Furry Godmother’s accessories quick tip: Without rhinestones, they’re just handcuffs.
Ten minutes later, I sat on a bench outside my store again while a carousel of red-and-blue lights lit the evening sky. I’d waved down a squad car on Magazine Street. The cops inside had insisted I return with them. The door was ajar when we got there. I followed the officers inside, rehashing the terrifying details as quickly as I could. “You know what? I’ll write it down.”
The officers exchanged a pointed look while moving methodically across my spotless floorboards.
I rifled through my desk drawer for a proper writing pad and pen. “It’s best to list every detail as soon as possible after a crime. I went through something similar once. Well, not really. The last time was much worse.” I bit my lip to staunch the flood of words. Emotion stung my eyes.
The officers headed for the stock room.
“Check the rear lot,” I called. I settled my pen on the paper, but details didn’t come as clearly as I’d hoped, not in the form of words for a list. Instead, I sketched the crazed look on the man’s face as he chased me into the lot. I’d thought he was angry when I saw him, but there was something more in his expression.
“Ms. Crocker.” An officer returned to my side. He looked at my sketch. “I’m going to need to ask you to wait outside.”
“Oh.” I handed him the sketch. “This is the burglar. I don’t usually draw faces, but that’s close. Maybe I can work with a sketch artist at the station.”
He ushered me forward, nudging me out the front door. “Don’t go anywhere.” He stood a few feet away, watching until another cruiser, a crime scene van, and an ambulance pulled onto the curb.
A shiny black pickup barreled into the mix with a short bark of a siren, as if announcing itself was an afterthought. The truck now partially obstructed my view of the fire truck that had also arrived in response to my emergency call. Why were they still here? Obviously, there was no fire. The paramedics had gone inside and stayed. I glared at the truck. How many more people did it take to cover a break-in?
The man who climbed out of the truck looked more like trouble than a cop. Charcoal T-shirt and dark jeans. Brown cowboy boots and a frown. He gave me a once over and strode inside.
Indignant and out of patience, I followed him.
The uniformed cop followed me.
Furry Godmother was tidy. Nothing damaged or out of place, though my skin prickled just standing where a robber had lurked.
I slowed my steps when the stock room came into view. The officers and the man in cowboy boots were spread out, mumbling and nodding at the open rear door. A pile of tulle and assorted items I’d dropped littered the ground at their feet.
I rubbed the chill off my arms. Unease pooled in my tummy. There were too many officials here. None was leaving. Something else was at play.
As if he sensed my presence, the cowboy turned and lifted his gaze to mine. “Mrs. Crocker?”
“Miss Crocker.”
He made strides down the hall and into my personal space. He flashed a badge I couldn’t read through my scrambled thoughts and searched me with hard, emotionless eyes. “I’m Detective Jack Oliver.” He extended his hand.
I pulled back instinctively. A bad vibe weighed the air around me.
Detective Oliver sucked his teeth. He had a scar through his left eyebrow and a number of similar white hash marks beneath a dusting of facial hair. The same marks dashed his neck and disappeared under the line of his collar. “I’m going to need you to accompany me to the police station.”
The cops dropped my discarded supplies into evidence baggies.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
He cocked his head and scrutinized my face. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I came back for supplies. I heard an intruder, so I escaped through the rear door. A man followed me, but I got away. I called nine-one-one, and I told the officers everything on our ride back here. Would you like a description of the intruder? I’ve made a sketch.”
Detective Oliver stepped aside, giving me a clear view of the space outside the open door. Paramedics squatted near something large and eerily familiar. Under their careful watch, the brown-eyed man lay facedown in a mess of tulle and glitter-speckled blood. An officer dropped my airbrush gun into an evidence baggie.
The detective shifted his weight and braced his broad hands on his narrow hips. “Did he look anything like that?”
Well, yes. Yes, he did.
* * *
The police station smelled like stale coffee and body odor. Too many men in a confined space. My visit to their sanctuary had interrupted mealtime, by the looks of things. An array of po’ boy wrappers and throwaway containers cluttered the table in the small interrogation room where Detective Oliver had asked me to wait. As it turned out, the stink wasn’t body odor. It was their dinner.
A colorful collection of costumed tourists and citizens filled the lobby, sprinkled with a few prostitutes cuffed to benches and a loudly snoring drunk sleeping it off.
I pulled a bleach wipe from the stash in my purse and wiped down the seat and tabletop. Gross as the little interrogation room was, it looked like the Hyatt next to the Petri dish in the lobby. I doused my palms in antibacterial lotion and opted to keep my purse on my lap.
“So, Mrs. Crocker.” Detective Oliver reappeared with a pad of paper, manila folder, and pen. He took the seat across from me. “You called nine-one-one to report the intruder.”
“Miss Crocker,” I corrected. “Yes.” Memories of the man’s lifeless, sparkly face sent heat through my cheeks and chest. I refocused on breathing to avoid fainting. After the night I’d had, rolling onto the police station floor was something I wouldn’t come back from emotionally.
“Did you make the call before or after you hit Miguel Sanchez over the head with your paint gun?”
I exhaled. “I didn’t hit anyone. I sprayed the intruder with the glitter paint and ran.” He should have looked fabulous, not bloody. Or dead.
Detective Oliver trained cool blue eyes on me. “You don’t seem shaken. In fact, you’re extremely calm after what you’ve been through tonight. Any particular reason a dead body outside your shop doesn’t bother you?”
I nodded, recalling the strange, bodiless sensation from the hours following my mugging in Arlington. The horrific events rushed back with a jolt. The scents of street garbage and images of sleeping homeless people were instantly as real and vivid as they were that night. I’d never seen my attacker coming. He was big, wielding a gun, and clearly agitated, probably on drugs. The cold metal of his gun had seared an invisible line into my chin. I touched it, to remind myself it wasn’t real. “I may be experiencing shock.”
He stretched long legs beneath the table, bumping his feet into mine and readjusting for the error. “Shock, huh? Most people would be outright distraught after the night you’ve had.”
“I am.” I folded my hands. “If someone hit him, then there was a second intruder. Are you certain the fatal wound was a blow to the head?”
Detective Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Were there any other injuries? Defensive wounds, maybe? Has the medical examiner determined the time of death by body temperature compared to the time frame between my emergency call and when the squad car picked me up?”
He poised a pen over the notepad. His careful expression wavered. For the briefest moment, he looked like I’d sprouted a second head instead of proposed a line of insightful questions. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mrs. Crocker, but I’ll ask the questions.”
“My name is Miss Crocker.” I inhaled deeply to settle my nerves but was assaulted with the collective stench of deep-fried sandwiches. “I’m exploring the possibility of a struggle. A struggle would have left evidence on the victim, like DNA or microfibers, which could prove my innocence.” I’d helped Pete study for his medical examiner’s national certificate. These questions mattered. A detective should know that.
Maybe I had gained something from our train-wreck relationship besides feelings of general mistrust and anxiety.
“Why don’t you stick to sewing mittens for kittens and stop playing cop. Sanchez died from blunt force trauma. The handle of your paint gun cracked his head from behind like a coconut. Remember?”
I hugged my purse, unsure if he simply meant to remind me of the cause of death or prompted me to recall my doing the murdering. “It’s an airbrush gun.”
Detective Oliver lifted a finger. “I have the murder weapon in evidence with your prints—and only your prints—all over it.” He raised a second finger like bunny ears. “I can place you at the scene moments before time of death.” Third finger. “We have an emergency call from you reporting an intruder whom you admit to attacking. Is there anything else you want to share with me now, rather than later?” He removed a paper from his notebook and slid it toward me.
“My sketch.”
“He looks wild. Surprised. Maybe frightened. Any idea why?”
My shoulders tensed. “No.” Humiliation burned my cheeks and panic tightened my chest. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating. If you knew anything about me . . .” I squeezed my purse tighter. I didn’t want him to know anything about me. I wanted to go home and take a shower hot enough to wash away the heebie-jeebies.
Detective Oliver slid his notebook off the manila file folder and flipped the folder open. “Lacy Marie Crocker. Thirty years old. Five foot three. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. One hundred twenty pounds.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “Born and raised in New Orleans. Daughter to Dr. and Mrs. Crocker. Undergraduate degree in molecular, cell, and developmental biology. Graduate degree in fashion. That’s quite a jump in career paths.”
“It happens.” By the time I’d finished my first degree, I realized premed was Mom’s plan, not mine. I’d always dreamed of outfitting women who walked red carpets, not pulling all-nighters where the sick and injured bled, urinated, and vomited on me.
“You left Arlington four months ago, then came back and opened a pet store. How am I doing?”
“Furry Godmother is a pet boutique and organic bakery.” Emotion cracked the words as well as my tough-girl façade. Sitting across an interrogation table from an obnoxious, kind-of-mean detective was the lowest moment of my life. Worse than being mugged. My character hadn’t been called into question then.
Somewhere outside the interrogation room, a woman screamed for her go cup and a bathroom. It was legal to take alcoholic drinks with you when you left a restaurant or bar in New Orleans. Establishments offered disposable cups for the road. I doubted the policemen planned to return hers.
I inhaled long and slow, recalling my endless childhood hours of debutante training. I sat taller and breathed deeper. “Mr. Oliver, I am now, and have always been, an upstanding member of our society. Would you like my written statement, or can I go?” I itched to cross my legs and kick him under the table.
“It’s Detective Oliver, and I know who you are, Mrs. Crocker. But being a Crocker doesn’t exempt you from the tough questions. There’s been a murder. You had the means and opportunity.”
“I’m not married and you know it. Doesn’t it have my marital status in that file of yours?”
He hitched his lips into a crooked grin. He dropped the file open against the table. Empty. He turned his cell phone to face me, previously masked behind the file.
“That’s your big insight into who I am? My résumé and a copy of my driver’s license?”
“Online résumés are quick references these days. Social media profiles are better, but you seem to avoid those. So why’d you leave Arlington, Crocker?”
I inhaled deeply. “That’s irrelevant to your investigation and also none of your business.”
“I’ll decide what’s relevant.” He lifted his pen.
“I don’t think you can hold me here, so I suggest you change your line of questioning or I’ll leave.” My voice quivered on every word, though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Fine. Describe the night’s events again, slowly.”
I twisted the straps of my purse around my hands. The stench of police sandwiches had dissipated to a dull afterthought. The spicy scent of cinnamon and cologne drifted across the table. “Mr. Sanchez came into my studio earlier today. He looked around for a few minutes and left at closing. He didn’t buy anything, and he wasn’t very nice. When he burst through the door tonight, I sprayed him with the glitter sprayer and ran.”
The detective’s eyebrows knitted together. “Did Miguel Sanchez threaten you?”
“Not verbally.” My fingertips whitened. I unraveled the straps and massaged my fingers, reviving circulation.
Detective Oliver shut the file and swiveled a pad of blank paper in my direction. He wedged his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. His sharp blue eyes were cold and clear as glass. Almost surreal. A girl could get lost in those eyes if they weren’t accusing her of murder. I drew the spicy cinnamon scent in through my nose. It took a moment for me to realize his lips were moving.
“Sorry that you felt threatened today. Was there anyone in the store who can corroborate your statement?”
“Mrs. Neidermeyer.”
He nodded. “I’ll check into it. Write your account of the events here, and you’re free to go.”
I fought back tears of relief and frustration. “I have to call for a ride. My car’s at work.” I liberated my phone from the jumbled contents of my purse. My instinct was to call Scarlet, my lifelong best friend, but she had enough going on. Better to call Dad now and Scarlet later when I had time for a proper breakdown.
Dad answered on the first ring.
“Hey.” I twisted away from Detective Oliver, wishing he’d had the decency to give me a little privacy. “Are you busy?”
“What’s wrong?” Dad went on alert. “Lacy? I hear it in your voice. Let me help.”
I chewed my bottom lip, struggling to maintain my composure in front of the detective. “There was a break-in at my shop, and I’m at the police station filing a report.”
“Are you okay?”
Mom whispered frantically in the background. Probably demanding the details to a story he didn’t yet know.
“I’m fine. Can you give me a ride home? My car’s still on Magazine Street.”
Detective Oliver pretended to write in his notebook. His eye movement suggested he was eavesdropping.
I wrapped up the call quickly. “My parents are coming.”
“I assumed.”
I glared. “Nosy much?”
“Very much. Comes with the job.”
I rolled my eyes and dug for a breath mint to busy my tongue before I said something I’d regret. “I didn’t kill Miguel Sanchez.”
“You keep saying that. You want to know what I think?”
“Not particularly.”
“There’s no sign of a break-in. I think you knew Miguel, and you let him in, but something went wrong. What was it?”
I twisted the mint in my mouth to keep from screaming. “First of all, no. Second, if you thought I killed him, you’d arrest me. You need to get back to the crime scene while it’s fresh. Miguel Sanchez was a creep, but he didn’t deserve to die, and I didn’t kill him.”
Detective Oliver shook his arrogant head. “You want to know what I think?” he asked again.
I held my breath to keep from saying that he obviously didn’t think.
“Occam’s razor.” He shoved a stick of gum in his mouth and left the room.
My jaw dropped.
Occam’s razor was a theory that said the simplest answer was usually the right one. In other words, my prints were on the weapon and I admitted to attacking the victim with it, so I must be the killer.
I curled my hands into tight fists on my lap, unsure if I could leave the room before my parents signed me out. “That theory is stupid.”
* * *
Mom and Dad took their sweet time coming for me, probably deciding how to manage the gossip. As if dropping out of medical school wasn’t enough. Now I was associated, however loosely, with a murder. Mom shuffled into the room where I waited while Dad signed some paperwork at the front desk.
She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t believe I’m picking up my only child at the police station.”
I forced back a wave of nausea. “They think I killed someone.”
“Nonsense. Jack’s an excellent detective. He’ll figure this out.” Her gaze danced over my face and along my torso, either scouting for injuries or checking for suitable attire.
I still had on the old librarian ensemble from dinner. What was suitable attire for a trip to the police department?
Mom was in all black. “I called our attorney before we left home. He’ll get ahead of this.”
I nodded. I was in jail, and she had made time to change clothes and talk with legal representation. “Can we go home?”
She marched into the lobby, and I followed.
Detective Oliver lounged against the big wooden desk, smiling at Dad. They shook hands. Unbelievable. Detective Oliver lifted his chin to me as I passed. A little white business card stuck between two long fingers. “If you think of anything else you want to tell me.”
“My statement’s on the table.”
He tapped the card against the desk and nodded, dismissing us. “Have a nice evening, Dr. Crocker, Mrs. Conti-Crocker.”
My head snapped around as my parents hauled me away from the station. How had he known Mom’s last name was hyphenated? I turned my eyes to her. She’d called him Jack. Not Detective Oliver. Jack. “Do you two know him?”
Mom patted my arm. “Of course.”
My jaw dropped. “What do you mean, ‘Of course’? Why do you know a homicide detective?”
Dad opened the passenger doors for Mom and me. I dropped into the back seat and leaned forward between their headrests.
Mom adjusted the mirror until her eyes came into view. “Your father treats Jezebel, his cat.”
Detective Oliver was a cat person. I considered that for a moment. “Is he always such a pain in the ass?”
Mom clucked her tongue. “Language, Lacy, really.” She checked her lipstick in the lighted visor mirror as Dad pulled onto the road. “Jack’s one of the good ones. He’s from the area and he’s a veteran. He moved home to take the detective position a few years ago. He’s a bit of a recluse, but I suppose in his line of work, it’s hard to get close to someone you might have to arrest later.”
“I’ve never heard of any Olivers in this area. Isn’t he a little young to be ex-military and a detective?” I pulled up a mental snapshot. “He can’t be older than me.”
Dad turned onto my street. “He joined the army after high school. Did a few tours overseas. Lots of our military men and women get degrees while they’re enlisted. He is young, though. I’d guess him at about thirty-five.”
A few tours overseas. That explained his people skills. “He doesn’t look thirty-five.”
Dad’s eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. He slid the Mercedes into the driveway of my fixer-upper shotgun home near the river.
“What about my car?”
Dad twisted in his seat to face me. “I’ll swing by and drive you to work tomorrow.”
I swung the door open. “’Kay.”
He waited until I went inside and flipped on my porch light before pulling away.
Tears welled and rolled freely over both cheeks as I watched their car disappear around the corner. Panic sprouted anew in their absence, lining beads of sweat across my brow. Someone had been killed outside my shop. Why?
I collapsed onto the couch and pulled a pillow onto my lap. I’d abandoned my tutu supplies in the getaway. That left me twelve empty hours to imagine scenarios of how Miguel was murdered in the ten minutes I was gone. I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than dwelling on the list of ways I disappointed my mom or what I’d like to say to that obnoxious detective.
It was going to be a long night.