Cat Got Your Diamonds Read online

  Mom met me on the back porch of our family’s century-old Victorian. She thought cars parked out front looked tacky. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned up on one side, showing a shock of gray. A lifetime of smiling had left marks at the corners of her mouth and eyes, as if her face anticipated the next round and waited in position. “Well, you look ready for a trip to the library. All that outfit needs is glasses and a bun with a pencil shoved through it.”

  “Pencil skirts are classic, Mother.”

  “I agree. They’re quite popular with my girlfriends.”

  I sighed. This was a story I’d heard before. “They’re all grandmothers.”

  “Well, it’s true.” She tugged the door open and held it as I passed.

  Our cozy family home was a five-thousand-square-foot Victorian dollhouse, complete with scrolling gingerbread woodwork and muted mauve-and-olive color scheme. Mom’s great-grandfather commissioned it in the late nineteenth century after selling his plantation. At that time, wealthy Americans found it distasteful to live in the French Quarter. Personally, I loved the Quarter. What I didn’t like were the debutante balls and cotillions.

  Mom passed me on the way to the kitchen. “Dinner’s nearly done.” Her vibrant floral wrap dress and matching red pumps were stunning together. I’d gotten my passion for fashion—and unfortunately my ski-slope nose—from her, but little else. Even our opinions on design trends were night and day. Where I saw geeky chic, for example, Mom saw a schoolmarm.

  I followed her on a whiff of something wonderful. She stopped to examine an array of steaming pots on the stovetop. “I don’t know what’s happening here.” She turned in a circle, flummoxed. “Imogene,” she called, “where are you and what can I do to help?”

  Imogene was my nanny until high school when she switched to tending house. She’d been in the family since my grandmother hired her as a home health aide late in life. She and Mom had become fast friends. She kept the estate going while Mom grieved the loss of her mother. After that, she never really left. Imogene became like an aunt or surrogate mother to me, filling in as caretaker, chef, and tutor whenever Mom’s community engagements had taken her away.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Imogene’s voice thundered through the first floor, accompanied by the rhythm of highly motivated size-six sneakers. “I’ve got an eye on everything.” She rolled into view, arms open, and pulled me against her. “Miss Lacy.” She stepped back for a better look at me. “You’re too skinny.”

  She always said that. “You know that’s a compliment, right?”

  “Not where I come from.”

  I hugged her again. “You come from Marigny, not Mars. I think you look perfect.”

  Marigny was once a plantation seated down river from the French Quarter. Today it was shabby chic and considered a local secret. Great clubs and food. A short walk from the Quarter, funky and eclectic. It suited Imogene perfectly, much like her beliefs in local lore and mysticism.

  “I’m old.” She poked her puffy salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m starting to look like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “You look like home to me.” She’d advised me on everything from boys to outfits. She understood how out of place I felt at Mom’s parties, at my school, in my skin. The only things that helped me sleep as a child were her stories and a sprinkling of invisible dust from her fingertips to ward off the weary dreams. Imogene came from a long line of shamans and had a whole bunch of beliefs and practices I didn’t understand. All that had mattered to me was that I loved her and she loved me and we were family.

  “What’s for dinner? It smells amazing.”

  “Oh.” Mom returned from ferrying pitchers of ice water and sweet tea to the dining room. “We’re supposed to be trying a new recipe, but Imogene won’t let me help. I made beans and rice for dinner. There’s a big salad in the fridge. I visited the French Market this morning and picked everything myself. Purely organic. The only additive used on those beautiful veggies was love.” Her obsession with whole foods was contagious, eventually leading to my first experiment in healthy pet treats.

  I pulled the salad from the fridge and unwrapped the plastic covering: bright-green lettuce leaves, tossed with sliced carrots, onions, and every shade of bell pepper known to man. “This is beautiful.” I carried it to the dining room and laid it on the table built for twelve. Then I grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard and set places for my parents, Imogene, and me.

  Voodoo, the family cat, sauntered into the dining room and rolled in a shaft of sunlight. She was an ageless, sheer-black rescue, the third in my lifetime, and one of many Voodoos before her. Adopting adult black cats was a kooky tradition started by Dad’s grandpa, the first veterinarian in our family, when he replaced their aged cat with a new one of a similar size. The intent was to avoid the discussion of death with his very young son, but the unanticipated result came years later, when neighborhood whispers of voodoo and witchcraft began. How else could Dr. Crocker keep the family pet going for decade upon decade? One day, the cat had a graying muzzle, and the next day it was inky black again. Proof of voodoo had never seemed so sound to the profoundly superstitious citizens of the most haunted city in America. Great-Grandpa enjoyed the misunderstanding so much, he started calling the new cat Voodoo, and the tradition kept going strong for seventy-five years.

  I straightened the final plate and smiled.

  Dad arrived a moment later and lathered up at the sink like he was prepping for surgery. “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Hey, Daddy.” I ran my hand over Voodoo’s soft coat before taking my place at the table.

  Dad had kept local pets healthy for as long as I could remember. We’d celebrated his fifty-fifth birthday shortly after my return in March. Dad was contagious, always animated with purpose and buzzing with energy. He sat at the head of the table, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, surprising me with a nudge on the knee.

  “I heard you’re making the tutus for Mrs. Neidermeyer’s Shih Tzus this year. Mable Feller must be mad as a cat in a mailbox.”

  I smiled. Mable had made all the gala costumes for decades. Designing the tutus for Mrs. Neidermeyer was an honor and a bit of validation in local circles. “I hope she likes what I make. There’s a lot riding on this job.”

  Dad dug into his red beans and rice with gusto. “You’ll have business coming in from every pet lover in America soon. If New Orleans is chosen for the next National Pet Pageant, the line outside your store will reach all the way to the river.”

  “Only you would make the leap from designer of seven tutus to national kingpin.” I poured a glass of ice water. “I think Furry Godmother might finally be taking off. I have some baked goods on order, and I think the sashes for Pegasus Farms will put my work on the equestrian lovers’ radar.”

  Mom sighed, bored with our conversation and continually unimpressed by my life goals. “Come sit with us, Imogene,” she called into the kitchen. “You make me nervous bustling around in there.”

  Imogene pressed the door open with one hand and peeked out. “I can’t. This is serious business. You talk. I’ll listen.”

  Dad dotted his mouth with a crisp linen napkin. “She makes me tired just watching her. I don’t think she ever stops.”

  “I’ll stop when I’m dead.” Her voice carried over the clanging of lids and pans. “Plenty of time for rest up ahead.”

  Dad stuffed his smiling face with rice and chuckled.

  I forked a wedge of lettuce. “The jewelry store across the street from my shop was broken into last night and so was Mr. Tater’s jewelry store. He’s having a security system installed at Furry Godmother.”

  Dad chewed slowly. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” The confidence in his tone didn’t reach his eyes.

  The strange, dark-eyed man who visited the store earlier came to mind. His presence had made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. Men like him didn’t make appearances at Furry Godmother. Too bad I couldn’t keep it that way.

&
nbsp; I paddled the ice in my glass with a spoon and turned my eyes on Dad. “Do you think my shop could be of interest to thieves?”

  “I don’t see why. You empty the register every night.” He raised his brows, questioning.

  “Yes.” I shook off the creeping feeling. A sensible jewel thief wouldn’t look twice at my store. I was jaded from my time in Arlington. I shuddered and pushed the thought away.

  Mom sensed the lull in conversation and got busy catching us up on local gossip and hearsay. She rattled off a list of events on her agenda and lamented over invitations she’d yet to receive. Overall, the meal was fraught with personal questions and poorly concealed suggestions that I find a husband. In other words, the usual.

  I left an hour later with two lidded containers of whatever Imogene had concocted on the stove and a gut full of indignation. Mom’s dinner references to “proper career paths” and the “quick passage of a woman’s childbearing years” propelled my Volkswagen toward Furry Godmother. In keeping with my life’s pattern, I’d lay awake all night rehashing and dissecting her every word and tallying the ways I disappointed her until dawn. If I were destined for insomnia, better to use the time productively.

  I unlocked the front door at Furry Godmother and made a beeline for the storeroom. Ideas bubbled through my mind as I loaded my arms with everything I needed to mock up a knock-’em-dead tutu for Mrs. Neidermeyer. Airbrush gun, glitter spray, tulle, ribbon. Check, check, check, and check. I wedged my tackle box of craft supplies between my elbow and ribs and caught the store keys in my fingertips. I’d show Mrs. Neidermeyer a tutu she’d never forget and give my mother a reason to appreciate my career.

  The familiar sound of my front door sucking open startled me. I’d locked the door—hadn’t I? Heavy footfalls moved across the sales floor on the other side of the supply room wall. I tiptoed closer to the doorway, listening for a clue as to who’d followed me inside. Jewel thieves crashed into mind. I pressed my back to the wall and hid in the shadows, holding my breath and formulating a plan. Was I being robbed? Would a thief harm me if he found me?

  Images of an earlier mugging flashed in my memory. I’d been young and naïve then. Fresh from the bubble of my family’s upscale lifestyle and a few years on quiet college campuses, I’d chosen to walk home alone from work at night in Arlington.

  Stupid.

  I pinched my eyes shut and gave myself a pep talk. You want to live, Lacy?

  Yes, I did.

  I’d make a run for the back door. I opened my eyes and scooted to the rear shop entrance. I’d have a better chance if my hands were free, but the odds of unloading my arms without alerting the intruder to my presence were zero. I carefully pushed the key into the lock, balancing a tackle box of craft supplies and pressing thirty yards of tulle between my cheek and shoulder. The tumbler rolled, and I silently counted to three.

  I jerked the door wide, dropping most of my burden with a crash, and dove into the rear lot armed with monstrous fear and an airbrush gun. A cat dashed through the shadows, and I dropped my keys onto the pavement near my feet. Panic seized my limbs. I needed those for my escape vehicle! I crouched to scoop the keys up.

  My shop’s back door burst open, and the dark-eyed man from earlier rushed across the threshold with a grimace.

  I screamed, jumped to my feet, and froze.

  He took long, quick strides in my direction.

  My fight instinct fought with my flight instinct. The shriek that left my lips was worth a dozen horror movie deaths. Faced with an attacker and no one to hear my cry, I used the only weapon at my disposal. Gold glitter paint sprayed from the airbrush nozzle in my hands, covering his eyes and thick black hair in fairy dust.

  “Gah!” he growled and swiped his face, letting loose a slew of ugly swears. He stumbled, and I bolted, dialing 9-1-1 as I moved. I’d come back with the police to get my keys and car.

  Forget diamonds. Glitter was a girl’s best friend.

  Chapter Two

  Furry Godmother’s accessories quick tip: Without rhinestones, they’re just handcuffs.

  Ten minutes later, I sat on a bench outside my store again while a carousel of red-and-blue lights lit the evening sky. I’d waved down a squad car on Magazine Street. The cops inside had insisted I return with them. The door was ajar when we got there. I followed the officers inside, rehashing the terrifying details as quickly as I could. “You know what? I’ll write it down.”

  The officers exchanged a pointed look while moving methodically across my spotless floorboards.

  I rifled through my desk drawer for a proper writing pad and pen. “It’s best to list every detail as soon as possible after a crime. I went through something similar once. Well, not really. The last time was much worse.” I bit my lip to staunch the flood of words. Emotion stung my eyes.

  The officers headed for the stock room.

  “Check the rear lot,” I called. I settled my pen on the paper, but details didn’t come as clearly as I’d hoped, not in the form of words for a list. Instead, I sketched the crazed look on the man’s face as he chased me into the lot. I’d thought he was angry when I saw him, but there was something more in his expression.

  “Ms. Crocker.” An officer returned to my side. He looked at my sketch. “I’m going to need to ask you to wait outside.”

  “Oh.” I handed him the sketch. “This is the burglar. I don’t usually draw faces, but that’s close. Maybe I can work with a sketch artist at the station.”

  He ushered me forward, nudging me out the front door. “Don’t go anywhere.” He stood a few feet away, watching until another cruiser, a crime scene van, and an ambulance pulled onto the curb.

  A shiny black pickup barreled into the mix with a short bark of a siren, as if announcing itself was an afterthought. The truck now partially obstructed my view of the fire truck that had also arrived in response to my emergency call. Why were they still here? Obviously, there was no fire. The paramedics had gone inside and stayed. I glared at the truck. How many more people did it take to cover a break-in?

  The man who climbed out of the truck looked more like trouble than a cop. Charcoal T-shirt and dark jeans. Brown cowboy boots and a frown. He gave me a once over and strode inside.

  Indignant and out of patience, I followed him.

  The uniformed cop followed me.

  Furry Godmother was tidy. Nothing damaged or out of place, though my skin prickled just standing where a robber had lurked.

  I slowed my steps when the stock room came into view. The officers and the man in cowboy boots were spread out, mumbling and nodding at the open rear door. A pile of tulle and assorted items I’d dropped littered the ground at their feet.

  I rubbed the chill off my arms. Unease pooled in my tummy. There were too many officials here. None was leaving. Something else was at play.

  As if he sensed my presence, the cowboy turned and lifted his gaze to mine. “Mrs. Crocker?”

  “Miss Crocker.”

  He made strides down the hall and into my personal space. He flashed a badge I couldn’t read through my scrambled thoughts and searched me with hard, emotionless eyes. “I’m Detective Jack Oliver.” He extended his hand.

  I pulled back instinctively. A bad vibe weighed the air around me.

  Detective Oliver sucked his teeth. He had a scar through his left eyebrow and a number of similar white hash marks beneath a dusting of facial hair. The same marks dashed his neck and disappeared under the line of his collar. “I’m going to need you to accompany me to the police station.”

  The cops dropped my discarded supplies into evidence baggies.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  He cocked his head and scrutinized my face. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I came back for supplies. I heard an intruder, so I escaped through the rear door. A man followed me, but I got away. I called nine-one-one, and I told the officers everything on our ride back here. Would you like a description of the intruder? I’ve made
a sketch.”

  Detective Oliver stepped aside, giving me a clear view of the space outside the open door. Paramedics squatted near something large and eerily familiar. Under their careful watch, the brown-eyed man lay facedown in a mess of tulle and glitter-speckled blood. An officer dropped my airbrush gun into an evidence baggie.

  The detective shifted his weight and braced his broad hands on his narrow hips. “Did he look anything like that?”

  Well, yes. Yes, he did.

  * * *

  The police station smelled like stale coffee and body odor. Too many men in a confined space. My visit to their sanctuary had interrupted mealtime, by the looks of things. An array of po’ boy wrappers and throwaway containers cluttered the table in the small interrogation room where Detective Oliver had asked me to wait. As it turned out, the stink wasn’t body odor. It was their dinner.

  A colorful collection of costumed tourists and citizens filled the lobby, sprinkled with a few prostitutes cuffed to benches and a loudly snoring drunk sleeping it off.

  I pulled a bleach wipe from the stash in my purse and wiped down the seat and tabletop. Gross as the little interrogation room was, it looked like the Hyatt next to the Petri dish in the lobby. I doused my palms in antibacterial lotion and opted to keep my purse on my lap.

  “So, Mrs. Crocker.” Detective Oliver reappeared with a pad of paper, manila folder, and pen. He took the seat across from me. “You called nine-one-one to report the intruder.”

  “Miss Crocker,” I corrected. “Yes.” Memories of the man’s lifeless, sparkly face sent heat through my cheeks and chest. I refocused on breathing to avoid fainting. After the night I’d had, rolling onto the police station floor was something I wouldn’t come back from emotionally.

  “Did you make the call before or after you hit Miguel Sanchez over the head with your paint gun?”