“It’s true,” Beatrice agreed. “And what they don’t own, they’re trying to get their hands on.”
Something clicked just then. I’d spied the letter of intent when I straightened the newspapers in Ruby’s home and wondered why she’d stashed it between the front section of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter and the want ads. It didn’t seem like the best place to keep an important document if she wanted to sell the property.
“To be honest, I’m not sure Ruby took the letter of intent very seriously,” I said. “She stored it with the old newspapers, like it was trash or something.”
“Hmmm. Really?” He paused to consider it. “Then again, I can’t say I’m too surprised. Ruby never liked formalities. She’d rather shake hands than sign a document. That’s how they do things out on the river.”
“Did she ever answer you?” I asked.
“No, not really. And to tell you the truth, it worried me. Especially since—”
At that moment, the door to my studio burst open. Hank’s voice trailed off as we all turned to acknowledge the sound.
Of all the times for a client to rush into the studio, why did it have to be now?
Chapter 10
“Bonjour, people. Bonjour.” Sabine d’Aulnay bustled into the room, her coat a red blur against all the white on the display tables.
Today she wore an expensive St. John suit with tufted cuffs and collar, and she carried an oversized Louis Vuitton satchel in the exact same shade of red.
It was hard to know where to look first…at the over-the-top suit, which featured dozens of tiny safety pins stabbed into the hem, or at her eyes, which bore into mine as she rushed up to the counter.
“I know I’m early,” she breezed, “but I was in the neighborhood, and I hate to waste time. Thought I might as well stop in for my appointment.”
She didn’t bother to acknowledge either Beatrice or Hank.
“Good morning.” I spoke slowly, hoping to stall her pace a little. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Of course it is.” She plunked her enormous handbag on the counter, which nearly toppled Beatrice’s coffee cup. “I need to talk to you about my veil.”
“I see.” I made a point of acknowledging Hank first. “I take it you’ve met Mr. Dupre? He’s a local Realtor, and he owns the old Sweetwater mansion.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” She gave him a cursory nod. “Now, about my order—”
“And you met Beatrice yesterday,” I said brightly, not the least bit concerned about the way her eyes narrowed. Although I wanted to stay on Sabine’s good side, since she was paying for my services, that didn’t mean I had to suffer her rudeness in silence.
“Yes, yes. How are you?” She didn’t wait for Beatrice to respond. “I’d like to get ahold of that sketch you’re working on. The one for my veil.”
“But we only spoke about it yesterday.” Surely she didn’t expect me to have a full design finished by now. Even she couldn’t be that demanding. Could she?
“I know, but something came up, and I want to show it to my father. If you don’t have a drawing ready, at least give me the Tiffany ad back.”
“Of course. I put it in my workroom.”
“Looks like you two ladies have business to conduct.” Hank slowly moved away from us, as gallant as ever, despite the snub by Sabine. “I’ll call you later, Beatrice.”
“Hold up, Uncle Hank.” Since she’d spotted a chance to make a clean getaway, Beatrice seized it. “You forgot your Starbucks.” She grabbed the cup and leapt off the stool, her footwork surprisingly fast for someone who’d lounged at the counter only a moment before.
“But…” My voice faltered as Beatrice disappeared through the exit. Although I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get away from Sabine, I didn’t relish the thought of being left alone with our newest bridezilla.
“That’s okay.” Sabine sniffed dismissively. “We don’t need them anyway.”
“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, and I’ll go grab the ad.” I tried to sound as agreeable as possible. “It’ll only take me a second.”
I hurried to the workroom to retrieve the page. Before I returned to the studio, though, I quickly grabbed a pen from my drafting table and scribbled the phone number for Crowning Glory in the upper right-hand corner. That would make it easy for Sabine to get in touch with me afterward.
When I reentered the studio, I spied the girl by a display table near the front door. She held a riding crop in her right hand, which she swished against her thigh. The whip served as a prop for a display I’d created that focused on outdoor weddings.
Thwack! After slapping her thigh one last time, she finally noticed me. “Why in the world do you keep this here?”
“Because it goes with the white top hat and kid gloves. It’s a whole equestrian theme.”
“How…clever.” She carelessly tossed the crop back on another table, where it landed with a thud. “Seems kind of silly, though. Anyone who rides will know that’s a driving whip. You should’ve used a dressage whip, which is a lot fancier.”
“Trust me, I know all about whips.” By now, she’d worn my patience thinner than the mother-of-pearl veneer on the crop’s handle. “I learned all about horseback riding when I was in college.”
Like any good Vanderbilt girl, I attended the Kentucky Derby every year, and I’d designed oodles of Derby hats for my sorority sisters. Those experiences taught me everything I needed to know about riding, including what crops to use for different events. “I chose a driving whip because I wanted a long lash for the display. The handle on a dressage whip is much too short.”
“Hmph. I guess you do know.” She seemed surprised but determined not to show it. “Anyway, thanks for getting me the ad. I’d like to show it to my dad.”
“No problem.” I gingerly handed over the magazine clip. “I can probably come up with a design for your veil by next week. I’ll work on it over the weekend.”
“Why don’t you hold off.” She accepted the paper just as gingerly as I’d proffered it. “Let’s see what my father says first. He might want me to go in a different direction, and I wouldn’t want you to waste your time.”
“You’re the client. Just let me know what he says.”
She pulled a cell from the pocket of her pricey suit and checked its screen. “I’ve got to get going. Planning a wedding takes soooo much work.” She grabbed her satchel and twirled away from me, the oversized bag nearly grazing my elbow.
“Should I wait for your call, then?” I called out, as she moved through the studio.
“Fine. Whatever. Au revoir!”
“Good-bye.”
An uneasy feeling washed over me the moment she stepped through the exit. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the Tiffany ad, and then she abruptly left. Not only that, but why did she want to show her father a picture of someone else’s veil—albeit a beautiful one with oodles of sparkly diamonds—when most fathers didn’t even see a wedding dress, let alone a veil, before the big day? Surely Christophe d’Aulnay had more important things to worry about, like his most recent business woes.
“Is she gone?” Beatrice peeked around the front door a few moments later.
“Yep, she’s gone. She just left.”
“Whew! I thought I’d have to spend time with her for sure.” Beatrice gingerly stepped over the welcome mat, as if she didn’t quite believe me. “But as long as she’s not coming back…”
“No, she’s not coming back. She hightailed it out of here as soon as I gave her the ad.”
“That was a little strange.” Beatrice began to cross the floor, but she stopped short of the display table with the equestrian theme. “And what happened here? Something’s missing.”
“That was Sabine’s handiwork. She tossed the riding crop on another table when she was done playing with it. And I agre
e with you. I can’t imagine why she’d want to show the ad to her father.”
“Look on the bright side.” Beatrice snatched the crop from the wrong table and returned it to its rightful place. “The day can only go up from here.”
“Agreed. So, what’s on your plate today?”
“I thought I’d do that inventory report you asked me about. We don’t have any more appointments this morning, so I can check out the storage closet.”
“That’s right. I forgot all about that.” Between the hubbub with Ruby’s passing, not to mention the surprise appearance of Sabine d’Aulnay, I’d forgotten all about the routine chores that still needed attention, like the inventory report.
We reordered our supplies every October, at the close of the wedding season. By then, the storage closet looked like a windswept prairie after a tornado, completely bare and sprinkled with dust. Oh, there might be a few bolts of Belgian lace left, or a cupful of Swarovski crystals, or maybe a flattened tube of PVA glue, but that was about it.
It wasn’t due to a lack of planning. We started off strong every May, with enough supplies to get us through the busy summer months. But then the unexpected always showed up on our doorstep, right in the middle of the wedding season. Two years ago, it was a fashion show, which completely wiped out the shop’s supply of taffeta, bobby pins, and dress tape, while last summer’s surprise involved a wedding with twenty-four bridesmaids and twenty-four elaborate fascinators. Our stock of seed pearls never did recover after that.
“Thanks for reminding me about the inventory,” I said. “And I’ve to get some new hat stands for a display I’ve been thinking about.”
“Gotcha. I’ll start a list.”
While Beatrice moved behind the counter, I headed for the workroom out back. It was time to tackle my own projects for the day.
First up was a one-of-a-kind fascinator for a second-time bride. The client planned to hold a destination wedding in the Caribbean, and she’d requested something with a tropical vibe. Silk flowers, maybe? Come to think of it, I could craft hibiscuses out of silk and attach them to a cap of French needlepoint lace.
The trick was to find the right fabric stiffener. I headed for my recipe box, which I kept in a bookcase behind the drafting table. My fingers flew past recipes for fabric dyes, feather curlers, and permanent glues until I arrived at one for fabric stiffener. This particular recipe came courtesy of a French milliner who hired me to work at her atelier one summer.
Silk Flower Stiffener
1. Bring 14 ounces water to a boil.
2. Mix 4 tsp cornstarch with 4 tsp water to create a thin paste.
3. Pour paste into boiling water.
4. Keep stirring until the mixture boils & thickens.
5. Trickle in 8 tsp PVA glue and stir until all are combined.
6. Pour into a glass bottle and cool. Voilà!
Once I brought some water to boil on a hot plate and added the cornstarch and glue, I poured the mixture into an old Coke bottle I kept just for that purpose. Then I set about cutting the petals for my hibiscuses, a painstaking process that involved needlepoint scissors and a steady hand.
I was right in the middle of fashioning the very last flower when Beatrice walked into the workroom.
“Ooohhh.” She stood in front of a corkboard I’d fashioned into a holder for the finished product. A dozen flowers filled holes I’d drilled into the board. “Those flowers are beautiful! They look like they came from someone’s garden.”
“Wait until they dry. The silk will lighten up and get all shiny.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said, “but it’s lunchtime. I thought we’d get something to eat.”
I paused, torn by the offer, since I only had two more flowers to go. Maybe Beatrice was right, though. I counted on her to drag me away from the drafting table whenever I got too caught up in my work. Otherwise, I tended to skip meals, which wasn’t good for my health, as everyone was quick to remind me.
I quickly glanced at my cell, which I’d stashed on a far corner of the table, safely away from the glue. Two whole hours had passed since I first entered the workroom. “I had no idea it was so late! Guess time got away from me. No wonder my head hurts. I haven’t had a thing to eat today.”
“Missy.” She gave me the same look Ambrose always used when he didn’t approve of my carelessness. “You’ve got to eat something. Plus, you’ve been breathing glue fumes all morning.” She leaned over the flower in my hand and inhaled. “Pee-yew. That stuff can’t be good for you.”
“I opened a window.” I tried not to sound defensive, but it wasn’t easy. “You don’t have to act like I’m two years old. But you’re right about lunch. Why don’t we head into town? My treat.” I held up my glue-smeared hand. “Once I clean up, that is.”
“Sounds good. I’ll forward our calls to my cell and turn around the welcome sign in the window.”
While Beatrice left to close the shop, I headed for a sink across the way. It took three passes with Palmolive soap and a washcloth, but I finally removed the goop from my fingers. Afterward, I returned to the studio, where I found Beatrice waiting for me by the front door. She quickly extinguished the overheads when I arrived, and darkness engulfed the studio.
The parking lot seemed especially bright after that, with shards of sunshine that careened off the windshields and into my eyes. Noise abounded—tires crunching against pebbly tar, horns blaring as people tried to form a makeshift line by the exit, and country music coming from a pickup somewhere up ahead.
Once we hopped into Ringo, my VW, I patiently joined a bottleneck that formed by the exit. Before long, I steered onto Highway 18.
The saw-toothed outline of the Factory gradually disappeared from the rearview mirror as we traveled farther down the road.
“Why don’t we go to Miss Odilia’s place?” Beatrice watched the scenery pass by.
“I don’t know. I’ve been eating there a lot lately. I mean, a whole lot.”
“You could always order something different,” she said. “You know, she makes more than fried chicken and butter biscuits.”
“Bite your tongue! Her drumsticks trump anyone else’s, and her biscuits melt in your mouth. But maybe you’re right. I could go crazy and order a salad today.”
The decision made, I steered the car toward Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. Before long, a trio of pre–World War II bungalows painted in cotton-candy colors appeared on the right, which meant the restaurant was nearby.
The owners had converted the prewar houses into different shops. Glamour Girls’ Nails came first, followed by Patsy’s Puppy Palace, which featured paw prints on the window shades. The third bungalow housed the Kut N’ Kurl, where Louella Caouette provided fancy updos, blond highlights, and the like.
Louella’s place shared a wall with Uncle Billy’s Self-Storage, which was a business I’d recently visited.
It happened a few months back, when I helped a construction worker load architectural elements into a unit there. At the time, I thought maybe the man stole the corbels, shutters, and whatnot, since several featured the distinctive crest of Dogwood Manor on the wood.
But that was yet another story for another time and place.
I cast one last glance through the passenger window as we moved past the pastel bungalows. Oddly enough, tan butcher paper covered the window of the Kut N’ Kurl, and someone had tried to scrape off a pair of scissors painted onto the front door.
“Look at that.” Beatrice must’ve noticed the change too. “Guess Louella finally decided to retire.”
“Retire? I didn’t know she wanted to retire.”
“Yep. She wants to move to Boca. Uh-oh.” For some reason, Beatrice’s voice had grown soft. “You’d better turn into the parking lot, Missy.”
I did as she asked and turned the steering wheel right. Once we made it safely
into the lot, I pulled in front of the beauty salon and cut the engine. “Can I ask what we’re doing here?”
“Look.” She pointed at something just outside the passenger window, and I followed her gaze.
More butcher paper covered the lower half of the Kut N’ Kurl’s front door. On it, someone had printed COMING SOON in capital letters, followed by Goode Hat-i-tude in fancy script.
“What in the world?” I said. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
Beatrice didn’t bother to respond, since a drawing of a hat appeared over the very last letter of the new store’s name. The crude drawing left no question as to what the shop would sell.
“Wow,” she finally said. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know Louella was retiring. Remember?” I continued to stare at the sign, as if that might change its message. “I had no idea someone was going to open a hat shop around here.”
I worried my lower lip as I contemplated the sign. The name sounded oddly familiar. Too familiar—especially with a hat sketched over the last E. “I have a bad feeling about this, Bea. I think I know who’s behind it.”
Chapter 11
Beatrice couldn’t stop staring at the hand-drawn sign either. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. I’ll bet you anything it’s that fashion blogger from New Orleans.”
More than a year ago, Ambrose had taken me to Commander’s Palace in New Orleans for our first date. Everything was wonderful until a stranger tried to hijack the night by approaching our table and asking Ambrose for an interview. The stranger’s name was Antonella Goode, and she owned a website called Southern Comforts.
The blogger twice asked Ambrose to give her an interview on the spot, and twice he refused. At one point, Bo tried to divert her attention to me, since he wanted to give my new hat shop some much-needed publicity. He even suggested the stranger give me a call the following week and arrange to interview me, instead of him.
All Hats on Deck Page 9