Crepe Factor (16 page)

Helen sighed and lit a second cigarette. Now she had two cigarettes burning in her ashtray but didn't seem to notice. Or care.

“The thing is, our owners, Corvallis Media, operate a number of foodie websites in different markets and
they
decided to keep Lash on. The powers that be thought he added a certain degree of spice. ‘Cachet,' as they used to call it back in the good old days when we actually had
printed
magazines. Me, I saw what Lash's toxic reviews were doing to us, so I wanted to lop his fool head off.”

Carmela was temped to ask, “Did you?” But decided against it. Getting more information was her primary goal
here. Instead she said, “Do you know if Martin Lash had enemies?”

Helen offered a thin, lizard smile. “That's what the police asked me, too.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That Lash was an insubordinate pig who didn't get along with anyone. And that, yes, pretty much everyone hated him.”

“Especially you?” Carmela asked

Helen exhaled a huge glut of smoke. “Honey, I detested the guy. I can count a dozen times that Martin Lash put my head on the chopping block and almost cost me my job.” She venomously stubbed out a cigarette, spilling ashes all over the papers on her desk, then looked up at Carmela with a sly smile. “So you're investigating, huh? You like to nose around and ask questions.”

“I told you, I'm helping Quigg.”

“Yeah, well, it's too bad Lash got skewered the way he did—it must have been a hard way to go. But I'm not one bit sorry he's gone.”

“And his columns?” Carmela asked. “What happened to them?”

Helen lit another cigarette. “I took great joy in personally deleting every single one of them from our server.” She grinned and her smile took on a dark, malevolent look. “Now it's as if Martin Lash never existed!”

Chapter 16

C
ARMELA
arrived back at Memory Mine in plenty of time for their handmade book class. As usual, Gabby had arranged a fabulous array of craft materials on the back table.

“I put out an assortment of cardstock and decorative papers,” Gabby said. “Along with some of the twines and ribbons that work best for lacing pages together.”

She'd also put out scissors, tape, glue guns, and an assortment of paints, rubber stamps, and charms.

“How did your investigation go?” Gabby asked, trying to look offhanded, but clearly dying of curiosity.

“I had an impromptu meeting with Helen McBride, the editor in chief at Glutton for Punishment,” Carmela said.

“The website Martin Lash wrote for.” Gabby noodled
this information around for a few moments. “Okay. So what did you find out? Anything?”

“Basically, that everyone pretty much despised Martin Lash. Especially his editor.”

“But you don't think she killed him.” It was said as a statement.

“I don't know that at all,” Carmela said. “Helen McBride spewed out a ton of vitriol about Lash. I mean, she really hated the man. Plus, she looks strong and athletic enough to have shish-kebabed Lash with one hand tied behind her back.”

“You see what I was talking about before?” Gabby asked. “This is veering into crazy-weird territory. I think you'd be better off sharing this kind of information with Babcock. Let him either discount her opinion as the snarkiness of a disgruntled boss, or follow up with hard questions if he deems this Helen person a legitimate suspect.”

“You want me to
share
my information?” Carmela's brows rose in twin arcs. “With a man who's tried to remain totally mum with me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I'll think about your suggestion, okay?”

But this time Gabby was standing her ground. “Think hard, Carmela. For everyone's sake.”

*   *   *

Baby Fontaine sailed into Memory Mine looking like she'd just stepped out of the pages of
Town & Country
magazine. Black-and-white tweed jacket, trim black slacks, supple black ankle boots. Her daughter-in-law, Priscilla, wearing a navy jacket, was almost Baby in miniature.

“Carmela!” Baby cried. “Gabby!” She rushed up to both ladies and distributed copious air kisses as if she hadn't seen
them in weeks. “You remember Priscilla, don't you? Percy, we call her for short.”

“Of course,” Carmela said warmly, while Gabby just beamed.

Baby glanced around the shop. “Where's Tandy? She was supposed to be here, too. Especially after she made such a big stink about
me
being late.”

The front door whapped open and they all four turned to look, but it was three more women rushing in for the class.

“Maybe she got held up?” Gabby said.

Five minutes later, with still no Tandy in sight, Carmela started the class.

*   *   *

“Handmade books,” Carmela said, standing at the head of the craft table, “are one of the hottest crafts today. Think about it—who wouldn't love to have their very own one-of-a-kind journal, photo book, or notebook? And when you give one as a gift to someone, it tells them they're special. That you took time out of your busy day to create a gorgeous, personal gift.”

Carmela reached for a small book that sat in front of her and held it up.

“This is just one example of a handmade book. The cover is cardstock, the inside pages are a crinkle paper that we carry right here in our shop, and the binding is hand sewn—really just eight running stitches—using white silk cord.”

“It's so gorgeous,” one of the women exclaimed. “Look at the cover, all that gold and glam. How on earth did you do that?”

“I began making the cover by gluing some marbleized paper onto a piece of cardstock,” Carmela explained. “Then I dabbed a little gold paint over the marbleized paper and,
using bronze ink, stamped on an image of a Renaissance lady.” She held up the actual rubber stamp. “From there I glued on some silk flower petals, a tiny gold bee charm, and a strip of gold gossamer ribbon. The inside pages are crinkle paper, about ten sheets. To finish everything off I made punches on the left side of the paper and cover, and bound it all together with the silk cord.”

“It's absolutely gorgeous,” Percy said.

“The thing about a craft project—any craft project—is that the more layers you build up the better it becomes,” Carmela explained. “You start with a nice paper, add a few more paper bits or photos, sponge on some paint, and add a few stamped images or text. It's like making a good gumbo, the richer the ingredients the better the flavor.”

“And you also threaded on a little gold tassel,” Baby said.

Carmela smiled down at her book. “Yes, I did. But I'm quite positive all of you will come up with designs that are even better than this one.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” one of the women said.

“Just think about what kind of book you'd like to create,” Carmela said.

The woman squinted. “Maybe a book I could write poetry in?”

“Perfect,” Carmela said. She grabbed a sheet of pink vellum. “What if you used this as your album cover, then added some nature or floral images? You could enhance those with a rubber stamp of a sun image and maybe even add a dragonfly charm.”

“I'm loving this,” the woman said. She shrugged out of her jacket and rubbed her hands together. “Time to get started.”

Everyone seemed to have an idea then and wandered through the scrapbook shop picking out various papers, ribbons, rubber stamps, and even small bags of ephemera.
When her crafters had finally settled down to some serious work, Carmela slipped into her office.

She had to make a call she really didn't want to make. A call to Babcock telling him about Allan Hurst of Fat Lorenzo's fame and how Hurst had actually been a vendor at the Winter Market a few nights ago. She figured it was hard evidence that could point his investigation in a totally different direction.

Carmela stared at the phone for a few moments, let out a long, slow sigh, and hit the speed dial for Babcock's number. She half hoped she'd get his voice mail, but no such luck. He picked up on the second ring, sounding very distracted.

“Carmela?”

“If this is a bad time . . .” Carmela was hoping for a way out.

“No, no, it's okay. If I sound abrupt it's because I'm up to my eyeballs in work. My caseload right now is a nightmare.” He paused. “What can I do for you?”

“I've got some information I need to pass along to you.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“Here's the thing,” Carmela said. “I found out that Martin Lash wrote a scathing review of Fat Lorenzo's, this restaurant over on Magazine Street.”

“Yes?” Babcock's voice was just this side of chilly.

“And then I found out that Allan Hurst, the owner of Fat Lorenzo's, was pretty much gobsmacked by Martin Lash's review. I mean, people have been staying away from his restaurant in droves. His business is in a shambles.”

“Uh-huh.” Now Babcock's voice had dropped below the freezing point.

Carmela gritted her teeth and pressed forward. “And then I found out that Allan Hurst had a food booth at the Winter Market. He was
right there
, for gosh sakes, the night Lash was murdered. So you see . . .” Her voice trailed away.

A long silence spun out. Then Babcock finally said, “You've been investigating. When I specifically asked you not to.”

Carmela tried her best to whitewash her information, to cover her trail. “I heard about the bad review in passing. And then Ava and I just happened to have dinner at Fat Lorenzo's last night. There was a talky waitress and . . . well, big deal. There's no law against what I did.”

“Au contraire, Carmela. You've been doing more than just twirling forkfuls of fusilli pasta and munching focaccia bread. You've been meddling and poking your nose in where you shouldn't.”

“Okay, yes, I'm guilty of asking a few questions. Maybe more than just a few, because you know I'm a naturally curious person. But please tell me if you knew that Allan Hurst had a food booth at the Winter Market?”

“Of course I knew that. I
am
a homicide detective and investigating is my job. The first thing we did was take a look at the roster of food vendors.”

“Because of the nature of the murder weapon?”

Babcock was losing patience. “Obviously the fork was one of the key factors, yes. As you know, we also discovered rather quickly that Martin Lash wrote restaurant reviews as a sideline. Again, we are the NOPD.”

Carmela was well acquainted with that tone of voice. Babcock was reminding her, yet again, that she'd crossed the line.

“Now that we're actually sharing information,” Carmela said. “Please tell me you checked to see exactly what type of meat forks are used in Allan Hurst's kitchen.”

“We did check. And you know who else we looked at? Your slippery-when-dry friend Quigg Brevard. As it turns out, Mumbo Gumbo's kitchen staff use the exact same kind of meat fork that our killer planted in Martin Lash's throat.”

Carmela was quick to defend Quigg. “Same type of fork?
That's all you have? Babcock, quit fooling around. You know Quigg didn't kill Lash. You're just making him your personal patsy. When you get tired of jerking him around you'll just kick him to the curb. Besides, there must be hundreds of those forks around. New Orleans is a restaurant town. Where there are restaurants, there are meat forks.”

Babcock let out a half chuckle. “You sound so earnest. Like you're really into this.”

“Because I am.”

“Don't be. I'm handling things, okay?”

Carmela sighed. “Okay.” She wasn't about to capitulate but she did know when to back off. “So . . . is the mayor still on your back?”

“Lord, Carmela, everybody from the dog catcher on up is on my back. Everyone wants this crime solved posthaste. They're still worried it's going to impact tourism.”

“Do you have any room in your schedule for dinner tonight? My place, my treat?”

“Listen, sweetheart, you're the reason I have to work such long hours. The quicker I close this case, the sooner I can stop worrying about you throwing yourself in harm's way, trying to make an end run and catch this killer.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Carmela asked.

“We'll see.”

Carmela had barely hung up the phone before it rang again. She snatched it back up and said, “Did you change your mind?”

“I hope you haven't,” Ava drawled. “Because it's party time tonight, baby girl.”

“What? What's going on tonight?”
Certainly not a hot date with Babcock—sob.

“It's the Holiday Art and Wine Stroll. The entire French Quarter will be jumping with Christmas cheer.
Cher
, please
don't tell me you forgot. The galleries are all having open houses and you know what that means. They'll be trying to liquor people up in hopes of selling them overpriced art and photography.”

“Oh jeez.”

“Don't back out now. You promised to go with me.”

“Ava . . . we've been going out a lot lately. I'd seriously rather stay home tonight and kick back with a book.”

“You can sit and veg when you're ancient. Which we are a long ways from. So tonight we party. Besides, have you forgotten that Harrison will have some of his photos on display?”

Carmela gave it one more try. “Do I have to go?”

“The short answer is yes. The long answer is, when you were married to Shamus you endlessly dragged me to see his out-of-focus photos of egrets and herons. Now you are indebted to me. You have to come ooh and aah over Harrison's out-of-focus shots of turtles and alligators.”

“Quid pro quo, huh?”

“You got it, babe. See ya tonight.”