by Laura Childs
Mrs. Lash let out another cry as Cotton went on to dish up a few platitudes and praise Martin Lash as a driven and stalwart leader.
Carmela listened with half an ear. To her way of thinking Cotton was a little too passionate in his praise of the man he hoped to replace. Hadn’t he mentioned making a few changes when they spoke with him at the visitation Sunday night? Sure he had. If he wanted to take control of the organization and run it according to his own standards, was he capable of killing Lash? Possibly. And if Cotton was power hungry, could he have smoke-screened the murder by making it look like Lash was killed by a local restaurateur? After all, Lash—with his sideline as food critic—had alienated a fair number of New Orleans restaurant owners. So it was certainly a logical assumption that an angry restaurant owner might have done him in. At least it was one theory that Babcock subscribed to. In Quigg’s case, that is.
With suspicion over Josh Cotton percolating in her brain, Carmela found it difficult to focus. As she let her eyes wander about the dingy chapel, she noticed a man she hadn’t seen earlier. Dark eyed, with a tumble of dark hair, he looked tight-lipped and grim as he slumped in the corner of the pew across the way.
Carmela flashed back to the grainy black-and-white photo she’d looked at just yesterday and recognized Allan Hurst, the owner of Fat Lorenzo’s.
Now here was a man she definitely wanted to talk to.
The service droned on for another twenty minutes, with the end finally coming when the minister gave a final blessing and several people walked up to the casket and laid white roses on top of it.
Good, Carmela thought. Enough already. She was ready to go home.
As soon as the service was concluded, as soon as the ushers unlocked the coffin rollers and paraded the whole shebang back down the aisle again, Carmela pushed out of her pew and rushed to the back of the chapel. And by the time Allan Hurst reached the door, Carmela was standing right there, blocking his way.
“Mr. Hurst. Good morning. I need to speak to you.”
Hurst stopped in his tracks and peered at Carmela with curiosity. “Do I know you?”
Carmela offered a sweet smile. “Not exactly, but I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“I don’t think so.” Hurst started to slip by her, but Carmela grabbed his arm.
“I’m looking into the murder of Martin Lash,” Carmela said.
Hurst’s eyes bulged out. Now she had his attention.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Carmela Bertrand.”
“And you’re investigating Martin Lash’s murder?” He sounded wary. “Are you with the New Orleans Police Department?”
“No, I’m not. I own a scrapbooking shop.”
Now Hurst really looked puzzled. “You own a . . . wait a minute. Nice try, lady. I’m guessing you’re really a reporter. You look like one of those crazy Lois Lane types.”
Carmela gripped his arm tighter. “I already told you. I’m investigating the death of Martin Lash. But only as a concerned citizen.” She hoped her words sounded fairly neutral.
But Hurst was beginning to lose his cool. “Why would you possibly care about a reprehensible creature like Martin Lash?”
Carmela hesitated a split second and then decided to try the sympathy angle.
“I was at the Winter Market when Martin Lash was killed,” Carmela said in a slightly sorrowful tone. “I saw him stagger out with a giant meat fork stuck in his neck and watched him drop dead at my feet. So, you see . . .” She blinked rapidly, trying to muster a few tears, but no dice. “I have a sort of vested interest,” she finished quietly.
Hurst’s reaction was explosive. “Lady,” he said, “I would have been delighted to have Martin Lash drop dead at my feet. Why do you think I’m here anyway? To mourn him? Hah! I’m here to make sure that miserable excuse for a human being is dead as a doornail and that they’re really going to drop the lid on him.” With that, Hurst pushed his way past a stunned Carmela and hurried out of the chapel.
“He certainly has a strong opinion,” Ava said. She’d been observing their exchange from the sidelines and now came over to join Carmela.
“But does an angry, sour personality mean that he’s a murderer?” Carmela asked.
Ava squinted after Hurst. “Hard to tell.” Then, “I wonder what the food’s like at his restaurant?”
* * *
When Carmela and Ava stepped outside, they were taken aback by the grandeur of the funeral procession. Martin Lash’s coffin was being loaded onto an honest-to-goodness horse-drawn funeral coach that was painted with a high-gloss black lacquer and edged with silver trim. A liveried driver sat up top of the coach and held the reins to four horses. Each black horse was outfitted in full funeral regalia, complete with black leather harnesses and tall feathery plumes on their heads. With clouds parting and sunbeams bouncing off the casket and coach, it looked like a scene straight out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
“I feel like we’ve been teleported back to the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire,” Ava said. “Bring on the noodle and strudel. Hook me up with a cute archduke.”
Carmela shook her head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a spectacle before. Yeah, there’ve been funerals with jazz bands and professional dancers, even a few with rap music. But this . . . this has got to hit a ten on the old wack-o-meter.”
“When it’s my time to go I’d love a big crazy send-off like this.”
“When you go, there’ll probably be dancing skeletons, Ouija boards, and flickering saint candles.”
“Or you could just scatter my ashes at Neiman Marcus.” She thought for a moment. “Better rip up my credit card, though.”
Carmela noticed Hurst walking toward his car, a red Mini Cooper. “I’d like to know more about that guy. Maybe even pay a visit to his restaurant, Fat Lorenzo’s.”
“Where’s it located again?”
“Over on Magazine Street.”
“Then why don’t we hit his place tonight?” Ava suggested. “We can drop by our favorite resale shop, The Latest Wrinkle, and take a look at their new duds. Maybe try on a few overpriced but still stylish Chanel or Dior jackets and then mosey down the block and have dinner at Fat Lorenzo’s. I can hopefully find a new outfit and you can look for clues.” She smiled serenely. “That way there’s somethin’ in it for everybody.”
Chapter 13
WHEN Carmela finally arrived at Memory Mine, Gabby was on her hands and knees, stuck halfway inside the bow-shaped front window. She was surrounded by a tangle of red, green, and gold ribbon as she carefully arranged a display of scrapbook pages and velvet-covered albums. Carmela gave a quick wave from out on the street and Gabby responded with a lopsided smile.
Once inside the shop, Carmela found that Gabby had already reversed motion and backed her way out of the window.
“Hey there,” Gabby said, scrambling to her feet and adjusting the pussycat bow on her white silk blouse. “You caught me right in the middle of doing a little housekeeping. How was the funeral?”
“Strange,” Carmela said. “The mourners were just as eccentric as the surroundings.”
“St. Roch is a pretty creepy place. All those weird teeth and eyeballs hanging on the walls and perched on little altars. Maybe that place brings out the worst in people. Maybe it’s like the bad juju Ava is always warning us about.”
“Yeah, maybe . . . but how are you doing? Or, rather, I should say what are you up to? Those albums look fantastic in the window, by the way. And I take it you have more planned for this updated display?”
“I thought the holidays called for some new inspiration,” Gabby said. “So I made an executive decision to move things around and decided to add some of the crepe paper crafts we worked on yesterday.”
“I like it. And how about throwing in some journals and memory boxes?” Carmela asked.
“Oh, those will go in, too. Don’t worry. I’m going to pack as much creativity and charm into our little window display as is humanly possible.”
Carmela picked up a package of colored beads and fingered it. “Gabby, you and Stuart get invited to lots of business-related social events. Have you ever come across a real estate developer by the name of Trent Trueblood?”
Gabby straightened up and smoothed her plaid skirt. “Trueblood? Yes, I do know that name.”
“I’m guessing he’s kind of a big deal around town.” And he was also named in a very strange lawsuit.
“Give me a second.” Gabby tapped an index finger against her front teeth. “Okay, I’m starting to remember this now. Trueblood was actually seated at our table when we attended the Chamber of Commerce Awards Dinner. He told me . . . well, actually, he kind of bragged about it . . . that he was developing Bridgewater Estates over near Lake Pontchartrain. You know, where that whole neighborhood was basically wiped out by Hurricane Katrina and then condemned by the city.”
“Such a pity,” Carmela said. “Now instead of a street filled with quaint Caribbean cottages and single homes there’ll be cookie-cutter mega-mansions with fake white pillars. They’ll turn that area into a neighborhood with no real character at all.”
“Well, don’t say that to him.” Gabby tipped her head sideways at Carmela. “So why exactly are you asking about Mr. Trueblood?”
“Let’s just say I found out that he was involved in a lawsuit with Martin Lash.”
Gabby’s face tightened. “Good heavens, every little detail you uncover about your Martin Lash character gets stranger and stranger.”
“The thing is . . . Trueblood is also trying to build townhomes down in Boothville, and Martin Lash was vehemently opposed. As in lawsuit opposed.”
“Wait a minute. So now you’re saying that Trueblood might also be a suspect in Lash’s death? Carmela, you’ve got to watch your step. Trueblood’s a big-time wheeler-dealer. He hobnobs with people on the city council and with the zoning commission. I mean it, be careful.”
“I will. I am.”
“Bite your tongue,” Gabby said. “Once again, you’re rushing in where angels fear to tread. You should back away from this nasty Martin Lash business right now and let Babcock handle the investigating. He’s the professional, after all.” She paused. “He’s the one with the gun.”
“There’s a huge problem. Babcock still thinks Quigg is the guilty party.”
Gabby shook her head slowly. “Carmela, please don’t ruin a beautiful relationship over this. Over your . . . defense of Quigg. Babcock loves you. He wants to marry you.”
“Funny. He hasn’t mentioned it lately.”
Gabby gave a deep sigh. “Yes, he has. You just don’t want to hear it.”
* * *
Carmela ducked into her office, plopped down in her purple leather chair, and powered up her computer. Bridgewater Estates had a high-concept website complete with symphonic music, 3D floor plans, videos, and (natch!) up-to-date information on financing.
On the Contact tab, Carmela found their telephone number and hastily punched it into her phone.
The receptionist answered with a sweet honeyed voice and welcoming manner. “Bridgewater Estates. This is Effie. How can I help y’all?” The same symphonic music from the website played faintly in the background.
“Yes,” Carmela said. “I was just looking at your website and wanted to get a little more information about Bridgewater Estates.”
“Uh-huh,” Effie said. “I could send you a brochure if you’d like.”
“I was actually thinking about stopping by your sales office.”
“And you’d be most welcome to do so, honey. We’re open today from one to four, so y’all can just drop by and take a look.”
“Is there any chance of meeting the developer in person?” Carmela asked.
“Mr. Trueblood is usually in his office most afternoons,” Effie said, a smile coloring her voice. “Though he is a busy man, so he does tend to pop in and out. But I’ll tell him you’re going to drop by and hope he sticks around. Best I can do.”
“That sounds great. But do tell him that Carmela Bertrand will definitely be stopping by.” Carmela hung up the phone just as a shadow lurked at her door. She turned, worried it might be Babcock, coming by to harangue her again, but it was Gabby.
“Carmela, I’ve got a lady here who needs some expert advice on holiday cards.”
Carmela jumped up from her chair. “Then I guess that would be me.”
“I really need help,” the customer said. “I know I’m late getting started.”
“Not a problem,” Carmela said. She pulled cardstock, note cards, gold paper, and ribbon and set it all out on the back table. “What I would do is start with these precut note cards in midnight blue.”
“Sounds good,” said the woman.
“Then I’d layer on a scrap of gold paper that’s kind of torn . . .” Carmela ripped a shred off. “Like this.”
The woman nodded. “Okay.”
“Then I’d adhere a sliver of ribbon, add a snippet of lace, and glue on this brass charm in the form of a star.” Carmela picked up a paper punch. “Then I’d punch out a few more gold stars and sprinkle them around.”
“I love it,” the woman said. “And what about the inside?”
“Well, you could write your greeting using a metallic pen so it shows up against the dark blue, or you could glue in a small square of cream-colored paper.”
The woman thought for a moment. “The cream paper. Definitely the cream.”
“Well, there you go,” Carmela said. She snuck a peek at the clock on the wall and decided it was time to get going.
* * *
The Bridgewater Estates sales complex was set smack-dab in the middle of ten acres of tumbledown homes, most in the end stages of demolition. Bulldozers roared and scooped; large dump trucks waited in line to haul away the final remnants of people’s lost lives.
The two model homes looked incongruous amidst such disarray. They were mega-sized and gaudy, with peaked rooflines and fake brick façades. The sales office that sat next to them was housed in an enormous double-wide trailer.
Carmela stepped inside the rather deluxe-looking trailer and gazed around. “Anybody home?”
A young woman with poufy blond hair and extra-long dark blue fingernails glanced up from a reception desk. “Hello there,” she said, her smile stretching wide across her face.
“Effie?” Carmela said.
“That’s right, sugar.” Effie was wearing a tight black turtleneck, tight black pencil skirt, and sky-high stilettos. When she crossed her legs her skirt slid way above her knees. Carmela wondered if maybe she wasn’t one of Ava’s distant relatives.
Carmela touched a hand to her chest. “I’m Carmela Bertrand. I called earlier?”
“So you did. Let me start you off with one of our presentation kits.” Effie grabbed a folder and began stuffing all sorts of photos, plans, and papers into it. Carmela wondered how she could function with such long, sharp nails. Talons, really.
“Your homes look gorgeous,” Carmela lied.
“Prettiest new homes in the city,” Effie said. “Fit for a queen.” She smiled again and handed the folder to Carmela.
“Thanks.” Carmela glanced around. “Before I check out the model homes, is Mr. Trueblood here?”
“You’re in luck. He’s still hanging around the office.” Effie stood up, gave a kind of shimmy, and led Carmela into a second room where a large, architect’s model occupied a Ping-Pong-sized table. Lit by overhead pinpoint spots it was dazzling. “This is what the whole complex will look like when it’s finally completed,” Effie said, waving a hand.
Carmela gazed at the model of Bridgewater Estates. It consisted of at least twenty mega-mansions, a central reflecting pool
and recreation building, a tall spiked fence that ran all the way around the entire complex, and a gated entrance complete with uniformed guards.
Not very neighborly, she decided.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” a voice suddenly boomed in Carmela’s ear.
Carmela looked up into the dark eyes of a man who was tall and rangy, with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back jet-black hair. He reminded her of an old-fashioned movie villain that you’d boo and hiss at. “Mr. Trueblood?” she said.
The man bobbed his head. “That’s me, Trent Trueblood. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV advertising True Blue Homes by Trueblood?”
“Perhaps I have.” Carmela had no recollection of seeing his smiling face beaming out at her from the tube. “I’m Carmela Bertrand. Nice to meet you.”
Trueblood stood over the model and spread his arms like a happy evangelist. “Isn’t this spectacular? Each home is a minimum of five thousand square feet, with four or five bedrooms, chef’s kitchen, five bathrooms, butler’s pantry, exercise room, and state-of-the-art security system. We offer more size and luxury than most of the homes in the Garden District.”
But without the class, heritage, and genteel atmosphere, Carmela thought.
Trueblood peered at her. “Do you have a large family? Are you interested in the four-bedroom Manchester model or our larger DeQuincy model that gives you five bedrooms with a bonus room over the four-car garage?”
“Actually, I’m more interested in your other development.”
Trueblood didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, you’re referring to our Parson’s Point Townhomes down near Boothville. Yes, we’re about to begin construction in a matter of weeks.”
“That’s great news,” Carmela said. “Because I’d heard those plans had been scratched.”
Trueblood held up an index finger. “Not scratched, just put on hold for a while pending a few pesky details that needed to be ironed out. But I’m delighted to tell you that project is now proceeding full speed ahead.”