by Julie Chase
Annie’s home was a stately Gothic number with black plantation shutters and galleries lined in stout iron railing. A famous author had once owned the home, and like everything in town, the place was believed to be haunted.
I’d toured the property with my parents years ago, but it had changed hands many times since then. I couldn’t help but wonder what it might look like inside these days. The interior was beautiful in my memories. More than seven thousand square feet of ambience and history. Six bedrooms, six baths, stained glass dating back to the 1800s. The structure was such an astounding piece of architecture. I wanted to weep or pet it. Neither reaction was remotely acceptable or sane, so I rang the bell with my elbow.
A row of gas lanterns dangled above me. Gold-and-blue flames flickered behind ancient glass panels. I crossed the broad wooden porch for a look at Annie’s rose garden in the side yard. The rear gate rattled. I leaned over the railing for a better look. Her gate bounced and banged against the supporting wrought-iron fence. Was I supposed to meet her outside? “Hello? Ms. Lane?”
I went back to the front door and tried the bell again. Nothing.
I checked my watch. Maybe she was in the bathroom. If so, where was her assistant? If no one answered the door soon, Annie could think I was late. Not to mention my box was getting heavier by the second.
I peered through the leaded glass transoms around her door. Had she forgotten our appointment? I rapped the door with my elbow three times. The giant wooden barrier swung open under the assault. “Oh, my goodness. I’m sorry.” I leaned in to continue the apology, but no one was there to listen.
My stomach knotted. Silent homes with unlocked doors screamed horror movie. “Hello?” Was it trespassing if I let myself inside? Even if I had an appointment? “Ms. Lane?” I took a timid step over the threshold and wedged the box between my hip and the wall. I liberated my phone and dialed the number Annie had given me.
“Wow.” I absorbed the incredible beauty of intricately carved mahogany woodwork, baseboards, and crown molding. A massive cantilevered staircase stretched up one wall, lined in ebony-stained wainscoting. Thick wooden spindles carried a curved handrail into a loft overhead. An enormous chandelier scattered light fragments over the polished wood floor. I imagined nineteenth-century couples striding arm in arm through the space, dressed in their best and preparing to dance or flirt coyly in the parlor.
The muffled sounds of a ringing cell phone sprang to life somewhere in the house.
“Ms. Lane?” The call went to voice mail on my end.
One of Annie’s Siamese sauntered into sight, rubbing its ribs on an interior doorframe.
“Oh, hello.” I shoved the phone into my pocket and regained control of the box. “Is your mama home?” I gazed expectantly into the room behind the kitty.
“Meow.” She inched closer, tail erect, and stopped several feet away.
I’d read a detailed article about Annie and her kittens, Cotton and Cashmere, in Feline Frenzy magazine last spring. She’d rescued them several years ago, and they meant everything to her. I related deeply. “Are you Cotton or Cashmere?”
She turned away with a flick of her tail and trotted back in the direction from which she’d come. A series of dark paw prints remained in her wake.
A bout of panic seized my chest. “Ms. Lane?” I checked behind me before following the crimson paw prints into the next room.
I followed the kitten through a stately doorway, careful not to trip over the jamb, drop my box, or ram it into anything. A series of stunning granite countertops lined the backsplash between a massive refrigerator and a stove that cost more than my house. One kitten perched on the center island, licking its paws and mewling.
A second Siamese stood in a puddle of scarlet goo.
I stubbed my toe on something and toppled my box of couture. “Oh!” I dropped on instinct, stuffing items blindly into the box until a handful of cloth came up heavy. I unraveled the gowns, now smeared at the hems with what looked too much like blood for my liking. Beneath the stack of my fallen designs was a Crystal Saxophone award. The base was covered in blood.
I held my breath and scrambled back against the counter. I dropped the award and grabbed my cell phone, dialed 9-1-1, and hovered my thumb over the green call button. For the sake of due diligence, I forced myself to peek around the kitchen island before sending the call. I prayed Annie had simply cut herself chopping vegetables and run to a nearby bathroom to bandage her hand. Anything other than what I knew in my terrified heart had happened here.
I sobbed on an intake of ragged breath. Inches from where I sat, on the other side of the gorgeous gourmet island, Annie lay in a growing circle of blood. Arms splayed, legs askew. Her skin was pale. Her chest no longer rose or fell. Unseeing eyes pointed at my shoes. Shoes now sticky with her blood. “Oh, no.” The crystal award lying beside me, the one I’d handled, accidentally covered, and lifted with layers of my designs, was her murder weapon.
The glass-shattering scream filling her kitchen was definitely mine.
Chapter Two
Furry Godmother’s pro tip: Details are everything.
Thirty minutes later, a somber parade of uniformed officers, medical personnel, and crime scene investigators treaded the gruesome path between Annie’s kitchen and front door. Tiny numbered teepees stood sentinel at each set of bloody paw prints. Her kittens were locked in metal crates, and everything was being tested for fingerprints. I pressed myself into the corner at the base of Annie’s staircase and did my best to stay out of the way.
Curious eyes coursed over me as they crossed the threshold in either direction, collecting evidence and taking calls. One set of eyes in particular made my skin crawl with each hard glance. Those eyes belonged to the man I’d ultimately called instead of 9-1-1. Detective Jack Oliver, New Orleans homicide division. Having him here seemed like the smarter move than rolling the dice with 9-1-1. With any luck, Jack would accept my honest explanation of how I’d wound up at another murder scene and why my fingerprints were on the probable murder weapon. He’d heard me out on the phone, then told me not to leave. I wasn’t sure if he’d meant town or the premises, so I’d positioned myself near the closest exit until further notice.
Emotion tightened my chest. How could this have happened? Annie was one of the most talented women in fashion, a beloved philanthropist, and a mentor. The art world would be devastated, and our city had lost a hero.
Images of Annie’s lifeless stare clawed ice fingers down my spine. I caught a renegade tear on the pad of one thumb and did my best to woman up. I had to keep it together for now. Freaking out would only draw more attention to me. There would be plenty of time for a proper breakdown later.
“Okay, Crocker.” The familiar tenor jerked me back to the moment. Detective Oliver motioned me from my post. “Let’s go.”
I followed him into the dining room.
He pulled a chair away from the table. “Why don’t you take a seat and start from the beginning.”
I forced my wooden legs to bend, and I collapsed onto the antique cushion. All things considered, I didn’t like the hard edge to his voice.
He widened his stance and leaned over me, palms pressing the table. “You want to start with what you’re doing here?”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again.”
I bit my tongue. Forcing me to repeat the story was probably protocol, a way of catching liars in their lies, but Jack and I were friends. Weren’t we? I did my best to relax and cooperate. “I had an appointment with Annie.” I cleared my throat, willing it not to crack again. “Why are you glaring at me like that? This has been an awful day. You’ve been dodgy for months,” I complained, “and now you’re angry when I’m in a crisis?”
His eye twitched. “Have you considered that maybe I’m not too keen on finding you at the scene of another murder? This makes two in five months.”
“I’m well aware of that, Jack. How is it relevant? What are you trying to say? That
I had something to do with this because of what happened to me in July?” I was still seeing a therapist to deal with that one, when I could afford her.
He stepped back, his ice-blue eyes trawling over me. “Your prints are on the murder weapon.”
“I know.” Emotion choked my words. I rested my elbows on the table. I covered my mouth to hide a tremor in my bottom lip. “Annie was my idol.”
A woman in a navy shirt and khaki pants headed our way. “Detective?” She gripped an evidence bag in her blue-gloved fingers. “We confirmed the murder weapon.”
Jack took the bag from her and grimaced. “Thanks. Anything else?”
“Some footprints out back by the trash cans and the rear gate. The ground’s too hard and dry for a good imprint.”
I dropped my head into waiting palms.
Jack set the bag on the table near my elbows. “Any idea what this is for?”
I peeked one eye in his direction. “It’s the Crystal Saxophone. A humanitarian award. Annie won three years in a row for her efforts in the Ninth Ward following Katrina.”
He grunted and stretched his back, jostling the shiny detective badge he wore on a beaded chain around his neck. Eventually, the badge settled against his chest.
I pried my gaze off his shirt and mentally kicked myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“You grunted. Does that mean you don’t think she deserved the award?”
He tented his brows. “I don’t know what she deserved. Probably not this.” He waved toward the gurney being rolled into her kitchen. “But typically, murder victims have ticked someone off. Offenses vary.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“Did you?” he asked.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
He made a sour face. “I’ve been busy.”
The woman still standing at Jack’s side turned on her heels and walked away.
“No,” I said, suddenly obstinate. “You’re around. We run in the same circles, remember? You’re friendly at one event. Evasive at the next. What’s going on with you?”
Jack was more than an annoying detective. He was sole heir to the Grandpa Smacker empire and a regular at every hoity engagement Mom dragged me to. When his grandpa passed unexpectedly last year, Jack inherited the kingdom. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you kidding me?” I forced my gaping mouth closed.
He shrugged. He didn’t like to talk about his social status.
I didn’t care. “You’re never the one to say hello, and when I attempt to make real conversation, you vanish.”
He averted his gaze, trailing a pair of uniforms through the front door. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Crocker, but you’re nosy, and I’m in the middle of something.”
“So you admit to dodging me?” Interesting. “Why?” I focused on the pale blue of his eyes, willing the truth from him. The last time he’d seemed truly present was at the Animal Elegance Gala last summer. That exchange was our first of many to end abruptly. He’d kissed my cheek and told his grandpa’s girlfriend I was his date, which I wasn’t. I was still waiting for an explanation on that one. “Is this about Tabatha?”
He winced. “You see? Nosy.”
“Curious,” I corrected. “Besides I thought we were friends. Friends talk, and they don’t call each other names.”
“I need your official statement.” He dropped a notebook and pen on the table. “Wait here.” He gave me a pointed look and carried the bagged murder weapon outside.
He was actively avoiding me because I was curious? That was ridiculous. What didn’t he want me to know?
I considered drawing angry faces in his notebook, but poor Annie came rushing back to mind, and my stomach knotted. What a horrible time to have such a petty argument. I rubbed the creases off my forehead.
I peered through her open front door at the men and women exchanging information on the porch. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, snapping photos and otherwise rubbernecking a tragedy. I was no better, ensnared by a million selfish thoughts. Why does this keep happening? Why do I find dead bodies? What about my companion line with Annie? What will locals think when they learn I was here? What will my mother say when she hears? How will I get my designs into the Mardi Gras museum now?
I pushed Jack’s notebook away with no idea what to write. I wasn’t ready to relive the last hour.
I needed to move. Clear my head. Breathe. I slipped away from the table and tiptoe jogged into the next cavernous room, careful not to touch anything. They’d taken my bloody shoes and handed me blue stretchy booties, all the better for silent wandering. The downstairs was immaculate, dust-free, and excruciatingly perfect. Either housekeeping had come this morning, or Annie didn’t spend any time at this house. I wrapped weary arms around my center and squeezed. Annie’s chance to enjoy her beautiful home was gone. All her plans were irrelevant. She was barely forty and dead. It didn’t seem real.
Framed photos of Annie and her kitties lined the mantle over her living room fireplace. Matching satin pillows anchored the hearth. Her kittens’ names were embroidered on the little beds. A bubble of grief welled in my throat. She’d loved them so much, and they’d seen her on the floor. What had they thought? Did they understand? Had they watched her die?
I inched through the rooms, circling each perimeter, absorbing the moment, enveloped by sadness. Upstairs, light crawled under one closed door, drawing me closer. I pressed my back to the wall and waited for a break in uniformed traffic, then hurried up the steps. I pushed the door open with my bootie-covered toes to avoid leaving prints. The room was covered in books, magazines, and manila folders. Bolts and swatches of fabric in every texture and hue covered the window seat and two wingback chairs. So this is where Annie spent her time.
I crept inside and tapped the door closed. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with books of every size. A rolling ladder attached to a metal guide over the tallest row. A mess of papers littered her workspace. An open binder marked “Shannon Martin” centered the pile. I recognized some of the work inside as Annie’s Mardi Gras line. So who was Shannon Martin? Was Annie working under another name? Why would she do that?
A sticky note fluttered to the floor. Coffee @ 11 Thursday, Café du Monde.
Today was Thursday.
The library door creaked open, and I went rigid.
A twenty-something in pigtails and horn-rimmed glasses sneaked inside. She closed the door in slow motion. Her shoulders hiked up to her ears.
I admired her willowy figure and fitted blue dress, clearly one of Annie’s designs.
“Hello,” I said.
She screamed.
We stared, wide-eyed, at one another as heavy footfalls pounded the staircase beyond the door.
Jack busted inside, tossing the door wide and nearly whacking the young woman in the process. He gave us a long look, holstered his sidearm, and frowned. “Why are you up here?”
I had no idea.
He turned his eyes on the girl. “Who are you?”
“I’m Josie Fresca. I’m Annie’s PA.” She squinted at Jack. “A PA is a personal assistant.”
“I know what a PA is. How’d you get in here, and where were you for the last two hours?”
“I used my key in the side door. I was running errands all morning. Annie had an appointment with someone about cat costumes. I went to fetch beignets and coffee.”
“Where are they now?”
“In my car.” Her cheeks turned scarlet, and her voice cracked. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack edged deeper into the room. “Did you speak with one of the officers downstairs?”
The girl tugged the ends of her ponytails. “No. There’re so many people. No one spoke to me, so I came up here.”
“Why?”
“To keep working, I guess.” Emotion had nearly extinguished her voice. She
pointed to a stack of boxes with red Xs on the sides. “I promised Annie I’d get her satin pillow collection in the mail today.”
Jack beat her to the boxes. “Nothing leaves the house until I say so. This is a crime scene until further notice.”
The girl looked confused. “I thought the crime scene was downstairs.”
“We’ll let you know when the house is open for business. Until then, you’ll need to answer a few questions and return your house key.” He appraised the box of tiny pillows. “You worked closely with Ms. Lane?”
“Yes.”
“Who’d want to kill her?”
Josie barked a laugh. “Figuratively? Everyone.” She shook her head as if Jack was a clueless child instead of a hard-nosed detective. “No one gets to be as big as Annie without acquiring her fair share of haters.”
Jack stared at her, blank-faced. “I’m going to need a list of anyone who might’ve done this to her. Stalkers. Crazy ex-boyfriends. Bookies. Dealers. Anyone potentially capable of murder.”
Josie stretched her eyes wide. “I said figuratively. Her haters were jealous, not homicidal.”
“I’ve got a body that suggests otherwise. Murder weapon indicates a crime of passion.” He glanced my way. “Anyone upset about her humanitarian efforts or the fact she won the Crystal Saxophone three years in a row?”
I stifled an eye roll.
“I don’t know.” Josie released a long breath. “I didn’t keep up with that stuff.”
I moved away from Annie’s desk. “Do you know who Annie had plans with this morning?”
“No. She kept her private life private. I was looped in on business-related appointments only.” She dragged her gaze to Jack, digging through the box of pillows. “We weren’t friends, and she wasn’t needy. She was busy. I helped cull her load, and she taught me about fashion on the side.”
So the eleven o’clock appointment was personal? I joined Jack at the box and scooped a pillow out, trying to look casual. “Josie, do you know Shannon Martin?”
