Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

  First, she grabbed the little voodoo doll and pulled out the pin. Had her stabbing the pin into the doll caused Babcock’s shoulder to hurt? She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t taking any chances. This was New Orleans, after all. A city that celebrated their above-ground cemeteries, set up vampire cams at Halloween, had actual voodoo high priestesses, and featured a number of haunted houses.

  Then Carmela leaned back in her chair and thought about Martin Lash. Closing her eyes, she could still picture the man staggering toward her, making hideous gagging sounds as the serving fork quivered in his throat. As that image slowly faded, it was replaced by one of Trent Trueblood lying on the floor with a butcher knife stuck in his belly. Both the fork and knife seemed like terrifying murder weapons. Like something Alfred Hitchcock would have dreamed up. Ordinary utensils used to commit horrifying crimes.

  And Babcock had told her that both utensils were from the same manufacturer. Bocker.

  What were the odds of that? Practically nil, she decided.

  Her curiosity whirring at a frantic pace, Carmela began tapping the keyboard of her computer. When the search engine spat out the results for “restaurant supplies” she was surprised at how many suppliers there were in New Orleans. Of course, it was a restaurant town. A foodie town, though she had come to loathe the term.

  But it’s strange that I’ve never noticed any of these places. Never walked by one on the street.

  She scrolled down through the list and realized she had probably walked by quite a few restaurant supply houses. In fact, the nearest shop, Hawking’s Restaurant Supply, was only a few blocks away on Esplanade Avenue.

  Impulsively, Carmela shut down the computer and pulled on her leather jacket.

  “Gabby, I’m going to skip out early today.”

  “Hmm?” Gabby looked up from the stack of Asian-inspired papers she was flipping through. “You’re leaving? I hope you’re not going to get in any more trouble.”

  “I’ll try not to. I just have to, um, run a couple of errands and then get ready for the cathedral concert tonight.”

  “Lucky you. I wish I was going to that concert. But Stuart’s mother is hosting a command performance dinner tonight for the entire family. I’d like to blow her off, but Stuart will never knowingly disappoint his maman.” Gabby cocked her head. “I assume the illustrious Detective Babcock will be your escort?”

  “He’ll be running late but he promised to be there.”

  “It sounds like things between you two aren’t nearly as bad as you think.”

  Carmela fervently hoped Gabby was right.

  * * *

  It was a cool, cloudless day and Royal Street was vibrating with just as much excitement as it had during the Art and Wine Stroll. She breezed past Temperley’s Antiques and the Rosebud Gallery and, in less than the distance from the fifty-yard line to the goal post in the Superdome, was suddenly standing in front of a window filled with everything from pie plates to chef’s toques. The name Hawking’s Restaurant Supply was painted across the window in a scroll of yellow letters nearly a foot high. Carmela chuckled to herself. She’d hurried down this block a thousand times and never noticed this shop. Well . . . duh for her.

  Pushing open the door was like entering a veritable chef’s paradise. Floor-to-ceiling stainless steel racks were stacked with fry pans and stockpots, many of them large enough to cook Christmas dinner for a small army. Carmela also saw pans for baking sheet cakes, drawer warmers, proofing ovens, and banquet carts, as well as tables stacked high with round, square, and oblong-shaped plates and bowls. Restaurant dinnerware, she supposed.

  As Carmela wandered through the shop, she spotted an intriguing display of kitchen hand tools—ladles, graters, wire whips, scoops, and wooden spoons. She picked up a long-handled whip and was beating eggs for an imaginary soufflé when a voice behind her said, “That one’s a beauty. At twenty-four inches, the nylon handle is long and lean. And you’ll notice that the bulbous cage has plenty of spokes to whip any food you want into a delicious frenzy.”

  The salesclerk, a middle-aged man with a gray goatee, was wearing a full-length white chef’s apron with the name Ned embroidered over a top pocket.

  “We also have it in sixteen- and eighteen-inch handles if that one is a might long for you,” Ned said. “Depends on how deep your mixing bowls are, of course.” He stopped his pitch and cocked an appraising eye at her. “You using another kind of whisk or just learning how?”

  “I can handle a whisk,” Carmela said. “But I think maybe the sixteen-inch would be better.” She put the longer one back as the clerk reached under the table and pulled out a box.

  “Here you go. A sixteen-inch Jacob’s Pride by Vollrath. Guaranteed for a lifetime.”

  “I’m familiar with the brand. Do you carry their cookware, too?”

  “Sure do,” Ned said. “You want to take a look?”

  “Not today, I’m afraid. What I am interested in are kitchen knives and serving forks.”

  “You want a complete set?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We have the largest selection of cutlery in Louisiana.” Ned crooked a finger. “Come along with me.” He led her to a large display case near the rear of the store and made a sweeping gesture.

  Carmela stepped forward and eyed the gleaming cutlery. The first thing that struck her was how long and dangerous-looking the forks were. She’d never thought of a carving fork as being deadly before, but now, after seeing Martin Lash impaled, that notion seemed to be firmly implanted in her brain.

  “These are all carving forks?” she asked.

  “Carving forks, cook’s forks, and what we call pot forks,” Ned said.

  Carmela pointed to a dangerous-looking fork with long, curved tines. “What kind is that?”

  “That’s made by Victorinox,” Ned said. “Extremely popular. We also carry lines from Mercer and Dexter-Russell.”

  “I was wondering . . . do you carry the Bocker brand?”

  The clerk moved a few feet down the display case and Carmela followed.

  “Right here.” He waved his hand over a set that included a carving fork as well as a large knife. “These are stainless steel with rosewood handles. Very durable. Very reliable.”

  Carmela reached a hand toward the carving fork. “May I?”

  Ned handed the fork to her.

  Carmela gripped the fork’s handle and balanced it in her hand. It had a serious weight and heft to it, almost like a good dueling sword or rapier.

  Ned gave an approving smile. “Feels comfortable, huh?”

  “Very nice.” Carmela thought the gleaming tines looked razor-sharp. As if they could pierce a piece of flesh with ease. She handed the fork back to him. “Do you sell a lot of these? Forks, I mean.”

  “They’re some of our best sellers. With more than fourteen hundred restaurants in New Orleans, we help outfit a lot of chefs.”

  “And many of them prefer the Bocker brand?” Carmela asked.

  “Yeah, even the sous chefs seem to like them.” Ned smiled. “We get a lot of younger guys and gals who are apprenticing or working as sous chefs, dreaming of the day when they can open their own restaurant. So they’re hot to get their own tools.”

  “I can just imagine,” Carmela said. But her mind was elsewhere. Back to a dark night with a stumbling man . . .

  “You know, you’re the second person in here this week to ask about these forks.”

  Carmela was instantly jerked back to the here and now. “Who else asked?”

  Ned scrunched up his face. “A police detective by the name of Gallant. He was quite interested because . . .” Looking uncomfortable now, he let his voice trail off. “Well, because . . .”

  “Because of the murder,” Carmela said. “At the Winter Market.”

  “You know about that?” Ne
d shook his head. “Hell of a strange thing.”

  “Tell me about it,” Carmela said. “I was there.”

  * * *

  Just as Carmela approached the front door of her apartment, she did a quick about-face. She crossed the courtyard and slipped in the back door of Juju Voodoo. She hadn’t talked to Ava all day, so her friend had no idea of the horrible murder that had taken place in Boothville the previous night. Time to clue her in.

  Ava was standing behind the counter, busily arranging red and blue moon goddess pendants and earrings. She looked vaguely Christmasy in her bright red plastic bustier paired with a dark green leather skirt. Her four-inch stiletto sandals had white furry pom-poms on the toes.

  “Are those pom-poms on your toes or did you just mug a bunny rabbit?” Carmela asked.

  Ava looked up and dimpled prettily. “Be careful. You might just find a pair of these tucked under your Christmas tree.”

  “Be still my heart.”

  “Speaking of which, what’s the latest on your love life? Still two-timing Messieurs Babcock and Brevard?” Ava fluttered a hand to her chest. “And I say that with the utmost respect, no judgment intended.”

  “Things have taken a slightly wacky turn,” Carmela said.

  Ava’s eyes twinkled. “What? In your life? Nooo.”

  Carmela drew a deep breath and proceeded to give Ava a blow-by-blow description of what took place the previous night. The dead guy, the blood and gore, the slow-talking cop, and, finally, Babcock swooping in for the coup de grâce rescue with a modicum of screaming and scolding on the side. When she’d finally finished her tale of woe, Ava’s eyes were bugged out and her mouth hung open.

  “Wha . . . so somebody whacked your real estate guy?” Ava squeaked. “Seriously?”

  “Either that or it was a very elaborate hoax and the joke’s on me.”

  Ava sped around the counter, swept Carmela into her arms, and gave her a big, squeezy hug. “Doggone it, I knew I shouldn’t have let you go down there all by yourself!”

  “I wasn’t exactly alone. A crazed killer put in an appearance just before I got there.”

  Ava gave a final squeeze and then gawked at her. “So who do you think did it? I mean, why was this Trueblood guy stabbed?”

  “I don’t know. There must be some connection to Martin Lash that we don’t know about . . .”

  “Besides the defunct lawsuit,” Ava said.

  “Besides that. Or maybe Babcock’s theory is correct after all. He thinks Trueblood might have been embroiled in a horrible dispute with one of his contractors and things turned ugly.”

  Ava put up a hand and twirled a twisty gold earring. “It all sounds very weird.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And Babcock was furious with you for going down there? He completely exploded?”

  “About a seven-point-nine on the Richter scale.”

  “So what’s your theory about this second murder?” Ava asked. “You’re the one who’s a regular little Nancy Drew.”

  Carmela held up both hands, then dropped them to her sides. “I don’t know. I’ve turned it over in my head a million times and I still can’t figure it.”

  “The connection I see is that Martin Lash lived down near the bayou and Trueblood was building townhomes there.”

  “Isn’t that what a clever lawyer would call circumstantial evidence?” Carmela asked.

  Ava shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not very legal. Legal-minded, anyway.”

  Carmela held up an index finger. “There is one other thing that links them.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were both murdered with Bocker cutlery.”

  Ava eyed Carmela carefully. “So you’re saying maybe a chef did it? You think it was that Fat Lorenzo’s guy? What was his name again?”

  “Allan Hurst.”

  “Or what about that woman at the tea party who dresses like a cover girl for Muscle Magazine? The one who’s connected to the food website?”

  “Helen McBride.”

  “Could the killer have been either one of those two characters?” Ava asked.

  Carmela shrugged. “I don’t know. Both of them hated Lash with a vengeance, but I can’t imagine that either of them was remotely acquainted with Trueblood. So your guess is as good as mine.”

  Ava frowned. “I don’t have a guess.”

  “Well, there you go. It looks like we’re still up a creek without a paddle.”

  Chapter 23

  CARMELA walked back across the flagstone courtyard toward the appealing solitude of her apartment. She figured she had just enough time to flake out and take a nap before she had to get dressed up and walk the dogs down to Jackson Square. After she handed them off to Shamus she’d hopefully meet up with Babcock and they’d . . .

  She stopped short when the leaves on her banana palm began to tremble and shake.

  “Who’s there?” Carmela called out. What she was really thinking was, What now?

  The palm shook again as Quigg Brevard stepped out of the lengthening shadows.

  “This is getting to be a bad habit of yours,” Carmela said. She decided she was also honor bound to discourage it.

  Quigg grabbed her by both arms. “I had to see you, Carmela. I know you’ve been avoiding me and, believe me, it’s been torture. May I come in?” He threw a hopeful glance at her front door. “Just for a few minutes so we can talk? We need to catch up.”

  Visions of Babcock danced in Carmela’s head. He definitely wouldn’t approve of her spending any time with Quigg, much less any time alone with him in her apartment. Still, Quigg had materialized of his own accord and they did have a few things to talk about. Trent Trueblood being one.

  “Well?” Quigg said.

  Carmela made a hasty decision. She knew that Babcock was busy at work, defending the city from evildoers, so he probably wouldn’t show up unexpectedly. Thus, she was safe. For now.

  “Okay,” she said, unlocking the door. “But just for a couple of minutes. I have to deliver my dogs to my ex and then I’ve got a date.”

  “My, my, such a full social schedule,” Quigg said.

  Carmela turned around and said, “Be nice.” Then she pushed open the door. As she knew they would, Boo and Poobah flung themselves at her, kissing, licking, dancing, and whining. When they suddenly noticed Quigg standing behind her, they stopped and gave him a chilly look. A look that clearly said, Who dat?

  “It’s okay, babies,” Carmela said. “He’s just a friend.”

  “Just a friend?” Quigg said as he walked into her apartment and looked around. “Mmn.” He spun in a half circle. “Nice. Cozy.”

  Carmela gestured toward the dining room and pointed at a cane-backed chair. “Why don’t you have a seat over there while I take care of these two rascals.”

  Quigg ignored her direction and plopped himself down on the leather sofa in the living room, acting as if he owned the place. “You’ve fixed the place up since I was here last,” he said. “Upgraded the furniture and bought some nice artwork.”

  “Hard to resist with all the galleries around here,” Carmela said. “And the settlement from the divorce helped, too.” She poured food into the dogs’ bowls and gave them pans of fresh water.

  “Where do you keep your wine? Oh, never mind, I see the wine rack.” Quigg stood up, stretched languidly, and moved into the dining room. His fingers moved across the wine rack, almost judgmentally, until he finally found a bottle he approved of. “This looks like a decent rosé.” He walked into the kitchen. “Have you ever tried Domaine Chandon Étoile Rosé? It’s California grown, but it could easily pass for Italian. Corkscrew?”

  Carmela pulled open a drawer and passed him a corkscrew. She flattened herself against the refrigerator, feeling stressed. Feeling uncomfortable that the two of them were smooshed so close to
gether in her tiny kitchen.

  “Why don’t you take the wine into the dining room?” Carmela said. “I’ll bring in the glasses.” She ushered Quigg out of the kitchen and grabbed a silver tray. She placed coasters, cocktail napkins, and two wineglasses on the tray and carried it into the living room.

  Quigg had put the opened bottle of wine on the coffee table and was once again sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed and an arm stretched across the sofa back as if waiting for Carmela to snuggle in.

  Carmela placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down primly in a small leather club chair that was conveniently out of Quigg’s reach.

  Quigg picked up the bottle and poured them each a glass of wine. As he passed one of the glasses to Carmela he said, “I called you earlier today. Not only did you avoid taking my call, you didn’t bother calling me back.”

  Carmela wasn’t about to take criticism, not after all she’d been through on his behalf. “Quigg, did it ever occur to you that I have a personal life as well as a business to run? I can’t always be at your beck and call.”

  “You don’t want to be my beck-and-call girl?”

  “Quigg!”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He held up a hand, chuckling. “Bad joke. You know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  Carmela continued to glower at him.

  “I do, I really do.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Carmela said. “And please chew on this. In case you haven’t already heard, last night I went down to Boothville to meet with Trent Trueblood.”

  “The real estate guy, yeah. You said you were gonna check him out.”

  “That’s right. Only when I got there, Trueblood was dead. Somebody had stuck him with a butcher knife and he bled out on the floor of his shiny new sales office.”

  Stunned by her words, Quigg rose up from his seat and leaned toward Carmela, but she put up a hand to ward him off.

  “No, Quigg, sit down and let me finish.”

  Carmela filled him in about calling the local sheriff, then making the decision that she pretty much had to call Babcock. Quigg whistled and rolled his eyes at that part.