Cat Got Your Secrets: A Kitty Couture Mystery

by Julie Chase

  “Has anything changed?” she pressed. “Are you dating? Putting yourself out there more?”

  My spine went poker straight. Panic planted my feet firmly against the floor. Karen knew all my secrets. I’d told them to her willingly and paid her to hear. Wallace Becker probably had too, and many others with us. My mother had given me Karen’s name. She assured me that Karen helped all the most discreet families in New Orleans.

  “I have to go.” I sprang to my feet and hiked my purse over one shoulder.

  Was there any better profession for a blackmailer? A dull ache registered beneath my heart. I pressed a palm against the spot. I’d told Karen everything. Every last silly, ugly detail of my life and troubles, including the gory truth about Pete the Cheat and his completely lame proposal at that party in New York.

  Karen followed me into the hallway, a note of distress in her normally placid voice. “Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

  “Thank you for the tea,” I said, scurrying past the reception desk and through the pretend living room.

  I sped back to Magazine Street and circled the block twice before claiming a freshly vacated space on the corner. I’d have to walk a bit farther than usual, but that was the price I paid for leaving and returning at lunchtime. Fortunately for me, I loved the blessed stretch of shops and would cheerfully walk it anytime for any reason. Plus my heart was racing from the possibility I’d unwittingly told all my secrets to a psychopath these last few months, and I could use a little exercise to shake off the adrenaline.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Furry Godmother’s advice on secret sharing: Be careful your confidant isn’t a blackmailing murderer.

  A sleek-looking motorcycle cut onto the sidewalk outside my shop. The rider kicked down the stand and tugged a bulbous black helmet off his head. Jack stretched long, narrow legs onto the curb. He settled his helmet on the seat and screwed a black ball cap over unkempt hair. His fitted leather jacket and dark jeans brought a smile to my lips.

  I swept the shop door open and motioned him inside.

  Imogene stood behind the counter trying hats on Penelope. A small crowd had gathered to watch. “And this one,” she said, “has a silver fleur-de-lis, and that makes it special.” She adjusted the beret from my Vive la France! line over Penelope’s left ear. “The fleur-de-lis first appeared in New Orleans on the flags of French explorers. Three hundred years ago.”

  The crowd thickened as shoppers were drawn from racks and counters into her story.

  I stooped to hide my purse behind the counter and whispered to Jack, “She was born to tell stories.”

  When I stood, I realized I’d been talking to myself. Jack had already been pulled into her orbit with the rest.

  Penelope blinked slowly, squinting her eyes at shoppers while Imogene carried on about the silver-sequined beret and the symbol of our city. “You’ll find fleur-de-lis everywhere in this city,” she said. “On jewelry and souvenirs, signs and banners, helmets in the Super Dome. Even graffitied on underpasses. New Orleanians have long associated the mark with our city, but after Hurricane Katrina, the fleur-de-lis became something more.”

  The people drifted closer.

  Imogene swept her gaze across their rapt faces, tapping a finger against the little silver embellishment. “This mark has become a beacon of hope in New Orleans. A symbol of our strength, fortitude, and perseverance. It says, ‘We won’t be broken. Won’t be lost. We are one.’” Her voice rose slowly and steadily toward a crescendo. “We are survivors. United in hearts and minds by our love of this breathtaking city, and this symbol says, ‘We are New Orleans.’”

  A slow clap began. My hands joined theirs, and the sting of pride welled in my eyes. Katrina had taken so much, but the city was resilient. The people had come back stronger, like fractured bones that had fortified in the healing. We wouldn’t be broken again.

  Jack adjusted his ball cap, pulling it lower over his eyes. “I hope you’ve got plenty of those little hats,” he said, finding his way back to me. “There may be a pet lovers’ brawl if you run out of them after that speech.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Imogene’s audience had formed a line, money in hand.

  I shifted away from the counter and met Jack on the sales floor. “I have dozens. What’s with the motorcycle?”

  “I’m off duty, and I can’t get anywhere this time of day in my truck. The Harley’s quicker.”

  “What happened to the other bike?” He’d driven me home on the back of a gas-blue motorcycle last summer. I thought of the experience often.

  “Garage.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant it was being worked on or simply waiting for him at home. It didn’t matter to me as long as it was still around. I liked the blue one. “So you’re free today? This is a pretty serious look for a guy on a break.”

  “How’s that?”

  I gave his fantastic black motorcycle boots a pointed look. “Well, some people might say you look more like someone who belongs in the back of a squad car than behind the wheel of one.”

  “And you?”

  “I like the look,” I admitted too quickly.

  His icy-blue eyes pinched at the corners. “Can I buy you that coffee?”

  I sighed. “Yes, but I can’t leave Imogene in a crowded store with shambled shelves. I just got back, and I should probably stay put for a while. We’re swamped and everything’s a mess.”

  Jack lifted a fallen box on the display before him and brought it to the shelf’s edge. He did the same thing for the other boxes, righting toppled items and aligning them face-forward. “Was today your appointment with Karen? How’d it go?”

  A cool shiver ran down my spine. “I think she’s got the perfect job for a blackmailer, and she knew about that party in New York. We’d talked about that before.”

  He glanced up at me, long dark lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. “I’m looking into her.”

  “Thanks.” I helped with the messy shelves. “Did you just come to ask me about coffee, or was there something else?” Our arms brushed as we worked in unison to clean the area.

  “I’ve also come bearing good news. The coroner confirmed Mr. Becker’s time of death as between midnight and two AM, which puts your dad at home with a security system that logged his arrival at ten thirty-seven.”

  I exhaled a week of fear. “Thank goodness. What about the cause? Cardiac arrest, right?”

  He shot me a skeptical look. “Yeah. The bump on the head turned out to be superficial, the result of literally anything heavy and solid. The whack didn’t kill him—hell, it might not have even knocked him out.” He folded his arms. “What made you say cardiac arrest?”

  Four years of premed courses and a truncated engagement to a cheating ME. “I’ve been reading up on Mr. Becker’s health conditions. Since the lady I spoke with that morning, the one who found him, didn’t mention the bump on the head, I assumed it wasn’t serious enough to kill him. Then I imagined being a man his age, with his afflictions, being whacked over the head, then trapped inside a freezer. He was already under a load of stress from the blackmail and upcoming dialysis. Not to mention trying to make a place in his life for an illegitimate daughter.” I snapped my fingers. I’d nearly forgotten to tell Jack about Kinley. “Who I met!”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and fixed careful eyes on me. “When?”

  “Scarlet brought her over last night. She seemed edgy.”

  “Angry,” he corrected. “I spoke with her yesterday.”

  Dang. He’d beaten me to her. “Do you think she was mad enough to shut her dad in a freezer? Maybe she didn’t expect him to die. She might’ve only intended to punish him.”

  “Or she blamed him for choosing his money and his wife over her and her mother all these years,” Jack said. “Then Becker got sick and asked her for a kidney. That’d peeve me off.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Maybe.”

  “According to her financials, she’s also broke. Probably cou
ld’ve used a chunk of Daddy’s wealth.”

  I cringed. “Chase said Mr. Becker had wanted Kinley to have a proper portion of his estate, but his prenup wouldn’t allow it. Would that matter if he was dead?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’d like to know what you learn about Karen.”

  “I think your therapist is a long shot as a suspect. Though, I wouldn’t mind a look at your file.”

  I pointed a finger at him in warning, and he laughed. “What about Wallace Jr.? Where’s he been during all this?”

  Jack turned to face me, messy shelves forgotten. “I haven’t been able to reach him, but I’m sure he’ll be home for the funeral, or at the very least, for the reading of the will.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with his father’s death?”

  “I doubt it. Junior has been estranged from the family for years.”

  “But he’s also a potential kidney donor,” I said. “He wasn’t a match, but he must’ve been mad that his dad only reached out to him to ask for something so big.” A new idea sprang to mind. Hope fluttered in my chest. I smoothed my skirt, then stroked the length of my hair over one shoulder, trying not to fidget and finding the goal impossible.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I need a favor.”

  He pulled his lips to the side. “No, you can’t interview Wallace Jr. or anyone else on this case. You need to take a big step back.”

  I shook my head. That wasn’t what I wanted. “Will you make some kind of public statement to free my dad from this? Everyone’s looking at him as if he’s done something wrong, when in truth, he’s mourning a friend and blaming himself for not staying with him longer that night.”

  Jack looked over his shoulder before leaning close. “I’d like to talk to your dad first.”

  “Why?”

  “A move like that could be bad for our investigation.”

  I folded my hands in front of me and screwed my lips into a knot before I said something a shopper might correctly perceive as a threat to a police officer.

  “Think about it,” he urged. “If the killer believes he or she is in the clear, then that person might let their guard down.”

  “You’d let my dad be persecuted longer than absolutely necessary if it helped your case?”

  He dipped his chin stiffly. “I think your dad would agree.” His pleading eyes softened my frustration, as did his honesty. I didn’t always like the things Jack said, but I never doubted they were true.

  “Fine.” I turned on my heels and headed for the stock room.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “We’re out of turtle tiaras.”

  Jack matched my stride easily, following me to the back room. He held the stock room door as I passed and shut it behind us.

  I stacked tiny tiaras on my desk, sorting them by design to avoid doubles for the display table. “I have no doubt my dad will agree with you. He’s like that. Selfless and ridiculously good. He was never worried about being arrested or what anyone thought of him.” He’d trusted Jack to get the truth.

  “I know you’re mad,” he said. “You should know we’re getting close to closing this case, and I don’t want to risk the setback of removing our only public suspect too soon. Your dad’s out of the woods. We know he’s innocent, and everyone else will see that too once the killer’s arrested.”

  I tipped my head over one shoulder and studied him. “Who’s your main suspect?”

  He frowned.

  “Come on. You can’t ask for my blessing on leaving Dad in the trenches of public loathing, then not tell me anything about what’s really going on.”

  Jack pressed his back to the door and kicked his feet forward several inches to support his weight. “I told you the cause and time of death.”

  “I guessed the cause,” I said. “Besides, you only came here to get on my good side so you could leave my dad out to dry.”

  “Not true.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded emphatically. “True. Is that why you asked me out for coffee?” Heat traveled up my neck and across my cheeks. I was such an idiot.

  “That is not why.” Jack pursed his lips. “This is a police investigation. I can’t tell you the main suspect or any protected detail that hasn’t been released to the media.”

  I leaned my backside against my desk and faced off with him from several feet away, hoping he’d mistake my humiliating embarrassment for frustration. He didn’t want to see me privately over coffee for personal reasons. This was all about the case. “Fine, then tell me something else. Something you can share that I don’t already know.”

  He drifted his expressionless gaze over me. “Mrs. Becker knew about Kinley. She found out about her years ago but never said anything.”

  “Whoa.” I pressed upright and ghosted in Jack’s direction, drawn to the turn of events like my shoppers to Imogene’s practiced campfire voice. “Why wouldn’t Mrs. Becker have confronted her husband over something so big?”

  “She said it was his story to tell her and not the other way around.”

  “Will it be in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “No. The dirty details of his marriage aren’t pertinent to the murder investigation.”

  I dusted tiara glitter from my palms and turned in a small circle, processing. “Who discovers their spouse has a love child but never says a word about it?”

  He shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t want a divorce.”

  Right. I kept forgetting Mrs. Becker wasn’t from money. Without her husband, she was broke. “But they had a prenup and he cheated. Kinley is proof of that. What would Mrs. Becker lose? Even half of their money would be enough to live contentedly back home in Kentucky forever.”

  “Maybe she loved him,” Jack said. “Maybe she didn’t want to fight about the past or things that can’t be changed. How would I know?” He opened the door behind him and walked slowly out, palms raised. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly an expert on women.”

  “What!” I feigned shock. “That is brand new information.”

  He cast me a furtive look. “Call me when you want coffee.”

  “Call me when you’ve publicly renounced my dad as a murder suspect.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Furry Godmother’s secret to surviving a holiday: Lower your expectations.

  I woke with a headache Thursday morning after another fitful night’s sleep. My mind had never been great at resting, and this week was no exception. My list of possible killers and blackmailers was growing instead of shrinking and slowly driving me bonkers in the process. None of my suspects had an airtight alibi that I knew of, and I couldn’t mark anyone off. The wife, daughter, and son were all upset with Mr. Becker at his time of death, and my gut said whatever had been stuck to Mrs. Becker’s sweater was the same thing I’d found on the freezer’s floor. Though, I still had no idea what it could have been. It also occurred to me that Claudia, from the thrift shop, had access to everyone in the district. Maybe she’d been up to something when she relayed that gossip about Sage. Then there was the therapist I shared with Mr. Becker. She could’ve offed him if she was, as I suspected, the blackmailer, and he’d finished putting up with her. Even Dr. Hawkins, who had seemed too nervous for any sort of confrontation, could have been the killer. People under pressure acted out of character all the time.

  Suddenly everyone felt like a suspect, and what bothered me most was the very real possibility that I hadn’t even thought of the true culprit yet. How did I know it wasn’t Tabitha? We had evidence of her personal ties to the blackmailer, and she’d gone to ground only two months before Mr. Becker died.

  I flipped the lights on in my shop and freed Penelope from her carrier. She followed Spot, the robot vacuum, lazily across the sun-splotched floorboards.

  I turned the “Open” sign to face the window and dusted out my frustrations. By eleven, the shop was spotless and busting with people. Imogene and I had tag-teamed
a prelunch rush of septuagenarians fresh off a tour bus, greeting, guiding, and ringing them up all in a matter of minutes before their guide ushered them across the street for red beans and rice. “A cultural staple,” the guide proclaimed in a thick Jersey accent.

  Imogene plucked the fabric away from her chest and ran a forearm over her brow. “Well, that was a whirlwind. Working here is going to keep me young.” She fluffed the bottom of her puffy salt-and-pepper hair. “My grandbaby, Miss Isla, loved that red satin tunic you sent for her dog.”

  I smiled. “I’m glad.”

  “She made you a thank-you card.” Imogene dug in her giant purse and unearthed a folded piece of yellow construction paper. “I almost forgot.”

  I accepted the paper and levered it open at the fold. “Aww.” A brown circle with four stick arms and a red middle wore a smile too big to fit on its head.

  “That’s Beyoncé,” Imogene explained. “She loved the shirt too.”

  I grabbed a magnet from my drawer and snapped the card to my minifridge. “Please tell Isla this is perfect. She’s quite an artist.”

  A big yellow Tonka truck caught my eye outside the window.

  I squinted through the glass in shock. A vaguely familiar tuft of blonde hair fluttered in the wind above a partially open passenger window with black tint. I hustled closer, gawking in disbelief.

  Imogene craned her neck from behind the counter. “What is it?”

  The fresh line of shoppers at her register turned to face me.

  “Nothing.” I texted the possible Tabitha sighting to Jack, then pressed my teeth into my lip until I tasted the cherry gloss. I stared at the obnoxious vehicle until it was nothing more than another set of taillights in the traffic.

  Imogene crept up behind me. “Better be careful, Miss Lacy. You’ve got a black cloud forming over that pretty blonde head of yours, and it’s got me worried.”

  “No.” I swung my hands in the general direction of said cloud. “No cloud. See?”