Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

  “Just in time for Mardi Gras,” Gabby smiled. “When everybody goes hog wild with their invitations, scrapbooks, and party favors.”

  “The other thing . . .” Carmela stopped mid-sentence as the bell above the door da-dinged. Then a visitor she certainly wasn’t expecting—namely Babcock—pushed his way into her shop. Talk about an unexpected visit.

  Gabby, as if sensing an impending crisis, quickly turned tail and disappeared into the back of the shop. So she was no help. No, Carmela knew she would just have to smile and face Babcock all by herself.

  “Hey,” Carmela said. “Surprise, surprise.” She cringed inwardly, figuring her words sounded stupid. Or worse yet, indicated some degree of guilt—meaning she had something to hide. Which she sort of did.

  Babcock pressed himself against the front counter and leaned in close to her. She could smell his dreamy aftershave and could almost feel the smoothness of his cheek pressed against hers. Nice. Much better than Quigg’s.

  Don’t think about that now, she warned herself. Don’t start making comparisons.

  “I didn’t hear from you yesterday,” Babcock said in his low baritone.

  Carmela flashed him a bright smile. Wait, was that too bright? Did showing too much teeth make her look goofy guilty?

  “I went to brunch with Ava,” Carmela said. “Then one thing led to another.” There was simply no need to spill her guts about going to Martin Lash’s visitation yesterday afternoon. No need at all.

  “One thing led to another?” Babcock asked. “Led to what?”

  Carmela wasn’t going to go there, that’s for sure. So she tucked her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers.

  “Oh, we had brunch at Brennan’s. And then we wandered around and visited a couple of art galleries.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Lots of new exhibitions,” Carmela babbled on. “I guess everyone’s all geared up for Christmas.”

  Babcock gave a distracted nod. His mind was definitely on something else besides art galleries. “I have a question for you.”

  Carmela’s heart sank. This was it, the coup de grâce. He’d somehow discovered that she’d been to Martin Lash’s visitation. And, really, she should have known. Should have realized that there’d be undercover cops hanging out there, looking for suspicious characters. And that once they’d spotted her, they’d report back to her boy toy du jour.

  “Ask me anything,” Carmela whispered, steeling herself for the crack of the bat and a line drive down center field. Right to the heart of the matter.

  Babcock leaned in even closer as amusement danced in his sharp blue eyes.

  Please don’t torture me like this.

  “Did you have the bananas Foster?” he asked.

  Carmela blinked. “Whu . . . ?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. The signature dessert at Brennan’s.”

  Relief flooded Carmela’s wonked-out brain. “The banan . . . why, yes!” she said brightly. “We did. And aren’t you the clever detective to figure it out, a regular Sherlock Holmes. Of course we had bananas Foster. We practically went facedown in it. That’s the whole point of going to Brennan’s, after all.”

  Babcock cocked his head at her. “I figured as much. I also figured you were still pretty steamed at me. You know, because of Saturday night.” He gave her an aw-shucks look. “I have to apologize for that, Carmela. I guess I wasn’t a very good dinner companion.”

  Carmela waved a hand. “Oh, that.” She felt so flooded with relief at not being caught in a web of lies that she was more than willing to give Babcock a pass. “That’s all behind us. I realize you have a very demanding job and I understand that an investigation will sometimes interfere with . . . well, with us.”

  Interestingly enough, Babcock had just given her the perfect opening.

  “So tell me,” Carmela continued. “How are you coming with the Martin Lash investigation?”

  “Carmela . . .” Babcock’s voice carried a hint of warning.

  Carmela kept up her innocent-until-proven-guilty act. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to meddle. In fact, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Oh, I so hope a bolt of lightning doesn’t come down and strike me upside the head, Carmela thought.

  “But I did have an idea,” she managed to slip in.

  “What exactly are you talking about?” Babcock asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about Martin Lash’s sideline. About how he wrote all those nasty restaurant reviews.”

  “Uh-huh.” Babcock was watching her carefully. About as carefully as a mongoose observes a cobra.

  “And I was wondering if you’d looked at other New Orleans restaurateurs who received horrible reviews from Lash.”

  Babcock shook his head. “Do you think we should?”

  “It seems to me it might be a good angle to investigate.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. It would take a tremendous amount of manpower and would probably just lead to a bunch of dead ends. Not only that, we’d probably have a bunch of disgruntled restaurant owners beating on our heads.”

  Carmela nodded agreeably with him even as she wondered if she should tell him about Allan Hurst and the horrible review he got for Fat Lorenzo’s. No, this wasn’t the time or place. She would play her cards close to the vest for now. Maybe she’d even look into this all by herself.

  “Speaking of bad reviews,” Babcock said, “your pal Quigg Brevard is coming in to talk to us this afternoon.”

  “Really? I thought you were pretty much finished with him. That you’d dismissed him as a possible suspect.”

  Babcock gave her a cool smile. “Sweetheart, I’m just getting started.” Then his phone rang, startling both of them. He glanced down, frowned, and said, “Gotta go.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for not holding a grudge about Saturday night.”

  “See you later,” she said, waving as he darted out the door. Thanks for not calling me out for a zillion trillion lies.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Gabby crept back up to the front desk. But before she had a chance to ask Carmela if she and Babcock were all lovey-dovey again (Gabby being a huge champion of romance) their next-door neighbor came slaloming through the door.

  The Countess Vanessa Saint-Marche was the owner of the overpriced, overhyped jewelry shop Lucrezia.

  “Carmela!” the countess cried out. “And Gabby!”

  The countess was whippet thin, so tan she looked like a baseball glove, and big on theatrics. Today she was costumed in a full-length leopard-print coat, her gobs of jewelry a walking advertisement for her shop. The countess’s gold dangling multi-link earrings were so long they nearly collided with the thick choker of gold and pearls that was wrapped around her neck.

  “I just saw your handsome young detective leaving a moment ago,” the countess announced. She didn’t just talk, she announced. Her hands fluttered in circles, jangling the half dozen shiny bracelets that graced each wrist. “You shouldn’t let a plum prize like him walk around all single and fancy-free.” Now she held up a warning finger. “Some other woman could snap him up and then where would you be?” She cocked her head forward like an inquisitive bird. “Out in the cold, I suppose.”

  “Carmela and Babcock are just fine,” Gabby said, rushing to defend her friend. “They’re completely devoted to each other.”

  “Lovely, lovely,” the countess said. “Which is why I’d adore getting that man into my shop to pick out an engagement ring.”

  “I don’t think you should necessarily rush love,” Carmela said.

  The countess let loose dry chuckles as her skinny shoulders rose and fell. “Oh, my dear, of course you should. When you find the perfect man—or even an imperfect man, a scratch-and-dent type of fellow—you need to hurry up and lock that relationship down tight.”
/>   “Carmela’s got it locked,” Gabby said. “She really does.”

  “Then remember this,” the countess said. “Lucrezia carries the most exquisite diamonds in all of New Orleans. Cushion cut, pear shaped, even old mine estate pieces. You send that fine detective of yours my way and I’ll make sure he gets a good deal.” She winked at Carmela. “And that you get yourself a killer diamond!”

  * * *

  “Do we have any aspirin?” Carmela asked. “Talking to that woman always gives me a splitting headache.”

  “Here,” Gabby said. She reached behind the desk and pulled out a bottle, shook two out for Carmela. “Take two of these with a hit of Diet Coke. It’s a surefire remedy.”

  “A surefire remedy would be if she closed her shop and moved out. I’m not sure she’s even a legitimate countess. Her title—and her diamonds—could all be a complete fabrication.”

  “I read somewhere that you can buy a title,” Gabby said. “Mostly titles like duke, earl, and viscount. And if your title is in the British Isles, you sometimes get a small plot of land—like eight inches by eight inches—to go along with it.”

  “Sounds more like a cemetery plot where you’d bury an urn,” Carmela sniffed.

  Gabby raised an eyebrow at Carmela and said, “You’ve got cemeteries on the brain? Yeah, you better hide out in your office for a while. You’ve got it bad.”

  “What have I got?” Carmela asked.

  “The grumps.”

  * * *

  Carmela did as she was told. Went into her office and chugged a good long slug of Diet Coke. When she felt fizzy bubbles rise up in her nose she quit and let loose a few good sneezes. Her sneezing fit finally over and done with, she took a spin around in her chair and studied some of the sketches she’d pinned to her wall. All ideas for projects: a booklet with a small pocket that would hold a tea bag, a wooden box that she would paint with copper and gold and stencil with an image of an old clipper ship, a small clutch purse made of super durable paper that would look great when it was stamped and embellished.

  Lots of projects to do. Not so much time.

  Carmela leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. Just how long was she going to be able to cope with Babcock’s suspicions about Quigg? How long could she deal with Quigg coming on to her?

  She knew her life was devolving into a circus. And not the fun kind, either. More like the kind where all sorts of wacky clowns spilled out of a tiny little car and into her life.

  Staring at her computer screen, Carmela skipped her fingertips lightly across the keyboard. What about this Allan Hurst and his restaurant? What was the deal with that?

  Babcock had told her that all of Martin Lash’s reviews had been purged from the Glutton for Punishment website, so that wouldn’t be any help.

  So where could she find the Fat Lorenzo’s review? How was a girl supposed to get any research done?

  Carmela clicked along and twenty seconds later she was on Yelp. And found that a helpful someone had posted a quote taken directly from Martin Lash’s review of Fat Lorenzo’s. She scanned it quickly.

  Don’t worry about getting Fat at Fat Lorenzo’s. The food is inedible. Start with a salad. I promise you wilted greens, mushy tomatoes, and mushrooms that were artfully diced to cut away the mold. Entrées? Unless you enjoy gelatinous pasta, rubbery calamari, and shoe-leather chicken, skip this course entirely. As for dessert, if tepid coffee and cheesecake the texture of curdled grits are your faves, then you’re in luck. With so many intriguing restaurants in New Orleans, why waste a moment—or a dollar—at Fat Lorenzo’s? Take my word, this Fattie won’t be around for long.

  Yipes! Talk about a vicious, venomous review. And that was only part of it. Carmela could understand why customers had stayed away in droves. Lash made Fat Lorenzo’s sound like eating there was tantamount to catching the bubonic plague. She could almost understand—but not justify—Lash’s murder. Allan Hurst, the owner, must have been hysterical when Lash’s review came out. And now, according to Shamus, Hurst had zero customers and was carrying a mountain of debt. Revenge did seem to loom large!

  Next, Carmela ran a search on Allan Hurst. She didn’t find much, just an archived article from the business section of the Times-Picayune. It was your basic bare-bones announcement about the restaurant planning to open within a few months. The press release was accompanied by a small, grainy photo of Hurst.

  Carmela studied the black-and-white photo. Hurst looked deer-in-the-headlights surprised, eyes wide open, brows beetled, like maybe he’d taken a not-so-good selfie in his shaving mirror.

  And now his business, probably his life’s dream, was in ruins. Was Allan Hurst the type of hothead who’d grab a meat fork from his own kitchen, tail Martin Lash to the Winter Market, and then stab him in the neck?

  Carmela wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell all that from a tiny black-and-white photo.

  “Carmela?”

  Carmela spun away from her computer. “Are our crafters here already?” she asked Gabby. Had she fallen down the rabbit hole and been consumed with this whole Martin Lash thing for the last couple of hours?

  But no. Gabby was just asking about lunch.

  “If you want to mind the front counter,” Gabby said, “I’ll run down to Pirate’s Alley Deli and grab a couple of po-boys for lunch.”

  “Great. Thank you.” Carmela stood up. “Wait. And get me another Diet Coke, too.”

  Gabby smiled. “The caffeinated kind?”

  “Can you think of anything else that jacks you up so nicely?”

  Gabby shook her head. “Nothing that’s legal anyway.”

  Chapter 10

  CARMELA was still nibbling the last delicious bites of her po-boy when she heard the front door bang open. She sat up straighter in her chair and dabbed at her lips. “Hello?”

  “Hellooooo!” came a familiar yodel.

  Tandy Bliss, Carmela thought to herself. When Tandy swept in you were assured of a serious tornadic event.

  “Hey there, Gabby,” Tandy bellowed again. “Where’s Carmela? Did she forget we’ve got a class today?”

  Carmela wiped her hands on her napkin, stuffed the remnants of her lunch in a brown paper bag, and dumped the detritus into her trash can. Then she grabbed her second Diet Coke and ran out to greet Tandy just as Gabby was reassuring her that the crepe paper class would indeed start in just a few minutes.

  Elbows out, Tandy punched her fists on nearly nonexistent hips and turned to face Carmela. “Have you heard from Baby? She’s supposed to be here and she’s late.” She tapped a toe. “Late again.”

  Carmela couldn’t help but smile. Tandy’s temperament was as fiery as her intensely hennaed red hair.

  “Sweetie, she’ll be here,” Carmela said. “Relax. Take a breath.”

  Tandy was still spinning like a Texas dust devil. “She’s not always prompt, you know. And this is important.”

  Before Carmela could hand Tandy a paper bag to keep her from hyperventilating, the door opened again and a blond-haired woman wearing a navy blue Chanel jacket over a sleek white blouse and perfectly pressed blue jeans strode into Memory Mine. With her artfully cut hair and still-flawless-yet-fifty face, she looked like the idealized version of a mature woman.

  “There you are!” Tandy cried.

  “Tandy, honestly,” Baby said. “I could hear you screaming from all the way out on the sidewalk.” Baby Fontaine was a Garden District socialite with a gentle demeanor and unerring common sense. She also had a finely tuned sense of humor.

  “Because I was wondering where you were,” Tandy said. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  “Not to worry,” Carmela said, shepherding them back to the craft table. “You’re all just fine on time. I’m guessing you’ll probably be able to finish at least two or even three craft projects today.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’
about,” Tandy said as she plopped into a chair.

  As Gabby started passing out rulers and scissors, the front door flew open again and two more ladies came in. The taller of the two, a silver-haired woman dressed in a wheat-colored cashmere sweater and khaki slacks, said “Is this right? The crepe paper class?”

  “This is it,” Carmela said. “Come on back.”

  “I’m Margery Landon,” the woman said. “This is my sister Allison May.”

  Allison May, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, gave a finger wave when her name was mentioned.

  Carmela introduced herself, then led them back and made introductions all around.

  “I think we’ve got one more person coming,” Gabby said.

  “Josie?” Carmela said.

  “That’s right.”

  Josie Thibideaux, a young librarian who’d begun taking craft classes the previous summer, showed up some two minutes later.

  When Carmela was sure that everyone was present and accounted for, she stood at the head of the table and held up a large wreath made entirely of poufy black crepe paper flowers. A black crow with beady red eyes was perched in the center of the wreath.

  “Spooky,” Tandy said, causing everyone to laugh.

  “It is spooky,” Carmela agreed. “I made this wreath a couple of months ago for Halloween. But when you use different-colored crepe paper flowers, this basic wreath can be adapted for almost any holiday. For Christmas, you could do red, green, silver, or whatever you’d like.”

  Gabby stepped in. “Since we’re all going to create flowers just like Carmela did, you’re going to need a template for the flower petals.” She proceeded to hand out metal templates to everyone. “For each flower you need to cut about eight to ten petals.”

  “So you cut out all your petals and then squeeze them together at the bottom . . .” Tandy said.

  “That’s right,” Carmela said. “And then you secure them in place with a twist of wire. Once that’s done, you kind of bend and pull each petal, working it into a flower shape.”

  “Neat,” Baby said as she started tracing and cutting. “I think I’m going to do a pale blue wreath and decorate it with some of those sparkly little white birds I saw at the front of the shop.”