by Julie Chase
“Maybe,” Jack said. “It’s too soon to know anything for sure right now. I have one hundred witnesses, but no one saw anything more than we did.”
My heart skipped as I realized he didn’t know about Eva. “Eva Little was in the balcony. She must’ve seen who did this.” A shiver rocked through my frame. Eva could’ve walked right past the killer.
Jack jerked his chin upward. He scanned the room before sweeping his gaze higher into the balcony. “Eva?” he called through the white noise around us. “Eva Little.”
She appeared in the balcony, moving slowly to the edge with a grimace. “Here.”
“Don’t move,” he warned.
She nodded, then took a seat, nearly vanishing from sight once more.
“I’ll be right back,” Jack said. “I’ve got to talk to her. Wait here.” Jack jogged back up the aisle.
I ran after him.
The peal of feedback from a microphone stopped us short. “Attention, pageant participants,” a male voice announced. “This is Miles Mackey, your new MC, speaking. Please report to the lobby for an important update.”
The suspects rose to their feet.
Jack swiped a megaphone off the floor and clicked it on. “Everyone is to remain seated until you’ve been dismissed by a member of the New Orleans Police Department.”
A unified groan rolled through the auditorium.
Jack hefted the megaphone again. “We’ll do all we can to get through this as quickly as possible. Until then, we need your full cooperation. Thank you.”
Jack handed me the megaphone and headed for the overzealous man with the mic.
I jogged along beside him.
He stopped inches from Miles Mackey. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Mackey switched the mic off and stroked his beard. “I’m stepping up,” he said. “According to pageant bylaws, the head judge moves up in the event of the MC’s absence. I’m head judge. Viktor’s absent. I stepped up.”
I made a face and suppressed the urge to take his mic. “Jeez.”
Mom motored into view several feet away. Mrs. Smart and the committee ladies trailed behind her like ducklings. She stopped at my side. “This is terrible.”
Jack braced broad hands over narrow hips and fixed her with his steely gaze. “Where were you and your committee members when Viktor fell, Mrs. Crocker?” he asked. “Did you see anything that can help me find out what happened up there?”
“The committee and I were in the lobby,” she said, “helping owners secure pets so they could line up for lunch.”
“Were all the ladies with you? Minus Lacy and Eva?”
“Yes. I think so.” She frowned. “Where’s Eva?”
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Reece Ann answered. “She went to get a bottle of water and a pair of aspirin. I told her it might help her to put her feet up and cool off a bit too.”
Mom raised then dropped her palms. “I had no idea.”
Jack didn’t look impressed. He tipped his head at Mackey and his microphone. “I’ll let you take care of this one, Mrs. Crocker.”
“Indeed,” Mom said, moving closer to Mackey, who slowly backed away.
Jack dashed toward the staircase where I’d watched Viktor disappear an hour before.
I stayed on his heels.
We stalled at the sight of a member of theater security on the landing with Eva.
“What’s happening?” Mom asked.
I jumped.
Mom and her entire crew were only a few steps behind us. Mom had Mackey’s microphone in her hand.
“Eva was in the balcony when Viktor fell,” I whispered.
“Oh dear.”
I drew back a step to join her. “It doesn’t mean anything,” I said, “except that she might be our only lead to what really happened up there.”
Jack stopped at Eva’s side and spoke quietly to the security member who was holding her.
Mom and I crowded onto the landing with them. The rest of the committee edged in around us.
“Eva didn’t do this,” Mom said. “Surely you don’t think otherwise, Detective Oliver.”
Jack pointed down the steps.
We all moved back a few inches.
“I hate to interrupt you all watching your friend get arrested,” Mackey called from the bottom of the steps, “but if this place is a crime scene, we’re going to need a new venue for the show to go on.” He tapped an overpolished dress shoe on the historic marble floor. His voice ricocheted off the high walls and arched ceiling.
“Good heavens,” Mom gasped. “He’s right, and opening ceremonies begin in forty-eight hours!” She flipped through the pages on her clipboard. “We can’t possibly move an event this size to a new venue in that amount of time.”
“Have to,” Miles stated.
“Shh!” we all yelled back.
Mom closed her eyes and bowed her head. She looked up a moment later with fire in her eyes. “We won’t be far, Eva,” she said, turning slowly back toward the lobby and gesturing for the rest of the committee and me to follow. She fixed her hot stare on Miles Mackey. “It’s not right. There should be a mourning period or a memorial,” she suggested. “Viktor was the face of this event. It’s callous to go on as if nothing monumental has happened. That’s not how we do things here. We celebrate life after a loss.”
Miles shrugged. “So we’ll add a memorial to the opening ceremonies, but the show can’t be canceled, and it can’t go on without a new venue. Do you know how many people spent all the money they had to participate in this thing? How many tickets we’ve sold? How many hotels are at maximum capacity with tourists arriving specifically for this event? The show must go on.”
Emotion bubbled hotly in my chest. Mom was right, but so was Miles. “I’ll run to Viktor’s dressing room,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find that folder he carried with him every morning and look for his schedules and itineraries, anything we can use to stay on track.” I grabbed Mom’s hand. “Who owes you a favor? Where can we get a venue this size by Tuesday evening?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I have to think.”
“While you’re at it, think of where we can get about a million fresh flyers with the new address.” Wherever that would be. “The ladies can make calls to relocate staff and redirect traffic. Local media will make the announcement on air and in the paper when they cover the story, because you know they’ll be here the second they hear about this.”
Mom nodded slowly, color returning to her cheeks. “You’re right.” She locked her emotion-filled gaze to mine. “We can do this. Go get the playbook from Viktor’s dressing room. We’ll start there. I’ll tell Eva not to say another word until her lawyer arrives; then I’ll start calling in favors.”
I chewed my lip, attention back on Miles. Was he truly invested in keeping the event on schedule, or did he have another motive for taking over Viktor’s role so quickly? Perhaps right after he’d pushed him off the balcony?
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Then move it.”
I hurried down the narrow hall to Viktor’s dressing room and slipped inside. The space was neat as a pin and smelled distinctly of ginger and turmeric. I shuffled a stack of papers on his desk and opened a few drawers, trying not to be any more invasive than absolutely necessary. Where was that playbook? Hopefully not in the balcony. The police would surely confiscate it as evidence if he’d had it with him at his time of death. I struggled to recall whether or not he’d had it with him when I’d watched him climb the stairs.
I tugged the bottom desk drawer halfway open and it stuck. “What on earth?” I slid my hand inside to dislodge the errant flap of an envelope. A three-ring binder lay inside. NATIONAL PET PAGEANT, NEW ORLEANS was typed across the cover. “Bingo.”
I liberated the playbook and froze when the problematic envelope came into full view. A horde of one-hundred-dollar bills poked out of the open flap. I grabbed the wa
d of cash and thumbed through it, baffled. “This is thirty-eight thousand dollars,” I whispered. I’d never seen so many one hundreds anyplace without a teller.
Why did a pet pageant MC have that kind of money lying around at work?
Sickness coiled through my middle. Maybe Viktor’s death was more complicated than someone looking for his resignation. Maybe someone had thirty-eight thousand reasons to want him dead.
Chapter Three
Furry Godmother’s fun fact: New Orleans is home to Voodoo. She lives with Dr. & Mrs. Crocker.
My phone buzzed to life in my pocket. I liberated the device and flipped it over. The face of my former nanny and current shopkeep graced the screen. “Hi, Imogene,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“Lacy?” She sighed long and loud. “I had a bad feeling down in my socks, so I called to warn you.”
Imogene was from a long line of mystics, shamans, and other things I didn’t believe in or understand. I tried not to ask too many questions.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “It’s been a bad morning, but Mom and I are okay. Do you need anything?”
“Yes, please. Your store is swamped, and I’m just one fabulous person. I can’t possibly keep up on my own.”
“Okay.” I looked at my watch. With rehearsal canceled, I had no reason to stay, as long as Jack approved my dismissal. I had a sneaking feeling he’d be glad to see me away from the crime scene. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I returned the envelope to Viktor’s desk and closed the drawer. “I won’t be long.”
“You betcha,” she answered, whether to me or in answer to an unheard question at the store I couldn’t say.
I disconnected and locked the dressing room door behind me on my way out. The next person to wander inside might be tempted to take that envelope of cash. I was certainly tempted, but not because I wanted to keep it. I wanted to show Jack in case the money was relevant to the case, but Jack hated when I disturbed evidence, and I was already worried I might be the reason he’d started buying aspirin and antacids in bulk.
I came face-to-face with an arguing couple in the hallway. They stared wide-eyed. I recognized the young woman as one of Viktor’s assistants and the man as a cat owner.
I turned on my heels and headed in the opposite direction, taking the long route back to the lobby.
Mom’s voice cut through the white noise of a hundred hushed whispers. She and Mrs. Smart stood on the stairway landing with Eva and Jack. Their expressions were grim at best.
“Eva,” I called, climbing the steps as quickly as possible. “Did you see what happened?”
Tears pooled in her large brown eyes, but she didn’t speak.
Jack lifted a palm to stop me from getting closer. “Eva was seen fighting with Viktor this morning. She was in the balcony when he fell, and what appears to be one of her hairs was found on his jacket. She’s going to the station for a few more questions.”
Eva nodded. She pressed a crisp white handkerchief to her nose.
Mom huffed. “I told her not to speak again until her lawyer arrived.”
“Hey.” I pinned Eva with a meaningful stare. “I know you didn’t do this, and everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”
Mrs. Smart looked at Mom. “What? How?”
Mom rolled her head against one shoulder. “My daughter has an uncanny way of bringing out the truth in these kinds of situations, often at her own peril.”
I made a face, but couldn’t argue.
A pair of uniformed officers arrived on the steps beside me. “Detective Oliver?” one officer asked.
Jack stepped forward, one hand on Eva’s arm. “Take Miss Little in for questioning. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Eva tried to hand her handkerchief to Jack.
“Keep it,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
He turned his back to the officers as they led Eva away. “What? A gentleman always carries a handkerchief.”
“Do you always loan it to women you think are murderers?”
He pressed his mouth shut and edged me forward until we were several paces from my mother and Mrs. Smart. “I never said she was a murderer. I said we have more questions for her. What exactly are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” I blinked.
A vein bulged in his forehead. “You can’t go around announcing your intent to obstruct a murder investigation.”
I feigned shock. As if I hadn’t heard that line before. “I was offering comfort, not obstruction. That poor woman thinks she could be arrested for murder.”
He widened his stance. “I’ll handle this.”
“Okay, but Eva didn’t do it, and that’s the truth.”
Jack dipped his chin. “How about this? I’m going to follow the evidence and every tangible lead I come across until I find a truth that can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. And you’re going to let me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I spun away from him and headed back to Mom. “I’m going over to Furry Godmother now. I’ll be home all night if you need anything.” I kissed her cheek and handed her Viktor’s playbook. I didn’t need it where I was going.
She huffed again, but didn’t protest.
I climbed into my car two blocks away and piped the air-conditioning. Thirty years old or not, I felt like a helpless child, and I hated it. The splattered sauce stains on my shirt didn’t help. I forced images of the toppled lunch buffet and Viktor’s slack face from my mind with a shiver.
Stuck in a line of traffic at the next red light, I sent Jack a text to let him know I’d left the theater and to ask him to call me. I’d forgotten to tell him about the envelope of cash in Viktor’s desk drawer.
I pointed a vent at my face and eased along with traffic as the light changed. The temperature gauge on my dashboard read ninety-two. The real feel was probably much higher, and the humidity was at Amazonian levels.
Tourists moved in slow knots and clusters along the sidewalks of my district, snapping photos of themselves with store windows and local artists. Tension fell away in buckets as my shop drew near. Magazine Street was a feast for the senses and a hot spot of activities for anyone in the district. Six miles of eclectic, artsy, and inviting shops selling handcrafted items, clothing, jewelry, and everything in between. Cafés and restaurants peppered the strip, keeping shoppers refreshed and satiated.
NPP opening ceremonies banners hung from gas lampposts on both sides of the street as far as the eye could see. Our family cat, Voodoo, graced the centers in various costumes made by me. Voodoo was the official Garden District pet ambassador for the pageant. Mom had invented the position for promotional purposes, but it was the community who’d crowned Voodoo queen. Mom hadn’t even entered her in the contest.
Voodoo was the perfect choice for pet ambassador. She was the latest in a long line of sleek black cats to call the Crocker homestead her home. My great-grandpa had started the tradition when my grandpa was young and their black cat became ill. Instead of talking to Grandpa about things like sickness and death, he replaced the dying cat with an identical, albeit younger, match. Eventually, neighbors began to speculate about the local vet’s cat that never aged. Voodoo came up once or twice as a possible reason, and the name stuck. Three generations later, Voodoo was a family institution.
I parked my Volkswagen on the curb outside Furry Godmother and hustled along the sidewalk toward my shop. The door was held open by a mass of eager shoppers trying to get inside for one of my custom designs or fresh-baked goods. Not bad for a reformed runaway socialite.
I made a quick stop at the clothing boutique next door before going to work. I hated to stay away any longer than necessary when I knew Imogene needed my help, but my food-splattered T-shirt had to go.
Imogene was behind the bakery counter at Furry Godmother when I arrived a few minutes later in the newly purchased ensemble I hoped smelled less like white sauce and murder. She was detailing the lis
t of organic ingredients used in my peanut butter–and–bacon pawlines. Pawlines were an all-natural, canine-friendly answer to the famous New Orleans praline and came in a growing number of flavors. Purrlines were the kitty-preferred version.
My tabby, Penelope, met me at the counter.
“Hello, honey.” I rubbed her head and grabbed an apron. “Thank you for covering all these extra hours,” I called to Imogene. “I know you hate to work on Sundays.”
Imogene loved to claim the Lord’s day, but she never went to church. Normally, she spent the day with her best friend, Veda, who lived in the French Quarter and ran a magical cookie shop. Imogene had yet to tell me which was magical, the cookies or the shop. I didn’t push.
She smiled brighter without losing a beat on the ingredients list.
I welcomed guests and rang up sales until my cheeks ached from smiling. I’d opened Furry Godmother one year ago, and business had grown every month. It was hard to believe with the crowd at hand, but there had been a time last summer that I’d wondered if I could sell enough designs to keep the doors open. These days I worried more about how to keep up with demand, and this week in particular was my busiest so far. The entire world seemed to be in town for the pet pageant, and everyone wanted a piece of Furry Godmother now that my first few pet-friendly food items had gone into mass production with the famous Grandpa Smacker label on them.
Grandpa Smacker was a national condiment and sweets company with local offices and manufacturing. It was just one portion of the enormous inheritance Jack had received when his grandpa, “Grandpa Smacker,” died. Jack had asked me to advise on and contribute to a trial line of companion products for pets within the brand last fall, and so far, the trial had been a smashing success.
* * *
By closing time, happy hour and hungry tummies had thinned the herd. I’d sold more than thirty stuffed black kittens wearing tiny National Pet Pageant T-shirts and nearly worn out my new colored pencils designing personalized accessories for folks hoping to take something custom home to their furry loved ones.
I leaned over my full sketch pad on the counter. “There’s no human way I can make all these items by the weekend.”