by Julie Chase
She hummed a long note and went back to wiping fingerprints. “Best to shake that off before it storms.”
“Nope. Everything’s fine.” I took a seat behind the counter, facing the window, in case the truck came back. It could’ve been a coincidence that a blonde, like the woman we were looking for, drove a truck that looked like one that had harassed me, but I had a hard time believing in coincidences. I grabbed a pad of paper and a pink clicker pen. I hadn’t gotten anywhere with the name Sage, but I had another idea. Maybe the blackmailer was a person the men being blackmailed had in common.
I started with a list of known victims. Wallace Becker, Dr. Hawkins, Me. I clicked the button on top of my pen a few times. Could the three of us have ticked off a mutual acquaintance? Who? Mrs. Becker came to mind, but she’d seemed pretty chummy with Dr. Hawkins. I selfishly hoped the blackmailer wasn’t Karen, the woman who knew all my secrets.
Mom swept dramatically into my shop and looked around, unimpressed. “Slow day?” Her ivory leggings were adorable with the mint-green printed tunic and striped flats. Her new bouncy haircut was deceitful, giving her an almost playful look.
I set my notepad aside. “Actually, the crowd left right before you got here.” Coincidence? I smiled. “What brings you by?”
She shot a pointed look in my direction. “I’d tell you I stopped by to check on you, but I don’t have it in me to banter. The truth is, I’m bored. I can’t take another hour trapped inside that house. The cleaning is a nightmare. My nails are atrocious. My manicure is ruined.”
“Why are you trapped?” I asked. “Have you been threatened? Is someone outside that you want to avoid?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m humiliated,” she groaned. “I’d like to avoid the entire city. The whole district thinks I’ve married a killer. What does that say about my judgment?”
“Well, it is all about you,” I said.
“Sarcasm is for the weak of mind,” she scolded. “I raised you better. What are you wearing?”
I glanced down at my outfit. “White.” The shapeless cotton dress had a braided gold belt that I’d left in the closet. I’d knotted the ends of two teal scarves together and circled them around my waist instead, hoping to imply pastel even if nothing on my body technically was.
“If you need clothes, just say so. I’ll have my stylist bring you a rack.”
I went back to the list. “I have lots of clothes. I just don’t have a month’s worth of pastels. I can’t believe all those other women do either. It’s crazy.”
Mom pulled the paper out of my hands. “What’s crazy is wearing cork wedges in February. Do you need shoes too? What’s this? What are you writing?”
I longed to be with any one of the shoppers who’d escaped before Mom’s arrival. “This is a list of people I know are being blackmailed. I wanted to see if they have anything in common.”
“Besides the blackmail?” she deadpanned.
I bit my tongue. Apparently crabby old ladies were allowed to use sarcasm.
She returned the notepad to my hands. “How are the flower costumes coming? I’d love to see them.”
I glanced at Imogene.
She looked away.
“I’m going to work on those tonight,” I fibbed. I hadn’t thought much about the flower costumes, or anything work related, since yesterday’s meeting with Karen.
Mom’s expression morphed into a gruesome hybrid of shock and repulsion. “You should have something to show the committee on Sunday. Have you even started? This is your chance to show off a little. Shine. Strut your stuff,” she said. “I mean that figuratively; try not to show up in that awful bikini and wings.”
“I’m sorry I never told you about that. I honestly believed you wouldn’t want to know. I avoided mentioning anything that had to do with fashion design while I was away because I didn’t want to argue with you.”
She inhaled deeply, expanding her chest until I thought she might blow me down. “You’re my only daughter.”
“You wanted a doctor.”
She turned her eyes to the ceiling and released the breath slowly—to a count of ten, if I wasn’t mistaken. When she’d successfully deflated, she put on a civilized smile. “How was your appointment with Karen? I’m glad you made the time to see her again. She helped you so much last time.”
Last time. She didn’t need to elaborate. Her thoughts were written in the furrow of her brow. The last time I got myself involved in a police investigation, stuck my nose into something that wasn’t my business, got abducted. “Fine.”
She stilled. “What’s that mean? Fine?” She looked to Imogene.
Imogene picked invisible fuzz off her shirt, stealthily avoiding eye contact.
“Did you at least make a follow-up appointment?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Why not? Is it the money? I’ve offered to pay for those sessions, and you know it.”
“It’s not the money. Not everything is about money.”
“Then why?” she pressed. “You had the gumption to make the appointment. You knew you needed her. You went. What happened? What changed? Explain yourself. Now.”
I squirmed against three decades of obedience training. Regardless of circumstance, distance, or personal choice, when Mom gave an order, I complied. Sometimes I refused temporarily, but the guilt and shame of defying her would wear on me until I caved, and we both knew it.
“You won’t like it,” I conceded, “but it occurred to me that she might have something to do with what’s happening, and that was why I made the appointment. She had access to Mr. Becker and me. She knew about his daughter and the party in New York. She knows private things about a lot of people. Maybe even everyone on this list.” I turned the page to face her.
She blanched. “Lacy.” She gripped my hand. There was concern in her new, softer tone. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can’t expect bad things from everyone. Why don’t you leave this up to Jack and the police? Do that for me, and the most dangerous thing you’ll have to worry about is an accidental stick from one of your sewing needles.”
We stared into one another’s matching blue eyes for several long beats. She thought I’d gone down a rabbit hole. Even after I’d helped solve two major crimes in a year, she still dismissed my efforts. She only saw the negative.
Eventually, I worked up an agreeable smile. “You’re right. I’m overthinking this.” And as with most things, she and I would have to agree to disagree.
“Absolutely.” She released my hand when her phone rang. “Violet Conti-Crocker.”
I slid my gaze to the window where locals and tourists filled the sidewalks, spilling from restaurants, happy and full, ready for another round of retail therapy, and I did my best not to wonder if any of them was a killer.
Mom waved good-bye and chatted her way out the door on her cell phone. “Tan is a neutral color, not a pastel,” she instructed. “Don’t you have anything floral?”
By nine o’clock, I was emotionally spent and physically exhausted. Jack hadn’t responded to my text about the truck, and I hadn’t seen it again either. I didn’t have it in me to perform the usual cleanup routine, and Imogene had left hours earlier to meet Veda for drinks in the Quarter, so I vowed to clean in the morning. At the moment, all I wanted was a long soak in a piping-hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good night’s sleep. I set the store alarm and turned the dead bolt with relief; I was sixty minutes away from my favorite comfy jammies and my blessed bed.
Penelope and I moved slowly in the direction of my car, her swinging gently in the carrier at my side, me making plans to drive home barefoot. “Another beautiful night,” I told her. She meowed in agreement. The brisk, spice-scented air snapped against my skin. Sultry, ever-present jazz drifted from local cafés and a lone saxophone player on the corner.
I nearly dropped her carrier when my windshield came into view. “Oh, no.” I set Penelope on the sidewalk and freed the manila envelope from beneath my wipers. I tuck
ed the envelope under one arm while I brought Jack up on speed dial.
“Oliver.”
“Hey,” I swallowed hard, partially irritated that he was able to answer in one ring but couldn’t bother responding to my text from hours earlier. “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I found another envelope on my car.” I liberated the package from beneath my elbow and cracked open the top. A set of photographs lay inside. “More pictures.”
“Where are you?” I heard a car door slam on his end of the line and an engine roar to life. “Are they more of the same shots or something else?”
I tapped the envelope, coaxing the photos into my waiting palm. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet.” I turned the glossy black-and-white pages over with a sharp gasp. The first was a photo of Chase and me on a bench outside a bookstore. I was looking away, mouth open in laughter. He was smiling proudly at my face. I ignored my pounding heart and shifted to the next shot. Another of Chase and me. I stood on my front porch in pajama shorts and a worn-out T-shirt. He had a bottle of wine. The picture was timestamped eleven seventeen PM.
“These aren’t like the last ones.” I scanned the area for a big yellow truck. “These are from last week. They aren’t blackmail. They’re surveillance.” I shifted the pages for a look at the next photo. Jack and I stood toe to toe outside the clinic. My chin was tipped upward, eyes serious and expectant. There was no doubt about my thoughts at the time, memorialized for eternity in that photo. My instinct toward embarrassment was only eclipsed by what I saw in Jack’s eyes. Desire.
“Lacy?” Jack prompted. “Where are you?”
“I’m leaving work,” I answered absently. I shoved the photos back into the envelope and pushed Penelope into the car. Dozens of worrisome thoughts scrambled together in my mind. Maybe these were blackmail after all. I definitely didn’t want to show him the photos.
There was no note this time, I reasoned. Maybe they weren’t evidence. Maybe Jack didn’t need to see them.
“Did you get my text about Tabitha?”
“Yes. What do you think I’ve been doing every minute since?”
“I have no idea.” How could I? I gunned my little engine to life, then pressed the power door locks twice. Someone had been following me. I’d been right to wonder if the ice cubes were meant as retaliation for snooping. The photos of me in New York weren’t my first warning, and now the threat had been extended to my friends.
Sickness coiled in my tummy as the most paramount of thoughts pushed its way to the forefront of my breakdown. I was no longer being threatened with visual proof I was once twenty-five and victorious. I was being followed. And Jack and Chase were in danger now because of me.
Chapter Nineteen
Furry Godmother suggests peanut butter with bananas and honey, but nothing pairs well with crow.
A set of blinding headlights appeared on my tail. I pressed the accelerator closer to the floorboard and gripped the steering wheel until my fingers turned white.
“Lacy!” Jack’s voice boomed through the cell phone speaker on my lap. I’d forgotten to pick it up after I’d buckled in.
“Jack,” I answered, unable to pull my hands from the wheel. “I’m being followed.”
The headlights fell back by a car length. Custom red-and-white flashers winked at me from beneath the massive vehicle’s grill. “Pull over,” Jack said.
I glanced at the phone, temporarily conflicted. His house appeared up ahead, and I slid against the curb, surprised I’d wound up there.
The headlights went out behind me. “Jack?” I swiveled in my seat, releasing my belt and ramming the phone to my ear.
Someone rapped against my window.
My heart stopped, then sped forward at a runner’s pace. Jack peered inside. I nearly knocked him into traffic opening my door. “I’m so sorry,” I blathered, wrapping my arms around his middle and sagging against him. “I didn’t realize that was you. I wasn’t thinking.”
He pressed warm palms against my back. “It’s fine. I found you on Magazine and followed you here. You were smart to call.”
I regained myself with significant effort and peeled away from him. He thought I’d done a good thing, when in fact I’d complicated his life. Knots coiled in my tummy. I didn’t want Jack or Chase to see the photos, but they both deserved to know they were being surveilled. “I’ve upset the blackmailer, and now whoever it is has been following you and Chase too.” My bottom lip quivered at the thought. A killer wouldn’t hesitate to hurt them if it meant getting to me, and I couldn’t allow that.
I covered my mouth, shocked by the weight of the discovery. I could be the reason they got hurt.
Jack gripped my shoulders. “Hey. Come inside.”
I dipped back inside my car and fumbled to free my keys from the ignition.
Jack opened the passenger door and collected Penelope. “Bring the envelope.”
I followed him up an elegant stone walkway to his home. Through the intricate wrought-iron gate and onto a breathtaking front porch, complete with regal white columns supporting flower-drenched galleries overhead. His stately mansion always caught me off guard. Outwardly, Jack seemed to be more of a cabin-in-the-woods type of guy, and maybe he was, but inheriting the Grandpa Smacker fortune had changed that. Now he was doomed to live a double life. Splitting his time equally between the endless pursuit of bad guys and protecting the financial interests of a global condiment company. Jack was the local Bruce Wayne. Reclusive. Wealthy. Determined to save his city. All he needed was a butler and a bat cave.
He unlocked the door and held it as I passed. “You’re unusually quiet. What are you thinking about?”
“Batman.”
“Ah.” He locked up behind us and kicked his shoes onto the floor. “I often think of Batman.”
I shook my head and pointed myself in the direction of his kitchen, certain I wouldn’t be sleeping again tonight. “Coffee?”
He followed me until the high-polished wooden floorboards gave way to grand mosaic tiling. Jack’s kitchen was nothing short of perfection. His stove cost more than my car. The endless copper backsplash of his granite countertops was embossed with the letter S for Smacker. “There you are,” he said, lowering Penelope’s carrier and swinging the door wide. “Jezebel’s around here somewhere. Help yourself to food and water.” Jezebel was Jack’s cat. Her name said a lot about him. I just hadn’t decided what that was.
He lumbered to the island where I’d climbed onto a luxurious high-backed barstool. “How about some tea? Or whiskey? Heck, maybe both. Let me see the pictures first, then I’ll decide.” He pressed a finger against the envelope and dragged it in his direction. “Nothing too personal in here, I hope?” he teased. “Wearing more clothes than last time?”
I was, though my goofy pajama shorts were a bit embarrassing. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. He may or may not be irritated by the sight of the photos, but there was nothing to be done about it now. We were all being stalked by a lunatic.
“No comment?” He blew against the paper opening and shook the photos out. “Now I’m worried.” His expression turned grim at the sight of Chase and me on the bench. His eyes narrowed on the shot of us meeting on my porch.
I chewed the tender skin along my thumbnail and watched closely for his next reaction.
He tucked the pictures of Chase and me underneath, revealing the photo of me and him in what looked like the aftermath of a passionate kiss—or the moment just before one. His lips parted and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He cleared his throat. “Do you want copies of these before I take them into evidence?”
I made an unintentionally strangled sound. How could I answer that without getting into trouble? Which photo would I want? And why? “I took pictures of the others with my phone. Maybe I can do that again?”
He spread the pages on the island. “There you go.”
Prickles ran up and down my arms as he watched and waited. Which photo would I docume
nt first? It mattered to him. I could see it in his eyes. Feel it in the energy zipping around us. I opened the camera app on my phone and swallowed my pride. I took a picture of the one with Jack and me first.
My traitorous eyes slid in his direction, dumb and desperate to see his reaction.
His cheek twitched. “Tea and bourbon, coming right up.”
Ten minutes later, Jack set a cup of hot water in front of me and a container of tea. I helped myself. While the leaves were steeping, Jack dumped in the bourbon.
“Thanks.” I sipped gingerly, more interested in the liquor than the tea.
“Don’t mention it.” He saddled up on the stool beside mine. “What do you make of the photos?”
“We’re being surveilled.”
“I agree.” He poured a shot into his empty mug and drank it with a heady exhale. Then he poured another. “All right. Let’s go.” He slid off his stool and tipped his head toward the arching hallway past the kitchen.
I gave the unlit passage a skeptical glance. “Where are we going?”
He collected his mug, bottle, and photos. “You win. I’m giving you what you want.”
Oh, boy! I slid onto my feet and followed him to an elaborately decorated, but marginally disappointing, office. The overhead lights illuminated as we stepped inside. Walls were lined in floor-to-ceiling books à la Beauty and the Beast. I considered breaking into song, but that was probably the bourbon’s doing.
He stopped at a heavy oval table near the far wall. Open file folders and loose paper covered most of its surface. He set his things on a sliver of empty space and pressed his palms to the table’s edge. “This is everything I have on Wallace’s death.”
I rolled doe eyes in his direction. “You trust me.” This was exactly what I’d wanted. “So much better than what I thought you might be up to,” I mumbled.
He formed an impish grin. “What did you think I was up to?”
I took a seat at the table and pulled a file to me. “Nothing.”
He sat with a snort. “You know I’ve got criminal informants who need less looking after than you. I’m not sure if that makes me the worst cop in town, repeatedly unable to protect one of my closest friends, or you a first-class trouble magnet.”
