Crepe Factor (25 page)

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!

I've got to get out of here!

Carmela took off as if a starter's gun had just been fired. She dashed through the little garden, spun through the narrow gate, and hit Pirate's Alley at a dead run. Clattering
along the cobblestones, running as fast as her silver high heels could carry her, she was positive she could hear footsteps coming after her!

Should she stop? Should she look back? No. If it was Babcock who was behind her, he would have called out to her by now.

She pounded down Pirate's Alley in a full-out, gasping-for-her-next-breath sprint, trying to get away from whatever madman was chasing her.

Carmela spun around the corner of the cathedral, trying to hold a tight line and suddenly ran—wham!—right into someone's arms. She shrieked, backpedaled like mad, and tried to push the man away.

But the man had wrapped his arms around her and was holding her tight.

“Please!” she struggled, pleading with him. “Let me go!”

“Carmela, honey,” came a calming voice. “It's me.”

“What?” She forced herself to focus, to stop shaking her head and actually
look
at the man. Holy Hannah, it was Babcock! “It's you!” she cried out, close to tears now.

Babcock pulled her closer. “Carmela, calm down. What happened? What were you doing back there? Why were you running down the alley like that?”

Carmela nestled against him, still shaking and barely able to force out a whisper. “I went back there looking for you. And then someone . . . somebody came after me. They were chasing me.”

Babcock drew back, alarmed. “Chasing you just now?”

Carmela bobbed her head.

“Wait here!” Babcock practically lifted her out of the way and stuck her in the doorway of the church. Then he pulled out his Glock and, with barely a hint of hesitation, sprinted down the alley.

As she waited, Carmela was not the least bit comforted by the voices of the chorale group that filtered out of the cathedral. All she wanted to hear was Babcock cornering someone in the garden, yelling at them to kneel down and put their hands on their head, and then calling for backup.

No such thing happened.

A few minutes later, he came walking around the corner and emerged into the faint yellow glow of a streetlamp. “There wasn't anybody there,” he told her. He looked a little puzzled.

“Are you positive?”

“I did a sweep of the park, checked the perimeter.”

Her was giving her cop lingo now, but Carmela wanted more. She wanted answers.

“I wouldn't have even been back there if you'd met me like you promised,” she said in an accusing tone. She felt scared and heartsick. She feared he didn't believe her. Or maybe that he didn't want to be with her anymore.

“The deputy chief called an emergency meeting just as I was about to leave,” Babcock explained. He gazed at her in what appeared to be complete earnestness. “I could hardly say no.”

“You could have at least texted me.”

“You're right. I should have done that and I didn't.” He lifted his hands and then dropped them. “I'm very sorry. I screwed up.”

Carmela gazed at Babcock. He really did look sorry.

“The meeting was about the Martin Lash case?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Anything new?”

“Short of holding a séance, I don't know how we're going to figure this out.” Babcock stepped closer to her and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to go inside and catch the rest of the concert?” His lips nuzzled the top of her head.

Carmela shook her head. “No. I've kind of lost my taste for it. Please, could you just take me home?”

“You're still mad.”

“No, I'm not.” Yes, she was. She was mad at herself for being so twitchy, mad at him for being late.

Babcock walked her to his car, held the door open, and waited until she was settled. Their drive home was very quiet until they pulled up outside her apartment.

She felt his gaze in the dark.

“May I come in?”

Carmela wanted him to, she really did. But something inside her prompted her to say, “Probably not tonight.”

“If that's how you feel, okay. And please believe me, I really am sorry.”

“I know that.” Carmela reached into her purse to grab her keys and caught sight of the little voodoo doll she'd stuffed down inside. The one she'd pulled the pin out of. She looked at him and said, “How's your shoulder?”

“Funny thing about that,” Babcock said. “The pain went away.”

Chapter 25

W
HEN
Carmela answered her doorbell the next morning, she found Ava standing there hugging a bulging red tote bag that was decorated with rhinestone skulls.

“Not to worry,
cher
,” Ava sang out. “I brought all the supplies we need.” She pawed around inside her tote and pulled out a chilled bottle of Bollinger Brut. “When you called to invite me to your impromptu little brunch, I dug around in my fridge and it was either this or a two-week-old head of iceberg lettuce.”

“The champagne should do the trick,” Carmela said. “Get in here, you.”

Ava scooted inside and, with one swift kick with her leather bootie, shut the door behind her. “I figured we could add a dash of orange juice and a smash of Grand Marnier and—boom—we've got ourselves the perfect Grand Mimosa.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Carmela called from the kitchen, where she'd gone back to her chopping and stirring.

Ava peeled off her tiger-striped sweater coat and used both hands to straighten her leopard-print bustier. Then she smoothed her painted-on denim jeggings and looked around. “Seems strange not having Boo and Poobah around. They add so much . . . um . . .”

“Frenzy?”

“Well, they are active little buggers, that's for sure. So Shamus has them for the whole weekend?” Ava sauntered over to watch Carmela in the kitchen.

Carmela nodded. “The one thing, the only thing, I regret about my divorce is that Shamus gets time with the fur babies. Oh well, too late to screw him over now. You want to fix the mimosas while I whip up some eggs française?”

“
Cher
, just hearing the words
eggs française
puts me into sheer ecstasy.”

“You must be awfully hungry, because they're really only fancy French scrambled eggs.”

Ava clutched her chest. “Ooh, don't burst my bubble.”

Carmela grabbed two champagne flutes from the cupboard and handed them to Ava. “Drinks, please.”

“Gotcha.” Ava grasped the bottle of champagne and eased out the cork. It gave a nice satisfying pop. “You know I'm always ready to party, but I was plenty surprised when I got your call this morning. That you decided not to go in to work.”

Carmela cracked eggs into a blue-and-white-speckled bowl. “It's Saturday and I just needed a day. Besides, when I phoned Gabby and told her I wouldn't be in, she said she could manage just fine. We didn't have any classes scheduled, so . . . I think she was happy to run solo.”

“Well, two can play the hooky game.” Ava pulled her cell
phone out of her bustier and tapped at the keyboard furiously. “
Hola
, Miguel.
Sí.
I'm fine, really. But I'm having breakfast over at Carmela's and then I've got a ton of pressing errands to run.” She gave Carmela a slow wink. “So if you can manage Juju Voodoo on your own . . . oh, you can? It's not a problem? Well, okeydokey. Call me if something pressing comes up.”

“So . . . you're cool?” Carmela asked.

Ava poured out a long draft of champagne. “We have a long day of freedom stretching ahead of us. And to help kick it off, a nice bottle of champagne.”

“OJ's in the fridge,” Carmela said.

“I'm getting to that.” Ava poured champagne into the second glass, grabbed the orange juice, and added a couple of judicious splashes. Then she gave both drinks a quick stir and topped them both with Grand Marnier.

“Looking good,” Carmela said. “And I could use a fortifying sip before I start the eggs.”

“Then drink up.” Ava handed her a Grand Mimosa.

Carmela sipped her drink. “Delicious.”

“I give good mimosa.” Ava took a long sip of her drink and said, rather cryptically, “I have something to tell you.”

“Me, too,” Carmela said. “But you go first.”

Ava let out her words in one enormous whoosh: “Roman Numeral asked me to house-sit for his parents while they're away on vacation.”

“Okay,” Carmela said cautiously. “You're referring to their ginormous Garden District house?”

“Yup.”

“And where, pray tell, will your dear Harrison be during this time? Cozying up alongside you in the ginormous Garden District house?”

Ava's brows pinched together. “I'm afraid he's got different plans. He's traveling with his parents to Majorca.”

“What!” Carmela stared at Ava. “And he didn't ask you to go along?”

Ava shook her head. “Disappointing, no?”

“Disappointing, yes. So while you're blowing out the steam pipes and checking the furnace, Harrison will be having a grand old time . . . strolling the beaches of the Mediterranean, enjoying the local dives, the amusing house vino . . .”

“And the local women,” Ava spat out.

“Hey, no relationship is perfect. Look at me and Babcock.”

“Are you kidding? You two are crazy perfect.”

“Oh, honey. Wait until you hear my story.”

“Yeah?”

“Give me two minutes to whip up these eggs.”

“Go for it,” Ava said.

Carmela whipped her eggs with her new wire whisk, slid them into her fry pan along with fresh chopped chives and scallions, and pulled a pan of cranberry muffins out of the oven. A few more whisks of the eggs and, five minutes later, she and Ava were sitting at the table together.

They lifted their glasses and clinked them together.

“Here's to playing hooky,” Ava said. “Now would you please tell me w
hy
we're playing hooky?”

“It's a long, complicated story.”

“We've got all day.”

“Some jackhole terrorized and chased me last night.”

“What!”

So Carmela had to tell Ava all about handing over the dogs to Shamus, waiting for Babcock outside the cathedral, then going back to the Place de Henriette Delille because she thought maybe she'd given Babcock the wrong instructions. And then she told her all about getting chased.

“And you think you got chased by a real-life bogeyman?”

“I think so, yes.”

“But you didn't see who it was?” Ava asked.

“I was too terrified to turn around. But I gotta tell you, I saw Allan Hurst, the Fat Lorenzo's guy, and Josh Cotton, from the Environmental Justice League, go into that cathedral right before the concert started. So I kind of think it might have been one of them.”

Ava picked up the bottle of champagne and poured them each a straight shot. No OJ to dilute it this time. “Do you think one of them followed you out? I mean, when you left to call Babcock.”

“I don't know. Neither of them seemed to notice me, but that could have been a charade. So, yeah, I guess either one could have followed me.”

“Poor baby. And you didn't have any kind of weapon on you?”

“For some strange reason, I left my Uzi at home in my sock drawer. But you're right, I should have been carrying something. A can of mace, a hatpin even. I didn't even have a big clunky purse.”

“With a hatpin,” Ava said, “you have to stick it right square in the jerk's eye.”

“I think I'd stick it somewhere else.”

Ava let loose a high-pitched giggle and said, “These eggs are real good.”

“Aren't they?”

“What's your secret?” Ava asked.

“Heavy cream, some butter, and lots of whisking.”

“So lots of fat and a nimble wrist.”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Are there more of those muffins? To add to my muffin top?”

“Of course.” Carmela grabbed two cranberry muffins from the kitchen and carried them to the table. “You know.
Everybody that's a suspect—Josh Cotton, Allan Hurst, Helen McBride—they're all well aware that I've been investigating.”

Ava finished buttering her muffin and looked up. “Okay.”

“I know this is going to sound weird, but maybe Trueblood's murder was just collateral damage. Maybe somebody figured out that I was driving down to the Parson's Point sales office and Trueblood just happened to show up first. Maybe he came stumbling in, the place was dark, and they figured it was me.”

Ava looked alarmed. “
Cher
, that's awful. To think that
you
were the intended victim?”

“I know it's awful.”

“Do you think that possibility has crossed Babcock's mind?”

Carmela thought for a few moments. “No, I don't think so.” She aimed her fork at Ava. “And don't you tell him.”

“Even if it means saving your life?”

“Please don't put it that way.”

Ava speared a bite of egg and said, “You know something.”

“What do I know?” Carmela asked. “What are you talking about?”

“That's the thing. I don't know what you know. But
somebody
thinks you know more than you do. That's the reason somebody chased after you last night.”

“I'm not sure I follow your logic,” Carmela said.

“Because it isn't logical,” Ava said.

“Wait a minute. Now I'm really getting confused.”

Ava agreed. “It's a confusing issue.”

Carmela thought for a few minutes. “All I really know is . . . there's something weird going on down in the bayous south of here. First Martin Lash is murdered—maybe because of his environmental organization, which was very involved in protecting that area. And then Trent Trueblood—who was trying to build townhomes in that exact same area—gets killed.”

“So you think the two killings are related?” Ava asked.

“I don't know. I still don't see the how or the why. But I don't think either of those men was killed for the reason Babcock thinks they were.”

“Explain, please,” Ava said, looking intrigued.

“Babcock is becoming more and more convinced that Lash was murdered in retaliation for a poison-pen restaurant review that he wrote.”

“But you don't think so.”

“I
thought
that was the reason at first, but now it doesn't feel right to me,” Carmela said. “And I don't believe Trueblood was killed because he had some kind of falling-out with one of his contractors.”

“Then what's really going on?”

“That's the mystery, I guess. I don't know how those two killings are linked, but it feels like they are.” Carmela took a sip of champagne. “But I don't think we're going to find the answer sitting on our butts drinking champagne in the French Quarter.”

Ava cocked an eye at her. “Yeah? Then where are we going to find it?”

“South of here in bayou country?”

“You don't sound all that convinced.”

“Probably because I'm not.” Carmela thought for a few moments. “What we need to do is to make contact with somebody down in that area who's really plugged in. Someone who's familiar with the people and who knows the lay of the land.”

Ava shook her head. “I can't imagine who that would be.”

But a germ of an idea was forming in Carmela's brain. And it was starting to feel pretty good. “Ava, do you remember what you said to me yesterday afternoon?”

“I don't remember what I said five minutes ago. What did I say? Was I brilliant?”

“Kind of. You said we were up a creek without a paddle.”

“Carmela, I was speaking metaphorically.”

“And I'm thinking that we should go up a creek literally!”

“Wait a minute,” Ava said, her eyes taking on an excited gleam. “Are you talking about . . . ?” She cocked an index finger at Carmela.

“That's right,” Carmela said. “We need to get in touch with our old pals Moony and Squirrel.”