There was no time to think. I spun around the doorframe, as if I happened upon the two women by accident. At the same time, I shoved my hand in my pocket and silenced the phone.
“Well, hello!” I tried to look surprised, which wasn’t easy, considering they stood right in front of me.
“Missy?” Bettina said. “What’re you doing here?”
“I forgot my phone in the restaurant.” I waved vaguely behind me. “Silly me. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”
While Dana seemed to accept the explanation, Bettina looked skeptical.
“That so? We were just talking about things. This and that. Catch any of it?”
“Who, me?” I puffed out my cheeks. “Don’t be silly. I’ve got a lot on my mind and my head’s in the clouds most of the time these days.”
“It’s okay.” Dana shot a quick look at Bettina. “We were finished anyway. And I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“You and me both,” I said. “That was some bombshell Paxton dropped on the crowd, wasn’t it? That bit about Charlotte wanting to expand their business. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about.” Bettina’s tone was icy. “She didn’t say anything about hats. Now I, on the other hand . . .”
“Bettina?” Dana threw her another look. “We can talk about it some other time. Missy and I both have to get back to work.”
“Fine. Have it your way.”
“Well, it was good to see you two.” While I was still curious about their conversation, I didn’t want Vernice to think I’d abandoned her. “I hope we run into each other again.”
We parted ways on the steps, with Bettina and Dana heading east, toward the parking lot, while I aimed straight ahead, toward the registration cottage.
Such a strange conversation. What did Dana mean when she said she had “taken care of it”? She’d confused both me and Bettina. It sounded ominous, even coming from a flower child in combat boots who made wedding bouquets for a living.
I thought it over as I set off for the registration cottage, where I found Vernice. She and I chatted about this, that, and another thing until it was time to leave.
By the time I said good-bye, a topcoat of wet, dark clouds painted the sky. I quickly headed for Ringo and put up the soft top before starting the engine.
After exiting the parking lot and cruising onto the access road, I passed sugarcane fields and a smoking power plant. I barely noticed the pale smokestack, though, because my thoughts kept returning to the morning’s strange turn of events. Along with the conversation between Bettina and Dana, there was the run-in with Paxton Haney. He’d stormed over to my table, eyes flashing, which made me thankful a few other people still milled around us.
At one point, Ringo bumped over a pothole in the road, and my memories vanished. Maybe my best option was to return to the hat studio. Stormie Lanai should be gone by now, and I could hole up in my workroom, which was the one place on earth I felt safe.
So I entered the on-ramp for Highway 18. The more I thought about the workroom, the more my hands relaxed on the steering wheel. After a while, I even imagined a piece of cool millinery wire under my thumb, instead of a nubby wheel cover. I had total control in that space, which was something I couldn’t say about anywhere else at the moment.
After cruising along for several miles, deep in thought, I entered the off-ramp for Bleu Bayou and headed for the Factory. By the time I reached the parking lot, relieved to find a FedEx truck parked where the news van had been, a few raindrops splashed against the soft top.
I parked next to Ambrose’s Audi and made a beeline for my studio. All of our shops came with a French door that opened onto the parking lot, to give customers easy access to our wares. Some of us also had a window, and I spied Beatrice through ours as I walked into the studio.
“Hey, there.” She stood at the cash register with a notebook in front of her, which she slapped closed.
“Whew. What a morning.” I walked to a bar stool by her and sat down.
“That bad?” Today Beatrice wore a different pair of chandelier earrings—emerald, this time—and one grazed her J. Crew sweater when she cocked her head at me.
“Worse. But at least I didn’t see Stormie’s news van outside. Please tell me she’s gone.”
“She is.”
My eyes swept over the studio. Everything looks the same. Maybe I’d been paranoid about Stormie “borrowing” one of my hat stands for her news report, since nothing had been taken. My favorite display still perched by the front door, with a white top hat, fancy riding crop, and pair of exquisite leather boots. Ditto for a beaded fascinator I’d paired with some opera gloves near the cash register. Even the smallest display—a flower headband balanced on a bolt of Belgian lace—hadn’t been touched. Maybe my imagination was working overtime. “Thank goodness for small miracles. How are things going here?”
For some reason, Beatrice wouldn’t look at me.
“Beatrice?” She always acted this way when she had to deliver bad news. “Spill it. What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me about the meeting first?” She quickly swept out from behind the counter and took the bar stool next to mine.
“Okkkaaayyy. But you’re acting really weird.” I tried to remember everything that took place before my run-in with Paxton Haney and before the conversation I overhead at the door to the mansion. “I’m sure you know by now who died. It was Charlotte Devereaux.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I heard. It’s all over town. I met her a couple of times in the atrium. She seemed like a real nice lady.”
“She was. You should’ve seen the crowd that turned out for the meeting this morning. I think a lot of them already knew it was Charlotte. The strangest thing happened, though. I got the feeling people were avoiding me.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“They kept their distance, for one thing, and then her cousin went off on me about the murder weapon. Do you think everyone knows the police found my hat stand at the crime scene?”
She swiveled her chair around. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Maybe.”
I followed her lead and turned toward the counter too. “I don’t think I was imagining it.”
“But, maybe they were preoccupied. You know . . . just sad about Charlotte.” She began to play with the notebook, running her thumb along its edge.
“Maybe. But even Bettina, the caterer, did it.”
“Really? The owner of Pink Cake Boxes was there? I would’ve come if I’d known that.”
“Yeah, but she acted strange, like everyone else. Just a second.” I casually took the book away from Beatrice. It was the store’s calendar. When I flipped it open, a series of angry red slashes appeared on the page. “Okay, Beatrice. What’s going on?”
She finally dropped the act. “Um, I may have some bad news.”
“Stop beating around the bush. What is this?’
“We had three cancellations today. Two from brand-new clients, and then that girl from Shreveport called.”
I groaned. “Not Trudi Whidbee.” The oil baron’s daughter had commissioned a 5,000-dollar veil to match an equally expensive wedding gown. I’d already worked up a preliminary sketch for her. “What did she say?”
“She doesn’t want it anymore. Apparently, Charlotte was her wedding planner. Said something about bad karma, I think.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much. The other two brides made up some lame excuses about not feeling well. Honestly, how could two people get strep throat on the same day?” She harrumphed. “The cowards.”
I ran my hand along the page. Of course, everyone knew about the murder weapon. This was Bleu Bayou, after all, where news traveled faster than a bolt of lightning. At this rate, I’d be lucky to have any clients left by the end of the week. “What about tomorrow’s appointments?”
When she didn’t respond, I raised my hand. “That’s okay. Don’t say it. I�
��m guessing everyone canceled for tomorrow too.”
I quickly calculated the loss. Five appointments . . . gone. Just like that. In the space of two days, I’d lost at least 10,000 dollars in revenue. I tried to ignore the zeros flashing before my eyes, but the numbers refused to fade.
“We’re still okay, right?” Beatrice asked.
“Of course we’re okay.” There was no need to worry her. If Beatrice thought something was wrong with the studio, clients would sense it the minute they walked through the front door. “We’re fine. Don’t you worry a bit.”
In all honesty, we were anything but fine. I needed those orders to make up for December, which was always sluggish. That was what happened every year, when January’s receipts made up for the holiday’s shortfall.
I quickly grabbed the calendar and slid off the bar stool. “Time to make some calls.”
Since she still looked worried, I plastered a smile on my face. “Relax, Bea. We’re not going anywhere. I just need to do damage control. Why don’t you focus on inventory today? We’re almost out of peach sinamay, and that ivory petersham is gone too. If anyone else calls and tries to cancel, say I’ll call ’em back.”
She finally nodded, so I began to take measured steps to the workroom. While I wanted to fall to the ground and throw a good old-fashioned hissy fit, that wouldn’t do anyone a lick of good. Instead, I did what my grandma always said: I put on my big-girl panties and faced the music.
I softly closed the workroom door behind me. I longed to feel cool millinery wire under my thumb, like I’d imagined in the car. Since that wasn’t going to happen, I laid the calendar on the drafting table and somberly took the chair beside it.
First things first. I pulled out my cell and eyed a phone number listed next to Trudi Whidbee’s name in the calendar.
The phone rang at least four times before she picked up.
“Yes?” She sounded peeved.
“Hi, Trudi. It’s me. Missy DuBois.”
“I know who you are. I have caller ID. What can I do for you, Missy?”
The cool tone chilled me. “I think there’s been a little . . . uh . . . misunderstanding.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Beatrice told me you canceled your appointment for today.”
“What could I do? The news is all over the television. That poor girl died right behind your studio. I don’t think I could bring myself to go back there.” She sighed dramatically. “You know, I only hired Charlotte because you recommended her.”
“I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“Hmmm. Some favor. Look, I don’t want to be ugly, but I think it’s best if we part ways. I’m sure you can understand. As a matter of fact—” she delicately cleared her throat “—there won’t be a wedding, after all. So I definitely don’t need your services.”
I squinted at the phone in my hand. What did she mean, no wedding? “But—”
She hung up before I could finish. Of all the things I expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them. I expected her to say she wanted a new wedding planner. That she was starting from scratch, milliner included, which left no room for me. Those things I could understand. But no wedding?
I eyed the other red slashes on the calendar. After my stilted conversation with Trudi, it was anyone’s guess how the remaining calls would go.
Chapter 6
After calmly explaining the situation to the other brides who’d canceled—which wasn’t easy, since I longed to wail about the unfairness of it all—I finally lowered the phone, utterly exhausted.
Turned out Beatrice was right about the girls using strep throat as an excuse. By the end of our calls, the second bride agreed to come in at three, while the other one would come in at four.
Now I needed to plot out my strategy for the first appointment. To begin with, I’d greet the client at the front door and give her a grand tour of the studio to convince her nothing was wrong. Then I’d tell her all about my alibi for yesterday’s murder. I could even throw in a 10-percent discount on her order, which would seal the deal.
I slumped against the chair wearily and eyed a clock on the wall. Gracious light. It was already two. Even though the wedding planners’ meeting included a light breakfast, I’d been too preoccupied to eat anything, and now my stomach rumbled. At this rate, Beatrice would find me in a puddle on the floor if I didn’t get some nourishment.
I grabbed my cell and strode out of the workroom. “Boy, am I glad that’s over.” My stomach angrily complained as I met Beatrice by the counter.
“How’d it go?” She’d been rifling through our Rolodex, no doubt searching for the phone numbers of our fabric suppliers.
“Not bad. I saved our three o’clock and four o’clock appointments. I’m going to give each of them a ten-percent discount, so don’t let me forget that.”
“Will do.” She brushed a snatch of peach straw from her sweater. “What about Trudi?”
“No dice. Did know she canceled her wedding?”
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding! That’s news to me. What kind of fool ditches Trudi Whidbee and all that cash?”
“For all you know, she ditched him.” My belly complained again, and this time in no uncertain terms. “Listen, I haven’t had a thing to eat all day and I’m starving. I’m going to grab a kolache at Grady’s place. Do you want anything?”
When she shook her head, the earrings swung back and forth like pendulums. “No thanks. I’ll stay here. I’m done with the inventory on the sinamay, and I was about to call in our order. Want me to get some cream straw too, while I’m at it?”
“No, we’d better not. Let’s try to watch our expenses until we get some billings. How much straw do we have left?”
“About a roll and a half of the basket-weave and a little less of cobweb.”
“That should do it for a while. Thanks for asking, though, and I’ll see you in a bit.” I walked across the studio, to the exit. As I shut the door behind me, I instinctively glanced at the studio next to mine. Since Ambrose and I shared a wall, it was easy to check in with him from time to time. Especially since he often forgot to eat lunch too, which made him cranky by the end of the day.
I glanced through the window to his studio and spotted him near the three-way mirror. A gorgeous brunette stood on a pedestal in front of him. She had porcelain skin, auburn hair—like mine—and an impossibly tiny waist.
When she twirled, the ball-gown skirt around her twinkled like a starburst.
I forgot about my hunger for a moment. Even though he was with a client, I should have probably checked on Ambrose . . . for his own well-being, of course. After working up a respectable smile, I entered the room and approached the duo.
Ambrose didn’t even notice me. He continued to study the girl as she turned, the crystals swirling like a meteor shower.
“Uh, Ambrose?”
The client stopped mid-twirl. “He’s busy right now,” she told my reflection.
“I can see that.”
Finally, Ambrose glanced up. “Hi, Missy. Got my hands full here.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want to bother you. You go right ahead.”
He was supposed to catch my drift and pause. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat and tried again. “I just want to know if I can pick you up some lunch. I’m going to Grady’s and I thought—well, I thought . . .”
Was that a scowl? I was so taken aback by his expression, my smile froze.
“Uh, only if you want me to get you something, that is.”
“You don’t have to do that.” The sour expression remained as he studied the ball-gown skirt. “This could take a while.”
The girl on the pedestal decided to chime in. “I’d listen to him, if I were you.”
Instead of scowling at her too, Ambrose actually smiled. “I’ll be fine. I’m not even hungry right now.”
I inched forward. “But I really don’t mind getting you something. I was kinda hoping we could eat it together.
When you’re through here, that is.”
Evidently, the client didn’t like my idea. “He said he’s not hungry. And he’s right in the middle of something. So it looks like you wasted your time coming over here.”
“I heard what he said, thank you.” I willed Ambrose to back me up. I had a million things I wanted to tell him, but how could I, when he wouldn’t give me the time of day? Darn him and his obsessive attention to detail. Not to mention, I felt my old insecurities bubble up whenever he turned his back on me like that.
It happened every time he ignored me, which wasn’t often. I immediately regressed to my childhood, to the little girl who lost both parents in a car accident. The smallest slight triggered the feeling that maybe I wasn’t worth his attention after all. My own parents left me, so why shouldn’t he? It was irrational, of course, but that didn’t stop it from happening. The ghost of my childhood followed me around like a second shadow and resurfaced at the most inopportune times.
“Fine,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Whatever.” His gaze remained glued to that damn skirt. “See you later.”
Men can be so clueless. I forced myself to retreat from the mirror. Going against every instinct, I somehow managed to walk to the French door and step over the threshold. Of all the times for him to ignore me, why did it have to be today? We had so much to discuss, but he acted like I was a nuisance. Which wasn’t like him; and that was what bothered me most of all.
I frowned all the way to my car. After pausing in front of Ambrose’s Audi first, where I gave his front tire a good, swift kick, I hopped into Ringo and fired up the engine. Fine. Let him starve. I’d scarf down two giant beignets, just to spite him.
Once out of the parking lot, I turned onto the feeder road and the Factory’s roofline soon disappeared from view. Instead, the watery stretch of pavement that lead to downtown Bleu Bayou appeared in the windshield.
Before long, I reached Grady’s doughnut shop. Even with scattered clouds to block the sunshine, the neon arrow on its roof still glowed in all its kitschy glory.
Some people urged Grady to keep the sign and the 1950s décor when he bought the place. Others advised him to do a total makeover. Fortunately, he listened to the first group, and the sign, red-leather banquette seats, bubblegum-pink straw dispensers, and checkerboard floor tiles remained.
Someone's Mad at the Hatter Page 5