Furry Godmother’s secret to longevity: Avoid heat stroke, matchmaking, and retired socialites.
After dinner, I paid my dad an impromptu visit at his office. The big, white barn behind my parents’ house had been there nearly a century. I was twenty years younger in its presence. I’d grown up behind those walls, playing hide-and-seek with Scarlet, mending local pets with Dad, and later rolling in the hayloft with tourists, bad boys, and anyone else my mom was sure to hate.
Soft, yellow light illuminated the window above Dad’s office sign. Dr. Crocker, VMD. I crossed the lawn barefoot, enjoying the sensation of warm grass against the soles of tired feet.
I let myself in with a flourish, sandals dangling from my fingertips. “Working late again, Dr. Crocker? You’re making the rest of us look bad, you know.”
He leaned over a small tan-and-black pug puppy, stethoscope pressed to the little guy’s chest. “What can I say? It’s nice to be needed.”
“You’re always needed.”
“Well, thank you for saying so, sweetie. I’d like you to meet Dudley. Dudley, this is my baby girl, Lacy Marie.”
I crossed the room to kiss Dad’s cheek and get my hands on the chubby puppy. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Dudley.” I set my sandals aside and rubbed Dudley’s head. My voice slipped straight to baby talk. “What’s the matter with you, little cutie patootie?” I lowered my face to Dudley’s and rubbed his neck and ears. “What could be wrong with a little guy as sweet as you? Huh?”
Dad pulled a treat from the pocket of his white lab coat and palmed it for Dudley’s inspection. “Mr. Fisher says Dudley isn’t keeping anything down and he’s lethargic.”
Dudley sniffed, uninterested in the offering.
Dad now worked his appraising eyes over me. “How about you? How are you feeling?”
Like I was born under a black cloud. “Great.” I scooped Dudley into my arms and cradled him against my chest. “Did you check for worms?” I fingered through his short fur. No signs of fleas or ticks. “Is he an indoor baby or an outdoor baby?”
“Indoor.” Dad flashed a light into Dudley’s eyes. “Lives in Uptown with Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. No kids. No other pets.”
“House plants? Maybe mild poisoning?”
A man in plaid pants and a Mr. Rogers sweater appeared in the doorway. “No plants indoors, though we keep a garden out back and spend plenty of time in it.”
Dad cleared his throat and waved the man in. “Mr. Fisher, this is my daughter, Lacy.”
“Hello.” I cuddled Dudley. “What do you grow in your garden? Do you use pesticides?”
Mr. Fisher looked puzzled. “We grow peppers, tomatoes, that sort of thing. No pesticides. Are you a veterinarian also?”
“Oh. No. Um.” I glanced at Dad. “I’m so sorry.” I set Dudley back on the table. “I stopped to see my dad and this little sweetie was here, so I helped myself to him for a minute. I should go wait in the house.”
Dad squeezed my hand. “No, no. Lacy’s quick as a whip. She grew up at my ankles, watching every move I made in here, and she’s a natural with animals. I’ve never seen one who didn’t take to her immediately or vice versa.”
“Oh.” Mr. Fisher’s face brightened. “You’re two of a kind, then. You must be proud.”
“I am.”
I needled Dad with an elbow. “It’s in the blood.”
Mr. Fisher nodded approvingly. “Do you work with animals also?”
Heat crept over my cheeks. This was the part where half the people in town thought I was crazy and the rest assumed narcotics. “I own Furry Godmother, the pet boutique and organic treat bakery on Magazine Street.”
His gaze ran briefly to my dad before returning to me. “Are you happy?”
“Absolutely.” A strange sense of pride curled though me, and the truth of that word settled into my spine. “I am.”
Dad peeked at me over the wire frame of his glasses. “Mr. Fisher and his wife are psychologists. They opened a practice in Uptown.”
“Oh.” The word dragged into multiple syllables on my tongue. Psychologists. I cringed. He probably thought I sounded nuts, but I was happy. Happy counted. Why did I care what Mr. Fisher thought?
The men stared at me. I needed to say something. What was the question? “A private practice? That must be so interesting.”
“Not as much as you’d think. People spend entirely too much time worried about nonsense, things that may never happen and others they have no control over. It’s exhausting.”
I knew the feeling.
Mr. Fisher scooped Dudley off the table and cooed into his ear. “Maybe we should stop by Furry Godmother tomorrow and get you a sweater like Daddy’s so we can be matchers.”
I lifted my gaze to Dad’s. “I’d be happy to have you come by, but he should skip the sweater. A pug in Louisiana needs lots of water and a fan. It’s ninety-five degrees today. Are you hot in that cardigan?”
“Heavens no. Poor circulation. You’ll understand when you get older.”
“You get chilled easily? Do you keep the house warm? Ever use the air conditioning?”
“Never. My wife and I enjoy the heat. The temperatures are part of what drew us here. We spend as much time outside as possible. Our old bones don’t hold the warmth in for long.”
Dad realized what I was thinking and clapped my shoulder. “I think we cracked this case. The heat’s getting Dudley down. His flat nose and smaller air passages make the heat extra hard on him. It’s good that Dudley’s an indoor baby, but this breed needs somewhere to cool off regularly. Maybe there’s a place in your home where you can keep a fan running for him. When you go outside to garden, be sensitive. These guys are prone to heat stroke. If he seems down, let him inside. Some little changes will make a big difference. Do this and Dudley should be back to himself in no time.”
Mr. Fisher nuzzled his puppy. “So he’s not sick? He’s going to be fine?”
“I didn’t see anything to worry about, and the heat would explain his lethargy and loss of appetite,” Dad said. “You can feed him boiled chicken for a day or two if you’d like. Give me a call if he doesn’t turn around, but I expect all good things.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Fisher gave Dad a one-armed hug, smooshing Dudley between them.
We followed him to the driveway and waved at his retreating taillights. My sandals dangled on fingertips behind my back.
Dad gave me a once-over and scratched his head. “That was a solid deduction. I’m not sure if it’s age or fatigue, but I miss the obvious more and more, always seeking some deep-rooted malignancy.” He turned both palms skyward and laughed. “Heat.”
“Occam’s razor.” I mentally mocked Detective Oliver’s obnoxious voice.
He nodded. “It’s not too late to join the family practice.”
“I’m barefoot.” If there were a place in the world record book for most consecutive bad first impressions, I’d easily hold it.
“I’m sure he didn’t notice. You delivered fantastic news. That’s what he’ll remember.”
I gave him a disbelieving smile. “No more school for me. Besides, I like what I do, and I owe my left kidney to the student loan people already.”
“Wow. Fannie Mae’s gotten tough on repayment terms. Very specific, too.”
Dad laughed.
I collapsed into a rocker beside his office door and slid my shoes on. “Mr. Tater dropped by to see me today. He wants to distance his name from the murder. If the police haven’t found the real killer before the lease comes due, he won’t make the next payment, and I’m up a proverbial creek.”
Dad lowered into the rocker beside mine. “Well, that’s unfortunate. What will you do?”
“I’ll take on as many side jobs as I can for extra cash this month.” Assuming anyone would let me work for them. “Maybe I can make the payments until things blow over. I still have two weeks this month.”
“Let me help you. I’ll make the lease payment.”
“No.”
“Then let me make your student loan payments so you can concentrate on the lease.”
“No.”
“Lacy, really.” He frowned. “Your education was my responsibility. No one asked you to take out those loans. At least let me help until you get this straightened out.”
“Nope. I’d agreed to go to Mom’s alma mater and study medicine. Once I changed schools and majors, I took over the debt.”
“That’s nonsense. Now you’re just being stubborn. You’re only punishing yourself.”
“I’m not punishing anyone. I’m being my own woman. Standing on my own two feet.”
“How’s that working for you?”
I huffed and let my head drop against the back of the chair. “Awesome.”
Lilies and cone flowers swayed in the mulch along the walkway. Flowers were a feast for the eye this time of year in the Garden District, but it was hard to enjoy them with the collapse of my business looming.
Dad’s warm hand fell on my arm. “Let us help you.”
“I’m not taking any more money from you. You’re preparing for retirement. You should be saving your money. I have a thousand years of work ahead of me. I’ll handle it one way or another.”
Dad leaned forward in his chair, bracing forearms on knees. “I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but you’re an only child. The kingdom is all yours eventually.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to live forever. Mom, too.”
“Well then, I’m definitely not retiring anytime soon. I’ve got to stay busy or your mother will put me to work at her parties.”
A large delivery van pulled into the driveway beside my car. A man in white coveralls jumped down from the driver’s seat and turned the pages on his clipboard. “Mrs. Crocker?” He approached me with a skip in his step.
I pointed to Dad.
“See what I mean?” He scribbled on the line and returned the clipboard.
The man tipped his hat, and men in matching white ensembles unloaded stacks of chairs and folding tables from the truck.
Dad pointed to the house. “Take them in through the back.” He pushed onto his feet. “Speaking of parties, we’re having a completely casual gathering tonight. A midnight chocolates-and-wine fiasco. One where I have to wear a tie and entertain all the other husbands who don’t want to be here.”
“Sounds fun.”
“You should come. It’d mean a lot to your mother.”
Guilt flooded through me. I loved Mom but hated her parties. “I would, but I can’t. I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
Dad watched with furrowed brows as men hauled linens and glassware into his house. When the back door snapped shut, he drifted his gaze back to mine. “You might meet a nice young man from a good family.”
I covered my eyes with my fingers. “Et tu, Brute?”
“I’m just saying, don’t mark all men as the devil because of one moron’s actions. Pete was the exception, not the rule.”
“Got it.” I dropped my hands into my lap.
“Your mother and I just want you to find someone who makes you happy. We don’t want you to be alone one day when we aren’t here anymore.”
“Well, thank you for your love and concern, but I’m already happy.” I wrenched myself upright. “Tell Mom I wanted to stay for dinner, but I need to work on Mrs. Neidermeyer’s tutus, make a plan for paying next month’s lease, and solve a murder. Busy, busy, busy.”
Dad rubbed his forehead. “Don’t step on Jack’s toes. Our relationship will only go so far to get you out of an obstruction charge.”
“Everyone keeps throwing that threat around. Obstruction. Interference. Aren’t you supposed to tell me I shouldn’t look into this? I should stay safe. Batten down the hatches. Yada yada yada.”
“Probably.” His apologetic grin said it all. I got my insatiable curiosity honestly. From him.
I kissed Dad good-bye and cut through the flow of delivery men to my car. It was nice that my folks didn’t want me to be alone, but I had enough problems already without adding another.
* * *
The scenery changed quickly on my way home. Majestic nineteenth-century mansions morphed into the squat strips of housing that made Uptown the unique and lively place I loved.
I slid my car against the curb and zipped inside, locking the door behind me. My place was a classic shotgun home built to house workers in the early 1900s. Like all the others, it was designed to be dull, drab, and utilitarian. Honestly, the architects should have known better. This city didn’t believe in any of those things. Nowadays, the shotguns on my street were brightly painted, renovated, updated, and generally bedazzled into unique blends of art and history. One day I’d have enough money to do more than paint and hang art. Until then, I considered the aging light fixtures and stained floorboards part of the cultural experience.
My phone sprang to life with the unmistakable sounds of Psycho’s shower scene. Pete-the-Cheat was calling. I fumbled for my phone and rejected the call. My heart hammered stupidly. Pete had left bundles of messages in March and April, but I never returned them. By May, he’d called fewer than once a week. Even fewer in June. This was his first call in July, and the month was halfway gone. I’d heard it all. He was sorry. He wanted to make amends, return some of my forgotten things, and apologize in person. I didn’t want to see him. I couldn’t picture his face without recalling his secret double life, his other girlfriend, and the fact he’d only asked me out as part of a long con for my family’s money. Whether he’d eventually cared for me or not was irrelevant, and keeping a second girlfriend was a solid indication he hadn’t. I dropped my phone onto the coffee table and groaned. Unless one of the things he wanted to return was Penelope, I had no interest in him or his hearty line of BS.
I poured a tall glass of ice water over lemon slices and stewed. The Barrel Room waitress had served up Miguel’s friends, and all I needed to do was go back at closing and talk to them.
I stacked tutu materials on the couch and curled onto the cushion beside them. I folded and cut sections of tulle while trying not to acknowledge my laptop on the end table. No time for the computer. I had work to do. First, I needed to create one perfect sample tutu. Then I could do research until dawn if I wanted.
I unrolled seven lengths of hot-pink ribbon and elastic.
Mrs. Neidermeyer was in the studio when Miguel came in. She’d called him a derelict. His friends called him Tony. Detective Oliver called him Anthony Caprioni from New Jersey.
I grabbed my laptop. “I’ll do one quick search, but that’s it.” I typed Anthony Caprioni into the search engine. Dozens of articles came up.
He was a thief.
I scrolled through page after page, then checked the criminal justice site in his old county. Anthony Caprioni had a record twenty counts long. It started when he was eighteen, and I was willing to bet there was a sealed juvenile record before that. Probably a lifestyle he’d developed young. Statistically speaking, if he’d been arrested so many times, there was likely an iceberg of things he’d gotten away with hiding beneath the surface. That, or he was the world’s worst criminal.
Miguel had cased my store. He’d asked about the products. He must’ve known I didn’t have anything with significant resale value. Surely, a life of crime had given him a more discerning eye. His latest arrest was in relation to a diamond heist. Alarm bells screamed in my head. A jewel thief! A few searches of the local paper around the time of his arrest revealed Miguel had had a partner in the crime but rolled on him for a reduced sentence. The phrase “no honor among thieves” came to mind.
I rubbed my temples and shoved the laptop away. Miguel stole diamonds. It was highly likely he’d been involved in the local jewel heists.
Even so, I ran a pet studio. So why’d he break in that night? What did he want? Not jewels. Could he have also been a thug for hire?
A shiver raised gooseflesh on my arms. What if that smoothie on my window wasn’t a random act of vandalism? What if this was about me after all?