by Julie Chase
“Maybe he’s taking time to process. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
The back door creaked open and snapped shut, sending Mom into silence. A moment later, Voodoo jogged through the room and collapsed on my feet.
“Hello, Imogene.” Dad’s voice sounded in the kitchen, followed by running water.
Mom fluttered her hands in the air. “He’s washing up. Act natural,” she whispered.
I folded my hands on the table, suddenly unsure how to comply. “Hi, Dad,” I trilled when he pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen. “Hungry?”
Mom shot me a pointed look.
I lifted my shoulders to my ears. “What?” I mouthed.
He kissed my head. Peppermint and aftershave filtered through my hazy mind. Dad smelled like home. Like joy and nostalgia. My heart clenched with reminders of the awful things people were saying about him online. He had a seat at the head of the table. “How are you two holding up?”
No one answered.
“Silly question.” Sadness crept into his tone. “I’m sorry this is so hard on you both.” He shook his head and muttered, “I’m sure it will get much worse before it gets better.” The sincerity in his face broke my heart. “It will get better.”
“Dad,” I started, unsure how to ask the things I wanted to know, other than to simply come out with them, “did you know Wallace Becker was sick?”
Mom frowned. “What do you mean? How sick? How do you know?” She shifted on her seat, eyeballing Dad. “Was he contagious?”
I answered her question, but kept my eyes on Dad. “I’ve recently learned that Wallace Becker had ongoing health problems that led to kidney failure.”
“Kidney failure!” she squeaked.
Dad nodded. “I knew. How did you?”
Heat crept over my cheeks. For the first time since I had the bright idea to visit Mrs. Becker, I felt guilty for the intrusion. “I stopped to pay my condolences.”
Mom guffawed. “Well, that’s ridiculous.” Offense sharpened her words. “I can’t believe she spoke to you.” I could practically hear the subtext. She wouldn’t speak to me, and I brought her a casserole!
“I didn’t give my last name, and I brought her a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
“Lacy, really.” Mom scolded. “That’s terribly inappropriate.”
“I know.” I pressed a palm to my neck, hoping to subdue the growing heat of embarrassment. “I was desperate. She also said Mr. Becker had fidelity issues.”
Dad closed his eyes. “It’s not what she thought.”
Mom made a disgusted throaty noise. “You knew? This is the sort of thing that normally outrages you. What did you say to him?” She looked away before he could answer, venting to me instead. “What is wrong with people these days? Do vows mean nothing anymore?”
I made a weird sound, suddenly unable to articulate my thoughts on the matter.
“Do I know this woman?” She turned her fury back to Dad. “Did you?”
He scoffed. “Of course not.” He covered Mom’s hand with his on the table between them. “Wallace was a fool,” he whispered.
She softened. Dad cradled their adjoined hands with his free one, and she stroked his fingers with her thumb. “I can’t believe he’d do something like that,” she said. “Secrets are no good, and that goes for you too. We’ve let you sulk in your office long enough. Now please let us help you. No matter what is happening, you aren’t going through this alone. We’re Team Crocker, and we need you.”
I smiled. Team Crocker sounded like exactly the type of thing I wanted to be part of. I added my hand to the pile. “Team Crocker.”
Dad smiled.
I pulled my hand back and asked the thing that was eating away at me first. “Who was Mr. Becker seeing?”
Dad didn’t answer.
Mom leaned in. “Well?”
He shook his head. “That’s not for me to say.”
“You just said no more secrets,” she balked.
He gave a sad, apologetic face.
I could appreciate Dad’s loyalty, but Mr. Becker was dead, and the information was vital. “You have to tell someone. What if this woman was the one who killed him? Or what if Mrs. Becker had enough and did something about it?”
Dad look conflicted, but remained silent.
I sat straighter and pulled my shoulders back. “I’m not going to let you go to jail for this. I’ll get answers one way or another. If not from you, then however else I can.”
Dad unbuttoned the top buttons on his dress shirt with a long groan. “Leave it alone, pumpkin.” He turned pleading eyes on Mom. “Tell her, Violet.”
Mom made a droll face. “As if she’d listen. She’s your daughter. Stubborn as the day is long.”
And Mom was so laid back and easygoing.
“You might as well tell her what she wants to know,” she said, “before she winds up in the ER again.”
My tummy dropped. Images of the night I’d broken my leg while escaping a killer sent glaciers of fear through my chest. Cool beads of sweat formed on my temple. Memories of my screams rang in my ears.
“Lacy?” Dad’s voice broke me from the silent nightmare. “Honey?”
“I’m okay,” I lied. I refocused on the trouble at hand. “Please tell me what you know.”
Dad stretched free from Mom’s hands. “I don’t know what I know. Maybe nothing more than you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wallace was agitated, but he wasn’t one to talk about personal things, so I didn’t press the issue.”
“He didn’t give any indication about why he was upset?” I asked.
“Nothing direct, no. I mentioned his unusually dire disposition at dinner, and he said women would be the death of him. I asked if he and his wife were fighting, but he said the situation was nuanced, and he didn’t want to talk about it. He was clearly in no mood for a lecture, and he knew where I stood on the topic of infidelity, so I didn’t press.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Only that he nearly had everything taken care of, whatever that meant. He’d had a few drinks by that point.”
“No guesses?”
Dad shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but I’m better with pets than people. You know that. I enjoy listening, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and I’m not good at prodding people to open up. I figured he’d tell me more when he was ready, so I didn’t ask. I wish more than anything that I had.”
Imogene pressed the kitchen door open with one hip and delivered a steaming tray to the table. “Dinner is hot and ready.” She clapped her hands and admired the feast. “There’s nothing better than that to brighten a day.”
The platter was lined in mounds of white rice and topped with piles of steaming shrimp and crawfish in a spicy tomato-based roux. Scents of garlic and onion set my mouth to water. I checked discreetly for drool.
“You’ve outdone yourself as usual, Imogene.” Dad whipped a napkin in the air and settled it over his thighs. “Let’s eat.” He winked at me, and my heart lifted. He would beat this. And I would help.
Imogene kneaded her hands in her apron. Her attention moved to me, and the hairs at the back of my neck stood at attention. “What are you up to, Miss Lacy?”
“What do you mean?”
Her gaze traveled over my head and torso, just shy of looking directly at me. “Something’s gone cockeyed with your juju.” She tipped her head like a puppy trying to understand a new phrase. “You’re about to get yourself in a mess of trouble.”
“No, I’m not.” I widened my eyes in a show of innocence and turned my palms up for proof.
She clucked her tongue and moved into my personal space, still looking over my head. “If I had to guess by whatever’s going on up here”—she waved her hands over me—“I’d say you’ve got one foot in the thick of it already.”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant by “it.” It meant trouble, and I had a lifelong
pattern of finding it. Almost always by accident.
Mom pressed her palms to the table and wrenched upright. She marched into the kitchen and returned with a sheet of paper. “This is the meeting schedule for the NPP Welcoming Committee.” She dropped the paper on the table in front of me.
Imogene frowned. “You think that was the mess I saw in her future?”
Sounded like a mess to me.
“Of course not,” Mom said, “but it might keep her out of trouble. She might even meet an eligible bachelor or two.”
I filled my plate with crawfish and stuffed a forkful of rice into my mouth before I said anything I’d regret about Mom’s plan to marry me off at her first opportunity.
“That reminds me,” she continued. “Have you found a date for your father’s dinner Friday night?”
“Yes. Chase said he’d go and help out.”
Imogene took the seat beside me and stole a crawfish from my plate, the way she did when she was my nanny.
“Hey!” I shoved a hand between us. “You don’t have to trick me into eating anymore. I want this meal.”
She grinned. “I’m just enjoying the conversation.”
Mom smiled. “Thank you, Imogene.”
Imogene toyed with a fat Cheshire grin. “I hear Eunice Peternick’s grandson is newly single. His lazy eye is barely noticeable since he gained all that weight.”
I pinched her, and she erupted in a loud hoot of hysteria. Suddenly, I could imagine her forty years younger, traveling the country with friends. She probably stole their food too.
“I swear”—Mom heaped rice onto her plate and fought a smile—“you’re both impossible.”
I stabbed a shrimp with my fork and savored the delectable scent. The next hour would likely amount to a rundown on the district’s single men under fifty and their manageable baggage, but at least the food was excellent.
I only wished the smile on Dad’s lips would reach his eyes. I couldn’t help wondering, as he pushed food around his plate, pretending to eat, if the deep lines cutting through his brow were signs of grief or if there was something more that he wasn’t telling me.
Chapter Nine
Furry Godmother’s words of wisdom: When running with the big dogs, wear track shoes.
Work was slower than I’d expected for a Monday morning, but at least I had time to give the place a thorough cleaning after the deluge of weekend shoppers. There were at least fifty fingerprints on my bakery display and twice as many on the turtle tank. Poor Brad and Angelina. My habit of overlooking their enchanted lagoon retreat was shameless. How could they see anything through all those smudges? “There.” I cleared the last print from their glass walls with a sigh. “Now you have a lovely view of my world.” I curtsied to the reptilian couple. A handful of heirloom strawberry slices from my minifridge should make up for their temporary inconvenience.
Imogene handed a logoed garment box over the counter to a customer. A wide satin ribbon hugged the shiny white center. My personalized Thank you for choosing Furry Godmother card was tucked lovingly beneath the bow. I smiled at the woman as she turned for the door.
“Who was that?” I asked once the shopper was on the sidewalk. “I didn’t recognize her.”
Imogene wiped the counter. “Pickup for Sommers. She sent her PA.”
I deflated a bit. I preferred to see the customer’s face when they opened the boxes, but personal assistants were taking over the day-to-day tasks of busy locals. “I’ll give Mrs. Sommers a call tomorrow to follow up.” I scratched a reminder onto the hot-pink notepad beside my register.
My little rolling rack of custom couture was thinning nicely again. I could barely keep it filled these days. Pet parents didn’t dawdle about picking up their orders, and that seemed especially true with the National Pet Pageant on its way. Mrs. Neidermeyer was at the door when I’d arrived this morning, eager to lay eyes on the military mock-ups. She ordered seven little army costumes on the spot. The district’s collective enthusiasm was hard to ignore. I’d even found myself wondering about the process the Welcoming Committee would use to choose an ambassador, and against my sensibilities, I was looking forward to the first meeting.
Imogene dusted her way through the shop, straightening shelves and doing her best not to trip over Roomba Spot and his jockey, Penelope.
I stepped out of the way. “You know what bugs me most?” I asked rhetorically as a frustrating notion did another lap through my head.
Imogene shot my legs a motherly glance. “Panty hose?”
I tugged the hem on my little red dress, which was perfect for the upcoming holiday and, as a bonus, matched the shop’s current marketing theme. “No.”
“I see your knees.”
I pressed my arms against my sides. The dress was more than fingertip length and completely appropriate for my age and position. Mom and Imogene, however, believed no one over twenty-five had any business showing their knees in public. Short skirts were apparently a sign of immaturity and sent a childish message, if not an indecent one. I supposed that depended on the skirt, but as long as I was twenty-four-and-a-half at heart, I planned to wear whatever I wanted. The knee rule was meant more for proper society anyway, and all those people knew I was a rule breaker, Mom’s personal look-alike and fixer-upper project. I met Imogene near a rack of handstitched pillows. “No one wears pantyhose anymore. I own thigh-highs and tights, but neither are appropriate for this outfit or the weather.” I’d accumulated a rainbow of colored tights during my time in Arlington, but those were better suited for climates where the heat index doesn’t hit “tilt” before breakfast.
Her eyebrows rose over her forehead. “Thigh-highs? Have you joined a cabaret or is this the nineteen fifties? Maybe you don’t know pantyhose have been invented yet.”
“I’m aware. The thing that’s bugging me is Mrs. Becker, not my bare legs.”
She gave my knees another look. “I’m just saying is all.”
“Noted.” I leaned my backside against a display table and crossed my ankles in front of me. “I don’t think Mrs. Becker would kill her sick husband. What would she gain? The man was facing dialysis. Whatever he was up to was going to stop soon one way or another.” I pressed my lips at the grim suggestion. “He was sick, maybe even dying. I don’t think she’d murder him.”
“Crimes of passion don’t always make sense outside the killer’s head. You of all people should know that.”
I did, but the scenario didn’t ring true. She followed him to the reception hall, whacked him on the head, and tossed him in the freezer? Why? To stop him from cheating? “I wonder if Mr. Becker’s girlfriend knew how sick he was? Could she have a motive to kill him?” Then again, what motive did Tabitha have for slowly drugging Jack’s grandpa until his heart gave out?
“Depends. Who’s the girlfriend?” Imogene asked.
“I don’t know. Scarlet’s source said the woman was from his work.” It made sense that he’d meet someone at the office. He probably spent more time at work than at home, and the bulk of Cuddle Brigade nannies were under thirty like the woman Mrs. Becker described. “Mrs. Becker said she was half his age and blonde. I need to get a look at those nannies.”
“You need to let Detective Oliver handle this. Save your parents and myself a whole lot of worry.”
I turned to the rolling rack, struck with inspiration. “I think Dimitri Midnight Gregori would look stunning in this. Don’t you?” I plucked a velvet top hat and peacock-themed vest from the rack. “I should deliver it to Mrs. Becker at the Cuddle Brigade.”
Imogene cocked a hip. “I don’t know who that is, but you should stay away from angry Mrs. Becker and the Cuddle Brigade.”
I slid the outfit into a garment bag. “Dimitri is the Beckers’ Russian Blue. You should see him. He’s beautiful.”
Imogene dropped her duster on the counter and blocked my path. “What good will delivering that to the offices do? What’s your plan?”
I grabbed my purse, phone, and keys f
rom under the counter. “No plan. I’ll go take a look at the nannies, and if any young blondes seem especially upset, I’ll offer my condolences and a cup of coffee. Maybe the mistress needs someone to listen.”
She wagged her head slowly left to right. “This is a bad idea.”
“Do you mind watching the shop for an hour?”
Imogene relented her position with a sigh. “I’ll burn some sage while you’re out. Cast off some of that bad juju before you do something even dumber than this.” She followed me to the door on squeaky orthopedic sneakers. “What about the hat and vest? Does Mrs. Becker even ever go to the Cuddle Brigade?”
I certainly hoped not.
The Cuddle Brigade offices were cheerfully decorated with photos of nannies and pets in every shape and size. A zippy jazz tune played softly through hidden speakers as I navigated the building in search of Wallace Becker’s office under the ruse of kitty costume delivery.
I lingered at directional signs, eavesdropping on nanny conversations whenever possible. No one seemed especially upset, despite losing their leader over the weekend. Where were all the pitchforks and torches from those online commenters? I moved onward, slowly realizing a flaw in my plan. Clusters of empty cubicles. Some nannies were already at job sites. I wouldn’t get to see them all in one trip. I’d need a reason to come back.
“Hello.” A middle-aged woman with bad posture caught me staring and narrowed her eyes. She’d been whispering to a crowd of wide-eyed coworkers in matching khaki pants and logoed polo tops when I’d arrived on the floor. The group scattered when she turned her focus on me. “Can I help you?” She took a few eager steps in my direction. Curvy penciled-on eyebrows arched over each eye like fallen question marks in a startling look of surprise.
“Hello.” I positioned my brightly colored kitty ensemble between us. “I’m looking for Mr. Becker’s office.” Or more preferably, the young blonde with whom he was allegedly enjoying a tryst.
Eyebrows feigned shock. “Haven’t you heard? Becker’s dead.” She whispered the final word.