . no. I didn’t get around to actually reading it yet.”
    “Your name is mentioned.”
    “Oops,” said Carmela. Her ex-husband, Shamus Meechum, was sure to spot it and call to register his disapproval. She could always count on Shamus for a negative vote or sarcastic comment. Except where