by Julie Chase
“What do you mean?” Did Mr. Becker also have a skin problem? He didn’t seem the sort to visit a dermatologist for a face peel or Botox. How sick was this man?
“He had my respect. Most men his age won’t see a therapist. They think men are supposed to be superhuman or emotionally stunted or something in between. And heaven forbid they need to talk to anyone about it. But Mr. Becker never missed a week.”
“Mr. Becker was seeing a therapist? Why? Did he go alone?” He’d definitely needed marriage counseling.
“I’m not sure. He seemed to be alone.”
Maybe his decaying health had taken a mental toll? Job stress? Keeping a woman on the side became an unmanageable emotional burden?
“Whatever the reason,” she said, “he came into the clinic every Tuesday, and he always had a smile.”
A glorious thought occurred, clogging my mouth with two dozen words, all fighting to get out at once. “Did you say the clinic on Fourth? Beside the chocolatier?” Karen’s practice was at that clinic. I knew the place inside and out. Had Wallace Becker and I shared a therapist?
“That’s the one.”
Surely his therapist knew who might want to kill him. I steepled my fingers. Karen wouldn’t willingly tell me anything that Mr. Becker had said in confidence, but I had a new lead!
I excused myself to take a pretend phone call, and the moment I was out of earshot, I made an appointment for some therapy.
* * *
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Jack’s truck outside Furry Godmother the next morning. I parked behind him and approached with caution. He was dressed in his urban cowboy gear. I especially enjoyed the black boots. They reminded me of the time he’d driven me home on his motorcycle. He gripped a drink carrier with two cups from Café Du Monde in one hand.
“Are those apology coffees?” I asked.
“No.”
Good. He wasn’t here to deliver bad news. “Come on in.” I unlocked the shop and disarmed my alarm, then flipped the “Open” sign around and hit the light switch. Not that I needed extra light with the fierce Southern sun beating through my big shop windows. The row of little white chandeliers flickered to life overhead, purely aesthetic but lovely nonetheless.
Jack set the cups on the counter, then released Penelope from her carrier for me.
I took my time getting over to the counter where he stood.
He trailed me with his gaze.
My hands dampened with nerves upon approach. I was clearly in trouble. The question was, why?
I cracked the top off my travel cup and tendrils of sweet steam rose into the air. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I attempted to look more inviting and less sleep deprived than I felt. A busy mind was hard to quiet, especially at bedtime. On the upside, I was ahead on my baking and flower costume mock-ups.
Jack stared, blank faced. “You seriously don’t know?”
I pursed my lips and concentrated on the heavenly scent of café au lait.
“Let me jog your memory,” he offered. “Did you happen to do anything interesting yesterday?”
“I attended a committee meeting with my mom.”
“Anything else?”
“I made an appointment with Karen.”
He cocked his head. “Your therapist?”
“Yep.”
He pressed the tip of one finger to the corner of his twitching eye. “That’s good. I’m glad you did that. Anything else? For example, did you happen to run into Mrs. Becker anywhere? Perhaps at the Cuddle Brigade?”
I made a duck face. “Actually . . .” My harried mind scrambled to create a twist on the events that might make me look less like a pest, but I had nothing. “Yes.”
He rubbed his face roughly with one palm. “And did you show up on her doorstep the night before? Invite yourself inside and ask personal questions about her late husband?”
The little bell over my door jingled with enthusiasm for my first round of morning shoppers.
“No.” I gathered sticky curls off my shoulders and fanned my face with my free hand. “She invited me inside. Is it hot in here?” I went to check the thermostat.
Jack stalked along beside me. “Do you have any idea why I’m here yet?”
“To yell at me for bugging Mrs. Becker?” I tossed him a sweet smile and tapped on the digital temperature display. According to the device, I was having a hot flash.
“Mrs. Becker applied for a restraining order last night.”
I spun on him. That was the kind of clue that could change everything. “From who?”
He mashed his handsome face into a knot. “From you,” he seethed. “The judge didn’t grant it. Thanks to a heavy push from me. He’d respected my grandpa, and he gave me the benefit of the doubt with you. This time.” Heavy emphasis on the final two words. “Moving forward, I promised to personally keep you away from Mrs. Becker.”
I pressed shaky hands against my hips and huffed. An irrational pang of rejection stung my chest. No one had ever disliked me so much that they’d sought police assistance to keep me away. I was a nice lady. A proper piece of society. My chin inched upward in defiance and my shoulders rolled back. “Why on earth would she need a restraining order? There’s been no threat on my part. I literally ran from her the last time I saw her.”
“Your uninvited presence at her home followed by a trip to her husband’s office justifies her alarm. Not to mention the man was recently murdered. She doesn’t know who killed him or if someone might be coming for her. The bogus story you fed a Cuddle Brigade secretary about Mrs. Becker made everything worse. Together, the incidents can be construed as obsession, and a warrant could have been issued to you, her stalker. She could still get legal counsel involved.”
“Jeez,” I grumbled, hands falling from my waist. “I wasn’t trying to upset her. Mom’s mad enough already. I can’t get in trouble with the police too.”
Jack followed my lead, relenting his bossy stance. He leaned closer and locked his weary gaze on mine. “Your mother promised to whoop my behind if you got into any more trouble. I’ve been warned, and I don’t take her threats lightly.”
“You were warned,” I echoed. “When?”
“When you were in the hospital after the last murder investigation you helped with.” He made dramatic air quotes around the word helped.
A sharp realization nearly knocked me over. “Is that why you’ve been pushing me away?” I closed the short distance between us, containing the conversation from potentially big-eared shoppers. “My mom made you my keeper? That’s not fair.” And there was absolutely nothing less attractive than that. Not that I cared if he thought I was attractive. But I did.
I tilted my head back for a better view of his face from my new proximity. “Please, tell Mrs. Becker I’m emotionally distraught and seeking help. It won’t happen again. I promise.” I’d take care of my mother.
“Insanity? Really?” He mumbled something about the truth.
I chose to ignore it. “Stress makes people behave irrationally. My dad’s been wrongfully accused of murder. The worry is taking a toll on me.”
Jack made a grim face. “Is that why you’re seeing Karen again?”
I didn’t know where to start with all the reasons I needed to see Karen again, but this appointment was all business. “I think she was Mr. Becker’s therapist too, so I made an appointment for Wednesday.”
Jack pressed a hand to his chest. “I’ll get in touch with Karen about Becker. You should keep the appointment for personal reasons.”
“Rude.”
“I’m not joking. You’ve been through a lot in the past year, even before you came home, and at the moment, you’re clearly agitated.”
“There’s another killer in the district,” I hissed. “Of course I’m agitated. This makes three in ten months, and my dad could wind up in jail for nothing. When is this going to stop?” I sucked air, shocked by my sudden outburst. I cupped a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “
I didn’t mean to . . .” My eyes stung with embarrassment.
Jack’s features softened. He ran a gentle palm from my shoulder to my elbow, leaving a trail of goose bumps on my skin. “There’s always been crime in the district. You’ve only recently become aware of it, but it’s not new.” His voice was deep and strong. He gripped my elbow in his palm and dipped his face close to mine. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but NOPD does a mighty fine job without your assistance.” His lips curved into a warm smile.
I chuckled. “I know. I didn’t mean to freak out.”
“It’s okay. Understandable, like I said. You’re carrying a lot of anxiety, and it would help to talk to someone who’s impartial. So see Karen for you. You told me before that she helped.”
“She’s pretty terrific.”
“Good. Try to relax. Whatever comes, take it with a grain of salt and know that I’m on your side.”
I didn’t like his word choice, specifically the whatever comes portion. Was something bad coming? Did he know what that was?
Jack released me and moved away. “Do you still have my whistle?”
The one that he’d given me at Thanksgiving? The one that had once saved my life? “Yeah.” I never left home without it. “Any specific reason you’re asking?”
Jack pressed his back to the wall and crossed his arms. “I just want you to stay safe.” There was a fresh tone of exhaustion in his voice. Deep purple crescents underlined his eyes, and it suddenly seemed as if the wall was the only thing holding him upright.
“Have you slept?”
“Not much.” He scrubbed heavy palms over his eyes. “I was up late going through Tabitha’s former place and everything she left behind.”
“Gain any new insight?”
Jack gave my store a long look, searching each customer slowly before turning back to me. “Maybe.”
I froze. “Maybe? What?”
“It could be nothing.”
Was he kidding? “You can’t say something like that and then brush it off. What did you find?”
He dug long fingers into his pant pocket and liberated a square of green paper.
I took the folded cardstock in my fingertips and turned it around. Small purple silhouettes of wine bottles peppered the stiff material. A thin loop of twine ran through a little hole in the corner. “It’s a gift tag.” I unfolded it carefully and read the inscription. “Tabitha, keep up the good work. Sage.” I returned the note to him. “Who’s Sage?”
“I don’t know. I found this wedged behind the baseboard in her former closet. The design makes me think the gift could’ve been a bottle of wine.”
“That’s reasonable.” My eyes widened. “You think this is from one of the bottles. One that had drugs mixed in.”
“Maybe.” He exhaled long and slow. “It could also be nothing, but it’s definitely interesting, all things considered.”
“Agreed.” I raised my eyes to his. “For a moment, when Mrs. Becker confided that her husband was seeing a blonde woman half his age, I thought it might’ve been Tabitha.”
“She’s too smart to come back here. She knows I’m looking for her.”
I nodded. Jack was right. There was no way Tabitha could’ve been in the district enough to forge a relationship with Mr. Becker without Jack knowing about it. “We need to find out who Sage is so we can ask him about this tag.”
Jack frowned. “You think Sage is a man’s name?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s a weird one. It might be a code. What if there’s a deeper meaning behind—”
“Lacy.” Jack interrupted. “Stay out of this.” His smile was kind, but his eyes were serious. “I mean it.”
I extended a hand in his direction. “Hi, I’m Lacy Crocker. It’s nice to meet you.”
He pinned me with his blank cop expression.
“You know I’m going to worry about it. If you didn’t want me to worry about it, why would you have shown it to me?”
He looked like I’d slapped him. “You’re always saying I don’t tell you things. So”—he paused—“now I’m telling you things.”
“Aw.” I wrapped my arms around his middle. “Thank you.”
He reluctantly rested his hands on my back.
“You’re finally opening up to me, and I’m definitely going to help you find Sage.”
Chapter Eleven
Furry Godmother’s protip: Second banana trumps first monkey every time.
Jack held the door for Mrs. Hams on his way out.
Her bushy salt-and-pepper hair was wild with humidity as she hustled inside, keeping one eye on Jack as she passed.
He nodded at her before casting a worrisome look in my direction. “Meant what I said,” he promised.
“Me too.” I beamed.
I waved and pulled myself into proper shopkeeper mode. “Hi, Mrs. Hams.” Mrs. Hams was Mom’s nemesis and the leader of the Llama Mamas, a group of llama owners living on plantations outside the city. The Llama Mamas also raised money for charity, so when Mrs. Hams had accused Mom of being a city dweller a few years back, Mom had taken offense. How could she be faulted for the fact that her great-grandfather had sold the family plantation a century ago to build our home in the city? Mom struck at Mrs. Hams where it hurt most—her pride. She started her own group of fundraising farm animals called the Jazzy Chicks, and the war was on. Now the Llama Mamas and Jazzy Chicks battled constantly over which group has done the most good or made the biggest difference. It was silly and exhausting, but it diverted Mom’s attention from me, and I called that a win. On the flip side, I worked for both groups, and that could get sticky.
I brightened my smile. “How can I help you?” Hopefully, whatever she needed wouldn’t affect my mother. Mom’s buttons couldn’t take much more pushing this week, and I didn’t want to be the one to send her over the edge.
She watched Jack pull away from the curb before bellying up to my counter. “Handsome.”
“Yep.”
She dug one arm into her giant quilted bag and fished around. “How’s your schedule this week?”
“There’s always time for you, Mrs. Hams. What do you need?”
“I’d like to do something nice for my llamas.” She pulled a notepad from her bag and swiveled it to face me. “Obviously my team can’t become the face of the Garden District or be crowned ambassadors for the National Pet Pageant, but they can certainly dress their part and represent the bayou.”
“Of course.”
She tapped an unpainted fingernail on the paper. “Eyelet lace capes and matching bonnets for the girls. Straw hats with bandanas and fleur-de-lis pins for the boys. What do you think?” She locked her small brown eyes on me.
“They’re perfect.” I grabbed a pink sketchpad and writing utensil from my drawer. The pencil seemed to have a mind of its own as it re-created Mrs. Hams’s pictures, skating across the paper with precision. “Something like this?” My llama drawings were coming along, but the eyes were always wrong. I rubbed a gum eraser over the face, leaving its features unfinished.
Mrs. Hams watched intently as I fussed over the curve in the bonnet string. “Those are lovely. You always do such a good job of interpreting my scribbles, and you never complain. I honestly don’t know how you do most of the things you do.”
Pride puffed me up like a balloon. “You’re very kind.”
“And you’re quite talented. How soon can you finish them? I can’t wait to see the Mamas’ faces when I present them with the finished products.”
I tapped my eraser against the counter’s edge. The pieces wouldn’t take long once I got started, but I’d committed to the NPP court costumes yesterday. I wanted to give the committee’s orders my attention first, but Mrs. Hams kept me on retainer, so I couldn’t put her off. Time would be tight. I rubbed a little pile of eraser dust from the page with my thumb. “If you don’t need to see mock-ups, I can probably finish them this week. I have the llamas’ measurements and most of the materials to make these
look fantastic.”
She checked her watch. “I’ll be back in town Saturday. Have them ready then.” She patted the counter and left.
I hustled to the back room, hoping I had at least two bolts of white eyelet in need of a purpose.
The doorbell jingled out front. “Lacy?” Imogene’s voice carried over the soft murmur of chatting customers.
“In the back,” I called. I gathered the things I needed for Mrs. Hams’s order and stacked them near my desk. When she didn’t come to see me, I dusted my palms and headed to the storefront.
Imogene paced behind the bakery counter, a look of exasperation on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find my apron.”
I unhooked the personalized apron from a crystal knob behind her and put it in her hands. “What else is wrong?”
She slid the soft material over her head and twisted the ties into a bow at her back. “Veda’s not well, and we can’t reach her next of kin.”
I scrutinized her disheveled appearance and the deep lines running over her forehead. There was nothing more important to Imogene than people. Her friends and family, neighbors and strangers. She wanted the best for everyone. Always. When someone in her world was hurting, her heart weathered the storm with theirs. “Have you left a message?”
She furrowed her thick brows. “We can’t find her. There’s no one to leave a message with.”
I worked the conversation through my cluttered mind. “So the next of kin’s missing?”
“Well”—she wrinkled her nose—“not necessarily.”
“I’m going to need more information.” And possibly a Lady’s Petunia to deal with the convoluted problems of Imogene and Veda. They were, in essence, to the French Quarter what Scarlet and I were to the Garden District. Trouble.
“Veda’s never met her. It doesn’t work that way in her family. In fact, I’m not even sure her great-granddaughter knows she exists.”
“Ah.” Veda was looking for a family member who didn’t know she existed. That seemed about right. I knew better than to get pulled into Imogene’s whackadoodle world, but I couldn’t help myself. Why didn’t the great-granddaughter know about Veda? And how did Veda know about her? “If Veda’s never met the woman, then what does she need her for now? Veda’s one hundred, right? Is this an inheritance thing?”
