Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  I slid the skirt over my wet cords. Then I unzipped the pants and kicked them aside. The skirt didn’t quite fit over my hips, so I used a safety pin I found on the waistband to cinch the fabric together. “Jiminy cricket, Ambrose. What size is this thing?”

  “Double zero. It’s from a fashion show I did a few months back.”

  I tried my best to pin the skirt before moving to a mirror that hung by the armoire. The fabric ballooned around me like an upside-down teacup, which made us both smile. I played up the moment and spun around and around, until the floor tilted crazily and I wobbled to a stop.

  Inspired now, I lunged through a few modeling poses—complete with exaggerated backbends and pouty lips—which brought on some belly laughs. By the time someone knocked at the door, he and I were both beside ourselves.

  He quickly sobered, though. “Lance must be here.”

  I gathered up the excess fabric and hurried behind him as he headed for the door. The minute he swung it open, Lance rushed in.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for coming so quickly. You must have a thousand things—”

  “Don’t mention it.” He suddenly paused. “Playing dress up?”

  “What?” I glanced down. “This thing? My pants got soaked in the rain. Ambrose loaned it to me.”

  “Lovely.” He nodded to Bo. “Do you guys have any idea what happened next door? By the way, whoever did it wasn’t very subtle.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I dropped the folds of taffeta, which quickly swallowed my feet. “It’s completely destroyed. But I have no idea who’s responsible.”

  “It must have something to do with the murder investigation. It has to. One of my guys just radioed from your shop and said it doesn’t look like they took anything. Cash register’s still there, and so is a key you stashed under it. By the way, you might want to find a better hiding place for that.”

  I met him at the counter while he spoke. “About the only person I can think of who’s angry with me is Stormie Lanai. You know, the KATZ reporter. She ambushed me in the parking lot this morning.”

  “She did?” Ambrose’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We were kinda busy, what with the door and all. But, yeah. She shoved a microphone at me and asked a lot of questions.”

  “She can’t do that,” Lance said. “She’s on private property. Unless your landlord gave her permission.”

  “Knowing my landlord, he didn’t.” I pulled out one of the bar stools and settled onto it, which pooled the fabric up and over its sides. “But I don’t think she’ll be using footage from the interview anyway. I kinda turned the tables on her.”

  “Missy!” Ambrose did his best to look stern, but a smile broached his lips. “You know it’s not a good idea to piss off a news reporter.”

  “I didn’t try, obviously. It just kinda happened.”

  “Let’s get back to the door.” Lance took the stool next to mine. “The point is someone wants to send you a message. There’s no doubt about that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad, along with a ballpoint pen. “Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened. I’ll have to write up an incident report when I get back to the station.”

  I provided a quick rundown of everything that happened before my grisly discovery that morning. Once I finished, Lance flipped the notepad closed.

  “I still think it has something to do with the murder investigation,” he said. “By now, everyone knows the victim died behind your studio and the killer used something of yours.”

  “You’re probably right. By the way, Ambrose told me you called last night. He said you have a person of interest. Who is it?”

  “Ah, that.” He quickly slid the pen and notepad into his pocket. “There’s a baker in your complex by the name of Bettina Leblanc. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah, I do.” I shivered, but it had nothing to do with the damp turtleneck or my soaked kitten heels. “She owns a bakery upstairs called Pink Cake Boxes. I saw her yesterday.”

  “Well, we got a tip about her last night. Turns out someone saw her arguing with Charlotte Devereaux the night before the murder. They were both at a local restaurant. You’ll never guess who called in the tip.”

  I couldn’t help but shiver again. He must be talking about his mother, Odilia LaPorte. Mrs. LaPorte owned one of the most popular restaurants in town. “Don’t tell me . . . your mom heard them having a fight.”

  He nodded. “Yep. On Sunday, New Year’s Eve. Apparently, they got into it in a hallway at her place.”

  “But I can’t believe Bettina would do something like that.” I spoke slowly, trying to absorb the news. “I don’t believe it. Did you take her into custody?”

  “No, she’s not a suspect yet. And we don’t have an arrest warrant. At this point she’s cooperating; she came into the station last night on her own.”

  I didn’t mean to hog the conversation with Lance, but now he had me worried. “How’d she explain herself?”

  “She couldn’t, not really. Just said something about them both having too much to drink the night before the murder. Said they got carried away at the restaurant.”

  I lowered my voice. “But you know that’s not true, Lance. According to the coroner’s report, Charlotte only had one or two drinks the night before she died.”

  “Bingo. That’s why we’re checking out Leblanc’s history. Maybe she had some prior conflicts with the victim.”

  “Was there video?” Finally, Ambrose got a word in edgewise. “Maybe a surveillance tape that caught something?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Lance leaned back on the stool. “My mom couldn’t afford a bunch of cameras when she first opened. She only has three: in the kitchen, the dining room, and the parking lot. Since I don’t have visual proof, I’m going to focus on Leblanc’s statement. Maybe the two women didn’t get along.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “They were pretty chummy. They even belonged to the same trade group. It’s called the Southern Association of Wedding Planners—I think I told you about ’em.”

  “You did. Which means I’ve gotta go back to the station and do some research when we’re done here.”

  “But what’s next for Bettina?” I couldn’t bear the thought of her twisting in the wind like this.

  “Like I told you, she was free to go last night.” Lance quickly rose. “I imagine she’s called an attorney by now. That’s what I would’ve done.”

  “Good point. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all.”

  “No. Not yet. And it seems like you have your hands full here. My guys are pulling prints from your studio, and they’ll run them through the system. In the meantime, I’ll fill out the incident report.”

  “And I’ll get some plywood,” Ambrose said. “It might not be pretty, but it’ll keep the rain out until we can get you a new door.”

  Which is all well and good, but not the perfect answer. “I appreciate that, Ambrose. I really do. But how will my customers get in then?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He stared at the wall that ran between our studios for a moment, as if he could see right through it. “Guess they can’t. Maybe you should work here for a while. There’s enough room for both of us.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Bo.” While I appreciated the sweet gesture, it posed yet another problem. “But what about Beatrice?” I couldn’t afford to give my assistant a day off, and she couldn’t afford to take one, since she needed the money as much as the rest of us.

  “Why doesn’t she work from home?” Lance offered.

  “Great idea.” I nodded my thanks to him. “I’ll tell her to work at her apartment today.”

  “And I’ll make some room for you here,” Ambrose said. “I’ve got a drafting table in the back and some extra supplies. You’ll probably need some stuff from your place, though, so I won’t nail the plywood down just yet. I’m sure you’d rather not use your ba
ck door, since it opens onto a crime scene.”

  “Thanks, Ambrose.” A lump began to form at the back of my throat. “That means a lot to me. And after everything that happened last night—”

  “It’s okay.” He quickly glanced from me to Lance. “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Let’s get everything cleaned up outside your studio and make sure you’re safe. The rest of it can wait.”

  “All right, then.” Lance stepped away from the counter. “Sounds like you two have a plan. But call me if you see anything suspicious. In the meantime, we’ll run the prints and I’ll check out Bettina Leblanc’s history.”

  Chapter 13

  Lance hurried to the exit and soon he disappeared. Only then did I check the time on my cell phone, which lay on the counter. It was already seven, which meant I’d been at the Factory for nearly half an hour. Not only that, but I hadn’t had a single cup of coffee and my brain felt like mush.

  “Say, Bo.” I turned to him. “I haven’t had any coffee yet. Think I’ll get some from the Starbucks counter in the lobby.” What’s another five minutes in the grand scheme of things? “Do you want any?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I quickly rose and made my way to the door. Even though Lance probably wouldn’t approve, I didn’t see how a few measly minutes in the lobby could change anything. After all, he’d mentioned my studio was empty, so whoever ruined the entrance was long gone.

  Once I stepped outside, a weak splash of sunshine fell on my shoulders. I purposefully turned away from the pile of rubble outside my door—no need to revisit the carnage—and tried to ignore the images that ping-ponged through my mind: smashed glass, gouged wood, and a useless nail protruding from a broken door hinge.

  I wanted to focus on other things instead: Like the ray of sun on my shoulders. The slippery feel of a damp quill on my cheek. The new cars that now worked their way into the parking lot at the Factory.

  Although it was only seven, several more cars had parked near the businesses that kept early-morning hours. The flower shop, for one, opened at the crack of dawn, since Dana LeBoeuf accepted deliveries then. No doubt she was stationed in the alley at this very moment, telling a driver where to stash a box of hydrangeas in her walk-in cooler.

  Another early bird was Brooke Champagne. The photographer often arrived at daybreak to shoot her subjects in the soft morning light. The rain must have changed her schedule, though, since nothing stirred inside Brooke’s Bridal Portraits when I passed by.

  A few moments later, I arrived at the atrium and swung open the plate-glass door. The heavenly scent of newly roasted coffee beans reached me the moment I stepped inside.

  “Hello, there.”

  I whirled around to see Suzi Wan. Today she wore another chic Chanel suit, only this time the color was teal, not red. She’d accessorized it with black Tahitian pearls and matching earrings. While she seemed to have recovered from the day before, dark rings still circled her eyes.

  “Hello, Miss Wan.”

  “Wherever are you going dressed like that, my dear?”

  “Huh?” Then I remembered the taffeta ball-gown skirt. “You mean the skirt? I had to borrow it from my friend, Ambrose. He doesn’t wear it, of course. But once I took off my pants . . .” My voice trailed off, since I was only digging the hole deeper.

  “Don’t worry about it, dear.” Finally, Suzi’s gaze came ’round to my face. “No need to explain. I love taffeta.”

  “My choice was either this or a slip.”

  “Then it looks like you made the right choice,” she said. “Bless your heart.”

  Maybe now would be a good time to change the subject. “I saw you at the meeting yesterday.” While still awkward, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I sat near the front. Maybe you saw me too.”

  “I did. Thank you for coming and supporting our group like that.”

  “My pleasure. Usually I look forward to those meetings. But yesterday was different. I can only imagine how hard it was for you to give that speech.”

  “You mean when I talked about Charlotte? You have no idea.” Suzi fell silent, which only magnified the whhhiiirrr of an espresso machine across the way.

  “Everyone loved her. I’m sure her death surprised a lot of people.”

  “No doubt. And I hated to be the one to have to tell them. I didn’t have much choice, though, did I? It’s all part of being the group’s president. To be honest, sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

  The minute she mentioned being president, my mind returned to a different conversation. To last night’s meeting with Paxton Haney, where he talked about the upcoming election.

  “Say . . . I heard something interesting yesterday. Paxton Haney told me your members have to vote next month. He said you’re running for president again.”

  “He did, did he?”

  I didn’t mean to pry, but she’d been the one to bring up the Southern Association of Wedding Planners. “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, he’s right. And someone had the nerve to run against me. Believe it or not, it was Charlotte, God rest her soul. She thought we needed new blood on the board of directors. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “Hmmm. Were you worried about it?”

  “Not really.” Now Suzi pursed her lips, as if the words were bitter. “I thought she was in for a rude awakening. I’ve held that office for over a decade, you know. For her to come in and challenge me like that . . . well, it wasn’t very gracious.”

  Obviously I’d opened a can of worms, and it’d take a soothing response to close it up again. “Ten years is a long time. I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job.”

  “Thank you, dear. I try. But some things can’t be learned overnight. Charlotte didn’t know anything about the politics involved.”

  Now I truly regretted bringing up the subject. Not only that, but the pppfffttt of another machine called out to me from the coffee bar. “I should probably order my drink, since I need to get back to my friend’s studio.”

  “You do that. I’m done with my visit here, anyway. Unfortunately, I had to leave one of my clients a little early, since I’m backed up after yesterday.” She hastily glanced at the exit. “Guess I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

  I cocked my head. “Actually, I think we’ll meet up before then. I’ve decided to go to Charlotte’s funeral. Remember? It’s on Friday.”

  “Yes, there’s that.” Suzi waved nonchalantly. “Don’t think I can make it. I’ve got too much to do. It’s a shame, really, but sometimes these things can’t be helped. See you later.” She suddenly pivoted and took a step toward the door. When she reached it, she fumbled with the wrong end of the push bar before she realized her mistake, and then she flung it open.

  If that didn’t beat all. I watched her leave until the ache between my temples brought me back to the present. Thankfully, a barista stood at the coffee counter, and she looked ready to take my order.

  I ambled over to her and politely requested a tall, no-whip white mocha. Then she and I chatted about this, that, and the other thing, while she busied herself with the machines. At one point, the pppfffttt of the steamer drowned out our voices altogether. That was when I glanced over my shoulder and noticed someone new was walking through the entrance to the atrium.

  It was Hank Dupre, of all people. Beatrice’s uncle and my host at the New Year’s Day breakfast sauntered through the door wearing a different, although equally loud, dress shirt.

  “Hello, Mr. Dupre,” I called out. No need to worry about the taffeta ball-gown skirt with him, since his crimson shirt looked like something a matador might like.

  “Hello.” He approached me. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: It’s Hank. Mr. Dupre is my dad.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I just forgot.” By this time, my drink was ready and the barista passed it to me over the counter.

  “Good to see you at m
y party the other day. Hope you liked the food.”

  “How could I not? Ruby’s a great cook.” I snuck a sip of coffee, which was hot and strong. “This hits the spot.”

  “You’re not a morning person, are you?” He chuckled. “I just came in for a meeting, but I thought I’d be the only one here.”

  “You’d be surprised. Some of the shop owners get up pretty early. And I’m so glad I did this morning. My front door got smashed last night. Clean blown to pieces.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That’s terrible. Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. They were brutal too. I’m using Ambrose’s shop next door until I can get mine fixed.”

  “I know someone who can fix it for you.” He broke away from our conversation to order a coffee of the day from the barista, before he started up again. “Anyway, it’s the guy who rehabs my residential properties. He’s a whiz with a skill saw.”

  “That’d be great! Otherwise I have to find someone off the Internet.”

  “Nah, don’t fool with that. I’ll send you his name as soon as I get back to my office.”

  While he spoke, I snuck another sip from my coffee cup, which was so good I almost hated to swallow it. “Thanks. I’d like to get it fixed today, what with the rainstorms and all. Speaking of which . . . what brought you out on such a crummy day?”

  “I’m helping one of the guys upstairs sell a business. He wants to retire soon.”

  “Good for him. But I didn’t know you did that kind of thing. I thought you only sold residential real estate.”

  “That’s my main business.” He passed some money across the counter. “But I also work with company owners on the side. Got my law degree way-back-when from LSU before I took the real estate exam. Some of the old-timers around here remember that.”

  “So you can draw up contracts. That’s good to know.”

  “They’re a little more tricky than loan docs, but yeah. My client is selling a special events company, so we’re talking mostly about intangible assets. Things like contracts and contact sheets.”