Pawsibly Guilty

by CeeCee James

  Mary ran up, belting her jacket around her waist. “Ready?”

  I nodded, and we headed outside. Brett met us with an umbrella at the door, where we huddled together as he shielded us to the car.

  The chauffeur drove us to Kess Tailoring and double-parked outside. He climbed out and grandly opened the umbrella to let us into the business first and then went back for the dresses in the trunk.

  “Thank you, Brett. We have one more errand after this if you want us to text you when we’re done,” I said.

  The chauffeur lifted an eyebrow in curiosity but kept his questions to himself. “That works for me. I’ll be at the Grilled Onion having lunch. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  The interior of the shop was dark and smelled of almonds mixed with cedar chips. A brightly lit display shelf hugged one wall, each glass shelf filled with cigar accouterments as well as lapel pins, cuff links, and such.

  A woman came out to greet us, tall and willowy and with the tiniest pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. “You’re here for the fitting?”

  I nodded. “Hi. I’m Laura Lee."

  The woman scooped the dresses from my arm, her eye appraising the fabric even as she led the way. “If you can follow me.”

  She guided me through a narrow hallway to a private dressing room, one with a velvet standing stool in the center, with matching floor-length curtains barricading off one corner. “If you could just go behind there and change.”

  I did so, putting on the blue dress first. It dragged on the ground. I gathered the extra fabric and wobbled out.

  “Stand there, please.” The woman pointed to the stool. Then, with a pincushion attached to her wrist, and a few pins in her mouth, she poked and pulled and tacked the fabric. I was shocked to see the difference those little tucks and few inches made. Smiling, I twirled around after she finished.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” the seamstress admired.

  “I love it.”

  “With a figure like yours, you should wear things like this more.” Carefully, she helped me take it off, and then I tried on the black one.

  When we were finished, she led me back out to the main room where Mary paced in front of the display. The seamstress scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s your pick-up receipt. We’ll have it ready soon.”

  I took it and read it. A male tailor showed up behind the counter. I glanced at him, excited. “Are you Mr. Birch?”

  “Yes.” His face expressed stiff professionalism.

  “Did you happen to do a suit fitting for Mr. Andy Fitzwater?”

  He raised his chin slightly as if the question took him off guard. “That’s correct. Is there a reason you are asking?” He folded his hands together.

  “Your business card was found in his pocket when he died.”

  His lips tightened, making his tiny mustache straighten like a pencil line. Other than that, he remained stoic and unemotional.

  I continued. “Along with a cigar wrapper. Do you normally give your customers cigars when they come in for fittings?”

  That did it. He could no longer control himself and gasped out, appalled, “Never! Can you even imagine? We’d never get the scent out. What they do in their personal time is their own choice, but our goal is to send them a pristine product.”

  “Of course. I understand. And your clothing is stunning. Speaking of stunning, we noticed a strange pocket on the lapel.”

  “It was a special request of his.”

  “Interesting. Do you know what the pocket was for?” I asked.

  His thin eyebrows raised, mimicking the mustache. “Occasionally, our gentlemen want hidden interior pockets for something discreet.”

  “Discreet like what?”

  Casually he flicked his pant leg, the crease in the fabric as sharp as a blade. “Who really knows? Perhaps a knife? Perhaps something else?” He winked then and patted the seamstress on the shoulder. Then he spun on his wing-tipped shoes and disappeared into the back room, leaving both Mary and me completely clueless as to what he was referring to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Outside on the tailor’s stoop, we stared at the rain pounding off the road. Seriously? Could it rain any harder? Images of the buildings from across the street reflected in giant puddles.

  “Betty’s Boutique is just down there.” I pointed toward the fine china store.

  “It’s pouring rain,” Mary announced glumly.

  “I know, but it’s just thirty steps or so.”

  “In the dumping rain,” reiterated Mary, this time swiveling to give me a snarky eyebrow glare.

  I started to say I had an umbrella when I realized I’d left it in the car. I sighed and stared across the street. “What do you want to do? Call Brett and have him take us over there? We’ll get just as wet getting in and out of the car.”

  “Laura Lee, you can’t be serious.”

  “Besides, he’ll be angry we interrupted his lunch.”

  Mary blinked, stone-faced at me.

  “Come on. We can do this. Where’s your sense of adventure? Everyone loves dancing in the rain.” I nudged her.

  “You’re talking about cozy cartoon memes. This is a deluge. I’m expecting an ark to be swept by any minute.”

  “Well, you stay here, then. I’m running over. It’ll just take me a second.”

  With that, I jetted off the stoop. Of course, Mary ran with me. The two of us dashed across the road, making water splash. We leaped over the same gushing river that ran along the side of the sidewalk into a storm drain. I made it over. Unfortunately, Mary did not.

  At Betty’s Boutique, Mary leaned against the door frame to dump out her shoes.

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. “That was a little more than I expected.”

  Mary wiped off her cheeks. With her eyebrows like angry dashes, she didn’t say anything.

  The storekeeper took one look at us before disappearing behind the counter only to return a moment later with a roll of paper towels, her hand bee-hiving them before she tore a chunk off and passed them over.

  “Thank you,” said I and gratefully mopped my hair, face, and neck. I still didn’t dare look at Mary.

  “What can I get you?” the woman asked.

  “I was told you might carry an egg cup I’m looking for?”

  “I can certainly check. And if we don’t, we can order it for you. What’s the design?” Her mouth raised in an expectant smile.

  Mary pulled out her phone and found the photo that Cook had sent. She passed it over. “This is it. I was told this original was purchased here.”

  “Actually, I do have one in the back. Let me get that for you.” She puttered behind her counter for a moment before holding it up triumphantly.

  This time I glanced at Mary. “Sorry about that. The rain was a little worse than I anticipated.”

  “And I hate dancing.” She made a face at me and smiled to let me know she wasn’t angry.

  “But we saved Cook!”

  A psychedelic-colored camper pulled up to the curb directly outside.

  I nudged her. “Mary, check that out.”

  The horn tooted, and someone from the driver’s seat waved.

  “Who’s that?” Mary asked.

  I glanced for the shop owner, sure that she must know the driver. The owner looked up from where she was wrapping the egg cup and shrugged in response.

  We watched the driver hop out. Clad in a yellow rain slicker and rubber boots with multi-colored smiley faces, she jogged through the rain to the front door. She buzzed into the business like a lemon tornado, making the bell jangle.

  “Laura Lee! Mary!” Mrs. Fitzwater pushed back the hood, revealing an updo that had gone bananas. The action sent a shower of water to puddle on the floor by her feet. “I thought that was you two! Where are you going after this? Want to come along for a ride in my new jalopy?”

  “Wow, that’s yours?” I gaped at the van.

  “I love it!” Mary grinned, walking clos
er to the display window. “Check out those colors!”

  “You bet she’s mine! I got her on a steal of a deal! She’s fully furnished inside. You have to come out and see!”

  Mrs. Fitzwater’s enthusiasm was contagious. Now the store owner stood at the front window, admiring the vehicle. “Where did you say you bought it?”

  “At Dwayne’s Lane. It’s only had one owner, and they just traded her in. They wanted a new one. Come on, let me take you home.”

  “We’d love a ride back, Mrs. Fitzwater,” Mary accepted. “Let me text Brett. We just need another minute to finish here.”

  “Wonderful. You don’t want to go with that stuffy chauffeur. I’ll be waiting.”

  She left with the cheery bell dinging, and I smiled. It was amazing to see this formerly famous actress—who could have whatever she wanted—so excited over a used Volkswagen van. I loved it.

  I turned back to the shopkeeper who held out the package. I swapped her for Cook’s credit card, and she quickly swiped it and handed it back. Then we ran out into the rain and jumped in the side door of the van.

  “Hi, darlings!” Mrs. Fitzwater said, obviously thrilled we were there to admire her new baby.

  “This is the coolest thing ever,” I said, glancing around. Everything was plastered in yellow and green velour. The remaining surfaces were hidden behind white plastic paneling.

  “I’m going to gut it and restore it to its former glory. Back there, where the chairs are, I’m putting in a bed. And I’ll have a custom made kitchenette that will tuck away when not in use. I’m going to travel, ladies!”

  Listening to her talk swept me up in the vision, stirring the jealousy bug to give me a little nip. What a wonderful life!

  We found spots to sit with Mary on the bench and me squeezing in front for the passenger seat. Then Mrs. Fitzwater took off.

  “So instead of heading straight home, what do you say us girls take a little drive?” Mrs. Fitzwater grinned, looking terribly mischievous.

  Of course, we both nodded. The once blonde-haired bombshell shifted into gear and stomped on the gas. The van’s engine sputtered and popped, making me grab for the door and caused Mrs. Fitzwater to roar with laughter. We bumped down the road with me learning how surprisingly hard the seats were.

  “How are things going with the investigation?” she asked, shifting again. The van squealed and jerked and then smoothed out.

  “We’re considering a few suspects. Would it be possible to get some names of the women that Andy might have spurned,” I said, the words jittering out. Mary’s jaw clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Mrs. Fitzwater didn’t seem to notice. She slammed on the gas, making me jolt back into the seat.

  “Or maybe a disgruntled ex-boyfriend or husband?” I added as the vibrations rattled my rib bones.

  “You want to meet someone, maybe?” A curious expression caused Mrs. Fitzwater’s brows to lift. She shifted again and caused the van to jerk like she’d given it the Heimlich Maneuver. She stared down at the gear shifter. “Hang on a sec.” After a horrible grinding noise, the transmission slid into gear. She laughed, sounding like a young girl. “It’s been a while.”

  Those words weren’t comforting, especially when I was wondering exactly how road-worthy the vehicle was in the first place.

  “Do you know of anyone we could talk to?” Mary pressed, leaning between the seats.

  Mrs. Fitzwater grinned. “How hungry are you two ladies?”

  “Hungry?” Mary’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Because I, for one, think we could all use a bite to eat.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mrs. Fitzwater’s van rattled up to the front of a cute restaurant. The building had a windmill for a sign and lacy wood detail that advertised Swiss alps charm. The full parking lot proved its irresistible appeal that immediately called for a visit.

  “Is this a coffee shop?” I read the name on the windmill. Tiramisu for Two.

  “Coffee shops are a dime a dozen. This, my dear, is a tea shop. Ann Margret used to take me here all the time. Come along, you two!”

  Her friend’s name startled me. Sometimes I forgot how famous Mrs. Fitzwater was.

  We climbed out of the van into a light sprinkle and walked up the red-painted front steps. Mrs. Fitzwater opened the door, releasing the sounds of laughter and animated conversations. The scent of passionfruit and cinnamon drifted through the air like musical notes. I took in a deep appreciative breath while Mrs. Fitzwater shucked off her raincoat.

  “You have a recommendation?” Mary asked as Mrs. Fitzwater pushed her very uncooperative hair back from her face.

  “Of course I do. Come along.” The once actress tucked her arm into Mary’s on one side, and mine on the other, and led us to the counter.

  A young woman in a frilly white apron and blue checked dress smiled from behind the counter.

  Mrs. Fitzwater stared up at the chalked menu behind the counter. “I’ll have a Carrot Cake Rooibos, and my friends here would like two Honeydew Hibiscus Fruit Tisanes. And a small sandwich tray. Thank you so much.”

  I scrambled for my wallet, but Mrs. Fitzwater brushed it away with a smile.

  The tea came in giant teacups, which the three of us carefully carried over to a small walnut table surrounded by three overstuffed chintz-covered chairs.

  “Ahh,” said Mrs. Fitzwater, settling back and wiggling her toes. “This is the life.”

  I observed the other patrons, all relaxing in a similar way. It was easy to see why. Soft piano music played while a large fire crackled behind steel mesh, sending out a hint of woodsmoke.

  A few moments later, the waitress arrived with a china plate stacked with a small sample of sandwiches. She placed this on the table along with several linen napkins. There were salmon cream cheese ones, cucumber with a tiny piece of crisped bacon, and raspberry jelly with fresh cream.

  After waiting for Mrs. Fitzwater to select a sandwich, Mary chose one for herself. I reached for a cucumber triangle.

  “Do you like your tea?” Mrs. Fitzwater asked us.

  I took a tiny sip of the steaming liquid. Fragrant notes blossomed in my mouth. “Very much.”

  Mrs. Fitzwater waved to another waitress.

  “Mrs. Fitzwater. How are you?” the woman asked warmly.

  “Very good. And I’d love for you to meet two of my friends, Laura Lee and—” Mrs. Fitzwater’s brow puckered.

  “Mary,” my friend offered.

  “Yes, Mary! Sorry. And this,” Mrs. Fitzwater rallied now back on familiar territory. “Is Madeline. My almost niece-in-law.”

  “Oh,” the woman laughed and touched her blonde shoulder-length hair. “I don’t know about that. Andy never asked me to marry him.”

  “He was an idiot. God rest his soul.” Mrs. Fitzwater hurriedly tacked the last part on after Madeline flinched. She laid her hand on Madeline’s elbow. “How are you doing?”

  “It’s been a while. His death somehow made it worse, though, if you know what I mean.”

  Mrs. Fitzwater sighed. “No hope for closure.”

  “You’re right. And I gave everything up for him.” Suddenly the woman’s eyes puddled up. I was horrified and glanced over to see how Mrs. Fitzwater would handle it.

  She did it by stiffening her lip. “Like I said. The boy was an idiot.”

  Madeline nodded. “My divorce is final. Now I have no one.”

  “I’m so sorry. Andy certainly could be a cad.”

  “My husband’s parting words to me were, “He can have you.”

  Mrs. Fitzwater bristled. “Well, wait a minute, there. It’s not up to a man to decide who can have you. That’s your decision alone.”

  “Well, I’ve been making bad decisions with men for a long time, it seems. I’m seeing Clint now. I don’t think Andy would approve.”

  My eyes widened. I wondered if it was the same Clint from the pictures.

  “Maybe you need to take time for yourself, for a while. Climb out of
the dating pool. You deserve it.” Mrs. Fitzwater riffled through her purse and handed over a card. “Here.”

  “What’s this?” Madeline lifted it to read it.

  “It’s my appointment at the spa next week. You take it, all paid for. You deserve a treat.”

  “Aww, thank you.” Madeline leaned down and gave the woman a hug. I could tell from Mrs. Fitzwater’s squeeze that she was really quite fond of the young woman.

  “Of course. Any time.”

  Madeline smiled for the first time. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “This will be fine. We’ll talk later when you have more time to catch up.”

  They waved goodbye as Madeline left for the counter.

  “Well, so that’s Madeline. There are probably three more just like her,” Mrs. Fitzwater whispered. “Each one done just as dirty.”

  “He broke up with her?” I whispered back, feeling quite awkward to speak with her just across the room.

  “Mmhmm. And took some of her money as well. I’ll tell you when we get back to the van.”

  We finished our sandwiches and tea with light conversation about traveling and Mary’s dream to take a cruise one day. I have to admit I was guzzling the tea. I couldn’t wait to leave to continue the previous conversation in private.

  Mrs. Fitzwater noticed with an eyebrow lift. She popped her sandwich in her mouth and turned to Mary. “Ready to go?”

  Mary nodded and grabbed her jacket. We headed back out to the van. The sprinkles had disappeared, and the wind dropped. It might turn into a nice day yet.

  We climbed inside the van, and Mrs. Fitzwater started it. “Let me get out onto the highway, and then we can talk.

  We sat silently for a few minutes while she shifted, ground the gears, and finally got us up to speed.

  “So, what did you think of her?” Mrs. Fitzwater asked, her hands relaxing somewhat on the wheel now that all the shifting was done.

  “So sad. Do you know Clint?” I asked.