Cat Got Your Secrets: A Kitty Couture Mystery

by Julie Chase

  I stilled in a momentary flux, hating to lie, but also not willing to lose my advantage by saying too much.

  She curved her small mouth into a little bow and proceeded to recap the weekend’s horrific discovery with campfire-grade enthusiasm.

  I admired the flair and practiced storytelling but didn’t learn anything new. Though, for someone who wasn’t present at the crime scene, she’d gathered quite an arsenal of details. I had the distinct feeling she made it her business to know what went on in her world.

  “Look at that,” she chuckled. “I’ve stunned you silent.” Pleasure oozed from the words. “Becker’s office is just around the corner. Would you like me to show you?”

  “No, thank you.” I followed the wall signs to a wide reception area with a white desk and puffy-haired woman seated behind it. Her tanned skin was heavily lined from too many years in the sun. Pinch marks along her mouth suggested she’d spent most of that time with a cigarette.

  She waved me closer, gaze locked on my hands. “What a lovely costume. May I help you deliver it somewhere?”

  I swallowed twice to clear the nerves from my throat. “Yes, please. A delivery for Mr. Becker.” I glanced at the open set of French doors a few feet away. Photos of Mr. Becker lined the walls inside the room. Grand built-in shelves and a large mahogany desk made the perfect centerpiece. “May I?”

  The woman’s smile fell. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m from Furry Godmother.” I wiggled the bag. “This is for the Beckers’ Russian Blue, Dimitri Midnight Gregori.”

  She tapped a pen to the desk and scrutinized me from head to toe, fixating, it seemed, on my long blonde hair.

  No points for knowing the name and breed of their cat then. She was on to me as a fraud, but what could I do? Turn on my heels and say, “Never mind?” I brightened my smile. “Mrs. Becker said I could leave the outfit here when she placed the order last month.”

  “Why don’t you leave it with me, and I’ll see that she gets it?”

  I waffled, not ready to part with a perfectly good costume unless I gained something substantial in return. Even then, it would take hours to re-create the ornate piece meant to anchor my new Mardi Gras line.

  She tapped the empty spot on her desk beside a cluster of small framed photos.

  The largest of the photos was taken with Mrs. Becker. The two women were on a boat holding cocktails. Uh-oh. They were friends, and I was busted once they’d had a chance to compare notes about intrusive blondes bearing gifts. “You know what? Why don’t I deliver it to her home instead? I can see now that that would be best.”

  I hustled back in the direction from which I’d come and nearly toppled over Eyebrows.

  “That didn’t go well,” she whispered. Her dimpled fingers curved around the side of a Cuddle Brigade mug. Steam rose between us.

  “You were listening?” I gasped.

  She paddled a tea packet through the hot water, unaffected by my accusation. “Are you a reporter? Are you here undercover to investigate the murder?”

  I weighed my options. Logic dictated I flee the scene. Curiosity begged me to stay and glean new intel before the woman I’d just spoken to realized I hadn’t left. I moved against the wall and Eyebrows followed.

  She pressed the mug to her lips in hungry anticipation.

  “My name is Lacy Crocker,” I confessed. “My father was with Mr. Becker the night he died. People are saying he had something to do with what happened, but that’s nonsense. I’m trying to clear his name before he’s arrested for spending time with a friend on the wrong night.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, I love a good intrigue.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me that might save my father? Anything at all. Even if you think it’s insignificant, I’d love to hear it. I’m desperate.”

  She smiled behind the rim of her mug. “Have you checked with his girlfriend?”

  My heart leapt. “Do you know who that is?”

  “I have my suspicions.” She shot a pointed look at an empty cubicle several yards away. “Kinley’s out sick today. Curious, no?”

  “I don’t know. Is Kinley young and blonde?”

  “Yep.” She winked.

  “Do you know where Kinley lives?”

  “You!” A vaguely familiar voice boomed nearby. Mrs. Becker charged in my direction like a tiny rhino in a fitted black dress, giant black glasses, and four-inch designer heels.

  Eyebrows scurried away.

  “This is her,” Mrs. Becker growled.

  I followed her gaze over my shoulder.

  The woman who guarded Mr. Becker’s office stood behind me. “I thought so. Security’s on the way.”

  Mrs. Becker marched closer, until the adorable top hat and vest were all that could fit between us. “Let me tell you a story. A young blonde pays a grieving widow a visit and liquors her up. Sound familiar?”

  “Nope.” I baby-stepped backward. “But I’m sure it’s a lovely story with a huge misunderstanding.”

  Mrs. Becker moved with me in a threatening waltz. “How about a question instead? The homewrecker I’m looking for is young and blonde. Know anyone who fits that description?”

  Kinley the Absent came to mind, but that was my clue, and Mrs. Becker couldn’t have it. “No.”

  She pointed a finger to the tip of my nose. “It’s you!” Her sunglasses hid the effects of last night’s bender, but the tremor in her frame couldn’t be masked. She should be somewhere dark, sleeping it off, not out hunting blondes. She might do something she’d regret. “That’s why you wouldn’t give your last name. You’re the homewrecker!”

  “No. I swear.” I shook my head too fast, dashing my cheeks with pale ringlet curls. “I’ve never even met your husband.”

  Eyebrows inched out of her hiding place around the corner. “Mrs. Becker?”

  Mrs. Becker whipped her head around in search of the voice.

  Eyebrows moved toward me. “This is Lacy Crocker.”

  Mrs. Becker went slack-jawed as my name registered through layers of grief and an alcohol haze. “Crocker!”

  I spotted a glowing exit sign above a gathering crowd of pet nannies. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to your husband.”

  “You mean you’re trying to save your father’s hide.” The elevator was behind Mrs. Becker, and there was no getting past her without a tussle.

  I never tussled, and she’d kick my butt if I tried, so I’d have to take the stairs. “Saving my father and finding justice for your husband are the same things.”

  She scoffed. “You’re as bad as your mother and her guilt casserole.” She stuck her nose in the air. “Oh, dear.” Her voice climbed two octaves into a childish mocking tone. “My husband killed your husband. Have some chicken. Call it even, shall we?”

  Indignation burned in my pores. “That’s not what she was doing, and you know it.”

  “And what exactly were you doing? Coming over after I’d already told her to kick stones? Pretending to be someone you weren’t.”

  I ground my teeth and forced civility into my voice. “I never lied about who I was, and I’ve already told you. I’m trying to help.”

  The elevator dinged and the shiny metal doors swept open. A pair of men in black slacks and jackets stepped out. Their grave dispositions and earpieces gave them away as security.

  I squeaked and ran for the stairway, bumping through the thick of gawking nannies and professing my regrets as I crunched over multiple toes. I clutched the little garment bag to my chest as I burst from the building into blinding sunlight.

  I jogged across the lot and toppled into my driver’s seat.

  Mr. Becker’s mistress’s name was Kinley.

  Chapter Ten

  Furry Godmother’s tip for avoiding a catfight: Divide the kibble.

  I arrived on time to my first National Pet Pageant Welcoming Committee meeting. Mom had reserved the private upstairs room at Coquette, a restaurant on Magazine Street with gorge
ous floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed brick walls, and miles of polished wood floors.

  She was busy directing ladies to their seats and distributing three-ring binders in pastel colors when I sneaked in a few minutes early. Each unit was polka-dotted with tiny paw prints and personalized with the committee member’s name.

  I lowered myself onto an empty chair and admired the scene around me. A series of small round tables were organized in a seemingly random pattern. Though I imagined her having the pieces moved inch by inch to the perfect locations. Coordinating pastel linens and wild flower bouquets gave each table a unique personality while maintaining the uniform look. She’d outdone herself.

  A waitress arrived with my place setting. “Today’s personalized cocktail is the Lady’s Petunia.” She set a curved glass before me, filled to the sugarcoated rim with a blended sherbet-colored drink. A tiny edible flower clung to the edge. “We’ve also prepared chicken skewers with peanut sauce, sticky rice, and peppers.” She set a tray on the table with piles of tantalizing meat and a trio of small bowls. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

  She vanished in a delicious plume of sugar and spice.

  I savored the medley of delectable scents and sipped the Lady’s Petunia, trying not to laugh at its name.

  At the front of the room, Mom clanked a spoon against her glass and the space fell silent. “Thank you for coming, ladies. I trust you’ve all been working hard on the assignments we spoke about at the last meeting, I certainly have been. As you can see by the folders in front of you, I’ve taken every suggestion to heart and broken the larger tasks into little steps. I’ve also divided us into two-woman teams to make things more manageable. I know how busy you all are. So”—she set her drink aside and clapped her palms together—“find the lady whose binder matches yours. She is your teammate.”

  The room burst into a flurry of activity and excitement as women in fancy floral dresses and light, muted colors chatted their ways through the little banquet room, seeking their new teammate.

  I didn’t have to look for mine. Mom had a pair of lavender binders in her arms and a coy smile on her lips. Not coincidentally, her vintage Chanel wrap dress was almost an exact match for the folders. “Why aren’t you looking for your partner?” she asked.

  I pointed to the folders. “I think I found her.”

  She set the binders on our table. “Isn’t this grand?”

  She returned to her podium before I could answer. I helped myself to a forkful of sticky rice.

  “Take your seats,” Mom instructed from her position near the fireplace. “Now that you’ve found your new teammate, let’s discuss the points from last meeting.”

  The room calmed in a flash. One hand rose. The woman stood a moment later. “Before we begin, should we address the elephant in the room?” I recognized the woman as Roberta Wells, a local snob. She’d made her fortune in real estate and, according to Mom, didn’t understand the workings of the district, but that didn’t stop her from trying to put her mark on anything and everything she could.

  The room froze. Every woman seemed to hold her breath. Roberta Wells hadn’t, apparently, gotten the memo that Violet Conti-Crocker was the queen of all things and not to be trifled with.

  Mom cast her gaze on me.

  I gave an encouraging smile.

  Roberta continued, “Dr. Crocker is rumored to have had a part in the death of Wallace Becker. What do you have to say about that?”

  And there it was. I braced myself, unsure if I should hurry Mom away from the room before she did or said something she’d regret later or dial Jack and wait for police assistance.

  A dozen curious faces fixed on my mother, wife of the man who gossips said murdered his friend.

  Mom’s jaw set. She raised her chin and turned her face away from Roberta. “The first order of business is to vote to confirm the pageant date.” She fanned through a stack of loose papers in her hand before settling on one. “The Welcoming Committee will hold an event, meant for the purpose of crowning a local pet ambassador to the National Pet Pageant, on Easter weekend. All those in favor?”

  Confusion wrinkled Roberta’s brow.

  The women murmured for several seconds before tapping their glasses in acceptance, the way guests encouraged newlyweds to kiss at a reception.

  Mom’s smile returned. “All opposed?”

  Silence.

  Roberta sat down. No one made eye contact. Except me. I raised my Lady’s Petunia. Welcome to my world, lady.

  “Very well.” Mom rearranged her papers. “The date is set. Last order of business.”

  That was it? Two topics? I could get used to ten-minute meetings with an open bar and finger foods. Why hadn’t I signed up for this job sooner? I sipped my fruity drink and emptied a skewer of its savory glazed chicken.

  “Color scheme,” Mom said in a dramatic singsong. “I believe we’ve chosen pastels in homage to traditional Easter flair. I love that you’ve all dressed accordingly.” She made a point of not looking my way.

  In keeping with my life, the little red dress I’d chosen to coordinate with my shop’s valentine theme was both too little and too red for the committee’s dress code. Worse, I’d get a big I thought I told you to wear something pink from my mother as soon as the meeting ended.

  “From now through Easter, all members of this committee shall pledge to dress in accordance to the pastel code, whenever possible, for ease of identification as a committee member and in support of our purposes. All those in favor?”

  More tapping of glasses.

  I raised my hand, unsure of how to vote against.

  Mom sent me a look that could’ve stopped a weaker woman’s heart. I lowered my hand.

  “We’ll use the palette to coordinate flyers, banners, and flags with the venue decor,” Mom explained.

  I deflated against my seat. I had to wear pastels for weeks? I looked longingly at the nearest exit. I could take my Lady’s Petunia and leave, but Mom would hunt me down and kill me.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Mom took the seat beside mine.

  “Hello.” I shoved another bite of chicken between my lips.

  “Thank you for coming. I hope you don’t mind being my partner.” She scanned the room as she spoke, carefully averting her gaze from mine. “That’s why you were thinking of running, right?”

  “What? No.” I wiped my mouth and set the napkin beside my plate. “Of course not. Why do you always assume the worst of me?” Probably because I’d been the worst for years growing up and then I’d left. “I thought we were getting past all that these last few months.”

  She heaved a sigh. “You weren’t thinking of leaving?”

  “I was admiring the architecture,” I fibbed.

  She cast a regretful glance my way. “I can reassign you to another team if you’d like. Maybe one of the younger members would be better suited as your partner.” A fresh flush darkened her cheeks.

  “Hey.” I grabbed her hand. “Mom.” I stared at the side of her face until she gave up and made eye contact. “I’m glad to be your partner, and I’m in love with this committee. The food’s great, the drinks are free, and the meetings are insanely short. What’s not to love?”

  She hitched one perfectly sculpted brow. “You’re having fun?”

  “Yes, but please don’t make me wear a month of pastels.”

  Her lips twitched. “Soft colors are lovely on you.”

  I released her hand. “I guess I can’t look any worse than I do now, showing up in scarlet while everyone else is dressed like a basket of Easter eggs.”

  “I told you to wear pink.”

  I bit my tongue as a foursome of smiling women formed a crescent around the face of our table.

  Mom introduced them with great poise.

  I shook their hands and tried to remember their names. “Nice to meet you.”

  The tallest of the group focused her attention on me. “We were thinking. Wouldn’t it be great if the a
mbassador’s court dressed as local flowers?”

  I looked to Mom for details. “There’s going to be a court? Like the prom queen’s court?”

  “Yes!” the woman and her little group enthused. “We think flower costumes will be perfect for the court. Maybe we can even have an ensemble fit for Mardi Gras royalty as the official ambassador’s attire. Something to represent the city.”

  Mom nodded. “That’s a delightful idea. What do you think, Lacy?”

  “I think it sounds fantastic.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Mom said. “Lacy makes lovely costumes. I’m sure she can create whatever we’d like.”

  I wanted to protest on principle. It would have been nice to have been asked instead of simply assigned the job, but a parade of pets dressed as flowers danced through my mind. “I’d love to.” A bubble of excitement filled my chest. The court would be darling. My fingers itched for a charcoal pencil and sketch pad. I would get to design a Mardi Gras–grade royalty costume. My heart hammered with possibilities.

  “Really?” The women clapped silently and looked to my mom for confirmation.

  “Really,” I answered, already imagining six ways to make a proper pet bouquet.

  “Wonderful!” Mom stood with a flourish. “I’ll let everyone know.” She headed back to the podium.

  Three of the four women returned to their seats.

  The speaker of the group took Mom’s newly vacated chair on my right. “Thank you so much.” She dipped her head close as Mom delivered the news to the group. “I practice dermatology at the clinic on Fourth,” she whispered, angling her body toward mine. “I’m sorry your dad’s being given such a hard time. He’s a kind and honorable man. I’m sure this will all be cleared up soon.”

  “I hope so, thank you.”

  “Roberta was out of line. She’s always sticking her foot in it. No one really thinks your dad hurt Mr. Becker.”

  Her words were an unexpected balm to my nerves. Heat rushed over my cheeks. “Thank you for saying that.”

  She frowned. “I hope the police find out what really happened to Mr. Becker. I didn’t know him personally, but he seemed like a nice man. He always had a smile when I saw him at the clinic.”