by Julie Chase
His scowl deepened. “I believe you have something of mine.”
A hush rolled through the cluster of lookie lous filtering around my shelves.
“I don’t think so.” I lowered my voice, hoping he’d take a hint and follow suit.
He extended a hand in my direction. “My name is Dylan Latherope. I’m Annie Lane’s ex-husband. She stole my cats when we divorced.” He produced a folded portion of newspaper from his back pocket. “According to this, you have them, and I want them back.”
He wanted Annie’s kittens? Bryce was right. Once word got out about Annie’s death, he came to stake a claim. How would he treat her babies after he had the kittens and money? Were there measures in place to ensure their well-being? Would Bryce make sure the one collecting the cash didn’t give the kittens to the pound once the money starting arriving monthly?
I squared my shoulders and faked bravery. “You’ll have to discuss that with Bryce Kenney, Annie’s attorney. He’s in town for a week. I can’t help you.” I couldn’t even keep my name out of the newspaper.
He stepped closer, jaw clenching. For a brief moment, I wondered what Dylan Latherope was capable of doing to get what he wanted.
“I think you should go.”
Silence fell over the room, and the Siamese meowing seemed to gong from my backroom.
Mr. Latherope’s scowl fell away. His eyes went round like saucers. His chin quivered. “Cotton? Cashmere?” He took long strides in the direction of my stock room with me on his heels.
“You can’t go back there,” I demanded, spinning my phone to call the police.
Imogene slid into the opening of my narrow rear hall. “Uh-uh,” she said, arms crossed and feet wide. No one was getting past her in that disposition. Her sweet smile had a sinister edge. “I’m sorry, sir, but this area is for employees only.”
He stopped as if he’d hit a wall. “I hear my babies.” His pleading eyes had no effect on Imogene. “Daddy’s here, darlings,” he called.
Imogene’s gray brows crowded low between her eyes. Sheer concentration changed her grandmotherly face to something fierce. Her lips moved silently.
Mr. Latherope pulled his head and shoulders back, leaning away from the sounds of his “darlings.” He turned to face me on stiff legs.
I tipped my head toward the mob of openly staring customers. “I can call the police if you’d like. I’m sure they can answer your questions if you don’t want to bother Annie’s attorney right now.”
Mr. Latherope followed my gaze to the gawkers. One lady raised her phone, and the flash went off. “Fine.” He cast Imogene another glance. “I’ll leave, but this isn’t over.” He jerked the door open and burst into the windy world. “Those are my cats!” he screamed into the sky.
I waited until he disappeared around the corner before releasing my breath. “Sorry about that,” I said to no one in particular. I pressed a palm against my chest. My mouth was dry as sand. I hated bullies. Standing up to them made me want to collapse or vomit, but every fiber of my stubborn soul demanded I set them straight before letting them get away. I pulled my shoulders back and hefted the storage container off the floor. Not to pass judgment, but Mr. Latherope seemed a tad unstable. Definitely not the kind of person I wanted to cross any more than necessary.
The last bully I stood up to had invested in my store, only to pull his money when I was accused of murder. He’d had a big contract on the line with a local casino and refused to risk the opportunity because of his association with me. Loss of his financial support had been devastating. I thought I’d lose the shop without him, but I overcame. I ate granola bars for dinner some nights, but I’d persevered. The shop was still afloat. I was tougher than I looked.
I took several more phone orders for baked goods and crossed my fingers that the revenue would be enough to put a little extra aside this month. My home kitchen was in dire need of several upgrades to maintain my increasing nightly production demands.
By seven, live band music and the lure of cheap drinks had pulled shoppers away. Imogene and I closed up shop in companionable silence, though I felt her gaze on me through every motion. I hugged her good-bye and packed three cat carriers into my VW, snapping their seat belts and ignoring loud Siamese protests.
“Time for dinner at my parents’ house,” I told them. “You girls will be safer there than you are with me.” I checked my mirror and eased into traffic. No signs of cat-men or Annie’s angry ex-husband.
I hooked a right away from Magazine Street and cringed at the sound of meowling kittens. I’d survived a mugger, a carjacker, and an abduction, but when my mother saw what I had in those travel packs, she might be the one to finish me off.
Chapter Six
Furry Godmother’s fun fact: A bird in a sash is worth two in the nude.
I parked my car in the driveway behind my parents’ house and said silent prayers for sanity. With any luck, Jack was able to get enough information from Charlie to make an arrest for Annie’s murder. Even if he wasn’t the killer, he could have information that would lead us to the guilty party. I wriggled the carriers from my car and set them on the driveway. I was out of breath before I got the door shut. “Good grief.” I straightened my dress and formulated a plan to get three cats in travel packs to the house without leaving one behind. “Ladies I think I need a wagon.”
I inhaled the sweetly scented air of a brewing autumn storm, and a smile bloomed on my face. The gentle bouquet of Mom’s meticulously tended flower garden sent me back twenty years. Warm wind tossed frazzled hair against my cheek, and nostalgia swept through me in dizzying waves.
Dad’s office door swung open across the lawn. His veterinary practice was a Garden District success, operated from a converted barn in their yard. “Hello!” He waved a hand overhead from his place on the welcome mat. His usual white lab coat topped a pinstriped button-down and marvelous navy tie. His expression was childlike as he honed in on the line of travel packs in the driveway. “Let me get a look at those sweethearts.” He strode across the lawn and crouched before the carriers. “Gorgeous.”
The Siamese hissed and growled.
He laughed and slapped his palms together. “Splendid. Here we go.” He grabbed their carriers and headed for his office.
I followed with Penelope. “I really appreciate this, Dad. Annie set her kittens up with a trust, and Jack thinks it could have been the motive for her murder. They were abducted from my place this morning, but they have microchips, so we tracked them. Jack has the guy who took them in custody, but I don’t think I can keep them safe if people keep coming for them.”
“I see,” he said. Worry creased his brow. “Anything else I should know about your day or these lovely ladies?”
I picked flaking polish off my thumbnail. “Annie’s ex-husband came to my shop looking for them, but Imogene gave him the look, and he left.”
“Well, he’s probably lucky he walked away. I’m not sure what happens if someone ignores the look.”
I added that to the growing list of things I didn’t want to think about.
Dad flipped his tie over one shoulder and opened the kittens’ carriers. Cotton and Cashmere trotted out. They rubbed their faces on his pant legs and purred. No animal had ever seen him without falling immediately in love, and they were no exception. He stroked their coats as I blathered every detail of my day, cocking an eyebrow once or twice without interrupting.
“If I’m being honest, they’re kind of mean to Penelope,” I continued, “and they hate my baking. They’re a little loud, and the fear they could be abducted again is more than I can stand.”
Dad rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “It’s no problem.”
No problem for him maybe. “Have you talked to Mom?”
He stood with a smile. “Yes, and she’s glad you’re coming for dinner.”
I watched Cotton and Cashmere knock Dad’s things from his desk. “What about the kittens?”
He lifted Penelope’s carrier. “I told
her they were coming, but let’s not mention there’s a bounty on their heads.”
I wanted to argue his word choice, but bounty felt right given the day’s events. “Sorry I missed drinks with the new neighbor.”
Dad motioned me outside. “Don’t worry about that. Your mother has a bunch of suggestions on ways you can make it up to her.” He placed a hand between my shoulder blades, steering me across the yard and through the back door of the Crocker family homestead. A humble little Victorian with twenty-plus impeccably decorated rooms.
Voodoo, the family cat, wrapped herself around dad’s legs when we arrived. Voodoo was the latest in a long line of black cats owned by Dad’s family. It was a long-standing Crocker tradition to rescue a replica cat when the reigning Voodoo grew old or ill, giving neighbors the impression she was ageless or that Dad was Dr. Frankenstein by night. I was never quite sure if the stunt was mean or quite clever, but it was definitely amusing.
Mom arrived from the kitchen on the click-clack of designer heels. “There you are. Come in. There’s wine.”
I stooped to release Penelope from her carrier.
The spicy scents of Mom’s gumbo wafted into the room behind her, clearing my sinuses and exciting my tummy. She used the best, freshest ingredients, plus a tub of garlic and the Louisianan holy trinity: bell pepper, onion, and celery. To me, Mom’s chicken-and-sausage gumbo was evidence heaven existed. Surely, the recipe had come from there.
I followed her into the dining room on a cloud of hunger and anticipation. Her black dress pants and ivory wrap blouse were stunning, perfectly paired with a pearl necklace and earrings. The pieces elongated her neck and emphasized her youthful shape. Mom and I looked alike from the chin up, except I was usually smiling.
She poured a half glass of her favorite Pinot and set it in front of me. “You’re having a rough couple of days.” She didn’t say it like she meant it. She said it like it was my fault. “Your hair is lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“The dress is a dab dowdy.”
There it was. A compliment shooter with an insult chaser. “Dowdy?”
“You’re young and vibrant. Why not show off a little personality with your fashion choices? Invite people to know you.”
“I do.” I looked at my outfit. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”
She lifted and dropped one shoulder. “You need a more approachable look in your line of work. My stylist could change your life.”
I was approachable. Wasn’t I? “I don’t need help from your stylist. I have a fashion degree.”
Dad took the seat across from Mom. “I think you both look beautiful.”
Mom rested twined fingers on the table. “Moving on then. We need a few things from you.”
“Me?” I asked. “What kinds of things?”
“There’s a Faux Real event in need of another judge Saturday night, so I volunteered you. Don’t bother arguing. It’s a done deal and a Crocker’s civic responsibility to support the community.”
I knew I should’ve gone to more of her parties last week. “What kind of event?”
She frowned. “Something nouveau and artsy. I can’t recall the details, but you’re due for another board position, and I know you hate those, so this will suffice. People will see you’re involved again, and they won’t expect you to help with anything else for a while. I’m buying you time. It’s a favor to you, really.”
“I’m going to need more information.”
“I’ll text you.”
I counted silently and sampled my wine. “What else?”
Dad cleared his throat. “The next favor is mine. Commander’s Palace is hosting a cooking competition for the festival on Monday night. Every seat requires a ticket, and all the monies go to our local culinary school, so I bought six seats at the speaker’s table. The event’s at seven. I’d love for you to join us. It’d be a shame to have empty seats at the speaker’s table.”
“Commander’s Palace? Yes, please. I’d love to.”
Mom scoffed. “Why doesn’t he get any sass?”
“He told me where, when, and what. For all I know, you’ve volunteered me to judge a burlesque competition.”
She looked concerned. “I don’t think it’s a burlesque competition.”
I had another sample of wine. “I’m judging an event with no name on Saturday and having dinner at Commander’s on Monday. Anything else?”
“Yes.” Mom produced a purple folder from the empty seat beside her. “The Jazzy Chicks need sashes. Something dazzling, like Miss America, not plain like those little cookie sellers.”
“Sashes for chickens.” I pulled the folder closer with one fingertip. “Jazzy Chicks Confidential” was written in block letters across the top.
The Jazzy Chicks were a group of funny-haired chickens from the county fair. Mom and a few of the ladies in her social circle owned them and toted them around the parish for a small fee, raising poultry awareness and donating the earnings to charity. The plans were probably confidential because the Jazzy Chicks had an ongoing battle with a group of wealthy landowners from a few plantations on the bayou who called themselves Llama Mamas. The two groups spent a levee full of time, money, and effort trying to outdo one another in the donation department. It was a little silly, but it made Mom happy and fulfilled her genetic need to argue.
In keeping with the parameters of my overly complicated life, I worked for both groups.
A series of brown-and-yellow ovals were sketched on copy paper inside the folder. Each oval had an orange triangle, presumably a beak. She pointed to the drawings. “We want green, purple, and gold sashes, all blinged out but nothing too heavy. Chickens aren’t very strong. Use sequins.”
I traced the pictures with my fingertip. “The ovals are the chickens, right?”
She ignored me and continued with a line of extremely specific instructions until I thought I’d die of hunger.
“Got it,” I said. “If I had some hot gumbo, I could probably start on these tonight.”
“Done.” She wrenched upright and swept dramatically into the kitchen, returning moments later with a tray and three bowls of gumbo.
Dad dug in with gusto. “I’m glad to hear you’ll attend the cooking competition and whatever your mom volunteered you for, Lacy. It’s good to have you back, representing the Crocker name.”
I slid a spoonful of delicious sausage and peppers between my lips. A little sigh escaped. It was good to be home.
Mom opened a napkin over her knees. “I agree. It’s also nice to see you putting your ‘fashion degree’ to use.”
I rested my spoon in the bowl. “There’s no reason to make air quotes when you say fashion degree. Fashion is a legitimate course of study.”
“Well.” She tipped her head left and right as if I might be wrong.
Mom had made medical school plans for me before I left her womb. She had sent me to her fancy college alma mater after high school, where I majored in molecular, cell, and developmental biology for two years. I defected junior year to a state school. I did finish the degree, but I skipped medical school in favor of design school. We tried not to talk about it. “At least your time wasn’t completely wasted,” she said. “The Jazzy Chicks truly appreciate your work.”
“As do the shoppers at my store on Magazine Street,” I reminded her. “I’ve only been open for eight months, and I’ve already gained recognition.” Partly because I was wrapped up in another murder investigation, but mostly because I worked hard. I closed her folder. “I’ll make delightful sashes for your Chicks.”
“I know you will.” She smiled sadly.
I spooned another hunk of sausage into my mouth to avoid grinding my teeth.
Mom blew ripples over the surface of her dinner with dim interest. “You’ll need to keep our sash designs on the DL. That means down low.” She gave me an odd look, as if I might not be fully following. “That means to keep them quiet.”
“I’m aware.”
�
�Good. We can’t allow word of our new costumes to make it back to Margaret Hams and those damned Llama Mamas.” She leaned in, conspiratorially, and gave me a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Since we started our poultry education tour, we’ve spoken to twelve 4-H groups, seven FFA organizations, and nine schools. We’ve raised over twenty thousand dollars between donations made at the events and fund-matching pledges within the group.”
Dad sat back in his seat. “That’s fantastic. All the money goes to St. Jude?”
“Yes. We’re donating one big check at Christmas.” Her eyes sparkled. “We’re doing so well, we made a bet with the Llama Mamas. Whichever group raises the most money by the end of this month has to wear the other group’s pin on their coat until Christmas.” She hid her smile behind steepled fingers. “So we also need you to design the ugliest pins on earth. Can you do that? Anything you’d like. You have free rein, as long as they’re awful. I can’t wait to see those Mamas wearing them for a month.”
“Okeydokey.” My bowl was empty, and my dress was tight. I wished I could change into sweat pants and make room for more.
Dad cleared the table while I mentally cursed my love of structured clothing. He set my bowl on the tray. “Have you seen Chase Hawthorne lately?”
“Not since the summer, no.” I hated the pang of regret that hit with the thought. Chase was a rich kid, like me, who’d devastated his family by deviating from their plan, also like me. Instead of joining the prestigious Hawthorne law firm after college, Chase had moved to Miami and become a professional volleyball player. If that career ever fell through, I had a feeling there was solid work for him in underwear modeling.
My parents exchanged a long look.
“What?” I asked. “Is he okay?” He’d seemed fine the last time he called to chat. Though, that had been several weeks ago.
Dad hurried to the kitchen.
I locked my attention on Mom. “What was that look?”
“Nothing? What?” She shrugged innocently. “Chase is fine. Better than fine. Is it wrong if your father and I want the best for you? We saw a little spark between you two this summer and hoped it might’ve kindled a fire.”
