by Julie Chase
“I’m aware.”
Humble, she was not.
“Then let’s get down to business.” She rested her forearms on my counter and laced her fingers. “I need you to work your magic for my girls.”
“No problem.” I dug through my drawer for a sketch pad and pencil. “What will it be?”
“We need matching hats and scarves. They should be festive, shimmery, and theatrical. Something that can be seen from blocks away.” She spread her fingers and wiggled them beside her face. “I want them to steal the show.”
Uh-oh. Mom and the chicks hadn’t booked a show, and I was in charge of making the ugly pins for the Llamas to wear when the Chicks raised more money this month.
“The show?” I feigned disinterest as I sketched a charcoal llama and prepared to dress it.
She waited until I looked up before speaking. Her stout body fizzed with excitement and victory. “The Llama Mamas have secured a spot in the district’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and we’re taking sponsors for a new project. Donations will go to the maintenance and upkeep of historic bayou plantations. When folks invest in the Llama Mamas this month, they’re supporting a piece of our country’s history.”
I fumbled with the awful news. “You’re going to be in the Thanksgiving Day parade?” Mom was going to lose her mind. That kind of exposure was priceless.
“That’s right, we’re walking the entire Magazine Street leg.” She leveled me with a no-nonsense expression. “Don’t breathe a word of this to your mother, or she’ll be angling for a spot too.”
I doodled in the corner of my paper. Anything I learned from Mrs. Hams was confidential. I offered the feature as a courtesy and basic good business practice where fashion was concerned. Imagine if celebrities’ Oscar gowns were leaked before the show. Why would anyone tune in? The whole thing would be ruined.
Mrs. Hams fidgeted with her wild salt-and-pepper hair. “I’d like to see those squatty chickens march six miles.”
I found a new page on my sketchpad and concentrated on the problem at hand. Mrs. Hams wanted custom hats and scarves for her llamas. They needed to be fabulous and fit for a New Orleans parade. I outlined several loose concepts. “Are you thinking about basic knits, something outlandish and feathered, or somewhere in between? What do you think of these?”
She shrugged one shoulder.
I continued to doodle. “Do you have a specific color scheme in mind?”
“I’d like them to look like candy corn.”
“Candy corn?” I grabbed my gum eraser and vanquished all the little graphite feathers. “Candy corn.” I let the words take root.
“The little triangle sweets. Everyone loves candy corn, and this is the only time of the year that we can enjoy it. Isn’t that clever? I want the hats to stand up like that deal the pope wears, no disrespect.”
“None taken.”
“They should be white, yellow, and orange.” She pointed to the air over her head at three different heights. “Use sequins or rhinestones, something shimmery to catch the sun.”
I made a trio of rough outlines based on her description and turned the pad toward her. “Any of these?”
She pulled the paper off the counter in one hand and raised the glasses on her silver necklace with the other. She squinted at the drawings. “Not the first one. My heavens. The llamas are ladies.”
I had no idea what that meant. “Of course.”
“This!” She dropped the paper with a clap. “The one in the middle. Make those.”
I turned the pad back to face me.
“Chop chop.” She clapped twice. “We need them for dress rehearsal in two weeks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I transferred her chosen designs onto the llama drawing and colored the accessories with my pencils. I made a few quick notes on the paper’s edge and reminded myself to find the file with her llamas’ measurements. The scarves needed to be long enough to dazzle without dragging on the ground or tangling around their feet. The hats needed to be loose enough for comfort and tight enough to stay put. “Would you like a work order for your records?”
“No need.” She flipped her chin up. “I know where to find you.”
That was true enough for now, but once Mom found out I had information this big about her archenemy and couldn’t share it with her, no one would know where to find me.
Chapter Thirteen
Furry Godmother’s words of wisdom: Facing fears is best done in daylight, preferably with witnesses.
I ate my lunch at the counter, mulling over ways to tell my mom about the parade without breaking Mrs. Hams’s confidence, which of course was impossible. Shoppers came and went in a steady stream of enthusiasm I couldn’t quite muster. Though, the muffaletta salad in front of me was helping. What I really wanted was a muffaletta sandwich, but that was the size of my head, so this was a happy compromise. Muffaletta was authentic New Orleans comfort food. I skewered stacks of baby lettuce, julienne prosciutto, and bits of provolone with increasing fervor. Diced-olive salad and homemade vinaigrette dripped from each bite. The combination of rich, salty flavors slowly washed my cares away. Too soon, the bottom of my disposable container came into view. “Sad.”
“Hello.” A woman dressed like a French clown strode through the shop with a giant pink standard poodle on a black velvet leash.
I froze, startled senseless. My parents had taken me to the circus while we were in Paris many years ago. I discovered many things during that trip—a passionate interest in fashion, for example. I also learned I hated the circus. A dozen painted-face monsters had ensnared me at the request of my mother, lifting me into their arms and encasing me in the stench of stale popcorn and makeup. A quiver ran along my limbs with the memory. A lifelong distrust of clowns glued my sandals to the floor.
Her baggy white jumper had big black pom-pom buttons and a shimmering black ruff collar that protruded several inches from her neck. Her white face was marked with black-and-red diamonds on her eyelids and cheeks. “Yoo-hoo,” she cooed in a thick French accent.
“Hi.” I moved my attention to the dog and perked. “She’s pink.” I dashed to her side like a child who’d seen a unicorn and crouched for a look into the pretty poodle’s eyes, careful to keep the furry sweetheart between myself and the clown. I dug my fingers into the puff of cotton-candy-colored hair on the dog’s head. “Why are you pink, my little sweetie, cutie, baby?” My voice morphed into a high soprano. Baby talk poured from my lips. “What’s your name, pretty princess? Huh?”
“He is Magnus the Conqueror,” the dog’s clown said with unfettered French disdain.
“Oh.” I stood gracelessly. “He’s beautiful.”
“It’s food coloring.” She pointed to his bouffant.
“Lovely.” I smiled. “And nontoxic.”
“Oui. This is important. You have nontoxic treats?”
I got the distinct impression nontoxic wasn’t the exact phrase she was looking for, but I got the gist. I ran around the bakery display and made a sample tray. “You’re in luck, Magnus. Everything I bake is nontoxic.” I arranged a few treat bits in a row and lowered the tray on my palm for Magnus’s inspection. “This is a peanut butter and banana pupcake.” I pointed to the first selection with my free hand. “This is a pawline. It’s made with bacon fat and lots of crispy bacon bits. This last one is a carrot cake.”
Magnus tilted his head as I spoke, absorbing the words.
“Would you like to try one?” I asked.
He sniffed the samples, then looked at me. His giant paw landed beside choice number one, nearly toppling my tray.
“He wants a pupcake,” the clown explained.
“Of course.” I held the bit in my palm. Magnus swept it off with his tongue.
The clown watched him lick his chops. “Fine. We take forty-seven.”
I straightened. “What?” Was that also lost translation? I dug through foggy memories of prep school French for the names of numbers. “Quarante-sept?”
“Ou
i. Quarante-sept. I will treat the team.”
All righty, then. I washed my hands before sliding on a pair of clear plastic gloves. “Are you and Magnus performing this week?”
The clown did a deep side-lunge bow number.
I jumped back.
Her black beret barely moved as she whipped herself into a normal stance. “We are members of the Tulane University Theater Troupe. Tonight we perform ‘A Dog’s Day in Paris’ at the Monteleone. This is a hotel in the French Quarter.”
“How exciting.” I emptied an entire shelf of pupcakes into a large bakery box prelined with teal paper. My heart hammered as I sealed the box with a monogrammed sticker and set the treats on the counter. “Ninety-nine dollars and sixty-four cents.”
“Bon.” She handed me her Visa as payment. A little picture of a college student was tucked in the corner of the personalized card. Under all that makeup was a rather plain-looking beauty. Not scary at all.
I returned her card and the receipt. “Thank you. Enjoy your pupcakes! Bye-bye, Magnus the Conqueror.”
Look at me, facing my clown fears.
I wiped my counter down and smiled at the pink poodle and strange clown as they passed my window on the sidewalk, off to practice “A Dog’s Day in Paris,” whatever that was.
The store phone rang, and I lifted the receiver to my ear. “Furry Godmother Pet Boutique, where every pet is royalty and every day is a celebration.”
The chords of a bass guitar thrummed in my ear.
“Hello?”
A scratchy indie-band voice joined the creepy bass. “You follow me. I’ll follow you,” the voice crooned. “You follow me. I’ll follow you. You’re never alone. Not at work. Not at home. I’m outside your door. Watching you. Forever more.”
I hung up. Fear pooled in my gut as I scanned the scene outside my shop window. Nothing seemed amiss, but ice fingers slid down my spine anyway. I swept overgrown bangs off my forehead and shook away the desire to close the blinds. “Good grief,” I whispered, “woman up.” I was from New Orleans. It should take more than a wrong number and some creepy indie rock to upset me. Clearly, the week was taking a toll. I grabbed a box of sequins and dumped them on the counter. As long as the store was dead, I could sort and inventory the colors I needed for Mrs. Hams’s order. Orange. Yellow. Silver. White wouldn’t be shiny enough for the effect she wanted. I didn’t have enough sequins for one llama-sized scarf, let alone a whole troop. “Shoot,” I muttered. I darted into the stock room to assess my bolts of fabric. Llamas were big, and there were seven Llama Mamas. “I’ve got to buy more of everything,” I muttered to myself. A trip to the store would keep me from starting right away.
The phone rang as I dragged myself back to the front. “Furry Godmother Pet Boutique, where every pet is royalty and every day is a celebration.”
The weird music began again. “You follow me. I follow you. You follow me.”
I hung up. “Listen,” I told the silent phone. “I’m not following you, and if you want to follow me, you’ve got to get in line.”
The phone rang again, and fine hairs on my neck rose to attention. Beyond my shop window stood a cat-man with a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Ah-ha!” I bolted through the room and out the door. “Hey!” I called, racing between cars to the other side of the road, no time for stoplights and crosswalks. “You! Stop!” I yelled at the big head with the tiny phone. “Stop!”
The cat turned to face me. Its blank, painted expression stole my verve.
“Take off that mask.” I lifted my phone and dialed 9-1-1, then hovered my thumb over the Send button. “Take it off or I’m calling the police.”
The cat made a rude hand gesture.
Throngs of people passed us, splitting as if we were a fork in the river, an obstacle of no consequence. Meanwhile I faced off with a madman.
“Hey.” A woman’s voice drew my attention. She marched our way in matching black coveralls, a big cat head tucked under one arm. “What’s wrong? Why are you yelling at him?”
A pack of cat-men emerged from a restaurant not far from where she’d magically appeared.
I stepped back, counting cat-people and burning with confusion and embarrassment under a hot afternoon sun. Why had I assumed, especially during an arts festival, that there was only one man in town with a cat costume? My mouth dried and my head swam. I forced my stubborn jaw to move. “Will you take off your masks?”
Everyone removed their heads, except the one in front of me.
Concern lined their collective expression.
My tummy seemed to bottom out. I didn’t recognize anyone, and I regretted the heavy lunch.
“Are you all right?” The woman reached for me.
I moved back. “No. I’m not.” I felt off-balance. Woozy. “I’m being followed by someone dressed like you. Why are there so many of you?” My throat caught on the words, choking me. Was this a panic attack?
“We’re performing all week around the city,” the woman said. She smacked the big faux head on the person in front of me. “This is Nick. He’s a pain, but he’s been too busy working with us to be stalking you. Take your head off, for cat’s sake.”
Nick wiggled the head lose and made a mean face at me. I’d never seen him before either.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I got a weird call, and I saw you with the phone.” I scooted away from the mass of cat-people. “Sorry.”
“Hey,” the woman said. “They’re selling these at the market in the Quarter, you know. Some artist is making them. Demonstrating papier-mâché. Anyone can buy one.”
“Thanks.” I turned and jogged back to my store. Anyone could buy one. Anyone could be the cat-man.
I entered Furry Godmother with new fear in my heart. No shoppers. Anyone could have entered and hidden while I was outside. No. That was paranoid thinking. Wasn’t it? I mentally cursed my impulsivity and grabbed a broom for self-defense. Shop owner rule number one: never leave the store unattended. Duh.
I peeked behind the counters. No one.
I crept down the hall and kicked the bathroom door open. No one. Closet. No one.
I was essentially the stupid girl in every horror film. There could be danger nearby; I think I’ll check it out.
Penelope sat on Spot in his dock beside my desk in the stock room.
“Is anyone hiding back here?” I asked her.
She pressed Spot’s button with her paw. Nothing.
“I’ll power him on if you answer me.”
She stared at my broom.
“Why can’t animals talk?” I circled the room and sighed in relief. No one.
The bell rang out front. I set the broom aside and went to fake sanity for a few more hours.
I chatted with tourists and shoppers for the remainder of the afternoon while keeping an eye on the people outside my window. No one stopped to stare. No one else called to play scary songs. My racing heart settled into a more reasonable state of excitement as I made mental plans to visit the market after work. I sold magician capes for bunnies to a grandma from Oregon, who said her grandkids were going to love dressing their darlings. I entertained a toddler with my turtles while her dad tried hats on the family cat as a surprise for his wife. I used Penelope as a fashion model for a young woman with her first cat, unsure how to dress it without making it mad. Good luck with that.
PrettyCharlie86 wandered in minutes before closing time. “Hey.” His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His head drooped forward. “I’m sorry about what I did. In hindsight it was really stupid.”
My guard dropped by a fraction. “Okay.”
He pulled one hand from his pocket and set his cell phone on my counter. “I wrote a public apology to you this morning, and I wanted to tell you in person. I heard you defending animals, and it got me here.” He pressed a fist to his heart.
“You heard me defending animals? When?”
He pressed his finger to the little screen, and my face appeared. Amateur footage of my
verbal spar with the rude Animals Are Humans reporter wobbled on the screen.
“Someone put this online?”
He nodded. “You’re an okay lady. I shouldn’t have messed up your door or tried to make some grand statement about Annie Lane. It was all in the heat of the moment, you know?”
Not really, but I nodded anyway.
He gave me a limp smile, collected his phone, and left. Maybe he was an okay guy, too, under all that self-importance and misappropriated anger.
I locked up promptly at five and set off for the Quarter. Penelope volunteered to keep an eye on Spot after I powered him up. I made the usual twenty-minute drive in thirty, thanks to an unprecedented number of horse-drawn carriages outside Jackson Square. The steady clip-clop of hooves and soft whinny of the stallions helped ease my mind as I crept closer to my destination. People of every size, shape, and color filled the narrow sidewalks of the Quarter, snapping pictures and making memories. I admired them for the thrill it must be, seeing New Orleans for the first time. The soft sounds of a bagpipe’s lament droned unseen near the river, offset by the ever-peppy calliope music piped from the Natchez riverboat nearby.
I patted my steering wheel and hoped the papier-mâché artist kept good records of his recent customers. Then again, even if he had, what was I going to do? Demand copies and run down every person who’d made a purchase in the last four days? What if the stalker had borrowed his cat head from a friend or bought it at another festival?
I gave up car travel and parked several blocks away from the French Market. I donned my sunglasses and grabbed my trusty water bottle. Time to find my man. The market overflowed with people in town for the festival. I trudged through mobs of tourists and vendors in search of one artist selling cat heads. Even the usual street performers had relocated closer to the market. Go where the action is, I guessed.
An hour later, I’d bought a bag of bell peppers for a salad later and a fresh bottle of water. Humidity was ever-present in my city, as real as the aging sax player on an overturned bucket by the sidewalk.
When the papier-mâché stand came into view, I could’ve cheered. I’d begun to think he’d relocated to another part of the city or gone home for the day. His little demonstration table was set up in a grassy area behind the market. Huge crafted animal heads were stacked in piles. Creepy as the cat heads were, the Easter Bunny ones were worse. I approached slowly. “Excuse me.”
