Cat Got Your Cash

by Julie Chase

  “What do you mean?”

  The green light snapped on, and I motored through the intersection. “Maybe instead of trying to figure out the big picture before she leaves, we should focus on nailing her for the GHB. We know she did that, and if we can prove she was dosing him and it led to his death, you could charge her with murder. Then, if you still want answers about her big plan, she might swap information for a reduced sentence.”

  Jack laughed. “You’ve got it all planned out. How much thought have you given this?”

  “The whole scenario came to me as I was talking. It’s the curse of a creative mind. I’m only twenty minutes away from the city now. Do you still want to meet at the station?”

  “Rain check?” he asked. “Not to meet at the station. We could meet for dinner sometime or coffee.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the immediate downgrade from dinner to coffee, but I liked the invitation.

  “No?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes to the invitation.” I rubbed a hand over one eye in frustration. My mother would send me back to polishing school if she could hear me rambling like this.

  “Okay. We’ll talk about this more then. For the record, I don’t want you getting involved in this thing with Tabitha, but you’re right, I could use a sounding board, and maybe together we can figure out what I’m missing.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. There’s something about the reactions of Grandpa’s friends that keeps niggling at the back of my mind, but when I try to hone in on it, it evaporates. It’s like I know the answer but can’t think of it.”

  I knew the feeling. I faced the same frustration when I thought of poor Annie. The pieces of my puzzle weren’t lining up yet, but they would. A surge of camaraderie overcame me. “Maybe I can visit those guys with you sometime. Be a second set of eyes and ears.”

  “I’d like that. If you’re comfortable.”

  “I am.” My smile widened. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I flipped my blinker on and merged with traffic headed for the city. Squat homes and shabby roadside lots slowly gave way to the urban sprawl. My heart fluttered the way it did every time I was so close to home.

  “Latherope’s death is going to keep me busy a while, but I doubt I’ll have it sorted by nightfall. Why?”

  “I’m judging an interpretive dance event at seven. It’s called ‘Somewhere and Nowhere.’ Mom put me up to it, but I’m not hating the idea. You should stop by.”

  “Interpretive dance.” He spoke the words as if they had no meaning. “Where?”

  “The Orpheum Theater.”

  He whistled. “Fancy.”

  “You don’t have to dress up. If you’re coming from work, I’m sure your badge will get you in.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I took the next exit with a wider smile. “Fair enough. Good luck with your work.”

  “Back at ya,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Furry Godmother supports the arts, mostly through generous candy purchases.

  Theatrical black-and-white flags billowed gently outside the historical Orpheum Theater in the Central Business District, where concrete, hotels, and the Superdome ruled the landscape. Hundreds of patrons cluttered the sidewalk, dressed to kill. Others streamed in and out of the theater’s doors like ants at a picnic. Limos and Town Cars taxied slowly toward the venue, delivering couples clad in couture and diamonds.

  I slid from the cab, wondering why no one had offered me a limo, and tipped the patient driver before beetling into the mix. I gave my name at the door and hurried toward the stage, where I assumed the other judges were waiting. The front-center aisle had a sign as anticipated: “Reserved for Judges.” The seats were empty.

  I hadn’t been to the Orpheum since high school, before Hurricane Katrina had left it in need of a miracle. Before that, I’d fumbled through countless pageants and dance recitals on the Orpheum stage, discovering that having two left feet is in fact a disability and not the charming quirk it’s portrayed to be on television.

  I sank into a soft blue chair and awaited further instructions. According to my watch, I was only thirty minutes early. The audience would be seated soon. I turned at the waist, seeking my fellow volunteers. The room was empty, but the view was amazing. The impeccable renovation transported me back nearly a century to opening night. Everything from the regal blue-and-gold scheme to the elaborate plasterwork overhead had been returned to its original glory. I closed my eyes and imagined sitting between my mom and dad at one of our dozens of trips to this place. The theater had smelled like popcorn and perfume with a hint of cigar smoke.

  Heavy footfalls patted down the aisle behind me. I opened my eyes and prepared a smile for whoever was headed in my direction.

  Chase fell into the seat beside mine. “You beat me here. I tried to pick you up, but you were already gone.”

  “Nice to see you, too.” I smiled wider, enjoying the way he seemed to pop up all over town. “What are you doing here?”

  “Judging this contest.” He gazed at the stage. “What sort of contest is it again?”

  I swiveled, adjusting the short length of material on my thighs. “Did my mother put you up to this?”

  He nodded his head yes. “No.”

  “I see. And did she tell you not to tell me she put you up to it?”

  More affirmative nodding. “No.”

  I turned back to face the stage, free of his dazzling green eyes. “This place takes me back.” The Orpheum was home to the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra.

  “I played bass until high school,” he said. “I wasn’t bad.”

  “Really? Dad insisted I try the cello. I was terrible.” I gave the cavernous room another look. “I haven’t seen any other judges. Do you think we’re the first ones or the only ones?”

  “I don’t know. The lobby’s full of people.” He stretched his legs out in front of him.

  As if on cue, the auditorium’s rear doors opened. People bustled inside, chatting and laughing and pointing at the magnificent theater before them. Scents of popcorn and perfume followed them down the aisles, whisking me into a state of nostalgia.

  Chase leaned forward in his seat. “Maybe we were supposed to meet backstage?”

  “Maybe.”

  He stood and frowned at the stage. “I’m going to see if I can find out.”

  “Good luck.” I waved.

  Chase disappeared stage left.

  A line of fancy-dressed women and one portly, balding man manifested moments later, stage right. The little parade headed my way. “Lacy Crocker?” the man asked, peering over the top of his rimless round spectacles.

  “Yes.” I stood to shake his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get instructions on what to do once I’d arrived.”

  He handed me a clipboard and pen. “Watch the show. Make notes. Give each act a score. Sign the bottom. There’s one sheet for each act.”

  I flipped through the stack of papers on my clipboard. “How many acts are there?”

  “Twenty-four. Each act is limited to five minutes, and we allow a one-minute break between performances, so we’ll get through eight or nine acts an hour. There’ll be a ten-minute intermission at the one-and-a-half-hour point. I’ll collect score sheets from the first half at that time. We’ll begin again immediately after intermission and finish in three to four hours.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Chase bopped back into view center stage and jumped down. “There you are.”

  Chase shook the little man’s hand. “Chase Hawthorne.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hawthorne. I was just giving instructions to Miss Crocker.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Chase. “Yes, it sounds as if we’ll have the honor of watching interpretive dance for three or four hours.”

  Chase’s congenial smile fell. “Really?”

  I fanned the stack of score sheets on my clipboard. “Yep. One sheet for
each performance. Isn’t that great?”

  The man produced another clipboard for Chase.

  He frowned. “Terrific. Do you sell Sno-Caps?” Chase asked, a hint of humor in his voice. “Raisinets?”

  “No.” The man snipped, his tone suddenly pretentious.

  I no longer liked him.

  “What about gummy bears?”

  The man folded his hands in front of himself. “Perhaps there’s time for you to run to a gas station before we begin.”

  “There’s plenty of alcohol,” I offered. “There are six different bars in here.”

  Chase gave me a cocky smile, then slid his eyes to the man. “Can I get a beer?”

  The man sighed. “The Orpheum stocks several craft and local options, yes.”

  “What about beef jerky?”

  The man walked away.

  I grabbed Chase’s sleeve and laughed against it. “You’re awful. Why did you provoke him like that?”

  “What?” He smoothed a palm down the length of my arm. “I like gummy bears. Besides I’m a lawyer. Rattling people is my job.”

  “I don’t think that’s your job.”

  “No, it is. Can I get you some jerky?”

  I tucked my skirt against the backs of my thighs and lowered onto my seat. “No, thank you. Maybe a white wine.”

  “On it.” Chase headed upstream through the thickening crowd, in search of sustenance and alcohol.

  I tried not to think about four hours of pretending I understood interpretive dance. At least I had Chase to keep me company.

  I fiddled with my shoddy manicure and ran through a mental list of work obligations. Sleepless nights and a productive day off had me caught up on orders. I could bake ahead for this week when I got home. There was always plenty of baking to do. And I needed to write a proposal for the new Grandpa Smacker line that the company couldn’t say no to.

  My phone rang inside my beaded clutch. I snapped the little purse open. Mom’s face lit the screen.

  “Hello?” I angled away from the judge on my right, hoping for a little privacy.

  “Lacy? This is your mother.”

  I waited.

  “Did you know the Llama Mamas are in the Thanksgiving Parade?”

  Uh-oh. “What?”

  “Can you believe it?” she gushed. “I called the mayor’s wife today to see about getting the Jazzy Chicks onto the king’s float. Obviously, the chicks can’t walk in the parade, but they can ride. And those little sashes you made are so perfect. When the photographer sent me pictures from our photo session with the 4-H’ers, I knew the Jazzy Chicks belonged on television. Then I thought, why not the parade? That’s televised locally, and it’s a huge event.”

  “What did she say?” I bounced my knee. “Are you in?”

  “Yes! I e-mailed the promotional shots, and she loved them. She agreed to get the Jazzy Chicks onto a float where they can be seen, maybe not the king’s float, but somewhere. She does all the finalizing for the parade, so I know it’s going to be great.”

  My other knee bobbed wildly beside the first. I sensed there was more she wasn’t saying. “And?”

  “And I’d like to see those stupid llamas raise more money than us now.”

  “Ah.” There was the ever-competitive woman I knew and loved.

  “I made a sandwich board with a number to call for donations to the children’s hospital. Once everyone sees our little chicks with their snazzy sashes and a plea to help the children, we’re going to raise enough to build a better family area for the parents and siblings to wait during surgeries and treatments—or maybe a new children’s library. Those Llama Mamas are going to wear our pins right through Christmas after this. I bet Margaret Hams and her plantation ladies thought they had this bet all wrapped up. Ha!”

  The woman beside me jumped.

  I pulled the phone from my head to protect my eardrum.

  “Congratulations, Mom. This is a fantastic turn of events, but I should probably get off the phone. I’m at the Orpheum right now, judging the Somewhere Nowhere thing.”

  “Fine. I’m going to call an emergency meeting with the Jazzy Chicks.” She disconnected.

  That had gone better than expected. Mom was too busy gushing to force me to confess I’d known about the llamas in the parade. As silly as competing with another organization to raise money seemed, her heart was in the right place, and it helped her deal with her hostility. Anytime I could avoid being on the receiving end of Mom’s hostility, I was happy.

  Chase returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “No jerky?”

  He settled the bottle on his lap. “No. This place is dead to me.”

  I laughed. “Well, at least you brought plenty of wine. If I’m watching an entire night of interpretive dance, I could use a drink.”

  The woman beside me heaved a sigh.

  Chase made a droll face at her and then turned back to me. “Did I see you on the phone?” he asked, turning the bottle to my empty glass. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It was my mom.” I waved him off.

  Chase snapped his fingers. “I keep forgetting to return her dishes.”

  I froze, freshly filled glass pressed to my lips. “Why do you have my mother’s dishes?”

  He rolled his head over one shoulder and looked up at me through thick black lashes. “She and Imogene delivered casseroles to my door every night at seven o’clock for a week after I moved in.” He lifted his head, shamefaced. “I ate seven casseroles. I couldn’t say no. Domesticity is hard.”

  “When you moved in where?”

  “Next door.”

  I lowered my glass, baffled. “Next door to what?”

  “Next door to your parents.” He spoke the words slowly.

  My thoughts scrambled. Mom had invited me to a party last week for the new neighbor. I stared at Chase. “You bought the house next door to my parents?”

  “You still owe me a drink for blowing off my welcoming party.”

  “That had to cost a fortune.” My little fixer-upper had taken my entire savings to procure. Suddenly I felt like a kid who’d decorated a big box and hung a welcome sign.

  He shrugged. “I’d wanted a place across the river in Algiers, but Dad insisted I stay in the Garden District. He said the law firm was selling a certain impression to clients, and no one wanted an attorney who rode a ferry.”

  “You could’ve taken the bridge.”

  He laughed.

  “Sorry. That was dumb. I’m just . . .”

  “Flummoxed?”

  I shook my head. “Yeah. Something.”

  Chase leaned on our shared armrest. “I don’t suppose you have any boy-next-door fantasies you want to explore?”

  I brushed hair off my shoulders, thankful for the magic of Mom’s makeup girl and the distraction of a diamond necklace. “You wish.” The fact I still owed him a kiss for saving Penelope heated my cheeks.

  Why hadn’t my mom told me Chase moved in next door? She lived to share juicy information like that. “What?” I squirmed. “You’re still looking at me.”

  “You look”—he hesitated—“Give me a minute; I’m trying to articulate my thoughts about you in that dress without swearing.”

  I laughed. “Take your time.”

  His expression softened. “How about exquisite?”

  “Accepted. Thank you.”

  The lights dimmed, and the crowd quieted.

  Chase helped himself to another long look before turning to face the stage.

  We watched knots and clusters of dancers, mostly in black, moving in overly dramatic bursts for the next ninety minutes. I applauded and whistled when the curtain dropped and the lights rose again. Thank heavens.

  I scribbled frantically across several blank pages on my clipboard. My mind had wandered during the second half of the performances, and I’d forgotten to score those acts.

  Chase stretched an arm over the back of my seat and yawned. “What are you writing?”
>
  I didn’t look up. The pretentious clipboard distributor was moving in our direction, collecting score sheets. “I forgot to fill some of these out.” I leaned toward the woman on my right and peeked onto her paper.

  She stiffened and flipped the sheets over.

  “Jeez, it’s not like we get credit or anything,” I mumbled. Nice flow. Well executed. Explosive and dynamic. I jotted generic comments I’d seen on the backs of my favorite books.

  “Here. I’m going for popcorn.” Chase handed me his clipboard. “We only have ten minutes for intermission, and the lines are probably outrageous. Can I get you something?”

  “No thanks.” I scribbled eights for everyone’s score.

  “Miss Crocker?” The little man stopped behind me, breathing onto the top of my head.

  “Sorry. I’m just finishing. These are Chase’s.” I stopped writing and freed the completed score sheets from Chase’s clipboard. “Ohmygosh.” I swallowed a laugh. The sound bordered an ugly snort. “No. Wait.” Chase had drawn three stars on each paper. No comments. No numbers. Just three stars. “One more minute. I’m sorry.” I finished my comments and tucked Chase’s papers beneath mine, then handed the stack overhead.

  “Thank you,” the man said. He didn’t sound like he meant it.

  My phone blinked to life in my lap. I swiped my finger over the screen to read my message. Chase had sent a selfie with someone dressed as a giant popcorn.

  I giggled softly, then texted my mom:

  Why didn’t you tell me Chase lives next door? Do not say because I didn’t ask.

  Mom thought she saw something of interest between Chase and me. Was she right or just hopeful? I gave the photo another look. Chase was basically a man-child, but to hear Mom tell it, they all were in one way or another. Chase was a loyal friend, and he made me laugh. I trusted him. That was big. After Pete I’d made solid plans to never trust another man again. Being home had changed most of my plans. Everything was clearer to me in New Orleans. From here, I could see Pete was the exception, not the rule. Still I was never a gambler, and I didn’t see any reason to put my heart in harm’s way again. Why muck things up?