Furry Godmother’s pro tip: Let sleeping dogs lie.
I drove along Mable Feller’s street more slowly than necessary. She’d placed a custom order for her blue ribbon–winning Himalayan and elderly French bulldog more than a month ago—weeks before Mrs. Neidermeyer had asked me to make the tutus, which normally would have been Mable’s assignment. Call it paranoia, but the idea she might’ve hired Miguel to destroy me had crossed my mind a time or two. The same part of me understood the theory was ridiculous. The shamelessly cynical part reminded me of all the heinous crimes committed by folks no one had ever suspected.
Before I opened Furry Godmother in April, all pet fashion orders went directly to Mable. She’d been sewing much longer than I’d been alive, but her designs were straight off of Little House on the Prairie, completely without flair. The district wanted pizazz, and zhushing up was my specialty.
I parked in the drive at Mable’s Audubon Boulevard estate and gathered my things. The handsome brick Dutch Colonial was loaded with natural lighting thanks to an abundance of windows and Louisiana in July. Her lush garden was the envy of half my mother’s social circle.
Humidity curled around my skin like a wet blanket as I slid from my car into the thick summer air. An instant bead of sweat formed along my temple. Most people hated the stifling subtropic temperatures of the Deep South, but I found them invigorating. Some of my best memories happened on days like these. I adjusted my bag over one shoulder and a slow smile spread over my face.
“You look like you’re up to no good.” Mable’s knowing voice staunched my nostalgia. She stood on the opposite side of her garden gate, stroking her Himalayan, Miss Peabody.
“No, ma’am.” My smile widened. Caught thinking of a midnight swim with my closest friends on graduation night.
“Well, fess up. What was that cat-that-ate-the-canary face about?”
“The heat.” I headed her way. “Sometimes I’m slapped with a memory that makes me wonder how I ever forgot.”
She looked me over from head to toe and freed a tiny garment bag from my fingertips.
“Would you like me to stay and check the fit?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” Mable motioned me down an uneven cobblestone walk to a grand courtyard. The knotted roots of grand oak trees had long ago shoved the pavers into random peaks. “You know, we’re all glad you didn’t marry that doctor. You don’t belong in Virginia. You belong here.” She released the gate, and it snapped shut behind her. “With us.”
The moment reeked of horror movie openings. I dragged my gaze from the gate to her decided expression. “I’m not sorry I went, but I’m certainly happy to be back. Life lessons and all that.”
Happy or not, coming home had felt like defeat. It was practically a miracle Mr. Tater agreed to sign for my lease. He didn’t know me, but he knew business, and he gave me a chance. Furry Godmother would still be a dream without him. All the more reason to clear my name and his simultaneously.
* * *
A raspy bark drew my attention.
“Oh dear.” Mable shifted her cat into one arm. “There you are, Sir Peter.” She opened the glass door to her sunroom and released the Kraken.
A squat, white bulldog with tall bat ears and a square head rumbled through the open doorway, circled Mable’s feet a hundred times, and headed for me. He huffed in the heat, licking his flat nose and rolling on the bright-red pavers in a flurry of energy and clowning. “Woof!”
“You remember Sir Peter,” Mable said. Sir Peter Piccadilly of Audubon was an elderly French Bulldog who thought he was a puppy.
I fell at his side, depositing my bags in a pile. “Yes, I do.” I rubbed his belly as he writhed on his back. “He’s a good boy. Yes, he is.”
He sneezed and rolled onto his tummy, his little piggy tail flipping and whacking as he huffed and panted.
I rubbed behind his ears and squinted into the sun. “I think he’s worn himself out.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll be still while I dress him. The costumes need to be perfect. I’m hosting the next Daughters of the Confederacy dinner and I’d like a portrait of these darlings on display.”
Sir Peter rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. The tip of his pink tongue poked free.
Mable scooped him into her arms with a grunt.
Miss Peabody stretched away, growling in complaint. “I’ll only be a moment.” She retrieved the discarded garment bag and headed for the house.
“Okie dokie.” I dusted myself off and went to explore the tiny waterfall in her garden where honeybees swept in and out of massive vibrant blooms climbing her trellis.
The glass door rattled open several minutes later, and Mable emerged. Miss Peabody was in one hand and Sir Peter was in the other. Mable’s sleek, platinum bob was tussled, her silk tunic slightly askew. “Perfect,” she trilled.
I met her halfway and gathered Miss Peabody into my hands, enjoying the feel of soft downy fur between my fingers. Her aqua belle gown and coordinating wide-brimmed hat were painfully adorable. “Well, aren’t you the bee’s knees, Miss Peabody.” Pride welled in me as I arranged her gown over four tiny paws. I had spent hours hoping to impress Mable with the ensembles she had ordered. The verdict was still out on her, but I’d definitely impressed myself.
Mable settled Sir Peter on a bench beside her trellis. “There now.” She smoothed his waistcoat and adjusted the snub brim on his matching hat. “Who’s a handsome boy?”
Sir Peter panted. His tongue curled skyward and bounced in his open mouth.
I set Miss Peabody beside him. “They look lovely.”
Mable hummed. “I can see why Neidermeyer asked you to do the tutus. You have a gift.”
Guilt reared in my chest. “I’m sorry if it was poor form to accept the tutu job. In Arlington, it’s every woman for herself, but I know that’s not the case here, and I probably should have asked you how you felt about it before agreeing.” The last thing I wanted was to step on any toes or start any gossip that might tarnish my name professionally. Furry Godmother would be doomed before it had a chance. Reputation was everything in a community as tight as ours, plus I valued good manners. “I should’ve come to you.”
“It’s fine. I’ve always wanted to take up needlepoint. Now I can. Besides,” she said motioning to the tiny couple before us, “I couldn’t have done anything like this. The workmanship is outstanding. The stitches are so tight and small, I barely see them. The details are magnificent. You’re very good, Lacy. Very, very good.”
I hoped the blazing heat hid my blush. “Thank you.” The feeling she’d more likely hug me than hurt me settled in my chest.
“How are you holding up this week? It’s terrible what you went through.”
The words startled me. I hadn’t had time to think of how the ordeal affected me beyond my business. I took an internal inventory. I was stressed, sleep deprived, and crazy enough to suspect a nice, old lady of putting a hit on me. “I haven’t opened the back door since that night. I’d be better if the detective assigned to the case would investigate someone other than me.”
“Darling,” she cooed, “I’d give my prized hydrangea to be investigated by Jack Oliver, if you know what I mean.”
I left with my fill of sweet tea and a basket of fresh berries from Mable’s garden. I wouldn’t need much in the way of dinner, which meant more time to get dressed for the after party at the Barrel Room. Detective Oliver’s warning wouldn’t keep me away two nights in a row.
When I found my favorite little black dress in an unopened drycleaner bag, I knew the day was blessed. I had a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner while leaning over the sink, so as not to dirty any dishes; brushed my teeth; and ironed my hair to flat perfection. A quick glance in the hall mirror confirmed it. I looked nearly as good as I felt. Those Barrel Room workers would never know what hit them.
I grabbed my purse and strode out the door like I belonged on a runway. Chin up, shoulders back.
My patent leather peep toes ground to a halt on my porch.
A stupidly handsome man in black wayfarers leaned against the door to my car. His messy black hair and two-day stubble dried my mouth.
“Miss Crocker.” Detective Oliver whipped off the glasses and ended my stupor. “You look . . .” His lips moved, but nothing came out for a long beat. “Nice.”
“Thanks.” The disappointment in my voice irked me. “What are you dressed up for?”
He adjusted a Louisiana University ball cap over his still-damp hair. I shoved the image of him in the shower out of my head. It didn’t help that humidity had applied the robin’s-egg-blue T-shirt to his chiseled chest like a sticker or that his dark couture jeans fit well enough that I knew in which pocket he kept his keys. “I’m headed over to the Barrel Room to chat up the workers.”
My jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
“I heard you’re headed out there to talk to Miguel’s girlfriend. I thought I’d come with.”
“Come with? Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a frat boy. Where’s your urban cowboy gear?” I drifted closer. “Are those track shoes? Where are your boots?”
“I’m undercover. None of those kids are going to want to talk to a homicide detective. What about you? Where’d you put the responsible-business-owner clothes and good-girl ringlets?”
I ran both palms down the shimmering material of my slinky black dress. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Care if I drive?”
“Yes,” I squeaked. “Who’s the snitch? The only ones who knew about my plans tonight were Paige and Mack.” I doubted either girl would have narced on me to the cops. “Did you bug my store?”
“I’ll drive.” He tossed his keys into the air and caught them.
“Mack won’t let you in after hours without an invitation.”
He wiggled his badge between us.
I rolled my eyes. “You just said they won’t talk to a cop. Mack knows you’re a detective. You’re stuck.” I shooed him away from my car and beeped the door unlocked. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” The smug expression creeping over my face couldn’t be helped, so I didn’t bother stopping it. I gave him a little index-finger wave and tugged the door.
He whipped a hand out to stop it midswing. “Nuh-uh.”
“Nope. You go alone, and I’ll charge you with obstruction.”
“What?” I hopped back out, tugging the hem of my dress. “You would not.” He totally would, and I knew it.
He tipped his head and waited.
“If I let you tag along, you’ll let me ask the questions?”
A stiff dip of his chin in agreement.
Lies. “Fine.”
He smiled, and his damn dimple sunk in.