by Laura Childs
A second waiter approached them. “Care for an appetizer?” he asked.
Babcock peered at the silver tray the waiter was carrying. “What have you got there?”
“Toast points with caviar,” the waiter said.
Carmela accepted a toast point and popped it in her mouth. Tiny black eggs burst as she bit down, releasing their subtle fishy delicacy. “This is delicious,” she exclaimed. “Heavenly.” Then she noticed that Babcock had passed on the caviar as well. Hmm, he was definitely going to require some loving attention to get into the party spirit.
Carmela snuggled closer to him. “Looking forward to the Reveillon dinner?” she asked. “Isn’t this just a lovely place for it?”
Babcock laughed. “You say that every time we attend a fancy event. Whether it’s at the museum or the arboretum or an upscale hotel. And I do notice, because if it wasn’t for you, these are the exact kind of events I’d try to avoid.”
Carmela stepped back from him. “Are you going to be a crab cake all night long?”
He smiled. “If I am, then can we go home?”
“Not on your life, bucko.”
Carmela sipped her champagne and gazed out over the crowd. Something was going to have to change or they’d both have a miserable evening. But what could . . . ? She suddenly smiled. Ava and Roman Numeral were plowing their way through the crowd, headed straight for them.
“Ava!” Carmela called out. Ava was the perfect disrupter. Surely she could help jolly Babcock into a better mood, right?
Ava sashayed toward them like an undulating snake. Her hips rolled, her shoulders swayed, her black floor-length dress with its deep slash in front accentuated every luscious curve. She was trailed by a tall, fairly good-looking man with a neatly trimmed mustache and slightly receding hairline.
“You remember my dear sweet Harrison, don’t you?” Ava trilled. “My amour du jour.”
“Of course,” Carmela said, giving Harrison her most airy of air kisses.
“Nice to see you.” Babcock nodded.
“Look at this,” Ava burbled. “The décor, the lights, the beautiful people. Très élégant.”
“Two years at the Sorbonne and you’ve really got your French language skills down pat,” Carmela joked. She noticed that Babcock had stepped away from their group and was fiddling with his phone. A text message? An e-mail? What was his problem, for cripes’ sake?
Ava caught Carmela’s eye and smiled. She’d noted how distracted Babcock was acting and was going to try engaging him. “Oh, Detective,” she said in a teasing singsong voice. “This is supposed to be a party. Our happy time together. Why not stash your phone and give it a rest?”
Babcock smiled as he continued to focus on his phone.
“You know what?” Ava said. “I’ll bet you didn’t realize that Harrison was actually acquainted with last night’s murder victim.”
That little conversational gambit finally served to capture Babcock’s attention. He looked up, mildly interested. “What?” he said. “How?”
Ava poked Harrison with an elbow. “Tell him, sweetie.”
All eyes were focused on Harrison now.
“Perhaps the term acquainted might be a bit of an overstatement,” he stammered. “I didn’t really know the man personally.”
“You can explain it better than that,” Ava urged.
Harrison ran nervous fingers through his slicked-back, thinning hair. “The thing is, Martin Lash actually accosted me at one time.”
“When was this?” Babcock asked.
“Where?” Carmela asked.
“I was down in the Baritaria bayou a few months ago,” Harrison said. “Taking photos. So there I was in an absolutely gorgeous part of the bayou that I’d just discovered was a prime nesting spot for egrets and herons.”
Carmela glanced sideways at Babcock, who was focused on Harrison but getting edgy just the same. She could practically hear him mentally willing Harrison to get to the point.
Harrison continued. “I’m just setting my f-stop when out of nowhere this crazy man comes rushing at me. He’s dressed in khakis and one of those Smokey Bear hats, like some kind of game warden, and starts screaming at me, telling me I have no right to disturb the birds. He said he knew that I’d already been banned from the Jean Lafitte Preserve—which wasn’t true at all—and told me I wasn’t welcome anywhere in bayou country.”
Babcock frowned. “How did you know this was Martin Lash?”
“That was easy. He knocked over my tripod—it was a Sachtler 0375, really high-end—and threw a pamphlet at me. I was so shocked I picked it up and saw it was from the Environmental Justice League. Then I said, ‘And who are you, the Green Lantern?’ That’s when he cursed at me and told me his name was Martin Lash and that if I knew better I’d stay out of the bayou.”
“What did you do then?” Carmela asked.
Harrison shrugged. “What could I do? I packed up my equipment and left. I didn’t fancy the notion of being alone in a bayou with a thousand birds and one deranged environmentalist.”
“Quite a story, huh?” Ava said.
“Lash sounds like a person who excelled at making enemies,” Carmela said.
“Enemies,” Ava repeated. “A lot of enemies.”
Babcock just looked thoughtful. Finally he glanced at Carmela and said, “Isn’t that what your ex did for a while? Nature photography?”
“For a while,” Carmela said. “Until Shamus decided that chasing young women and drinking old bourbon was a lot more fun.”
“I suspect it probably is,” Harrison said. He eased into a long, rolling chuckle until Ava poked him hard with an elbow and silenced him with a sharp look.
“Well,” Babcock said, “we knew that Martin Lash was some kind of fanatical fruitcake. Extremely proprietary when it came to bayous and wetlands. Even though so much of it is public land.”
“So you’re saying he was a protector of sorts?” Carmela said.
“Even though nobody protected him,” Ava said. “I mean, with a personality like an angry hornet, who would want to?”
“You’re wrong about that,” Babcock said. “Because I’m the one who’s tasked with protecting his interests now. Even if it is after the fact.”
Harrison looked interested. “So how are you doing? Has anything shaken loose in the investigation yet? Do you have any solid leads or a suspect pool?”
Carmela knew full well that Babcock never liked to talk about his cases, but she had her own selfish reasons for being interested. “Yes, please tell us.”
Babcock raised his hands in protest. “No, no, I don’t dare reveal a single detail. I can’t compromise the investigation.”
“Come on, Babcock,” Ava said. She put her thumb and forefinger together. “Just one teensy-weensy little hint? Please?”
Carmela took a step closer. Would Babcock let something slip? Anything at all?
“Tinfoil,” Babcock said. “We found a small snippet of tinfoil in Lash’s pocket.”
Ava looked disappointed. “That’s it? That’s the clue?”
“That’s it,” Babcock said as his phone jingled. He pulled it out of his pocket, frowned again, and said, “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
“Well, he’s in a mood,” Ava said to Carmela.
“He’s been that way all day.”
“Pressure from the job,” Harrison said as another waiter passed by offering Gulf shrimp kabobs and pâté on crackers.
Carmela grabbed a shrimp canapé while Harrison opted for the pâté.
“Ava, my little flower,” Harrison said when he noticed Ava hadn’t helped herself to any food. “How come you’re not eating?”
Ava grimaced. “If I take so much as a mouse nibble I’m liable to split my dress seams wide open. I don’t know how I’m going to make it past the soup course tonight.
”
“Very carefully,” Carmela said.
Harrison took Ava’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Ah, but your figure is such a delight to the eye, my dear.”
Carmela glanced around so she wouldn’t break out in hysterical laughter. “Have you seen Gabby and Stuart yet?” she asked.
“Ran into ’em in the lobby,” Ava said. She was still gazing starry-eyed at Harrison, who was suddenly waving like mad at another couple. Then she turned to look, to see what all the fuss was about. “Harrison, who are those people?”
“The Jewels,” Harrison said as a well-dressed couple suddenly swooped in.
“Harrison, it’s been ages. Lovely to see you.” An older man with gray caterpillar eyebrows and hooded brown eyes extended his right hand to Harrison while he beamed happily at the entire group. Then he turned to his wife, a pinched-faced, ultrathin woman with a white pixie haircut. “Didn’t I say, not more than ten minutes ago, that we’d probably run into some old friends?”
The woman fingered a thick gold choker at the base of her skinny throat. “You most certainly did.”
Harrison took over the introductions. “Carmela Bertrand and Ava Gruiex, may I present Harvey and Jenny Jewel, proprietors extraordinaire of the Jewel Caviar Company.”
Ava was suitably impressed. “Ooh, I just adore fish eggs.”
“You’re from right here?” Carmela asked. “New Orleans?”
“That’s right,” Jenny Jewel said.
“I’m guessing you’re a relatively new company,” Carmela said. She’d never heard of them before.
Harvey smiled. “Did you enjoy the caviar you had on toast points earlier?”
“It was delicious,” Carmela said.
“That was our caviar,” Harvey said proudly.
“Well, this is fascinating,” Carmela said. “I thought the caviar industry had been completely decimated. That all the beluga sturgeon in the Black and Caspian seas had been fished to extinction.”
“They pretty much have,” Harvey Jewel explained. “But that disaster was a long time coming, so some very clever people involved in aquaculture took matters into their own hands. Beluga sturgeons have been crossed with different types of sturgeon, such as shortnose and Atlantic sturgeon, to create hybrid fish that produce fabulous eggs. Now caviar is being farmed in a dozen different countries around the globe.”
“That’s amazing,” Carmela said. “And where do you source your product from?”
“We buy bulk sturgeon caviar from a farm in Finland,” Harvey Jewel said. “We ship the caviar here in refrigerated containers and package it ourselves in a repurposed shrimp factory that went bust after the BP oil spill.”
“You probably use those teeny-tiny little jars,” Ava said.
Harvey Jewel smiled. “Well, an ounce of caviar is still rather expensive.”
“But there’s a good-sized market for caviar?” Carmela asked.
Both Jenny and Harvey Jewel beamed.
“You have no idea,” Harvey said, just as a bell tinkled to call everyone to dinner.
* * *
Babcock finally joined their group just as they were all sitting down at their table. Carmela was none too pleased with his behavior, but decided to give him a pass. His mind was occupied, after all.
“Look,” Carmela said, reaching through a forest of wineglasses to pick up a small menu printed on elegant parchment paper. “They’re serving duck gumbo as the first course. One of your favorites.”
Babcock gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Excuse me?” Carmela said. She’d just about had her fill of Babcock’s bad behavior.
“That call I just took?” Babcock said. “It was about your buddy.”
“What are you talking about?”
Babcock lowered his voice. “Quigg Brevard somehow managed to have all of Martin Lash’s reviews on the Glutton for Punishment website taken down.”
Carmela was surprised. “He did? Really? Just like that?”
“Apparently he snapped his fingers and—poof!—the reviews simply disappeared.” He took a sip of wine while he held her with his eyes. “You don’t know anything about that, do you?”
The implication irritated Carmela. “No, of course not. And I can’t imagine how Quigg managed to pull Lash’s reviews down so quickly. Or figure out whose arm to twist.”
“The guy’s obviously got friends,” Babcock said. “Business compadres who are willing to stick their necks out for him.”
“Chill out, will you?” Carmela hissed. She was still miffed that Babcock continued to see Quigg as a suspect. The only suspect.
The rest of the dinner felt like a blur to Carmela. The food was fantastic, of course. A spicy duck gumbo; a colorful Noel salad topped with strawberries, cranberries, and walnuts; and an entrée of blackened redfish with pommes Anna. Desert was a delicious zuppa inglese, a creamy mélange of custard and sponge cake.
Carmela laughed, chatted, and made jokes as if nothing was amiss, but she was keenly focused on Babcock giving her what felt like a very cold shoulder. When dinner was finally over and couples began wandering into the bars and lounges for a nightcap, Babcock bolted a cup of black coffee and turned to her.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to leave,” Babcock said. “Would you like me to take you home or can you catch a ride with your friends?”
Carmela gave him the chilliest stare her blue eyes could muster. “A lady always leaves with the gentleman who brought her.”
Babcock stood up. “Then we’d better get going.”
The ride home wasn’t much better. Babcock made only noncommittal grunts to her idle, nervous chatter.
“Are you even listening to me?” Carmela asked.
“Of course I am.”
“What did I just say?”
“Um, something about a concert?”
“Nice try.”
“Carmela, I’m sorry. But I’m preoccupied. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes, I can see that. In fact, everyone at the Reveillon dinner could see that.”
He pulled his car to the curb and stopped. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
She leaned across the front seat, gave him a perfunctory kiss, and reached for the door handle. “Edgar, it really was.” And then she was out of the car and running through the porte cochere, headed for her apartment. Her heels clicked like castanets against the flagstones, her opera cape billowed out behind her.
What a disaster, Carmela thought. What a waste of an evening. Better to have stayed in and snarfed an entire bag of Chips Ahoy! than to . . .
A long shadow moved across the courtyard in front of her.
Carmela stopped in her tracks, eyes gone wide, heart suddenly fluttering in her chest like a wounded dove. Someone’s here? Waiting for me?
Banana palms waved in the chilly breeze, the water in the fountain splattered as it dripped from one level to the next. All familiar sounds that suddenly felt lonely and threatening.
Mustering her courage, Carmela called out, “Is someone here?” She was holding her breath, mentally girding herself for Martin Lash to stagger out and grab her like a returning corpse from The Walking Dead.
Instead, Quigg Brevard stepped out from the shadows.
“Holy crap!” Carmela cried. She lowered her beaded clutch from where it had been raised to use as a semi-deadly weapon. “You scared me to death.”
Quigg held up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, you did.” Carmela felt angry and cross and didn’t care if he knew it. “What are you doing here, anyway? Besides lurking in the shadows?”
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you. I was hoping the boyfriend didn’t come in for a nightcap.”
She shook her head. “Little chance of that. Babcock’s been totally pr
eoccupied all night long. Trying to puzzle out Martin Lash’s murder and, I suppose, clear your name.”
“Somehow, I doubt that clearing my good name is his main mission in life,” Quigg said. “I happen to know I’m still very high on his suspect list. Probably up there in the top two or three.”
“And you’re doing nothing to help yourself,” Carmela said. “Babcock found out that you had Lash’s Glutton for Punishment reviews taken down. He views it as questionable, suspicious behavior.”
“Wrong,” Quigg said. “It’s simply smart business. I’ve got to distance myself from that idiot Lash as much as possible. His ravingly bad reviews could’ve killed me, especially where my new wines are concerned. I’m counting on this year’s holiday sales to really cement my name in the wine industry.”
“How can you think about business when you’re suspected of murder?”
Quigg gave her one of his devastating smiles. “It’s easy. I compartmentalize.”
Somehow, the notion was appealing to Carmela. “I wish I could learn how to do that.”
Quigg moved a step closer to her. “It just takes a little practice. Besides, I didn’t kill Martin Lash. I’m innocent. And, my dear Carmela, you know that to be a fact.”
Before Carmela could say a single word, before she even knew what was happening, Quigg leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. She tilted her head back, about to lodge a formal protest. That’s when his lips touched hers and, even though she knew it was the worst thing she could possibly do, she melted into his arms and kissed him back.
Oh no! Oh no! her mind screamed even as she wondered what had come over her and realized that she was quivering all the way down to her toes.
“You’re an angel,” Quigg whispered, his breath hot and urgent and tickling as his lips moved down to brush gently against her neck. Then he released his grip and slipped away into the darkness.
Like Lot’s wife turned to salt, Carmela stood there staring into the darkness. No, she thought, still feeling the thrill of his lips pressed hard against hers. I’m not an angel. And I definitely am in big trouble.
