Cat Got Your Cash

by Julie Chase

  He examined my outfit, unimpressed. “You look like a church lady,” he slurred.

  I huffed and adjusted my big red belt. “I was in a hurry.” He approached the corner at a pace I could match. “Can we talk about you and Annie?”

  The light changed at the corner, and Shannon hustled into the crosswalk. His black skinny jeans hung from his svelte figure. The fitted rock star T-shirt barely reached his waistband. “No. I’m leaving. I need a drink, and I want you to go away.” He looked up and down the street as if he was expecting someone. Sunlight glinted off the diamond stud in his nose.

  I’d finally caught him, and he was getting away. “Wait. Please don’t go yet. When was the last time you saw Annie? Where were you Thursday afternoon?”

  Shannon flung an arm overhead and lingered in the middle of the street, apparently trying to gain the attention of any driver willing to stop. “I was at an exhibition on Royale Street. Check my Instagram, and stop following me, or I’ll call the police, Lacy Crocker from Magazine Street.” A motorcycle pulled over, and he climbed aboard. Shannon whispered something to the driver and wrapped his arms around a man who looked like he’d just hit the jackpot.

  “Who would want to hurt Annie?” I asked the puff of black exhaust as they motored away.

  Jack pushed off the crumbling brick building on the corner and headed my way. “I’m guessing that wasn’t his Uber.”

  “More like his getaway car. He wasn’t helpful, but he didn’t do it. He said he was at an exhibition on Royale Thursday.” I scrolled backward through his photo account, looking for proof to support the alibi. “It’s true.” I turned my phone screen in Jack’s direction. “He took a ton of pictures that put him in the Quarter all afternoon.”

  “I’ll still need to talk to him,” Jack said. “Might as well check the market while we’re here. It’s early, but I’d hate to waste the trip. If we miss the guy making papier-mâché animal heads, I’ll come back later.”

  We were too early. The market was a bust.

  Jack drove me back to work. He got a text several blocks from Furry Godmother and practically peeled away before I had both feet on the sidewalk.

  I opened the shop door with a sigh. Chasing clues was exhausting. It was good to be back where I belonged. A handful of customers perused the shelves, unaffected by my entrance.

  Imogene took notice. “How was breakfast?”

  I stuffed my purse under the counter behind the register. “I didn’t get any breakfast, but I did get blown off by one suspect and eluded by another. Shannon wanted nothing to do with me, and the artist wasn’t at the market. No one knew who he was or how to reach him.”

  She frowned. “Today’s off to a rough start. How was your night? Was the dinner good?”

  I rolled my head over my shoulders. “I missed the actual dinner portion of dinner. How about you? How was your night?”

  “Good. Veda finally got that nasty spirit. Maybe we can go back to playing cards now.”

  I smiled. “That’s great. So what did she do with him?”

  Imogene made a face, as if my question was absurd. “She put him back in the basement where he belongs.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “Well I’m glad that’s taken care of so the two of you can relax.”

  “Excellent advice. You should try to do the same.”

  “I’m working on it.” I finger-combed my windblown hair. “Jack’s putting the narcotics unit on alert about a possible link we made to drugs and Annie’s death. It’s starting to look like none of this is about her kittens.”

  Imogene furrowed her brows. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I am. My head’s a little fuzzy. Tired I think.” Something niggled at the back of my mind. I swiped my phone to life and flipped through the pictures on Shannon’s Instagram feed from Thursday afternoon. There were plenty of photos, but if I were being picky, I’d say that Shannon was conveniently missing for a two-hour window near Annie’s time of death. Maybe he’d decided that he didn’t need his face in every photo, or maybe he’d left his phone with a friend as an alibi.

  I texted the new idea to Jack. If I was on the right trail, and Shannon had intentionally left his phone to create an alibi for murder, then I’d solved the case.

  The murder would’ve been premeditated. I pinched my bottom lip between my thumb and first finger. The crime scene suggested an act of passion and a weapon of convenience.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Imogene asked.

  “No.” I set my phone aside and took some cleansing breaths. “I’m not. Everything about this case is disjointed. I don’t know which way is up, or if there is an up.”

  I grabbed a pencil and sketched some very ugly chickens. “I might as well get started on making Mom’s pins.” Though, no one would ever wear them, and I couldn’t tell her what I knew. There was no way the Jazzy Chicks would raise more money than the Llama Mamas if the Llama Mamas were in a parade. “What do you think?” I turned a sketch toward Imogene.

  Her eyes widened. “I think nice people doing bad things makes for bad juju, and you don’t need any more of that.” She turned on her black orthopedic heels and went to check on the customers.

  I started over. She was right. On the off chance Mom won, the pins should be glamorous and eye-catching so that folks who saw the Llamas wearing them would want to know more about the Chicks. Making ugly pins would do more harm to the Chicks than the Llamas.

  My phone rang, and I broke the lead on my pencil.

  Jack’s face appeared on the little screen. I heaved a sigh of relief and cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hey. Any luck finding Shannon or Ryan or Josie or the cat-head maker?”

  “Nope, but I learned a few things you need to know.”

  “Like?” I stepped away from the sketchpad.

  “According to his file. Ryan Goodman has some anger issues. He’s had a few arrests for bar brawls and several tickets for road rage behaviors. He’s even checked himself in and out of rehab several times. Do your best to steer clear of this kid.”

  “Anger issues.” I repeated his words back to him. “Did he have enough issues to kill his sister?” It would explain why he went to ground when she died instead of coming out to speak for her or the family. The stints in rehab said everything else. “I’d bet my best recipe that Annie intentionally kept his existence a secret. Either so Ryan’s problems couldn’t sully her brand or in the hopes that avoiding undo stress from the spotlight would give him a fighting chance at true rehabilitation.” I almost couldn’t blame her. Almost. Being her brother’s advocate would have done far more for everyone involved than treating him like the family wart.

  “I’ll know more once I talk to him. I also found rave busts in three cities last year that occurred within fifteen miles of a hotel where Annie and Josie were staying on business, but it’ll take time to match the pills in your pillow with pills taken from the busts. All the information I have is circumstantial,” Jack said. “Just stay away from Ryan, and while you’re at it, stay away from Dylan Latherope, too. That guy’s squirrelly. I ran into him after I dropped you off, and we had a little chat. I’m not convinced he’s a killer, but he’s definitely off his nut. Speaking of your best recipe,” he said.

  I walked mentally backward. What had I said about my recipes? “If you want one of my recipes, just ask.”

  “Can I have one of your recipes?” His voice was borderline playful, a sound I rather enjoyed.

  “Which one? I’ll text it to you.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “No texting. Your recipes are proprietary.”

  I waited several beats, but he didn’t continue. “And?”

  “Are you still willing to talk to strangers about Tabitha?”

  I straightened my posture. “Yes, please.”

  “I spoke to the Grandpa Smacker production manager about you. I delivered one of your pupcakes to his office and pitched a pet line for local stores this fall.”

  My ja
w dropped. “You stole a pupcake, and I had no idea. You’re good.”

  “You offered to help. I’m taking you up on it.”

  “Wow.” I rocked back on my heels, baffled. “Corruption is real.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Wait. Did you say you want to add a pet line at Grandpa Smacker? With my stuff?”

  “If you have a legitimate reason to be at my grandfather’s company a few hours a week, you might have time to overhear something useful to my investigation. Everyone clams up when I’m around. Apparently I’m intimidating.”

  I steepled my fingers and smiled against the phone.

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh,” I dragged the word into several syllables. “That’s clever.”

  “And the company pays well for this kind of contract. I wouldn’t ask you to do something like this for free. It’s business. An official Grandpa Smacker contract, if we can convince the board that they need it.”

  I chewed my thumbnail.

  “I know you want to upgrade your kitchen. This would easily do all that and more.”

  Images of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances paraded through my brain alongside six-burner ranges and double ovens. Side-by-side refrigerators with large-capacity freezers fanned their doors at me. I didn’t like the idea of taking money from him, but I also couldn’t give up my recipes. One maybe, but a line worth? How many was that?

  “This could be the deal that gets me answers and my grandpa some justice.”

  “Okay.” How could I say no?

  “Great. Pick the recipe you want to test run, and I’ll set the appointment with marketing and management.”

  I clapped silently. I wasn’t sure which news was more exciting—an opportunity to make Furry Godmother pupcakes a national brand or the fact Jack had asked me to get intimately involved in his personal investigation. “You trust me,” I teased.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I wouldn’t let Jack down.

  I smiled absently at a car parked outside my shop window where my little VW normally sat. “I almost forgot you drove me here, and I’m stuck.”

  “No. You’re not. What time do you want me to pick you up tonight?”

  “Six?”

  “See you then.” He disconnected.

  I stewed. I didn’t plan on going anywhere, but I missed having the option.

  I sketched another chicken button. Maybe the key was to make the buttons ridiculously large. Large buttons were embarrassing and easy to read. Like tiny billboards of free advertising.

  Imogene moseyed back to my side when the last few customers filtered out. “I like that button.”

  “Thanks.”

  She nudged me with an elbow. “Did you say there are drugs involved in this mess?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you’d better listen to that handsome detective. Drugs are bad. Drug users? Worse. Dealers? Awful. Nothing good can come from bothering those kinds of folks.”

  I didn’t disagree. “The drugs.” I snapped upright. I’d told Josie about Gideon’s stalker wall. There were pictures of Ryan carrying the drug pillows on there. A cat-man was seen fleeing the animal shelter. Ryan probably went there to steal the photos and ran into Gideon, so he knocked him out. Latherope wasn’t the cat-man. Ryan was.

  I texted my theory to Jack.

  He didn’t respond.

  I grabbed my purse and dug through a mess of tangled receipts, open packets of catnip, and loose chewing gum for one small rectangular piece of information. Annie’s lawyer’s number. I dialed and crossed my fingers I got him and not a voice mail. My mind whirled too fast to leave a message.

  “Bryce Kenney,” he answered.

  “Hello, this is Lacy Crocker. Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all—how can I help, Miss Crocker?” His voice was accompanied by the click-clack of a keyboard.

  “Did you know Annie’s brother, Ryan, is in town?”

  The typing stopped. “No,” he answered hesitantly, “but Ryan tends to come and go on his own schedule. Has he been in contact with you?”

  “No. I’m just chasing a hunch. Have you met him?”

  “Once or twice over the years, but very informally. Why do you ask?”

  I gnawed the sensitive skin of my lower lip, already raw from the past five days of nervous nibbling. “How was his relationship with Annie?”

  “Miss Crocker,” Bryce whispered. “Has something happened?”

  “No. I thought you might have some insight into him or his relationship with Annie.”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps speak with Josie. I’m afraid I can’t help.”

  “Talking to that woman is like riding the Tilt-a-Whirl. The last time I finished, my head was spinning, but I hadn’t gotten anywhere.”

  He chuckled. “That sounds right on par with my experiences as well.”

  “Does the name Shannon Martin sound familiar?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Probably not.” I slumped. “Thank you for your time.” I disconnected and went back to sketching victory pins.

  “Look out,” Imogene warned.

  A heartbeat later, my mom blew through the door like a Louisiana hurricane. Her sleek bob was mussed, and her eyes were wild.

  I lowered my pencil slowly. “Hi, Mom. Everything okay?”

  She dropped her oversized designer bag on the counter and clapped her hands. “I’m here for a look at the ugly chicken pins. The ones those Llama Mamas will be wearing all month long.”

  “I’m working on them now.”

  “Great. Can I see one?”

  I slid the newest drawing in her direction. “I’m still in the drafting phase. What do you think of these?”

  Confusion lined her brow. “They’re pretty. They’re not supposed to be pretty. That’s the point.”

  I curled my toes inside my sandals. A little voice warned me to tread carefully. Land mines ahead. “I think you should have pins that represent your chicks. Something snazzy and adorable. Something you’d be proud to wear.”

  She scoffed. “Honey, please. This is a competition for a reason. The losers have to be punished.”

  “What if you’re the loser?”

  “Can’t happen. I’ve just confirmed another generous donation from my old sorority sisters. I should’ve thought of them sooner. They’ve never ceased to provide for me in my times of need.”

  I kept a lid on my thoughts about this situation qualifying as a time of need. To her, I supposed it was. If she didn’t get money fast, she might have to wear an ugly pin. Gasp.

  She hiked her bag back onto one shoulder. “The bond between sorority sisters is powerful. You’d know that if you’d stayed the course.”

  I tapped my toe silently. “That was your course. Not mine. I never wanted to be a sorority girl.”

  “Or a Crocker,” she said, suddenly sullen, “but I supposed you’re stuck with that. I want to see a mock-up of my pin by the weekend. An ugly one.” She blew Imogene air kisses and walked out.

  I tipped forward and rolled my head against the counter.

  Imogene’s perfume arrived before she did. She patted my back. “Your mama didn’t mean that. She’s under a lot of pressure.”

  I wrenched myself upright. “This day is made of yuck.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed. “You better go home and get my dime back in your shoe, because it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

  I followed her gaze through the front window. Dylan Latherope stood outside the café across the street, staring at my shop.

  “I’ll be right back.” I marched outside, phone in hand.

  He moved immediately in my direction. “Do you have them? My babies? Cotton and Cashmere?” His voice was weak and sniveling.

  I squared my shoulders and tipped my chin. “No. I don’t. I’m no longer the caretaker of Annie’s kittens, so you can stop following me.”

  His red-rimmed eyes widened in desp
eration. “Where are they? What have you done?”

  “The kittens are safe. They just aren’t with me. I didn’t like being stalked, so they were placed in a safer location until Annie’s estate can go through probate.”

  “Who?” he demanded. “Who stalked them?” He whipped his hand forward and snagged hold of my arm.

  I wiggled, unsuccessful at loosening his grasp. “You! Now let me go, or I’m calling Detective Oliver.” I lifted the phone with my free arm. Jack’s face was on the screen, ready to save the day. My thumb hovered over the green call button.

  “Those are my cats,” Latherope wailed. “Not yours. Not hers. I found them. I brought them home and nursed them to health after some idiot tossed them out on the roadside. I named them, fed them, cared for them. They’re mine, and Annie took them just to hurt me.” He yanked my arm and tightened his grip until I felt my pulse beating beneath his meaty fingers.

  Panic whooshed through me like water through a broken dam. I lifted my right foot and slammed my heel into his toes. Unsatisfied I yanked my knee upward until it connected with his crotch, and he yelped. He released my arm in favor of cradling his injury.

  I ran for Furry Godmother, calling Jack as I ran. He didn’t answer.

  9-1-1 seemed like overkill.

  From the safety of my shop window, I watched Mr. Latherope climb awkwardly into his SUV and inch away.

  Imogene clucked her tongue. “Like I said. You’d better fetch that dime.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Furry Godmother supports the right to privacy. She’s sadly alone.

  Jack went to find Mr. Latherope, but I hadn’t heard back by closing time. I locked up shop and got a ride home from Imogene. I couldn’t help wondering about the implications of Latherope’s behavior. If he’d grabbed me, a virtual stranger, on a public sidewalk, what was he capable of doing in private to someone he knew well and had fought with many times?

  I fed Penelope and Buttercup their dinners, then settled in to make some headway on the llama hats and scarves. If my designs were headed down a parade route, I had more riding on this order than keeping Mrs. Hams happy. If the right person saw them, they could be featured in a local article or a national magazine. I’d gladly accept any and all coverage of my work. My partnership with Annie Lane was out the window, but I hadn’t lost hope.