by Julie Chase
That was interesting. After a year, she was ready to leave? “Maybe she’s finished whatever she was up to, and she’s ready to go.”
He turned, palms up like a surgeon prepping for an operation, and bumped his hip to mine. “I’ve never been any good at watching people work. Tell me what to do, and we’ll knock this out.”
I laughed. “Now you sound like Imogene. She can’t stand to be idle.”
“I never thought I’d be compared to her. How’s she doing?”
I turned to face him with a bright smile. I had information guaranteed to lift his mood. “She’s helping a friend in the Quarter with a ghost problem.” I waited while that sunk in.
His lips parted. A moment later, he laughed. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Her friend, who is over one hundred years old, has this ghost problem, and Imogene seems very put out by the whole thing, but she’s being coy and won’t tell me exactly what they’re up to.”
Jack arched his back and expelled a loud belly laugh. “You’re not going to believe this. I think I know her friend.”
“You know a one-hundred-year-old woman in the French Quarter with a ghost problem? Who are you?”
He settled into a charming smile. “I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard plenty. Her name’s Veda, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, utterly baffled.
“My former partner, Henri LaSalle, works homicide in the Quarter. He’s always ranting about this nutty old lady and going on about her magic cookie shop. Now that I’m thinking about it, it seems fitting she and Imogene are friends. Wait until I tell Henri.”
I paused. “Are her cookies magical, or is it the shop?”
“I have no idea, but that woman drives Henri to drink. He says she’s always in the middle of a big mess. Kind of like you.” He ran a delighted gaze over me, slowing in key places before looking into my eyes. “Lucky for him that lady’s a hundred and not thirty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He opened a carton of eggs and cracked one into my bowl. “Nothing.”
I stepped closer, bringing our torsos within a few inches of one another. “Are you suggesting I’m a pain in your backside? Maybe you should be thankful I don’t have any ghost problems.”
“A lack of ghosts hasn’t made you less kooky.” His smile reached his eyes for the first time all night. He leaned a hip against my counter and watched me.
My heart burst into a fresh frenzy.
I forced myself back from the heat of his body and powerful pull of his stare.
It was hard not to believe in magic when Jack Oliver had so obviously put a spell on me.
Chapter Eight
Furry Godmother’s advice for lonely ladies: Get a cat.
I sipped iced coffee and puttered through my shop the next morning, tidying and nitpicking, while shoppers glided past the window in packs. Sunlight glinted off passing cabs and designer glasses. Saturdays on Magazine Street were the busiest of the week. I was thankful for the distraction and potential income.
Jack left at dawn, after I insisted he go home and get some sleep. We’d played cards and watched old movies when the baking was done.
Hard to believe that just two days ago, I’d come to work in a cold sweat, terrified to meet my hero. Afraid she wouldn’t like me or that she’d think my designs were junk. If only that was the worst thing that had happened. I’d prefer Annie Lane hate me and be alive than this macabre alternative.
I flipped through the local paper on my counter. Annie had made front-page news today. Pictures of her life were scattered around paragraphs describing her success and untimely death. I would have preferred if I hadn’t been named as the one to find her and the first person questioned in her murder.
Penelope climbed aboard Spot the vacuum and pawed the start button.
“Sorry, sugar. I powered him down for the day. I can’t have you tripping customers and causing a fall.” I’d purchased my shopkeeper’s insurance from a guy in a denim jacket and button flies. I suspected the coverage was flimsy.
She absorbed the information and climbed down, disgusted.
Shoppers trickled in throughout the morning. Some asked about my designs, but no one placed an order. A suspicious number of people entering the shop had a morning paper under their arm or poking out from their purse.
A woman in dark glasses and matching cliché trench coat marched through my door and headed straight for me at the register. “Lacy Crocker?”
I put my hands behind my back in case she wanted to hand me a subpoena or handcuff me. “May I help you?” I answered with a question, to be safe.
She pulled the glasses off her oval face. “Are you Lacy Crocker? Yes or no?”
I narrowed my eyes in warning. My extensive debutante training had ingrained in me that the stink eye was a lady’s most appropriate form of defense. Anything I said or did beyond that was admissible in court and could besmirch my good name. Depending on who this woman was, I could also apply heavy sass. “What can I do for you?”
She huffed an indignant breath. “I’ll take that as a yes. You’re Lacy Crocker, and I’m Clary Blare, lead reporter for AAH Magazine.”
“AAH?” I scrambled to recall the acronym. Was it a political publication?
“Animals Are Humans,” she said smartly, as if it was impossible I hadn’t heard of it before. “We’re a national magazine out of Albuquerque. I assume you’re making that face because you disagree? You don’t believe animals are people.”
“You said your magazine is called Animals Are Humans. No, I don’t agree that’s true.”
She smiled and pulled a notebook from her purse. “I figured as much. You operate a fancy, overpriced pet shop and don’t think pets are humans? Why on earth does anyone shop here?”
People stilled at the racks, ears turned casually in my direction.
“I suppose you could ask a client, but I’d guess it’s my great attention to detail and passion for what I do. I don’t think animals are humans. Animals are animals, and there’s no shame in letting them be what they are. Cats are cats. Dogs are dogs, and you, well I’m not sure about you, but I have an idea.”
A small gasp fluttered through the silence. Someone raised their cell phone in my periphery.
I kept my eyes on the moronic reporter. “I think animal lovers and responsible pet owners should embrace their furry babies and enjoy them for who they are. At Furry Godmother I take great care to ensure every treat I bake and every item I sell is the best, safest, healthiest option for our pets.” I tipped my head. “Surely you understand. I run on coffee, and that’s okay because I’m human. I’d never dream of giving coffee to an animal. Would you?” I made a horrified face. “Oh, my goodness, you would, wouldn’t you? You think animals need to have human things, or they aren’t being treated fairly.” I shook my head. “That’s a very dangerous way to think, Ms. Blare. Anthropomorphism is fun, but it is a fallacy. Animals have emotions and opinions, but they aren’t human. Your pet might beg you for the last bite of pecan pie or a sip of your sweet-smelling cocktail, but you can’t give it to him so that you feel better. Human food can kill your pets or cause anemia, diarrhea, or poisoning. Would you do that to your fur baby so his life seems fair to you? So you can pretend he’s a human? As if what he truly is isn’t enough on its own?”
The little crowd turned angry faces on Clary Blare.
Her red cheeks darkened to eggplant. “Of course not.”
“Then you agree? Animals aren’t humans. Now I’m confused. What’s the name of your magazine again?”
She pressed her lips into a hard white line.
Penelope jumped onto the counter between us and nudged my hand with her nose.
I stroked her back and tickled her ears while Clary decided on her next move.
She bounced back quickly. “Is this your cat?”
I didn’t answer. Stupid questions and all.
“Aren’t you also caring for Annie Lane’s cats? Where are they?”
“Someplace safe. Being loved and treated as kittens.” I smirked. Immature, but I couldn’t help it.
“Have you locked her kittens in your house all day while you bring your cat here for show? Is that why Charlie stole Cotton and Cashmere two days ago? Was that who broke into your home again last night? Did he come back again to save them?”
I lifted Penelope into my arms for moral support. “I don’t know who broke in. I wasn’t home.”
“Well,” she said, casting her gaze over the growing audience, “that’s convenient.”
“None of this has been convenient.”
She pressed her hot palms on my counter and leaned toward me. “You’ve had a tough couple of days, Ms. Crocker, so why are you here, playing shop and behaving as if nothing has happened?”
I bit the insides of my cheeks and reminded myself to watch my words. I had an audience with Internet access. “I realize you’re not from around here, but in New Orleans, the show goes on. We never stop. We celebrate life, and we mourn death, probably to degrees you can’t imagine back in Albuquerque. I’m endlessly sorry for what’s happened to Annie, and frankly, you’re ignorant to think otherwise. If opening my shop today seems wrong to you, then go home—no one invited you—but I’m charging onward because New Orleanians keep going. Furthermore, the only true insult to Annie that I see is the fact you’re here chasing smoke instead of reporting on her incredible life. Do you think she wanted to be remembered for dying?” My temper cooled, and I stepped away from the counter. “Kindly leave—I’m finished talking with you.”
The gathering of silent shoppers began a slow clap.
“Annie had her share of enemies, Ms. Crocker. If you care as much as you pretend to, the least you can do is keep her cats closer than she did. Take care of them.” She whipped herself around and strode away.
The store burst back to life. Shoppers chatted rapidly into cell phones and excitedly at one another, likely replaying my verbal smackdown. Hopefully none of it would wind up on YouTube. I kissed Penelope and set her on the floor. Why couldn’t I win more word battles? I knew lots of words, but they were never ready when I needed them. That New Orleans speech was the best I’d done in years, and I still couldn’t shake the feeling that Clary Blare had gotten the best of me.
The front door burst open, and Imogene bustled inside. She rounded the counter and grabbed my wrists. “Your mother just told me about what happened last night.” Her eyes slid shut for a long beat before she released me. “Are you still carrying the Chilean I gave you?”
“Yes.” I turned for my purse, tucked snugly beneath the counter, so she wouldn’t see my eyes roll. A Chilean was a little three-legged pig. Imogene had given me the figurine to remedy my bad juju this summer. I knew she’d check up on it eventually, so I kept it close. “Here.”
She snatched him up and stuffed him into her overflowing quilted shoulder bag. “This fellow can’t cure what you’ve got.”
“Okay. What else do you have?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You never turn down my help. Strange behavior for someone who doesn’t believe.”
I slid my arm around her back. “I accept your help because I love you. I’d wear garlic to ward off vampires. Stir my coffee with chicken bones. Whatever you want. You believe, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Vampires would like garlic if they had any sense. Garlic’s delicious. Now here.” She dropped a small hunk of brown paper in my hand. “This’ll keep you safe until I can get your juju cleaned up.” She folded my fingers over the little thing. “No one can put a spell on you while you have this in your possession.”
“What is it?”
“That’s a dime, covered in red pepper and rolled in brown paper. It’s for protection. You put it in your shoe.” She stared at my feet.
“Oh-kay,” I drawled. I wiggled one ankle boot off my foot and balanced on the other. I dropped the dime inside my empty boot. “See? Anything for you.” I slid my toes back inside the shoe.
Imogene shook her head. “The dime goes under your heel.”
I tilted my foot and let the dime slide beneath my heel. “There. How’s that?”
She dusted her palms. “That’ll help.”
“Great.” I glanced at the sprinkling of shoppers who’d lost interest when Clary left and went to wash my hands in the little sink behind the bakery counter. The dime bit into my heel with every step. “I have to make a delivery to Doggy Divas soon. Do you mind taking over while I’m gone?”
“Not at all.”
I lined boxes of fresh treats on the counter, then shimmied them into logoed shopping bags. Clary’s words plucked at my skin. She was right—Charlie wasn’t the only activist who hated Annie. In fact, Charlie had mentioned Gideon Fargas by name when we rescued the kittens. That had to be significant. I excused myself to the stock room and took a seat at my desktop computer.
A few keystrokes later, I found Gideon Fargas, also known as Gideon the Guardian. He was a middle-aged man with a bald head and Harry Potter glasses who’d established the Heart to Heart animal shelter after Hurricane Katrina. He took strays in and fed them, gave them a safe place to sleep. Many families were forced to abandon their pets during the storm. Gideon matched the strays with new families, many who’d lost their pets in the storm. I tugged the soft material of my dress hem. Gideon seemed like a dedicated humanitarian, but would his love of pets have pushed him to do something as irrational as murder Annie? Just because she made a faux-fur line? I clicked a few more times and got an address for the shelter.
I collected my purse and pupcakes for Doggie Divas. I said good-bye to Imogene and leaned my hip against the shop door, pushing it wide.
Imogene waved absently and smiled as Penelope rode by on Spot.
I made a mental note to get better shop owners’ insurance.
Traffic was thick when I pulled away from the curb and stopped almost immediately at the light on my corner. Smiling people crossed the street in droves, pushing strollers and sucking on cold drinks. I powered down my window to enjoy the spunky sounds of a jazz band while I waited for the light.
As the final crush of bodies entered the crosswalk, a dark form appeared on the empty corner. A man wearing black coveralls and a giant papier-mâché cat head faced my car. The man lifted a big fuzzy paw and moved his arm slowly, left and right at the elbow. I blinked long and slow. Did other people see him?
Horns honked behind me, and I jumped in my seat. The light was green. The car in front of me was nothing but taillights in the distance.
I willed my foot to release the brake and press the gas in steady acceleration. I caught the red light at the next intersection and fumbled for my hands-free headset. I hooked the thing around my ear. My wobbling voice demanded, “Call Jack.”
“Call back,” said the automated response. The useless technology repeated the last number who’d called my phone.
“No.” My mother had called this morning. I hadn’t answered. Jack was still at my place, and I didn’t want to get something started with her. “Hang up,” I instructed the phone. The call connected and rang. My heart lurched. I didn’t want to talk to my mother. I needed to tell Jack about the cat-man. “Disconnect!”
People outside my open window stared as I yelled and slapped the stupid phone until it ceased to ring, giving only half my attention to the crawling traffic ahead of me. I tossed the earpiece into the passenger seat and vowed never again to make a call while driving. Maybe I’d even return the hands-free device. I was definitely removing the app from my phone. My nerves couldn’t take it.
I worked to slow my breaths. It wasn’t night this time. There were no shadows to confuse for something else. A grown man dressed as a cat had stared me down on the busiest street in the district. Was it Charlie in disguise? Had he been staking out my place before nabbing Annie’s kittens? If so, why was he watching me now? If it wasn’t Charlie wearing the cat head, then who? Annie’s ex-husband? Given a choice between stalkers, I�
��d have preferred Charlie to Dylan Latherope. Latherope was off-balance and quick-tempered. It terrified me to think of what he might do to me—the stranger denying him access to his beloved darlings—given the chance.
I needed to dial Jack manually as soon as I arrived at the animal shelter. If I had any extra money, my second call would be the therapist.
The light turned green, and I inched forward with traffic.
I swallowed shards of terror and double-checked my rearview mirror. In the distance, the cat-man continued to wave.
Chapter Nine
Furry Godmother’s lesson from a stalker: Take more pictures.
I motored into the small lot outside Heart to Heart animal rescue and triple-checked my power-door locks before dialing Jack. As if the cat-man sighting wasn’t enough to ruin my day, I’d spotted an SUV in my rearview mirror on Napoleon Avenue, and despite horrendous traffic, was unable to put it more than two bumpers behind me. I’d hoped the vehicle would peel away, be absorbed in the allure of a French Quarter Saturday, but it pulled into the lot behind me.
“Oliver,” Jack barked.
“You answered!”
“Kind of how phones work. Do you need something?”
“Yes. I need help. I’m at the Heart to Heart animal shelter in the Quarter. I was followed here by a big SUV. Before that, I saw the cat-man again on Magazine. He waved. I feel like that was a threat.” I considered my confession. “Maybe not a threat-threat, but definitely an escalation, like he’s saying, ‘I see you, and I know you see me.’”
“And you think he’s in the parking lot with you?”
I gave the SUV another look. I couldn’t see a driver through the dark tinted glass, but I imagined he wore a giant cat head and waved like a Stephen King character. “Maybe. Whoever’s in there hasn’t gotten out.”
“Sit tight. I’m going to call you back.”
My emotions went haywire. “Wait!” On the one hand, Jack answered, and I was saved! On the other hand, who was in the SUV, and why wasn’t anyone getting out? What did the driver have planned? How fast could Jack get to me? Traffic was horrible. “What should I do? Should I go into the rescue or wait in the car?”
