by Julie Chase
She didn’t have to make the suggestion twice. Kinley stormed onto my porch, setting off the alarm in the process.
I pushed the code into the pad as Scarlet blew past me.
“Wait. Kinley, wait!” Scarlet chased her down the sidewalk.
I peered into the night behind them. “Should we go after them?” I asked Chase.
He already had his jacket on. “I’ll be right back.”
I looked to Penelope. “Can you believe this?”
She walked away.
I didn’t blame her. I’d call it a night if I could, but I still needed to talk to Chase and process the fact that the elusive Kinley was just having coffee in my living room. Before she’d stormed out.
Chase returned a moment later, shaking his head. “They’re fine. Kinley’s high strung, but Scarlet’s tough. She’ll see her home safely.”
“You knew Kinley,” I said. “You let me think Mr. Becker was seeing someone.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about her. The information was privileged.”
I reset the alarm. “It’s fine, but I feel a little silly.” I went back for my coffee.
“For what?” He followed me to the couch. “Not knowing that a pillar of our community had a love child that people believed was his mistress?” He flopped onto the cushion beside me.
“No. For believing the gossip. I’m as bad as the people buying into the rumors about my dad.”
Chase squeezed my hand. “You aren’t. Those people blindly believe everything they hear. You’re seeking truth, and that is noble.”
“You really think Mr. Becker was a pillar of the community? I thought of him as more of a member of the community.”
“Haven’t you heard death boosts us all to sainthood?”
“No, and I’d nearly forgotten the Beckers have a grown son.” I freed my hand from his. “Would the son have had motive to kill Wallace? What’s his name? Where is he anyway? He wasn’t at home when I went to see Mrs. Becker. Is he in the will?”
“Wally Jr. is estranged,” Chase said carefully. “That’s not gossip or protected information. It’s just fact.”
I sipped my coffee. “Are you still up for brainstorming?”
Chase stretched his long legs out and propped his hands behind his head. “Lay it on me.”
“Dr. Hawkins said the blackmailer’s name is Sage. Any idea who that could be? I’ve plugged the word into the Internet ten different times and come back repeatedly with nothing.”
“Think about it,” he said. “What is a sage?”
“An herb.”
“A profoundly wise person,” he said.
I snapped my fingers and pulled my feet back onto the cushions. “That’s good. Sage might not be a name. It might have some other meaning, like a clue to the person’s true identity. A wise person, a know-it-all, he knows our secrets.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Blackmail. Or maybe the name is a warning, like sage advice. Maybe the blackmailer has ordained himself to judge the guilty.”
“The guilty of what?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Becker was unfaithful. Dr. Hawkins was accused of paying a burlesque dancer for her companionship.”
Chase laughed. “A self-appointed judge for anyone committing sins of the flesh in New Orleans? Sage will soon be a millionaire.”
“If he isn’t already.” I scooted closer. “Think about it. Whoever is doing this isn’t going after everyone. He’s targeting the wealthiest district in town. Sage is no dummy.”
Chase snorted.
“Can you think of any disgruntled or disillusioned richies around here we should take a closer look at?”
He pointed at his forehead.
“Oh, come on. What’s your offense?” I teased.
He sat up straight and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, revealing a crisp white T-shirt beneath. “There’s this girl I’ve been waiting for over a decade to kiss, and when I finally got the chance, it wasn’t my best work.”
“You know we were talking about something completely different, right?”
“Don’t change the subject.” He shot me with his most charismatic smile. “Go with this for a minute.”
“Okay, well, maybe the girl didn’t even notice because the kiss was perfectly lovely.”
“Maybe.” He screwed his lips into a knot. “I don’t know how to tell if that’s true, and I’d hate to think I blew my one shot at wooing her.”
I smiled. “Any girl would be nuts to not be wooed by you.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”
Chase had made himself at home while I recovered from my broken leg, and I’d appreciated him for it more than I could ever explain, but now that I was well, and after our kiss, I suspected it was time to set a few boundaries. For example, comfortable as he may be, he was still my guest. I needed to answer my own door and serve the refreshments. He and I were perfectly compatible, but I didn’t want to date him. Not now. Not when my life had finally started making sense.
I leaned toward him. “Our families don’t care if we date other people, but if we date each other, there’s going to be a lot of pressure. I’m terrible under pressure, and I don’t want any more right now.”
“We could be great.”
I wet my lips and forced the jagged words out. “I know. Getting together would be amazing, and we’d be very happy while it lasted, but breaking up would ruin everything, and we might never get this back again.” I motioned between us. “What we have is already perfect. Why mess that up?”
He mimed a knife to his chest.
“Stop.”
He straightened with a smile. “What I’m hearing is that you aren’t ready to marry me.”
I laughed. “That is correct.”
“And you feel that we”—he motioned from his chest to mine—“need to know we’re the end game before we begin dating, so our families are happy forever.”
I tipped my head left and right. “Kind of.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous, but so is life in our shoes, so fine.”
“Fine?” I squinted at him, unsure what I’d walked into.
“Yes. I’ll marry you eventually, and for now, you can sew your wild oats.”
“Gee, thanks.” I chuckled. “And you should also.”
“Great.” He lifted one of my hands in his and shook it. “It’s a gentleman’s agreement then.”
I rolled my eyes theatrically. Our lives really were ridiculous.
Chapter Sixteen
Furry Godmother protip: Share dessert with your therapist; she has to keep your secrets.
Business was pleasingly steady at Furry Godmother the next morning. Shoppers looked especially cheerful, toting boxed chocolates and swinging bouquets of brightly colored shopping bags. No midweek slump, just lots of happy people hoping to surprise their pets on Valentine’s Day.
I’d dug up the last of my pastel apparel. A pale-pink fitted dress with a cowl neckline perfect for displaying my red heart-shaped paw-print pin. I’d paired the dress with a thick black belt and ankle boots. Unfortunately, the outfit marked the end of my NPP Welcoming Committee–approved wardrobe options, and tomorrow I’d be in direct violation of Mom’s nutty dress code.
I slid behind the counter and lined finished bunny costumes on tiny hangers for the Creative Cavy Rescue. I positioned the rack so that I could keep one eye on the shoppers.
Claudia appeared on the corner and headed for my door.
I stood, stunned, as she hurried to the counter and tried to catch her breath.
“Hello,” I said. “Everything okay?”
She lifted wide eyes and puffed for air. “I had to park”—she waved an arm wildly in the direction of my east wall—“far.”
“Welcome to Magazine Street,” I joked. “Is there a reason you made the trip? Looking for a valentine gift for your fur baby?”
She began shaking her head in the negative before I’d finished my question. “I heard something.” The expression on her face said i
t was something good.
I perked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I heard some shoppers saying that name you asked about.”
I floundered mentally for the name she meant. Tabitha? No. My muscles tensed. “Sage?”
She bobbed her head and fanned the material of her shirt away from her flushed skin. “I was sorting hangers at the register.”
“What did they say?”
“One woman told another woman that Sage was a modern day Robin Hood.”
What the heck was that supposed to mean? Was it intended to be literal? “Thank you,” I said. “Did you hear anything else?”
“Yes. The women were going to a formal dinner for Valentine’s Day and loved the cast-off Christian Louboutins.” She looked puzzled. “I don’t suppose that was what you meant.”
“Not really, no. Anything else about Sage?”
Claudia leaned across the counter, suddenly mischievous. “No, but I heard about you. People say you catch criminals.”
“I’m not supposed to.” A wave of residual fear washed through me. Too often, the criminals had caught me. “I try.”
“Well, good luck.” She patted the counter and left another business card before fleeing the scene.
Imogene sauntered in my direction, a look of motherly concern on her round face. “Are you arranging a pickup too?”
“No. I sent some things with her last night. She just dropped in to answer a question I had.”
I stripped my apron away from my dress and tucked it behind the counter. I couldn’t help wondering if the information Claudia gave me was any good. Last night she’d claimed to have never heard the name Sage, and today it was being used in her store? What if Claudia was just lonely and mucking up my works with her need to be seen, like Eyebrows at Cuddle Brigade?
I’d think about that when I got home. Right now, I had to go. “I have an appointment with Karen,” I told Imogene. “Do you mind covering the shop while I’m gone? I won’t be too long.”
“No. I don’t mind.”
I hugged her tight and put on a cheery face. “See you soon.”
I motored through the district on autopilot, enjoying the view of neighbors’ homes and swarms of men and women in fanny packs trailing tour guides. The thermometer on my dash said it was seventy outside. Perfect wear-what-you-like weather. Also known as enjoy-it-while-it-lasts weather. Soon, the tropical temperatures my city was known for would come and stay for the summer, making it impossible to breathe in any outfit.
Regardless of human comfort, flowers bloomed on every corner, swinging from light posts in hanging baskets and lining walkways to homes as old as the Garden District itself. Local flora thrived in our all-out crazy weather, hearty and unshakable like the people who cared for it. An herbal shop lined in bluebells caught my eye at the next light, reminding me of the blackmailer’s strange name, Sage. No longer an innocent and delicious seasoning, the word had become synonymous with crime, heartbreak, and murder. The more I’d considered it, the more certain I became. Sage had to be an alias, a nom de plume. The word meant something to the blackmailing ringleader, whoever he was. A chef? A naturalist? I drummed my thumbs against the steering wheel.
The rebuff of a cabbie’s horn hurled me back to the moment and tossed me forward. I’d missed the changing of the light. I lifted a hand to my rearview mirror in apology. He raised a rude gesture in acknowledgement.
Block by block, I worried my bottom lip, puzzling the reason to choose such a pleasant name for one’s dirty work. I deliberately ignored the possibility that the fiend was bold enough to go by his or her given name. After all, blackmail was about cloak and dagger, wasn’t it? Secrets and espionage? Maybe the loon didn’t even think blackmail was wrong.
I pulled into the lot outside the clinic and headed for Karen’s office.
The clinic bustled with activity. Every bench along the interior corridor was packed with people, some chatting excitedly, others enjoying a hasty lunch of muffuletta wrapped in sandwich paper, open bags of chips on their laps. My tummy gurgled at the familiar scents of a local favorite. Salami, mozzarella, ham, provolone, mortadella, and marinated olive salad tucked into the perfect ten-inch-round muffuletta loaf. A signature combination created and perfected in New Orleans. I popped a piece of chewing gum between my lips to keep my mouth busy.
The door to Karen’s office was marked with a freestanding wooden welcome sign. A wreath of satin ribbons hung elegantly on the door, as if patients were guests at her home rather than visitors at a busy clinic. The show continued into her waiting room, where furniture was arranged in small groups; a little gathering room for old friends. The sideboard held hot pots of water for tea and coffee with all the trimmings. A “Help Yourself” sign centered above the crystal container of iced sweet tea. I signed my name on the ledger and sank into my favorite seat by the fireplace. I gripped and released the soft buttermilk fabric of the overstuffed armchair. Someone had left a worn copy of Walt Whitman’s works, cracked open like a teepee, over one arm. A little crock filled with water, cinnamon, and orange slices simmered on the mantle beside a vanilla candle. I closed my eyes and crossed my ankles, no longer anxious or driven to do anything besides breathe. Soft jazz played in the background. A tune I’d heard all my life but couldn’t name. My shoulders began to sag, and my fingers uncurled on my lap.
“Lacy?” A soft voice called.
I dragged my eyelids open. Had I dozed off so quickly?
Karen stood in the archway near the reception desk. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come on back.”
I wrenched myself upright and willed my doubly heavy legs to carry me. The fog of sleep burdened my steps.
“You look exhausted,” she said. “Are you sleeping at night?” Her brown hair was pulled back in a high bun, threaded with silver and punctured with a pencil. Rectangular-framed glasses rode high on her nose, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and close-set blue eyes.
I shuffled down the short hall to her office and slumped onto her couch with a yawn. “I’m fine.”
She poured two cups of tea from a silver set on her coffee table and handed one to me. “You don’t look fine.”
I sat straighter. “I’ve been busy and trading sleep for productivity, but I’m not unwell, more like exhibiting the hallmarks of an entrepreneur.”
“No more nightmares?”
I lifted the little cup to hide my face. “No.”
“Good.” She set her drink aside and gathered a notepad and pen. “What’s new that’s keeping you so busy? Business or something else?”
I considered telling her about my new position on the NPP Welcoming Committee and all the orders that had resulted from it, but Karen was sharp. She read the papers. She knew about the mess with my dad, and discussing store orders to avoid the bigger topic would only make me seem unable to cope, which would be a red flag about my emotional health. That path would also lead me away from my true reason for the appointment. I shifted forward, resting the cup on my knee. “I’ve actually come to talk with you about Wallace Becker. I believe you knew him.”
She nodded. “Mr. Becker was a very nice fellow. His nannies watched my Schnauzers while I was in Rome.”
“You’ve probably heard that my dad was with him the night he died.”
She waited, expressionless, for me to continue.
“I’m trying to learn the truth about what happened to Mr. Becker.”
“I see.” She made a mark on her paper. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I think it’s necessary.”
“Have you considered that it was other adventures of this nature that landed you in my confidence to begin with? Not to mention in the hospital? Twice.”
I slid my feet against plush gray carpeting, crossing my ankles, switching them, and then crossing them back again. “I think what matters most is that no one is left believing my father would do such a thing. It’s not enough to produce evidence to clear his name because there will always be doubters and gossips.
He deserves better than that and so does Mr. Becker and his family. People deserve the truth.”
“And what about the other times you did something similar and it ended in danger and nightmares for you?”
“This is different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She smiled kindly. “How so?”
“For starters, I’m keeping my efforts under wraps. Only members of my immediate circle know what I’m up to.”
Concern tugged the corners of her eyes. “Our community is a close-knit one. Think of where you’re going and who you’re seeing on this quest. If someone dangerous is watching one of the folks you’re interviewing and you pop up, how long will it take before he or she puts together what you’re up to?”
I twisted the cup on my knee. “I try not to assume the worst.”
“That’s a healthy way to live, normally, but under these circumstances, I wonder if positive thinking can also be interpreted as turning a blind eye.” She made more notes on her paper. “Have you had any notion that you’re in danger this time? Unsubstantiated fears? Direct threats?”
“What?” I stalled for time. She had me, and she knew it.
Her pen stopped midstroke. Curious blue eyes raised to meet mine. “Have there been any threats made toward you since you began your inquest?”
I exhaled audibly, unwilling to discuss the bizarre photos someone had chosen to send me. “Was Wallace Becker a client of yours?”
She stilled. “You know I can’t answer that.”
I set my cup aside and leaned in. “Someone saw him come here weekly.”
“I can’t speak to that,” she said.
“If he wasn’t a patient, you’d have answered no.”
Karen repositioned the notebook on her lap. “I think we’d better keep this about you. How are things going with you and your friends?”
“Scarlet’s good.”
“I was referring to the gentlemen. Jack and Chase.”
If she’d wanted to change the subject, she’d hit a grand slam. A fiery lump formed in my throat. The last time I’d seen Karen, I spent most of the hour waffling between complaints about Jack’s extensive personal barriers and Chase’s horrible timing.