Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

  Mrs. Lash seemed relieved. “Do you ladies write for that food website? Or do you work at the Environmental Justice League?”

  “Neither,” Carmela said. “We were just acquaintances.”

  “And not even very good acquaintances,” Ava added.

  His mother offered a sad smile. “I can’t thank you enough for coming.”

  “No problem,” Ava said. She was itching to blow this pop stand.

  “I hope you’ll be able to attend Martin’s memorial service this Tuesday,” Mrs. Lash said.

  “Uh . . . we hadn’t heard about that,” Carmela lied.

  “It will be held at St. Roch Chapel,” Mrs. Lash said. “One of Martin’s very favorite places.”

  “Really?” Carmela said. St. Roch Chapel was a depressing little Gothic chapel with pairs of crutches hanging on the wall.

  “Please try to make it,” Mrs. Lash urged.

  “Sure,” Ava said, backing away. “We’ll give it a shot.”

  * * *

  “Sheesh,” Ava said. “I felt like some kind of phony baloney, implying that we actually knew her son.”

  “I’d say you made it fairly clear that you didn’t,” Carmela said.

  “I tried not to offend her. Because I . . .” Ava’s eyes lit up. “Hold everything, cher, are they serving drinks over there?” Ava was this close to turning into a heat-seeking missile.

  Carmela glanced across the room where a buffet table had been set up. Wine bottles glistened and there were large trays of food. “I guess. It looks like they’re serving wine and appetizers.”

  Ava shook her hair back off her shoulders. “Now that is classy. I mean, who serves wine and cheese at a viewing?”

  “A funeral parlor?” Carmela said. “Probably because they’ve got adequate refrigeration?”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that and have myself a nice refreshing beverage,” Ava said. She plowed through the crowd like a three-masted schooner cutting through the waves. “Now this is lovely,” she said, grabbing a wineglass and batting her eyes at a man who had just picked up a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. “And so unexpected.”

  “May I pour you a glass of wine?” the man asked. He was dressed in a brown corduroy jacket and tan slacks and had longish brown-blond hair. A look Ava probably would have deemed “crunchy granola.”

  “Why, yes, you certainly may.” Ava watched as he filled her glass, then extended her hand. “I’m Ava. And you are . . . ?”

  “Josh Cotton,” said the man.

  “How do you know Martin Lash?” Carmela asked, edging in between the two of them. This was what she really wanted. A chance to question some of the mourners.

  Cotton fixed her with a toothy smile. “I guess you could call me second-in-command at the Environmental Justice League. I’m the associate director.”

  “How lovely,” Ava said.

  “Except,” Carmela said, “you’re probably first in command now. There seems to be a wide-open vacancy at the top.”

  “You’re right about that,” Cotton said. “But I could never hope to fill Martin’s shoes. He was absolutely passionate about preserving Louisiana’s natural wonders and the creatures that live there.”

  “Like the alligators and cottonmouths,” Ava said.

  “You say he was passionate,” Carmela said. “Some would say rabid.”

  Cotton laughed nervously. “I suppose he could have been characterized that way. And the truth of the matter is, I did struggle with Lash over policy.”

  “In what way?” Carmela asked.

  “Well . . . I firmly believed that Lash’s methods of harassment and confrontation concerning environmental issues were severely outmoded. A better way, a smarter way, to bring about change these days is through dialogue and compromise.”

  “And you’re just the man to do that?” Carmela asked.

  Cotton took a sip of wine. “I might be.”

  “I like a take-charge man,” Ava said.

  Cotton smiled at Ava. “Will you be attending the memorial service on Tuesday?”

  Ava gave him a wink. “Could be. You never know.”

  “It’s nice that Martin’s mother chose to have the service here instead of in his hometown,” Cotton said.

  “Why is that?” Carmela asked. “Better yet, where is that?”

  “Martin kept a small apartment here in New Orleans, but he really preferred living down in Triumph.”

  “That’s pretty far south of here,” Carmela said.

  “Yes,” Cotton said. “Martin really thrived when he was close to the natural world that he loved so much.”

  “I can just imagine,” Ava said.

  Cotton beamed at Ava. “Ava, I was wondering if you’d like to . . .”

  “I’m sorry, but we were just leaving,” Carmela said. She grabbed Ava’s arm and pulled her away.

  “What are you doing?” Ava hissed. But she went along anyway.

  “Ava, that man could be a suspect in Lash’s death.”

  “Huh?”

  “What if he wanted to get rid of Lash so he could move into the top slot?”

  “Doggone, I never thought of that.”

  “He also struck me as being a little weird,” Carmela said.

  Ava tapped her own teeth. “You mean because of his teeth? They are kind of big.”

  “No, it’s the fact that he seems somewhat unconcerned about Lash’s death and is already planning on how he’ll handle the organization.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Which is why we should probably take off.”

  Except the surprises just kept coming. Carmela and Ava were just about to exit Slumber Room C when they ran smack-dab into Carmela’s ex-husband, Shamus Allan Meechum.

  “Shamus!” Carmela whooped.

  Shamus peered at her. “Carmela?” He didn’t look thrilled to see her.

  They stared at each other like a couple of frill-necked lizards, ready to do battle, until Ava intervened.

  “Aren’t you the surprise guest,” Ava drawled.

  “You, too, Miss Sassy Pants,” Shamus said. At which point Ava broke into a fit of giggles.

  That seemed to break the ice. Or at least the staring contest. Shamus smiled his devil-may-care grin and his handsome, boyish face lit up.

  “Nice to see you gals,” he said.

  “Women,” Carmela corrected. “Not gals.”

  “Whatever,” Shamus said.

  “We certainly didn’t expect to see you here,” Carmela said. She was curious. Why exactly was Shamus here, anyway?

  “Oh well . . .” Shamus waved a hand dismissively. “The Crescent City Bank Foundation just awarded the Environmental Justice League a grant of fifty thousand dollars.”

  “What for?” Carmela asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess to help police the environment.”

  “You’re handing out cash money?” Ava asked.

  “Grants,” Shamus corrected. “You realize that Crescent City Bank isn’t just a commercial bank—we have a heart, too. We’re mindful of the community.”

  “Sure you are,” Carmela said. She figured his bank would slice out someone’s kidney if there was a buck to be made.

  “Which is why we gave out this particular grant,” Shamus continued.

  Ava twisted around and pointed toward the casket. “But you do realize that Martin Lash is dead.”

  “Yes, but his organization isn’t,” Shamus said. “We have every confidence that Josh Cotton will keep it going. Perhaps even more successfully than Lash did.” He focused his gaze on Carmela. “But I’m curious, Carmela. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Ava said.

  “I’m listening,” Shamus said.

  Carmela decided to give it to him straight. �
�We witnessed Martin Lash’s murder the other night.”

  “What!” Shamus screeched.

  “When he got forked,” Ava said, helpfully.

  “And that’s why you’re here? Because you saw the guy die?” Shamus asked. “If you ask me, that’s macabre. It’s sort of like ambulance chasing.”

  “Tell him the whole story,” Ava said.

  So Carmela told Shamus about the argument between Lash and Quigg Brevard and how Quigg was worried that the blame was going to be heaped on his shoulders.

  “So she’s investigating,” Ava said.

  “No, I’m not,” Carmela said.

  But Shamus wasn’t buying it. He knew her too well. “What does your boyfriend have to say about your going to bat for Brevard?” he asked in a snarky voice.

  Carmela ducked her head. “He doesn’t know about it.” She poked him hard in the chest. “And don’t you go and tell him.”

  “Huh, and you once called me a coward.”

  “That’s because you are, Shamus. You boogied out of our marriage without giving me any notice. Seriously, the post office got more notice than I did.”

  “You’re something else, Carmela. Still a real pistol. Still filled with spunk.”

  Carmela crossed her arms. “I do what I want these days.”

  Shamus gave her a commiserating look. “I don’t think you need to worry much about Quigg Brevard. That guy’s a wussy. He couldn’t murder anyone if his life depended on it.” His face took on a gleeful look. “But you know who really hated . . .”

  Shamus’s mouth abruptly snapped shut and his eyes went buggy. He realized that he’d probably said too much already.

  Carmela pounced on him like a rabid Socialist going after a member of the Tea Party. “Excuse me, who are you talking about? Where were you going with this?”

  Shamus did everything but dig his big toe into the carpet. “Aw, I really shouldn’t say any more.”

  “You really should,” Carmela said. “In fact, now you have to.”

  “The cat’s half out of the bag already,” Ava said. “So you may as well let ’er rip.”

  “All right,” Shamus said. “But you didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Our lips are sealed,” Ava said. “Lip glossed, too.”

  “Do you know who Allan Hurst is?” Shamus asked.

  “Nooo,” Carmela said. “Should I?”

  “Is he a society guy?” Ava asked. “Does he drive a Bentley?”

  “He probably drives an old beater,” Shamus said. “No, Allan Hurst is the owner of Fat Lorenzo’s restaurant over on Magazine Street.”

  “What kind of restaurant is it?” Ava asked.

  “Italian,” Shamus said. “But that’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?” Carmela asked.

  “The problem,” Shamus said, “is that Hurst never really got Fat Lorenzo’s off the ground because Martin Lash wrote a horrible review the very first week they opened.”

  “And let me guess,” Carmela said. “Because of that hateful review customers stayed away in droves. Which means Hurst probably lost a ton of money.”

  Shamus nodded. “Did he ever. Hurst is still bitter about Lash’s review. Still struggling to pay back a bank loan he signed for personally.”

  “And you know all this because . . . ?”

  “Because I gave him the bank loan,” Shamus said.

  “If Hurst doesn’t repay the loan, will you foreclose on his restaurant?”

  Shamus gave a thin crocodile smile. “In a heartbeat.”

  * * *

  Back at home Carmela was ready to collapse. She’d eaten and drunk too much at brunch, the visitation was freaky, and seeing Shamus always gave her a sick headache.

  What to do? Well, she could pull the shades and check out Netflix.

  Except the phone was suddenly ringing.

  What now? Please don’t let it be Shamus calling to bug me about something insignificant.

  But it was Quigg.

  “Now what do you want?” Carmela asked. She could hear restaurant noises in the background and figured he must be downtown at Mumbo Gumbo.

  “I was just wondering if you’d made any progress?” Quigg asked.

  “You have to stop bugging me—you’re driving me crazy.”

  Quigg’s laugh was a short bark. “You’re tough, Carmela. You can take it. Besides, my life is hanging by a thread right now. The police want to slap on a pair of handcuffs and throw away the keys. Send me to Angola prison or worse. You realize Louisiana still has the death penalty.”

  “But now it’s lethal injection, not Gruesome Gertie,” Carmela said. Gruesome Gertie was the name of the old wooden electric chair that had been used up until 1991.

  “What a lovely thing to bring up, Carmela. Thank you so much for planting that image in my head. I’m sure I’ll have wonderful dreams tonight.”

  “Quigg?”

  “What?” Now he just sounded testy.

  “Cool your jets. I just came from Martin Lash’s visitation.”

  Quigg let loose a low whistle. “You have been working on my behalf.”

  “I’m not completely indolent.”

  “So who was there? What did you find out?”

  Carmela gave him a quick report on Josh Cotton, who she figured was probably going to take over the organization.

  “So there’s motive right there,” Quigg said. “Cotton wanted to get himself into the power position.”

  Then she told Quigg about Allan Hurst, the owner of Fat Lorenzo’s.

  “I heard about that. Hurst is another restaurant owner who got blindsided by Lash. He thought he was going to get a stellar review and instead he got creamed. The review came out, like, the day of his grand opening and really slammed the door on business. He never really got Fat Lorenzo’s off the ground. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had to close down pretty soon.”

  “What I need to know,” Carmela said, “is if you have any information about Hurst personally? Is he the kind of guy who would retaliate? I mean, would he kill over a bad review?”

  “I don’t know. But somebody sure did a nasty job on Lash. Maybe it was Hurst. I heard that he was really angry and bitter.”

  “Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on your part.”

  “Hey, I’ll do anything to get out from under this black cloud.”

  “Please don’t say that. It makes you sound like you might have retaliated.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Even though you’re angry?”

  “Hey, did you know that Martin Lash said that my wine was no better than pig swill? Can you image that? The grapes that I’ve nurtured and labored over for six years?”

  “I have to go now,” Carmela said.

  “Hey . . . how about that kiss last night?”

  “You can forget about that, buster! You caught me at a weak moment.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. Just keep working on this Lash thing, will you? You’re doing great.”

  Carmela hung up the phone and thought hard about Quigg. Her takeaway was that he was horribly angry. With that kind of temper, could Quigg have killed Lash? He’d been right there, after all. He’d certainly had the opportunity. Plus he’d been mad as a hornet and all jacked up . . .

  She sighed and flopped back down on her leather couch. And why was she involved in this, really?

  Why indeed?

  Maybe because she could still feel the urgent way Quigg’s lips had pressed against hers last night?

  Oh dear.

  Chapter 9

  SUNSHINE streamed in the front windows of Memory Mine this Monday morning as Gabby gathered up packages of brightly colored crepe paper. Carmela was standing behind the front counter, studying an invoice that had arrived in the morning mail.

  “D
id you order five hundred rubber stamps of a cartoon spider crouched in a cobweb?” Carmela asked.

  “Um . . . no, I did not. Did we get billed for that?”

  “Yes.” Carmela set the rogue invoice aside. It was either a mistake or some company was trying to slip an invoice past her, hoping to get paid. Happened all the time. Last week, an invoice for the magazine Today’s Reptile had shown up.

  “I’m going to start organizing all our paper and scissors,” Gabby said. “So we’re as prepared as possible for our crepe paper class.”

  “Every time we get ready for one of these classes I’m grateful for our previous tenants,” Carmela said. “The ginormous table those antique dealers left behind is so perfect. We can seat—what?—something like a dozen people around it? Fourteen if we all scrunch? Heck, we could probably serve Christmas dinner there if we could squeeze a forty-pound turkey into the microwave.”

  “Those guys probably left it behind because they couldn’t budge it,” Gabby laughed. “It’s a behemoth and weighs a ton. The really good thing is it’s also dented and scratched so a few more scissor nicks don’t make a bit of difference.” She paused and pushed back a hank of hair. “So what else should I lay out? Oh well, I suppose it depends on what we’ll be doing exactly.” She gazed at Carmela with an inquisitive smile.

  Carmela picked up a roll of brass wire. “I’m planning to demo crepe paper flowers, crepe paper wreaths, fringed streamers, and surprise balls.”

  “I guess there’s a reason you advertised this class as a Crepe Paper Party. There’ll be so much going on, lots of fun things to work on.”

  “And it really is fun, isn’t it?” Carmela said. “Especially when our customers get all jazzed up about a particular craft. You see their eyes start to sparkle and can almost see the creative juices flowing.”

  “I love the interaction with customers,” Gabby said. “Helping them see a project through. Plus every time somebody takes a class with us it kind of springboards them into the next project.”

  “Which is oh-so-good for sales.”

  “I’m guessing you have a few more classes planned?”

  “Always,” Carmela said. “I was planning to bring back our Paper Moon and Shadow Box classes right after the holidays.”