Cat Got Your Secrets: A Kitty Couture Mystery

by Julie Chase

  I kissed my parents’ cheeks before following Claudia’s SUV down the driveway and around the block where we parted ways. I zipped along the picturesque residential roads of our district, eager to make my delivery and get to work. More than that, I was dying to know what had my normally jubilant dad so melancholy. I would have blamed Mom, but she seemed sincerely clueless.

  Penelope rode quietly beside me, ears rotating like tiny satellite dishes as the sounds of our district wafted in on the breeze.

  A crowd came into view outside the reception hall.

  “Uh-oh,” I told Penelope. “Something’s wrong.”

  Police cruisers blocked the parking lot entrance, forcing me to pass my destination in search of an empty space along the curb. A firetruck sat beside an ambulance outside the hall where my delivery was expected.

  I parked two blocks away and powered the windows up halfway. “Wait here,” I told Penelope. “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to find out what happened so I know what to do with these dreidel biscuits.” If there was a fire, I’d have to deliver them somewhere else, which meant throwing my day off schedule more than it already was.

  I jogged back to the lot entrance. Lookie lous lined the sidewalks, snapping photos and buzzing with anticipation. I sidled up to a man standing outside the hoopla. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m guessing fire.” He crossed his arms and rocked on his heels. “Could be a robbery or vandalism, I suppose. I’m not sure what they keep in there.”

  The hall was the big empty kind that folks rented out for special occasions. Unless the family holding the Bark-Mitzvah had stored something of value for the party tonight, I couldn’t imagine any reason to break in. I snapped a few pictures with my phone. Photos had helped me sort things out in the past, and this felt like a moment to remember or at least document.

  I lifted onto my tiptoes for a better view of the firetruck. Several men in New Orleans Fire Department T-shirts leaned against the giant vehicle, scanning the crowd and posturing. No gear or hose in sight. I ducked under the crime scene tape and went for a closer look.

  “Hey,” the man called from behind me. “You can’t go in there.”

  I waved him off. “It’s okay. I have a delivery.”

  I hustled through clusters of men and women in uniform, passing cops, firemen, and crime scene investigators with my chin up and shoulders back. A gust of wind whipped through the scene, sending goose bumps down both arms. New Orleans in February could be forty-five or seventy. Sometimes on the same day.

  A knot of workers in matching uniforms huddled near the side entrance. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a delivery for the party tonight. Is it okay if I leave the boxes with one of you?”

  A puffy-eyed woman burst into tears.

  The man beside her gave me a cold stare and pulled her into a hug. “Party’s cancelled.”

  I cast a look at the not-burning building. “No party?” I had twelve dozen Jewish dog biscuits in my car. How the heck was I supposed to unload those if not for the Normans’ Bark-Mitzvah? “I’m confused,” I admitted. “What happened here?”

  “I tried everything,” the woman cried. “I was too late. He was so cold.”

  My gaze jumped back to the building. Fear prickled the skin along my collarbone. “Who was so cold?”

  “Wallace Becker,” the man said, pulling her closer. “She found him in there this morning.”

  I blinked long and slow at the woman sobbing against his chest. Behind her, a pair of EMTs drove a gurney into the back of a waiting ambulance. A closed body bag balanced on top.

  “A real shame,” one EMT told the other as they snapped the doors shut behind the body. “Wallace Becker was the nicest guy on earth.”

  It felt like ice slid down my spine and into my sandals. Dad was with Mr. Becker last night.

  And now Mr. Becker is dead.

  Chapter Two

  Furry Godmother’s advice on personal baggage: Donate it to charity.

  The world seemed to burst back to life. People bustled in every direction. Voices filled the humid air with white noise. I stumbled over my feet, processing an influx of selfish thoughts. I knew what this meant for Dad. I’d been through it last summer when a body was found outside my shop, and I’d been the last person to see that man alive. For me, the days immediately following had been a nightmare. Dad was already in a strange funk, almost as if he’d known . . . but that was impossible. He’d never hurt anyone intentionally, and if he knew someone was hurt, he’d call for help. His mood and his friend’s death weren’t connected. They couldn’t be.

  A scrawny guy with a blond goatee and black horn-rimmed glasses moved in front of me and extended his hand. “I’m Robbie.” He had a polo shirt and khakis on with black Nikes and a rubber-banded wristwatch.

  “Lacy.” I choked the word free from my suddenly dry mouth. “Do you know what happened in there?”

  “No.” He tipped his head away from the group and motioned me to follow.

  We moved several paces to the left.

  Robbie scanned the scene over my shoulder when we stopped. “We’re the morning crew. We come in and scrub the place on days when an event’s scheduled, which is most days. Lana got here first today.”

  I glanced at the little circle we’d left behind. “Lana’s the one who found Mr. Becker.”

  “Yeah.”

  I, too, had found a body this year. I’d planned to create a pet companion line for my favorite fashion designer and personal hero, Annie Lane, but she was dead when I’d arrived for my appointment. I never got the chance to meet her, but I thought of that moment nightly. My heart went out to Lana. She’d never forget this day.

  I rubbed the goose bumps off my arms. Someone had killed Annie Lane, but this wasn’t like that. I had no reason to assume murder. I shook off the effects of my personal baggage and gave the situation a more sensible appraisal. Wallace Becker was at least sixty. He could’ve had a heart attack or an aneurism. Maybe a stroke. The coroner would know soon. None of this had anything to do with me or my dad.

  Robbie dashed the toe of his shoe against the asphalt. “I heard the medical examiner say it was probably a heart attack.”

  My shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “Oh, good.”

  Robbie raised his brows.

  “I mean, not good, but . . . it wasn’t a robbery or anything violent.”

  “No. Nothing like that. He was locked in the freezer. I guess that triggered the attack. I don’t know.”

  My eyes widened. “What?”

  “Yeah. Weird, right? Lana saw the emergency light on when she got here. The doorstop was wedged underneath the door from the outside. Total fluke. She kicked it away and found him on the floor. I heard her screaming when I pulled into the lot. I thought she was hurt, but I found her in the freezer trying to wake him. I called nine-one-one and started CPR, but he was already gone. The police told us to stay here until they spoke with us. We’ve been standing around for almost an hour.”

  I stumbled away on wooden legs. Mr. Becker was locked in a freezer? So this could be murder after all? My chest burned. The urge to flee overcame me. I needed to escape before I became part of whatever had happened here. When I’d lingered too closely in the past, these things had a way of growing claws and dragging me in.

  “Hey, lady,” Robbie called. “Lacy? You okay?”

  “No.” I shook my head and applied the breathing techniques I’d learned in therapy. “I have to go.”

  Dad had been in a horrible mood this morning. Had he and Wallace had a disagreement? Oh, Lord. Please don’t let them have had a fight. I turned my eyes skyward in a silent plea. A fight, even a verbal one, was considered a possible motive for murder, and Dad would be in the crosshairs of the New Orleans Police Department, not to mention local media and the gossip mill.

  Robbie darted ahead of me and blocked my path. “Hey, are you driving? I don’t think you should drive like this.”

  My tummy coiled. “
Penelope!” I jogged back across the lot and under the police tape. Thankfully, I’d opted for polka-dotted ballet flats instead of heels this morning. My navy A-line dress fluttered against my thighs with every broad stride. The brisk winter winds threatened to re-create the famous Marilyn Monroe moment if I took my hands off the hem.

  Robbie stayed at my side. “Hey, I’m not supposed to leave.”

  “So don’t.” I stopped at my car and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Penelope was on her back in the travel pack, sunning herself in narrow beams of light flickering through the window. Irrationally, tears stung my eyes. She was okay, and I was okay. Everything was okay.

  Except that Mr. Becker was dead. He wasn’t okay.

  Robbie watched me with blatant curiosity. “Let me at least call someone to drive you. You don’t seem well.”

  “No. I’m fine.” I pressed a clammy hand to my pounding chest. My fingertips landed in the deep V of my neckline, further chilling my skin. “You’re very kind, and it’s nice to see chivalry isn’t dead, but I have to go.”

  “I’m a volunteer firefighter.” He shrugged. “I worry about people. Probably more than I should. It’s a curse.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s really not.”

  Cursed was coming back to my hometown after a decade away and finding myself at the scene of three murders in less than a year.

  I climbed behind the wheel and gunned my little engine to life. I gave Robbie one last look. “You’d better get back before the police notice you’re missing.”

  I pulled away with a jolt, leaving him alone on the sidewalk, and made a dent in my gas pedal motoring down Magazine Street toward Furry Godmother. I needed to call Dad before someone beat me to it. I also needed as much information as I could get about what had happened last night. With enough pieces, I could solve any puzzle, and the stakes were high on this one. Dad’s friend was dead, and Dad would soon be a suspect. Maybe he’d feel like talking when he got this news.

  I careened onto Magazine Street, the heart of the Garden District and location of my shop. Robust baskets of red, white, and pink flowers hung from lampposts along the six-mile stretch of charming shops and delicious food, anchored by matching “Fall in Love with the Garden District” flags and golden silhouettes of Cupid and his bow. Shop owners pulled sale racks and chalkboard signs onto the sidewalk, enticing shoppers inside for Valentine’s Day sales. Magazine Street was my district’s answer to the French Quarter’s Bourbon Street. Maybe not the main attraction, but definitely not to be missed.

  I slid into the first available curbside spot and grabbed Penelope and the dreidels. We made a run for the store, hopping over ministreams and rivers where water from window washing and plant watering swirled on the sidewalk. Two months from now, the little puddles wouldn’t stand a chance against the searing Southern heat.

  I bumped the front door open with my backside and spun into my adorable little shop. The bell dinged overhead, announcing my arrival. Wide wooden flooring stretched in every direction, from the turtle tank to the bakery counter. White built-in shelves lined the walls. Tiny chandeliers hung in tidy rows overhead. A soft pink-and-green color palette gave the room a perfectly whimsical feel.

  “Mornin’, Miss Lacy.” Imogene, my former nanny and current shopkeeper, met me with a bright smile. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Your mother said you were having breakfast with her today.” Imogene and my mom were best friends, and if that wasn’t enough, Imogene was a bit of a mystic, painfully aware of the general dispositions and intentions of everyone around her. I’d gotten away with nothing when Imogene was my nanny, and very little since she’d taken the position as my faithful employee.

  “I left early to make a delivery at the reception hall next door to the Cuddle Brigade offices.” I set the box of doggie dreidel treats on the counter as evidence. “I need to find out where these go now.” Thankfully, the Normans had paid in advance.

  “Oh.” Her voice fell an octave. Color rose in her latte-colored cheeks. “I heard about what happened over there.”

  Imogene knew everything that went on in the district, despite the fact that she lived on the other side of the French Quarter in Faubourg Marigny. I supposed the grand number of shamans and whatnots in her lineage gave her an advantage. “Well, what did you hear?”

  “Someone locked poor Mr. Becker in the freezer and left him for dead.”

  I pointed to my nose. “Now I have to tell Dad, but I don’t want to. They were friends, and Dad was already upset this morning.”

  Imogene hummed a long note and sauntered back to the bakery display. “Well, in better news, you had a crowd outside when I opened. Folks around here can’t get enough of these little valentine boxes.” She lifted one of the small heart-shaped boxes that I’d filled with organic pet treats. “I must’ve sold ten in ten minutes.”

  “Excellent.” I unloaded Penelope and set her on the counter. “Where’s everyone now?”

  “How should I know?”

  I pulled in a deep breath and found my cell phone. “Right.” I dialed my mom and waited.

  She answered on the first ring. “Violet Conti-Crocker.”

  “Hi, Mom.” I shifted foot to foot. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Water ran in the background. “What do you need?”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No. I suppose you called to tell me about Wallace Becker.”

  Imogene chuckled from across the room.

  I puckered my brow, unsure how she could hear both sides of my conversation, but certain she could. “How did you know about that?”

  Mom huffed into the receiver. “It’s my job to know what happens around here.”

  That was true enough. After all, a socialite without a grapevine was like a cat without an attitude. Nonexistent.

  “How’s Dad taking the news?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  I chewed my bottom lip, unsure how to proceed. “Have you called your lawyer about this?”

  “No. Why would I? Are you in trouble again?” The sound of running water ceased.

  I lifted and dropped a hand in defeat. “Not for me. For Dad. Dad was with Mr. Becker last night.”

  “So?”

  I glanced around the room for support. Only stuffed animals and my turtles looked back. “So,” I dragged the word out for several syllables, “he’s probably a suspect, or he will be as soon as the police find out he was with the victim immediately before he became one.”

  “Be serious,” she scoffed. Pots and pans clanged in the background. “Listen. I can’t talk. I’m baking Mrs. Becker a casserole, and this phone is too tiny to sit on my shoulder. I’m making a mess.”

  I dropped my forehead onto the counter. Proper Southern etiquette dictated that friends, families, and neighbors provide food when someone was hurting, healing, grieving, or sick. Also if they were new to the neighborhood, got engaged or married, had a baby, or a hangnail. No occasion was too small for a casserole and/or a pie. I’d broken my leg at the hands of a madman last Thanksgiving, and the food didn’t stop coming until New Years.

  “Shoot,” she snapped. “Now I need to change. I hate this tiny phone.”

  “Please call your attorney before you go to the Becker home.”

  “Nonsense.”

  I raised my head fast enough to make it spin. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I’ll talk to you soon, sweetie. Right now, I have a widow to feed and comfort.” She disconnected.

  I stared at my phone.

  I brought up a search engine and looked for articles about freezer deaths. Horrified, I sent a series of text messages to Detective Jack Oliver, my one and only contact on the police force. Lucky for me, he worked homicide. If he hadn’t been assigned to this case, then it wasn’t flagged as foul play yet, which meant I had time to prove it wasn’t before Dad wound up at the police station.

  Imogene sang under her breath as she hung a tiny satin shirt in my window display. I’d
created a faux garden, planted red hearts on sticks, hung puffy cotton clouds from above, and featured my cutest valentine designs on the clothesline. “My granddaughter would love this little tunic. She’s just like you were at that age, except she dresses her Yorkipoo like a yuppie.” Imogene shook her head. “That dog loves satin.”

  “You should take one home to her. What’s her dog’s name?”

  “Beyoncé.”

  I chuckled. “In that case, you’d better take two. How’s Michael doing these days?” Michael was Imogene’s oldest son. He and his wife had at least six kids. I’d lost track while I was away. Her youngest son was Sean. She didn’t mention him often.

  “He’s good. Working hard and loving that family.”

  “I always liked him.”

  Her smile grew. “He’s a good boy.”

  I hauled a box of little skirts and cardigans onto the counter and plugged in my iron. “Who’s to say it wasn’t an accident? Maybe he happened to be in there when he had the heart attack from completely natural causes. There’s no reason to assume foul play.”

  I checked my phone. Jack hadn’t responded to my texts.

  Imogene stopped working and looked at me like a specimen for study. “Who said anything about murder?”

  I dragged my mind back to the parking lot, Lana’s account, and my exchange with Robbie. “No one, I guess.”

  I texted Jack again.

  No answer.

  “How long do you think it takes to determine the time or cause of death?” I asked Imogene. My fretting mind couldn’t recall the time frame from past experiences or anything else useful at the moment.

  She made a thinking face. “Hard to say. I guess it depends how busy the coroner is. I’m guessing Mr. Becker wasn’t the only one to die in New Orleans this week.”

  I spread a small skirt on the counter and placed a heart-shaped appliqué on top. I skated the iron over the material, careful not to stop anywhere too long, then flipped the skirt inside out and repeated the process.