Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

“This is Trent Trueblood.” He paused. “Is this Carmela?”

  “Oh, hi,” she said.

  Trueblood jumped right into his sales pitch. “You seemed so interested in the Parson’s Point development that I wondered if you might like to take a look at it? Well, not at the actual townhomes per se, because we haven’t quite broken ground yet. But we have a lovely sales office with a rather extensive model. And I have some very detailed blueprints and artist’s renderings on our walls. You could get a good idea of what the development will eventually look like.”

  Carmela thought about this for all of two seconds. “I’d love to see it. When would be a good time for you?”

  Anticipation colored Trueblood’s voice. He had a potential buyer on the hook. “I’m going to be down there tonight. Would that work for you?”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “Excellent. Our sales office is just two miles south of Boothville. Turn on Ridgemount Road, hang a right on Briarwood, then left on McClean.”

  “Got it,” Carmela said. “I’ll see you around seven.”

  * * *

  Carmela punched speed dial and, when Ava answered, said, “Adventure calls, my little tea diva. Are you ready for another trip down south to bayou country?”

  “Ordinarily I would be your girl,” Ava said. “Especially if you promised a stop at Sparky’s Tap again. But Harrison and I are going to see a play tonight. A revival of Dracula.”

  “They revived him? Again?”

  “I think it’s an updated hipster version where he ditches his cape for duds from Hollister. But, cher, where exactly are you going?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Trent Trueblood.”

  “About those Parsnip Point Townhomes?”

  “Parson’s Point.”

  “Whatever. The thing is, I don’t like the idea of you going down there all by your lonesome. If this guy is high on your suspect list—and I’m guessing he still is—then you could be putting yourself in danger. I mean, what if this guy Trueblood is the killer?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  “It sounds like you’re whistling in the dark. Like you really are worried.”

  “Tell you what,” Carmela said. “I’ll take the dogs. They can stand guard over me.”

  “That’s just peachy,” Ava said. “Since Boo is a crackerjack shot with a Ruger and Poobah’s got his black belt in karate.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “I hope so, sweetie.” But Ava didn’t sound one bit hopeful.

  Chapter 20

  IT was full-on dark when Carmela pulled up in front of the Parson’s Point sales office just south of Boothville. Trent Trueblood had given her fairly detailed directions, but she’d still made a couple of wrong turns. Now, as she stared at the small white building with its windows still dark, it looked as if she was the first one to arrive. There were no other cars in the small parking lot and no other buildings around that she could see. Just a dark expanse of pine trees looming up on either side of her, a sparkle of water far off to her right.

  “What do you think, guys?” Carmela asked Boo and Poobah, who were hunkered in the backseat of her car. It had been a long, boring ride for them and now they were panting like a couple of steam engines, fogging up the windows, whining, begging to escape.

  Carmela, on the other hand, was suddenly feeling a touch uneasy. Had she gotten the time wrong? Had Trueblood canceled on her at the last minute? Maybe something had come up. A real estate emergency, if there even was such a thing.

  She checked her phone and found nothing from him. No text messages, no missed calls.

  Okay. Whatever.

  Easing herself out of the car, Carmela stretched languidly. She glanced around and again felt unsettled by how quiet everything was. There were no cars on what looked like an almost deserted stretch of road. No lights glimmering off in the distance. Just a faint sliver of moon scudding along on gray, low-hanging clouds. And a barely audible chr-chr-chr coming from deep in the woods.

  What was that sound, anyway? Crickets? An owl? Hopefully not a band of marauding alligators with toothy grins that were slithering silently in her direction.

  As the wind came up and riffled her hair, a chill seeped deeper into Carmela’s heart. Dang. What if Ava had been right? What if Trueblood really was the killer? What if he’d neatly set her up?

  No. I can’t think that way, she told herself. I’m here because I’m onto something. This is the part of Louisiana that had an almost magnetic attraction for Martin Lash. This is where the answers are going to be.

  Squaring her shoulders, making up her mind to remain calm, to maintain an open, inquiring mind, Carmela headed for the sales office. Maybe it was open, after all. Maybe Trueblood’s car was parked in back and he was sitting in an office with the door closed, earbuds stuck in his ears listening to the Rolling Stones. Or Beethoven.

  It was worth a shot anyway.

  Carmela climbed two low steps and stood in front of the door. To the right was a sign that said SALES OFFICE, PARSON’S POINT TOWNHOMES. She leaned to the left and tried to peer in a window, but it was no good. Just too dark. Nervously, her fingertips touched the doorknob. Maybe if she jiggled the handle . . . if Trueblood was inside, he’d hear her and turn on the lights. Greet her with a smile, eager to show off his models and his plans.

  It didn’t work that way. It never does.

  Instead, the door to the sales office swung open with a low moan.

  Carmela’s heart caught in her throat.

  “Hello?” she called out, fighting to keep her voice from quavering. “Mr. Trueblood? Anybody home?”

  There was no answer.

  Carmela felt a sudden flash of anger. “Well, somebody must have been here,” she called out. “Because the door wasn’t locked.”

  She took a step inside and stood there listening. Waiting for . . . what? Finally, her heart starting to flutter in her chest, she stuck her right hand out and batted around, trying to locate a light switch.

  Success.

  She flipped the switch and the flood of bright light practically blinded her. Her eyes flashed on white walls hung with floor plans, giant posters of postcard-perfect bayou vistas, and artist’s renderings of sleek, modern-looking townhomes.

  She took a step inside, starting to feel a wash of relief.

  And that’s when she saw him. Trent Trueblood lying on the floor, arms flopped out to his sides. He was faceup, just a few feet in front of her.

  Her mind reeled sickeningly. Is he dead? She blinked and looked away. And then had to look back. Yes, of course he was dead. His eyes were open wide, as if he’d just encountered a big fat surprise, and an enormous butcher knife was sticking straight out of his chest. All around him, the beige industrial carpet was soaked through with blood. Lots of bright red blood.

  The first thing Carmela thought was, That stain’s not coming out.

  The second thing she thought was, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  Carmela spun wildly, slammed her right shoulder against the doorjamb, and sprinted for her car. She pawed frantically at the car door handle and flung herself inside. Click-click went the door locks as she turned frantically in her seat, looking out the car windows, searching for the raging maniac who must surely be charging after her, a fresh knife in hand, this very minute.

  Instead, she saw Boo and Poobah staring at her, mild curiosity lighting their limpid brown eyes.

  Fumbling for her phone, Carmela punched 911. When an operator answered, Carmela started babbling so rapidly, the woman had to beg her to slow down.

  * * *

  Slow. That seemed to be the operative word. The call center sent an officer out, all right. But he turned out to be Deputy Bill Klunder, a good old boy–type sheriff’s deputy who looked like he had hung on about ten years beyond retirement. Thinning
gray hair, potbelly, bowlegs, flat feet, the works.

  When Deputy Klunder knocked on her car window, Carmela screamed so loud the dogs joined in with a bloodcurdling cacophony. Then she climbed out and practically fell into the deputy’s arms.

  “Trent Trueblood,” Carmela told him. “The real estate developer.” She fanned her arms wildly and pointed repeatedly in the direction of the sales office. “I found him dead inside. Well, he’s still dead inside.”

  “Dead, you say?” Deputy Klunder sounded like he didn’t quite believe her.

  So Carmela grabbed him by the arm and pulled him across the gravel parking lot to the sales center, where the lights still blazed. Trent Trueblood was still there, of course. Splayed out on the floor, looking waxy and pale and a little less surprised. As if he had finally, reluctantly, come to terms with his own untimely death. The puddle of blood had seeped a little closer to the front door.

  “He was dead when I got here,” Carmela said. “The door was unlocked. You see . . . I was supposed to meet him here . . . concerning his town house development.”

  The deputy cocked an eye at her. “You a buyer?”

  “No,” Carmela said. “Well . . . yes. Maybe.”

  “I think it’s best we go back outside and have ourselves a talk.”

  Carmela’s words continued to pour out in a disjointed tumble, but Deputy Klunder’s questions were slow and methodical. Five minutes into their conversation, Carmela was beginning to feel a hard ball of frustration deep within her gut. Precious minutes were being wasted. Deputy Klunder hadn’t yet called in the murder or sounded the alarm. No other deputies were blazing down the road, setting up roadblocks, hot on the trail of Trueblood’s killer.

  When Carmela answered the same question for the third time, she did what she knew she had to do. She pulled out her phone and called Detective Edgar Babcock.

  Of course, once Carmela poured her situation out to Babcock, the cat was out of the bag. She was forced to explain a few pesky details to him. Like why she’d driven down here to Boothville all by her lonesome. And how she’d come to stumble on a dead body, no less.

  When Carmela finished her story, Babcock wasn’t just angry, he was infuriated. But thank heavens and God bless his raving, ranting heart, he was coming to her rescue.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, when Babcock finally arrived at the murder scene, the place was buzzing. The sheriff and two more deputies had arrived, along with an ambulance and two EMTs.

  Babcock confabbed with the local sheriff and inspected the body while the EMTs lounged against the back of their ambulance, talking and smoking, assuming a casual wait-and-see attitude. Just two guys out on a typical evening run.

  Then Babcock corralled Carmela.

  “How much have you told them?” Babcock asked her, hooking a thumb at the cadre of sheriff’s deputies. He was trying to contain his anger but was both irritated and frantic over her safety.

  “Everything,” Carmela said.

  “You’ve been absolutely straight with them?”

  “Yes. Cross my heart.”

  “Because you haven’t been with me.”

  “Edgar, I . . .” But he was already walking away from her.

  Babcock was drawn into yet another conference with the sheriff and his deputies. As Carmela watched, she knew he was getting more and more annoyed by the slowness of local law enforcement. Finally, after what evolved into a fairly heated argument, Babcock got on his cell phone and called the Louisiana State Police, who also promised to send out their Criminal Investigations Division.

  Once this higher level of law enforcement came swarming in, jurisdiction was reluctantly handed over by the locals. The murder scene would be analyzed, processed, recorded, and photographed by serious, hard-core professionals.

  At which point, Babcock relinquished any authority he might have had and pulled Carmela aside once more.

  “Before we start I’d like to let the dogs out of the car,” she said.

  Babcock waved an arm. “Forget about the dogs. This is about you right now.”

  Carmela knew she was in for what would probably be a difficult and highly contentious conversation.

  “I want you to start from the very beginning,” Babcock said. “Why on earth are you even here?”

  Carmela winced at his hard-bitten tone of voice. “I told you on the phone. I found out that Martin Lash had filed a lawsuit against Trueblood, so I thought maybe . . .”

  But he didn’t bother to let her finish.

  “Do you realize what kind of risk you took by coming down here? You don’t even know anyone down here.”

  “No, but I . . .”

  “You had no business driving down here in the dead of night and meeting with some random real estate person who may or may not have been involved with Martin Lash. It was a foolish mistake on your part. For all you know, Trueblood could have knocked you on the head and dumped your dead body in a bayou.”

  “But he didn’t.” Still, she was horrified by the idea of snapping turtles and alligators darting in to munch her fingers and toes.

  “No,” Babcock said, gripping her arm. “Because somebody killed him first.” He glowered at her. “Are you getting this?”

  “Yes. Of course I am.”

  “Think for a moment, Carmela! What you did is incredibly foolhardy. Stupid, even.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carmela said. “I’m sorry to pull you into this mess, I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”

  “This is a mess.”

  “But really . . . don’t you see this as kind of a clue as well? Like a piece of the puzzle dropping into place?”

  Babcock put both hands on his head as if he feared his brains might explode and come shooting out his ears. “What are you talking about?”

  “The murder weapon,” Carmela said with urgency. “The butcher knife. Don’t you think it points to someone familiar with the restaurant industry?”

  Babcock’s mouth worked silently for a few moments. Then he said, “I think it points to a psychopath.”

  “And the fact that someone wanted Trueblood dead. You have to ask yourself why! What was the reason? Was Trueblood about to reveal something important?”

  Babcock placed his hands together and then pulled them apart. “Carmela . . . I have no words.”

  * * *

  Thank goodness Babcock gave Carmela a slight break. He allowed her to clip leashes on Boo and Poobah and take them for a short walk. She walked them down the shoulder of the road for about a hundred yards, then turned around and came back. When they returned, she saw that another car had pulled into the parking lot. It was a state patrol car, with light bars pulsing red and blue and an enormous flop-eared, sloe-eyed bloodhound sitting in the backseat, staring silently out the window.

  Suddenly, Boo was doing her best prance dance, her triangle ears pricked forward and her muzzle quivering with interest. When they walked past the bloodhound, Boo gazed up at the bloodhound with an expression that was almost akin to love.

  “I’m glad somebody still thinks romance is alive,” Carmela murmured. She gazed across the parking lot at Babcock. “Because I have a terrible feeling that mine might have fizzled.”

  But no. Babcock was holding up a hand, signaling to her. She put the dogs back in her car and walked over to him.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Hardly,” Babcock said. “Come. Sit with me in my car.”

  They climbed into his BMW and she turned sideways to face him. “You’re angry. I feel like this is going to be an inquisition.”

  “You should be so lucky.” Her rubbed the palm of his hand over his chin and said, “So you’ve been investigating. Tell me. Give me the whole enchilada. And don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “There’s no sugar on enchiladas.”

  “Carmela. Just tell me.
And don’t leave anything out.”

  So Carmela laid out the whole story for him. About finding out about all the lawsuits. About meeting Josh Cotton at Martin Lash’s viewing and then talking to Allan Hurst. She detailed all the things that had made her suspicious of Cotton and Hurst. And, more recently, how she’d had an impromptu meeting with Helen McBride, who professed to despise Lash and practically chortled over his death. What she left out was the break-in that she and Ava staged at Martin Lash’s cottage. That would have really tipped Babcock over the edge.

  When she’d finished, Babcock said, “What you’ve done is absolutely preposterous. Ridiculous.”

  “I was trying to weed out suspects.”

  “So I’m guessing you’re no longer suspicious of Trent Trueblood?”

  Carmela’s brows pinched together. “Well . . . no. Obviously he’s not a legitimate suspect. Now that he’s been taken out of the equation.”

  Babcock put an arm on the back of Carmela’s seat and leaned toward her. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Help me follow up on those other possible suspects?”

  He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “Carmela, I’m this close to putting you under house arrest.”

  Carmela tilted her head at him. “Whose house? Mine or yours?”

  Babcock glared at her, but pain flickered in his eyes, too. “You tell me. Maybe it should be Quigg Brevard’s house.”

  “That’s so unfair!” she cried.

  “Is it, Carmela? Is it really?”

  “You know there’s nothing between Quigg and me.”

  He reached over and pulled her close. “Except for the fact that you’re trying very hard to pull his fat out of the fryer.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Babcock sighed. “I wish I could believe that.”

  Carmela threw herself into his arms and buried her head against his chest. “I do.” Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and burned into his shirt. “I love you.”

  Babcock circled her with his arms. This time he spoke a little more gently to her. “And I love you, my crazy Carmela.”