Crepe Factor (15 page)

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

C
ARMELA
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?”

“The sugar is probably good for you. Revs up your metabolism.”

Gabby's eyes fluttered as she bit into one of the beignets, sending a miniature avalanche of powdered sugar down the front of her navy blue sweater. “So good,” she gasped. Then she noticed the powdered sugar. “Uh-oh.” She brushed at her sweater, then snapped the lid off her coffee and took a sip. “What did I do to deserve such a great boss?”

“Only about a million things,” Carmela told her. “Least of which is the fantastic job you did reorganizing our front window. I mean, who could walk by and
not
be lured in?”

Gabby nodded appreciatively as she chewed. “Before I forget, Baby called bright and early. She's bringing her daughter-in-law along to our handmade book class this afternoon. I told her it would be fine, that we always have room for one more.”

“We do,” Carmela said. “Oh, and one thing we have to remember is to put out those miniature brass keys I picked up at the tag sale in Natchitoches. I'm positive we can do something fabulous with them. Maybe combine them with a few Czech crystal beads.”

“Strung on silk cord or gossamer ribbon,” Gabby said. “To use as book binding.”

Carmela carried her beignet and latte into her office, spread a napkin on the desk, and settled into her chair. She took another bite of beignet and munched thoughtfully. Although she knew she should be focused on work, on going through catalogs and ordering a treasure trove of new crafting supplies, her mind felt nervous and jumbled. Clearly, she was still preoccupied with Martin Lash's murder.

She sat back in her chair and thought about Lash. First Quigg had complained bitterly about Lash's review of Mumbo Gumbo. And then, last night, she'd seen with her
own eyes how deserted and desolate Fat Lorenzo's was. Probably as the result of Lash's brutal review.

Martin Lash. The gift that keeps on giving.

But as the caffeine kicked in and the sugar churned its way into her bloodstream, Carmela was blessed with a brainstorm. She set down her coffee and did a quick search for the Glutton for Punishment website. When it came up almost immediately on her screen, Carmela was impressed by the format. The colorful splash page was a montage of landmark New Orleans restaurant signs skillfully morphed with images of oyster platters, bowls of gumbo, and elegant entrées of trout amandine. And the site was well organized, too. You could click on Type of Food, Neighborhood, Price, and New in Town. Plus there were lots of feature stories and ads for restaurants and bars.

As Carmela clicked around, going from page to page, she saw that Babcock had been right. He'd told her there wasn't a single sentence left on the website that had been written by Martin Lash. And, sure enough, Lash's restaurant reviews and columns seemed to have been completely expunged from the site. It was as if he had never existed.

In Carmela's mind, one of the places Babcock had made a wrong turn was in assuming Quigg was responsible for having all of Lash's columns removed. She knew that Quigg was way too self-absorbed to care about bad reviews on restaurants other than his own.

So . . . if he'd had the poisonous review of Mumbo Gumbo taken down, then who had removed the rest of Lash's reviews and columns? And why?

Carmela scoured the website, but still found no mention of Martin Lash. She couldn't find so much as an obituary or a “farewell to our colleague” notice.

Okay, so where does that leave me?

Maybe the better question was, where did that take her? Looking at the website's contact page, she saw that the Glutton for Punishment office was located on Frenchmen Street. That was just a few blocks away in the neighboring Faubourg Marigny. Carmela decided there was no time like the present for an informative little field trip.

“Gabby, I'm running out for a little bit. Can you hold down the fort?”

“No problem,” Gabby said. She was helping a customer select handmade paper embedded with flower petals. “As long as you're back in time for our bookmaking class.” Then her face clouded and she stepped closer to Carmela and whispered, “Carmela, are you . . . investigating?”

“Um, maybe,” Carmela hedged.

“What do I do if Babcock drops in unannounced?”

“Well, for one thing, don't tell him I'm out there investigating.”

Gabby looked nervous. “You want me to lie to him?”

“Technically, no. I just want you to take evasive action. Besides, Babcock's not going to ask you anything outright. He's too clever for that. He'll just casually fish around a little.”

“Oh dear.”

“Just put your head down and act busy,” Carmela said. “Be busy.”

“Okay, but be you careful, Carmela.”

“No need to worry,” Carmela said, smiling. “I'm just going to take a short walk through the prettiest, most elegant city in the world.”

*   *   *

Carmela strode along the sidewalk, enjoying the thin sunlight that streamed down, feeling the pulse of the French Quarter all around her. Tourists were
shopping and snapping pictures, consulting maps and clamoring over strings of purple and green beads. A large group of folks wandered past her, all wearing bright green
MANNION FAMILY REUNION
T-shirts. They carried cameras and were arguing about where to go for lunch. Johnny's Po-Boys, Felix's, K-Paul's, or Napoleon House. Carmela could have told them that any one of those restaurants was an excellent choice.

It was never too early for music in the Quarter and some of the bars were cranked up, too. Carmela dodged around two women, geaux cups in hand, who were dancing on the sidewalk to hundred-year-old ragtime piano music that poured out of a corner honky-tonk.

When Carmela turned down Royal Street, she laughed out loud as she watched an antique-shop owner struggle to hang a wooden sign above his establishment. The words on the blue and gold sign said
ANTIQUES MADE TO ORDER
.

There's so much history here
, Carmela thought as she strolled past the two-hundred-year-old Gallier House museum and the Old U.S. Mint. Then, skipping across Kerlerec Street, she wandered into what was the Faubourg Marigny. This neighborhood was ever expanding as a fun, funky area adjacent to the French Quarter. She turned onto Frenchmen Street, where the Creole cottages and three-story town houses had nearly all been turned into boutiques, galleries, restaurants, and bars. Word was even spreading that the music on Frenchmen Street was beginning to rival Bourbon Street.

The website's offices were located in a rehabbed yellow brick warehouse known as the Madeleine Building. The Bluebird Boutique was on the first floor and Glutton for Punishment had the second floor. They occupied a wide-open loft-type space complete with ancient hardwood floors and exposed brick walls. Gray contemporary furniture and a few pieces of artwork (mostly bright slashes of color) delineated
the reception area from the actual workspace. People scurried to and fro while a bevy of writers (or maybe ad sales guys?) typed frantically on laptops at sleek gray desks without benefit of cubicle dividers. Everyone looked busy and productive although they could have been surfing the web, posting selfies, or checking out Tinder, for all she knew.

Carmela approached the young man who sat at the reception desk.

“Excuse me, I'd like to have a word with whoever's in charge.”

He barely looked up. “That would be our editor in chief.”

“Fine. Is he available?”

This time the young man did look up. “He's a she. Helen McBride. But Ms. McBride is in a terrible mood right now. Maybe you'd like to come back later?”

“Not really.” Carmela cleared her throat. “Actually, I'm here about Martin Lash.”

That got the man's attention. “I'm sorry, but that job has already been filled.”

Carmela smiled. “I'm not interested in writing restaurant reviews. I want to talk to someone who can give me information about some of Lash's old columns.”

Now he grimaced. “If you're looking for a rave review on one of your favorite restaurants, you're probably out of luck. Mr. Lash didn't do raves. It wasn't his thing.”

“Perhaps I'd better speak with your editor in chief.”

“Okay, but if she rips your head off, don't say I didn't warn you.”

*   *   *

Helen McBride sat in a smoke-filled office amidst a stack of papers, magazines, a set of ten-pound hand weights, an overflowing ashtray, and a tangle of purple elastic
workout bands. Barefoot and dressed in black yoga pants and a black T-shirt, Helen looked like she could bench-press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat or busting a bra strap.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Helen said without looking up. “You've got thirty seconds. What's your problem?”

Carmela had a feeling this woman was one tough cookie. Still, she'd come this far.

“I have a few questions about Martin Lash.”

Helen McBride looked up. “Lash? What do you want to know about him? Besides the fact that I hated the little twerp?”

“Obviously, you weren't the only one,” Carmela said. “Since he went and got himself murdered.” She sat down in a chair across from Helen and smiled sweetly.

“Who are you? What exactly is your interest in this?”

“My name is Carmela Bertrand and I had the misfortune to be there when Lash was murdered. And also when my friend Quigg Brevard was unjustly accused by the police.”

“Quigg, yeah,” Helen said. “I'm well acquainted with that rogue.” She leaned on one elbow and yawned. “I hear the police grilled him pretty hard.”

“I'm curious. If you disliked Martin Lash so much—and it sounds like you did—then why was he working here?”

“Because Lash was force-fed to me when I took this lousy job.” Helen's eyes bored into Carmela. “What is it you want again?”

“Just some basic information about Lash. The kind of stuff you're giving me right now.”

Helen blew out a plume of smoke and chuckled. “So I am.”

“Let me get this straight,” Carmela said. “Lash was on staff here when you took this job . . .”

“Three months ago,” Helen said. “Yeah, the powers that be wanted me to keep him on. Heck, Lash wanted me to keep him on. He loved eating in fancy restaurants for free
and then writing nasty, snide reviews. He used to argue that his reviews were the heart and soul of Glutton for Punishment.” She shook her head. “That was so not true. In fact, he cost us money every time his greasy little fingers hit the keyboard.” Helen set her cigarette in the lip of a black triangle-shaped ashtray that sat at her elbow.

“How is that possible?” Carmela asked.

“If you've ever read his reviews . . . well, of course you have or you wouldn't be here. His reviews were so poisonous, some so close to libelous, that we were turning off our advertisers. You realize, advertisers are our bread and butter. They're how we make money here, not by posting reviews. You understand revenue producing?” Helen blew out another plume of smoke. “Revenue equals money and money is what fuels the engine.”

“Okay, I get that,” Carmela said. “So why didn't you just dump Lash if he was causing you so much trouble? I mean, he was basically a freelancer, right? He was running his little environmental nonprofit group while he was writing reviews on the side. Couldn't you just work with some other restaurant critic who had a gentler touch?”