by Laura Childs
“So no problems with zoning?”
“Absolutely not. My company obtained a special permit from the Department of Natural Resources to build on the Boothville site. We developed a town house concept that will have low to no impact on the surrounding environment.” Trueblood rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “There will only be a dozen homes, constructed in the most ecologically sensitive way possible. And the entire community of Parson’s Point will be surrounded by acreage that I’ve already purchased and donated to the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.” He smiled. “It will offer country living . . . bayou living . . . at its absolute finest.”
“Excuse me,” Carmela said, “but I’m confused. Wasn’t there a good deal of opposition to that project? Weren’t environmental-impact statements called into question? Wasn’t there”—she paused—“a lawsuit?”
Trueblood ran a hand over his well-pomaded hair. “There was an ill-advised lawsuit but it’s gone now.”
“Gone,” Carmela said. “As in settled?”
“Dropped. And not only that, my company is planning to fund a research study in those very waters. Our press release on that just went out today.” Trueblood smiled broadly. “Would you like to see a brochure for our Parson’s Point Townhomes?”
“I think I would.”
“Then let’s have Effie get you one.” Trueblood continued his sales patter as he led her back to Effie’s desk. But Carmela had stopped listening. Instead, she was thinking about how Martin Lash’s death had been extremely convenient for Trent Trueblood and his Parson’s Point Townhomes. Maybe . . . possibly . . . the tens of millions of dollars he stood to make had given him the impetus and derring-do to plunge a kitchen fork into Lash’s neck and solve that contentious lawsuit for good?
The notion chilled her. But it also gave her the incentive to keep digging.
Chapter 14
NEW Year’s Eve was still weeks away, but the mannequins in the front window of The Latest Wrinkle were all dolled up and ready to party like they’d time-tripped back to the go-go ’80s. One wore a clingy, low-cut black sequined gown, the other wore a red fringed dress that barely reached mid-thigh. Both mannequins had sparkly silver spiked heels on their nonexistent feet.
“Isn’t it amazing what those rich Garden District ladies purge from their walk-in closets?” Ava squealed. “Perfectly stunning dresses that they’ve grown tired of. And some of them still have the price tags on.” She pointed at the mannequins. “Just put me in either one of those sexy numbers and I’ll have Roman Numeral gasping for air.”
“You already do,” Carmela said mildly. “The man is crazy for you.”
Ava focused on the short red dress. “I certainly have the legs for that one. As for the black . . .” She inhaled deeply and jutted her cleavage forward. “You can’t deny I’ve been gifted with the necessary assets.”
“There’s no denying,” Carmela laughed.
“Then let’s go inside, girlfriend, and see what else is on the racks.”
* * *
Lisette Galvan saw them coming and lit up with a smile. She struck an I’m-a-little-teapot pose, one hand on her hip, the other arm stretched and bent to the side, the better to pull Ava in for a hug.
“It’s always a happy day when Miss Ava comes to call,” Lisette crooned. “And twice as happy because you’ve brought Miss Carmela. Ladies, it has been way too long.”
Lisette, whose short, round stature did resemble a Brown Betty teapot, gave Ava a hearty squeeze. “Fortunately, the store is quiet right now so I can say out loud that you are my favorite customer.” She released Ava and moved to give Carmela a hug. “You’re in the running, too, my dear. But Miss Ava sends me so much business I cannot help but adore her. Tell me, ladies, what fashion delights are we looking for today?”
“Something splashy and sexy,” Ava said.
Lisette was pleased. “For holiday parties, of course. Why don’t you dear ladies look around the store while I delve into our inventory of newly consigned items. I’ll see if I can pull out something extra special for you.”
Carmela wandered over to a three-tiered shelf draped in mauve-colored velvet that stood in front of an ornate Baroque mirror. She scanned knuckle duster rings and bangle bracelets, then picked out a long silver necklace with blue beads.
“I love that,” Ava said, sidling in next to her. Then her hand went directly to a black velvet choker embroidered with tiny beads that formed a lilac flower motif. “And this is très Goth, don’t you think?”
“Floral but with a dark vibe,” Carmela said. “Pretty much perfect for you.”
Then Lisette was with them and holding up two long, flowing skirts. “I know these aren’t proper dresses per se, but these skirts are so gorgeous I wonder if you’ll indulge me and try them on.” She handed Ava a black taffeta ballroom skirt with a huge ruffle at the bottom and gave Carmela an ivory satin skirt that fell in elegant, loose folds. Then she shooed them into a large dressing room and pulled a plum velvet curtain across the entry.
Ava emerged first, twirling across the room like a flamenco dancer hopped up on speed, her black skirt swirling and flipping up to reveal an expanse of hot pink ruffle underneath. “I love this. It’s snug over my hips but still fans out to let me kick up my heels.”
“It’s perfect,” Lisette said. “Wear it with a tight black cashmere sweater and pile on a ton of pearls or else one gigantic statement necklace.” She peered past Ava. “Carmela? How are you doing, dear?”
Carmela came out holding up the ivory skirt. “No way. It’s slit too high for my conservative sensibilities. Like verging-on-porno high.”
“Hah!” Ava cackled. “You could use a few come-hither outfits in your wardrobe. Keep that hot boyfriend of yours wanting more.”
“I have another skirt in gray,” Lisette said.
Carmela smiled. “Let’s take a look.”
That long skirt was perfect on Carmela. Lush, but not too revealing. Just right.
“The silver-gray color is made to wear with jewel tones,” Lisette pointed out. “Maybe a midnight blue silk blouse or even a bright red silk T-shirt.”
Carmela gave the thumbs-up sign. “Sold.”
“You know,” Lisette said in an almost conspiratorial tone. “Mrs. Peychaund, who’s married to a state senator and lives in that ginormous mansion over on Harmony Street, brought in a half dozen Dior jackets a few days ago. I doubt they’re more than two years old.”
“Bring ’em out,” Ava said. But when she tried on a pink and white tweed jacket, it was too big. “It fits me okay across the décolleté area,” Ava said. “But look at the shoulders and hips.”
“Too big,” Carmela said.
“Too bad,” Ava sighed.
“So . . . just the skirts?” Lisette asked.
“For now anyway,” Ava said.
As Lisette was running their charge cards through, she said, “Has anybody told you about our upcoming fashion show?”
Ava’s ears perked up. “Fashion show?”
Lisette gave a conspiratorial wink. “We’re doing a Mardi Gras fashion show the first week of February.”
“With models and everything?” Ava asked.
“We’ll hire a few professionals, yes,” Lisette said. “But we want to sprinkle in some real people, too.” She glanced at Carmela and Ava. “Would you ladies be interested in modeling a couple of outfits?”
Ava’s grin stretched all the way across her face. “Would we ever!”
* * *
Fat Lorenzo’s was a scant three blocks away. And when they pulled up in front of the restaurant—where there was plenty of parking probably due to a distinct lack of customers—they were pleasantly surprised.
“Look at this place,” Ava said. “This is a lot more charming than I expected.”
“What were you expecting?” Carmela ask
ed.
“I don’t know. Some little dingy shack painted with red and green stripes, I guess.”
Housed in a rehabbed redbrick building, Fat Lorenzo’s restaurant was fronted with black wrought-iron pillars and a polished wooden door studded with brass, and featured a side portico that held a scatter of outdoor tables and chairs.
Inside was even better. Hammered tin ceiling, black leather booths, brass lamps covered with green glass shades. The placed looked elegant and sedate, almost clubby.
Unfortunately, there was no one to greet them at the deserted host stand.
“It’s hard to believe they’re even open,” Carmela said. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Not even anyone at the bar—no mixologists or drinkers.
Just as Carmela decided she’d better go scouting, a woman in a dark gray suit came rushing out from the back. Her mahogany-colored hair billowed around her head as if she’d just been spun through a static machine. Her lips were pulled tight across her face.
“Good evening,” the hostess said in a fairly cheerless tone. “Welcome to Fat Lorenzo’s.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a large black book and led them to a small table in the middle of the deserted restaurant.
“Excuse me,” Carmela said. “But could we sit in the booth over there?” She pointed to a cozy booth set against a brick wall where a riot of green plants tumbled down.
The hostess led them over to the booth and slapped down the menu. “You can sit anywhere you like,” she droned. “We’re not exactly busy.”
“And you’re not exactly cordial,” Ava whispered once they’d settled in. “What’s with this place anyway? For having a location in one of the hippest parts of town, there sure isn’t much buzz. No cute guys, not even any ugly guys.” She glanced around. “No guys at all.”
“There’s not much of anything going on,” Carmela said. “Apparently Martin Lash’s scathing review really has kept customers away.”
“Like using garlic and holy water to ward off vampires.”
“Too bad, because this restaurant is really quite elegant. I mean, look at this brickwork and stained glass. Allan Hurst must have sunk a fortune into decorating this place.”
“And then Martin Lash came along and stomped on his dream,” Ava said. “After which somebody came along and stomped on Martin Lash.” She paused. “Do you think Hurst could have grabbed a fork from his own kitchen and gouged Lash to death?”
“I don’t know. He certainly could have. Considering the fact that Fat Lorenzo’s is probably doomed, Hurst certainly had sufficient motive.”
Ava’s brow puckered. “But several people had motive.”
“Therein lies the problem.” Carmela opened the menu. “Wine,” she said. “This isn’t the dinner menu, it’s the wine menu.”
A waitress dressed in black slacks, white shirt, and long black apron hurried toward their table.
“Welcome to Fat Lorenzo’s,” the waitress said. “My name is Annie and we’re delighted to have you join us tonight.” Her bright smile made it sound as if she meant every word. Definitely a pleasant change from the dour attitude of the hostess.
Annie placed a single sheet of paper in front of each of them.
“Are these your specials?” Ava asked as she studied the five entrées that were listed.
“This is the menu, ma’am.”
Ava picked up the paper and waved it. “This is it?” She flipped it over and saw that the back side was completely blank.
“We’re still experimenting with our menu, trying to find our niche,” Annie said carefully.
“And your clientele,” Ava said.
Annie’s smile suddenly sagged. “Our owner, Mr. Hurst, thinks nobody comes in because of some bad review he got the first day this place was open.” She lowered her voice. “It’s been like a curse. Something toxic hanging over our heads.”
“Business can’t be that bad,” Carmela said. She really did try to find the good in things.
Annie brightened a little. “But you’re here and it’s still early. Last night our first dinner customers didn’t arrive until nine o’clock.”
“That’s a long time to stand around and do nothing,” Ava said.
“Tell me about it,” Annie said.
Carmela studied her menu. “How’s the food here?”
“Yeah,” Ava said. “We don’t want to get stomach poisoning or worms or anything.”
“Ava!” Carmela said.
“I’m just sayin’.”
“The food is actually very good,” Annie said. “I eat it and I’m fit as a fiddle in a Cajun band.” She whipped out her order pad and pencil. “Order something, see for yourself.”
Ava ordered the salmon fettuccini because she decided the salmon was low-cal. Carmela opted for spaghetti and homemade sausage. Some ten minutes later, their food arrived with a complimentary glass of Chianti.
“I’ve got an in with the bartender,” Annie confided.
“Is there a bartender?” Carmela said. “I figured he was a ghost.”
“Or a skeleton,” Ava said. “Since you seem to be running on a skeleton crew.” Then she got serious. “But really, why the free glass of vino?”
“To hopefully keep you coming back,” Annie said.
* * *
“This food is delicious,” Ava said to Carmela as she ate hungrily. “Why isn’t this place packed to the rafters? Why aren’t there a bunch of selfie-posting, hipster Millennials buzzing around here?”
“Probably on account of that snake Martin Lash,” Carmela said. “I’ll tell you one thing, Fat Lorenzo’s didn’t deserve a review so deadly it would kill business before it even got started. No wonder Allan Hurst despised Martin Lash. No wonder he was so vitriolic at the funeral this morning.”
“So you think Hurst might be the killer?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s a three-way tie between Allan Hurst, Josh Cotton, and Trent Trueblood. Any one of them could have pulled it off.”
Ava held up a finger. “Wait a minute. Trent Trueblood? The lawsuit guy?”
So Carmela told Ava about how she’d visited Trueblood’s sales office and poked around, asking questions about the Parson’s Point Townhomes.
“And you think Trueblood is a viable suspect along with Hurst and Cotton?”
“He could be,” Carmela said. “But the big trouble is, the cops are blind to all these other suspects. Quigg just looks so doggone guilty because of that fight he had with Lash.”
Ava smirked. “I bet Quigg is thrilled to suddenly be your center of attention. You’re running all over town, trying to be cagey and figure things out. Quigg must really love that.”
Carmela gave a reluctant nod. “I guess.”
“Does Babcock have any idea of what you’re up to?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Carmela said. “Babcock’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“I think that’s always the smartest philosophy when it comes to dealing with boyfriends.”
“Especially your boyfriends,” Carmela said. “They especially don’t need to know about the other guys waiting in the wings.”
“I told Roman Numeral that he was my first.” Ava cackled wildly. “I meant that week.”
“Ava!”
* * *
Some twenty minutes later, Annie placed the black leather check case on the table.
“Ladies,” she said, “if you enjoyed your dinner please tell your friends about us.” There was a pleading note in her voice. “Because we sure could use the business.”
Ava, happy from her wine, said, “The food was really good. I bet things will turn around for this place. Just give it a little time.”
But Annie just looked morose. “I don’t know. I have a horrible feeling we might be closed within the week. Maybe nothing can save this place. Why, Mr. Hurst even tried
having a booth at the Winter Market last weekend.”
Carmela was suddenly all ears. “Excuse me. What did you just say?”
Annie frowned. “You mean about his booth at the Winter Market?”
“He was there?” Ava screeched.
Annie nodded sadly. “He went there as a kind of last-ditch effort to drum up business. His booth was serving spaghetti and meatballs for, like, cost. And he was handing out two-for-one coupons. But it still turned out terrible. Most of the people at the Winter Market were only interested in chugalug drinking. And then some poor guy got himself killed! Stabbed to death. Right there in the middle of all the festivities.”
“Amazing,” Ava said, but she was looking directly at Carmela.
“That pretty much ruined it for Mr. Hurst,” Annie said. She blinked back tears and pointed to the check. “Take your time. It’s not like I’m busy or anything.” Then, with a sniffle, she whisked their empty plates away.
“Yowsa, Carmela. Did you hear what she just said?” Ava was wide-eyed with excitement.
“I can’t quite believe it,” Carmela said. “Allan Hurst was actually at the scene of the crime.”
“Maybe it’s no longer a three-way tie,” Ava said. “Maybe now you’ve got yourself a front-runner.”
Chapter 15
CARMELA steamed through the front door of Memory Mine holding a cardboard tray aloft.
Gabby looked up from a page of stickers and said, “Be still my heart. Is that what I think it is?” Her eyes were shining like it was Christmas morning and there were diamond earrings to be found in her stocking.
“A quick stop at Café du Monde could only mean one thing, right?” Carmela produced two cups of coffee and dangled a grease-stained white bakery bag in front of Gabby’s nose.
“Chicory coffee and beignets,” Gabby said with great satisfaction.
“Abso-sugary-lutely.”
Gabby grabbed the bag and tore it open. “Even though I swore off these things, one can’t possibly hurt, can it?”