Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  I pulled into the shop’s parking lot, which was almost empty. Then I hurried through the plate-glass door, where I spied Grady at his usual spot behind the counter.

  Today he wore a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and a tie-dye do-rag over his blond curls. “Hey, there!” His voice was warm and welcoming.

  I swerved dramatically as I approached the counter, clutching my stomach for good measure. “Help. Need beignet. Can’t . . . last . . . much . . . longer.”

  “Bravo.” He straightened and clapped a few times before snatching an oiled paper sack from a pile in front of him. “Would you like to eat it here, Miss Streep, or will you take it to go?”

  “Guess I’ll eat it here. Looks like you have a few open tables.” I nodded at the lone diner—an old man in the corner—surrounded by empty booths.

  “Hey . . . it’s usually busy all morning. This is my slow time.” The top of the do-rag showed when Grady bent to retrieve a beignet from the case.

  “I know that. I’m just messin’ with you.”

  He reached a bit farther, and a sliver of tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve. It was a giant whisk on his right bicep. The tattoo always fascinated me, since I expected someone like Grady to choose a skull and crossbones, dagger, or maybe a lion for a tattoo. Not something as conservative as a whisk, his occupation notwithstanding.

  Once Grady straightened, he dropped two beignets in the sack, not one, and the tattoo disappeared. “Coffee to go with it?” He nodded to a Bunn machine behind him.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  He pushed aside a newspaper he’d propped against a display case to make room for the beignets on the counter. We both noticed the headline on the paper’s front page at the same time.

  “Ouch.” He sucked in his cheeks. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  It was the front section of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter. Under the banner lay the words murder, wedding planner, and bystander, all in twenty-point type.

  “Have you read the story yet?” he asked.

  “No. I was busy this morning. I’m not surprised it’s in the newspaper already, though.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Let me grab you some coffee first.” He turned to the machine and pulled a carafe from its burner. After scrutinizing the dark sludge, he quickly took a whiff and put it back. “That stuff’s not fit for human consumption. I’ll make you some fresh.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I plucked up the sack of beignets. “Don’t bother. I really came in for some food and conversation. How much do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house.” He winked and stepped out from behind the counter. Before joining me, he whisked off the do-rag and tossed it aside, which caused a curl to spring forward on his cheek. “Come on. I have just the spot.”

  He headed for a booth placed catercorner to the front door, no doubt to keep the cash register in sight.

  “Perfect.” I slid into the booth with him. Although I didn’t want to be rude, enough was enough already, so I grabbed a beignet and took a hearty bite. Warm dough filled my mouth, the fatty taste of the cooking oil offset by sweet, powdered sugar. A smattering of crystals sprinkled to the table like fresh snow.

  He grinned. “Now there’s a gal who likes her beignets.”

  I barely heard him as I launched into another bite. After several blissful seconds, I finally came up for air. “These are awesome, Grady.”

  “Thanks. My mee-maw taught me how to bake. It’s all about getting the oil just right. Most folks don’t take time to let it cook all the way. So . . . what’s all this I’ve been reading about?”

  I reluctantly put the half-eaten beignet down and wiped my fingers on a napkin. “I’m sure it’s all there in the newspaper.”

  “Yeah, they said something about finding Charlotte behind your store.”

  “It’s worse than that. I was the one who found her. After I called the police, I had to go to headquarters to give them my statement.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry you had to do that. It must’ve been awful.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry too. The good news is my friend is a detective, and he’ll get a coroner’s report on it sometime tonight. We’re hoping it gives a clue about who did it.”

  “I know your friend. He’s the one I met last summer.”

  To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about that. It must have happened during Mellette Babineaux’s investigation, when Lance took over the case. He and I met at Dippin’ Donuts every so often to go over our notes. Those meetings seemed like a million years ago by now. “I forgot about that. Say, Grady. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.” He looked at me so intently, I had to glance away. Were his eyes always so blue, or did I notice them today because we sat side by side?

  “I don’t know why these things keep happening to me. I mean, it’s not like I go around looking for trouble. It kinda finds me on its own.” Finally, I glanced at him again.

  Flecks of gold floated through the rims of his irises. “Maybe it’s like that saying . . . when bad things happen to good people. Sounds to me like you’re going through a rough patch.”

  “But it’s not the first time. Why do I keep finding dead bodies? I mean . . . who gets wrapped up in three murder investigations in two years? It’s not normal, and I wish it would stop.”

  “Yeah, but I think you can handle it.” He appraised me with those beautiful eyes. “You’re a lot stronger than you think. Stronger than most people around here, I’d say.”

  “I don’t know, Grady. This time it could shutter my business. I had three brides cancel on me today. Three! Who knows how the rest of the week will go?”

  “I know something that might cheer you up.” He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while. Here goes. Will you go out to dinner with me?”

  I blinked. “Uh, come again?”

  Fortunately, he didn’t seem to take offense. “It’s a simple question, really. Would you go on a date with me?”

  While I’ve never been at a loss for words, for some reason I couldn’t get my tongue to work. Try as I might, the words stalled at the back of my throat.

  “Guess I’ll take your silence as a compliment,” he said. “You never expected a great catch like me to ask you that. I understand.”

  Finally, I woke up. Truth be told, the man sitting beside me was worlds, if not solar systems, apart from me. His world was black leather, tie-dyed do-rags and heavy metal, while I favored Lilly Pulitzer shifts, delicate hats, and Harry Connick, Jr. CDs. He was handsome, but I’d never once considered him a dating prospect. “Well, uh . . .”

  “Do you want some time to think about?”

  Then again, what is there to think about? Ambrose had blown me off in front of a stranger not more than ten minutes before. After spending a year and a half with that man, what did I have to show for it? One measly date—although it was an incredible date—and sleepless nights spent wondering whether he would ask me out again. Time was definitely not on my side when it came to Ambrose Jackson. “I don’t have to think about it, Grady. Sure, I’ll go out with you.”

  “Oh. Okay, then. That’s great. Really, really great.” He beamed like a cat that had swallowed a canary, as my grandpa would say.

  I awkwardly rose from the booth and plucked the doughnut sack from the table. “Why don’t you call me? I should probably get back to work now. Don’t want my assistant to think I’m playing hooky from the shop.”

  “How does tomorrow night sound? And maybe you should wear that red sweater with the black sleeves. It’s one of my favorites.”

  I hesitated. “Oookkkkaaayyy.” No one had ever asked me to wear a certain outfit on a date before. Wonder what that means? “Guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.” I fiddled with the doughnut sack, searching for a diversion. “I still owe you for lunch, by the way.”

  “I told you . . . it’
s on the house.” He braced his palms against the table and rose. Out peeked the tattoo again, looking as adorable as ever.

  What have I gotten myself into? Grady was Lynyrd Skynyrd, muscled biceps, and a slick Ford Mustang with aluminum wheels. It would never work . . . or would it?

  I waved good-bye and made a beeline for the front door. Once outside and safely behind the wheel of my convertible, I didn’t bother to pop in the Harry Connick, Jr. CD. Somehow, it didn’t feel right. And somehow, I couldn’t get the sound of Ambrose’s voice out of my head.

  Chapter 7

  As I drove away from the doughnut store, I mulled over my conversation with Grady and the earlier slight from Ambrose. The two men couldn’t be more different.

  On the one hand, Ambrose was sleek and stylish, like his black Audi Quattro. I also knew what to expect with him, since I’d lived with him for a year and a half.

  Grady, on the other hand, was an unknown. He was rough-and-tumble, but soft enough to tattoo a whisk on his bicep. Not to mention those cornflower-blue eyes, which caught me off guard every time I stared at them.

  Halfway through my reverie, the tip of the Factory’s glass pyramid appeared on the horizon, which meant work was a few miles away. While most days I appreciated the short commute from one place to another, sometimes I longed for a real car ride, where I could drive and ponder and get lost in the silence.

  In another minute or so, I arrived at the building’s parking lot and pulled into the space next to Ambrose’s car, which still sat vacant. I was more confused than ever by the time I arrived at the door to Crowning Glory.

  “Hey, there.” Beatrice stood beside our cash register with a half-eaten piece of cake in her hand. “You’ve been gone for a while, so I hit up Pink Cake Boxes for a sample. Is everything okay?”

  “Am I that obvious?” I maneuvered around the display table near the door and met up with her by the counter.

  A smudge of lemon painted her lower lip. “I know you. Something happened. You told me you were just grabbing lunch at the doughnut shop.” She popped the last bit of cake into her mouth.

  “Turns out, I got a whole lot more than I bargained for.”

  “I knew it! So, tell me everything.” She scooted out from behind the counter and fell onto a bar stool. “What happened?”

  “Well, you know Grady, right?” I slid onto the stool next to hers.

  “Of course I do. Everyone does. I always thought he was kinda cute.”

  “Really? You never told me that before.”

  “That’s because he’s waaayyy too old for me. He must be . . . what, at least thirty?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re right . . . he’s practically dead.”

  “You know what I mean. What happened with him?”

  I paused. While I trusted Beatrice, she still worked for me, so I couldn’t be too chatty. “Let’s just say I think we’re going on a date tomorrow night.”

  “Shut up!” It took a moment and then she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry ’bout that.” She spoke around her splayed fingers. “You just surprised me. Did he really ask you out?” Slowly, she pulled her hand away from her lips.

  “Yep. We’re going out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What about Ambrose? Does he know?”

  “There’s the problem. He doesn’t know. And I’m not sure I want to tell him.”

  “No one said you have to tell him.”

  “I know, but I can’t lie to him. What am I supposed to say when he asks where I’m going? We live in the same house, remember?”

  “Maybe you could tell him you’re having dinner with a friend. It’s the truth. He doesn’t have to know which friend.”

  I pondered that for a second. Technically, she was right. But she also was in her twenties, when people tended to act first and think later. I, however, knew exactly what the consequences of our date could be.

  Since everyone in Bleu Bayou knew everyone else, I’d have no privacy during the evening. We always could have dinner in another town, but that was up to Grady, since he’d asked me out. “I don’t know, Bea. It feels kinda sneaky. I’ll have to think about it.”

  Thankfully, someone walked through the front door just then, which effectively ended our conversation. It was a heavyset girl in a floor-length denim skirt, who meekly entered the room.

  I jumped up to greet her. “You must be my bride. Rebekkah, right?”

  She nodded shyly, which bobbed the wheat-colored braid on her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. Are you ready for me?”

  “Of course. Right this way.” I gently took her elbow and guided her to the counter. “This is my assistant, Beatrice. You’ll see her sometimes when you come in for your fittings.”

  “Hi, there,” Beatrice said. “Nice to meet you.”

  The girl nodded again. In addition to the denim skirt, she wore a black turtleneck and not a speck of makeup. This one might prove challenging.

  When she finally spoke, she sounded apologetic. “I’m so sorry about canceling on you before. It’s just that I heard so many rumors, I didn’t know what to believe.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. I’m just glad you changed your mind. C’mon, let’s go back to the display area.”

  I took her other arm this time and carefully led her to a sitting area I’d created in the middle of the room. A pair of white-linen couches perched on a thick sheepskin rug, and a crystal chandelier hung over our heads. My goal was to create a modern, romantic space in the middle of a rustic, wood-paneled room, and I liked to think I pulled it off.

  “Now . . . do you have a particular style in mind?” I eased her onto the couch.

  “No, not really. I never really thought about it. The appointment was my mom’s idea. She wanted to come with me today, but our dog got loose.”

  Praise the Lord for small favors. Usually, it’s not a bride who gives me conniptions . . . it’s her mother. For some reason, a lot of mothers think I can read their minds and create wonderful designs from the get-go. While it does happen, more often than not, the process involves give-and-take, floor samples, and reams of sketch paper.

  Of course, I could understand why a mother might feel that way, since my designs cost hundreds—if not thousands—of dollars. “So, where are you going to have your wedding?” I asked.

  “At Rising Tide Baptist Church. Both the ceremony and reception. You know, in the social hall.”

  That makes sense. This girl didn’t seem the type to go for a gimmicky, turn-of-the century wedding on a local riverboat, complete with picture hats and parasols, or a sleek cocktail reception in the golden ballroom at Morningside Plantation. “Did you bring a picture of your gown?”

  “Yes. Just like you asked.” She opened a fringed leather purse and pulled out a clip from Modern Bride, which she handed over. The ad had been folded and refolded so many times, it felt like rice paper in my hand.

  “The dress is lovely!”

  She’d picked a wonderful design for her shape and size. A lace halter-top sprinkled with seed pearls flowed to a classic empire waist. “Let’s see . . .” I stepped across the room to a side table. My old standby, a cathedral-length veil, complemented almost any gown, and even the pickiest mother could appreciate its conservative lines.

  Then again . . . life was too short to always play it safe. I decided to roll the dice and headed for a different veil I’d pinned to the wall.

  “I think we should start with this one.” I removed some pushpins and walked to the three-way mirror with the veil. “Can you come here, please?” I flashed my most reassuring smile. “Trust me. I think you’re going to love this.”

  The girl tentatively rose and approached the mirror, which she refused to look at.

  “You don’t like mirrors much, do you?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t. Daddy always said it’s better to have something to do than something to look at.”

  “Interesting. That may be, but I need to know what you think of this style.” I whi
sked the veil from behind my back and carefully set it on her head. The fabric gently pillowed around her face like a puff of clouds.

  She couldn’t resist taking a quick peek at her reflection. Pops of light twinkled from the pearl comb I’d set at the crown, and layers of tulle tumbled to her shoulders. The volume from the multiple layers offset her round face beautifully.

  “You look like an angel,” I said.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “I do, don’t I?”

  No matter what this girl’s daddy told her about vanity, every girl deserved to feel beautiful on her wedding day. So, I made a big fuss over fluffing up the tulle and straightening the comb just so.

  “I think we should definitely consider this one,” I said. “It’s called a bubble veil, and it’ll highlight your neckline too.”

  She turned slightly. “Maybe this one wouldn’t be so bad. Do lots of girls wear this style?”

  “Some. It’s designed to flatter a halter, like the one you’ve picked.” I carefully studied the picture again. Although we’d found a winner, it wouldn’t hurt to have a second, and more conservative, option. It might make the mother feel better about spending so much money on a custom veil if I provided more than one design. “You know, I also have a design for a more traditional, cathedral-length veil.”

  In fact, I should’ve thought of it sooner. Ever since Trudi Whidbee announced the end of her wedding, I’d been wondering what to do with the sketch of her veil. Of course, she’d had a five thousand dollar budget, which meant oodles of expensive Swarovski crystals and panels of Alençon lace. But, nothing said I couldn’t simplify the design.

  “That sounds pretty,” she said. “But I do love this one.”

  “Just a second. Let me grab my sketch pad.” I left the veil on Rebekkah’s head, since she seemed so enamored by it, and then dashed to my workroom. Once there, I grabbed the sketch pad and returned to the mirror before she even finished a second turn.