by Laura Childs
“Roy Sultan,” Babcock said in a thoughtful tone. “He’s kind of a big wheel in real estate.”
“I don’t care if he is. He should be investigated. If Devon was costing him millions in lost revenue, then Sultan had a serious motive.” She paused. “A motive for murder.”
“He’s an older guy,” Babcock said slowly.
“He still could have hired someone. People do it all the time. There’s no shortage of jerks who’ll do any kind of dirty work for money.” Carmela stared at Babcock. “You want this case solved, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. It’s brutal to have an unsolved murder hanging over our heads. Especially during Jazz Fest. Not conducive to tourism.”
“Or for those of us who live here,” Carmela said.
Babcock got to his feet. “Okay. Point taken.”
“So you’ll look into this?”
Babcock bent forward and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “I will.”
Carmela heaved a sigh of relief as she walked him to the door. Babcock had not only taken her seriously, there’d been no mention of the wine bar. Maybe Gabby was right. Everything would all work out.
“You look happy again,” Gabby said, once Babcock had left. “And relieved.”
“You have no idea,” Carmela said. “And you were right about . . .”
The front door whapped open, and Babcock charged back into the shop like a wounded bull. His eyes blazed, his tie was askew, his face was a veritable thundercloud.
“Carmela! I thought we talked about this! I thought we’d finally come to some agreement.” Babcock’s voice got louder with each word he spat out.
“Talked about what?” Although it was probably a lost cause, Carmela tried to project innocence.
“I walk out the door and, right there, staring me in the face, is a huge sign being raised on a pulley. BLUSH AND BRUSH.” Babcock paused for dramatic effect. “And what else do I see? Blatantly printed at eye level?”
“Um.” Carmela’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like an anvil being hammered. She hadn’t seen Babcock this angry in . . . forever.
“I see two names at the bottom of the sign! ‘Quigg Brevard . . . Carmela Bertrand. Proprietors.’”
“I can explain,” Carmela said. Although she had no idea what she was going to say to him. It was difficult to make excuses when you’d been caught red-handed.
Babcock didn’t give her half a chance anyway. “Make this go away and make it go away now,” he said. He let loose an angry huff, spun on his heels, and disappeared out the door.
The silence in his wake was deafening. Good thing there weren’t any customers in the shop. Gabby, a hand clutching her throat, stared at her.
“Carmela? What are you going to do?” Gabby looked like she was about to burst into tears.
“I don’t know,” Carmela said. “But dragging Quigg into a swamp and leaving him for a hungry alligator definitely comes to mind.”
“Carmela—and I ask this with complete love and respect—if you knew this wine bar was going to cause such an enormous rift in your relationship, why did you ever agree to work with Quigg?”
“I don’t know. It just kind of happened.”
Carmela wasn’t sure how she’d been dragged into a semi-partnership with Quigg. Maybe she still had a soft spot for him, maybe she liked the thrill of tackling a new challenge, maybe she just hadn’t kept her eye on the ball. Whatever the reason, she was drowning in problems now.
“I didn’t mean to make everyone so unhappy,” Carmela said. “I know I screwed up and caused Babcock a lot of pain.”
“With the right words, with a heartfelt apology, I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be fixed right now,” Gabby said. “Think of it as a . . . a victimless crime.”
If it were only that simple, Carmela thought.
Chapter 13
CARMELA was making pillow-shaped gift boxes out of red paisley cardstock when she got a call from Helen McBride, the editor in chief of Glutton for Punishment. It was a wildly popular New Orleans webzine filled with restaurant reviews, interviews with local chefs, recipes, wine recommendations, and top-ten lists that included fun things such as Most Romantic Restaurant, Sexiest New Orleans Chefs, and Best New Rosé Wines.
“Congratulations!” Helen cried. “I hear you’re going into partnership with the Dreamboat of the Delta.”
“Excuse me?” Carmela said. Helen was prone to theatrics, but what was this about?
“With Quigg Brevard,” she trilled. “You two are opening a fancy new wine bar together, no?”
“No. We’re . . . wait a minute. Does everybody know about this? Because I haven’t formally agreed to do anything with Quigg.” In fact, I’ll never get to talk to him again if Babcock has his way. But that’s another story.
“Why do I not believe you?” Helen asked. “I mean, a wine bar. How fun is that? I can’t wait to write a glowing review, give the two of you some well-deserved—and free, I might add—publicity.”
“But I wouldn’t actually be running the wine bar,” Carmela explained. “I’d be the one honchoing the painting and crafts.” If I do it at all. And if Babcock ever speaks to me again.
“Don’t sweat the small stuff, sweet cheeks,” Helen advised. “Just have fun with it.”
“Sometimes that’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Remember, you can always tell the pioneers by the arrows in their back,” Helen laughed. Then she turned serious. “It’s definitely no picnic being an entrepreneur these days. Hey, I know how tough it can be . . . finagling loans, writing start-up marketing plans. You get rolling, start feeling a burst of confidence, and boom! You’re back at square one. Why, just this morning I had a couple of guys quit on me.” Helen snorted. “Millennials. Constantly job hopping and searching for a so-called new experience.” She paused, practically out of breath. “But that’s not why I called. To complain, I mean.”
“You wanted to ask about Blush and Brush?” Carmela said.
“Not exactly. I wanted to see if you’d do me a huge favor by judging our Roux the Night Gumbo Cook-Off this Friday.”
“Me?” Carmela was taken aback. “What qualifications would I possibly have?”
“You eat food, don’t you?” Helen asked.
Carmela chuckled. “Sometimes too much.”
“There you go,” Helen said. “Besides, the gumbo cook-off takes place right in your neighborhood at the Marquis Hotel. We’ve got almost two dozen restaurants entered in the competition. Plus, Abita Beer and NOLA Brewing are doing sponsorships. Should be loads of fun.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Gargle a bottle of Pepto-Bismol so you don’t singe your gullet, do a whole lot of gumbo tasting, and then render your fine opinion.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad. But are you sure you want me?”
“What can I say?” Helen said. “You’re in the neighborhood and, for some reason, people seem to like you. I like you.”
“Okay, but . . . I won’t be the only person judging, will I?”
“Naw, I roped a couple of other deadbeats into this as well. Come on,” Helen urged. “It’s one of the premier Jazz Fest events. Pretend to be civic-minded, would you?”
“Okay, then. I guess . . . yes,” Carmela said.
“Attagirl.”
Carmela hung up the phone and turned to Gabby. “Helen at Glutton for Punishment just asked me to help judge a gumbo cook-off Friday night.”
“That sounds like fun. Are you going to do it?”
“I told her yes. Helen’s also under the impression that I’m going into business with Quigg.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Carmela said just as the front door flew open and Quigg popped his head in.
He gave Carmela a sexy wink and rolled a hand in a follow me gestur
e. “C’mon, cupcake. We’re ready to go.”
“Go where?” Carmela asked. Confusion was written all over her face. Was she missing something? Or was Quigg deliberately keeping her unbalanced so he could continue to railroad her?
“Come on over and see the place. The decorating’s pretty much done.”
“It is?” Carmela said. “Already?” If she was going to change Babcock’s mind, she’d have to work fast.
Quigg wiggled his eyebrows. “I also took the liberty of inviting a bunch of people, some of my restaurant regulars, to our new place so we could have a quiet opening tomorrow night. Think of it as a kind of test run.”
“You’re opening the wine bar just like that?”
“We’re opening it. Because it’s all done, babe. Everything’s in place.”
“What about the paint, the pottery, the whatever?” Carmela felt like she was in a fun house with shrieking clowns popping out of hidden spaces, floors shifting like crazy, and everything moving way too fast.
“It’s all been taken care of,” Quigg said. “Paint and canvases are ordered and will be delivered later today, the plates are already here. All you have to do is show up tomorrow night at seven o’clock and lead your class. My people will be there to handle the wine.”
“Wow,” Gabby said. “When you move, you move fast.”
“Don’t be so impressed by him,” Carmela said to Gabby.
Gabby grinned. “But I am. Kind of.”
“See?” Quigg said. “Gabby likes me, why don’t you?” Then, “Come on. I want you to see what we did with the walls.”
* * *
* * *
The walls were fantastic, of course. As was everything else. Quigg had hired Letitia Jeffries, who he always referred to as Decorator to the Stars, to do the place up right. Letitia, much to her credit, had invoked a semi-cool New Orleans palette of pinks, corals, and tropical greens, which gave the little wine bar the flavor of a classic Creole cottage. Green and cream palm leaf–printed fabric was stretched across the back wall. The side walls were the original yellow brick hung with framed wine labels. Sisal carpets covered the floors, and the white marble tables were now surrounded by chairs made of bent willow with pink-bordering-on-apricot seat cushions. Frosted green and white wineglasses were stacked on the wine bar, along with dozens of bottles of wine. A list of wines available by the glass was scrawled artfully in black marker on the smoked mirror that hung over the bar.
“It’s gorgeous,” Carmela cried. She couldn’t help herself; the place looked utterly adorable. “But when did all this happen?”
“It’s been happening right along,” Quigg said. “You just haven’t been paying attention.” He was pleased that Carmela liked the décor. Now if he could just get her to seriously commit. “Tomorrow night’s going to be exciting, yes?”
Carmela turned to face him. Quigg bounced on the balls of his feet, looking practically ecstatic. She hated to disappoint him.
“Tomorrow night’s only going to be a rehearsal, you understand,” Carmela said.
“Absolutely,” Quigg said. “A quick way to test the waters and work out all the bugs.”
Great. He’s talking about water and bugs while I’m worried about my entire future with Babcock.
“And if it works out . . .” Carmela said.
“It will work out.”
“If it works out, you understand I’ll only be available one night a week. I have other, um, concerns. Commitments.”
“I get it, I really do,” Quigg said. He reached over and grabbed the top plate from a stack of plates sitting on the counter. “Unfired bisque,” he said, handing it to her. “Maybe for your very first project tomorrow night you’d like to paint one as a sample?”
* * *
* * *
“How was Blush and Brush?” Gabby asked when Carmela returned to Memory Mine. She was packing up, leaving a little early today. Stuart had asked her to attend a Toyota zone manager’s reception and dinner with him. “Quigg’s got it all glammed up?”
“The place is cute as a bug,” Carmela said. “All pinks and corals and greens. You could move in a truckload of flowers and turn it into a jewel box of a florist shop. Or you could spread jewels on the counter and make it a boutique.”
“So you’re saying it’s adorable. That women will love it.”
“It’s so adorable I can barely resist it,” Carmela sighed.
“And I take it you’ll be leading a painting class tomorrow night?”
Carmela held up the bisque plate Quigg had given her. “The blue plate special, yes.”
“This is going to work out,” Gabby said. “I can feel it in my bones. You just need to do the dance of the seven veils for Babcock and you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time flat.” She picked up her tote bag. “Want me to roll the phones to the answering service? Or are you going to stay for a while?”
“I still have to work on that frame project for Glissande’s, so don’t worry about the phones.”
“Okay,” Gabby said. “But I’m going to lock the door behind me. Don’t go opening up to any strangers.”
You got that right, Carmela thought as she wandered back to the craft table. She was halfway through a decoupage project for Glissande’s Courtyard Restaurant, which was located right across the street from her. Toby Brewer, the manager, had asked her to rework a framed mirror that had been hanging in their entryway. It had a two-inch-wide frame made of brushed copper. And, over the years, it had faded and flaked. Now Toby wanted Carmela to update it with a country French look.
Carmela had pondered that notion for a while, then come up with the idea of taking images and typography from old French cookbooks. So she’d scoured used bookstores for French cookbooks, then gone through them for just the right images. She’d snipped out bits of recipes, as well as images of mustard pots, crockery, soup pots, bunches of onions, leeks, chickens (poulets!), and all manner of crustaceans. After artfully arranging a few images on the frame, she thought they looked perfect. But maybe the theme was a little too earthy for Toby’s refined tastes?
A quick call to the restaurant and she was hurrying across the street, carrying her half-finished frame.
Toby Brewer met her at the hostess stand.
“Come on back to my office,” Toby said. “We’re open but right now it’s mostly just folks in our cocktail lounge. Early happy hour, don’t you know.”
Carmela carried the frame back to Toby’s office and placed it on his desk.
“I like it,” she said. “But you’re the one who has final say.”
Toby crinkled his brow as he studied the frame. He touched an index finger to his upper lip (a good sign?) and finally said, “I like it.”
Carmela let out the breath she’d been holding.
“No,” Toby said. “Actually, I love it.”
“Whew. I thought I was on the right track, but you never know.”
“It’s genius. I mean, it’s country French, we’re country French.”
“So I’ll go ahead and finish it then,” Carmela said. “And brush on a lacquer topcoat to preserve the images. I’m guessing you need this frame sooner than later?”
“How about yesterday?” Toby said, and they both laughed. Then Toby got serious. “I was so sorry to hear about your friend.” He meant Devon Dowling. News of Devon’s untimely death really had swept through the French Quarter like wildfire. “Are the police any closer to catching his killer?”
“I don’t think so,” Carmela said, thinking about her own stalled investigation.
Toby shook his head. “We bought two paintings from Devon, you know. The wine bottle still life that hangs in the bar and the lovely, moody riverscape that hangs in the dining room. That was a terrible, gruesome thing that happened to Devon. Whoever killed him should be caught, hog-tied, and made to pay for their sins.”
/> Carmela couldn’t have agreed more.
Chapter 14
TURTLEDOVE Matchmaking had their offices directly above Hoby’s Bar and Grill, a raucous dive bar with hot pink neon signs that announced GIRLZ! GIRLZ! GIRLZ! Although the last part of the sign had a couple lights knocked out, so it read G LZ!
“I ask you, does this inspire any confidence at all?” Carmela said as she and Ava trucked up the narrow wooden steps. They could still hear the plinkety-plink from the piano and the crack of pool balls being racked below as they walked down the hallway.
“Cher, I’m desperate. I need professional help.”
“You’ve always got me. Maybe I could . . .”
“You mean well, but last time you set me up on a date it was with an actuarial accountant. Borrrring.”
“It’s your nickel,” Carmela said as Ava pushed open a pink door emblazoned with TURTLEDOVE MATCHMAKING spelled out in gold glitter.
Miss Penelope, the owner of Turtledove Matchmaking, was waiting for them in her small one-room office. The walls were decorated with hearts and cupids, a pink beaded curtain hung in the window, and two black leather director’s chairs were covered with white fur throws. The decorating did not inspire confidence.
“You must be Ava,” Miss Penelope said, reaching out to shake Ava’s hand.
Ava nodded. “And I brought along my friend Carmela. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Miss Penelope said, taking a seat behind her desk and indicating for Carmela and Ava to sit in the fuzzy director’s chairs.
“Great place you’ve got here,” Carmela said, looking around. “Casually elegant but without that formal decorator look.”
“Thank you,” Miss Penelope said. “It’s home.”
Miss Penelope herself was a slightly over-the-hill bleached blonde with a tendency to squint. She wore a black leather skirt and a hot pink sweater that buttoned up the front with about a zillion teeny-tiny white pearl buttons. Every time she moved in her chair, to tug down her skirt or shift her weight, another button seemed to pop open. Carmela wondered if Miss Penelope might not moonlight downstairs. Maybe she was one of the GIRLZ.