said, “if you make it I know it’s gonna be wonderful.”
Thirty minutes later Babcock was singing the praises of Carmela’s monkey bread. “This is so good,” he told her. “And you seriously made this from refrigerated biscuits?”
Carmela nodded.
“Tastes like it’s from scratch.”
“That’s the general idea,” she told him. “Want another piece?”
He nodded.
Carmela cut him another hunk of monkey bread, slathered it with butter, and put it on his plate.
“Thanks.”
“Got a question,” she said.
Chewing contentedly, Babcock smiled at her. “Shoot.”
“About the fire up in the tower room . . .”
“Wasn’t really a fire,” said Babcock.
“But the walls looked all charred.”
Babcock nodded, still chewing. “Best-guess scenario we have right now is an incendiary device.”
“Explain please,” said Carmela.
He tore off a bite of monkey bread and swirled it in the butter that had slid onto the plate. “Bomb, grenade, that type of thing.”
“So it suggests someone with military training?” Offhand, Carmela couldn’t think of anyone with that type of background.
“Or just access to that kind of stuff,” said Babcock. “These days, you can buy that shit everywhere. Get it on the Internet or from crazies who sell it out of the backs of their trucks or set up gun garage sales at public storage lockers.”
“Gun garage sales?” said Carmela. It was interesting what you learned hanging around with a cop.
When Babcock finally claimed to be stuffed, Carmela cleaned up, slid the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and wandered back to the leather chair, where Babcock was leafing through one of her fashion magazines.
“Ladies really like this stuff, huh?” he asked.
She nodded and sat down beside him. He dropped the magazine. She snuggled in next to him and he tipped his head down and kissed her on the eyebrow.
“Tickles,” she told him.
“I saw a packet from a lawyer sitting over there,” he told her. “Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Just settlement papers.”
“The ex files,” said Babcock.
“Hah,” said Carmela. “Good one.”
Finally they started to kiss and neck a little more seriously. Which, of course, meant a move into the bedroom and lighting the candles in the silver candelabra that Carmela had pinched from Shamus’s house.
Boo and Poobah, respecting Carmela and Babcock’s privacy, remained in the living room.
As they were drifting off to sleep, Carmela finally asked the question she’d been dying to ask all night. “Any suspects?”
“Mmm,” said Babcock, rolling over onto his side and snuggling in contentedly. “One or two.”
Carmela’s ears perked up, but she let a couple of beats go by. Then she asked, “Who?”
When nothing was forthcoming from the other side of the bed, she asked “Who?” once again. But for all the good it did her, she may as well have been a barred owl, hunkered in a tree, solitary in the night, listening hard for the scuffle of unsuspecting mice.
Chapter 10
G ARTH Mayfeldt came sailing into Memory Mine just as Gabby was turning on lights and Carmela was trying to coax their ailing coffee maker into spitting out a few turgid cups of chicory coffee.
“Now I’m a suspect!” were the first words out of Garth’s mouth.
“What?” said Gabby, whirling about, looking suddenly stricken. “Are you serious?”
Doggone , thought Carmela. Why hadn’t Babcock shared this with her last night when he was sharing her bed? She let that notion rumble through her brain for a few seconds. Probably, she decided, because if he’d told her that he was looking hard at Garth, he wouldn’t have gotten an ounce of shut-eye. Or any monkey bread, either.
Gabby led Garth to the back table, then sat down beside him in a commiserating gesture. She was a frequent customer at Fire and Ice and pretty much thought the world of Garth. Especially since he’d helped persuade her husband to
buy a glamour-girl three-carat
Thirty minutes later Babcock was singing the praises of Carmela’s monkey bread. “This is so good,” he told her. “And you seriously made this from refrigerated biscuits?”
Carmela nodded.
“Tastes like it’s from scratch.”
“That’s the general idea,” she told him. “Want another piece?”
He nodded.
Carmela cut him another hunk of monkey bread, slathered it with butter, and put it on his plate.
“Thanks.”
“Got a question,” she said.
Chewing contentedly, Babcock smiled at her. “Shoot.”
“About the fire up in the tower room . . .”
“Wasn’t really a fire,” said Babcock.
“But the walls looked all charred.”
Babcock nodded, still chewing. “Best-guess scenario we have right now is an incendiary device.”
“Explain please,” said Carmela.
He tore off a bite of monkey bread and swirled it in the butter that had slid onto the plate. “Bomb, grenade, that type of thing.”
“So it suggests someone with military training?” Offhand, Carmela couldn’t think of anyone with that type of background.
“Or just access to that kind of stuff,” said Babcock. “These days, you can buy that shit everywhere. Get it on the Internet or from crazies who sell it out of the backs of their trucks or set up gun garage sales at public storage lockers.”
“Gun garage sales?” said Carmela. It was interesting what you learned hanging around with a cop.
When Babcock finally claimed to be stuffed, Carmela cleaned up, slid the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and wandered back to the leather chair, where Babcock was leafing through one of her fashion magazines.
“Ladies really like this stuff, huh?” he asked.
She nodded and sat down beside him. He dropped the magazine. She snuggled in next to him and he tipped his head down and kissed her on the eyebrow.
“Tickles,” she told him.
“I saw a packet from a lawyer sitting over there,” he told her. “Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Just settlement papers.”
“The ex files,” said Babcock.
“Hah,” said Carmela. “Good one.”
Finally they started to kiss and neck a little more seriously. Which, of course, meant a move into the bedroom and lighting the candles in the silver candelabra that Carmela had pinched from Shamus’s house.
Boo and Poobah, respecting Carmela and Babcock’s privacy, remained in the living room.
As they were drifting off to sleep, Carmela finally asked the question she’d been dying to ask all night. “Any suspects?”
“Mmm,” said Babcock, rolling over onto his side and snuggling in contentedly. “One or two.”
Carmela’s ears perked up, but she let a couple of beats go by. Then she asked, “Who?”
When nothing was forthcoming from the other side of the bed, she asked “Who?” once again. But for all the good it did her, she may as well have been a barred owl, hunkered in a tree, solitary in the night, listening hard for the scuffle of unsuspecting mice.
Chapter 10
G ARTH Mayfeldt came sailing into Memory Mine just as Gabby was turning on lights and Carmela was trying to coax their ailing coffee maker into spitting out a few turgid cups of chicory coffee.
“Now I’m a suspect!” were the first words out of Garth’s mouth.
“What?” said Gabby, whirling about, looking suddenly stricken. “Are you serious?”
Doggone , thought Carmela. Why hadn’t Babcock shared this with her last night when he was sharing her bed? She let that notion rumble through her brain for a few seconds. Probably, she decided, because if he’d told her that he was looking hard at Garth, he wouldn’t have gotten an ounce of shut-eye. Or any monkey bread, either.
Gabby led Garth to the back table, then sat down beside him in a commiserating gesture. She was a frequent customer at Fire and Ice and pretty much thought the world of Garth. Especially since he’d helped persuade her husband to
buy a glamour-girl three-carat
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