Free Crepe Factor by Laura Childs Page A

course. One of your favorites.”
    Babcock gave a noncommittal grunt.
    â€œExcuse me?” Carmela said. She’d just about had her fill of Babcock’s bad behavior.
    â€œThat call I just took?” Babcock said. “It was about your buddy.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    Babcock lowered his voice. “Quigg Brevard somehow managed to have all of Martin Lash’s reviews on the Glutton for Punishment website taken down.”
    Carmela was surprised. “He did? Really? Just like that?”
    â€œApparently he snapped his fingers and—poof!—the reviews simply disappeared.” He took a sip of wine while he held her with his eyes. “You don’t know anything about that, do you?”
    The implication irritated Carmela. “No, of course not. And I can’t imagine how Quigg managed to pull Lash’s reviews down so quickly. Or figure out whose arm to twist.”
    â€œThe guy’s obviously got friends,” Babcock said. “Business compadres who are willing to stick their necks out for him.”
    â€œChill out, will you?” Carmela hissed. She was still miffed that Babcock continued to see Quigg as a suspect. The only suspect.
    The rest of the dinner felt like a blur to Carmela. The food was fantastic, of course. A spicy duck gumbo; a colorful Noel salad topped with strawberries, cranberries, and walnuts; and an entrée of blackened redfish with pommes Anna. Desert was a delicious zuppa inglese, a creamy mélange of custard and sponge cake.
    Carmela laughed, chatted, and made jokes as if nothing was amiss, but she was keenly focused on Babcock giving her what felt like a very cold shoulder. When dinner was finally over and couples began wandering into the bars and lounges for a nightcap, Babcock bolted a cup of black coffee and turned to her.
    â€œI’m sorry, but I really have to leave,” Babcock said. “Wouldyou like me to take you home or can you catch a ride with your friends?”
    Carmela gave him the chilliest stare her blue eyes could muster. “A lady always leaves with the gentleman who brought her.”
    Babcock stood up. “Then we’d better get going.”
    The ride home wasn’t much better. Babcock made only noncommittal grunts to her idle, nervous chatter.
    â€œAre you even listening to me?” Carmela asked.
    â€œOf course I am.”
    â€œWhat did I just say?”
    â€œUm, something about a concert?”
    â€œNice try.”
    â€œCarmela, I’m sorry. But I’m preoccupied. Can’t you see that?”
    â€œYes, I can see that. In fact, everyone at the Reveillon dinner could see that.”
    He pulled his car to the curb and stopped. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
    She leaned across the front seat, gave him a perfunctory kiss, and reached for the door handle. “Edgar, it really was.” And then she was out of the car and running through the porte cochere, headed for her apartment. Her heels clicked like castanets against the flagstones, her opera cape billowed out behind her.
    What a disaster
, Carmela thought.
What a waste of an evening. Better to have stayed in and snarfed an entire bag of Chips Ahoy! than to . . .
    A long shadow moved across the courtyard in front of her.
    Carmela stopped in her tracks, eyes gone wide, heart suddenly fluttering in her chest like a wounded dove.
Someone’s here? Waiting for me?
    Banana palms waved in the chilly breeze, the water in thefountain splattered as it dripped from one level to the next. All familiar sounds that suddenly felt lonely and threatening.
    Mustering her courage, Carmela called out, “Is someone here?” She was holding her breath, mentally girding herself for Martin Lash to stagger out and grab her like a returning corpse from
The Walking Dead.
    Instead, Quigg Brevard stepped out from the shadows.
    â€œHoly crap!” Carmela cried. She lowered her beaded clutch from where