Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  “Wow. You have an amazing memory.” I quickly calculated the number of years between that pass and tonight’s dinner. At least fifteen had come and gone since then. “Uh, Grady? When did you graduate from high school?”

  “A while ago. Probably the same year as you.”

  I knew it. He was in his thirties too. Which was a little old to be reminiscing about a high school football game. “Seems to me you’d let bygones be bygones after so many years.”

  “Yeah, but he’s still a loser. I mean . . . look at him. He dresses like a slob.”

  Just then, Grady’s classmate said something funny to the waitress behind the counter, and she threw back her head to laugh.

  “He seems like a nice enough guy,” I said. “At least the waitress thinks so.”

  “Enough about him. Speaking of clothes . . . you really should wear that red sweater more often. It looks great with your hair. Maybe I could take you shopping sometime.”

  I was about to demur when a waitress appeared at our table with enormous plates of shrimp étouffée She balanced the heavy dishes effortlessly, using only her wrists.

  “Étouffée?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She slid my plate down her fingers and onto the table in one smooth motion.

  “Now, that’s impressive,” I said.

  She grinned, and then she did the same thing with Grady’s plate. “Can I get you two anything else?”

  “No, I think we’re fine.” Although the smell of jalapeño wafted up from the plate, it didn’t make my nose itch, like the dish had at Hank Dupre’s party.

  Grady nodded his thanks to the waitress. “Smells good. Let’s dig in.”

  The minute we began to eat, Grady launched into a running commentary about the dancers around us. The first time he criticized a pair, I started to interject, but he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. The next time it happened, I gave up and nibbled on a shrimp instead. Funny, but the food didn’t seem nearly as appealing now, and the longer he talked, the less I ate.

  According to Grady, almost every dancer on the floor had two left feet and didn’t deserve to be seen dancing in public. His remedy was a beginner’s dance class, like the one he’d taken at Bleu Bayou Community College. Apparently, he was an excellent dancer.

  Once he finally stopped talking, he shoved his plate aside and rose. “C’mon, let’s go show ’em how it’s done.”

  Although it would provide a break from the running monologue, it might also encourage him, which I no longer wanted to do. “No, I didn’t think that’s a good idea.” We obviously had very different ideas about how this date should go.

  “It’ll be fun.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet before I could protest.

  Before I knew it, we were twirling around the dance floor like tumbleweeds, spinning from one end to the next, the room a blur of colors and sounds. Unlike everyone else, we traveled from one corner of the dance hall to the other, which soon made me light-headed.

  “Whoa.” I stopped mid-twirl and held up my hand. “I need to sit down.”

  “C’mon. You’re fine. We’re just getting started.” He tried to pull me close again, but I held my ground.

  “No, really. I need to sit down.” I pivoted and began to walk back to the table, not knowing, or caring, whether he would follow me.

  I plopped on the bench and laid my head on my hands. Little did I know when Grady picked me up at the house, I’d be desperate to get back after only a few hours. Because, right now, I wanted nothing more than to go home. Home to Ambrose. Home to someone who’d actually listen to me and who actually cared about what I had to say. Someone who would think about more than what I looked like, or what I wore.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He sounded angry.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. Can you please take me home?”

  “You just got a little dizzy. I can move pretty fast.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it.” I finally looked at him and spied a clock over his shoulder, which was shaped like a giant Budweiser bottle cap. Hallelujah, the night was still young.

  “But I don’t want to go yet.” His tone had turned whiny. “I thought we’d dance a little, maybe have a few drinks. You know, get to know each other.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You haven’t asked a single question about me or my life all night.”

  “That’s not true. I asked you what you wanted to eat. That’s a question.”

  Oh, brother. “Look, I don’t feel well. Please take me home.”

  “Fine. If that’s how you want it.” He turned and began to stalk across the room, barreling between several couples on the dance floor.

  I lost sight of him for a while, but he reappeared when the song ended and the dancers began to disperse. He stood by the exit, so I skirted around the edges of the room until I reached him and even threw him a tight-lipped smile for good measure. Judgmental or not, Grady was my ride home, which meant I had to be civil for at least ten more minutes.

  The moment I caught up with him, he shoved past another couple who’d walked into the restaurant. His elbow smacked the woman’s shoulder, which caused her to wobble on her stiletto heels, but he didn’t even bother to apologize.

  “I’m so sorry.” I turned to look at the woman’s date, who’d wrapped his arm around her waist protectively. “Mr. Haney? Is that you?”

  “Why, hello.” He looked surprised to see me too. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  “I guess not.”

  The moment his date realized what was happening, she inched behind Paxton’s back, hoping to hide behind his bulky sport coat. She also ducked her head, although I’d recognize that pixie haircut anywhere.

  “Brooke? What’re you doing here?”

  The photographer reluctantly stepped out from behind his shoulder. “Hi, Missy.”

  Why in the world is Brooke Champagne, the photographer who owns Brooke’s Bridal Portraits, going out to dinner with Paxton Haney? While she normally wore cargo pants and Birkenstocks at her studio, tonight she’d opted for a black leather miniskirt and spiky heels.

  The music dimmed around me as I struggled to make sense of it all.

  “Um . . . we’re meeting about a client.” Paxton spoke slowly, clearly improvising. “That’s it. We’re having a business dinner about a client.”

  “Really? Which one?” I asked.

  They both answered me at the same time.

  “The Fitzgeralds,” he said.

  “A chamber gala.” Brooke immediately slapped her hand over her mouth.

  Paxton quickly interjected. “You see . . . uh . . . the Fitzgeralds are helping to put on a chamber gala, and they asked us both to work on the project. That’s it.”

  I had to hand it to him; he was quick with an excuse. “I see. Well, I was just on my way out. So nice to see you two again.” I quickly moved away from them, my mind reeling.

  Of course, Paxton Haney had every right to ask Brooke out on a date; he was a grown man, after all. But it seemed so soon after Charlotte’s death, especially since he had to plan a funeral and work on the sale of his business with Hank Dupre.

  And they were hiding something. That much was clear. But what?

  The sooner I got back to the cottage and called Lance to discuss it, the better I’d feel about it.

  Chapter 20

  After enduring a ten-minute car ride with Grady, during which time he didn’t speak to me, I finally arrived at the rent house. I barely had time to close the passenger door before he roared off again in a cloud of pea-gravel dust and engine exhaust.

  Thankfully, a light blazed in our living room window, which meant Ambrose was home. Just thinking about him spurred my steps, and I hurried through the door and into the cottage, where I found him standing by the kitchen counter.

  He held his favorite Auburn University coffee mug waist-high. “What’re you doing home already?”

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” I didn’t even b
other to pretend everything was fine. Instead, I flung my purse on the counter and rushed to his side.

  “Whoa. Rough night?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tightly, even with the coffee cup in his hand.

  “What was that for?” He looked confused, although a smile played on his lips.

  “For being you. Here. Gimme that.” I motioned for the mug, which he gladly handed over. “This has been one of the longest nights of my life, and it’s only seven-thirty.”

  “You don’t say. So, Grady wasn’t a fun date?”

  “Not even close.” I took a sip. Although lukewarm, the coffee was the best thing I’d tasted all night. Even Antoine’s famous fare couldn’t make up for Grady’s nonstop chatter. “I thought he’d be fun to talk to. He seems so easygoing at the doughnut shop. Boy, was I wrong.”

  “Let me guess: He talked about himself the whole time.”

  “Bingo.” I set the mug down. “How’d you know that, by the way?”

  “It’s not rocket science. Look at the guy. He must spend half his life at the gym and the other half at a tanning salon.”

  I playfully swatted his arm, which felt completely natural. “It wasn’t just that. When he finally did stop talking about himself, it was only to criticize other people. Heavens to Betsy, that man has an opinion about everybody.”

  “Bet that got old real fast.”

  “You have no idea.” I winced. “He even talked about a high school football game. High school! That was, what? Fifteen years ago?”

  “Maybe those were his best days. Maybe he thought you’d be impressed.”

  “Well, he was wrong.” I frowned when I remembered something else. “That’s not all that happened. You’ll never guess who I ran into at the restaurant. It was Brooke Champagne and Paxton Haney.”

  “Together?”

  “Looked like it, and they were definitely on a date. You should’ve seen Brooke’s skirt.”

  “Doesn’t she wear baggy pants and those hippie sandals when she photographs people?”

  “She does. Only tonight, she was dressed in a leather miniskirt and some snazzy Manalo Blahniks. And do you wanna know what I find really weird? Brooke should be angry with Paxton, since his cousin wanted to add a photography studio to their business. That would give people like Brooke more competition. But, no. Instead of being mad at him, she goes out to dinner with him. All chummy, like it wasn’t their first time.”

  “That is weird.” Ambrose thought it over before pointing to something on the counter. “By the way, I got your phone back. I knew you’d want to catch up on your texts when you got home.”

  “Ambrose.” I moved to hug him again. “That was so sweet of you. And after everything that happened this afternoon . . .”

  “Don’t mention it. I think we should forget all about what happened tonight. What’s done is done. Seems like you survived your date, even if your ears got a real workout.”

  “Deal. By the way . . . I’m starving. I lost my appetite when he started talking, so I didn’t eat much. He even took me to that Cajun restaurant way out past the power plant.”

  “Antoine’s? What a waste. They’re supposed to have great food.”

  “What little I ate was pretty tasty. Wanna get some dinner with me?”

  “You bet.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans for his car keys. He wore the same brand as Grady, only his weren’t nearly as tight, or as perfectly pressed. “You don’t have to ask me twice. What’re you in the mood for?”

  “I want to go someplace familiar. No more surprises tonight.”

  “Let’s hit up Odilia’s, then. We both know the menu, and she’ll be glad to see you if she’s working tonight.”

  I smiled at him gratefully. “Perfect.”

  He’d managed to cheer me up in two minutes flat.

  Why did I think someone like Grady could offer me anything better?

  Chapter 21

  We pulled into the parking lot of Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery not long afterward. Almost every space was taken, even on a Wednesday night, so Ambrose parked his Audi near the back and then walked to the passenger side to whoosh open the car door for me.

  Unlike Antoine’s rustic warehouse style, Odilia’s restaurant was homey and warm. Once we made it through the parking lot, we passed purple flower boxes bursting with trumpet-like foxglove and full-bodied caladiums and then walked under a scalloped awning that ruffled and swayed in the breeze.

  We stepped through the entrance and into the foyer, where we spied Odilia behind a hostess stand crafted from an old church podium. The stand’s wood matched the finish on a Baldwin piano positioned next to it, flush with the wall.

  Tonight, Odilia wore an elegant cobalt pantsuit instead of her normal chef’s coat, and she grinned the moment she saw us. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  “Hi, Odilia.”

  “Come here so I can greet you properly.” She scooted out from behind the stand and enveloped me in a warm hug. The smell of Aqua Net hairspray reached me, and her dangly earrings brushed against my cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you, Odilia.” When she finally released me, I glanced at Ambrose.

  “Look who I brought.”

  “It’s Mr. Jackson,” she said. “My, oh my. This is a special night.”

  “Evenin’, Miss Odilia.” Ambrose held out his hand, since they didn’t know each other well enough for a hug. While I’d known Odilia since childhood, the two of them only met six months ago.

  “What brings you two here tonight?” she asked.

  “Isn’t there only one right answer? For the good cookin’, of course.” Every time I ate at her place, Odilia asked me the same question, and every time I gave her the same answer. We never tired of the banter, although I couldn’t speak for Ambrose.

  “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s get you seated and get some dinner in you.”

  She led us through the dining room, past couples, families, and even singles, to an empty table about halfway back. Before I caught up with her, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Missy!”

  I turned to see Bettina Leblanc. Like always, she’d wound her hair into a tight ballerina bun and she wore no-nonsense blue jeans. Other than that, though, she seemed transformed. Relaxed. It was the first time I’d seen her smile in days.

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked. Although the answer was obvious, since she stood in front of a table littered with plates and silverware, I didn’t expect to see her at Odilia’s restaurant so soon. Not after her fight with Charlotte, which landed her smack-dab at the top of a suspect list in the murder investigation.

  “Celebrating.” She gestured to her table, where an older man sat. He wore stylish, unframed glasses, and he seemed vaguely familiar. “Have you met my accountant? Missy, this is Sheridan.”

  Aha. “Nice to meet you.” I’d noticed him around the Factory, since he usually carried a bulky briefcase that looked ready to explode at any moment. Normally, we passed each other in the parking lot. “I thought you looked familiar.”

  “You too,” he answered. “You own the hat studio, right?”

  “Yep. I’m downstairs from Bettina, on the other side of the building.”

  “Who does your books?”

  I grinned at his chutzpah. “I’ve had the same accountant for a few years now. I’ll let you know if anything changes with that, though.”

  “Speaking of books . . .” Bettina’s voice was light and breezy. “We were going over mine. Now that I’ve been cleared by the police, I can finally get back to business. What a relief.”

  I cocked my head. “Cleared? What happened?” As far as I knew, Lance still considered Bettina a person of interest. She was one of the last people to see Charlotte alive, and their meeting was anything but friendly.

  “Want to join us and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  I glanced over to Ambrose, who stood with Odilia by
an empty table. While I wanted more than anything to find out the reason for Bettina’s sudden transformation, I also needed some downtime with him to bring us back to an even keel.

  “I’d love to, but I promised Ambrose I’d have dinner with him tonight.”

  “Then I’ll give you the short version,” she said. “They finally got subpoenas for the video from the parking lot and my computer records.”

  “We have a video camera in our parking lot?” First things first. I’d never noticed one, although they could’ve hidden a camera in one of the fake gas lamps that dotted the lot.

  She nodded. “Uh-uh. But only in the main lot, not the employee one. Which is too bad, since the police could’ve used one there.” She sighed happily. “None of that matters anymore, though. Once they got a subpoena for the film, they analyzed the time stamp. It shows I didn’t get to work until after ten on New Year’s Day. I kinda had a few drinks the night before.”

  Realization dawned. Of course. According to Odilia, Bettina definitely was drunk on New Year’s Eve. No doubt she nursed a nasty hangover the next morning, when Charlotte was murdered. “That’s great, Bettina! So the police know exactly when you came to the Factory. But . . .”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” She shot me a look I couldn’t quite read. “Just to be sure, they got hold of my computer records. I must’ve been ordering some supplies, because I was definitely on-line for most of the morning.”

  “Those things seem so obvious. Why didn’t they check them before?”

  She shrugged. “Well, it takes some time to get subpoenas down here, for one thing. And Detective LaPorte spent most of his time worrying about the back lot, since that’s where the murder happened. He even re-created the murder scene, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t blame him for what he did. I’m just glad it got sorted out.”

  “Well, I do.” Sheridan spoke over the top of his champagne glass, which he’d raised to his lips. “I told her she should sue the police department. They put her through two days of hell . . . and for what? In the meantime, they could’ve been focusing on the real killer.” He threw back his head and polished off his glass in a single gulp.