by Julie Chase
“Well,” I stuttered, taken aback by the sudden change in her tone. “I know it’s early, but I have a box of vintage casual wear that you might be interested in.” I made a face at myself in the mirror. I had no such thing, unless she counted torn jeans and old band T-shirts.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’m at another pickup now, but I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
We disconnected, and I set my phone aside. The boxes of old clothes I’d taken from Mom’s house would have to be donated after all. A small sacrifice if our chat panned out.
I flipped through the boxes for things I couldn’t live without. Not because I was a packrat, like my mom and grandmother before her, but because I was sentimental and responsible. It would be reckless to give away something I’d need later. I pulled my Louisiana State University homecoming shirt from the pile and tossed it on my bed. Halter tops were bound to make a comeback. I saved three of those, along with some plaid track shoes and a purse made from the cover of a Harry Potter novel. It had taken me forever to finish that.
Penelope climbed into a half-empty box and rolled on the significantly smaller offering.
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s not enough to justify her trip.” I grabbed my car keys and went to the driveway. I checked under the car and looked up and down the block for stalkers with camera gear before popping the trunk. I hoisted out another load of my old things and zipped back to the house. Boot-cut jeans and peasant tops. Ice skates. Pint-sized golf clubs and youth golf team apparel. No wonder the district was obsessed with anonymous donations. I arranged the boxes by my front door, fluffing and repositioning them until they looked like more.
A car door slammed outside.
I salvaged my old riding crop and helmet from the pile then ran them to my bedroom. I returned to the living room a little out of breath. Penelope had curled into an overturned trucker hat full of plastic Live Strong bracelets. I scooped her out and shut the box to hide the fact that my stuff wasn’t as much “vintage” as “college-kid poor.”
I counted to ten after the doorbell rang. “Hello, Ms. Post. Come inside, won’t you?”
She tripped over the threshold and grabbed the wall for balance. Her pink, elastic-waist pants were capri length and in direct conflict with her structured short-sleeved blouse. The same curtain of rose hips and lavender strained the air around her. “You have a very nice home.”
“Thank you. Can I get you something to drink?”
“That’s not necessary,” she said, dragging herself completely upright on brown Birkenstock sandals. “Are these the boxes you want to donate?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s very generous.” Her chest rose and fell too quickly for a trip up my sidewalk. “I’m hoping to make all my last-minute pickups before lunch. There’s a Valentine’s Day party tomorrow night, and I want to take the most festive-looking dresses to the women’s shelter before the office closes.” She cast a hopeful glance at my boxes.
I jumped in front of them. “You certainly stay busy,” I mused. “How long have you been doing this?”
“About six years.” She sidestepped me, angling for a box.
I leaned into her path. “You probably know the locals pretty well.”
She pulled back with a strange look. “Not personally, but I know some of their names. Especially the ones who have regular pickups.”
I beamed. “That’s wonderful.” Claudia Post was an even better resource than the local beauty parlor. She probably had the inside scoop on everyone in town and didn’t even realize it. “Have you noticed a big yellow Tonka truck around the district lately? Maybe know who it belongs to?”
She frowned. “Tonka? Like the toy?”
“This one is life-sized. It’s an actual truck with the word Tonka painted over the back wheel well and dark tinting on all the windows.”
She shook her head, jostling frizzy hair and looking disappointed. “No. I don’t think so.”
“It’s fine. You drive through the district a lot. I thought you might have seen it during your pickups.”
“No,” she repeated.
I deflated.
Claudia gave me an apologetic smile. “Do you still want to donate those boxes?”
“Yeah.” I hoisted a box onto one hip. “You’ve probably heard about Wallace Becker’s death,” I said as casually as possible. “It was awful.”
Her mouth opened and closed. “Yes. It was.”
“I’ll bet you’ve heard all sorts of gossip about what happened. Everyone on your pickup route probably has an opinion.” Perhaps something useful I could use to clear my dad.
“No.” She made a stunned face. “I don’t listen in on private conversations at my donors’ homes.”
“Of course not,” I apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you did.” The boxes I’d tripped over at the Beckers’ home flashed back into mind. “You made a recent pickup from the Beckers’ home though. Right?”
“I also don’t discuss my clients,” she whispered, checking the front door, probably for an escape.
“Right.” Another dead end. Discretion was my mother’s favorite thing about Claudia. I moved out of her way.
She grabbed a box and headed for the door.
I followed her down the drive.
Claudia popped the hatch on her old SUV and slid the box inside. “What’s the story behind the truck?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
She frowned.
A new idea crossed my mind. I liberated my cell phone and flipped to a picture I’d snapped of Tabitha last fall. “Do you recognize her?”
Claudia made a face. “I don’t know.” She passed me on a return trip to the house, gaze glued to the ground. Feet moving double time.
I’d officially scared her off. What did I expect? Inviting her over, questioning her about Wallace’s death, accusing her of eavesdropping on local families, then showing her amateur surveillance photos of a woman. She probably thought I was insane.
When we made it back to the house, I shut us in.
“Glory!” she squeaked, gripping the last box to her chest and peering over the top at me.
I leaned against the door and did my best to not look like a maniac. “The picture I showed you is of a woman I think might be causing a lot of trouble around here. I think the truck might belong to her, but I’m not sure. You talk to everyone, so I thought you might have some insight. I didn’t mean to sound so crazy.”
Claudia loosened her grip on the box. Color returned to her fingertips. “I probably overreacted,” she said. “Sometimes I get carried away. Active imagination. Strong desire to live.”
I smiled back. “At the risk of taking this one step too far, I have to ask. Do you know anyone who goes by the name Sage?”
Her expression slowly relaxed. “No, but can I see that picture once more?”
“Sure.” I turned the photo of Tabitha to face her. “Anything you can tell me about her would be a huge help. Anything at all.”
“Well,” she began reluctantly, “it’s possible that I’ve seen this woman at the coffee shop on Prytania where I like to have lunch. I can’t say for sure.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“If it’s the woman I’m thinking of, then yesterday.”
I sucked air. If Claudia was right, Jack had a chance of finding Tabitha there too. “You’re sure you’ve never heard the name Sage?”
“I don’t think so. Who is that?”
“I don’t know.” That was the problem.
My chest ached as she drove away with my things. My memories. Pieces of my life.
On the upside, I’d received a huge lead. Tabitha frequented a local coffee shop. I needed to call Jack.
My phone vibrated with a text from Chase:
Worked late. Drove by to see if you were up. Saw Jack’s truck. Hope all is well. Call me if you want to talk.
I repl
ied quickly to assure him all was well, then stepped into the day hoping I looked more confident than I felt and that I wouldn’t be late for my appointment with Dr. Hawkins.
Jack climbed my porch steps in a perfectly tailored black suit. “Morning, Miss Crocker.” He smiled.
I performed a long wolf whistle. “Where are you going looking so snazzy?”
“I had an eight AM board meeting at Grandpa Smacker. I was headed home to change and thought I’d stop to see if I could catch you.”
“Yeah?” In the last ten months, I’d seen Jack in everything from swim trunks to undercover goth garb, but the rich-guy look always threw me the most. Probably because it was the side of him that he was least comfortable with, and I could relate. “How did it go at the office?”
“Good. Everyone’s impressed with the early response from consumers on your new line.” He gave me a thorough once-over. “How’s your dad holding up?”
“Good, I think. I haven’t heard from him since we left my parents’ house last night.” I dug into my bag for car keys. “He said you might arrest him.” I’d forgotten to complain about that after Imogene delivered my threat photos.
He heaved a sigh. “I’m doing everything I can not to.”
“That’s smart, because he’s innocent.” I made a show of palming my keys and tucking my bag under one arm.
Jack’s expression grew dark and slightly anguished. He’d told me once that this was his thinking face, but it looked grouchy to me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your mother said you need a date for your dad’s dinner Friday.”
I gave him a quizzical look. “Chase agreed to take me. I thought I’d told her that.”
He shook his head. “She must’ve forgotten.” The muscle in his jaw popped and clenched.
“Hey.” I moved down the steps and leaned against my car. “There’s something bothering you. You can talk to me.”
“Where are you going?” His voice was deeper and gravellier than normal. A tight smile formed on his otherwise stricken face.
“I have a doctor’s appointment, but nothing after that. Why?”
“I thought we could have coffee before we go to our real jobs.”
My tummy did cartwheels. “I can meet you somewhere in an hour if you’d like.”
His trademark cop stare slid back into place. “A doctor’s appointment? Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you seeing Karen?”
“No. Dr. Hawkins. I won’t be long.” I opened my car door and tossed my bag inside. “Can I call you when I’m done?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Dr. Hawkins?”
“Yep.” I dropped behind the wheel and powered my window down. “I definitely want that coffee. I’ll call as soon as I’m finished.” Hopefully with a juicy detail or two, like what the good doctor was doing with Mrs. Becker.
I reversed out of the driveway, keeping an eye on him in my rearview mirror. I hated to leave, but staying meant being stopped the second Jack realized the reason for my appointment.
He pulled his phone from one pocket as I motored away.
Now I just needed a plausible cover story that would convince Dr. Hawkins to give up the information on his relationship with Mrs. Becker.
Chapter Fourteen
Furry Godmother’s warning for closet cleaners: Beware of skeletons.
Dr. Hawkins’s waiting room was huge, sterile, and lined with patients trying not to look directly at one another. Half the people had visible bandages, and the rest had nervous ticks, bobbing knees, and well-chewed nails. I’d chew my nails too if I was contemplating a nose job in that room. There were at least three women still slightly black and blue from their procedures, presumably awaiting a progress check. The flipping of magazine pages mixed crudely with ultrasoft jazz.
“Ms. Doe?” An elderly nurse with flawless skin and milky eyes appeared in the doorway. Her throwback Nightingale uniform and sharply angled hat matched the doctor’s white-on-white decor seamlessly.
I gathered my things and marched to her side, tingling with undue anxiety. It wasn’t as if I truly planned to have any work done. But what if I was voluntarily putting myself in the same room with a killer? I hugged my purse tighter. Mom was right. He couldn’t do anything horrible to me in his office, but I was revealing my hand. If he was the one who’d sent the threat, then he’d know I was still looking into Wallace Becker’s death, unfazed by the warning.
I followed his nurse to a small exam room with a sink and mirror on one wall. A complicated exam chair and little rolling stool protruded from the room’s center. Two plastic seats stood beside the door. Before and after photos of successful surgeries covered the rest of the room, intermixed on occasion with a collage of medical school posters explaining the processes.
The nurse handed me a clipboard and gown. “Fill out the papers, both sides, and be honest. The consultation is free, but if you elect to schedule a procedure, payment is due up front.”
The door swung open and Jack barged inside. His face was red and his eyes were narrowed to slits.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, jumping away from the door on instinct. I held the clipboard between us for several long beats, until my rattled brain identified him as the cavalry and not a killer. “What are you doing here?”
The nurse watched me closely before turning back to him.
Jack put on a genteel smile, rearranging his features into something less troubled and more apologetic. He extended his hand to her. “Begging your pardon, but traffic was awful,” he drawled, sweet and slow. “I’m Lacy’s husband.”
I worked my mouth shut. Married to Jack? What on earth would that be like?
The nurse’s cheeks flushed. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Doe.”
She patted his hand. “Have a seat. I was just finishing your wife’s instructions.”
She smiled at me once more. “Remove your blouse and brassiere. Put the paper vest on. Opening in the front.” She dipped her head and closed the door behind her.
Jack stared at the folded gown, stupefied. “Hawkins drives a black Cadillac.”
“I know. Why do you think I’m here?” I set my pile of things on the exam table.
“With you, it’s hard to say.”
“How do you know about his car?” I asked, irrationally embarrassed that the nurse had asked me to undress in front of him.
“I searched his name online when you left. When I saw he was a plastic surgeon, I headed over here to stop you from doing anything stupid. Then I gave my buddy at the station a call on a hunch and asked what kind of car was registered to Dr. Hawkins. When it fit the description of the car you saw Mrs. Becker and her date getting into, I figured I’d better use my lights and siren.”
“So what now?” I asked.
“I’d planned to stop you from getting yourself any deeper in this, but”—he waved to the gown—“now I’m confused.”
I took the seat beside him. “Do you need a minute?”
He frowned. “You’re here because you believe he was the man you saw with Mrs. Becker.”
“Yes.”
“How’d you figure that out? I couldn’t get anywhere with the information you gave me. Do you know how many black Cadillacs are registered to men in this city?”
“Grapevine.”
He made a disgusted sound. “I’m going to have to have a talk with your friend, Scarlet.”
“You should. She’s an excellent resource.”
“Not what I meant.”
A slight rap on the door halted the discussion. The door cracked open, and the man I’d seen with Mrs. Becker hastened inside. “Miss Doe? Hello, I’m Dr. Hawkins,” he rattled, attention fixed to his clipboard. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any of your information on file.” He raised his eyes and started at the sight of Jack. “Oh, pardon me. I’m Dr. Hawkins.”
Jack cast me a wayward look. “This the guy?”
“Yes.”
Jack stood and pre
sented his shield to Dr. Hawkins. “I’m Detective Jack Oliver, New Orleans homicide. I’m here to ask you about Wallace and Mrs. Becker.”
The doctor looked to me, eyes wide. “Miss Doe?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t going to give my real name. Mrs. Becker would’ve tried to get me on stalking again, and Jack would’ve complained. “I’m with him.”
He blundered backward into the rolling physician’s stool. “Oh, dear.”
Whoever this guy was, he didn’t seem like a killer, and frankly, I wasn’t sure his twitchy hands belonged on a scalpel.
Jack retook his seat. “I’m sorry to spring this on you. Take your time.”
“You could’ve set an appointment,” Dr. Hawkins whispered. “You didn’t need to use subterfuge.” His gaze darted to me.
I pressed my lips together.
Jack crossed his legs, hooking one big foot on the opposite knee. “The new patient guise is meant to avoid drawing undue attention.”
I nodded. Quick thinking.
The doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed long and slow. “Do you mean I’m next?”
“Next?” I asked.
“Am I in danger?” His anxious gaze darted from me to Jack. “Are you here to take me into protective custody?”
Jack leaned forward, planting elbows onto knees. “Dr. Hawkins. We’re here because you were seen with Mrs. Becker recently, and we’re investigating the death of her husband.”
My chest expanded with a quick punch of pride. We were investigating. Together.
“Wallace was my very best friend since college,” Dr. Hawkins began, loosening his death grip on the clipboard. He ran the sleeve of his lab coat over his forehead. “I’m not involved with his wife romantically. I was comforting her.”
“You kissed her,” I said.
His cheeks turned crimson. “I repented immediately. It may have been too soon to make those sorts of advances.”
“Do you think?” His best friend had been dead five minutes, and he was trying to date the widow.
“Wallace was a fool to ignore her the way he had.”
Jack moved to the edge of his seat. “Why did you ask if we were here to take you into protective custody?”
