Cat Got Your Crown

by Julie Chase

  He raised nervous, angry eyes to me. “I just told you. I was stressed out. I needed a break from the hoopla in the theater, and I snapped at her for no reason.”

  “She was just walking by and you yelled at her?” I asked, sipping coffee with a smile. “That is some serious stress. How does that work exactly?”

  “What?”

  “You just saw her there in the hall and yelled at her about nothing specific? Did you say something like, ‘Your shoes are offensive, and your face makes me angry’?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Of course not.”

  “How did it go, then?” I pushed. “Did you ask her for something and she denied the request?”

  His expression went cold. He plucked the tea bag from the water and tossed it into the trash. “I’d better go and check on my cat.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said, falling into step behind him. “I heard that the MCs get cash for giving some of the pets special attention or treatment. Is that true? I need to get caught up on pageant culture as quickly as I can before opening night.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Exactly.”

  North stopped suddenly and turned on me. He stepped into my personal space and lowered his voice. “You want some advice? I know you’ve been following me, and I don’t like being followed. So, you need to knock it off immediately and find someone else to answer your questions.”

  I pulled my chin back. “I’m not following you,” I said, “besides now, I mean. I wasn’t following you before you made your tea.”

  North narrowed his eyes. “I saw you coming out of Viktor’s dressing room yesterday. You stopped and stared. That’s how you know I argued with Veronica. You were already there, but why? What were you doing in Viktor’s dressing room when we were all supposed to be in the theater?”

  “I had to get the playbook so we could keep the event on track. Why were you in the hallway?”

  “Taking a walk to cool down,” he said. “Stress.” He worked his jaw. “Why are you following me now? What do you really want?”

  “Nothing.” I stepped backward and bumped into Chase. “I was just being friendly. I’m trying to figure things out around here.”

  “Yeah, well do yourself a favor and stop.” He scanned the crowd, then turned and left.

  This time, I let him. I didn’t like the way he’d said stop.

  The screech of microphone feedback quieted the masses, and Mom reappeared. She gave us a two-minute warning. Dress rehearsal was about to begin.

  I spent the next two hours staring blindly through mini-performances of everything we’d see again over the next few days in full. I delivered everyone a mental ten since we weren’t giving actual scores. This was only a dry run.

  Jack had stopped briefly at the judges’ table when I’d returned to my seat. He’d swapped my envelope for another, untampered packet so stealthily that I’d barely seen it happen, and I’d been watching. He kept moving from there, I assumed to drop the envelope into an evidence bag, but I couldn’t be sure, and I couldn’t ask because he hadn’t been back.

  Chase had stayed in the audience where I could see him, and I appreciated that more than I could explain.

  Mr. North was notably absent from the rotunda, except for the sixty seconds he and his cat marched around a tiny obstacle course designed to look like an outdoor garden. The full-white cat wore a collar of pastel roses and followed North’s commands through a series of small feats. She weaved between little poles painted to look like birds. Jumped through a tiny hoop covered in faux vines and walked a narrow ledge over a miniature waterfall at the flick of North’s wrist or finger. The cat’s work was spectacular, but my mind was on her trainer. Is it possible that North killed Viktor? Was the murder somehow related to the money? Was it bribe money? Did the MC’s opinions influence the judges? How and why? Will I eventually be offered some dirty money too? Will it be enough to rent an island?

  I gave the crowd another careful scan, but no one appeared especially guilty. Maybe I was completely off the mark and wasting time by worrying about North. Maybe I hadn’t even thought of the real reason or killer yet. Could a past pageant loser have wanted revenge? How many of these faces fit that bill? I suddenly realized that Jack had been right. Most people didn’t interact with a hundred people on a regular basis. Despite the closed community we were working in this time, there were actually more suspects than there had been for any of the other murders I’d poked around in.

  By the end of the night, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted and desperate for my bed. Unfortunately, I still had a ton of baking to do if I wanted to fill my display case in the morning. Not to mention, I needed an idea worth presenting to Grandpa Smacker at the early-morning meeting. So far, I had nothing to bring to their table, and I couldn’t go to work empty-handed too.

  I made my rounds saying goodbye and searching for my pink tackle box of sewing supplies. Eventually, I gave up on the latter and Chase walked me to the parking lot, sans tackle box.

  “You’re sure you’re okay to drive home?” he asked. “I don’t mind taking you. I can come back with Carter to pick up your car and bring it to you later.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Rain check on the champagne?”

  “Sure.” He smiled. “In the meantime, I’m going to find that tackle box and be your hero.”

  I rose onto my toes and kissed his cheek. “You will always be my hero, Chase Hawthorne. Thanks for looking out for me tonight.”

  * * *

  I beeped my car doors unlocked, and Chase jogged back to the Tea Room.

  I opened my driver’s side door and nearly had six consecutive strokes when the interior light bulb lit the area in front of my car and a tall shadow peeled its way off my hood and moved in my direction. Jack had been leaning motionless near my mirror, and I hadn’t even noticed him. My cheeks flushed hot. It was the second time tonight he’d seen me being sweet with Chase, and I felt strangely guilty.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  Silence gonged around us alongside chirping nighttime bugs and the occasional round of frogs in the thick garden foliage.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, but I see you’ve already got a confidant.”

  My chest and neck heated to match my cheeks. It was ridiculous to feel as if I should explain myself to Jack, but I did. Though I would never admit it if he asked. “A girl can never have too many confidants,” I said, smiling awkwardly. Was he implying that he’d like to be mine? Does he not know he already is?

  “I heard you put a pin in the champagne,” he said, looking more at ease. “Lots of baking to do.”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you like some help?” he asked, flashing me a killer smile. “I’m an excellent baker, and I carry a gun that I’m trained to use in your defense if needed, which is also nice considering that letter we still need to talk about.”

  I blew out a long thin stream of air. “I could use a little help in the kitchen, I guess, but you have to promise to use your words and fists before you pull that sidearm. If needed.”

  Jack seemed to think it over. “Deal.” He extended a hand, and I placed mine in his. The tough-guy expression melted slowly into a teasing, youthful smile that reached all the way to his eyes. “Your place or mine?”

  Chapter Ten

  Furry Godmother’s easy cure for ants in your pants: Wear a dress.

  I woke with a headache at five o’clock the next morning. Sleep deprivation was getting the best of me, and I vowed to take a nap as soon as humanly possible. At the moment, however, I had to get over to Grandpa Smacker’s for my seven AM meeting.

  My limbs were stiff with fatigue as I dragged myself upright and shuffled toward the shower. Jack had stayed only until midnight, but we’d covered a lot of ground in that time, and I’d provided the written statement he needed for Viktor’s murder file. I’d tried to think of every detail that could be
useful later, but I’d been mildly distracted by the fact that there was a hunky detective in my kitchen.

  I stepped into the steamy shower, praying for an epiphany about snacks that people would want to share with their pets while I washed as much sleep as possible down the drain. I didn’t have an epiphany, but I did look great in my new navy slip dress with a modest neckline and flirty hem. Once I’d added oversized white-framed sunglasses, a structured white leather handbag, and matching pumps, I was channeling my inner Jackie O. I headed for the front door with a stack of bakery boxes. “I’m sorry you can’t come,” I told Penelope, “but I have to visit Grandpa Smacker’s offices first, and I can’t bring you inside. No cats.” I made a sad face to show solidarity. “You’re a perfect kitty, but food manufacturers aren’t big on people seeing cats go inside, so you’ll be on your own today. Keep an eye on your little sister, Buttercup.” I gave the fish bowl a big smile, and Buttercup lowered slowly behind her little pink castle.

  I paused at the home security keypad, where a small piece of paper had been wedged behind the panel’s edge.

  Baking was fun, but I still owe you dinner. My place. Very soon.

  —Jack

  My smile grew as I tucked the note into my bag. Jack’s help had been priceless. He’d wisely suggested preparing all the doughs and batters while we waited for the first few rounds of things to bake, and it had worked perfectly, streamlining the process and accomplishing more than I’d imagined possible in just a few hours. Chase would have suggested we drink until the timer went off between batches, and left to my own devices, I probably would have spent the time rehashing everything I knew about Viktor Petrov and the moving pieces surrounding his murder. With Jack’s advice, all the prep work had been finished when he left at midnight. All I had to do was stay awake and swap trays in and out of the oven until everything had been baked. He’d even loaded and set the dishwasher before saying goodbye.

  I opened my passenger door and stacked the bakery boxes onto the floorboards in front of the seat, where they would receive less direct sunlight and had no chance of flying everywhere when I turned a corner or got carried away with my gas and brake pedals.

  My phone rang as I rounded the hood to the driver’s side. Mom’s face centered the screen.

  “Cluck in a Bucket,” I answered.

  “What?” Mom asked. She paused. “Lacy, I know this is you. I just checked my screen, and I didn’t misdial.”

  I smiled as I dropped behind the wheel and cranked the air-conditioning.

  “Lacy?”

  “Good morning,” I said, still pleased at how easily I had flustered her.

  “It’s your mother.”

  I laughed. “Yes. I know. Hello, Mom. How are you?” I pulled onto the street with an even bigger smile and pointed the Volkswagen toward Grandpa Smacker’s offices.

  “I don’t know why you do that,” she said. “It wastes time, and I don’t have any to spare. Do I hear traffic? Where are you? It’s six thirty in the morning. I didn’t even think you’d be awake.”

  “How can you possibly hear traffic through my closed windows? And why are you calling if you thought I’d be asleep?”

  “A mother knows,” she said, “and probably for the same reason you’ve started answering my calls with ridiculous accents and business names.”

  Touché.

  “You’re not the only funny one in the family,” she said. “You get your humor from me.”

  I laughed. A genuine happy sound that rattled in my chest and wet my eyes. I hit my blinker and headed out of Uptown. “Is that right?”

  “Quite,” she said flatly. “I’m hilarious.”

  I swiped tears off my cheeks beneath my glasses. “What’s up, Mom?” I asked. “Or were you just calling to wake me up?”

  A long beat of silence stretched across the line.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh! I remember,” she said suddenly. “Did you know there’s another group of chickens planning to set up a booth in the Tea Room foyer and collect donations? I couldn’t believe it when I saw them on the list last night. I thought I’d screened better than that.”

  “Who are they?”

  “A local chapter of the FFA. How am I supposed to compete with a bunch of kids in overalls?”

  I rolled the cuckoo question around a few times before answering. “For starters, you aren’t competing with them. This is all for charity, remember? Secondly, why will they be wearing overalls, and can I get in on that option?”

  “Lacy,” she scolded. “Be serious. You’re a lady. They’re the Future Farmers of America. Of course they’ll be wearing overalls.”

  Apparently my mother’s knowledge of farmers ended with the copy of Click, Clack, Moo that one of Scarlet’s kids had left in her parlor. I took a left through the Central Business District.

  “I know I’m not competing with the FFA,” she said finally. “I’m competing with that dastardly Hams and her Llama Mamas, but think about it. If you walked into the event, planning to make a donation to some adorable chickens, who would you give your money to? The group of adorable youngsters in pigtails and cowboy boots, or a group of middle-aged women? Meanwhile, Hams will get all the money from people who love llamas. There are no other llamas, Lacy.”

  I rolled my eyes until it hurt and affected my driving. “So, rent some decoy llamas,” I suggested. “Or better yet, let it go this time. You already have your hands full, and it really doesn’t matter who collects more money.”

  Mom gave a raspy exasperated sigh. “You don’t understand me at all.”

  Truth.

  “Maybe we can put glitter on their beaks,” she suggested.

  “No.” I shook my head at the windshield.

  “It can be nontoxic glitter.”

  “Let me think about it and get back with you,” I said. “Also, is there any chance you saw my pink tackle box before you left last night? I misplaced it while we were there, and I had to leave without it.”

  “No, but I’ll have the girls look for it after breakfast.”

  “Thanks.” I beat my thumbs against the steering wheel. “You know, maybe it’s not about making your chickens or yourself more appealing than the FFA group. Maybe you just need to make the collection process more fun or interesting. Like those giant funnels people love to put coins on and watch them go around until they meet their doom. I think you just need something too cute to pass up sitting beside your chicks. Then folks would have to stop to see it, and while they’re there …”

  “They’ll put their money into my collection contraption. That’s brilliant,” Mom gasped. “We can make it so that people have to give to the Jazzy Chicks if they want to see the thing work. Then I’ll get all the potential chicken-lover donations and beat those blasted Llama Mamas.”

  I appreciated her enthusiasm, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about plotting to steer donations away from children in overalls and pigtails. “Hey, I’m getting on the highway. I have to go, but we can talk when I get there after work. I’ll give the potential contraption some more thought when I’m not driving.”

  “Perfect,” she said, “but promise me that you’ll be careful out there. Some drivers are maniacs.”

  I agreed to her terms and disconnected.

  I pulled into the lot outside Grandpa Smacker’s offices with hope in my heart. Maybe no one would ask me about the recipe I had yet to create for the Fall Food Festival. Maybe this would be more of a brainstorming meeting where the marketing team pitched ideas to one another while I ate fresh-baked breads smeared in Grandpa Smacker’s homemade preserves and drank coffee. Then no one would know I had nothing to offer them.

  The receptionist buzzed me in, and I hurried through the Disneyesque waiting room, heavily decorated to look as if I’d stepped into another place and time, specifically onto a mid-twentieth-century farm, complete with bird songs piped through hidden speakers and apple pie–scented diffusers sweetening the air. A white picket fence was painted along the walls wi
th tall grasses and wheat blowing in the background, while wide-paddled ceiling fans slowly churned the heavenly apple aroma through the building.

  I stopped at the heavy-laden table of refreshments before entering the boardroom. Fifteen minutes later, ten sets of eyes were on me while I tried to swallow a hunk of apple I’d dragged through Grandpa Smacker’s organic peanut butter, then dunked in fresh-from-the-hive honey. The staring posse wanted to know all of my ideas for the Fall Food Festival.

  “Um,” I said, fumbling to wash the apple down with a swig of insanely good coffee. “I didn’t bring any samples,” or ideas, “but I’m working on something organic and naturally sweet or savory so that pet owners can pack a picnic basket and have a date with their pets,” I said, rubbing my sticky fingertips against a napkin.

  Ten serious faces lining the big conference table nodded.

  “We like it,” the man with a pear-shaped head said. He was the new director of marketing, but I’d immediately forgotten his name. “We can work with that. A date with your pet.” He shoved to his feet and rubbed his wide chin. “We can build a nice campaign around it. Man’s best friend. Take your best friend to the park or on a hike.” He looked at the ceiling as he began to pace. “What sorts of ingredients will we need to create a shelf-stable version of these products?”

  I crossed my legs and took my time thinking up the answer. I had no idea what products we were even talking about. “All the basic ingredients we’re already using on the pupcakes and tuna tarts,” I said confidently. “The flours and fruits are safe across the board, but I’ll have to prepare some samples and find some willing test subjects to run the pet-friendly options past a more discerning human palette.” I didn’t envy the ones in charge of putting that test group together. Excuse me, sir, would you be willing to taste-test some dog treats for potential human consumption?

  I left the meeting feeling heavier, both from the gluttonous breakfast I’d enjoyed and the renewed pressure to perform. I couldn’t show up empty-handed again. The sales and production team needed samples the next time I came, preferably ones they wouldn’t spit back into the wrappers.