by Julie Chase
Also available by Julie Chase:
Cat Got Your Diamonds
Cat Got Your Cash
A Kitty Couture Mystery
Julie Chase
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Julie Chase.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-108-9
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-109-6
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-110-2
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-111-9
Cover design by Louis Malcangi.
Cover illustration by Anne Wertheim.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: April 2017
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Furry Godmother’s Autumn Apple Pupcakes
Furry Godmother’s Cat’s Meow Shredded Chicken Biscuits
Furry Godmother’s Cheesy Kitty Yum Yums
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Furry Godmother’s advice for the budding designer: Never meet your hero.
I hefted an armload of miniature couture onto the counter at Furry Godmother, my pet boutique and organic treat bakery nestled in the famed New Orleans Garden District. A rainbow of crinoline and sequins splayed over the freshly cleaned space near a box of matching accessories. My heart fluttered. “I have thirty-eight minutes before I meet with Annie Lane. That gives me thirty minutes to make the final selections, pack up, and get to her house. And then eight minutes to freak out.”
Imogene, my old nanny and new shopkeep, watched silently as I turned in a small circle, looking for a place to put the keepers. Every clean, flat space in sight was already covered in adorable creations.
I turned back to the counter and flipped through a flood of tiny formal wear. I hung my favorites over one arm with newfound discernment. “You know what? I’m starting to sweat. I should use the extra eight minutes to freshen up. I’ll freak out on the drive over instead.”
Imogene clucked her tongue. “Annie Lane is going to love you and your designs. Whatever you decide to take will be perfect.”
I gave her an incredulous look.
Imogene had been with my family for decades. First as my grandmother’s caregiver, then as my mother’s estate keeper, and eventually as my nanny. She was heavily biased in my favor. At the moment, she was also wrong.
Annie Lane was a world-famous fashion designer. I was a budding pet couture creator. The pieces I chose to take with me to represent my brand mattered. A lot. This appointment could change everything. My career. My entire future. Together, Annie and I could be an unstoppable force in fashion. I just needed to convince her of that. When I’d heard she was returning to New Orleans for Faux Real, the annual arts festival, I pitched a meeting to her people, suggesting a companion line for Annie’s Mardi Gras designs. I sent snapshots of my feline and canine king capes and nearly fainted when she wanted to see more.
Being crowned king or queen during Mardi Gras was one of the highest civic honors in New Orleans, so the pair dressed to impress. The royal garb was so significant that some of the most epic gear from over the years was enshrined in a French Quarter Mardi Gras museum. I’d loved going there as a child, imagining the designers’ workspaces piled high with sequins and gold lamé. Royal apparel could weigh as much as forty to sixty pounds, not including the headpiece. In fact, one of the queen’s gowns had had more than one hundred fifty yards of tulle over satin. Wheels had to be sewn along the hem to help her get around. Those costumes made the most elaborate Vegas show girl ensemble look like amateur hour. With a little luck, one of my designs could be tucked safely behind museum glass one day too, if I made good choices. A partnership with Annie Lane was a very good choice.
Imogene eyeballed me from a closing distance. The tails of her red silk headscarf fluttered behind her, secured tightly around a puff of salt-and-pepper hair. “You’re flushed. You should sit down before you fall over. Have a glass of water. I’ll cleanse the air in here and try to clean up the bad juju.”
My arm drooped under the weight of too many favorites. The logoed garment box I’d intended to pack my items into wouldn’t hold half of what I wanted to show Annie. “I’m going to need a bigger box.”
“I thought this was a Mardi Gras proposal? Why are you packing an Easter Bunny costume?” She handed me an ugly brown box from behind the counter.
“I want to show range.” I offloaded the garments from my arm with a sigh of relief. It passed quickly as her words slipped through the clutter in my mind. “Did you say bad juju?”
Imogene was known to dabble in things I didn’t understand, and she claimed she’d come from a long line of shamans and other mystics. I didn’t believe in any of it, but the last time she’d said anything about my juju, my life had gone completely bananas.
“I can help.” She fixed me with a pointed stare.
A bead of sweat formed on my upper lip. “I think I just need a moment to channel my inner debutante.” I’d hated the years of grace and etiquette training forced upon me as a youth, but lately, I was thankful for the takeaways. For example, if I stood straight enough, strangers seemed to assume I knew what I was doing—and also that I wasn’t having an internal meltdown.
“If you say so.” She stuffed a roll of bundled sage back into her apron pocket and scanned the ceiling. She said burning sage cleansed the air, but as far as I could tell, it only made smoke and caused me to sneeze.
I thumbed a pile of headbands, hoping to accessorize the selected outfits. “Did you know Annie is half the reason I went to design school?” The other half had been to peeve off my mother. “A companion line to Annie’s Mardi Gras pieces would put me on the map as a legit designer.” Pet couture doesn’t get the respect it deserves, but she could change that. Furry Godmother could be a pioneer brand in my field. A maverick.
Imogene delivered a bottle of water to the counter.
I dropped two headbands into the box, then sorted a stack of rhinestone-studded collars and optional charms. “Annie was born and raised in New Orleans like me.” Unlike me, she’d chased her dreams around the globe, found stardom, and graced magazine covers. I’d made it as far as Arlington before a chance mugging and a cheating ex-fiancé had sent me packing back to the Garden District where my mother and her friends ran the world.
Determined to succeed in spite of my perceived f
ailure, I opened Furry Godmother and put my fashion degree to work making designs for fur babies. As fate would have it, this was an opportunity I’d never have gotten in Virginia. I pulled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. Honey-blonde curls dropped over my shoulders. “I think I’m ready.”
Imogene chuckled. “Be careful, Lacy Marie Crocker. You look like your mother when you get in that disposition.”
I shot her a droll face. The similarities between my mother and I ended at the molecular level. I looked like my mother, right down to our narrow frames, blue eyes, and ski-slope noses, but I didn’t care about keeping up appearances or embracing a legacy of social power like she did. I wasn’t interested in marrying into the right family or accepting my family’s bottomless coffers of cash. I wanted to make my own path in this life, and honestly, I could’ve also done without the pointy nose, but I had no control in that matter. “If only I could turn on Mom’s Conti-Crocker charm and insist Annie love me.”
“Why not? Works on everyone else. Annie Lane is no different. She’s just people.”
I could think of a certain homicide detective who’d disagree about my charm. Detective Jack Oliver had sauntered into my life four months ago, accused me of murder, pushed all my buttons, saved my life, then walked away. Was he also “just people”? Because so far, my Crocker charm hadn’t done much for him. It seemed as if every time I thought our friendship was solidifying, he’d disappear for a few days and return emotionally distant. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to three before reopening them. Part of me was determined to find out what was going on with him. The rest of me refused to spend another minute down that rabbit hole.
Imogene smiled. “Him, too.”
I turned my face away and folded a sequined flapper dress onto the top of my pile. “What?”
“You forget I’ve known you a long time, Miss Lacy.” She passed me a matching headpiece with scarlet plumes. “These look nice with the flapper dresses.”
Imogene dropped a handful of business cards and store literature into the box.
“Oh!” I snapped upright. “I should take a few treats for Annie’s kittens. They’re nearly as famous as she is.”
“I’ll get those.” Imogene hustled to the bakery display and slipped a pair of plastic gloves over plump, wrinkled hands. “I’ll make them a sampler box.”
“Thanks. That’s perfect.” My pet treats were one hundred percent organic and baked fresh daily. Baking added balance to my life. Some days it was the only thing that soothed my busy mind. As an added bonus, I could cater a pet’s big party and dress him or her for the occasion. My life was kind of fantastic.
A line of bagpipers marched past the shop window. I pulled in a cleansing breath and smiled. “I love this town.”
Banners for the Faux Real Festival hung from streetlamps up and down Magazine Street. The sidewalks teemed with locals and thespians in all manner of stage attire, enjoying the annual art fest. Tourists snapped photos with men painted silver and posed as statues with the Magazine Street sign. A cluster of mimes begged passersby to free them from invisible boxes.
My tabby, Penelope, leapt onto the counter and rolled in a shaft of sunlight. Happy vibrations rumbled through her lean body.
“Hello, gorgeous.” I scooped her into my arms and nuzzled my cheek to her head. Penelope had been held captive, briefly, by my cheating ex-fiancé, but cheaters never win.
Imogene tied a ribbon around the little bakery box and set it inside my open purse. “Two tuna tarts, two kitty cakes, and two pawlines.” Pawlines were pet-friendly versions of New Orleans’s famous pralines and by far my best-selling treat.
“Thanks. I don’t know how long I’ll be with Annie. If I run late, don’t wait for me. Go ahead and close up.”
“Should I set Spot loose before I go?”
Spot was my vacuuming robot. I’d added large googly eyes, felt ears, and some yarn hair to help him fit in at Furry Godmother, but he mostly worked nights. “Yes, please. Do you have any plans after work? Visiting your granddaughter?”
Her smile faltered. “Not tonight.”
“No? Is everything okay?”
Imogene clutched the pendant hanging from her necklace. “A friend in the Quarter needs help. She’s got a ghost problem, but I’m sure things will be fine in the morning.”
I blinked, lost for a response. “Should I tell you to have fun or be careful?”
She pulled Penelope from my arms. Her wide brown eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry about me. You’d better get going before you’re late. Those dopey mimes are slowing down traffic.”
Right. I grabbed my leather hobo and big box of kitty couture. “You can leave Penelope here when you lock up. I’ll be back for her as soon as I finish.”
“What about Spot?”
“Spot’s fine. She likes to ride him.”
Imogene gave Penelope a funny look and set her on the counter.
I hustled to my car, dropped my bag on the floorboards, and buckled the box onto my passenger seat. I slid behind the wheel and attempted to settle my racing pulse. Air conditioning blasted my face as I gunned the little VW engine to life. November in New Orleans was beautiful, but it wasn’t always cool. I plucked white angora away from my chest and directed the vents at my neck, uninterested in accessorizing my favorite short-sleeved sweater with perspiration or three layers of deodorant.
The drive from my shop was short once I’d escaped the beautiful chaos of Magazine Street. Six miles of artsy shops, good food, and good times. Magazine was to the Garden District what Bourbon Street was to the French Quarter. A tourist magnet. A melting pot. But unlike the French Quarter, the Garden District was home to the elite, the megawealthy, and several eccentric aristocrats.
Annie owned a home on First Street, where sprawling mansions protruded from the ground in every form imaginable. Century-old Victorians with scrolling gingerbread designs stood beside mock chalets and austere Gothic architecture. Garden District homes were historic and sold more often by word of mouth than realtor involvement, moving from one socially acceptable owner to the next. Residents were choosy about their neighbors. After all, without proper vetting, who knew what sort of riffraff might buy the multimillion-dollar mansion next door?
According to my mother, I misinterpreted the intents of local customs.
I puttered along side streets toward First. Sunlight streamed through the canopy of reaching oak limbs above, filtered significantly by their mossy beards. I powered down my windows to enjoy the beautiful day. Hard to believe that only a few months ago, a dead body had turned up outside my shop and I’d found myself at the center of a murder investigation. Eventually, the killer had come for me too, but things didn’t work out for him. I was recovering slowly from the trauma, but at least I’d met Jack and reunited with Chase Hawthorne in the process. Chase was a childhood acquaintance who’d helped me rescue Penelope from my scheming ex-fiancé. Chase was great. Twenty-eight, a professional volleyball player, and a refugee from the Garden District, much as I’d been a short while ago. Unfortunately, he’d returned to his life-in-progress, probably on a sunny beach somewhere far from New Orleans. I missed Chase, but I had a complicated friendship going with Jack, and I’d grown closer to my mother, so there was that.
I stretched one palm against the rushing air outside my window. Knots of tourists jaunted after tour guides, snapping pictures of the historic homes and learning the most commercial facts about our area.
My phone buzzed to life inside my purse as I slid my car against the curb outside Annie’s home and settled the engine. I found my phone and frowned at the little screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“Lacy, it’s your mother.”
I pressed a palm to my forehead in exasperation. “Hi, Mom,” I repeated more slowly. At least it isn’t Annie calling to cancel on me.
“I’m having a gathering tonight to welcome a new neighbor. Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Nothing fancy. The caterers will set up around seven. My hairdresser and stylist will b
e here at six. I gave the stylist your dress size in case you’re interested.”
I rolled my eyes. “So nothing fancy then?”
“That’s what I said. Nothing fancy.”
“You know, in some parts of the country, delivering the new neighbor a plate of cookies works, too.”
“Don’t be so pedestrian.”
I bit my tongue. If I wasted any more time, I’d be late for my meeting. “Mom I’m meeting with Annie Lane in a few minutes. I need to get off the phone. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ll keep your party in mind.”
“It’s just cocktails.”
“And hors d’oeuvres,” I said.
“Exactly. Invite Annie along. She’d love it.”
“Okay. I’ve got to go. Have fun tonight if I don’t see you. Welcome the new neighbor for me.” I disconnected without waiting for her good-bye.
Mom’s parties were out of control. She was a party addict. It was in her genes. The Contis had been throwing elaborate soirees in the city for the better part of a century. Contis were “old money,” a group endlessly concerned with appearances and local influence. Mom was the last of her family line, so she hyphenated. Conti-Crocker. Dad’s family was what the Contis called “nouveau riche,” a.k.a. the wrong kind of rich. While Conti money had been handed down through the generations, Crockers had established personal wealth through a tedious combination of labor and penny-pinching. Both families thought the other was doing it wrong, and I’d been trapped in the Conti-Crocker cold war for thirty years.
Regardless of my feelings on the matter, I was Mom’s only offspring, and I had a duty to support her. Unfortunately I’d already skipped two events last week. Tonight made three rejections in ten days. There was no getting out of whatever she came up with next.
I checked my face in the visor mirror and reminded myself to breathe. “Here we go,” I whispered. I hung my purse over one shoulder and hustled to the passenger side. I hefted the giant box into my arms and hip checked the door shut. This was it. I was thirty feet away from meeting my hero. I marched forward, head high, and slipped through the front gate, moving confidently up the brick walkway as if I wasn’t sweating bullets beneath my angora.
