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“Out,” Mary Alice said shortly.
“I think I just ovulated,” Natalie said as she lifted the first beignet. She bit into the warm dough with a low moan, puffing powdered sugar into the air. “Heaven.”
I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed my cap onto the table. “Beignets in New Orleans is a cliché but it’s a good one.” They were quiet, eating with studied enthusiasm, and I looked around, sizing them up. They were a little the worse for wear, but hanging in there. Just then Minka returned with bags from the carryout kitchen around the block—gumbo and potato salad, with bottles of red wine from the corner grocery. There was bread and a king cake that was so early for the season, it could have only come from one of the tourist traps on Bourbon Street.
“Bless you, child,” I said as Minka unpacked the bags. She turned to get bowls and spoons as I opened the first container. “We can talk while we eat.”
Helen took one of the bottles and a corkscrew, giving a narrow look at Minka’s back.
“Pas devant la petite fille,” she warned me.
Minka didn’t turn. “La petite fille parle français, madame,” she replied.
“Merde,” Helen said.
Minka faced us. “If you don’t want to talk with me, I will go to my room.”
“Of course not,” Mary Alice said, smoothing things over. “We all know what we owe you, Minka.”
She shot Helen a warning look and Helen handed over a glass of wine with a thin smile. “Certainly. I just didn’t know how much of the specifics of the next steps we wanted to bore Minka with.”
It was a bullshit piece of politeness, but I was too tired to call her on it.
Minka shrugged and ladled her gumbo over a scoop of potato salad, digging in her spoon while Nat watched in fascination. “Is that good?”
“Try,” Minka ordered.
Natalie did as she was told and took a spoonful, her eyes rolling back. “Holy shit. That’s amazing.”
Minka grinned and they applied themselves to their food with the enthusiasm of teenagers.
“You’re going to need an antacid later,” Mary Alice told Natalie when she reached for a bottle of hot sauce.
“I’ll sleep sitting up,” Natalie said. “It’s worth it.” She turned to me. “So, what now?”
“Time to take stock,” Helen said briskly. She ate a beignet with small, dainty bites, then pushed her sack aside. Not even a speck of sugar on her hands. Her bowl of gumbo was untouched but her wineglass was half-empty.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s take stock. We have obviously been targeted by the Museum for termination, but we still don’t know why.”
“I keep thinking it must be a misunderstanding,” Helen offered. “I mean, we’ve all been competent and occasionally exceptional at our jobs. And we’re finished. Why take us out now?”
“That’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it?” I said. “If we know why, everything else will make sense, because right now, nothing does.”
“What is this Museum?” Minka asked through a mouthful of gumbo.
Natalie looked at her curiously. “You know what Billie does for a living?”
“Yes,” Minka said. “You are friends from work? You kill people too?”
“They do,” I confirmed. “The Museum is the organization that we work for. And it seems the Board of Directors has decided to terminate our existence.”
Minka tipped her head. “Explain.”
The table was covered with oilcloth that had seen better days. The previous owners had left it behind, probably after taking one look at the dark, unappetizing stains and cigarette burns. I motioned for Minka to bring me something to write with. She found a marker, bright blue and smelling like fruit, the sort of thing My Little Pony would use to sign a slam book. I sketched out three boxes at one end of the cloth and jotted a name in each one.
“ ‘Thierry Carapaz, Provenance. Günther Paar, Acquisitions. Vance Gilchrist, Exhibitions,’ ” she read aloud.
“Correct,” I told her. I drew a bracket to collect the three together and labeled itBoard of Directors. Above that I wrote,Museum.
