“Thank you for your time.” I disconnected with as much dignity as I could muster and dropped my forehead against the desktop.
“Lacy?” Paige called from the hallway.
“Yeah?” I rolled my head for a look at the doorway.
She tiptoe ran into the stock room, a look of horror on her pretty face. “Margaret Hams is here.”
The message in her raspy whisper and red face was clear. I should know this name.
“Margaret Hams?” Didn’t ring a bell.
Paige planted her palms on my desk and dropped her face to mine. “From the Llama Mamas.”
“Oh dear.” I stood. I couldn’t be seen talking with a Llama Mama. Not unless I wanted my mama to have a coronary. If Mom showed up and found a member of her competition here, she’d die on the spot and come back to haunt me. “Did she say what she wanted? Did she look mad? Is she alone?” Was this a trick? A ploy for information on Mom’s Jazzy Chicks?
“She didn’t say, I don’t think so, and yes. Should I call your mother?”
“No!” I waved my hands in big arcs. “Never ever tell her about this. Let me get rid of Mrs. Hams.”
I scurried into the shop.
A woman with a stroller peered into the bakery display. Paige rushed to her aid. “Can I help you?”
I scanned the room for a woman who looked like a llama lover. There was a boy with his hand in my turtle tank and a portly man with glasses on a necklace examining portraits on the wall. Where was Margaret Hams?
A woman in turquoise culottes and coral blouse caught my eye. She fingered the mess I’d left in my half-decorated window. The patch on her quilted handbag might as well have been a big X on the treasure map: Love a Llama.
I treaded softly, scanning the street outside the window for signs of Mom or one of her Jazzy Chicks, half afraid of what would come next. “Mrs. Hams?”
She turned to me with a handful of fiberfill and a look of disgust. Her coal-black eyes set deep beneath thick salt-and-pepper brows. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“Of course.” I patted the bakery counter on my way past and looked at Paige. “If my mom stops by . . .”
Paige lifted her eyes as she sealed a full bakery box for the woman with the stroller. “I’ll let her know you’re with someone.”
I led the severe faced, colorfully dressed woman to my cluttered desk in the stockroom and uncovered a chair for her to sit. She didn’t.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Hams?” I folded my hands protectively in my lap.
She clutched her purse against her chest and dug inside. “I’d like to hire you. I hear you’re quite the seamstress, and word around town says your love of animals is akin to Noah’s. I don’t trust my llamas to just anyone. This is a compliment.” Her snub nose wrinkled. Life under the harsh Louisiana sun had leathered her cheeks and spotted her arms. She smoothed a piece of paper against a bare spot on my desk. “I need twenty-four leg warmers for my girls. We’re putting on an old-fashioned farmer’s parade down Old River Road.”
“A llama parade?”
“A livestock parade. My girls are just one component, but they’re accustomed to being the stars. I’d like to keep the tradition.”
“A livestock parade?” This was new. Was it some kind of trick? I scanned the room for hidden cameras.
She huffed. “There’s plenty of young families and elderly folks who still farm my area and can’t or won’t come into the city for festivities. The Llama Mamas don’t think they should miss out. Do you?”
“No, ma’am.” My mind scrambled for a polite reason to decline her proposal. This was what southerners called a rock-and-a-hard-place situation. “My mother would kill me” was neither a professional nor grown-up reason to decline her offer, but obeying my mama was nonnegotiable. Going against her, which Mrs. Hams must have known she was asking, would put a smudge on my reputation as well as Mom’s. In southern law, the “respect your mama” rule was followed closely by the “behave because you represent your family name” rule. Of course, if I named Mom as the reason for passing on the Llama Mama offer, Mom would be furious with me for bringing her into it. Tension coiled in the pit of my stomach. I smiled sweetly and brought out my best manners. “I’m honored, Mrs. Hams, but I don’t believe I’m the best choice for this job.”
Though, I could use the money in case Detective Oliver didn’t get his butt in gear. It had been two days since Miguel’s murder. Were the police making any progress?
“Nonsense.” She pointed to the paper placed on my desk. A stick figure animal with four legs and curly hair anchored the page. Each leg wore a design from ankle to knee. “We need them made of something airy. It’s hot out there. Nothing too cumbersome, but make them flashy. Everyone loves flashy. Spare no expense. You can bill me at this address.” She slid a business card across the desk with the drawing. “If you’re opposed to leaving the city, I can have someone pick them up or you can have them delivered. The country’s not for everyone.”
“I enjoy the country,” I said, bristling. “I couldn’t do the job without meeting the girls. I’ve never worked with llamas before. I don’t know their temperaments or how much material they’re likely to put up with. I’d want to see their coats against the color choices and take measurements.” Jeez. This wasn’t amateur hour. Did she think I’d whip something up without meeting them and send it off with no details or research? Obviously I wasn’t a livestock professional, but I had ethics. I had standards. There was a process involved. My thoughts wandered as I tried to imagine myself fitting llamas for leg warmers.
“Miss Crocker?” She scowled.
I bit my lip. “Hmm?” Clearly, I’d missed something.
“I asked how soon you can come for the measurements.”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid I can’t.” I raced back through the conversation. “I have a packed schedule this week. I can’t possibly prepare twenty-four leg warmers.”
“I’m in no rush. Take two weeks. Come Friday afternoon for the measurements. I’ll serve sweet tea and shortcakes. I’ll have the girls groomed and ready for company.” She pulled a stack of cash from her purse. “We’d like you on retainer. This should be enough to get started.” She set the money on my desk. “Mr. Tater assures me you’re a dedicated, talented young woman and you’ll be an asset to the Mamas. Now don’t be late.” She disappeared through the stockroom door without a good-bye.
Mr. Tater had put her up to this? I warmed at the thought. He needed to distance his name from the murder, but he still wanted to help me. Hope lifted my chest. He believed in Furry Godmother, and so did I.
I grabbed the phone and left messages with two more banks about securing a small business loan. Just enough to get past this mess and back on track.
“Lacy?” Paige’s voice drifted down the short hallway.
I imagined my mom’s face on the cash before me. I snatched it off the desk and folded it around Ms. Hams’s business card and drawing. I tucked both into my top desk drawer. “Coming!” I hastened into the studio.
Soft jazz filled the cozy space. Paige’s phone rested in a speaker dock on the counter where she stood with a girl her age. “Hey.” She waved me closer. “Lacy, this is Mack. She works at the Barrel Room.”
“Ah.” My memory kicked into gear. I smiled at the young lady who’d served Scarlet and me dinner. “Right. We met last night. What brings you by?”
Mack lifted and dropped one shoulder. “Paige said it’s important you find out what happened to Miguel. I told her I’d help if I could, plus I need a gift for my mom’s tabby.”
I beamed at Paige. “That’s fantastic.”
Mack drifted toward the bakery display. “Got anything for finicky cats?”
“Always.” I didn’t tell her that “finicky cats” was redundant. Better to stay on her good side until I knew what she knew. “Most felines love my tuna tarts. Oh, or how about some purrlines. They look like pralines, but I make them for kitties. Everything is organic a
nd safe. I color them with berry extract.”
She cocked a narrow eyebrow. “I thought you made pet clothes.”
“I do, but I also enjoy baking. How about a tiara?” I led her to a display of rhinestone headpieces. “If you think she might be interested in something specific, I can give her a call or invite her in for a consult.”
Mack fingered the tiaras. “Maybe.” She didn’t look convinced.
I turned to Paige for a little help with her friend.
“Mack,” Paige said, dropping three purrlines into a bakery box and tying it with a satin ribbon, “you said Miguel had a girlfriend at the restaurant?” She handed the box across the counter.
Mack helped herself to a tiara and stacked it on the box. “Her name’s Sunshine, but if you ask me, she’s more like a hurricane and not the good kind from Pat O’Brien’s. I heard her say she’s staying late tonight. If you want to talk to her about Miguel, stop by after ten. I’ll let you in.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get a bag?”
Paige whipped a logoed shopping bag into the air and set Mack’s booty inside. “Thanks again. We really appreciate it.”
Mack gave me a look and left.
Paige bounced on her toes. “What do you think?”
“I think Sunshine had better be there tonight. That information just cost me fifty bucks in merchandise.”
“Aww.” Paige pushed her bottom lip out and wrapped a long arm around my shoulders. “How about I buy you an ice cream before your three o’clock session?”
“I could probably eat some ice cream.”
She tugged me against her side. “I’ll pick it up and bring it back here. We can make a plan for Sunshine’s interrogation and decide what to tell your mom about Ms. Hams’s visit.”
“Blah.” I’d temporarily, conveniently, forgotten about that. “You’d better make mine a double scoop. Chocolate.”
Chapter Seven
Furry Godmother’s pro tip: Let sleeping dogs lie.
I drove along Mable Feller’s street more slowly than necessary. She’d placed a custom order for her blue ribbon–winning Himalayan and elderly French bulldog more than a month ago—weeks before Mrs. Neidermeyer had asked me to make the tutus, which normally would have been Mable’s assignment. Call it paranoia, but the idea she might’ve hired Miguel to destroy me had crossed my mind a time or two. The same part of me understood the theory was ridiculous. The shamelessly cynical part reminded me of all the heinous crimes committed by folks no one had ever suspected.
Before I opened Furry Godmother in April, all pet fashion orders went directly to Mable. She’d been sewing much longer than I’d been alive, but her designs were straight off of Little House on the Prairie, completely without flair. The district wanted pizazz, and zhushing up was my specialty.
I parked in the drive at Mable’s Audubon Boulevard estate and gathered my things. The handsome brick Dutch Colonial was loaded with natural lighting thanks to an abundance of windows and Louisiana in July. Her lush garden was the envy of half my mother’s social circle.
Humidity curled around my skin like a wet blanket as I slid from my car into the thick summer air. An instant bead of sweat formed along my temple. Most people hated the stifling subtropic temperatures of the Deep South, but I found them invigorating. Some of my best memories happened on days like these. I adjusted my bag over one shoulder and a slow smile spread over my face.
“You look like you’re up to no good.” Mable’s knowing voice staunched my nostalgia. She stood on the opposite side of her garden gate, stroking her Himalayan, Miss Peabody.
“No, ma’am.” My smile widened. Caught thinking of a midnight swim with my closest friends on graduation night.
“Well, fess up. What was that cat-that-ate-the-canary face about?”
“The heat.” I headed her way. “Sometimes I’m slapped with a memory that makes me wonder how I ever forgot.”
She looked me over from head to toe and freed a tiny garment bag from my fingertips.
“Would you like me to stay and check the fit?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” Mable motioned me down an uneven cobblestone walk to a grand courtyard. The knotted roots of grand oak trees had long ago shoved the pavers into random peaks. “You know, we’re all glad you didn’t marry that doctor. You don’t belong in Virginia. You belong here.” She released the gate, and it snapped shut behind her. “With us.”
The moment reeked of horror movie openings. I dragged my gaze from the gate to her decided expression. “I’m not sorry I went, but I’m certainly happy to be back. Life lessons and all that.”
She nodded.
Happy or not, coming home had felt like defeat. It was practically a miracle Mr. Tater agreed to sign for my lease. He didn’t know me, but he knew business, and he gave me a chance. Furry Godmother would still be a dream without him. All the more reason to clear my name and his simultaneously.
* * *
A raspy bark drew my attention.
“Oh dear.” Mable shifted her cat into one arm. “There you are, Sir Peter.” She opened the glass door to her sunroom and released the Kraken.
A squat, white bulldog with tall bat ears and a square head rumbled through the open doorway, circled Mable’s feet a hundred times, and headed for me. He huffed in the heat, licking his flat nose and rolling on the bright-red pavers in a flurry of energy and clowning. “Woof!”
“You remember Sir Peter,” Mable said. Sir Peter Piccadilly of Audubon was an elderly French Bulldog who thought he was a puppy.
I fell at his side, depositing my bags in a pile. “Yes, I do.” I rubbed his belly as he writhed on his back. “He’s a good boy. Yes, he is.”
He sneezed and rolled onto his tummy, his little piggy tail flipping and whacking as he huffed and panted.
I rubbed behind his ears and squinted into the sun. “I think he’s worn himself out.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll be still while I dress him. The costumes need to be perfect. I’m hosting the next Daughters of the Confederacy dinner and I’d like a portrait of these darlings on display.”
Sir Peter rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. The tip of his pink tongue poked free.
Mable scooped him into her arms with a grunt.
Miss Peabody stretched away, growling in complaint. “I’ll only be a moment.” She retrieved the discarded garment bag and headed for the house.
“Okie dokie.” I dusted myself off and went to explore the tiny waterfall in her garden where honeybees swept in and out of massive vibrant blooms climbing her trellis.
The glass door rattled open several minutes later, and Mable emerged. Miss Peabody was in one hand and Sir Peter was in the other. Mable’s sleek, platinum bob was tussled, her silk tunic slightly askew. “Perfect,” she trilled.
I met her halfway and gathered Miss Peabody into my hands, enjoying the feel of soft downy fur between my fingers. Her aqua belle gown and coordinating wide-brimmed hat were painfully adorable. “Well, aren’t you the bee’s knees, Miss Peabody.” Pride welled in me as I arranged her gown over four tiny paws. I had spent hours hoping to impress Mable with the ensembles she had ordered. The verdict was still out on her, but I’d definitely impressed myself.
Mable settled Sir Peter on a bench beside her trellis. “There now.” She smoothed his waistcoat and adjusted the snub brim on his matching hat. “Who’s a handsome boy?”
Sir Peter panted. His tongue curled skyward and bounced in his open mouth.
I set Miss Peabody beside him. “They look lovely.”
Mable hummed. “I can see why Neidermeyer asked you to do the tutus. You have a gift.”
Guilt reared in my chest. “I’m sorry if it was poor form to accept the tutu job. In Arlington, it’s every woman for herself, but I know that’s not the case here, and I probably should have asked you how you felt about it before agreeing.” The last thing I wanted was to step on any toes or start any gossip that might tarnish my name professionally. Furry G
odmother would be doomed before it had a chance. Reputation was everything in a community as tight as ours, plus I valued good manners. “I should’ve come to you.”
“It’s fine. I’ve always wanted to take up needlepoint. Now I can. Besides,” she said motioning to the tiny couple before us, “I couldn’t have done anything like this. The workmanship is outstanding. The stitches are so tight and small, I barely see them. The details are magnificent. You’re very good, Lacy. Very, very good.”
I hoped the blazing heat hid my blush. “Thank you.” The feeling she’d more likely hug me than hurt me settled in my chest.
“How are you holding up this week? It’s terrible what you went through.”
The words startled me. I hadn’t had time to think of how the ordeal affected me beyond my business. I took an internal inventory. I was stressed, sleep deprived, and crazy enough to suspect a nice, old lady of putting a hit on me. “I haven’t opened the back door since that night. I’d be better if the detective assigned to the case would investigate someone other than me.”
“Darling,” she cooed, “I’d give my prized hydrangea to be investigated by Jack Oliver, if you know what I mean.”
* * *
I left with my fill of sweet tea and a basket of fresh berries from Mable’s garden. I wouldn’t need much in the way of dinner, which meant more time to get dressed for the after party at the Barrel Room. Detective Oliver’s warning wouldn’t keep me away two nights in a row.
When I found my favorite little black dress in an unopened drycleaner bag, I knew the day was blessed. I had a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner while leaning over the sink, so as not to dirty any dishes; brushed my teeth; and ironed my hair to flat perfection. A quick glance in the hall mirror confirmed it. I looked nearly as good as I felt. Those Barrel Room workers would never know what hit them.
I grabbed my purse and strode out the door like I belonged on a runway. Chin up, shoulders back.
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