Cat Got Your Crown

by Julie Chase

  A familiar black Camaro sliced through the congestion and parked smoothly at the curb, custom red-and-white lights flashing behind the grille.

  “Henri’s here,” I told Jack as his former partner slid out from behind the wheel and moved confidently in my direction. Dressed in unlaced boots, black jeans, and a clingy black T-shirt, the detective looked more like someone who should be in handcuffs than someone wielding them. “He’s got this,” I said, assuming Henri, like Jack, could handle anything.

  Jack was silent for several long seconds while Henri approached.

  “Lacy?” Henri crouched before me, running a large palm over his stubble-covered cheek. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, a ball of emotion knotting painfully in my throat. I handed him my phone. “Jack,” I said, by way of pitiful explanation.

  Henri took the phone, then stood with it and moved away, apparently surveying the scene.

  I covered my face with cupped hands and concentrated on breathing.

  “Lacy!” Chase’s voice rent the thick morning air. “Lacy!”

  I forced myself upright and felt the tears begin to stream again.

  Fear twisted Chase’s brow as he examined the ruined table where he’d left me a few minutes before. “Lacy!” he screamed again, louder and more desperately this time.

  I watched helplessly through tear-blurred eyes, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, rendering me temporarily mute.

  A sharp whistle cracked like a whip from Henri’s lips. He waved an arm overhead, catching Chase’s attention, then motioning him in my direction.

  Chase’s terrified gaze landed on me, and he began to run.

  I waited, motionless and silent as I replayed the series of events that had led up to the bulls’ escape. So much noise. The panicked oxen. The watermelons. The screech of metal.

  Chase scooped me into his arms, knocking my skates out from under me, and carried me to the nearest bench. He took a seat, then held me against his chest. “I am so sorry,” he said, stroking the length of my back and gathering me closer to him with long, careful arms. “I told you I’d keep you safe. I promised the bulls were secure.” He pressed his cheek to the top of my helmet and shuddered. “My god, Lacy, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I checked the gate’s latch myself while I spoke to the bulls’ keepers.”

  “Something scared the oxen,” I said. “The driver fell. The watermelons fell. Then the bull pen fell.”

  Henri appeared at the back side of the bench, behind Chase’s head, my phone pressed to his ear. “He’s got her now,” he said into the receiver. “You want me to bring her to you?” Henri lifted my sneakers in his opposite palm, or what was left of them.

  I took the cloth-and-rubber scraps gingerly. The poor things had been soaked and trampled into filthy pulps. I could only hope it was just water they’d been drenched in.

  Chase stiffened, eyes fixed on Henri. “Who is that?” he asked.

  “That’s Jack’s former partner, Henri LaSalle,” I explained. “He’s on my phone talking to Jack.”

  “Tell Jack I’ve got this,” Chase said, an edge of warning in his tone. “Are you ready?” he asked more softly near my ear.

  I lowered my skates to the ground and let him help me up.

  The intersection at the corner of Chartres and St. Ann was congested with ambulances and EMTs aiding fallen skaters. The oxen driver was strapped to a gurney. His oxen were as calm and bored-looking as they had been upon arrival.

  Henri disconnected the call and returned my phone. “I had a look at the bull pen,” he said. “Talked to some bystanders. I don’t think this was an accident. The gate was probably tampered with while the men in the sequins went to help the oxen. I found an air horn near the toppled fencing that might’ve been used to get the bulls moving. I’m not sure about the oxen.”

  I nodded, finally pulling myself together. The danger was over. Help had arrived. Everyone was going to be okay. “Is there any chance this could have been directed at me?” I asked, hoping I didn’t know the answer.

  Henri gave the path of destruction a careful look. “It’s too early to tell. Could be that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I will find out.” His phone rang, and he turned away to answer it. “LaSalle.”

  Chase looped an arm around my shoulders and led me away. “You need to treat all those cuts as soon as you get home. You don’t want them getting infected. You should probably see a doctor.”

  “I just fell over my skates,” I said. And the little iron fence around the flowers, I thought. And I rolled on my head in the mulch a little before crawling through some grass … “I don’t need an exam.”

  “I can stay with you while you shower and change, if you want. Maybe keep watch while you settle in for some rest.”

  “No thanks,” I said, hating the imagery he’d portrayed. I didn’t want to go home and lick my wounds. “I told Imogene I’d be at Furry Godmother after the run.”

  “Work can wait.” Chase unlocked his car and opened the door for me.

  “No,” I said, fueled by something I couldn’t name. “I don’t want to go home and play the victim.” If the little stampede really had been orchestrated to scare or hurt me, then I was doubly determined not to let whoever had caused the fiasco get what they wanted. “Take me to Furry Godmother,” I said.

  I was going on with my life, and I hoped that whoever had wanted to upset me would see that was where his or her power ended. I could be scared, but I couldn’t be stopped.

  * * *

  I thanked Chase, then climbed onto the sidewalk outside Furry Godmother with my chin high. I was getting tired of a lot of things. Being afraid, being threatened, and being treated like someone in need of protection were fast becoming my top three.

  I skated into the shop and headed for my counter.

  Imogene’s eyes went wide, then narrowed on me as she absently tucked a customer’s purchase into a logoed shopping bag.

  I peeled my borrowed skates off and wiggled my toes, thankful to be back on solid ground and safe in my little slice of paradise. I’d chucked the remnants of my sneakers into a trash bin in the Quarter.

  The people in line at the bakery counter moved in my direction and Imogene followed.

  “Pardon me,” an older man said. His wife smiled at his side. A small terrier in a matching bonnet and bloomers drifted in and out of sleep in her arms. “Are you dressed up for the hoopla in the French Quarter this morning?” he asked. “We heard about it on the news but didn’t make it over in time to watch.”

  I forced a smile. “That’s right. San Fermin en Nueva Orleans,” I said. “I’m sorry you missed it, but you should definitely come back next July and get a good seat. It can be a lot of fun, even for the spectators.” I left out the part about my near-death experience.

  “Is there a way we can get an outfit like yours for Mr. Puddles?” he asked. “We’re only staying through tomorrow night, but we don’t mind paying you for shipping.”

  “Of course.” I gave the gray-muzzled dog a look. “Is this him?”

  The couple nodded.

  I grabbed my measuring tape and took some measurements while the elderly Mr. Puddles did his best to ignore me.

  The rest of the folks in line behind them wanted the same thing. I sketched a half-dozen variations of my ensemble, mixing the pieces with some even cuter ones I’d seen in the Quarter and writing up work orders for each.

  My outfit was an obvious hit with everyone except Imogene, who managed to bite her tongue until the crowd dispersed.

  “You’re a mess,” she said with a sharp cluck of her tongue. “What are you thinking, dressed like that? This shirt is two sizes too small, and so are those shorts.”

  “I’ve got longer ones on underneath,” I complained, suddenly sixteen and attempting to break school dress code again.

  Imogene h
eaded down the short hall to my stockroom muttering something about my longer shorts being too tight and the horns on my heinie.

  She returned a few seconds later with a first aid kit. “Come on. Have a seat. You’ve got scrapes and bruises all over your arms and legs. The cuts are going to get infected if you don’t take care of them right away.”

  I obeyed, too tired to argue and thankful to sit back and let someone else spray me with Bactine. A few yips and ouches later, I was still filthy, but bandaged.

  Jack swung the front door open and moved purposefully inside. He froze at the sight of me.

  “Hey,” I said, feeling instantly self-conscious about the same outfit that had made me feel so sassy earlier.

  Unlike Chase, who swept me into his arms at every opportunity and vowed to make things better, Jack stood back, taking his time on the approach.

  When he finally made his way behind the counter, he raised a tentative arm to his side, and I collapsed against his chest. Jack cradled me in his strong arms, stock-still and silent until I pushed away several long moments later.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  He unbuckled the chin strap of my helmet and set the bulbous one-horned thing aside. “When Henri told me,” he began. He pressed his mouth into a hard line and shook his head, seeming to change his mind about whatever he’d planned to say. “Henri’s going over footage from local security cameras now, but the crowd was thick, and it’s going to take time.”

  I gathered my sweaty hair in my hands and forced myself not to ask Jack to finish his other thought instead. “Any new leads on who might be trying to kill me this time?” I said with a little smile. “Besides the bulls.”

  Jack didn’t smile back. “No, but that pet pageant is a cesspool of hatred and corruption. Everyone looks normal on the surface, but get them alone and suggest someone has mentioned them in conjunction with an unnamed wrongdoing, and they lose their minds dishing grievances and throwing one another under the bus.”

  I frowned. “Don’t tell Mrs. Smart. She’d be heartbroken.”

  “Yeah. I spoke with her too,” he said. “She’s outraged. It’s a shame her husband’s pageant has gone so far downhill on the morals front. I feel for her. It’s rough being hurt by something you can’t change.” Emotion flashed over Jack’s face, but he shut it down before I could get my finger on it.

  “I promised her I’d do whatever I could to keep the pageant operations aboveboard while it’s in my city,” Jack said. “She shouldn’t have to worry about these things.”

  I wanted to hug him again. Jack worked a dangerous job, facing off with the absolute ugliest of people and situations every day so others didn’t have to. He provided safety and beauty for others at his own expense. “Thanks,” I said.

  His brows crowded. “For what?”

  “For doing what you do. For keeping people safe. For dealing with awful things for the sake of others. So we have the luxury of pretending things are fine whenever we want to.”

  Jack’s lips curved slightly on one side before falling back into that same flat line I hated. The flash of emotion I’d seen earlier swam again in his eyes.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I told him, guessing he might be torn between making sure I was okay and getting back to work. “You’ve got plenty of bigger things to think about and more pressing things to do. I’m fine.”

  The grim set of his jaw reached his eyes. He pulled his lit phone from his pocket and checked the screen before answering. “Detective Oliver.” He pinned me with an immobilizing stare as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “On my way.” He pushed the phone into his pocket. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Go on,” I said. “Save the day. I’ll see you tonight at the pageant.”

  The heads of blatantly eavesdropping shoppers turned to track him through the store.

  He paused at the threshold and cast a look at me over his shoulder.

  “You okay?” I asked when he didn’t move.

  The muscle along his jaw pulsed. “You come first to me, Lacy. You should know that. Before this city and before this job.”

  Breath caught in my throat.

  Jack stepped into the sunlight, and he was gone.

  I watched him move down the sidewalk outside my window with determination on his brow.

  “Well, pick your mouth up off the floor,” Imogene said in her slow southern drawl. “That outfit is bad enough without your tongue hanging out.”

  I took a seat on the stool behind me before I fell over.

  Or ran after him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Furry Godmother’s protip for clean living: Cookies crumble; eat dough.

  I took a cab home and back at lunchtime so I could shower, change, and pick up Penelope. I hated leaving her alone more than absolutely necessary. I redressed in a strapless peach dress and heels that would adhere to Mom’s strict pastels policy, and if the look was too casual, I’d just choose something from the rack of preapproved garments she’d had delivered to my dressing room at the event.

  When I finally made it back to work, Willow was behind the bakery counter hugging Imogene like they were long-lost sisters. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered the very important news I’d forgotten to share.

  I set Penelope’s carrier on the floor and ran over to join the ladies in a group hug. “I found Veda’s great-granddaughter,” I said against Imogene’s back.

  The pair separated, and Imogene dotted the corner of each eye with a handkerchief. “I know all about her,” Imogene said, shooting me a pointed look as if to say, no thanks to you. “Veda called me before breakfast this morning.” She squeezed Willow’s hand. “Do you know how long Veda’s been looking for you or how hard you were to find?”

  Willow nodded. “My family never stayed in one place for long,” she said. “I guess I was the same way. Though, now that I’m here, I understand why my dad never wanted to come to New Orleans. Mama and I wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”

  “That’s because this is where you belong,” Imogene said, cupping Willow’s cheek in her free palm. “Veda must be absolutely beside herself.”

  Willow’s eyes went wide. “She is!” She looked at me and bounced on her toes. “Veda said she was looking for me because she had something for me, and when we met for breakfast this morning, she gave me this!” Willow handed me an official-looking piece of paper.

  “A deed?” I scanned the lines in search of the property address, then tried to imagine its position in town. “Is this in the French Quarter?” I asked. “She gave you a home in the Quarter!”

  “It’s not a home.” Willow’s head was wagging in the negative before I finished my guess. “It’s a cookie shop!”

  I slid my gaze slowly in Imogene’s direction. “The cookie shop?”

  “The same one,” Imogene said. “Veda’s getting older, and she needs someone to take over so she can enjoy her golden years.”

  I wasn’t sure, but it seemed to me that at over one hundred, Veda had passed her golden years and moved into daily miracle status long ago.

  Willow beamed. She lifted a small container of macarons from the counter. “I made these this morning to celebrate.”

  I took in the pretty little cookies, recalling the way my troubles had seemed to fade while eating her fruit dip. “Did you make these at your new cookie shop?”

  “Yes, and it was amazing. The place is absolutely magical,” Willow gushed.

  “That’s what I keep hearing,” I muttered. “Try one,” I told Imogene.

  Imogene hesitated. “I’m still full from lunch. I’ll try one in a little while.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, scrunching my nose. “You love macarons, and Willow made them to celebrate. You have to try one.”

  Imogene wavered. Concern puckered her brow.

  Willow pulled the container back. “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to.”

  “She does,” I said. I plucked a cookie from the tr
ay and pushed it in Imogene’s direction with a smile. I was usually the last person to believe Imogene’s goofy stories about things that couldn’t be explained, but I was almost positive the fruit dip Willow had made at my place had done something to me, and I had a perfectly cranky test subject to try my theory on.

  Imogene took the cookie with a gracious smile and bit the tiniest crumb from the edge. “Delicious.”

  “You’re so silly.” I laughed. “You can’t taste anything like that. Go on. Take a big bite.”

  Imogene slid her gaze from me to Willow, then sunk her teeth into the cookie at its center.

  Willow and I stared. Willow was probably hoping Imogene would like the cookie, not realizing the opposite was impossible, and I was wondering if I was right and Willow was a real-life magic baker. The other thing that came to mind was how the magic worked. Did it have limits? Parameters? If Willow could bake her happiness into food, then what happened if she baked under duress or grief or after a bad breakup? Would all her customers take a bite and burst into tears? Leave their spouses? March themselves off a bridge or into the Mississippi?

  I grimaced. Hopefully it only worked with happiness.

  “Mmm,” Imogene said, a smile blooming on her posy-pink lips. She took another bite, made the same noise, then shoved the rest into her mouth. “These are delicious.”

  “Imogene?” I asked as she reached for a second macaron. “How was business while I was away?”

  “Not bad. You know how I like to meet new people.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, “and what did you think of the bull outfit I had on earlier?”

  She tipped her head briefly over each shoulder. “I liked the way you added pants to make it more modest, and I bet you had a lot of fun down there being young and carefree, until those bulls tried to kill you.”

  I made a sour face. “Yeah. That put a damper on things. But you liked my outfit?”

  She nodded, looking a bit mystified herself. “I didn’t hate it.”

  I gave the macarons a long look and wondered briefly what would happen if Jack ate one.

  Penelope meowed. “Oops!” I ran to free her. “Sorry, darling.” The black cat that had been stalking Willow was seated outside the zippered door on Penelope’s soft-sided carrier. When I opened the tiny drawbridge, Penelope slunk out stiff-legged and tail high. The cats circled each other while I tucked the carrier behind my counter.