Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  Why, I’d know the logo at the top of the sheets anywhere. It was the red, white, and blue banner for Southern Louisiana Bank and Trust, which was my bank too.

  Without warning, Paxton suddenly glanced up. “Missy?” The cccrrruuunnnccchhh abruptly stopped. “What’re you doing here?” It was an accusation, not a question, and we both knew it.

  “Sorry if I startled you.” I drew closer, willing the shakiness from my voice. What was Paxton Haney doing with a paper shredder and his bank statements? It didn’t seem logical. “I heard a noise in here. Since you guys always opened up at ten, I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  “That so? You heard a noise all the way up the stairs and down the hall? Your ears must be amazing.”

  “No, of course not.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “I had business up here, in Bettina’s bakery. And you know how thin the walls are. They’re like paper.”

  We lapsed into an awkward silence. It seemed like neither of us felt inclined to tell the truth at the moment. Maybe if I engaged in some chitchat, I could take the edge off.

  “It’s been a rough morning.” I tried to appear casual as I leaned against the doorframe. “Did you know someone smashed in my French door? Hacked the stuffing clean out of it. I hope you have a burglar alarm in here. I’d hate for something like that to happen to you.”

  It seemed to work, since he moved over to an armchair he’d placed behind the desk. “That’s terrible. Did you call the police?”

  “I did. They dusted for fingerprints. The crook bashed it twelve ways to Sunday, so it’s a total loss. But at least nothing was taken.”

  “That’s good.” He placed a bank statement on his desk—face-down, of course–while he took the chair. “Guess you can’t be too careful these days. Though I don’t know what they expected to find in a hat studio.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s not like I keep a safe in there or anything.”

  He casually indicated the paperwork around him. “Look, I’ve got a million things to do. And it sounds like you’re busy this morning too. Maybe we can catch up later.”

  It’s time to bring out the big guns. “Sure. By the way, you’ll never guess who I ran into downstairs. Hank Dupre, of all people.”

  That did it.

  Paxton blinked; a tiny crack in his smooth façade. He could talk his way out of my questions, but he couldn’t hide such an automatic reaction. “You don’t say.”

  “Yep. And he mentioned you were thinking of selling your business. Which I couldn’t believe, since you were just talking about Charlotte’s plans to expand it. During the meeting yesterday, remember?”

  “Of course I do. That’s what Charlotte planned to do before she died.”

  So he didn’t try to hide the fact he met with a Realtor this morning. But why would he schedule an appointment with Hank Dupre at dawn, when no one else would see them? That alone seemed suspicious enough.

  “I never thought you’d sell. Your speech made it sound like y’all had big plans to expand.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said . . . we did. But to tell you the truth, I never wanted to add all that other stuff. Not now.” He blinked again. “In fact, I wanted to retire. I’m almost sixty. The way I figure it, I have ten or twenty good years left to do what I want to do.”

  “Did you ever tell Charlotte how you felt?” I leaned forward, even more curious now. Why wouldn’t he confide in his cousin if he wanted to retire? Family was family, after all. Surely she’d understand. “Maybe she would’ve bought out your half. Then you could’ve done whatever you wanted.”

  “You don’t know how hard I tried.” He leaned forward too, as if he’d been waiting for someone like me to bring it up. “Charlotte wouldn’t let me retire. She said she needed me, because I handled the finances.”

  “But she handled all the clients. Right?”

  “That’s the easy part, to tell you the truth. Everyone thinks this business is soooo glamorous. Gourmet food . . . ritzy mansions . . . newspaper photographers. What’s not to like?” He thumped the desk, and the paper jumped. “I’ll tell you what’s not to like. Everything’s all fun and games until the dance floor clears. Do you know what it’s like to collect money from these people?”

  I managed to nod, although his sudden outburst surprised me.

  “It’s like pulling teeth, Miss DuBois. Like our clients have amnesia the minute the music stops. That’s when they suddenly realize they have to pay for it all.”

  “But Charlotte seemed to enjoy it so very much. We always had a wonderful time when we worked together.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course she did. I told you: She had the easy part. Meet with clients, plan menus, that kind of thing.” Now he smoothed the paper flat, as if to erase his outburst. “Lord knows I tried to get my point across. Several times. She wouldn’t hear of it. Said we’re family, and family sticks together. She worried what people would do if we split up the company. She said they’d smell trouble.”

  My thoughts immediately rewound to a conversation down the hall, only a little while ago. Trudi Whidbee sat in a chair next to me in Pink Cake Boxes and glibly announced she’d fired Happily Ever After Events. She mentioned it in passing, like an afterthought.

  “Trudi Whidbee told me she canceled her contract with you. She said she picked a brand-new wedding planner.”

  Paxton continued to smooth the sheet. “Yeah, well. She’s not the only one. Clients have been calling all day, every day, since Charlotte died. That’s why I’ve got to sell now. Pretty soon, there won’t be any contracts left.”

  I watched him palm the paper, until my gaze wandered to the filing cabinet behind him. Last night, the cabinet’s drawers bulged with manila folders; too many for them to close. Now, the drawers lay flush with the cabinet’s face, which meant he must’ve emptied them overnight.

  “That’s too bad.” I returned my gaze to his face. “I’m sorry people are reacting like that.”

  “That’s just part of it. Charlotte’s plans upset a lot of the shop owners around here. I know that. Everyone thinks Charlotte wanted to put them out of business. Someone even threatened me.”

  Another memory came crashing back. This one involved a conversation I overheard on the steps at Morningside Planation.

  The day dawned cold and gray. Dana LeBoeuf wore a flowered skirt and combat boots, didn’t she? And Bettina wore the tight ballerina bun, like always.

  The two women whispered urgently on the stairs, while I did my best to sink into the wall behind the door. Dana sounded downright calm compared to Bettina, almost content. Especially when she mentioned she had “taken care” of a problem. What did she mean by that?

  “Look, I really have to get back to work, Miss DuBois.”

  His voice broke through my reverie. “Good luck to you, Mr. Haney. I hope everything works out for you in the next few days.”

  “All I know is things are moving way too fast. One day we’re going to expand the company, and the next day I have to sell it. Who would’ve thought things would turn out like this?”

  Who, indeed. I didn’t reply to his question, although I couldn’t agree with him more.

  By the time I made my way downstairs, the first wave of guilt washed over me. I was supposed to be gone only a few minutes; long enough to grab a venti mocha from the Starbucks in the lobby. Somehow, though, that simple errand morphed into myriad conversations with people like Paxton Haney, Bettina Leblanc, and Hank Dupre.

  Ambrose must be worried sick about me by now. I quickly reached into the pocket of the skirt, ready to whisk out my phone, but felt only fabric and air. How could I forget again? I’d left the cell on the counter in his studio.

  My only choice was to hurry back. Once I put his mind at ease, I’d give Lance a call and report on my comings and goings. Although he’d been reluctant to include me in Charlotte’s murder investigation—then again, when wasn’t he reluctant—he’d surely be interested in my most recent discoveries.

  Tru
th be told, I had more access to the folks who worked around Charlotte on a daily basis than he did. Plus, I had an excellent motive for wanting to find her killer: to bring brides back to my studio and clear my name. That was why my questions wouldn’t seem out of place and why people might be more willing to answer them.

  I rode the elevator to the first floor and then hurried across the lobby. Thankfully, the skies outside looked clear now and the windows rain-free.

  Once I exited the building, I noticed smashed crabgrass on the concrete medians, slick puddles that pockmarked the asphalt like moon craters, and willow branches bent sideways, their limbs slack.

  I resumed my trek to the right, lost in thought. So much had happened since I first drove into the parking lot at the Factory that morning. Too much to absorb.

  After a moment, something sounded behind me. An engine sputtered and coughed as a car drew near. I gave it a wide berth by edging closer to the building.

  The sputtering grew louder as the car pulled up beside me. In the next instant, something wet and cold splattered against my leg. I reared back on the kitten heels, but it was too late: oily water from a nearby puddle splashed across my skirt like dishwater slopping onto a sponge.

  The stain quickly seeped sideways and down the front. I was about to yelp when the owner of the car slammed on the brakes and jerked to a stop.

  It was a forest green Volvo with a missing taillight. The car suddenly reversed course and inched back to me in fits and starts.

  Once we were side-by-side again, the driver burst out of the car. It was Prudence Fortenberry, of all people, wearing that ridiculous faux-fur hat again.

  She hustled around the hood of her car and joined me on the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you standing there.” She huffed the words, clearly out of breath.

  “Hello, Prudence.” I struggled to sound even-keeled. How could I possibly return the skirt to Ambrose now? Dirty water splattered my left side, from knee to hem. Not to mention some overspray fanned across the front.

  “Let me take care of that for you.” Prudence awkwardly reached for the Volvo’s passenger door with her left hand, since her right was still bandaged. After wrenching open the door, she leaned into the car and began to rummage around the front seat.

  She didn’t have much room to work with. She’d shoved a red Samsonite suitcase on the passenger’s side and a burlap book bag directly under it, on the floorboard. The bag overflowed with sheet music bound in goldenrod covers.

  “Really,” I said, “don’t worry about it. You didn’t mean to splash me.”

  She gave the suitcase a final shove, obviously deaf to my protests. “Now where did I put my purse?” she mumbled.

  “I said it’s okay.” I sank back on my heels, the taffeta skirt sticking to my calf like a wet paper towel. “It was an accident. That’s all.”

  “But I insist.” She gave up on the front seat and leaned over to inspect the back. “You must let me pay for dry cleaning.”

  I peeked over her shoulder as she contemplated the paraphernalia in the backseat: another red suitcase—apparently it was a matched set—more sheet music in burlap book bags and a pile of shoes on the floorboard.

  “Are you going somewhere?” My guess was an out-of-town wedding, what with the piano music and all.

  “Hmmm?” She continued to rummage through the backseat with her left hand. “Here we go.” She finally located the wayward purse under a pair of shoes. “How much do you think the dry cleaner will charge?”

  “You really don’t have to do that.” Even though she’d messed up my skirt, her apology sounded sincere enough.

  “No, I insist.” She opened the flap of her handbag and winced as she pulled out a ten-dollar bill with her injured hand.

  “By the way . . . whatever happened to your hand?” I watched her carefully extract the bill. It was hard not to stare, since the pink bandage looked like a flesh-colored mitten.

  She shrugged. “Just a little mishap. Nothing serious. I should be fine in a week or two.”

  “So you don’t have a wedding gig this weekend, then.”

  She thrust the bill at me, clearly in a hurry. “What?”

  “I thought maybe you were going to a wedding.” I nodded at the paraphernalia. “You know, the luggage.”

  Come to think of it, two suitcases was a bit excessive. Most weddings lasted six hours or so, and that was for both the ceremony and reception. But Prudence had enough clothes and music for ten times that amount in her car.

  “Uh, yeah,” she said. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m kind of in a hurry.” She flipped the pocketbook closed. “Nice to see you. And I’m so sorry about the skirt.”

  She skittered away before I could reply. Once she reached the driver’s side, she jerked on the door handle and slid into the car, all business now.

  The last thing I noticed was the missing taillight as she pulled away from the curb.

  The puckering of taffeta against my leg reminded me of my predicament. While Prudence had given me money to clean it, I hated to have Ambrose see me like this. Maybe I should tuck the folds in close to make the stain less obvious when I got back to his studio.

  It’s worth a shot. So, I set off across the parking lot again, and even hopscotched over a few more puddles, although the damage was already done. The minute I came within spitting distance of Ambrose’s Allure Couture, I grabbed the wet fabric in my fist and prepared to sidestep into his studio.

  But something caught my eye first. A fresh piece of plywood leaned against the wall of my studio next door. Not only that, but someone had swept the welcome mat clean and even rinsed off the ground around it.

  I hurried into Ambrose’s studio with my mouth open, forgetting all about my earlier plan to sneak in sideways. “Ambrose!”

  He stood across the way, by the three-way mirror, and he frowned when I entered. “Hey . . . I was about to come get you. Where’ve you been?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I rushed to his side and gave him a quick hug. “But I left my cell on your counter, so I couldn’t call you. Thank you for fixing my door! And you’ll never guess who-all I’ve talked to.”

  I led him to the counter, the ruined skirt all but forgotten, and slid onto one of the bar stools. Once he took the other stool, I launched into a quick rundown of my conversations with Hank, Paxton, Bettina, and the rest. I spent most of my breath on Paxton and his shredded bank statements.

  “That does seem strange,” he said, when I’d finished. “You need to tell your detective friend about it. There’s no reason for Paxton to destroy bank records like that. At least, no normal reason.”

  “I agree.” I leaned forward to grab my cell, which wasn’t easy considering wet taffeta weighed me down. “By the way . . . I kinda got your skirt wet. I’m so sorry. I’ll go to the dry cleaners just as soon as I have a chance to call Lance.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m only glad you made it back safe and sound.”

  I threw him another smile, and then I rose and headed for the chifforobe that leaned against the far wall of his studio. Once I’d retrieved my corduroys, I quickly moved to the dressing room and changed, and then I tucked the ruined skirt under my arm and rejoined him at the counter.

  Ambrose glanced up from his cell as I approached. “By the way, one of my clients just texted. She’ll be here in five minutes.”

  I squinted, since I couldn’t quite remember if he’d told me his schedule for the day. “Which client?”

  “The redhead, from yesterday. We never got to finish.”

  “Oh, that client.” The Victoria’s Secret model. The one who seemed as wary of me as I was of her. “I don’t like the way she looked at you.”

  “She didn’t look at me. You’re crazy.”

  He said it in jest, but the hairs on the back of my neck bristled anyway. “Just be careful around that one. She looked like she wanted to eat you up for lunch.”

  Ambrose chuckled, clearly not seeing the danger in t
he situation. “Okay. Now we’re down to four minutes.”

  “I’m going. I’m going.”

  “Maybe you should grab some breakfast when you meet up with Lance. Knowing you, you forgot to eat anything this morning.”

  “Me? You’re the one who looked ready to faint yesterday.” Come to think of it, though, getting a quick bite to eat might not be such a bad idea, since a dull rumble worked its way through my belly. “I’ll call Lance and see what he says. Then you can have your precious studio all to yourself.”

  Ambrose slowly lowered the phone. “Thank you. And you don’t have anything to worry about. I just want to finish that girl’s dress and get paid.”

  “Gotcha. Want me to grab you anything to eat while I’m out and about?”

  “Sure. How ’bout a breakfast sandwich and a smoothie. You know what I like.”

  For some reason, that tickled me. “You bet I do.”

  Chapter 16

  Once I left Ambrose’s Allure Couture—rather reluctantly, I might add—I returned to the parking lot, brought out my cell and dialed Lance’s number. He answered right away, which was becoming a habit with him.

  “Hey, Missy. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Lance. I’ve got so much to tell you.” Come to think of it, that was an understatement. “You’re not gonna believe what I found out after you left me this morning. Can you meet me at your mom’s place for some breakfast?”

  His mother owned Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery, which was one of the newest and most popular restaurants in Bleu Bayou. Everyone loved his mom’s biscuits and gravy, not to mention her fried chicken and waffles.

  He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know. I’m snowed under with the investigation. Can it wait?”

  “Probably not. It’s about Charlotte’s murder.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll make a few calls and I’ll head over to my mom’s.”

  Even though it was only nine in the morning, my mouth watered at the thought of Mrs. LaPorte’s fried chicken. I considered that as I headed for my convertible.