Cat Got Your Crown

by Julie Chase

  “Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, scanning the street in either direction.

  “No. I’m just thinking,” she said.

  “Well, do you want to come inside where it’s cooler? I have cold water in the fridge, and I’d love a closer look at your cat.”

  The woman stood on long legs and platform wedges, then pulled a big canvas bag onto her shoulder. “Sure. Thanks.”

  The cat stayed on her heels as she walked inside. I held the door for them both.

  “He’s not my cat,” the lady said. “I have no idea where it came from, but it’s been following me since I got into town yesterday.” She shoved a stiff arm in my direction, and a pile of bangle bracelets jingled from the move. “I’m Willow.”

  “Lacy,” I said. “You’re not from New Orleans?”

  “No.” She pushed the sunglasses onto her head, securing mounds of golden beachy waves with the weight. Her eyes were the color of the sea, warm and enchanting. “I’m from everywhere. My parents were kind of hippies. We traveled through my childhood. Now I travel on my own.”

  “Well, welcome,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’ve always wanted to visit New Orleans,” Willow said. “Dad would never agree to it, but Mom loved the city, and I should have known I would too. I’m pretty excited to finally be here.”

  I filled Penelope’s bowls with kibble and water for the cat, then grabbed a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge behind my counter for Willow. “Are you staying nearby?”

  “I got a room in the French Quarter. I’m actually in town to see my great-grandma, but she wasn’t home last night, so I found a place on Royale. From what I gather, it’s a miracle anything was available. There’s something going on this week.”

  “There’s something going on every week,” I said. “It’s one of the things I love.”

  She nodded approvingly. “Hopefully my great-grandma is back soon. I don’t know how long I’m staying, but I’d hate to leave without getting a chance to say hello.”

  “Was she expecting you?” I asked.

  “I thought so. I ran into a sexy man outside her door this morning who seemed to know her. He had this accent.” She fluttered her eyelids and made an appreciative sound. “It was this thick, southern-Louisiana sound.”

  I smiled. That was one of my favorites too.

  “I could plant roots here for that accent alone,” she said. “Once I told him who I was looking for, he told me to check up here, so I came right over, but I haven’t seen her.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “He sent you to the Garden District or to my shop?” I couldn’t imagine searching an entire neighborhood for one old lady. I also couldn’t imagine anyone finding their great-grandmother at Furry Godmother, unless their great-grandmother was Imogene, and I already knew Imogene’s entire family. Willow wasn’t one of them.

  “Lacy Marie Crocker,” a familiar crabby-sounding voice barked. Mrs. Hams, a portly middle-aged woman and my mother’s archnemesis, beetled in my direction. Her faux-leather fanny pack bounced against her brown culottes. Her pink T-shirt had a giant red heart in the middle and the word LLAMAS embroidered across the center. Mrs. Hams and her plantation-owning girlfriends called themselves the Llama Mamas and lived to provoke my mother. They frequently challenged Mom and her rival group, the Jazzy Chicks, to charity fund-raising competitions. In keeping with my overly complicated life, Mrs. Hams had me on retainer.

  “Hello.” I smiled, unable to imagine what had her in the district and a foul disposition so early in the day.

  “I’d better let you work,” Willow whispered. She gave a small wave before slipping back into the sun, black cat trailing in her wake.

  Mrs. Hams set her dimpled hands on the counter and harrumphed. “I spent a small fortune on Llama Mama labels, swag, and giveaways for the National Pet Pageant, and now the news is saying someone died and the show is canceled. What am I supposed to do with seven hundred Llama Mama lapel pins?”

  “The pageant isn’t canceled,” I said. “The news reporter was supposed to make that clear. Which channel said it was canceled?”

  Mrs. Hams looked at her fingers. “I didn’t stick around for the whole cart and pony show. I called my car as soon as I heard the teasers; then I came right here to get my information from the horse’s mouth.”

  I frowned, less than thrilled with being the horse in any scenario.

  “Is it true?” she pressed.

  “There was a death, yes.”

  “What’s your mother going to do about it? Surely the show won’t go on in a place where someone just died.”

  “Mom’s moving the event,” I said. “There’s no practice tonight, but we’ll move forward tomorrow at a new location, possibly the Audubon Tea Room.”

  “That place is too small,” Mrs. Hams complained. “Where will everyone go when it isn’t their turn on stage?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re lucky she found anyplace with such little notice,” I said. “Mom’s having lunch at the Tea Room today for a closer look.”

  Mrs. Hams peeked around the room, then pressed her torso to the counter between us. “I heard it was the MC who died. Is that right? Viktor Petrov?”

  I nodded, slightly confused by her sudden look of conspiracy. “That’s right. He fell over the balcony.”

  “Doubtful,” she said. “I’ve been watching him and this event for years. Everyone hates him.”

  “The world loved him,” I said. He was the reason people kept coming back to an event as long and dry as a pet pageant. Viktor made it interesting.

  “The world, yes,” she said, “but I’ll bet one of those PAs finally had enough of his bullying and did him in. That man was always yelling. Belittling. Humiliating someone. I’m a little shocked at the end of every show where no one has dropped a row of stage lights on his head.”

  I tapped my thumbs on the counter, considering her words. “Do you think he was really that awful, or could his behavior have been faked for ratings and attention?”

  Mrs. Hams stared. “Who knows why anyone does anything?” she said. “All I know is, if I’d been the butt of his belligerence day after day, I’d be fit to toss him off a balcony too.”

  I cringed.

  “I’ll go home and wait for my relocation instructions from the committee. Make sure your mother knows our competition is still on. I’ve prepared far too long to quit now.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  Mom and Mrs. Hams had an ongoing game of who can raise the most money for charity, and they both played for blood. The game never seemed to end, but they always set stakes and time limits to make it interesting. They spent their time between rounds either gloating or plotting and sulking. The whole thing was borderline ridiculous, but it diverted Mom’s attention from me, so I stayed out of the way as much as possible.

  “And tell the police to speak with the assistants,” Mrs. Hams called on her way to the door.

  “I’m sure the police already have,” I assured her.

  And I’d have plenty of time to ask a few questions of my own while I helped move everything to the new venue tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  Furry Godmother protip: Silence is golden, especially when you’re hiding.

  I arrived at the Saenger Theatre in time to see Mom and several of the committee ladies pull away in a town car, presumably on a trip between venues. They’d likely be back, so my timing was perfect but my time limited.

  I hurried inside and down the long narrow backstage halls toward Viktor’s dressing room. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find there, but my conversation with Jack the previous afternoon had plagued me. I’d left Viktor’s dressing room neat as a pin and locked up tight. How had someone gotten inside? Why would they have torn the place apart? I’d found the money with no effort at all. If the intruder had wanted the cash, then why make a mess? Certainly not to lash out at a man he or she had already killed.

  Viktor’s dressing room door was open but roped off with crime
scene tape. I ducked my head beneath the flimsy yellow line and rapped my knuckles against the jamb. “Hello?”

  I slid inside when no one answered and tiptoed through the space, careful not to touch or disturb anything. The room was tidier than the disaster Jack had described, but it was still in serious disarray compared to the state I’d left it. Toppled books had been neatly stacked and tagged but left on the floor. The contents of Viktor’s desk seemed to have been arranged across the top, also tagged. The lingering aroma of a half dozen policemen had replaced the soft scents of ginger, stage makeup, and turmeric I’d noticed earlier with a competing compilation of colognes, aftershaves, and sweat.

  A second door stood open at the back of the room, and curiosity pulled me inside. As in the dressing room, everything in the closet had been bundled and tagged. Suits. Shoes. A row of plastic heads topped with toupees. “Ew.”

  A floorboard creaked in the dressing room, and a sharp chill ran down my spine.

  I pressed my back to the closet’s interior wall and held my breath. Had the killer returned for a piece of evidence that would connect him or her to the crime? Would the killer find me inside? Would they try to kill me too? The building had bustled with wall-to-wall people and pets yesterday, but today, even Mom and her swarm of committee ladies were gone.

  The world went silent, and my ears began to ring.

  Had the one who’d sent me the note last night also seen me sneak under the crime scene tape today? A dead giveaway that I hadn’t listened. Hadn’t obeyed. Hadn’t stopped. Maybe I could say I’d been looking for someone and seen the door open, then simply hoped I’d find the person inside Viktor’s closet. I mentally kicked myself for not being a better liar.

  A long shadow appeared outside the closet, and my head spun. Was there even anyone around to hear me scream? I grabbed a pint-sized parasol, ready to defend myself by any means necessary as the shadow stretched through the space at my feet.

  The soft snick of a gun dropped my eyelids shut. The quiet cuss that followed peeled my eyes back open.

  Jack holstered his sidearm and glared. “What are you doing in here, Crocker?”

  I dropped the parasol and heaved a sigh. The last few cases like this had taken an emotional toll, and maybe I needed the vacation Jack had suggested more than I realized. I pressed my lips together to swallow the budding whimper, but it arrived anyway, and Jack’s expression softened.

  “Hey.” He stepped inside the closet with me and gripped my shaky elbows in his steady hands.

  I leaned into him briefly, resting my cheek against the cool metal of the detective shield hanging proudly from a beaded chain around his neck. “I was just looking,” I said, pulling back to gather my marbles.

  “I don’t want you getting involved in this. I thought we agreed on that last night.”

  I craned my neck for a better look at his face in the tight quarters. “Really?” I hadn’t meant to give that impression.

  Jack’s jaw set and his stormy blue eyes fixed on mine. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger again. I’ve got this covered. You can stand down.”

  “Have you made any progress on finding the person who sent me that threat?” I asked, hoping to change the subject and remind him why it was so important that we find the killer quickly. Viktor was already dead, but I wanted to live.

  “No.” Jack released my elbows but didn’t move away. He shoved his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and spread his feet further apart, reducing our height difference by several inches, something I’d noticed him doing more and more, especially when I was distressed. “I called the courier company, but the sender’s name and contact information turned out to be bogus. The fee was paid in cash, and the camera over the register was a dummy meant to dissuade robbers. No actual feed to review.”

  I rubbed the place above my heart where a deep ache had begun to form. I had held out a senseless hope that Jack would make a phone call and this would all be over before it started. That maybe this case would be different. The threats would stop instead of escalating, and the killer would make a stupid move that put him or her in jail sooner rather than later.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Any luck with yesterday’s receipts?”

  “No.” I’d spent every spare minute reviewing register receipts from the day before and found nothing useful. “The NPP-edition stuffed cats were almost all paid for with cash. The few that weren’t were families unrelated to the pageant.”

  Jack’s concerned gaze dropped to my hand on my chest. I curled the trembling fingers into a fist and dropped it to my side. “I couldn’t sleep after you left, so I researched the pageant,” I said. “I watched news clips and read through forums until almost dawn. It was eye-opening.”

  Jack dipped his chin in stiff agreement. “Me too.”

  “It’s a tough competition,” I said. “There’s a lot at stake.” I’d been told as much, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until I’d seen past competitors interviewed. “It’s expensive just to enter, and that doesn’t include the cost of travel, airfare, hotels, rental cars, food. Some people have come thousands of miles to participate. They hire trainers before the event, buy ridiculously expensive animals, custom costumes, hire managers. They empty their life savings and mortgage their homes. It’s like a weird form of gambling, putting everything they have on the line with the hope that five random judges will choose their pet as best in show.”

  “People do it with their children too,” Jack said. “Think of all those stage moms and the kiddie talent shows or beauty pageants, hoping their kid’s going to be the next Top Model, movie star, or American Idol.”

  “The winner gets fifty thousand dollars,” I said, forcing my tongue off the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. “That might not seem like much at first, but the top contenders will come away with endorsements and sponsorships for everything from pet foods to product placements, and the winner earns a spot in the commercial for next year’s pageant.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Given all this, don’t you think a competitor has more reasons to shove Viktor off the balcony than Eva?”

  Jack watched me carefully. “What I think doesn’t matter, and I’ll bring her back in if I have to.”

  “You won’t have to,” I said. It was one of the few things I was certain of, and the pet owners weren’t my only suspects. “Mrs. Hams stopped by Furry Godmother today. She’s a fan of the NPP and watches all the televised coverage. She said all the PAs hated Viktor and suggested that one of them might’ve had enough of his constant badgering and snapped.”

  “I’ll be sure to take that into consideration,” Jack said, looking as if he had no intention of taking Mrs. Hams’s opinion into consideration. “We’ve got statements from everyone who was in the building yesterday, except you,” he said.

  “Sorry.” I’d run off to help Imogene with the crowd. “I can swing by the station on my way home.” I swallowed a knot of emotion as Viktor’s lifeless body registered in my mind’s eye once more.

  Jack furrowed his brow tightly and narrowed his eyes, a look I’d once interpreted as anger but Jack had claimed was his thinking face. His shoulders rolled slightly forward.

  I held my tongue and gave him time to come out with whatever he was working on behind the cranky expression. It was in my nature to rush to fill the silence, but Jack chose his words. It was one more thing I’d grown to appreciate about him. Anything he said was heavily vetted by his toughest critic before it left his mouth. “You don’t have to go all the way to the station,” he said, “if you don’t want.”

  I puzzled. “But what about the written statement?”

  “Maybe you’d like to stop by my place instead.” His gaze flicked quickly away before returning to me with a mix of emotion I didn’t begin to understand. “You can complete the statement, then we can talk about how best to break the news of your committee resignation to your mother over dinner.”

  “Dinner?” I parroted.

  �
�Anything you’d like.”

  Jack was an amazing cook. I knew firsthand because I had a habit of showing up at his door unexpectedly, often without a plan or reason to be there, and he was usually in the kitchen.

  My head began to nod before the words were out. “Okay, but I can’t quit the show.”

  “You really can,” he assured me. “I’ll help.”

  “Mom made me a judge.”

  Jack’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. His hands jumped free of his pockets, and one landed on the butt of his gun.

  A slight overreaction.

  The floorboard creaked outside the closet before I could ask if the gun was for me or my mother.

  Jack flicked the snap on his gun holster open with one thumb. He pressed a finger on the opposite hand to his lips, as if I might have been capable of breathing in that moment, let alone making an actual noise.

  A young brunette came into view outside the closet door, walking slowly toward Viktor’s desk.

  Jack stepped across the threshold, and she squealed.

  I stepped out behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the frightened PA I recognized as Veronica. The same girl I’d seen arguing with a pet owner outside Viktor’s office door yesterday.

  “Nothing,” she panted. “Looking.”

  Jack gave me a quick side eye. I’d told him I was just looking too.

  I wiggled my fingers in a wave. “Hello, Veronica,” I said.

  She pulled wide eyes from my face to Jack’s. “What were you two doing in there?”

  I blushed as a number of pleasant possibilities bombarded my mind. None of which were remotely based on reality. “Talking,” I said.

  Jack ignored her question and stepped forward, shoulders square, hand still on the butt of his gun. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had her whole attention again, and she squirmed under his scrutiny. Jack refastened his holster and crossed strong arms over a broad chest, emphasizing his height, build, and shiny New Orleans detective badge now pressed against his navy T-shirt. “Something,” he said, casting a pointed look at the crime scene tape she’d crossed. “Something motivated you to intentionally enter a space I’ve made off-limits, and I want to know what it was.”