A portly man squinted at the bakery sign. “Pet catering? What kind of party needs a pet caterer?”
I smiled. “All kinds, really. Birthdays, weddings, holidays, Bar Mitzvahs. Any event where your pet is the star or where your loved ones will have their pets with them.”
He shook his head. “That’s crazy.” Clearly, he wasn’t from around here.
I smiled as sweetly as I could manage on three hours’ sleep. “You’re welcome to sample anything you’d like. My products are made from ingredients found in most kitchens. Some are pretty tasty. The peanut butter and banana pupcakes, for example, are made with all-natural peanut butter, bananas, water, oats, and eggs. No additives or preservatives, just real foods.”
The little crowd hung on every word, oddly. Probably to see if I’d kill him.
No one opted to try the pupcakes. I unloaded a fresh box of cookies and muffins into the display case, changing out the shelf signs and wax paper liners and then arranging the pretty pieces aesthetically in neat rows. Thank heavens for mindless paranoia-blocking activities.
Sunlight moved across the front window as I wiped the shelves and boxed products one by one. Rubberneckers and lookie-loos came and went in unprecedented numbers. Very few people made purchases. Most wanted a recount of the night’s events. Some were brazen enough to ask but left unsatisfied when I changed the topic.
I cleaned the shelves and replenished stock until the shop was immaculate.
The door sprung open, and Mom’s silhouette burst inside. She glanced at the startled shoppers loitering along the walls, then rolled her eyes. “Busy morning?”
I puffed air into my cheeks. “I’ve had plenty of traffic.”
“I figured as much. There was a report on the news after breakfast.”
I’d intentionally avoided the morning news and mentally prepared for the worst. “Well, there’s nothing to see here. I’m not sure what they’re waiting on.”
Mom clucked her tongue. Her silk Versace dress dashed her calves as she walked. “You shouldn’t be here today. You should be at home resting.”
“It’s my store. My responsibility.”
“Have you called Scarlet? She’ll be beside herself, if she isn’t already. I assume she gets the paper.”
“I don’t want to upset her.”
“Good plan. Why would a childhood friend be upset that you were nearly killed and couldn’t be bothered to call?” She heaved a sigh, unwilling to argue in public. “I don’t know why you insist on the hard path through life. You’re still a Conti-Crocker. The sooner you embrace it, the easier life will be again.”
Easy for her. Not easy for me.
Mom was a Conti. Contis were old money and near-royalty in society’s upper crust. Dad was a Crocker. Crockers were new money. Dad’s family thought old money was a joke. How could people appreciate something they didn’t earn? Mom’s family called families like Dad’s faux riche. They thought real money came from a lineage of power and influence, not from generations of hard work and a few good investment choices in the twentieth century. I’d been caught in the middle of the Conti-Crocker cold war for years, and I hated it.
I softened my smile. “I don’t see two paths, Mom. I see this one.” I’d never fit in to her world, and I’d beaten myself up about it for twenty years. Finally, the proverbial lightbulb flickered on during my junior year at an overpriced Ivy League college, and I quit. Temporarily. I pulled up roots and applied to Louisiana State. No one at LSU knew or cared about my grandparents’ money. I was free to choose what I wanted to study and who I wanted to be without the burden of Conti-Crocker expectations. I’d proudly signed a long line of student loan papers and moved into a dingy little dorm room that smelled like stale beer, burnt popcorn, and sometimes sweat and dirty clothes. I wanted to see what I could do on my own. What kind of life could I craft? Mom had declared the whole thing a phase and expected me to move home after graduation, but I went to Arlington instead. I studied fashion at the Art Institute of Washington, met Pete, and shacked up after our engagement. We had more bills and aspirations than income, but I didn’t care. Whatever happened was in my control, and the power was intoxicating. Until Pete ruined it.
As it turned out, Mom was right. I couldn’t run from my legacy. Pete had somehow known all about the Contis and the Crockers before he’d ever asked me out. The truth about his scheming for my family’s money came out during our explosive break up.
Mom gave the store a cursory glance, then refocused on me. “I saw Paige getting a frozen coffee. She’ll be here soon so you can get some lunch.”
“I’m fine.”
She tapped her nails against my counter. “I’d ask you to talk about it, but I suppose this isn’t the time.”
Every ear in the store turned our way. I tugged the neckline of my dress. The “shoppers” had stealthily made their ways to displays within feet of the register. The room was smaller. The air was thinner. My eyes crossed.
“Lacy.”
My gaze snapped up.
Mom smiled patiently. “Have you heard from the Llama Mamas?” She pressed her lips together and widened her eyes. “You can tell me the truth.” She whispered the last sentence, careful of prying ears.
That explained her impromptu visit.
The Llama Mamas were a group of local plantation owners raising llamas and alpacas for charity. They carted their animals all around the county, educating, entertaining, and selling llama wool and weanlings. All the proceeds went to a children’s research hospital in Baton Rouge. The Llama Mamas were Mom’s biggest competitors for the “good gigs.” She was incited to fund the Jazzy Chicks several years ago after attending an event at a plantation and receiving her share of dirty looks. The Llama Mamas called her a city dweller and accused her, politely, of not being true to her heritage because our family had sold the plantation and moved to the Garden District. That was in 1890, but as far as Llama Mamas were concerned, the Contis were sellouts.
Now the Llama Mamas and Jazzy Chicks basically tried to out-kind one another by volunteering everywhere they could to raise money for the hospital.
Dad said this was why he’d never retire. Staying busy kept him at a safe distance from the deranged competitions of socialites.
I shook my head. “Nope, I haven’t heard anything.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Well, if you do, call me. They’re up to something, and I need to know what it is. I wouldn’t put it past them to knock on your door for costumes.” She leveled me with a parental stare.
“Got it. Hey, Mom?”
She tilted her head.
“Have you heard from your lawyer? I need to find Miguel Sanchez’s killer before my reputation’s ruined. If I’m not cleared soon, people will assume the worst.” Even if the police solved the crime later, the damage would be done. “If people think I’m dangerous, my store will fail, and it won’t stop there. Dad’s business will suffer by association. No one wants a murderer’s dad caring for their pet.” I couldn’t let my problems ruin a business he’d spent my whole life establishing. “Not to mention, the Crocker name will be sullied.”
“Sweetie, you’re fixating.”
“I’m not. I’m . . .” Jumping to huge assumptions. Very different.
“Listen to me. Keep your chin up and let Jack do his job. He didn’t survive the military by being a dummy.” She tapped a finger to her temple. “Meanwhile, you need a fresh window display. That one’s two weeks old, boring as one of those sad two-hour walking tours and faded by the sun.” She frowned at my Alice in Wonderland display. “That Hatter looks like hell.”
“Did you talk with the lawyer?”
She scoffed. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll get wrinkles. Jack will figure this out.”
“That guy practically declared me guilty. He’s the enemy right now. Maybe you should stop calling him Jack. It makes him seem like a friend. It’s like when you named the vacuum.”
She rolled her eyes. “You were terrified. I
had to give Vinnie a name so you’d let Imogene do her work. The name made him less intimidating. Names humanize us. You know that.”
I shook a finger at her. “That’s my point. Vinnie isn’t a ‘him,’ he’s a vacuum. We don’t want to humanize Jack either. Names confuse things. Jack’s out to get me, and Vinnie ate my blanket.” I swung a palm into the air. No need to rehash this. I took a breath. “Detective Oliver isn’t a friend. He doesn’t get a name. One day you’re calling him Jack, and the next thing you know, he’ll have you on the witness stand saying you saw me kill Miguel Sanchez.”
Mom set her handbag on the counter and pulled out a drawing. “Well, that escalated quickly. Let’s just say calling him Detective Oliver, after I’ve called him Jack for two years’ worth of Jezebel’s checkups with your father, seems unfriendly to me. It’s the opposite of southern hospitality, and you know I’m from the school of catching bees with honey.”
I counted silently to ten. “Who names a cat Jezebel?”
She made a sour face and fanned the wrinkled paper from her purse. “Jezebel’s a lovely Snowshoe Siamese. Here.”
“What’s that?”
She smoothed the paper on my countertop, carefully uncurling the corners. “I made a sketch of what the Chicks need for the costumes.”
A large yellow-and-orange chicken wearing a black top hat was centered on the page. Beside him sat a rectangle with black lines.
I pointed at the rectangle. “What’s that?”
Mom slumped. “It’s a piano. We’re teaching the hens to play. We’ve ordered four pianos, but I’ll need you to take over after assembly. The pianos need to dazzle.”
“Mmm-kay. Paint, glitter. Got it.” I squinted at the little drawing. “Are those chickens in tuxedos? How do you want to keep the top hats on?”
She shrugged. “Bobby pins?”
“No.” Tiny elastic chin straps came to mind, but I’d have to research that. Designing top hats for piano-playing hens was new to me.
“You’ll figure out the top hats.” Mom’s eyes sparkled as the door opened. “Look who’s here.” She met Paige with a hug. “Paige, I’m tickled to death to see you. Your grandmother’s been talking the Chicks’ ears off all month about your homecoming. How’s college?”
“Good, Mrs. Crocker. It’s nice to be home.”
“Well, you come by anytime for a visit, okay? Tell your mother and grandmother to do the same. Anytime at all,” Mom cooed.
I giggled. I could almost see Mom’s mind scrambling through a list of things to do in case one of those ladies took her up on the offer to drop by unannounced. Good old-fashioned hospitality came at a price. Mom would have to keep the house spotless at all times. Just in case. There’d be a standby pie on the counter and fresh pitcher of sweet tea on hand until Labor Day.
Mom waved good-bye to me and gave the lingering shoppers a scowl.
Paige tossed a mile of thick brunette curls over her shoulder and looked down at me from her model-sized frame. “Can you be cool or do I need a bodyguard?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Ha ha.”
She dropped her bag on a shelf behind the register and leaned her elbows on the counter. “You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. I’d babysat Paige when she wore diapers but hadn’t seen her outside of Christmas and Fourth of July in years. I didn’t make it home often when I was away. “Thanks for agreeing to work here part time this summer. Exactly how long are you my slave?”
She smiled. “I’m home for eight weeks.” Her pretty coral blouse emphasized her youthful tan.
I kneaded my hands in mock mischief. “Excellent.”
Paige laughed. “What can I do first?”
I scrunched my face. “Do you know anything about Miguel Sanchez? Any guess who’d want to kill him?”
“You mean besides you?”
I frowned. “I didn’t want to kill him.”
“Is that why you airbrushed his face with gold glitter and hit him over the head?”
I bit my lip. There was nothing wrong with the grapevine around here. “I wasn’t the one who hit him, but Detective Oliver claims my prints were the only ones on the sprayer.” Evidence wasn’t on my side. Though it was circumstantial. “Whoever killed him must’ve worn gloves.” My prints were on everything because I was the only one who worked here until now. I opened a search engine on my phone.
Paige squeezed against my side, craning her neck for a better view of my phone’s screen. “Since it’s about a hundred degrees out there, I suppose the gloves were just to cover his prints.”
“Yep.” I typed Miguel’s name in and got about a million hits. Apparently, Miguel Sanchez was a popular name. “If the killer wore gloves, he must’ve come here expecting to commit a crime.”
A little gasp rose from Paige’s lips. “Do you think someone came here to hurt you and had a run-in with Miguel? Maybe the intruder killed Miguel because Miguel could identify him later.”
My blood chilled and my voice squeaked. “You think someone came to hurt me?” I hadn’t considered that option. For good reason: I didn’t like it.
She turned her back to the register and looked me over. “What happened?”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I don’t know. He found me escaping out back, and I airbrushed him. I’m not sure what he did before that, but it looked like he trampled my Vive la France designs. He might’ve tripped over the box. I’d planned to launch the new line early next year, but I’ll never look at Eiffel Tower appliqués the same again. Spring in Paris is cancelled.”
“Doubt it.” Paige’s pink lips pulled down at the corners. Her structured silk blouse and polka dot swing skirt made her look exactly like the debutante she was. “I also doubt anyone could want to hurt you. I can’t believe anyone wanted to hurt Miguel either. Mack says everyone loved him.”
I set my phone on the counter. “Mack who?”
“I don’t know. She works at the Barrel Room. I stopped by her place last night for a drink. She filled me in.”
My tummy flipped with possibilities. This information could save my store, my name, and my future. I checked for obvious eavesdroppers and pulled Paige with me to the far corner of the checkout counter. “Tell me what you know.”
“Mack said Miguel hung out with her crowd. She said he was well liked, quiet, and smart. She seemed really into him.”
A more cynical woman might’ve translated those characteristics to womanizing, conniving, and shrewd. “Who’s her crowd?”
“Locals our age. Restaurant workers. Bartenders. Everyone’s home for the summer.”
“Go on.”
“Some people called him Tony.”
I frowned and turned my phone over in my palm. “Is Tony a nickname for Miguel?”
Paige shrugged. She lifted a finger to the front door where a familiar silhouette appeared. “Here comes your boss. We’d better look busy.”
Mr. Tater welcomed shoppers on his way to meet us at the counter. Purple crescents lined the pale skin beneath each eye.
I bit back the explanation that he was not my boss.
“How are you doing, Lacy? I came to check on you as soon as I could get away from the office. It’s terrible. I didn’t know if you’d be open today. Are you sure you should be here?”
“I’m okay. I think opening the store was best. I don’t want to look any guiltier than I already do, and I have nothing to hide, so here I am.”
He looked over his shoulders. “Business seems good.”
“I think they all came for a look at the crime scene.” And the local villainess. “There wasn’t much to see and it happened out back, not in the shop.” I couldn’t blame people for their curiosity. Murder’s scary, and in a neighborhood this size, what happened to one person felt like it happened to everyone. Heck, local tour guides still pointed out the former homes of celebrities and a restaurant once frequented by Mark Twain. “Sorry I didn’t call you.” Should I have called him?
“You’re probably overwhelm
ed. I heard all about it on the morning news.”
Paige groaned. “I swear they run that clip every five minutes on Channel Six.”
Mr. Tater ducked his head. “Listen, that’s the other thing I came to talk with you about.” He slunk behind the counter to join us. “I’m negotiating the deal of a lifetime with management at Harrah’s Casino. If I get this contract, Harrah’s will serve Barrel Room wine at every bar in the house.”
“Wow.” I lifted my hands in celebration. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Although I’m afraid I need to pull funding for your store for a little while.”
“What?”
He raised pleading eyes to mine. “Your lease is paid through the end of the month, but I can’t send the next check until this investigation is finished. I’ve got too much riding on this casino deal to have my name associated with a murder. The finance and legal departments at Harrah’s are looking for a way to gouge me. If they claim I bring any sort of risk to the table, I’ll be out more money than I care to think about. Please understand. This isn’t personal.” He forced a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Lacy. I’m sure you’ll be fine until the case is closed and my Harrah’s contract is signed. We’ll revisit this in a few months.”
Months? I set my phone on the counter. Stunned, I opened my lips but no sound came out.
Mr. Tater averted his gaze.
I tipped my chin to the ceiling, praying he was a terrible jokester who’d take back his words immediately.
Paige broke the silence. “What if the investigation is wrapped up by the end of the month? Then will you make the next lease payment?”
I blinked. Hope inflated my flattened lungs. I needed his backing. Mr. Tater had secured the space for Furry Godmother. He paid the monthly lease and the utilities in exchange for a portion of my profit. Sure, the contract between us said he’d forfeit his percentage of my profits if he stopped paying his part, but what was he losing? I wasn’t exactly raking in the profits yet. Furry Godmother was a new business. What could I do now? My credit had maxed out with my new home loan and start-up costs for the business. At the rate I was going, I’d still have outstanding student loans when I became an octogenarian. I couldn’t keep the business open without Mr. Tater’s help, and I couldn’t close up either. I’d invested in stock and small accessories, not to mention baking and studio equipment.
Cat Got Your Diamonds Page 4