Furry Godmother’s Safety Tip: Don’t cross your mama.
Dad drove me to work after breakfast. He shifted the car into park. “Do you want me to walk you inside? Take a look around?”
“No.” I sighed. From where we sat on the empty street, there was no indication a murder had taken place beyond the hand-painted boutique windows. Summer sunlight glistened across the beautiful gold script spelling “Furry Godmother,” erasing the touch of dew left behind by the night. Tiny animals with silver wings and wands flew around the curly golden words. The success of my store depended on me. Whatever had happened the night before was over, and I had to get back in the saddle before people got the wrong idea. I had nothing to hide, and I needed the district to see that.
I shoved the passenger door open and stepped into the day. Fresh-cut grass peppered the air, and I crinkled my nose against a sneeze. My arms and legs warmed instantly. The white eyelet of my sundress grazed my thighs when I turned to look back at Dad.
He leaned across the seat toward my door. “I could bring you lunch later.”
“No. Paige works today. I planned to buy her lunch and catch up.” Paige was once a regular on my babysitting circuit. These days she was a Brown University co-ed on summer vacation.
“Tell her I said hello. I’ll wait here until you get inside and turn the lights on.”
“Fine.”
The dead bolt’s tumbler rolled smoothly. No sign anyone had tampered with the lock, but Miguel had gotten inside somehow, and there weren’t any indications of forced entry. I flipped all the switches on the wall plate beside the door and waved at Dad. His car didn’t move. I walked through the store and held my breath when the back door came into view. A dagger of emotion stabbed my chest and stole my breath. I slapped the line of switches on the back wall, illuminating every inch of the storeroom. I nudged the bathroom door open with my boot.
Empty.
My heart hammered as I opened the front door and waved to Dad again. This time he waved back and edged onto the road.
I turned on shaky legs and marched into the storeroom to clean up my mess.
At nine, I put my chin up and unlocked the front door.
Everything in my southern upbringing said that opening the store was inconsiderate and that I should locate the victim’s next of kin and bring them a casserole, but I didn’t know Miguel or his family. I did, however, own a fledgling business in need of constant attention.
That was the hardest thing about death, in my opinion. Life went on. People who stopped moving forward started fixating and that never ended well.
I flipped the sign on the window from “Closed” to “Open.” A handful of strangers climbed from waiting cars and headed my way. I peeked down the sidewalk. Nothing going on down there. The little cluster of shoppers stopped before me.
A pair of brunettes smiled. The taller one raised her eyebrows. “You’re open?”
The half-dozen people on the sidewalk were waiting in their cars at nine in the morning for my store to open. It took a moment to process. They didn’t have pets with them, and I didn’t have any orders scheduled for pickup. My store was lucky to see a dozen customers before ten most days.
A man with wire rim glasses cleared his throat. “You said you’re open?”
“Oh. Oh!” I stepped aside, bracing the door with my hip. “Pardon me. I’m . . .” The words drifted, incomplete. I’m what? I was shaken from the intrusion last night, from being accused of murder, from cleaning a crime scene five minutes ago. None of those thoughts were ones I cared to share.
No one waited for me to finish.
I followed them inside and gave my spiel. “Furry Godmother is a pet boutique and catering company. I think everyone should feel like Cinderella at the ball, so I try to make that happen here. I make custom clothing designs and bake fresh, organic, pet-friendly treats every morning with ingredients that are safe and healthy. The chalkboard has a full menu and pricing on treats. Design prices vary.” I pointed to the adorable white framed chalkboard beside the display case. “I take custom orders if your pet has a special event coming up, and I make house calls for fittings and delivery. Royal Packages include both catering and an ensemble of your decree.”
A portly man squinted at the bakery sign. “Pet catering? What kind of party needs a pet caterer?”
I smiled. “All kinds, really. Birthdays, weddings, holidays, Bar Mitzvahs. Any event where your pet is the star or where your loved ones will have their pets with them.”
He shook his head. “That’s crazy.” Clearly, he wasn’t from around here.
I smiled as sweetly as I could manage on three hours’ sleep. “You’re welcome to sample anything you’d like. My products are made from ingredients found in most kitchens. Some are pretty tasty. The peanut butter and banana pupcakes, for example, are made with all-natural peanut butter, bananas, water, oats, and eggs. No additives or preservatives, just real foods.”
The little crowd hung on every word, oddly. Probably to see if I’d kill him.
No one opted to try the pupcakes. I unloaded a fresh box of cookies and muffins into the display case, changing out the shelf signs and wax paper liners and then arranging the pretty pieces aesthetically in neat rows. Thank heavens for mindless paranoia-blocking activities.
Sunlight moved across the front window as I wiped the shelves and boxed products one by one. Rubberneckers and lookie-loos came and went in unprecedented numbers. Very few people made purchases. Most wanted a recount of the night’s events. Some were brazen enough to ask but left unsatisfied when I changed the topic.
I cleaned the shelves and replenished stock until the shop was immaculate.
The door sprung open, and Mom’s silhouette burst inside. She glanced at the startled shoppers loitering along the walls, then rolled her eyes. “Busy morning?”
I puffed air into my cheeks. “I’ve had plenty of traffic.”
“I figured as much. There was a report on the news after breakfast.”
I’d intentionally avoided the morning news and mentally prepared for the worst. “Well, there’s nothing to see here. I’m not sure what they’re waiting on.”
Mom clucked her tongue. Her silk Versace dress dashed her calves as she walked. “You shouldn’t be here today. You should be at home resting.”
“It’s my store. My responsibility.”
“Have you called Scarlet? She’ll be beside herself, if she isn’t already. I assume she gets the paper.”
“I don’t want to upset her.”
“Good plan. Why would a childhood friend be upset that you were nearly killed and couldn’t be bothered to call?” She heaved a sigh, unwilling to argue in public. “I don’t know why you insist on the hard path through life. You’re still a Conti-Crocker. The sooner you embrace it, the easier life will be again.”
Easy for her. Not easy for me.
Mom was a Conti. Contis were old money and near-royalty in society’s upper crust. Dad was a Crocker. Crockers were new money. Dad’s family thought old money was a joke. How could people appreciate something they didn’t earn? Mom’s family called families like Dad’s faux riche. They thought real money came from a lineage of power and influence, not from generations of hard work and a few good investment choices in the twentieth century. I’d been caught in the middle of the Conti-Crocker cold war for years, and I hated it.
I softened my smile. “I don’t see two paths, Mom. I see this one.” I’d never fit in to her world, and I’d beaten myself up about it for twenty years. Finally, the proverbial lightbulb flickered on during my junior year at an overpriced Ivy League college, and I quit. Temporarily. I pulled up roots and applied to Louisiana State. No one at LSU knew or cared about my grandparents’ money. I was free to choose what I wanted to study and who I wanted to be without the burden of Conti-Crocker expectations. I’d proudly signed a long line of student loan papers and moved into a dingy little dorm room that smelled like stale beer, burnt popcorn, and sometimes sweat and dirty clothes. I wanted to see what I could do on my own. What kind of life could I craft? Mom had declared the whole thing a phase and expected me to move home after graduation, but I went to Arlington instead. I studied fashion at the Art Institute of Washington, met Pete, and shacked up after our engagement. We had more bills and aspirations than income, but I didn’t care. Whatever happened was in my control, and the power was intoxicating. Until Pete ruined it.
As it turned out, Mom was right. I couldn’t run from my legacy. Pete had somehow known all about the Contis and the Crockers before he’d ever asked me out. The truth about his scheming for my family’s money came out during our explosive break up.
Mom gave the store a cursory glance, then refocused on me. “I saw Paige getting a frozen coffee. She’ll be here soon so you can get some lunch.”
“I’m fine.”
She tapped her nails against my counter. “I’d ask you to talk about it, but I suppose this isn’t the time.”
Every ear in the store turned our way. I tugged the neckline of my dress. The “shoppers” had stealthily made their ways to displays within feet of the register. The room was smaller. The air was thinner. My eyes crossed.
“Lacy.”
My gaze snapped up.
Mom smiled patiently. “Have you heard from the Llama Mamas?” She pressed her lips together and widened her eyes. “You can tell me the truth.” She whispered the last sentence, careful of prying ears.
That explained her impromptu visit.
The Llama Mamas were a group of local plantation owners raising llamas and alpacas for charity. They carted their animals all around the county, educating, entertaining, and selling llama wool and weanlings. All the proceeds went to a children’s research hospital in Baton Rouge. The Llama Mamas were Mom’s biggest competitors for the “good gigs.” She was incited to fund the Jazzy Chicks several years ago after attending an event at a plantation and receiving her share of dirty looks. The Llama Mamas called her a city dweller and accused her, politely, of not being true to her heritage because our family had sold the plantation and moved to the Garden District. That was in 1890, but as far as Llama Mamas were concerned, the Contis were sellouts.
Now the Llama Mamas and Jazzy Chicks basically tried to out-kind one another by volunteering everywhere they could to raise money for the hospital.
Dad said this was why he’d never retire. Staying busy kept him at a safe distance from the deranged competitions of socialites.
I shook my head. “Nope, I haven’t heard anything.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Well, if you do, call me. They’re up to something, and I need to know what it is. I wouldn’t put it past them to knock on your door for costumes.” She leveled me with a parental stare.
“Got it. Hey, Mom?”
She tilted her head.
“Have you heard from your lawyer? I need to find Miguel Sanchez’s killer before my reputation’s ruined. If I’m not cleared soon, people will assume the worst.” Even if the police solved the crime later, the damage would be done. “If people think I’m dangerous, my store will fail, and it won’t stop there. Dad’s business will suffer by association. No one wants a murderer’s dad caring for their pet.” I couldn’t let my problems ruin a business he’d spent my whole life establishing. “Not to mention, the Crocker name will be sullied.”
“Sweetie, you’re fixating.”
“I’m not. I’m . . .” Jumping to huge assumptions. Very different.
“Listen to me. Keep your chin up and let Jack do his job. He didn’t survive the military by being a dummy.” She tapped a finger to her temple. “Meanwhile, you need a fresh window display. That one’s two weeks old, boring as one of those sad two-hour walking tours and faded by the sun.” She frowned at my Alice in Wonderland display. “That Hatter looks like hell.”
“Did you talk with the lawyer?”
She scoffed. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll get wrinkles. Jack will figure this out.”
“That guy practically declared me guilty. He’s the enemy right now. Maybe you should stop calling him Jack. It makes him seem like a friend. It’s like when you named the vacuum.”
She rolled her eyes. “You were terrified. I had to give Vinnie a name so you’d let Imogene do her work. The name made him less intimidating. Names humanize us. You know that.”
I shook a finger at her. “That’s my point. Vinnie isn’t a ‘him,’ he’s a vacuum. We don’t want to humanize Jack either. Names confuse things. Jack’s out to get me, and Vinnie ate my blanket.” I swung a palm into the air. No need to rehash this. I took a breath. “Detective Oliver isn’t a friend. He doesn’t get a name. One day you’re calling him Jack, and the next thing you know, he’ll have you on the witness stand saying you saw me kill Miguel Sanchez.”
Mom set her handbag on the counter and pulled out a drawing. “Well, that escalated quickly. Let’s just say calling him Detective Oliver, after I’ve called him Jack for two years’ worth of Jezebel’s checkups with your father, seems unfriendly to me. It’s the opposite of southern hospitality, and you know I’m from the school of catching bees with honey.”
I counted silently to ten. “Who names a cat Jezebel?”
She made a sour face and fanned the wrinkled paper from her purse. “Jezebel’s a lovely Snowshoe Siamese. Here.”
“What’s that?”
She smoothed the paper on my countertop, carefully uncurling the corners. “I made a sketch of what the Chicks need for the costumes.”
A large yellow-and-orange chicken wearing a black top hat was centered on the page. Beside him sat a rectangle with black lines.
I pointed at the rectangle. “What’s that?”
Mom slumped. “It’s a piano. We’re teaching the hens to play. We’ve ordered four pianos, but I’ll need you to take over after assembly. The pianos need to dazzle.”
“Mmm-kay. Paint, glitter. Got it.” I squinted at the little drawing. “Are those chickens in tuxedos? How do you want to keep the top hats on?”
She shrugged. “Bobby pins?”
“No.” Tiny elastic chin straps came to mind, but I’d have to research that. Designing top hats for piano-playing hens was new to me.
“You’ll figure out the top hats.” Mom’s eyes sparkled as the door opened. “Look who’s here.” She met Paige with a hug. “Paige, I’m tickled to death to see you. Your grandmother’s been talking the Chicks’ ears off all month about your homecoming. How’s college?”
“Good, Mrs. Crocker. It’s nice to be home.”
“Well, you come by anytime for a visit, okay? Tell your mother and grandmother to do the same. Anytime at all,” Mom cooed.
I giggled. I could almost see Mom’s mind scrambling through a list of things to do in case one of those ladies took her up on the offer to drop by unannounced. Good old-fashioned hospitality came at a price. Mom would have to keep the house spotless at all times. Just in case. There’d be a standby pie on the counter and fresh pitcher of sweet tea on hand until Labor Day.
Mom waved good-bye to me and gave the lingering shoppers a scowl.
Paige tossed a mile of thick brunette curls over her shoulder and looked down at me from her model-sized frame. “Can you be cool or do I need a bodyguard?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Ha ha.”
She dropped her bag on a shelf behind the register and leaned her elbows on the counter. “You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. I’d babysat Paige when she wore diapers but hadn’t seen her outside of Christmas and Fourth of July in years. I didn’t make it home often when I was away. “Thanks for agreeing to work here part time this summer. Exactly how long are you my slave?”
She smiled. “I’m home for eight weeks.” Her pretty coral blouse emphasized her youthful tan.
I kneaded my hands in mock mischief. “Excellent.”
Paige laughed. “What can I do first?”
I scrunched my face. “Do you know anything about Miguel Sanchez? Any guess who’d want to kill him?”
“You mean besides you?”
I frowned. “I didn’t want to kill him.”
“Is that why you airbrushed his face with gold glitter and hit him over the head?”
I bit my lip. There was nothing wrong with the grapevine around here. “I wasn’t the one who hit him, but Detective Oliver claims my prints were the only ones on the sprayer.” Evidence wasn’t on my side. Though it was circumstantial. “Whoever killed him must’ve worn gloves.” My prints were on everything because I was the only one who worked here until now. I opened a search engine on my phone.
Paige squeezed against my side, craning her neck for a better view of my phone’s screen. “Since it’s about a hundred degrees out there, I suppose the gloves were just to cover his prints.”
“Yep.” I typed Miguel’s name in and got about a million hits. Apparently, Miguel Sanchez was a popular name. “If the killer wore gloves, he must’ve come here expecting to commit a crime.”
A little gasp rose from Paige’s lips. “Do you think someone came here to hurt you and had a run-in with Miguel? Maybe the intruder killed Miguel because Miguel could identify him later.”
My blood chilled and my voice squeaked. “You think someone came to hurt me?” I hadn’t considered that option. For good reason: I didn’t like it.
She turned her back to the register and looked me over. “What happened?”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I don’t know. He found me escaping out back, and I airbrushed him. I’m not sure what he did before that, but it looked like he trampled my Vive la France designs. He might’ve tripped over the box. I’d planned to launch the new line early next year, but I’ll never look at Eiffel Tower appliqués the same again. Spring in Paris is cancelled.”
“Doubt it.” Paige’s pink lips pulled down at the corners. Her structured silk blouse and polka dot swing skirt made her look exactly like the debutante she was. “I also doubt anyone could want to hurt you. I can’t believe anyone wanted to hurt Miguel either. Mack says everyone loved him.”
I set my phone on the counter. “Mack who?”
“I don’t know. She works at the Barrel Room. I stopped by her place last night for a drink. She filled me in.”
My tummy flipped with possibilities. This information could save my store, my name, and my future. I checked for obvious eavesdroppers and pulled Paige with me to the far corner of the checkout counter. “Tell me what you know.”
“Mack said Miguel hung out with her crowd. She said he was well liked, quiet, and smart. She seemed really into him.”
A more cynical woman might’ve translated those characteristics to womanizing, conniving, and shrewd. “Who’s her crowd?”
“Locals our age. Restaurant workers. Bartenders. Everyone’s home for the summer.”
“Go on.”
“Some people called him Tony.”
I frowned and turned my phone over in my palm. “Is Tony a nickname for Miguel?”
Paige shrugged. She lifted a finger to the front door where a familiar silhouette appeared. “Here comes your boss. We’d better look busy.”
Mr. Tater welcomed shoppers on his way to meet us at the counter. Purple crescents lined the pale skin beneath each eye.
I bit back the explanation that he was not my boss.
“How are you doing, Lacy? I came to check on you as soon as I could get away from the office. It’s terrible. I didn’t know if you’d be open today. Are you sure you should be here?”
“I’m okay. I think opening the store was best. I don’t want to look any guiltier than I already do, and I have nothing to hide, so here I am.”
He looked over his shoulders. “Business seems good.”
“I think they all came for a look at the crime scene.” And the local villainess. “There wasn’t much to see and it happened out back, not in the shop.” I couldn’t blame people for their curiosity. Murder’s scary, and in a neighborhood this size, what happened to one person felt like it happened to everyone. Heck, local tour guides still pointed out the former homes of celebrities and a restaurant once frequented by Mark Twain. “Sorry I didn’t call you.” Should I have called him?
“You’re probably overwhelmed. I heard all about it on the morning news.”
Paige groaned. “I swear they run that clip every five minutes on Channel Six.”
Mr. Tater ducked his head. “Listen, that’s the other thing I came to talk with you about.” He slunk behind the counter to join us. “I’m negotiating the deal of a lifetime with management at Harrah’s Casino. If I get this contract, Harrah’s will serve Barrel Room wine at every bar in the house.”
“Wow.” I lifted my hands in celebration. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Although I’m afraid I need to pull funding for your store for a little while.”
“What?”
He raised pleading eyes to mine. “Your lease is paid through the end of the month, but I can’t send the next check until this investigation is finished. I’ve got too much riding on this casino deal to have my name associated with a murder. The finance and legal departments at Harrah’s are looking for a way to gouge me. If they claim I bring any sort of risk to the table, I’ll be out more money than I care to think about. Please understand. This isn’t personal.” He forced a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Lacy. I’m sure you’ll be fine until the case is closed and my Harrah’s contract is signed. We’ll revisit this in a few months.”
Months? I set my phone on the counter. Stunned, I opened my lips but no sound came out.
Mr. Tater averted his gaze.
I tipped my chin to the ceiling, praying he was a terrible jokester who’d take back his words immediately.
Paige broke the silence. “What if the investigation is wrapped up by the end of the month? Then will you make the next lease payment?”
I blinked. Hope inflated my flattened lungs. I needed his backing. Mr. Tater had secured the space for Furry Godmother. He paid the monthly lease and the utilities in exchange for a portion of my profit. Sure, the contract between us said he’d forfeit his percentage of my profits if he stopped paying his part, but what was he losing? I wasn’t exactly raking in the profits yet. Furry Godmother was a new business. What could I do now? My credit had maxed out with my new home loan and start-up costs for the business. At the rate I was going, I’d still have outstanding student loans when I became an octogenarian. I couldn’t keep the business open without Mr. Tater’s help, and I couldn’t close up either. I’d invested in stock and small accessories, not to mention baking and studio equipment.
What would I do with all those turtle tiaras?
Paige elbowed me. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“If.” He lifted a warning finger. “If you’re cleared of the charges before the next payment comes due, I’ll make the payments, but please understand, Lacy. It’s not personal. It’s business.”
I nodded. “I’ll figure it out. I promise.”
Paige released a whistle. “Hello, handsome.” She grew impossibly taller.
I followed her gaze across my studio.
Detective Oliver headed our way. A shiny silver detective badge hung around his neck on a beaded chain. “Mrs. Crocker.”
I gritted my teeth. I hadn’t seen him come inside. “Detective Oliver. Once again, it’s Miss Crocker.”
Mr. Tater nodded at the detective and saw himself out. No doubt distancing himself from the woman accused of murder.
“I’m Paige.” She shot a long, thin arm toward him. Energy zipped in the air around her.
He dipped his chin. “Nice to meet you.” His unusual blue eyes captivated and frightened me. The barely existent color of his irises fluctuated in the sunlight through my shop windows.
He rested a hip against the counter. “Anything you want to tell me today, Miss Crocker? Something you, perhaps, weren’t ready to share last night at the station?”
I glanced at my phone on the counter. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
I squared my shoulders and tried to look bigger. An impossible goal when standing beside Paige. “I don’t think Miguel Sanchez was the victim’s real name.”
Paige dragged her gaze from Detective Handsome to me. “What?”
I peeked at the screen on my phone. “Some people addressed him as Tony. Tony isn’t an acceptable nickname for Miguel. In fact, Tony is only used to shorten the name Anthony. So Miguel wasn’t his real name.” Or Tony was the fake name. Either way, why would anyone need a fake name?
Detective Oliver crossed thick arms over a broad chest. “I know Miguel Sanchez was an alias. His real name was Anthony Caprioni. He’s from Jersey. What I don’t know yet is why he used a fake name or how you know this.”
“I asked around.” I should’ve expected the detective to know at least as much as I knew after three minutes online and one conversation with someone Miguel’s age.
“You know, I’ve been wondering, Miss Crocker. You moved home after nearly a decade away. Why was that?”
I dragged nerve-slicked palms down the fabric of my dress. “It’s like I told you last night: personal and none of your business. Besides, this isn’t about me.”
“Maybe it is. Humor me. Why’d you rush back to the place you’d left at your earliest opportunity? Your family’s not sick. No one died. You look healthy.” His eyes slid over my face and torso. “Why the sudden life change? You’re too young for a midlife crisis.”
Ha. He’d be surprised.
“Looks to me like an escape on your part. So what were you running from?”
Stress. Heartbreak. Disappointment. Betrayal. “I wasn’t running. I came back because New Orleans is my home. And I didn’t leave at my first opportunity. I went to college like everyone else.”
“Why’d Mr. Tater invest in you?”
“How do you . . . ?” I filled my chest with air and curbed my temper. Of course he’d researched me. His only suspect. “You should probably ask Mr. Tater. Unless you already know and are only here to provoke me again.”
“I know everything.” He tapped his temple. “Anything I don’t know, I will find out. Soon.”
“Since you’re here, can we focus on the actual investigation, please?”
Detective Oliver smiled. “Absolutely.” He widened his stance and circled a wrist, indicating I should enlighten him.
“If my prints were the only ones on the sprayer and the sprayer was the murder weapon, then the killer wore gloves to hide his prints. He must’ve come here to commit a crime. Could the killer have come for me? I don’t keep enough cash on hand to justify a break-in, and my inventory is mostly made of supplies waiting to become something fabulous. Beads and rickrack aren’t exactly in demand.”
The detective looked like I’d sucker punched him. “You think you were the intended target? Who would want to hurt you?” He pulled a pen from his pocket, flipped a business card face down, and shoved the pair across the counter to me. “Make a list.”
I guffawed and locked my hands behind my back. “I don’t have a list of people who want to hurt me.”
“Then give me one name.”
It was as if time had frozen, immobilizing all the fake shoppers. The store seemed to hold their collective breath and stare.
My cheeks burned. “No one wants to hurt me. This is the Garden District. We don’t have crime. We have fundraisers and parades. Whatever is going on here has nothing to do with me.”
“Yet you brought up the possibility.”
I pinched my lips together and shot Paige a look. She’d put the thought into my mind. Better to change the subject. “I’m trying to understand why there aren’t any other prints on the murder weapon. If the killer wore gloves, which he must have”—I eyeballed the detective—“then why? Why come here with gloves on? What was the plan?”
“You tell me.”
I dug my heels into the floorboards and locked my knees. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Are you always so impossible, or is this special for me?”
A glint of humor flashed in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I have a few stops to make. I’ll decide whether or not I can make a case against you after I run the rest of my leads. Until then, stay out of my investigation. No more nosing around.” He set the business card on my register. “Remember who the detective is.”
My jaw dropped. “I’m not nosing.” I’d talked to my employee for five minutes about Miguel. Hardly the makings of an all-out investigation.
“I mean it, Crocker. I asked around about you. Folks say you’re obstinate to a fault, but obstruction is against the law. Do us both a favor and keep that in mind. Curiosity never did the cat any favors.”
My hands fell limply to my sides. I forced my jaw and eyebrows to relax. “I’m not obstinate or a cat, thank you very much.”
“I notice you didn’t deny the curiosity.”
“That part’s true, and it normally works to my advantage.” But if someone didn’t unearth the killer by the end of the month, I wouldn’t just lose Tater’s backing. I could be in an orange county jumpsuit. And Detective Oliver definitely wasn’t going to get the job done by badgering me.
He smirked. “Do yourself a favor, kitten, and let this one alone.” He breezed out the door looking arrogant and bossy.
Paige collapsed onto the counter with a theatrical sigh of collegiate proportions. “How do you keep it together around him? He talks and I want to circle him like a shark, but I have no idea where to begin with such a man-beast.”
“Good lord. Get up.” I pulled her arm. “He’s not nice. That’s how I keep it together. I think he wants to put me in jail. And he called me kitten. How misogynistic is that?”
Paige pressed a fingertip to her bottom lip. “I think it’s hot.”
A few shoppers nodded in agreement.
I groaned. “That’s it. No more of that. He’s the enemy. You can work on removing the window display while I get to the bottom of this mess. This is business. No hormones allowed.” Luckily, mine had dried up with my last relationship and barren bank account. Even those extraordinary blue eyes weren’t enough to sidetrack me from clearing my name.
Kitten my foot.
I was small and mighty. Like a fire ant, a bee, or something else I’d think of as soon as my temperature returned to normal. I plucked the neckline of my dress away from my piping-hot chest, then marched into the storeroom to turn down the thermostat.