Crepe Factor (13 page)

“He certainly has a strong opinion,” Ava said. She'd been observing their exchange from the sidelines and now came over to join Carmela.

“But does an angry, sour personality mean that he's a murderer?” Carmela asked.

Ava squinted after Hurst. “Hard to tell.” Then, “I wonder what the food's like at his restaurant?”

*   *   *

When Carmela and Ava stepped outside, they were taken aback by the grandeur of the funeral procession. Martin Lash's coffin was being loaded onto an honest-to-goodness horse-drawn funeral coach that was painted with a high-gloss black lacquer and edged with silver trim. A liveried driver sat up top of the coach and held the reins to four horses. Each black horse was outfitted in full funeral regalia, complete with black leather harnesses and tall feathery plumes on their heads. With clouds parting and sunbeams bouncing off the casket and coach, it looked like a scene straight out of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
.

“I feel like we've been teleported back to the days of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire,” Ava said. “Bring on the noodle and strudel. Hook me up with a cute archduke.”

Carmela shook her head. “I'm not sure I've ever seen such a spectacle before. Yeah, there've been funerals with jazz bands and professional dancers, even a few with rap music. But this . . . this has got to hit a ten on the old wack-o-meter.”

“When it's my time to go I'd love a big crazy send-off like this.”

“When you go, there'll probably be dancing skeletons, Ouija boards, and flickering saint candles.”

“Or you could just scatter my ashes at Neiman Marcus.” She thought for a moment. “Better rip up my credit card, though.”

Carmela noticed Hurst walking toward his car, a red Mini Cooper. “I'd like to know more about that guy. Maybe even pay a visit to his restaurant, Fat Lorenzo's.”

“Where's it located again?”

“Over on Magazine Street.”

“Then why don't we hit his place tonight?” Ava suggested. “We can drop by our favorite resale shop, The Latest Wrinkle, and take a look at their new duds. Maybe try on a few overpriced but still stylish Chanel or Dior jackets and then mosey down the block and have dinner at Fat Lorenzo's. I can hopefully find a new outfit and you can look for clues.” She smiled serenely. “That way there's somethin' in it for everybody.”

Chapter 13

W
HEN
Carmela finally arrived at Memory Mine, Gabby was on her hands and knees, stuck halfway inside the bow-shaped front window. She was surrounded by a tangle of red, green, and gold ribbon as she carefully arranged a display of scrapbook pages and velvet-covered albums. Carmela gave a quick wave from out on the street and Gabby responded with a lopsided smile.

Once inside the shop, Carmela found that Gabby had already reversed motion and backed her way out of the window.

“Hey there,” Gabby said, scrambling to her feet and adjusting the pussycat bow on her white silk blouse. “You caught me right in the middle of doing a little housekeeping. How was the funeral?”

“Strange,” Carmela said. “The mourners were just as eccentric as the surroundings.”

“St. Roch
is
a pretty creepy place. All those weird teeth and eyeballs hanging on the walls and perched on little altars. Maybe that place brings out the worst in people. Maybe it's like the bad juju Ava is always warning us about.”

“Yeah, maybe . . . but how are you doing? Or, rather, I should say
what
are you up to? Those albums look fantastic in the window, by the way. And I take it you have more planned for this updated display?”

“I thought the holidays called for some new inspiration,” Gabby said. “So I made an executive decision to move things around and decided to add some of the crepe paper crafts we worked on yesterday.”

“I like it. And how about throwing in some journals and memory boxes?” Carmela asked.

“Oh, those will go in, too. Don't worry. I'm going to pack as much creativity and charm into our little window display as is humanly possible.”

Carmela picked up a package of colored beads and fingered it. “Gabby, you and Stuart get invited to lots of business-related social events. Have you ever come across a real estate developer by the name of Trent Trueblood?”

Gabby straightened up and smoothed her plaid skirt. “Trueblood? Yes, I do know that name.”

“I'm guessing he's kind of a big deal around town.”
And he was also named in a very strange lawsuit.

“Give me a second.” Gabby tapped an index finger against her front teeth. “Okay, I'm starting to remember this now. Trueblood was actually seated at our table when we attended the Chamber of Commerce Awards Dinner. He told me . . . well, actually, he kind of bragged about it . . . that he was developing Bridgewater Estates over near Lake Pontchartrain. You know, where that whole neighborhood was basically wiped out by Hurricane Katrina and then condemned by the city.”

“Such a pity,” Carmela said. “Now instead of a street filled with quaint Caribbean cottages and single homes there'll be cookie-cutter mega-mansions with fake white pillars. They'll turn that area into a neighborhood with no real character at all.”

“Well, don't say
that
to him.” Gabby tipped her head sideways at Carmela. “So why exactly are you asking about Mr. Trueblood?”

“Let's just say I found out that he was involved in a lawsuit with Martin Lash.”

Gabby's face tightened. “Good heavens, every little detail you uncover about your Martin Lash character gets stranger and stranger.”

“The thing is . . . Trueblood is also trying to build townhomes down in Boothville, and Martin Lash was vehemently opposed. As in lawsuit opposed.”

“Wait a minute. So now you're saying that Trueblood might also be a suspect in Lash's death? Carmela, you've got to watch your step. Trueblood's a big-time wheeler-dealer. He hobnobs with people on the city council and with the zoning commission. I mean it, be careful.”

“I will. I am.”

“Bite your tongue,” Gabby said. “Once again, you're rushing in where angels fear to tread. You should back away from this nasty Martin Lash business right now and let Babcock handle the investigating. He's the professional, after all.” She paused. “He's the one with the gun.”

“There's a huge problem. Babcock still thinks Quigg is the guilty party.”

Gabby shook her head slowly. “Carmela, please don't ruin a beautiful relationship over this. Over your . . . defense of Quigg. Babcock loves you. He wants to marry you.”

“Funny. He hasn't mentioned it lately.”

Gabby gave a deep sigh. “Yes, he has.
You
just don't want to hear it.”

*   *   *

Carmela ducked into her office, plopped down in her purple leather chair, and powered up her computer. Bridgewater Estates had a high-concept website complete with symphonic music, 3D floor plans, videos, and (natch!) up-to-date information on financing.

On the Contact tab, Carmela found their telephone number and hastily punched it into her phone.

The receptionist answered with a sweet honeyed voice and welcoming manner. “Bridgewater Estates. This is Effie. How can I help y'all?” The same symphonic music from the website played faintly in the background.

“Yes,” Carmela said. “I was just looking at your website and wanted to get a little more information about Bridgewater Estates.”

“Uh-huh,” Effie said. “I could send you a brochure if you'd like.”

“I was actually thinking about stopping by your sales office.”

“And you'd be most welcome to do so, honey. We're open today from one to four, so y'all can just drop by and take a look.”

“Is there any chance of meeting the developer in person?” Carmela asked.

“Mr. Trueblood is usually in his office most afternoons,” Effie said, a smile coloring her voice. “Though he is a busy man, so he does tend to pop in and out. But I'll tell him you're going to drop by and hope he sticks around. Best I can do.”

“That sounds great. But do tell him that Carmela Bertrand will definitely be stopping by.” Carmela hung up the
phone just as a shadow lurked at her door. She turned, worried it might be Babcock, coming by to harangue her again, but it was Gabby.

“Carmela, I've got a lady here who needs some expert advice on holiday cards.”

Carmela jumped up from her chair. “Then I guess that would be me.”

“I really need help,” the customer said. “I know I'm late getting started.”

“Not a problem,” Carmela said. She pulled cardstock, note cards, gold paper, and ribbon and set it all out on the back table. “What I would do is start with these precut note cards in midnight blue.”

“Sounds good,” said the woman.

“Then I'd layer on a scrap of gold paper that's kind of torn . . .” Carmela ripped a shred off. “Like this.”

The woman nodded. “Okay.”

“Then I'd adhere a sliver of ribbon, add a snippet of lace, and glue on this brass charm in the form of a star.” Carmela picked up a paper punch. “Then I'd punch out a few more gold stars and sprinkle them around.”

“I love it,” the woman said. “And what about the inside?”

“Well, you could write your greeting using a metallic pen so it shows up against the dark blue, or you could glue in a small square of cream-colored paper.”

The woman thought for a moment. “The cream paper. Definitely the cream.”

“Well, there you go,” Carmela said. She snuck a peek at the clock on the wall and decided it was time to get going.

*   *   *

The Bridgewater Estates sales complex was set smack-dab in the middle of ten acres of tumbledown
homes, most in the end stages of demolition. Bulldozers roared and scooped; large dump trucks waited in line to haul away the final remnants of people's lost lives.

The two model homes looked incongruous amidst such disarray. They were mega-sized and gaudy, with peaked rooflines and fake brick façades. The sales office that sat next to them was housed in an enormous double-wide trailer.

Carmela stepped inside the rather deluxe-looking trailer and gazed around. “Anybody home?”

A young woman with poufy blond hair and extra-long dark blue fingernails glanced up from a reception desk. “Hello there,” she said, her smile stretching wide across her face.

“Effie?” Carmela said.

“That's right, sugar.” Effie was wearing a tight black turtleneck, tight black pencil skirt, and sky-high stilettos. When she crossed her legs her skirt slid way above her knees. Carmela wondered if maybe she wasn't one of Ava's distant relatives.

Carmela touched a hand to her chest. “I'm Carmela Bertrand. I called earlier?”

“So you did. Let me start you off with one of our presentation kits.” Effie grabbed a folder and began stuffing all sorts of photos, plans, and papers into it. Carmela wondered how she could function with such long, sharp nails. Talons, really.

“Your homes look gorgeous,” Carmela lied.

“Prettiest new homes in the city,” Effie said. “Fit for a queen.” She smiled again and handed the folder to Carmela.

“Thanks.” Carmela glanced around. “Before I check out the model homes, is Mr. Trueblood here?”

“You're in luck. He's still hanging around the office.” Effie stood up, gave a kind of shimmy, and led Carmela into a second room where a large, architect's model occupied a Ping-Pong-sized table. Lit by overhead pinpoint spots it was
dazzling. “This is what the whole complex will look like when it's finally completed,” Effie said, waving a hand.

Carmela gazed at the model of Bridgewater Estates. It consisted of at least twenty mega-mansions, a central reflecting pool and recreation building, a tall spiked fence that ran all the way around the entire complex, and a gated entrance complete with uniformed guards.

Not very neighborly
, she decided.

“Good afternoon, ma'am,” a voice suddenly boomed in Carmela's ear.

Carmela looked up into the dark eyes of a man who was tall and rangy, with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back jet-black hair. He reminded her of an old-fashioned movie villain that you'd boo and hiss at. “Mr. Trueblood?” she said.

The man bobbed his head. “That's me, Trent Trueblood. Perhaps you've seen me on TV advertising True Blue Homes by Trueblood?”

“Perhaps I have.” Carmela had no recollection of seeing his smiling face beaming out at her from the tube. “I'm Carmela Bertrand. Nice to meet you.”

Trueblood stood over the model and spread his arms like a happy evangelist. “Isn't this spectacular? Each home is a minimum of five thousand square feet, with four or five bedrooms, chef's kitchen, five bathrooms, butler's pantry, exercise room, and state-of-the-art security system. We offer more size and luxury than most of the homes in the Garden District.”

But without the class, heritage, and genteel atmosphere
, Carmela thought.

Trueblood peered at her. “Do you have a large family? Are you interested in the four-bedroom Manchester model or our larger DeQuincy model that gives you five bedrooms with a bonus room over the four-car garage?”

“Actually, I'm more interested in your other development.”

Trueblood didn't miss a beat. “Ah, you're referring to our Parson's Point Townhomes down near Boothville. Yes, we're about to begin construction in a matter of weeks.”

“That's great news,” Carmela said. “Because I'd heard those plans had been scratched.”

Trueblood held up an index finger. “Not scratched, just put on hold for a while pending a few pesky details that needed to be ironed out. But I'm delighted to tell you that project is now proceeding full speed ahead.”

“So no problems with zoning?”

“Absolutely not. My company obtained a special permit from the Department of Natural Resources to build on the Boothville site. We developed a town house concept that will have low to no impact on the surrounding environment.” Trueblood rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “There will only be a dozen homes, constructed in the most ecologically sensitive way possible. And the entire community of Parson's Point will be surrounded by acreage that I've already purchased and donated to the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.” He smiled. “It will offer country living . . . bayou living . . . at its absolute finest.”