Furry Godmother’s secret to stunning Shih Tzu tutus: More glitter.
I squinted through my freshly cleaned shop window at a lively group of women snapping selfies with the Magazine Street sign in front of a New Orleans police car and broken-in storefront. Humidity had twisted their hair to Albert Einstein proportions. An officer, standing several feet away, looked as confused as the jewelry shop owner sweeping broken glass. Crime wasn’t usually a problem in the Garden District, but this was the second jewelry heist in a week. The whole conundrum made me extra glad I owned a pet boutique. There wasn’t much of a black market for animal couture, and my baked goods had an expiration date.
Thieves aside, it was a beautiful New Orleans day. Ninety-seven, with a real feel of one hundred thirteen. Home sweet home. Hard to believe I’d ever left. Even harder to believe that somewhere beyond the sprawling mansions and Mighty Mississippi was my cheating ex-fiancé and our tabby, Penelope.
Pearl Neidermeyer was in front of me yammering away. “Lacy? Hello? Lacy Crocker, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled at the woman who’d taught me ballet for three months as a child. “Every word.” My mother had put me in every form of dance and pageantry for years before she accepted the painful truth. I was my father’s daughter, made more for observation than participation.
I also shared Dad’s love of animals and art, which had led me to opening Furry Godmother, a custom pet boutique and organic, animal-friendly bakery. My degree in fashion design was finally paying off. My favorite ensembles were captured on film and hung around the room in collages of antique, gilded frames. Animals had been my life’s passion for as long as I could remember. Who knew that one day I’d be making custom creations for a literal catwalk?
Below the photographs, white oak shelves lined three walls, heavy laden with products, mixes, and baking supplies. The turtles and aquarium took residence on the fourth, a nice touch for atmosphere and entertaining children. Wide shop windows welcomed ample light from Magazine Street and invited shoppers inside for a peek or sample. A row of white minichandeliers hung from the ceiling, classing up the joint. My pink-and-green color scheme was adorable with punches of yellow for zip.
Mrs. Neidermeyer’s bangle bracelets jangled as she paced. “Those Fat Cats are making a big entrance at the gala. They’re building custom carriages. I can’t compete with custom carriages, so our costumes need to pack a punch.”
I rubbed my palms together and pulled myself away from the window. “Your dancers need something spectacular.”
“Exactly.”
Images exploded in my mind like movie theatre popcorn. Shiny, dazzling popcorn. I lifted a finger. “I have an idea.” I opened the drawer behind the counter where I kept notepads, cardstock, and a rainbow of sticky notes. I snagged my favorite pink sketchpad and smiled. “The costumes I create for your Shih Tzus will be so stunning, every dance coach on the East Coast will want your name.” I grabbed a pencil and scribbled notes. “I’ll start with silver sequin jackets.”
Mrs. Neidermeyer shook her head and pressed her lips tight. “No jackets. The darlings can’t perform properly with their legs all wrapped in sequins. Remember practicality. It’s not a photo shoot, darling. This is the Jazz Festival we’re talking about. We need to make a real impression at the Animal Elegance gala. The judges must be awed.”
I snickered, dancing my pencil over the paper, sketching lines and curves where crinoline and glitter would meet in sheer pageant perfection. “People do think I’m a little odd.”
She moved closer and set her stupendously bedazzled flip phone on the counter. “I said awed. Not odd.” Her frown said she didn’t necessarily disagree with my being odd.
Sometimes I forgot I was the only one who thought wordplay was hilarious.
I inhaled deeply and leaned my elbows onto the counter. My long, pale-blonde ringlets swung around my arms. “What do you think of something like this?”
She scrutinized my work. Her lips twitched, but she shut the smile down quick and tight. “I need seven. Make them spectacular. No jackets. Don’t forget this is your time to shine, too, dear. A few media mentions from an event of this caliber and you can put your name on the map as a designer.”
The upcoming French Quarter Jazz Festival had Garden District residents in a tizzy, planning the finest fundraisers and galas for their favorite organizations and charities, including Animal Elegance, the swankest gig of them all. I’d already secured a contract for Furry Godmother to provide refreshments for the pets. Still, dressing Mrs. Neidermeyer’s Shih Tzus was the biggest opportunity of my career so far.
“Okay. I’ll get to work on these and give you a call when they’re ready.” I turned the paper in her direction. “Seven sparkly Shih Tzu tutus. No jackets. Must dazzle. No problem.”
She nodded, attention riveted to the pad where I’d doodled the quick mock-up. “Excellent. Can we get four dozen peanut butter pupcakes delivered to the gala as well? Make a sign so they’ll know they’re from me.”
“Sure.” I scratched a note on the paper. “Good choice. The venue contracted me for bottled waters, dish rentals, and a mix of tuna tarts and turkey tots. Pupcakes will make the perfect dessert.”
“Bag the pupcakes individually and tie them with purple and green ribbons. Satin, not that cheap curling nonsense.”
“Got it.” I suppressed an eye roll. As if she needed to clarify. Only the best was practically this district’s motto. Plus, I took accessorizing seriously.
Returning home to New Orleans four months ago hadn’t been easy, but an ugly breakup with my ex-fiancé, Pete, had helped the process along. It probably wasn’t even a coincidence his name rhymed with cheat. Though two-timing creep was more accurate. Cheat implied a certain level of “Whoopsie. Did I do that?” Pete had maintained two full-time relationships, using his complicated schedule at the busy DC hospital to keep us both in the dark. One more reason I preferred pets to people. Pets never lied.
Mrs. Neidermeyer perused the bakery display while I drew up her work order. The oversized rings on her hands glittered under florescent studio lighting, casting rainbows over the display case and floor. “Everything is riding on this gala. We need costumes that will make the audience gasp, check their programs, and remember our names. We must enchant them.”
“No problem.” A win for her would be an enormous victory for Furry Godmother. “I will do my best to impress.”
She cast a suspicious look my way. “When can I expect the finished costumes?”
I checked my emaciated calendar. Three little notes dotted an expanse of blank white paper. The Himalayan Rescue Foundation needed six dozen tuna tarts. Happy Tails Day Spa needed twelve dozen canine carrot cakes. A local equestrian event had requested custom sashes for all participating thoroughbreds. I had time to make fifty tutus and still brainstorm the new line of Paris-inspired designs I hoped to launch next spring. “When do you need them?”
“The dancers need time for a proper dress rehearsal and the gala is in a month. Sooner is better. We’re planning group photos before the gala.”
I twirled a length of hair around my finger. “Two weeks?”
She nodded stiffly. “That will do.”
Making tutus would be fun, but I couldn’t wait to get to those poodle skirts. I’d dreamed about them all through the spring. I sighed. There was nothing like Paris in the spring. I scratched the date onto the work order and handed Mrs. Neidermeyer a copy.
Her eyes glazed over, gaze lost somewhere else in the room.
“Mrs. Neidermeyer?”
“Hmmm?” She patted the counter between us, unseeing.
“Your order slip.”
She’d honed her pale-green eyes on Mr. Tater, my store’s investor. I hadn’t heard him come in. Remembering to replace the bell inside my door after cleaning the windows had proven impossible. Half the time, I only remembered the bell was missing when I made plans to clean the windows again. She wetted her lips, and I dropped the slip on the counter where she’d eventually find it with her roving hand.
Mr. Tater made his usual circuit around my store’s interior, touching random items on shelves and exploring the pet treats inside my displays. His thinning gel-spiked hair went well with the gold rope necklace and pinstriped dress shirt tucked neatly into jeans worn around his navel. Unfortunate wardrobe aside, Mr. Tater was catnip for the over forty and single crowd. He’d amassed a fortune with his savvy business investments and liked to flaunt his money more than most, a trait this town appreciated. He was also a shrewd and generous businessman. He’d signed on as my investor when I couldn’t secure a proper loan and had refused my parents’ help.
Mrs. Neidermeyer’s hand landed on the slip. She stuffed it into her oversized designer bag and strode toward Mr. Tater with purpose in her eyes.
Then an olive-skinned man with the profile of a prizefighter sauntered through the door, drawing my attention away from Mrs. Neidermeyer and Mr. Tater. The man cast his glance around before heading my way. His stride was as predatory as his gaze.
I skittered back a step. “Can I help you?”
He lifted his eyebrows and appraised me thoroughly. He brushed long, calloused fingers over a stack of brightly colored head wraps beside my register. “Interesting shop you work in.”
“It’s my shop, actually. I make all the organic pet treats, custom clothing, and accessories.”
He chuckled, toying with the stack of accessories. “What are these supposed to be?”
I bit the insides of my cheeks. He was antagonizing me. “Those are headscarves for small dogs or cats, possibly a large guinea pig or teacup pig.”
His gaze moved from the material between his fingers to Mr. Tater, and he stepped back among the racks, feigning rapt interest in the turtle tank and neighboring aquarium along the far wall.
“Lacy.” Mr. Tater peeled my attention from the rude man and greeted me with a handshake. “How’s business?”
“Great.” I hoped it sounded believable. I couldn’t afford for him to give up on me yet.
Mr. Tater rocked back on his heels. “Excellent. May I have four pawlines for Priscilla?”
“Certainly.”
He moseyed back to the bakery display case. “She can’t get enough of the new recipe. What did you change?”
I slid a pair of plastic gloves over clean hands and opened the case. “Trade secret, Mr. Tater, but I’ll throw in an extra pawline to make up for not telling you. How’s that?” I smiled at him and the store I loved.
“Five pawlines? She’s going to love me today.”
My pawlines were a pet-friendly version of famous New Orleans pralines. The pawlines were made with bacon fat and wheat flour instead of pecans and brown sugar, but dogs couldn’t get enough, especially Priscilla, Mr. Tater’s Pug-Beagle mix. Breeders called the combination a Puggle. I called her downright adorable.
I stacked his pawlines in a logoed bakery box lined with pink paper.
Mr. Tater turned his attention to me and lowered his voice. “I’ve contacted a security firm about installing a system here. A sales representative will be in contact.”
I sealed the little box with a golden fleur-de-lis sticker and handed it to Mr. Tater. “Is everything okay?”
His forehead creased. “Don’t you want an alarm?”
“Oh, I do.” Assuming I could run it once it was installed. “Is this because of the jewelry store break-ins?”
Mr. Tater leaned against the counter, his brows raised in surprise. “Have you heard anything?”
“No. Only what I’ve seen or read in the news.” I tipped my chin toward the front window. “Maybe you could talk to the officer across the street before he leaves. Get the inside scoop.”
He shook his head. “There were a few petty thefts at the restaurant. Last night there was an issue at the Gallery.”
Goose bumps ran down my arms. He had good reason to worry. His restaurant, the Barrel Room, was the busiest in the city. A bad reputation could ruin business. And the Gallery was Mr. Tater’s jewelry store, positioned at the district’s edge. “Wow. Did you make a report?”
“Of course. It took all morning to sort it out.” He watched the scene outside. “I can’t believe there were two hits in one night.”
Mrs. Neidermeyer pressed a palm to her heart. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh, no. Forgive me.” He placed a set of air kisses on each side of Mrs. Neidermeyer’s face and smiled. “There’s no need to concern yourself. I’ll get a security system installed here right away and nip this thing in the bud.”
Mrs. Neidermeyer nodded solemnly.
Tater excused himself and disappeared onto the crowded sidewalk beyond the windows.
I followed him as far as the door and flipped the “Closed” sign before tugging my gloves off.
The dark-eyed man lingered near a rack of tiny top hats.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “Can I help you choose a treat for your pet?”
He licked his lips and smiled. “How about something for my big dog?”
I wrapped frustrated arms around my middle. I’d survived the DC area long enough to know a hooligan when I saw one. Several colorful suggestions came to mind for his “big dog,” but Mrs. Neidermeyer’s presence restrained me. I couldn’t afford to lose her business by behaving less than ladylike. I formed my most threatening smile. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
Mrs. Neidermeyer cleared her throat and joined me at the door.
The man laughed. “Look at that. Time to go.” He winked at Mrs. Neidermeyer and slunk into the sunshine.
She dabbed a handkerchief against her forehead. “Well, I never.” She fussed with her clothes and hair, looking utterly disgusted.
I pulled the shades on my windows for good measure. “Are you okay?” I had half a mind to report the jerk for upsetting Mrs. Neidermeyer, but unfortunately that wasn’t a crime. Not even in this neighborhood.
“I’m fine. You don’t get to be my age without meeting your share of perverts and derelicts.” She dropped her hands to her sides and straightened her spine. “I’ll be expecting a detailed mock-up of those tutus for my approval.”
“Of course.”
She left with her chin high and a pageant-worthy wave over one shoulder.
I flipped the dead bolt and straightened the welcome mat with my shoe, admiring the deep-cherry stain I’d used on the knotted oak floor. The planks were easily a century old and worn smooth from decades of foot traffic.
Every shop on Magazine Street seemed the perfect mix of history and art. Both quirky and timeless. I’d hit the jackpot finding an available rental space and an investor the same month I came home. The crew at All-American Construction had turned the empty space into a cozy studio with built-in shelves and a bakery display in a matter of days. They even hung my chandeliers. Everything was perfect, and it was great to be home.
Speaking of home, I had dinner plans across town.
* * *
My little black Volkswagen bounced up the rear driveway at my parents’ house. I pressed the accelerator with feather-light pressure and prayed I wouldn’t need a whiplash collar. The windows in my first car, a white convertible, had stayed down year-round thanks to this driveway. Too many fast trips up the lane had rattled something loose inside the door panels. As a veterinarian in a pet-centric community, my father never had time to fix the windows. Plus, it was his policy that I attempt everything myself first. If I failed or got stuck, I could call for help, but not until I’d tried. I never did get the windows fixed, but I could do an unfathomable amount of other things thanks to his infuriating policy. Ingenuity was a Crocker family virtue.
I parked beside Mom’s new Mercedes and pulled in a deep breath of thick Louisiana air. Telltale scents of earth and ozone lingered around me, enticing me to sit in the swing and watch clouds flutter past. Leaves on the old oak tree overhead turned their veins skyward in anticipation of the brewing storm. Their mossy beards floated on the breeze.
Mom met me on the back porch of our family’s century-old Victorian. She thought cars parked out front looked tacky. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned up on one side, showing a shock of gray. A lifetime of smiling had left marks at the corners of her mouth and eyes, as if her face anticipated the next round and waited in position. “Well, you look ready for a trip to the library. All that outfit needs is glasses and a bun with a pencil shoved through it.”
“Pencil skirts are classic, Mother.”
“I agree. They’re quite popular with my girlfriends.”
I sighed. This was a story I’d heard before. “They’re all grandmothers.”
“Well, it’s true.” She tugged the door open and held it as I passed.
Our cozy family home was a five-thousand-square-foot Victorian dollhouse, complete with scrolling gingerbread woodwork and muted mauve-and-olive color scheme. Mom’s great-grandfather commissioned it in the late nineteenth century after selling his plantation. At that time, wealthy Americans found it distasteful to live in the French Quarter. Personally, I loved the Quarter. What I didn’t like were the debutante balls and cotillions.
Mom passed me on the way to the kitchen. “Dinner’s nearly done.” Her vibrant floral wrap dress and matching red pumps were stunning together. I’d gotten my passion for fashion—and unfortunately my ski-slope nose—from her, but little else. Even our opinions on design trends were night and day. Where I saw geeky chic, for example, Mom saw a schoolmarm.
I followed her on a whiff of something wonderful. She stopped to examine an array of steaming pots on the stovetop. “I don’t know what’s happening here.” She turned in a circle, flummoxed. “Imogene,” she called, “where are you and what can I do to help?”
Imogene was my nanny until high school when she switched to tending house. She’d been in the family since my grandmother hired her as a home health aide late in life. She and Mom had become fast friends. She kept the estate going while Mom grieved the loss of her mother. After that, she never really left. Imogene became like an aunt or surrogate mother to me, filling in as caretaker, chef, and tutor whenever Mom’s community engagements had taken her away.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Imogene’s voice thundered through the first floor, accompanied by the rhythm of highly motivated size-six sneakers. “I’ve got an eye on everything.” She rolled into view, arms open, and pulled me against her. “Miss Lacy.” She stepped back for a better look at me. “You’re too skinny.”
She always said that. “You know that’s a compliment, right?”
“Not where I come from.”
I hugged her again. “You come from Marigny, not Mars. I think you look perfect.”
Marigny was once a plantation seated down river from the French Quarter. Today it was shabby chic and considered a local secret. Great clubs and food. A short walk from the Quarter, funky and eclectic. It suited Imogene perfectly, much like her beliefs in local lore and mysticism.
“I’m old.” She poked her puffy salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m starting to look like the Bride of Frankenstein.”
“You look like home to me.” She’d advised me on everything from boys to outfits. She understood how out of place I felt at Mom’s parties, at my school, in my skin. The only things that helped me sleep as a child were her stories and a sprinkling of invisible dust from her fingertips to ward off the weary dreams. Imogene came from a long line of shamans and had a whole bunch of beliefs and practices I didn’t understand. All that had mattered to me was that I loved her and she loved me and we were family.
“What’s for dinner? It smells amazing.”
“Oh.” Mom returned from ferrying pitchers of ice water and sweet tea to the dining room. “We’re supposed to be trying a new recipe, but Imogene won’t let me help. I made beans and rice for dinner. There’s a big salad in the fridge. I visited the French Market this morning and picked everything myself. Purely organic. The only additive used on those beautiful veggies was love.” Her obsession with whole foods was contagious, eventually leading to my first experiment in healthy pet treats.
I pulled the salad from the fridge and unwrapped the plastic covering: bright-green lettuce leaves, tossed with sliced carrots, onions, and every shade of bell pepper known to man. “This is beautiful.” I carried it to the dining room and laid it on the table built for twelve. Then I grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard and set places for my parents, Imogene, and me.
Voodoo, the family cat, sauntered into the dining room and rolled in a shaft of sunlight. She was an ageless, sheer-black rescue, the third in my lifetime, and one of many Voodoos before her. Adopting adult black cats was a kooky tradition started by Dad’s grandpa, the first veterinarian in our family, when he replaced their aged cat with a new one of a similar size. The intent was to avoid the discussion of death with his very young son, but the unanticipated result came years later, when neighborhood whispers of voodoo and witchcraft began. How else could Dr. Crocker keep the family pet going for decade upon decade? One day, the cat had a graying muzzle, and the next day it was inky black again. Proof of voodoo had never seemed so sound to the profoundly superstitious citizens of the most haunted city in America. Great-Grandpa enjoyed the misunderstanding so much, he started calling the new cat Voodoo, and the tradition kept going strong for seventy-five years.
I straightened the final plate and smiled.
Dad arrived a moment later and lathered up at the sink like he was prepping for surgery. “Good evening, ladies.”
“Hey, Daddy.” I ran my hand over Voodoo’s soft coat before taking my place at the table.
Dad had kept local pets healthy for as long as I could remember. We’d celebrated his fifty-fifth birthday shortly after my return in March. Dad was contagious, always animated with purpose and buzzing with energy. He sat at the head of the table, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, surprising me with a nudge on the knee.
“I heard you’re making the tutus for Mrs. Neidermeyer’s Shih Tzus this year. Mable Feller must be mad as a cat in a mailbox.”
I smiled. Mable had made all the gala costumes for decades. Designing the tutus for Mrs. Neidermeyer was an honor and a bit of validation in local circles. “I hope she likes what I make. There’s a lot riding on this job.”
Dad dug into his red beans and rice with gusto. “You’ll have business coming in from every pet lover in America soon. If New Orleans is chosen for the next National Pet Pageant, the line outside your store will reach all the way to the river.”
“Only you would make the leap from designer of seven tutus to national kingpin.” I poured a glass of ice water. “I think Furry Godmother might finally be taking off. I have some baked goods on order, and I think the sashes for Pegasus Farms will put my work on the equestrian lovers’ radar.”
Mom sighed, bored with our conversation and continually unimpressed by my life goals. “Come sit with us, Imogene,” she called into the kitchen. “You make me nervous bustling around in there.”
Imogene pressed the door open with one hand and peeked out. “I can’t. This is serious business. You talk. I’ll listen.”
Dad dotted his mouth with a crisp linen napkin. “She makes me tired just watching her. I don’t think she ever stops.”
“I’ll stop when I’m dead.” Her voice carried over the clanging of lids and pans. “Plenty of time for rest up ahead.”
Dad stuffed his smiling face with rice and chuckled.
I forked a wedge of lettuce. “The jewelry store across the street from my shop was broken into last night and so was Mr. Tater’s jewelry store. He’s having a security system installed at Furry Godmother.”
Dad chewed slowly. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” The confidence in his tone didn’t reach his eyes.
The strange, dark-eyed man who visited the store earlier came to mind. His presence had made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. Men like him didn’t make appearances at Furry Godmother. Too bad I couldn’t keep it that way.
I paddled the ice in my glass with a spoon and turned my eyes on Dad. “Do you think my shop could be of interest to thieves?”
“I don’t see why. You empty the register every night.” He raised his brows, questioning.
“Yes.” I shook off the creeping feeling. A sensible jewel thief wouldn’t look twice at my store. I was jaded from my time in Arlington. I shuddered and pushed the thought away.
Mom sensed the lull in conversation and got busy catching us up on local gossip and hearsay. She rattled off a list of events on her agenda and lamented over invitations she’d yet to receive. Overall, the meal was fraught with personal questions and poorly concealed suggestions that I find a husband. In other words, the usual.
I left an hour later with two lidded containers of whatever Imogene had concocted on the stove and a gut full of indignation. Mom’s dinner references to “proper career paths” and the “quick passage of a woman’s childbearing years” propelled my Volkswagen toward Furry Godmother. In keeping with my life’s pattern, I’d lay awake all night rehashing and dissecting her every word and tallying the ways I disappointed her until dawn. If I were destined for insomnia, better to use the time productively.
I unlocked the front door at Furry Godmother and made a beeline for the storeroom. Ideas bubbled through my mind as I loaded my arms with everything I needed to mock up a knock-’em-dead tutu for Mrs. Neidermeyer. Airbrush gun, glitter spray, tulle, ribbon. Check, check, check, and check. I wedged my tackle box of craft supplies between my elbow and ribs and caught the store keys in my fingertips. I’d show Mrs. Neidermeyer a tutu she’d never forget and give my mother a reason to appreciate my career.
The familiar sound of my front door sucking open startled me. I’d locked the door—hadn’t I? Heavy footfalls moved across the sales floor on the other side of the supply room wall. I tiptoed closer to the doorway, listening for a clue as to who’d followed me inside. Jewel thieves crashed into mind. I pressed my back to the wall and hid in the shadows, holding my breath and formulating a plan. Was I being robbed? Would a thief harm me if he found me?
Images of an earlier mugging flashed in my memory. I’d been young and naïve then. Fresh from the bubble of my family’s upscale lifestyle and a few years on quiet college campuses, I’d chosen to walk home alone from work at night in Arlington.
Stupid.
I pinched my eyes shut and gave myself a pep talk. You want to live, Lacy?
I’d make a run for the back door. I opened my eyes and scooted to the rear shop entrance. I’d have a better chance if my hands were free, but the odds of unloading my arms without alerting the intruder to my presence were zero. I carefully pushed the key into the lock, balancing a tackle box of craft supplies and pressing thirty yards of tulle between my cheek and shoulder. The tumbler rolled, and I silently counted to three.
I jerked the door wide, dropping most of my burden with a crash, and dove into the rear lot armed with monstrous fear and an airbrush gun. A cat dashed through the shadows, and I dropped my keys onto the pavement near my feet. Panic seized my limbs. I needed those for my escape vehicle! I crouched to scoop the keys up.
My shop’s back door burst open, and the dark-eyed man from earlier rushed across the threshold with a grimace.
I screamed, jumped to my feet, and froze.
He took long, quick strides in my direction.
My fight instinct fought with my flight instinct. The shriek that left my lips was worth a dozen horror movie deaths. Faced with an attacker and no one to hear my cry, I used the only weapon at my disposal. Gold glitter paint sprayed from the airbrush nozzle in my hands, covering his eyes and thick black hair in fairy dust.
“Gah!” he growled and swiped his face, letting loose a slew of ugly swears. He stumbled, and I bolted, dialing 9-1-1 as I moved. I’d come back with the police to get my keys and car.
Forget diamonds. Glitter was a girl’s best friend.