by Julie Chase
I accepted, and he tapped his half to mine. “Good work, Crocker.”
“Get a room,” Scarlet said with a grin, “and pass me one of those sandwiches.”
I obeyed, and Scarlet pushed play on the first video nanny application. “Pay close attention. This is my children’s lives we’re talking about.”
“So, no pressure,” I said.
The three of us sat silently through seven one-minute applications before Scarlet shut her laptop. “That’s all,” she said. “The rest were immediate nos. What did you guys think?”
“I liked the one who had a puppet,” I said. “That was cute.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It was a grown man with a sock and a magic marker,” she said. “Jack?”
He tapped the screen of his phone for several seconds before turning it to face us. “The sock guy is a registered pedophile. I notified his parole officer.”
Scarlet went sheet-white. “Oh my word. What am I doing?” She shoved her laptop back into its bag in a rush. “I can’t leave my children with a stranger. What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re an exhausted mother of four who wants to get a little more sleep this decade?” Jack guessed.
“You’d like to leave the house without a pint-sized entourage at least once a week?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “At this point, I’d like to use the bathroom without a pint-sized entourage.”
I made a puke face.
Jack laughed. “Wow.”
Scarlet snapped her bag shut and did a whole-body shiver. “Never mind. I’m not getting a nanny. Everyone’s crazy.”
“Why not ask your old nanny?” I suggested. “I’m sure Imogene will take over for me when I need a nanny someday.”
Jack turned on his stool to face me. “When are you going to need a nanny?”
“I don’t know,” I said, swiveling to face him. “I’m thirty. That puts kids on the five-year plan, I guess.” I stopped to consider that a minute, then filled my glass with wine and took a long sip.
“What about you?” Scarlet asked Jack. “Is there a crew of Jack Juniors in your future?”
He looked from Scarlet to me. “I hope so.” He stood and stretched. “I think I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I stood too. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.” He nodded. “If you find a nanny you like, Scarlet, let me know. I’m happy to run a full background check.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Jack. Sorry if I freaked you out by asking about kids.”
“Wasn’t that,” he said. “I want kids.” He headed for the door, and I followed.
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “You just got here.”
“It’s fine. It’s not easy for Scarlet to get out and be alone with friends,” he said. “Hang out. Have fun. Then give me a call. I think you and I should make that date soon.”
“Okay,” I said, unsure what was happening.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, angling toward me, grouchy, thinking face in place.
I shook my head, unsure. “You said date, but it feels like you’re breaking up with me.”
His brows rose. “What? No.” Jack took a tiny step in my direction and set a hand on the curve of my waist. “No,” he repeated.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll see you soon, okay?” he whispered.
I nodded, then stood immobilized as he drove away.
Scarlet shut the door for me and steered me to the couch. “Sit down. I found news coverage of the bomb.” She handed me a glass of wine and took the seat by my side. The BREAKING NEWS logo flashed over the screen, with prerecorded footage of the bomb squad, K-9 dogs, and a robot gathered outside the Audubon Tea Room. Jack was in the frame speaking with a uniformed officer. “You’re going to explain what I just walked in on during the next commercial break,” she said.
If only I could.
Scarlet and I watched silently as a local news crew covered the bomb threat at the National Pet Pageant, then recapped Viktor’s death. The reporter caught Mrs. Smart and my mother heading into the building and stopped them.
“Oh no,” Scarlet said. “Did you know your mom was interviewed?”
“No.” I squinted, hoping Mom didn’t do or say anything that would horrify her, or me, later. “She told me she had news when I spoke to her earlier. This must be it.”
First, Mrs. Smart graciously answered a thousand questions about the pageant’s history and her husband’s involvement in making it a national event. Then she spoke confidently about the New Orleans Police Department and their ability to sort things out. When the reporter followed up with allegations about corruption within the event that might have led to the recent “bad luck streak,” Mrs. Smart blanched, and my mother intervened.
“Hello,” she said, stepping into the camera’s view. “I’m Violet Conti-Crocker, president of the National Pet Pageant Welcoming Committee. I believe you’re asking Mrs. Smart to speculate on the reason for a bomb threat and a murder.” She made a gravely serious face and shook her head slowly in a perfect show of superiority and disdain.
The reporter shot the camera a worried look.
“Do you truly believe that this woman has some inside knowledge of these crimes?” she continued.
“Well, n-no,” he stammered.
“Then you know she can’t possibly speak to a criminal’s motives with any degree of accuracy, but you still ask. Why is that? Are you colossally daft, or are you being intentionally ridiculous to stimulate ratings by acting a fool?” She lifted a perfectly sculpted brow, and the reporter went red.
The news cut to a commercial.
“Gotta love your mother,” Scarlet said. “She set that man straight with a couple questions and an eyebrow.”
“Did she look okay to you?” I asked. Mom had turned the unsuspecting reporter around and made it look effortless, but I knew her, and I thought I’d seen something unusual in her eyes. Worry? Maybe a hint of fear? “I’d better give her a call.”
Scarlet sipped her wine. “Go for it.” She scanned her phone while I dialed. “But when you hang up, you’re going to tell me what Jack Oliver was up to.”
“He invited me on a date,” I said, mystified.
“A date-date?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”
Scarlet kicked her feet onto my coffee table and smiled. “About damn time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Furry Godmother’s point to ponder: You might get more flies with honey, but honestly, who wants flies?
After a rousing breakfast performance of has-everyone-lost-their-damn-minds by my mother and multiple detailed recaps of all the ways she’d worked to troubleshoot any possible situation before the National Pet Pageant arrived, followed by a grand finale of how-could-I-possibly-have-prepared-for-this, I was on my way to work with a doggie bag of crepes and a budding headache.
Penelope was curled in her soft carrier beside me, strapped in safely by the seat belt and sunning her face in the lovely morning light.
I couldn’t blame my mother for her foul disposition. She’d worked for months to make the National Pet Pageant’s stint in New Orleans shine. She’d performed every manner of troubleshooting before the show arrived. She’d planned for scenarios no one had thought were remotely possible except her, and still this week had been a total nightmare. She hadn’t planned for a murder or the complicated and terrifying aftermath.
If there was a silver lining for Mom, it was that there were only a few days left until she could put it all behind her and pretend it had never happened. Dogs performed tonight, assuming there wasn’t another bomb threat, and tomorrow was a smaller, hodgepodge of performances, mostly of birds. Three nights from now, the winners would be crowned, and we’d have a legendary reception. Then the National Pet Pageant would move on.
I stopped at the next intersection and admired an expanse of plumeria pushing its beautiful white flowers through a ne
arby fence. I needed to recenter myself before I made it to work, but Mom’s sheer exasperation was on a loop in my head. Dramatic as she could be, she was right about this week, and the awfulness seemed to be escalating. Viktor’s death. My threats. Wild bulls. A bomb scare. Her lament about the fact that I hadn’t called to tell her about the bulls had lasted through two cups of coffee.
I needed to get in front of this mess before someone else got hurt. Or worse.
I hit my blinker and checked the time on my dashboard. It was early, and I had only twenty minutes to spare, but I needed answers. Real ones. I motored across Mom’s neighborhood to Coliseum Street and slid my Volkswagen against the curb outside an adorable Italianate cottage with a pristine lawn lined in stately iron fencing. A familiar white truck was parked across the street, and it took me a minute to remember where else I’d seen it. It looked like the construction company truck I’d seen outside the Saenger Theatre when Big Splash ran off. The rusty eyesore was out of place on a street where even the smallest home sold for two million dollars and laborers were kept painstakingly out of sight. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t a coincidence to find the truck here as well.
I grabbed Penny’s carrier and hustled up the walkway to Eva’s magnificent column-lined porch. The doorbell made an enchanting sound under pressure of my finger, and I smiled at all the hanging flower baskets and planters around me. With any luck, I’d catch Eva before she ran off to meet with Mom and the committee ladies. With even more luck, she wouldn’t tell my mother that I’d shown up unannounced, first thing in the morning, without a gift or food of some sort. Mom had enough things to be upset about already. She didn’t need another reason to question her parenting.
A scuffle on the other side of the closed door set me back a step. “Eva?” I called, loud enough to be heard through the door, I hoped, without irritating a neighbor. I leaned closer and closed my eyes to listen. The rasp of heavy whispering alternated with batches of silence.
I pressed the doorbell again. “Eva? It’s Lacy Crocker.”
“Coming,” Eva called.
The door opened, and a man better suited for fitness modeling than home maintenance stepped out. A tool belt rode low on his hips and his shirt had a company logo to match the truck I’d seen parked across the street. He tugged on the brim of his ball cap and nodded in greeting before jogging down the steps and climbing behind the wheel of the white pickup.
I turned back to the open door.
Eva forced a tight smile. “Hi, Lacy.” She tightened the ties of a short satin robe around her waist, then pushed a hand through the long brown waves tumbling over her shoulders. The nightgown beneath her little robe was black, silk, and not much longer than the short robe. She offered a small smile. “What are you doing here?”
I looked over my shoulder as the truck pulled away, then turned back to Eva, certain I had just put a couple of new puzzle pieces together without ever stepping inside. “I wanted to talk with you again about Viktor Petrov,” I said. “I have a feeling Jack’s getting close to arresting you, and I think you can stop it from happening if you’d just tell me what I’m missing.”
Eva motioned me inside and pressed the door closed behind us. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.” I’d taken in enough coffee at my parents’ place to launch a rocket into orbit, but seeing as how I’d failed to bring Eva a gift or warn her I was coming, the least I could do was be agreeable.
I followed her across high-polished heart-of-pine flooring to an airy room with large symmetrical windows and fresh flowers at every turn. The parlor’s high ceilings were a delight to the eyes, lined in elaborately detailed moldings, pinched together at the corners by cherub cornices. The windows were crystal clear with fantastic views of an immaculately kept garden and flanked with white built-in bookcases. Her walls were a warm, buttery yellow and the furniture a crisp white with brightly colored throw pillows. A braided rug played anchor to an ornate coffee table where a carafe and service for two awaited.
Eva filled a delicate teacup to the brim with shaky hands. “I’ve told you everything I know,” she said. “I’m not sure what else I can do besides trust that Detective Oliver will find the true killer.”
I took a seat and rested Penelope’s carrier at my ankles. “I’m sure Jack would love to know you have so much faith in him,” I said, “but the thing about being framed is that all the available evidence will be pointed directly at you unless you can turn it around. Jack’s good, and he’s trying to get to the bottom of this, but there’s only so much he can do if you’re intentionally withholding information, which, by the way, is also known as obstruction.”
Her cheeks flamed red, and she touched the tips of her fingers to her lips.
Her little nightie and mussy hair itched in my head. “Did that workman I saw leaving here sleep over last night?” I asked, hating to be rude, but needing the information more than I could afford to care about manners.
Eva folded her hands in her lap and made a strange sound.
“I don’t care either way,” I assured her, “but it seems to me that someone expecting a worker would have at least put on pants or found a hairbrush, and I know how things work in this district. Everyone you know would die of sudden collective heart failure if they knew you were dating a random laborer.”
“Marcellus isn’t random,” she said, “and he’s more than a laborer.”
I sipped the coffee and smiled sweetly. “Oh?”
Eva puffed air through her little nose. “Marcellus is a second-generation Cuban American who started a handyman business in Holy Cross and plans to grow it into something big,” she said. “He’s a good guy. So much more fun than anyone in our snooty circle and more respectful than the bozos my parents fix me up with. Marcellus is brave and determined, kind and protective.” She wet her lips and straightened her spine. “I think I’m falling in love with him.”
My chest warmed at the unexpected confession. “He’s very handsome, too.”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Is he part of the reason you aren’t telling anyone the real story about what happened in the balcony before Viktor fell?” I asked. She’d said Marcellus was protective. Was it possible that he’d caught Viktor pawing at her and had come to her defense, maybe even giving Viktor a shove that sent him stumbling for balance and toppling right over the rail? “Did something happen between Marcellus and Viktor?” I asked.
“No,” she said, a look of confusion on her brow. “Of course not. They never met.” A heartbeat later, her eyes stretched wide. She slid to the edge of her seat and leaned her elbows on her knees. “Marcellus wouldn’t hurt anyone, and he wasn’t in the balcony when Viktor fell.”
“But he was at the theater?” So it had been his truck. I’d seen it when Big Splash ran off. “Did he know how Viktor treated you?”
“Yes, and he hated it. That was why Marcellus snuck into the theater to see me. He wanted to be sure I was okay. I slipped away to be with him,” she said. “I told the committee I had a headache so they’d let me out of sight for a few minutes to go take an aspirin. I met Marcellus in the back hallway and took him to the upstairs office outside the soundboard and shut the door. We were …” She turned her eyes away from me. “… visiting … when we heard a commotion.”
I slid forward too, unwilling to miss a single syllable of what she’d been hiding. “What did you hear while you were visiting?”
“Viktor’s rumbling voice, mostly. There were a few muted sounds of movement, but nothing significant or out of the ordinary. I swear to you. If I thought I knew something that would help find his killer, I would’ve already told you or the detective, but I don’t know anything.”
“What did you do when you heard him outside the room where you were hiding?”
“I panicked,” she said. “I knew if Viktor caught us, he’d make a huge scene over it and use his big mouth to be sure everyone in the theater knew what he’d seen. I assumed he’d be extra rude be
cause I’d rejected his advances so adamantly. He refused to take no for an answer, which was why I’d eventually hit him. Then, to find me in the arms of someone like Marcellus”—she sighed—“it would have been a major blow to his fat-headed ego. There was also the possibility that Viktor would lash out, say something hurtful or cruel to me in Marcellus’s presence that would make him fight back, and that was sure to end poorly, so I sent Marcellus out of the room first. I couldn’t afford to be seen walking out with him. So he left, and I stayed to straighten myself up.” Color crept over her freckled baby face as the implication of what she’d just confessed to settled in.
“That’s why you didn’t speak up,” I said. “You were embarrassed.”
“I had no reason to be in that office or upstairs at all,” she said.
“Did Marcellus see anyone with Viktor when he left?” I asked.
“He said he didn’t look. When he got downstairs, he heard Jack call a lockdown, so he angled his face away from everyone and kept moving until he was outside the building. All that he had on his mind was getting back to his truck without being noticed. He left before he could get caught inside the building and cause any trouble.”
I tried to imagine the moving parts in her story.
Marcellus could easily have confronted and tossed Viktor over the balcony without a problem. He was strong enough, and no one had even known he was at the theater. It would be the perfect crime as long as his girlfriend didn’t suspect him or tell anyone he’d been there. “Why didn’t you tell Jack any of this?” I asked. “He doesn’t care about district drama or politics. He doesn’t care who you love or where you love him. He just wants to clear your name.”
Eva kneaded her thin hands on her lap. “Marcellus asked me not to tell, and I agreed. I’d already lied about the headache, and I’m hiding a boyfriend no one will approve of.” Her voice dripped with despair. “Everyone knows there’s someone in my life right now. They just don’t know who he is, and I’m not ready to tell them. There’s speculation that I’m involved with a wealthy older man or some prince from another country. My parents will be horrified when they learn the truth. My friends will make fun of me.”