Furry Godmother’s business tip: Blowing up is messy. Buy a broom.
Electricity sizzled through me on the way to work. After receiving two new e-mail rejections on my small business loan applications during breakfast, I’d gone back to obsessing over Miguel. By my third cup of coffee, a new idea had also percolated. If I couldn’t find any solid information on Miguel, maybe I could contact his accomplice, Levi Marks, in the big house. If anyone would be willing to dish the inside scoop on Miguel, it would probably be the former partner he’d flipped on. After a couple sketchy impersonations on my part and several terrible attitudes on the part of the correctional facility administration, I learned Levi had been released on parole five days ago.
Plenty of time to get to New Orleans and exact his revenge on Miguel three nights earlier.
I parked along the crowded street and thanked my stars I didn’t work in Arlington anymore, where creepy multilevel parking garages were the norm. My cell phone had 9-1-1 on one-touch dialing thanks to those terrifying memories. I jumped into the sunshine and dashed through a line of manicured flowerbeds and a mass of animated morning shoppers. Inside my studio, I flipped every light switch and slouched in relief.
Three days. Three suspects. I wasn’t sure if I should feel proud or overwhelmed, but at this rate, I’d never know who killed Miguel.
I set Roomba-Spot in his charger and fed the turtles, Brad and Angelina. The place looked magnificent considering the black cloud raining on it. I shook the tension off my shoulders and turned the “Open” sign in my window.
The bell above the door jingled. A line of people moseyed in, sucking lattes and munching beignets, dusting everything they touched with powdered sugar and judgment.
I shifted into congeniality mode. The crowd wasn’t my enemy. It was my opportunity to hold onto Furry Godmother, my lifelong dream come true. I wouldn’t see it go belly-up because some thief had dragged me into his mess. “Good morning.” I nodded and welcomed every patron. “I’m glad you’re here.”
The doorbell rang all morning as people poured into the tiny space. Most made their rounds, peeked at the murder suspect behind the counter, and left. Others came with actual pertinent questions.
“Do you make house calls?”
“Do you cater?”
“Can I order three dozen . . . ?” Tuna tarts. Pawlines. Purrlines. Pupcakes.
“Can you replicate . . . ?” Versace. Gucci. Kate Hudson’s Golden Globes gown.
I said yes to everything, buoyed by sheer Crocker determination.
A few hours later, Mom marched into the studio. Oversized white sunglasses covered half her face. A frown covered the rest. “Have you seen the paper?” She smacked the daily news against my counter.
I pushed it aside and finished taking a phone order for the local pet spa. “That’s five dozen tuna tarts, five dozen pawlines, and ten dozen peanut butter pupcakes. Anything else?”
Mom rolled her eyes and slung her giant Kate Spade bag into the space beside mine under the counter. She left her glasses on the newspaper and went to assist the line at my bakery counter. “Where’s Paige?”
“She’s only part time. She doesn’t work today.”
Mom clucked her tongue and plastered on a smile. “I’ll call Imogene. She can take over when Paige goes back to school. I suppose you’ll have to make do with me for now.”
By three thirty, my tummy was outraged I’d missed lunch, but the store traffic had somewhat settled. I opened my digital calendar and typed the information I’d taken by phone. The rest of my month was full. I couldn’t take more requests for anything, and I’d have to live in work mode to meet the promises I’d already made.
“Well?” Mom shoved hair behind one ear and stared.
“What?”
“Have you read the paper or not?”
I gave her my best crazy face. “I haven’t stopped moving since I got here.” Based on my calendar, this trend would continue for three to four weeks.
She swiped her sunglasses off the paper and shook it. “You made the news. Again.”
“I figured.” I took the paper and skimmed the article beneath a grainy black-and-white photo of my store. Local Pet Fashion Designer and Caterer Accused of Murder Gallivants With Victim’s Friends.
“I don’t gallivant.”
“For goodness’ sakes, Lacy. You’re thirty years old. Why were you hanging out with a bunch of kids? And after hours at your boss’s restaurant.” She shook her head in disapproval.
The article mentioned my appearance in the Barrel Room’s parking lot around midnight. “I wasn’t hanging out. I was investigating, and I don’t have a boss.”
Mom made a strange strangling sound. “You’re a Crocker. A woman of position in this district. Not a gumshoe. Don’t you hold our family legacy in any regard at all?”
My skin heated. “Maybe I’m making a new legacy. I’m following a dream and building a business that will be here long after I’m gone. My kids can take over, expand, grow, or do whatever else brings them joy.”
“Your children, you said?”
Here we go. I went back to entering obligations into my calendar.
Mom mashed a stack of order slips for baked goods onto the counter beside me. “Unless you’re planning to adopt or marry a twentysomething restaurant worker, I suggest you remember your place in this community and stop your feminist hijinks.”
Oh. My. Sweet. Lord.
I bit my tongue so hard I flinched.
Silence fell over the buzzing room. Dozens of strangers stared openly.
Mom looped her bag over one shoulder and shoved her glasses back onto her face. “I’ve volunteered you for the Legacy Parade Committee. Civic duty is a Crocker responsibility. One not to be taken lightly. They’re expecting you at the next meeting. I’ll send you more details this afternoon. Right now, I need to go prune something.”
I’d learned years ago why all the fancy ladies kept gardens. They could rip weeds out by the roots and pound gloved fists against the earth when they really wanted to scream and swear. The latter would have ruined their genteel reputations. The former earned their houses a spot on the Circuit of Homes.
I closed the shop at five to tidy the mess left by a busy day of onlookers and order placers. People continued to try the door until after eight.
Unfortunately, my business boom came with a catch. No money. Customer deposits on orders were slim, and the balances weren’t due until the time of services rendered. The four-page list of supplies I needed to fill the orders would have to come from my sparsely lined bank account.
Dozens of new customers, and I was somehow poorer.
I stuffed the lists into my purse and headed for the door with a box of accent materials for Mrs. Neidermeyer’s tutus. Whatever else I accomplished this month, those tutus needed to blow her mind. Her stamp of approval had the power to change everything.
I stepped into the night calculating the amount of work I could finish before dawn. What had gotten into everyone today? It was like the bad press had inspired them to hire me.
A thin evening crowd strolled the sidewalk outside my store, moving toward the restaurant-sated blocks where food and sultry jazz seasoned the air. A few straggling tourists and locals on evening power walks nodded as they passed. I balanced a box of design books and shiny appliqués on one hip and locked the door behind me.
An uneasy sensation crept over my skin, lifting the fine hairs on my arms and neck to attention. I scanned the scene again. Everything seemed normal, but something was wrong. I hurried to my car on instinct, wrestling my phone from one pocket and bringing up my speed dial for 9-1-1. I hovered my thumb over the green send button, ready to call the cavalry if Miguel’s killer was thinking of eliminating me as well.
I jerked my gaze around the street and up the sidewalk in both directions before reaching the curb. My car sat at an awkward angle. “No. Nononono.” Not a flat tire. I set the box on my hood and abandoned 9-1-1 in favor of Dad’s cell phone number.
My muscles turned to stone when the damaged tire came into view. It wasn’t just flat; it was murdered. A Furry Godmother flyer was pierced to the rubber with a railroad spike. The corners of the paper curled and waved in the breeze. I checked over both shoulders before sinking into a squat beside the tire. Dark, hasty scribble covered the paper: Don’t end up like Miguel, Lacy Crocker.
* * *
Red-and-blue lights cut through the night as cruisers filled the street with cops and, by default, attention that I didn’t want. Pedestrians and onlookers crowded previously empty patches of sidewalk, and a local reporter snapped pictures of my car. Detective Oliver moved from one person to the next, canvassing the area for witnesses of the tire impaling. No one had seen anything. Shocker.
I leaned against the detective’s truck and tried to disappear in the shadows. More bad press. Mom would have an aneurysm when she saw tomorrow’s paper. And if the negative publicity increased customers any further, I’d go bankrupt.
“Well, kitten,” Detective Oliver said, striding to my side and toting the box of materials I’d left on my hood, “let’s go. We’re towing the car to the shop for a new tire, but you can pick it up tomorrow.” He opened the passenger door and tossed my box onto the seat. “I’ll drive you home.”
I was fresh out of energy for arguing. “I need to go get groceries.”
He raised a brow and almost smiled. “Okay, but I drive the buggy.”
“As you should.” I slid onto the passenger seat of his truck and gladly shut the night out.
I waited for the display of red-and-blue lights to disappear from view before gulping the oxygen I desperately needed.
“You okay?”
I bobbed my head, formulating a plan to harness my courage and use the adrenaline assaulting my veins for good and not emotional paralysis. “I’m going to throw myself into my work. I have a full schedule for the month, and that’s what I’m going to think about.”
“Fair enough.” He took a front-row space at Whole Foods and quieted the engine. “I guess Mable Feller didn’t hold your success against you.”
“What do you mean?” How’d he know about that?
“I hear she made some calls, inspired her contacts to support a struggling local.”
That onslaught of orders had been spawned by a woman I suspected of putting a hit on me? I pressed my complicated emotions of guilt and gratitude into something I could handle at the moment. “I have a long shopping list.” I shook the papers in my fist. “Lists. There are four. You can wait in the truck if you’d like.”
“Nah.”
He drove the buggy as promised.
An hour later, I wrote a questionable check, and we headed uptown to my beloved home, where I planned to put on a pot of coffee and bake until dawn.
I opened my front door with trepidation and ran my palm over the switch plate before entering. “I’ll take it from here.” I extended a hand toward Detective Oliver, motioning him to hand over the bags he’d insisted on carrying up my walkway.
He brushed past me and continued down the hall to my kitchen. “Where do you want this stuff?”
“On the counter is fine.” I twisted the dead bolt and turned on the porch light. “Where are you going?”
He disappeared around the corner toward my bedroom. “I’m sweeping the residence.” He moved in and out of every room, peeking through windows and checking closets for boogeymen and/or note-writing creeps. “Due diligence.”
“Gee, thanks for putting that thought into my head.” I kneaded my hands and centered my attention. Focus on the work.
By the time he returned, I’d unloaded the bags, fired up the coffeemaker, and preheated my oven.
“All clear.” He stopped in the doorway behind me.
I didn’t look. No need. His presence was undeniable, disconcerting yet strangely comforting. “Coffee?”
“Maybe one.”
I rubbed my palms against my apron. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
I measured my breaths, willing the panic at bay.
In accordance with my life, Pete’s Psycho shower scene ringtone erupted.
Detective Oliver cocked an eyebrow.
I flipped my phone over on the counter and swiped my thumb against the screen. “Never mind that.”
“Hello? Lacy?” Pete’s voice drifted from beneath my hand.
I jumped as if it’d burned me. Fire coursed over my cheeks and dried my throat.
Detective Oliver stared.
I grabbed the phone and spun my back toward him. “Hello? This isn’t a good time. I hadn’t intended to answer. My apologies. Thank you for calling.”
“Wait!” Pete screeched before I could hang up. “Lacy, wait. Give me two minutes. Please.”
My stomach bottomed out. I couldn’t tell him where to stick his pleas and excuses with Detective Oliver listening in.
“Lacy, I’m an idiot.” Pete picked up on my hesitation and took full advantage. “I never meant to hurt you. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. I fell in love with two women, and I was too cowardly to do the right thing when I should have, but in the end, I chose you. The other woman meant nothing. I’ve let her go.”
The man behind me scoffed audibly.
I pressed hot fingers against my temple. This was worse than the dream where I went to work naked. I fumbled to reduce the volume on my phone. I’d heard Pete’s pathetic excuses a dozen times, both in person as I packed and on voicemail via messages when I’d rejected his calls. Detective Oliver didn’t need to hear them ever. I cupped a palm around my mouth, uselessly attempting to shield my voice. “I can’t do this with you right now. I have company.” I raised my palm to cover my eyes. I hadn’t meant to call Detective Oliver my company. Huge mistake. Company implied all sorts of things we weren’t. He was probably reading into it already. I forced myself not to look.
“I swear it,” Pete whispered. “On my mother’s grave.”
“Your mother’s not dead!” I tapped the phone against my forehead.
“It’s an expression,” he growled. “Why are you always so impossible?”
I moved the phone against my lips. “It’s not an expression. No one says their mother’s dead if she’s not dead. You’re a horrible person. You know that, right?”
Detective Oliver moved into view. Concern creased his brow.
Emotion burned my eyes. How humiliating. “I have to go.”
“Don’t! I’ll do anything for your forgiveness,” Pete pleaded. “Anything at all. You name it, and it’s done.”
“I want Penelope.” The words were out before I’d had time to consider them. He’d taken Penelope somewhere on the morning I was set to leave. He tried to use her as a means to manipulate me into staying, but my will to go was stronger than my will to take her with me, and I fled. I’d felt like gum stuck on a shoe sole every moment since. “I want Penelope back,” I repeated. I knew he was good to her, but she was my baby. I hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye. She didn’t know where I was or why I’d gone. She didn’t deserve to be left behind by the woman who’d saved her from icy Arlington rain as a kitten. I’d saved her just to abandon her all over again.
A white handkerchief appeared before my blurry eyes, pinched between Detective Oliver’s fingers. “Thanks,” I whispered, hiding my face as I wiped my features back into submission. I peeked at him. Who carries a handkerchief anymore?
“Fine,” Pete huffed into the receiver. “Fine, but I’m coming down there to deliver her myself, and I want to see you in person.”
“What?” Was he really agreeing?
“When can I come?”
I locked eyes with Detective Oliver, as if he could somehow help, or at the least hold Pete to his word.
Detective Oliver’s expression was firm and unreadable. I returned his handkerchief.
“How soon can you get here?”
I held my breath during the long silence.
“Let me check my schedule and confer with the airlines.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll have to answer my call next time so we can make plans.”
I bit my tongue. Pete always wanted control.
“If I miss the call, just leave a voicemail. I’m certain you know how.”
“Fair enough.” His voice was low and soft. “Can I ask you something?”
I didn’t answer. His questions were always loaded and never fair.
“You said you have company. Is it a man?”
Detective Oliver curled his lips into a cocky grin.
It occurred to me that he’d moved closer to hear my conversation better. As he said, Nosy comes with the job. The handkerchief was a stage prop. “Call me when you have a date set for arrival.” I disconnected with Pete.
Detective Oliver shifted his stance. “Was he the reason you left Virginia?”
“Yes.” I took a cleansing breath. Pete might bring Penelope to me.
He seemed to weigh my answer for a long moment before motioning to the organized chaos on my counter. “What are you baking?”
“First, six dozen canine carrot cakes for Happy Tails Day Spa. They’re doing a fundraiser in conjunction with the Jazz Festival to promote adoption.” I poured him a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter.
He sipped and watched. “You make dog food?”
I fumbled the sifter and gawked. “Seriously?”
“Canine carrot cakes? Those are for dogs, right? Unless they’re made with dogs.”
“Ugh. You’re disgusting.” I dusted my palms and braced them on my hips. “Get over here. You can run a hand grater, right? Before you ask, it’s not for grating hands.”
He set his coffee aside and moved to the sink. He washed his hands, then turned confidently to the counter. “I can probably figure it out.”
I handed him a stack of fresh carrots from beside my sink. “You grate. I’ll explain.” I dumped eggs, peanut butter, oil, vanilla, and honey into the bowl of my favorite mixer. “The carrots go in here.”
He went to work grating carrot slivers into the bowl while I sifted the powdered ingredients together.
I slid my eyes his way. Curiosity got the best of me. “You’re awfully at home in the kitchen.”
“I’m over thirty and single. A man’s got to eat.”
“Really? I thought single men only ate takeout and whatever they could grill.”
“Funny.”
“I have my moments.”
We finished the tasks, and I set the mixer to blend.
He went back to his coffee. “Why do you make pet food?”
“Do you know the kind of gross things that come in store-bought food? Overprocessed, outdated meat, ground-up, unwanted animal parts like hooves and testicles. There’s grain in there animals don’t need and no actual nutrition. My treats are made from fresh, garden-grown, pesticide-free vegetables; brown eggs from free-range, local hens; and peanut butter from real, actual peanuts. Period.”
He smiled. “You’re passionate about pet food.”
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “A little.”
“Where’d you learn to make it?”
“Mom.” I sighed. “She raised me on food from her garden and fresh meats from the market. I never understood why we took so much care to prepare our own foods but fed our beloved pets from cans. As soon as I was old enough to use the kitchen, I experimented with recipes on our pets. I learned what they liked and hated. Quizzed Dad about proper nutrition. It was fun.”
He scanned the floor, twisting at the waist. “Do you have a cat?”
“No.” But I would soon, if Pete wasn’t lying.
“Well, you don’t have a dog or he would’ve been under our feet by now, plus I checked the rooms. Not a single bark. I didn’t see a fish tank or hamster cage.”
“No pets.”
“None?” He turned his nosy face on.
“No. Not anymore. I left Penelope in Virginia with my ex-fiancé and the woman I caught him riding his office chair with. She’s a Tabby. Penelope, not the woman.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah, yikes.” I stuffed a spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth. “I miss having a cat, but getting a new one would be like cheating on Penelope, so I just stay busy and don’t think about her as often as possible.”
“I’m sorry.”
I lifted my weary gaze to his sincere face. “Thanks.”
“And that was him on the phone? The one professing his regrets?”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s coming here?”
“Allegedly. He says he’ll bring Penelope. I’ll believe it when I see it.” I filled miniloaf pans with carrot cake batter and slid them into the oven, twisting the timer when I shut the door. “Are you planning to stick around for two more rounds of carrot cake prep?”
He hesitated. Reluctance changed his features. “Nah. It’s late. I’d better get going.”
I walked him to the door. “Thanks for everything tonight. I’m sure it’s not protocol to run errands for citizens without transportation. Wasted time. Taxpayers’ dollars and things like that.”
“I’m not on duty.”
The shock I felt must have registered because he flipped the switches beside my door and changed the subject. “Your porch light is burnt out.”
“I know.”
He worked his jaw. “Do you have any idea who might have vandalized your car and threatened you tonight?”
I shook my head. “You’ve already asked me that.” Several times.
He heaved a sigh. “You aren’t always forthcoming.”
Okay. That was true. “Did you know Miguel had a partner in a diamond heist?”
He bristled. “Yes. Levi Marks.”
I stared past him, wondering how much he’d researched their situation. “Did you know Miguel turned on him, and Levi spent eight years in jail?”
His brows furrowed. “He was sentenced to twelve and paroled six days ago.” Detective Oliver blanched. “You already knew?”
I rolled my aching shoulders and gripped the tender meat of my neck in one hand. I didn’t know much of anything anymore. “I also know I didn’t kill Miguel Sanchez.”
“Me, too.”
It took several beats to process his words. “You do?”
He narrowed his pale-blue eyes. “Yeah. I’ve been watching. You’re too soft for murder. If you were guilty, I’d see it.”
“Unless I’m a sociopath. They don’t care enough to show signs of guilt.”
“True. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t keep you on a short leash, in case you turn out to be a sociopath.” He turned for his truck and sauntered away. He waved a hand over his head.
I shut the door before I could tell him where he could tie that leash.