Crepe Factor

by Laura Childs

  “As you might have guessed,” Carmela said, “Babcock’s coming down there precipitated a horrible fight between the two of us. Which ended with him telling me to unconditionally back off on any kind of investigation.”

  Quigg moved his wineglass around, making little wet circles on her coffee table. “I suppose you can’t blame him for being worried. I mean . . . a second murder?” Her words finally seemed to be sinking in. “My Lord, Carmela, you could have been the one who was killed!”

  “I know that.”

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their wine.

  Finally, when Quigg thought an appropriate amount of time had passed, he gave her a puppy dog look. “Carmela, what about me?”

  She shot him a hard look. “What about you?”

  “You’ve been an incredible help so far in clearing my name and narrowing down some potential suspects. Why, if it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be sitting in jail by now.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Quigg. They’re not nearly ready to drag you to the slammer.”

  “No, I’m serious!”

  “Quigg, are you listening to me? I don’t see what more I can do . . .”

  “You can keep on digging, that’s what you can do,” Quigg urged. “You must be incredibly close to finding the murderer.” He was getting agitated now. “I mean . . . you scheduled a meeting with Trueblood and then . . . wham! Somebody goes and kills him. That’s just amazing—you have to be on the right track!”

  “More like being on the right track to becoming the next victim!” Carmela yelped. She said it so loudly that both dogs bounded over to make sure she was okay. “Would that suit you, Quigg? If they found the killer standing over my body and a meat fork dripping with blood, would you finally feel exonerated?”

  Boo and Poobah cast stern doggy looks at Quigg.

  “Carmela, you know I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. Heck, your safety is everything to me,” Quigg said hastily. “It would shatter me if something happened to you.”

  Now the dogs glanced back at Carmela as if the ball was in her court.

  “Oh jeez,” Carmela said. Where was this conversation going?

  Quigg leaned forward and said, in a hushed whisper, “And what about our personal relationship? Did our kiss the other night mean nothing to you? Carmela, I have feelings for you. Genuine feelings.”

  This was the moment Carmela had been dreading, the moment she hoped would never come. But here it was, sitting in front of her like a giant meatball plopped on top of a plate of spaghetti.

  “Quigg,” she said, picking her words carefully, “you are a dear friend. I will always hold you special in my heart, but I am truly in love with Babcock.”

  Quigg waved a hand as if completely dismissing her words along with her feelings for Babcock. “Carmela, I know you believe you and Babcock are meant for each other, but I know that isn’t true. You won’t be with him forever. So until then, my dear, I’m prepared to wait.” He flashed her a triumphant look. “For as long as it takes. Because I know my day will come.”

  Carmela reached over and patted his hand. “I don’t think so.”

  Quigg smiled confidently. “Oh, but I do. Which is why I know you’re going to keep helping me.”

  “Quigg, I don’t dare.”

  “I know you’re not going to abandon me. Even if your investigation has to be incredibly covert.” Quigg picked up his wine, drained his glass, and stood up. “So thank you, my dear. Thank you for still believing in me. For still going out of your way to help me.”

  “Don’t thank me, Quigg. It’s not like that.” Carmela stood up.

  Quigg took two steps toward her. “How would you like to be thanked, Carmela? Do you want me to kiss you again?”

  “No!”

  Watching them eagerly now, Boo and Poobah both wagged their tails.

  “Stop that!” Carmela told the dogs. “Don’t you dare give him an ounce of encouragement.”

  “Smart dogs,” Quigg grinned. And with that he strode out of her apartment.

  Chapter 24

  IT was seven fifteen at night and dark as the inside of a tomb. As the days got shorter and shorter, Carmela felt like her life was getting more and more complicated. She pondered this as she walked Boo and Poobah through her courtyard and out onto the sidewalk. Actually, she decided, it was more of an HR issue, a personnel problem. The personnel consisting of two dead guys, Detective Babcock, and the I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer Quigg Brevard.

  Well, the dead guys hadn’t come back to haunt her dreams, but Quigg certainly had. And every time she had a conversation with Babcock, straight up, romantic or contentious, Quigg’s specter lurked in the background like Casper the Friendly Ghost. And after tonight, his presence would probably lurk in her apartment.

  How to exorcise Quigg’s presence? Holy water? Prayers? Garlic and a silver bullet?

  Gabby would advise her to politely turn her back on Quigg. Ava would tell her to have fun, kick back, live life to the absolute max, and string both men along.

  So what was the answer? Where was the balance?

  Well, Carmela had made a promise to Quigg early on and she didn’t like to renege on a promise. It was one of the things she held true to. And she was definitely in love with Babcock, even though he’d been acting like Mr. Grumpy Pants for the last couple of days. Still, there was no way she was going to two-time him. That simply wasn’t in her nature, either.

  No, she was just going to have to see this thing through to the bitter end. Whatever that entailed.

  Carmela had been walking at a fairly good clip, pulled along by the dogs. But now they stopped to carefully sniff and inspect a candy wrapper that lay curled in the gutter. Which made her glance around and realize how quiet the neighborhood was at this hour.

  In this slightly more residential part of the French Quarter, there weren’t a lot of bars and restaurants. Which was wonderful if you wanted a quaint neighborhood that wouldn’t be disturbed by late-night bar-goers and partiers, but bad if you were the nervous type out for a walk. There were lots of pickpockets and thugs hanging out in New Orleans. Lots of crime. Of course, she had the dogs along. And once Shamus met her and picked them up, she’d be with Babcock. Which was always a comforting thought.

  Carmela’s nervousness waned as soon as they reached the edge of Jackson Square. She knew she’d be perfectly safe mingling with the crowds in such a lively place. As far back as the founding of New Orleans, this block, once known as the Place d’Armes, had been the city’s public square. After the famous Battle of New Orleans, it had been renamed Jackson Square in honor of General Andrew Jackson. Of course, a statue of the heroic general, sitting tall on his horse and waving his hat in greeting, stood at the very center of it all.

  And Shamus had been right about one thing: Jackson Square was filled with people. Tourists posing for selfies with the general, jugglers in colorful costumes, palm readers trying to make a buck, artists showcasing their drawings, and dozens of lively street musicians. In stark contrast was St. Louis Cathedral, an imposing edifice with three towering spires just across Chartres Street. People would be gathering here soon in anticipation of the concert. She would be meeting Babcock here, providing he showed up.

  Boo tugged at her leash, sniffing at the empty saxophone case of one of the street musicians.

  “Boo, come on, baby,” Carmela said. They quickly crossed Chartres, skirted left, and headed down Pirate’s Alley. The music and craziness faded immediately as they turned into the Place de Henriette Delille, the small, secluded garden that was tucked behind the cathedral.

  The hedges surrounding the garden were tall and bushy and seemed to close in on her right away. And while the foliage made for a lovely contemplative garden, the place suddenly felt dark and cut off from the rest of the world. Boo and Poobah didn’t seem to mind. They strained and da
nced on their leashes, anxious to explore the overgrowth of bushes and shrubs.

  Okay, a few sniffs and that’s it.

  Carmela led the dogs over to a small stone bench and sat down. Looked around and shivered. It felt a little too dark and lonely here. She probably should have been more insistent about meeting Shamus in the safer, more populated Jackson Square.

  Oh well, he’ll pop in here any minute now.

  Boo looked up at Carmela and put her chubby muzzle in Carmela’s lap. Poobah shook his head and gave a lopsided grin. One of his eyes caught a shaft of light and gleamed eerily.

  “Daddy’s going to be here real soon,” Carmela told them. “And I want you both to be on your best behavior this weekend.” Boo wagged her tail. “But if Daddy has any strange young women staying at his condo, it’s more than okay to gnaw on their shoes. Or whatever else they leave lying around. Daddy may get cranky, but I’ll give you extra treats.”

  Poobah’s ears perked up at the word treats and Carmela said, “Good boy. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” She dug in her purse and pulled out a small liver treat for each of them.

  As the dogs chewed happily, Carmela glanced at her phone. Seven forty.

  Really, Shamus, this is getting ridiculous.

  Here she was, sitting all by her lonesome in a deserted garden. If it weren’t for the dogs she would feel . . .

  There was a rustle up near the gate.

  “Shamus,” Carmela called out. “Is that you?” She knew her voice sounded a little shaky.

  Nobody answered.

  Feeling spooked, Carmela stood up and gathered the leashes tighter. If something went really wrong and she had to run, she wanted the dogs running with her.

  There was another sound, this one more muffled. Like leaves rustling, somebody pushing through the hedge?

  Oh crap. This feels so bad.

  “Shamus?” she called again.

  Carmela was just about ready to get the hell out of there when Shamus suddenly lurched from the shadows. His hair stuck up crazily and his tie was askew. A sprig of evergreen was stuck to the lapel of his navy blue jacket.

  Carmela turned on him with a vengeance. “You scared the crap out of me, Shamus Meechum! Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here in the dark, waiting forever!”

  Shamus held up a hand as if to fend her off. “Chill, babe. I’m here now.”

  She peered at him carefully. “You look a little dopey. Did you get mugged or something? Wait a minute, have you been drinking?”

  “What if I have?” Shamus managed a crooked grin and stood up a little straighter.

  “Then I’d have to say you’re an unfit pet parent. That you shouldn’t be trusted with Boo and Poobah.” She looked at the dogs. “Right?” Boo wagged her tail as if in agreement.

  “Come on, Carmela, you know better than that. I had one lousy drink. An after-work cocktail. That’s it.”

  “Just one?”

  “Just one.”

  “Then please promise me that you’ll take the dogs right home? That you won’t stop at some stupid club or cocktail lounge and make them wait in the car?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Shamus said. “It breaks my heart to think of their little noses pressed against the car window, waiting for me.”

  “Then promise me, okay?”

  “Cross my heart, I’ll take them right home.”

  Shamus held out his hand for the leashes and Carmela reluctantly handed them over. She bent down and gave both dogs a kiss on the nose before she watched Shamus lead them away.

  * * *

  Still feeling jittery, Carmela walked back down Pirate’s Alley, turned left, and took up a spot in front of the cathedral. She stood just to the left of the massive front door, waiting for Babcock. It was getting close to the start of the concert now and people were chattering excitedly as they hurried inside.

  Glancing into the crowd, Carmela was surprised to see Allan Hurst, the owner of Fat Lorenzo’s, go by. And then, strangely enough, she spotted Josh Cotton. He was in the middle of a group of people that passed by almost on the heels of Allan Hurst.

  Talk about a weird coincidence. Or was it some kind of omen?

  Both men had looked so carefree that it made her wonder if either of them could have been down in Boothville last night, taking care of some nasty business.

  Josh Cotton certainly had a strong connection to Trueblood, because the developer had been planning to build homes near one of the bayous. But she couldn’t imagine how Hurst would be connected to Trueblood. Although, if you looked at the killings of Lash and Trueblood as murder mysteries—and they certainly were—a possible connection might just be another aspect.

  As the crowd of concertgoers slowed from a flood to a trickle, there was still no sign of Babcock. Finally, Carmela was standing all alone on the cathedral steps as the ushers leaned out to close the stately, wooden doors.

  What to do?

  At the last possible moment, Carmela slipped inside. She stood in back in the semidarkness, next to a white marble statue of a winged angel, and put in yet another call to Babcock’s cell phone. Of course, he didn’t pick up.

  Luckily, the concert was open seating and there were several vacant seats left at the rear of the church. Feeling scattered and alone, Carmela took a seat in the very last pew.

  Babcock, Babcock, where are you?

  Carmela was worried, but tried hard to ease her mind by taking in the magnificent surroundings. The soaring Gothic arches seemed to extend all the way to heaven, while flickering candles cast shadows on the benevolent faces of saint statues that graced every alcove. On the altar, dozens of tall, white candles were set amongst giant baskets overflowing with red roses. The cathedral looked elegant, moody, and contemplative.

  Minutes later, the altar lights came up and a chorale group, all wearing white cassocks over their red robes, came marching down the center aisle. They climbed the altar steps and arranged themselves in three rows. In the audience, throats cleared, pews creaked, and programs rustled. Then the chorale director, a tall man in an all-red robe, walked out and raised his baton.

  Voices suddenly soared like angels as they broke into a rousing rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy.”

  Carmela listened, enjoying the lively tune, then slipped her phone out of her purse and checked the time. Five minutes after eight. And there were still no texts or messages.

  She half listened to the choir but was becoming more and more concerned about Babcock. It wasn’t like him to leave her in the lurch, even if he was still annoyed by her behavior.

  When the chorale group moved on to “Afternoon on a Hill,” a song based on a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Carmela was in a complete tizzy. Where could he be? More important, why didn’t he answer his phone? Impulsively, she got up and stepped to the back of the church. Should she try calling him again? No, it wouldn’t be right. Not with the choir singing their hearts out and the audience listening with rapt attention.

  She hurried out a side door and huddled against the building in the rapidly chilling air. She dialed Babcock again but there was still no answer. That earned him a clipped voice mail: “I’m at the cathedral concert. Did you forget about me?” She clutched the phone for a couple of minutes, waiting, and hoping that Babcock would receive her message and call right back. But no such luck.

  Either Babcock wasn’t getting her messages or, worse, he was ignoring them. It was easier to believe that his phone was dead or that maybe he’d left it in his car. Carmela slid the phone back into her purse and glanced across the street, hoping to see him, bent over, long legs pumping, hurrying toward her. But nobody was in sight and the street was deadly quiet. Even the musicians and performers way over in Jackson Square seemed to be on break.

  Now doubt crept into her mind. Had she given Babcock the correct time and place? Was it poss
ible that, in all the excitement, she might have screwed up and told Babcock to meet her in the back garden where she’d arranged to meet Shamus? Could she have gotten her locations mixed up? Oh dear, it was definitely possible.

  Carmela decided she’d better run back there and check. It would be awful if Babcock was standing in the dark in the Place de Henriette Delille waiting for her!

  She scooted down Pirate’s Alley once again and slipped into the small garden. The place seemed even darker than it had before, mournful and completely lost in shadows. And it was certainly lonelier without the company of her two dogs.

  “Babcock?” Carmela called out. “Edgar? Are you here?”

  The wind had picked up and was hissing through the trees as the white statue of Christ glowed eerily in the dark. Carmela crept back toward the stone bench where she’d been sitting earlier and sat down to wait. Now she could just barely hear the faint tones of the choir. They had switched to something madrigal, but their voices sounded far away.

  She fidgeted, crossing her arms and then uncrossing them. Doing the same with her legs. Her nervousness continued to build. Leaves swirled, tree branches rattled like dry bones, and then the wind slowly died down.

  The silence was suddenly broken by what sounded like a footfall shuffling over cement. Was someone walking across one of the graves out in back? She looked around nervously. Why couldn’t she see anyone? Carmela shivered and pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

  “Babcock,” she called out again, trying to sound confident.

  There was dead silence.

  Now the wind came up again, gusting and practically drowning out the chorale group. Beneath it all, Carmela could swear footsteps were drawing ever closer to her, snapping twigs, scraping hard against cement.

  Carmela stood up just as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, too.

  What am I doing here? This is crazy.

  Her heart fluttered; a bad premonition began jackhammering at her brain. What if Josh Cotton or Allan Hurst had followed her out the side door? What if one of them was the killer and knew full well that she was investigating? What if one of them was lurking here in the garden with her right now? If they’d killed twice, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a third time!