by Julie Chase
Imogene hiked her purse over one shoulder and tossed her apron onto its hook. “You need to hire some help around here.”
I rolled my forehead against the cool laminate. “Writing a help-wanted ad takes time, reading applications takes time, interviewing …”
“So make time,” Imogene interrupted.
“Pfft.” I raised my head to make a face at her. “Now, that’s the one thing I definitely can’t make.”
“Your pecan pie could also use some work.”
“Hey!” I straightened. I’d brought a pecan pie to my parents’ house for dinner Friday night, and Imogene had been the first to dive in. I suddenly couldn’t remember if she’d finished her slice. “That pie was organic.”
Imogene rolled her eyes. “Sugar is organic,” she said, “and that pie could’ve used some.” She pointed to the far wall, where I kept the turtle tank and shop mascots. “I fed Brad and Angelina at lunchtime. They had their vitamin pellets, sliced heirloom strawberries, and mustard greens.”
“Thanks.” I deflated into a posture-ruining slouch.
She cocked her head and stepped closer. “You want to talk about what happened at the theater? Your mama said someone died.”
I released a long shaky breath, my traitorous eyes sliding for another peek in the trash where I’d tossed my food-splattered shirt at first opportunity. That was the thing about hiring my former nanny and mother’s current best friend. Very little in my life went under the radar. What Imogene couldn’t tell just by looking at me after eighteen years of making my life her business, my mom told her and vice versa. “Viktor Petrov, the pageant’s MC, fell from the balcony at lunch.” I fussed with the hem of my new cream camisole top, hastily purchased from the snooty clothing shop on my block, and blinked away the urge to cry. Crying never helped anything. “Jack’s looking at Eva as a suspect.”
“No.” Her eyes bulged. “The little brunette from your mother’s Welcoming Committee?”
“Yep.”
“She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
I lifted and dropped a heavy hand on the counter. “Try telling Jack that. He had her hauled to the station in a cop cruiser for questioning.”
“Surely you can help him see reason. That man is sweet on you, and anyone with eyes can see it.” She paused. “Except maybe you.” Her frown deepened. “And him.”
I opened the mini-fridge behind my counter and cracked open a bottle of water. “He told me to stay out of it. Refused to listen to me.” I sipped the water. “But I found thirty-eight thousand dollars in Viktor’s dressing room. Maybe he’ll listen to that.”
Imogene’s jaw went slack. “Where did the unfortunate soul get that kind of cash? Hit it big at Harrah’s?”
Harrah’s was the local casino, and more than a few people had made a bundle there. Plenty more went home broke.
“Maybe.” I’d have to think about the possibility that Viktor was a gambler later. If I thought about him too long, I’d be in tears all over again. “Looks like the bakery’s cleaned out.”
“Yes, indeed.” Imogene allowed my clunky subject change without protest. “Those Grandpa Smacker labels have everyone clamoring to get a pupcake. Signing that contract was the smartest business move you’ve ever made.”
I agreed, but I hadn’t signed the contract as a business strategy. I’d signed it to gain access to the company and help Jack with a personal investigation, but regardless of the reason, Imogene was right. Grandpa Smacker’s name was all I’d needed to get people into my store. Once they were in, they were thrilled to make purchases, and I loved to let them.
I shuffled around the counter on aching feet and flipped my OPEN sign to CLOSED. My white floor-to-ceiling shelves were nearly barren. Toppled and damaged boxes of make-it-at-home pupcake mixes were scattered on every flat surface. Brad and Angelina’s enchanted lagoon was painted with fingerprints. My delightful pink-and-green decor had lost its charm and whimsy. The only thing untouched by the crush of shoppers was the row of white chandeliers hanging overhead. “I’m going to be here all night,” I complained. “I need to get home and work on those design orders.”
“And bake,” Imogene said.
I dropped my head back and groaned at the ceiling. “And bake.” I straightened up and put on a smile. “Go see Veda. Tell her I’m sorry to have ruined your Sunday plans.” I dusted an empty shelf and reloaded it with supplies from behind my counter. “How’s she doing these days?” I liked to compare Veda and Imogene to my best friend, Scarlet, and me, except we weren’t remotely magical or planning to live to one hundred like Veda.
“Veda’s fine. We didn’t have plans this week. She went to Ohio to meet her granddaughter. She sent a letter first, but the girl never responded, so Veda thought meeting in person would help. Some people just don’t trust the things they get in the mail these days. For example, I was told that I’d inherited a small country once, but that turned out to be a scam.”
“You don’t say.”
“Mm-hmm.” Imogene set a hand on the doorknob. “Until Veda gets back, I’m in charge of feeding the cat. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help clean up? Nothing more you want to talk about?”
A low buzzing sound drew our attention to the floor. Penelope came into view, riding Spot, my Roomba robot vacuum. She lifted her chin, a queen on her throne, leading the cause to remove dirt and debris from my wide floor planking.
“No. We’re fine. Go on.” I shooed her outside. “Enjoy your evening.”
I moved to the window display and sprayed cleaner on the glass. “It’s just you and me,” I told Penelope, “and as soon as your ride is over, we’re out of here.”
I cleaned until I heard Spot play his victory song and redock to charge, then tucked Penelope into her soft-sided carrier for the ride home. I tried Eva’s cell phone on my way to the car. Maybe I could arrange for the committee to take her out for dinner or drinks. Anything to put an afternoon at the local police station behind her.
The call went directly to voice mail. I frowned at the screen. Why would her phone be turned off?
I flipped through my contacts and dialed my mom. If anyone would know what was happening with a Welcoming Committee lady, it would be her.
“Violet Conti-Crocker,” she answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she gushed. “Tell me you’ve gotten through to Jack and have Eva with you now. Bring her here. I’ll make hot toddies.”
I shook my head despite the fact that she couldn’t see me. “I can’t reach her. I was calling you to see what you’ve heard.”
“I’ve heard that Jack and his men are detaining the poor thing overnight,” she squeaked. “You need to get down to the theater and give your detective friend a firm crack on the head.”
“He’s not at the station with her?”
“No. He’s combing the crime scene.” She spewed the words as if they were ridiculous.
I hung my head. Sweet Eva would be traumatized for life after a night in a stinky jail cell with every manner of drunk, hooligan, and miscreant in the city. “Okay, Mom. I’ll see what I can do.”
I disconnected and dropped behind the wheel, wiping sweat from my brow after a whopping ten seconds outdoors. “Come on, sweetie,” I told Penelope as I powered down all the windows and cranked up the air-conditioning. “Grandma says we’ve got a head to crack.”
Chapter Four
Furry Godmother protip: Heavy stitching can ruin a look—and your night.
Jack was on the sidewalk outside the theater, surrounded by local reporters, when I arrived. He looked hot, bothered, and fresh out of patience, an unfortunate trifecta considering I’d come to argue with him. His gaze jumped to mine the minute I joined the fringe of onlookers, and he lifted his chin infinitesimally in acknowledgment. I raised my fingers waist-high in return. His eyes narrowed on the gesture, but he didn’t miss a beat in the delivery of his canned cop statement. “National Pet Pageant MC, Viktor Petrov, fell from the ba
lcony at lunchtime today and was pronounced dead at the scene. An investigation is under way. Yes, I’ve taken point on this. No, there are no further details at this time. Mostly because that is all I am at liberty or willing to share.” He ended with a sweeping glare, and the crowd broke away in muddled complaints.
I hurried in his direction, Penelope swinging contentedly in her carrier at my side.
He caught me by the elbow when I neared and steered me into the shadow of the building. “What are you doing here?” he asked, gaze traveling the length of my new outfit. “I thought you went to work.”
“I did.”
He gave the pleated skirt and camisole top another look. “This is new.” It was hard to tell if he had an opinion on the look or was simply stating facts.
I rolled my shoulders back and cocked a hip, pulling out my inner debutante. “I couldn’t wear clothes doused in cream sauce all day,” I said.
Mom had forced me into every class on poise and grace she could find until I was too old to stay where she left me. I’d hated everything about the lessons at the time, but I’d found more and more use for them lately. Specifically when insecurity was getting the best of me or I needed to hold my ground. Both situations normally involved Jack.
He wiggled his fingers through the front door of Penelope’s carrier and clucked his tongue at her in greeting. She purred in response. “How are you holding up?” he asked, dragging his gaze back to mine.
“Not well,” I admitted, inching my chin higher. “I’ve got plans for a total breakdown later, and I’m thinking of bothering my therapist in Tahiti, but for the moment I’m on a mission from my mother.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She sent me here to crack your head. That’s threatening a police officer, and I feel like you could haul her in for that.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “She’s mad I sent Eva Little to the station.”
I tapped the end of my nose. “I’m here to convince you to release her.”
Jack widened his stance and folded his arms. “How are you planning to do that?”
“Brute strength?” I guessed.
His lips wiggled, probably considering the eight inches and fifty pounds he had on my five-foot-four, size-eight frame, but he tamped the smile down before it could arrive. “No.”
“Please?”
Jack hiked a brow. “I’m disappointed, Crocker. Usually you do better than this.”
“I’m off my game,” I admitted. “It’s been a long day, but we both know Eva didn’t kill Viktor, so why not let her go?”
“Can’t.”
“I just heard you say you’re running point on this investigation. You can do anything you want, and you already know she’s innocent. Don’t make me prove it.”
Jack’s expression turned droll. “First of all, I don’t want you trying to prove anything. You just about get yourself killed every time, and I’ve got no patience for that nonsense right now. Secondly, I have justifiable cause to hold Eva, even if you don’t like it. If nothing else, she might’ve seen something useful for finding Viktor’s killer. So she’s right where she belongs. Down at the station, going over every detail of those final minutes with my team.”
My heart fluttered. “She’s not a suspect? You think she can actually help the case?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I gave him my best business face. “Stop talking in circles, Jack Oliver. Are you planning to charge her with something or not?”
Jack stiffened. “Eva Little doesn’t strike me as a killer, but she’s a strong lead, and I’ve been doing this long enough to know that killers come in all shapes and sizes, so I’m not ruling anyone out. I’m following the facts.”
“Maybe Viktor fell,” I suggested. “Have you thought about that?”
“Based on Viktor’s height and the height of the balcony railing, he would have had to climb over intentionally or be pushed. Eva was seen having a heated argument with the victim this morning, and she admits to slapping him. Her hair was on his jacket. She was in the balcony.”
“Her hair was probably on his jacket because he was a handsy creep,” I said, “and you already know she was standing close enough to slap him.”
Jack pressed his lips into a thin white line.
I used the break to circle back through my argument and find another approach. “Slapping him for his unwanted advances doesn’t make her a murderer. That wouldn’t even make sense. She didn’t need to be here. She was a committee volunteer, like me, and if he was such an enormous problem that she’d consider killing him, why wouldn’t she have simply stepped down? The whole thing will be over in five days. Besides, women deal with weasels like Viktor all the time. We just chin-up and move on. If we killed every man who ogled, catcalled, or groped us, there’d be a lot fewer men walking around.”
Jack’s brows knitted tight. “People do that to you?”
“Me and every other woman between fourteen and seventy.”
He scanned the horizon, head shaking, jaw locked.
“Hey.” I stroked a hand down his arm, and his attention snapped back to me. I dropped my fingers away. I had more important things I needed to tell him before he had to get back to work inside the theater. “I went to Viktor’s dressing room while you were in the lobby with Eva earlier. I needed the playbook with his detailed daily itinerary so that Mom could get started moving the event to a new venue without losing pace.”
“You removed evidence from the dressing room?”
“Not evidence. Just the playbook, and I locked the door on my way out because I found an envelope with money inside. Thirty-eight thousand dollars,” I said, raising my brows. “All one-hundred-dollar bills, tucked neatly in his top desk drawer.”
Jack cast a glance at the building beside us, brows furrowed. He dipped his head lower, rolling his shoulders in and creating a small space between us that was just our own. “I went to Viktor’s dressing room when you left. The place was trashed. There was no money. My guys went over it piece by piece, tagging everything.”
“What?” I whispered back, working his words through my crowded head. “Someone took the money? How did they know it was there?”
Jack didn’t answer, careful as always not to give me more information than absolutely necessary.
“That kind of money is a stronger motive for murder than what you’re holding Eva on,” I said. “Viktor wouldn’t have told anyone he had money like that laying around his dressing room, so whoever took it is probably the same person who gave it to him. That couldn’t have been Eva, because she was already with you when I left there, which means she was with your people at the time the room was tossed.”
A glimmer of pride flashed in his eyes. “True.”
“Thank you. So, Eva can go home?”
Jack smiled. “No.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no rule that says the money and the murder have to be related. Eva could easily have been involved with Viktor’s death somehow without knowing that money existed.”
I puffed out a sigh. “You think it’s more likely the poor guy was robbed by one criminal and murdered by another in under an hour?”
“Like I told you,” he said, “I’m not ruling anything out. I’m following the facts, and I’m making calls on evidence, not emotion.”
“Heaven forbid you ever act on your emotions,” I grouched.
Jack crossed his arms in a cocky cop pose. “If I acted on my emotions, I’d be in jail.” He dropped the attitude to dig a roll of antacids from his pocket.
“Fine. I’m going home,” I said. “If my mom asks, tell her I was here, but you won’t listen.”
“That’s not—” His phone buzzed on his hip, and he pressed it to his ear, scowling at me as he answered. “Detective Oliver. A what? No. This is a pet pageant.”
I stepped away, lifting a hand in goodbye. Jack needed to get busy finding a killer so poor Eva could go home. “Think about what I said,” I whispered.
&nbs
p; “Stay away from Armstrong Park,” he called after me. “People are calling in a bear sighting.”
I turned on my toes and paced backward a few steps, smiling. “I’ll let Chase know.”
Jack lifted his arms like an airplane. “What?”
“It’s not a bear,” I called, putting more space between us. “It’s a massive honey-hued Tibetan mastiff.”
“Of course it is.”
* * *
I called my best friend, Scarlet, on my way home. Scarlet and I had met when we were in diapers and our mothers got us together regularly at their coffee dates. We’d been fast friends just as our parents had hoped, but never quite the little ladies of society they’d planned. Scarlet and I had always been more along the lines of double-trouble. Given our steadfast, headstrong maternal origins, I was never sure why anyone had expected differently.
When I’d fled to college, Scarlet had stayed and married the eldest Hawthorne brother, Carter, straight out of high school. They had four babies now, and Scarlet was deeply involved in our district’s policies, community outreach, and social affairs. So it seemed Scarlet had eventually made her mother proud. I, on the other hand, was terminally single, hadn’t produced a single grandchild for my mother, had gained four pounds since moving home last year, and couldn’t bring myself to care about any of it.
“Is this a wine or chocolate situation?” Scarlet asked in lieu of hello.
“Both.” I gave her the day’s rundown, some of which she’d already picked up through the local grapevine, which was how she’d known I was stressed out before asking, and the rest she couldn’t wait for the details on.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Scarlet lived in a proper Garden District mansion with her family, only steps from my parents and a collection of the South’s independently wealthy, from old-money aristocrats to modern-day movie stars. I lived a few streets over in an area where homes were a touch newer and within my budget. My one-story shotgun home, for example, was a New Orleans classic. Originally intended as bland utilitarian housing, the rectangular structure had been built for laborers and their families. Now, however, homes like mine had become one of the Crescent City’s cultural treasures, each as unique and inviting as the owners themselves. Mine was currently in a state of renovation while its owner figured out who she was.