Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

  Chapter 7

  CARMELA and Ava strolled leisurely down Royal Street. It was just past noon on Sunday and tourists as well as locals were out in full force. The jostling crowds were enjoying the shaved ice vendors, rides in horse-drawn jitneys, and superlative window shopping. After all, only the finest sterling silver goblets, antique jewelry, and eighteenth-century oil paintings were on display in the upscale antique shops on Royal Street.

  “Everyone’s out so early this morning,” Ava said. She wore a purple tweed jacket and pencil skirt with a black blouse that had tiny pearl buttons down the front. It didn’t take a close inspection to see that Ava had neglected to close most of the buttons when she’d gotten dressed.

  “Honey, it is early,” Carmela said. “But it’s early afternoon.”

  Ava stifled a yawn. “I guess it just feels like morning because I had such a late night. After the Reveillon dinner, Harrison and I went to Dr. Boogie’s and knocked back a few more pops. Then we listened to some hot jazz . . . and went back to my place for . . . you know . . . yadda, yadda, yadda. How was your post-party? All snuggly and nice, too?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Don’t even ask.”

  “Please don’t tell me that Babcock just dumped you at home like yesterday’s California roll?”

  Carmela was going to spill the beans to Ava about Quigg showing up, but since they’d just arrived at the pink stucco building that housed Brennan’s Restaurant, she decided to save her tale of infamy for later. Right now she needed an eye-opening cocktail and a fortifying brunch entrée. Or maybe she’d throw caution to the wind and just skip right ahead to their flaming bananas Foster. Give in to the stark raving sugar junkie that lurked inside of her.

  A well-coiffed maître d’ greeted them in the entry. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Huh,” Ava shook her head. “If he says it’s afternoon, then I guess it must be afternoon.”

  The smiling maître d’ didn’t lose a beat. He grabbed two menus and said, “I have immediate seating in the Chanteclair Room.”

  “Wonderful,” Ava said. “And can we possibly get one of those little tables next to the glass wall overlooking the garden?” She batted her eyes for extra effect.

  “Certainly, madame.” He led them into a cheerful room with light green trellises adorning the walls and ceilings, then pulled out green cane chairs with coral seats and backs. Ava seated herself with one hand delicately outstretched as if she were a newly crowned queen.

  A waiter dressed in black and white brightened by a pink sateen bow tie hurried over to their table. He presented them with an enormous wine menu.

  “Perhaps you’d like to start with a bottle of wine?” the waiter asked. Brennan’s was rumored to have a wine cellar containing fifty thousand bottles and it looked like every one of them must be listed.

  “I’m thinking champagne,” Carmela mused. She looked across the table at Ava. “What about you?”

  “Like I’d ever say no to champagne?” Ava scanned the bubbly section. “What looks good? Besides everything.”

  “The last time I was here with Babcock, he ordered the Billecart-Salmon Brut Réserve.”

  “Sounds spendy.”

  “It is.”

  “So that’s what we should have.”

  “Very good, ladies,” said the waiter.

  Carmela wasted no time in scanning the brunch menu. It was glorious, of course. Fried oysters, eggs Sardou, vanilla-scented French toast, and another half dozen of Brennan’s famous brunch entrées.

  “I wonder how Martin Lash would have reviewed this place?” Ava asked.

  “Please,” Carmela said. “Brennan’s is a New Orleans institution. Right up there with Commander’s Palace and Antoine’s. If Lash ever dared write a snarky review he probably would have gotten himself lynched.”

  “As opposed to just stabbed. And by the way, what is Babcock doing about that? He certainly was in a sour mood last night.”

  Carmela’s lips pulled tight.

  “Oh no, has our own Dudley Do-Right been treating you badly?”

  “More like just ignoring me.”

  “Because he’s so preoccupied,” Ava said.

  “I suppose,” Carmela said.

  “And because he’s fiercely jealous of Quigg.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t say that.”

  “But it’s true.” Ava smiled as the waiter brought their champagne, popped the cork, and deftly poured out two glasses. “So,” she said when he was gone, “what’s up? You look like a woman with a deep, dark secret.”

  “Secret?” Carmela said, her voice going slightly shrill.

  “Ah, so I was right.”

  Carmela took a fortifying sip of champagne. “I suppose I do have something to tell you.”

  “I knew it.”

  “But you can’t blab it to anybody.”

  “Who would I tell?” Ava asked.

  “Um . . . everybody?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Ava said.

  “Then swear on something.”

  “Cross my heart and swear on my evil eye earrings.” Ava leaned forward eagerly. “Okay, so tell me. Spill the beans, girlfriend.”

  “After Babcock dropped me off last night. After he pulled over to the curb, barely slowed the car, and practically pushed me out into the gutter . . . I was hurrying to my apartment . . .”

  Ava gave an encouraging nod. “Yeeees.”

  “And . . . well . . . Quigg was kind of hiding in the courtyard waiting for me.”

  Ava grinned. “Look at you, hot momma. Juggling two guys at once. Back in the day I used to do that myself. You know, I’d line up two, maybe three dates in one night. Cocktail hour, then dinner, then a late-night rendezvous. Lately I’ve been trying to cut back.”

  “Ava, stop. This wasn’t any kind of date. Quigg was just lurking there. Totally unbeknownst to me.”

  “He was just . . . waiting for you? Why, cher?”

  “He wanted to talk about the murder. He was wondering if I’d found out anything new.”

  “But you haven’t.” Ava took a quick sip of wine. “Have you?”

  “Not really. I had no real news for Quigg. Aside from the fact that Babcock is suspicious about how he waved a magic wand and had Martin Lash’s reviews taken down from the Glutton for Punishment website.”

  Ava cocked her head. “That’s all very interesting. But none of that explains why a man was standing at your front door in the wee hours of the morning.” She wiggled her fingers. “So what really happened?”

  Carmela had sipped just enough champagne to loosen her tongue. “I kissed him.”

  Ava gasped.

  “I mean . . . he kissed me first. And then I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Girl, you are so walking a thin, red line.”

  “I know that!”

  Ava dimpled. “So give me all the details.”

  “There are no details. It was just a simple kiss.”

  “Simple?” Ava smirked. “A kiss with a man like Quigg Brevard is never simple. You should know that.”

  “Which is why this whole thing is quite complicated.”

  “Of course it is,” Ava said. “But the big question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I have to do something?” Carmela asked. “What would I do? Jeez, Ava, all I want right now is for the kiss to have never happened.”

  “It’s too late,” Ava warned. “That kiss is out there in the ozone. It’s like posting a bad selfie—it’ll never go away.”

  “So what do you suggest I do?”

  “You actually have several options. You can avoid Quigg for the rest of your natural-born days. You can confess your infidelity to Babcock and beg for forgiveness. Or you can live with this secret locked in your heart forever. Personally, the option I�
�d go for would be to kiss him again.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Carmela cried, so loudly that a couple of people turned to stare. “Kiss him again?” She lowered her voice. “Babcock would kill us both. And because he’s a smart detective who carries a gun, he would probably get away with murder.” She picked up her menu and waggled a finger at the waiter. “Ah, forget it. Let’s just order.”

  They did order. Eggs Benedict for Carmela and eggs Sardou for Ava. Then Carmela sat and stared into the garden for a few minutes, deep in thought.

  “You okay?” Ava asked.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  Ava picked up the bottle of champagne. “Have another drink, sweetie. Champagne makes everything better.”

  * * *

  By the time their food arrived, Carmela was sufficiently calmed down.

  “My entrée is perfection,” Ava said. “Angels must have descended from heaven and whipped up this sauce.”

  “Then they must have gotten a hall pass good for the entire day, because my eggs Benedict is marvelous, too. But,” Carmela admitted, “I’m already thinking ahead to dessert.”

  Ava aimed a fork at her. “Bananas Foster for two.”

  “You got that right,” Carmela said. “There’s nothing better than caramelized banana flambéed in rum.”

  “Except maybe Brennan’s chocolate rum drink. That’s my idea of perfection. Pigging out on chocolate while you get a nice buzz on.” Ava smiled. “See how much better you’re feeling now?”

  “That’s because I’m drinking. And overeating.”

  They settled down then, enjoying their brunch as the day stretched into late afternoon. When Carmela finally glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost four o’clock, she said, “Would you believe that Martin Lash’s viewing starts in a couple of minutes?”

  Ava was surprised. “They’ve got him fixed up already? They patched up that awful old grisly hole in his throat?”

  “Apparently so,” Carmela said. “The notice for his visitation appeared in the Times-Picayune this morning. Visitation today, memorial service on Tuesday.”

  “Those funeral directors sure work fast, huh?”

  “I think they pretty much have to,” Carmela said.

  “And there’s a valid reason why you’re thinking about attending Lash’s visitation? And I’m guessing you want to drag me along with you?”

  “Chalk it up to curiosity.”

  Ava laughed. “Now that’s something I can relate to.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later they were standing outside a wrought-iron fence, gazing in at a three-story white clapboard mansion. The windows were framed with black shutters while four Ionic columns fronted the building. A discreet brass sign with the words CASTLE FUNERAL HOME was affixed to the fence at eye level.

  “This place looks kind of spooky,” Ava said. “Do you think it’s haunted?”

  “Probably not,” Carmela said.

  “I read somewhere that New Orleans is the most haunted city in the United States.”

  “Nice try,” Carmela said as they started up the steps to the front porch. “You’re still coming in with me.”

  Just as they reached the double oak doors with stained glass inlays, the right door popped open and a liveried doorman leaned out. His graying temples and stiff bearing made him look just like Carson, the butler on Downton Abbey.

  “Come in, ladies,” the doorman said in cultured tones. “How may I direct you?”

  “We’re here for the Martin Lash visitation,” Carmela said.

  “Straight ahead,” Carson said. “Kindly sign the guest book as you pass by.”

  “Will do,” Ava said as they stepped into a large marble-tiled entry. The walls were painted a deep rose color, the woodwork was gilded, and a large crystal chandelier dangled overhead. A flurry of white doves and levitating cherubs were painted on the ceiling.

  “So tasteful,” Carmela said. “Yet so understated.”

  “I wonder who their decorator was?” Ava said. “The last archduke of the Austro-Hungarian Empire?”

  “Let’s just play nice and sign the guest book.”

  They stepped up to a polished wooden lectern that held an oversized leather book. The pages were a creamy ivory paper edged in gold. A faux quill pen was stuck in a faux inkwell.

  “Are you going to sign your real name?” Ava whispered.

  Carmela hesitated. “Maybe . . . not.” She wasn’t sure why not, except for the fact that coming here today fell into the murky realm of investigating. And she really didn’t want anyone to know that she was investigating. Not yet, anyway.

  “So I guess we just go in this way,” Ava said. She wandered toward a doorway that was flanked by two enormous urns filled with white gladiolas.

  “Wait a minute,” Carmela said. She’d stopped to glance at a framed photo on the wall.

  “Who’s that?” Ava asked. “The owner?”

  “I think . . . I think it’s one of the clients. Take a look.”

  Ava peered at a portrait of a woman dressed in a 1950s-era cocktail dress. She was seated in a Danish modern easy chair, one hand resting casually on the armrest. At her side was a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers. But there was something strange about the woman’s expression. Something unnatural about her rigid posture. “Oh my Lord,” Ava exclaimed. “She’s dead!”

  “I think she had herself embalmed sitting up,” Carmela said. “So it appeared as if she were attending her own party.”

  “This is kind of a crazy place,” Ava said. She looked a little befuddled. “It’s also the first time I’ve even attended a visitation with a buzz on.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Carmela said.

  But when they entered Slumber Room C with its plush gray carpet, dark plum walls, and two rows of chairs facing a casket, Ava dug in her heels.

  “Oh no, not an open casket. I hate open caskets with those overhead pink lights beating down on the corpse. It always reminds me of the heat lamps at a bad all-you-can-eat buffet.”

  “They’re just trying to perk up their client’s pallor,” Carmela reasoned.

  “Still, I really hate looking at dead people.”

  Carmela tried to calm her down. “Pull it together, will you? You’ve seen dead people before. In fact, we saw Martin Lash’s corpse at its absolute worst. He’s bound to look better now that he’s had the benefit of a mortician and a cosmetologist.”

  “You think?”

  “He probably looks so good he could pose for a class picture. And for goodness’ sake, button your shirt. Every man in the place is starting to stare at you.”

  Ava brightened considerably. “They are?” She carefully buttoned one button. “Okay, all decent.” She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders, causing her button to pop open again. “Let’s go take a gander at the man of the hour.”

  Curious, a little nervous, they tiptoed up to the casket.

  Chapter 8

  MARTIN Lash was lying there in his bronze Slumberluxe casket looking small, pale, and waxy. In other words, a typical stiff. He’d been carefully dressed in a black cutaway suit and starched white shirt with an old fashioned high collar and black-and-white-striped tie. His head, which looked a trifle lopsided to Carmela’s eye, rested on a white ruffled pillow that looked like it had been plucked right off the settee of a New Orleans house of ill repute.

  “It’s pretty clever the way they’ve got Lash all gussied up like that,” Ava said, studying him. “That old-fashioned collar hides a multitude of sins. Mainly, the big gawking hole in his throat where the meat fork gouged him.”

  Carmela let loose a shiver. “Please don’t remind me.”

  But now that Ava had gotten started, she couldn’t let it go. “How do you think they plugged up that hole, anyway? A couple of
tidy little stitches with heavy-duty thread? Some kind of magic sealing wax?”

  “No idea. But I’m sure the funeral director didn’t just pop over to Home Depot for a can of caulk.”

  “And what’s with the boutonniere? His prom days are over.”

  “His life is over.” Carmela glanced at the mourners who were milling about. Most were looking grim faced but a little lost, too. She and Ava clearly didn’t know a single soul here and it didn’t appear that Lash had a very big family. Or any family at all, except for the little lady who was sitting in a maroon velvet armchair sniffling into her lace handkerchief.

  “Excuse me,” Carmela said. She put a hand out and touched the arm of one of the ushers. “Is that the mother?”

  The usher gave a sober nod. “Yes. That’s Mrs. Armstrong Lash, the deceased’s mother.”

  “Are we going to talk to her?” Ava asked. She was big-eyed and nervous as she stared at the little lady in the black knit suit and sensible low-heeled shoes. Carmela figured Ava didn’t trust any woman who wore chunky heels.

  “I think we should go over and express our condolences, yes,” Carmela said.

  Ava nudged her. “You go first.”

  Carmela crossed the plush carpet with a reluctant Ava in tow.

  “Excuse me? Mrs. Lash?”

  The woman looked up at them with red-rimmed eyes. “Yes?” she quavered. She had a round face, frizzy gray hair, and an incongruously pointed chin.

  “We just wanted to express our condolences,” Carmela said.

  Mrs. Lash looked hopeful. “You were friends of Martin’s?”

  “We only just made his acquaintance recently,” Carmela said.

  “Very recently,” Ava muttered.

  Mrs. Lash reached out and grabbed Carmela’s hand. Carmela flinched. The woman’s hand felt old and smooth, like aged paper that was beginning to crumble.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Lash said. “It’s nice to meet some of Martin’s friends.” She eyed Ava’s short skirt and thigh-high boots and asked, somewhat nervously, “You were the girlfriend?”

  “Me?” Ava cried. “Oh no. No way.”