Furry Godmother’s quick tip: Sunshine is an excellent source of vitamin D and inside information.
I squinted into bright midday sun, soaking vitamin D into my skin and sucking the caffeine from a jumbo iced latte into my slumping system. I’d slipped out for coffee after Paige arrived. Another restless night had left me shuffling squint-eyed around the shop by noon. Nothing a little caffeine couldn’t cure, I hoped. Magazine Street was my favorite part of the Garden District. Miles of hip and artsy shops stretched in either direction, lively and chic, inviting and invigorating. If anything could get my blood pumping, it was a few minutes on the brightly painted bench outside my studio. That and the frozen coffee melting in my cup. Wind whipped through my hair, tussling the strands and throwing away the sleepless night. The rich scents of freshly fried foods at a restaurant three doors down mingled with the sweet aroma of flowers in storefront window boxes.
I took another pull on the big green straw as I admired my window display. I’d been up until dawn reading every article I could find on Miguel, poring over his social media accounts and trying fruitlessly to deduce the reason he’d come to Furry Godmother. The most I had to offer him was a connection to my family’s money, but he was a thief, not a kidnapper. I might’ve had more information to work with if I hadn’t let Detective Oliver get under my skin. I’d considered returning to the Barrel Room a dozen times before midnight, but each time, the detective’s smug face came to mind, warning me to stay away from his investigation. That man was looking for a reason to cuff me.
I shook the cup and exhaled defeat. What I had were too many questions and a looming lease payment I couldn’t afford. I’d noodled myself cockeyed hoping for an epiphany and still had nothing.
Paige bounced into view, and I jumped.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I managed a limp smile. “I was concentrating.”
She settled on the bench at my side. “How are you?”
“Befuddled.”
“Oh, well, you look pretty.”
“Thanks.”
She crossed long, thin legs and locked her fingers over one knee. “I miss it here when I’m away at school. Did you?”
“Every day.”
“I can never explain it right to my friends. They don’t have places like this in their lives. They aren’t attached to their hometowns in weird, dysfunctional, codependent ways like me.”
“Like us,” I corrected. “You have to grow up here to understand, I think.”
“Yeah. Did you know this street has always been my favorite? To me, Magazine Street is like if the French Quarter and Grandma’s fancy social circle had a really cool baby.”
I shook my coffee and pumped the straw. “Agreed.” My tummy gurgled. “How’s it going in there?” It felt like lunchtime and frozen coffee wasn’t making the cut.
“Good. The gawkers thinned out. Still no sales. I came to see if you want to set up a new window display while it’s quiet. Do you have a design consultation?”
I checked my watch. “Not until three.” I shot to my feet on a caffeine and New Orleans high. My petal-pink maxi dress billowed around my ankles, a striking contrast to Paige’s white pleated miniskirt and navy cap sleeve blouse. “Let’s change the display.”
“Excellent.” She hopped up beside me. “I finished taking the old one down.”
Cool studio air shocked my skin into goose bumps and added spring to my step. I inhaled the yeasty aromas of fresh-baked pawlines and gave silent thanks for an evening of insomnia. I’d lost a second night’s sleep wondering what really happened to Miguel, but I’d gotten ahead on the daily baking. My display was full, and there were enough treats in the freezer to last a week.
Paige hefted a box of discarded items from the Alice in Wonderland display. “What will it be this time?”
“Let me check the stockroom for inspiration.” I grabbed the box and headed to the back.
The empty window was a canvas awaiting a masterpiece. The new display should stop pedestrians in their tracks and beckon them inside, hopefully to spend some money. “Something divine,” I whispered to the shelves and piles of beautiful materials. “Ah ha.” I gathered bags of white fiberfill, bolts of blue chiffon, and a caddy of glitter with my spare sprayer.
I floated back to the front, dropped my caddy on the counter, and faced off with the empty window.
Paige uploaded digital photos of the gowns I’d created for a Weimaraner wedding at Jackson Square on Monday and saved them to my computer.
I lined the window in chiffon and doused it in tufts of fiberfill for a heavenly backdrop, stretching and puffing the latter into soft, cloudlike forms.
“How’d you get all these puppies to endure formal wear?” Paige asked.
“Magic.” I gathered the line of undressed animal mannequins from the previous display and arranged them in the faux clouds.
“Yeah, right.”
“I sprayed the pieces with perfume so they weren’t interested in chewing them off.” Also, I kept a generous pocket full of treats. I’d learned that secret from Dad. All tricks aside, my patience was long, and that was the key to everything. “Can you toss me the glitter and sprayer?”
“What color?”
“Silver for clouds and angel wings. Gold for the harps and halos.” I strapped small white wings on the naked pet forms.
Paige moseyed over with the glitter caddy and leaned against the wall. “I don’t like it.”
My hands froze on a cat statue. “Why not? It’s pretty.”
“They’re angels.”
I snorted. “You don’t like angels?”
“Not these. It looks like all those pets died and went to heaven.”
“They’re supposed to be guardian angels.” I eyed the blooming display. She was right. I stripped the wings and shook my head. “I’m off my game.”
“Head in the clouds?”
“Ha.”
She left the glitter on the windowsill and went back to the computer. “You’re the artist. I might be wrong.”
“You’re not. It’s me and this day.” I pulled handfuls of clouds away from the soft-blue backdrop. “I could do a fairy theme.” The wheels of creativity spun reluctantly into motion again. “No. Scratch that. Let’s do a garden theme. I can put red gnome hats on the bunnies, bring in some wooden flowers and make a faux pond with iridescent gift wrap, add some pretty stones and turtles in tiaras. Paige, you’re a genius.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Humble too.” I gathered the excess fiberfill into my arms and fisted a group of unnecessary wings. “I’m going to restock this and make a few gnome hats for those bunny statues. Shout if you need me. I might have to dig for some decent toadstool materials.”
She gave me a salute and went back to scanning my digital pictures.
A dizzying carousel of ideas spun through my mind as I unloaded my arms and searched for perfect accessories.
The phone rang, and I fell into my chair’s waiting embrace. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Crocker?” a strange voice chirped across the line. “This is Maddie Graves from National Bank. You left a message about a business loan?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d forgotten about the desperate late-night calls I’d made to loan officers. “Yes. Hi. It’s Miss Crocker.” I gave Maddie the run down on my debt, income, and immediate need. She gave me the boot, unless I could find a cosigner.
“Thank you for your time.” I disconnected with as much dignity as I could muster and dropped my forehead against the desktop.
“Lacy?” Paige called from the hallway.
“Yeah?” I rolled my head for a look at the doorway.
She tiptoe ran into the stock room, a look of horror on her pretty face. “Margaret Hams is here.”
The message in her raspy whisper and red face was clear. I should know this name.
“Margaret Hams?” Didn’t ring a bell.
Paige planted her palms on my desk and dropped her face to mine. “From the Llama Mamas.”
“Oh dear.” I stood. I couldn’t be seen talking with a Llama Mama. Not unless I wanted my mama to have a coronary. If Mom showed up and found a member of her competition here, she’d die on the spot and come back to haunt me. “Did she say what she wanted? Did she look mad? Is she alone?” Was this a trick? A ploy for information on Mom’s Jazzy Chicks?
“She didn’t say, I don’t think so, and yes. Should I call your mother?”
“No!” I waved my hands in big arcs. “Never ever tell her about this. Let me get rid of Mrs. Hams.”
I scurried into the shop.
A woman with a stroller peered into the bakery display. Paige rushed to her aid. “Can I help you?”
I scanned the room for a woman who looked like a llama lover. There was a boy with his hand in my turtle tank and a portly man with glasses on a necklace examining portraits on the wall. Where was Margaret Hams?
A woman in turquoise culottes and coral blouse caught my eye. She fingered the mess I’d left in my half-decorated window. The patch on her quilted handbag might as well have been a big X on the treasure map: Love a Llama.
I treaded softly, scanning the street outside the window for signs of Mom or one of her Jazzy Chicks, half afraid of what would come next. “Mrs. Hams?”
She turned to me with a handful of fiberfill and a look of disgust. Her coal-black eyes set deep beneath thick salt-and-pepper brows. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“Of course.” I patted the bakery counter on my way past and looked at Paige. “If my mom stops by . . .”
Paige lifted her eyes as she sealed a full bakery box for the woman with the stroller. “I’ll let her know you’re with someone.”
I led the severe faced, colorfully dressed woman to my cluttered desk in the stockroom and uncovered a chair for her to sit. She didn’t.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Hams?” I folded my hands protectively in my lap.
She clutched her purse against her chest and dug inside. “I’d like to hire you. I hear you’re quite the seamstress, and word around town says your love of animals is akin to Noah’s. I don’t trust my llamas to just anyone. This is a compliment.” Her snub nose wrinkled. Life under the harsh Louisiana sun had leathered her cheeks and spotted her arms. She smoothed a piece of paper against a bare spot on my desk. “I need twenty-four leg warmers for my girls. We’re putting on an old-fashioned farmer’s parade down Old River Road.”
“A llama parade?”
“A livestock parade. My girls are just one component, but they’re accustomed to being the stars. I’d like to keep the tradition.”
“A livestock parade?” This was new. Was it some kind of trick? I scanned the room for hidden cameras.
She huffed. “There’s plenty of young families and elderly folks who still farm my area and can’t or won’t come into the city for festivities. The Llama Mamas don’t think they should miss out. Do you?”
“No, ma’am.” My mind scrambled for a polite reason to decline her proposal. This was what southerners called a rock-and-a-hard-place situation. “My mother would kill me” was neither a professional nor grown-up reason to decline her offer, but obeying my mama was nonnegotiable. Going against her, which Mrs. Hams must have known she was asking, would put a smudge on my reputation as well as Mom’s. In southern law, the “respect your mama” rule was followed closely by the “behave because you represent your family name” rule. Of course, if I named Mom as the reason for passing on the Llama Mama offer, Mom would be furious with me for bringing her into it. Tension coiled in the pit of my stomach. I smiled sweetly and brought out my best manners. “I’m honored, Mrs. Hams, but I don’t believe I’m the best choice for this job.”
Though, I could use the money in case Detective Oliver didn’t get his butt in gear. It had been two days since Miguel’s murder. Were the police making any progress?
“Nonsense.” She pointed to the paper placed on my desk. A stick figure animal with four legs and curly hair anchored the page. Each leg wore a design from ankle to knee. “We need them made of something airy. It’s hot out there. Nothing too cumbersome, but make them flashy. Everyone loves flashy. Spare no expense. You can bill me at this address.” She slid a business card across the desk with the drawing. “If you’re opposed to leaving the city, I can have someone pick them up or you can have them delivered. The country’s not for everyone.”
“I enjoy the country,” I said, bristling. “I couldn’t do the job without meeting the girls. I’ve never worked with llamas before. I don’t know their temperaments or how much material they’re likely to put up with. I’d want to see their coats against the color choices and take measurements.” Jeez. This wasn’t amateur hour. Did she think I’d whip something up without meeting them and send it off with no details or research? Obviously I wasn’t a livestock professional, but I had ethics. I had standards. There was a process involved. My thoughts wandered as I tried to imagine myself fitting llamas for leg warmers.
“Miss Crocker?” She scowled.
I bit my lip. “Hmm?” Clearly, I’d missed something.
“I asked how soon you can come for the measurements.”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid I can’t.” I raced back through the conversation. “I have a packed schedule this week. I can’t possibly prepare twenty-four leg warmers.”
“I’m in no rush. Take two weeks. Come Friday afternoon for the measurements. I’ll serve sweet tea and shortcakes. I’ll have the girls groomed and ready for company.” She pulled a stack of cash from her purse. “We’d like you on retainer. This should be enough to get started.” She set the money on my desk. “Mr. Tater assures me you’re a dedicated, talented young woman and you’ll be an asset to the Mamas. Now don’t be late.” She disappeared through the stockroom door without a good-bye.
Mr. Tater had put her up to this? I warmed at the thought. He needed to distance his name from the murder, but he still wanted to help me. Hope lifted my chest. He believed in Furry Godmother, and so did I.
I grabbed the phone and left messages with two more banks about securing a small business loan. Just enough to get past this mess and back on track.
“Lacy?” Paige’s voice drifted down the short hallway.
I imagined my mom’s face on the cash before me. I snatched it off the desk and folded it around Ms. Hams’s business card and drawing. I tucked both into my top desk drawer. “Coming!” I hastened into the studio.
Soft jazz filled the cozy space. Paige’s phone rested in a speaker dock on the counter where she stood with a girl her age. “Hey.” She waved me closer. “Lacy, this is Mack. She works at the Barrel Room.”
“Ah.” My memory kicked into gear. I smiled at the young lady who’d served Scarlet and me dinner. “Right. We met last night. What brings you by?”
Mack lifted and dropped one shoulder. “Paige said it’s important you find out what happened to Miguel. I told her I’d help if I could, plus I need a gift for my mom’s tabby.”
I beamed at Paige. “That’s fantastic.”
Mack drifted toward the bakery display. “Got anything for finicky cats?”
“Always.” I didn’t tell her that “finicky cats” was redundant. Better to stay on her good side until I knew what she knew. “Most felines love my tuna tarts. Oh, or how about some purrlines. They look like pralines, but I make them for kitties. Everything is organic and safe. I color them with berry extract.”
She cocked a narrow eyebrow. “I thought you made pet clothes.”
“I do, but I also enjoy baking. How about a tiara?” I led her to a display of rhinestone headpieces. “If you think she might be interested in something specific, I can give her a call or invite her in for a consult.”
Mack fingered the tiaras. “Maybe.” She didn’t look convinced.
I turned to Paige for a little help with her friend.
“Mack,” Paige said, dropping three purrlines into a bakery box and tying it with a satin ribbon, “you said Miguel had a girlfriend at the restaurant?” She handed the box across the counter.
Mack helped herself to a tiara and stacked it on the box. “Her name’s Sunshine, but if you ask me, she’s more like a hurricane and not the good kind from Pat O’Brien’s. I heard her say she’s staying late tonight. If you want to talk to her about Miguel, stop by after ten. I’ll let you in.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I get a bag?”
Paige whipped a logoed shopping bag into the air and set Mack’s booty inside. “Thanks again. We really appreciate it.”
Mack gave me a look and left.
Paige bounced on her toes. “What do you think?”
“I think Sunshine had better be there tonight. That information just cost me fifty bucks in merchandise.”
“Aww.” Paige pushed her bottom lip out and wrapped a long arm around my shoulders. “How about I buy you an ice cream before your three o’clock session?”
“I could probably eat some ice cream.”
She tugged me against her side. “I’ll pick it up and bring it back here. We can make a plan for Sunshine’s interrogation and decide what to tell your mom about Ms. Hams’s visit.”
“Blah.” I’d temporarily, conveniently, forgotten about that. “You’d better make mine a double scoop. Chocolate.”