Cat Got Your Crown Read online

  Cat Got Your Crown

  A Kitty Couture Mystery

  Julie Chase

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, dear readers, for picking up another one of Lacy’s adventures. You make my dreams possible, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you, Crooked Lane Books. Jenny Chen and Sarah Poppe, I can’t possibly tell you how important you are to me. You make my work better and this job so much more fun. Thank you, Jill Marsal, my blessed literary agent, for believing in me. Without you, I’m not sure what I’d be doing with my life, likely not this. To my critique girls, my family and my squad. You know what you do. There simply aren’t words. But thank you. I love you.

  Chapter One

  Furry Godmother’s words of warning: Beware of showboats; sometimes they splash.

  Excitement charged the air inside the historic Saenger Theatre on Canal Street. The atmospheric interior had been designed to replicate a fifteenth-century Italian courtyard, complete with inky domed ceiling and “starry sky.” I wasn’t sure about Italy in the 1600s, but in modern-day New Orleans, the venue was packed to the pylons with one hundred highly trained pets and their anxious handlers. Judges, staff, and volunteers for the National Pet Pageant scampered through the crowded hallways finalizing details for Tuesday’s big show. I was doing my best to answer questions, adjust and repair the performers’ costumes, and stay out of the way.

  “Lacy!” An austere woman wearing a tweed skirt and a deep frown headed my way. “Miss Crocker, a moment please.”

  I moved carefully in her direction, keeping a vigilant eye on a pair of stubborn cockatoos flying overhead. The intricately detailed ceiling was widely considered a point of interest, but at the moment, it was unwise to look directly up. “Coming.”

  The woman met me several feet from her assigned table and led me back to a growling cat in a bedazzled carrier. She pinched a battered bonnet between her fingers. The frilly eyelet material had come loose at the seams and one row of ruffles had nearly been chewed off. “Can you fix it?”

  “Of course.” As the unofficial costume department, I was determined to fix everything. “It’s no problem.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” the woman said. “Maybe it’s the weather? Or the full moon? This city is strange. Have you seen the cemeteries? Everyone’s buried above ground. Is that even natural? And have you taken the ghost tour?” She stroked one long finger against a narrow eyebrow and grimaced. “Jackie and I will be glad to return home to Dallas, where everything is normal.”

  I opened my jumbo-sized pink tackle box and selected the best tool for the job. “I’m sure it’s just nerves.”

  “There are too many tourists in this town and people in costumes for no apparent reason. A man was playing bagpipes outside my hotel this morning.”

  I threaded a needle and smiled. Personally, I loved my city, but I could see how someone wearing a bun tight enough to cause a migraine might be put off. I gave her cat a warm smile. “Rehearsal for an event this big would rattle anyone. Right, Jackie?”

  The National Pet Pageant was a traveling talent competition for four-legged friends and winged companions. The event was hosted by a different city around the country each year, and thanks to the dedicated petitioning of my mother, this year the producers had chosen New Orleans. The NPP, as my mom called it, was the rough equivalent of Miss Universe, or maybe the Olympics for pets. A lot of money and media attention awaited the winners and their owners on the other side.

  I set the final stitch and snapped the thread with my hands. A quick snip of the hanging ends and voila! “There you go. The strings and lace are back in place. You’ll want to rinse the bonnet tonight and let it dry on a bed knob to help with its shape.” I opened the sparkly carrier and lifted Jaqueline Tabby Onassis into my arms. “Hello, gorgeous.” I stoked her fur and rubbed her ears before securing the little chin strap and fluffing the material. “What do you think?” I turned the gray-and-white kitty to face her owner. She blinked big green eyes and yawned.

  The woman heaved a sigh. “Bless you.” She stuffed Jackie back into her carrier, sans bonnet, and fixed me with a pointed stare. “This is exactly why everyone says Furry Godmother is the best. You absolutely are.”

  “I appreciate that. Thank you.” Furry Godmother was the name of my pet boutique and organic treat bakery on Magazine Street. I’d opened my doors a year ago at the heart of New Orleans’s famed Garden District. In the time since, I’d made a name for myself with locals and pet enthusiasts alike. The latter enjoyed spoiling their fur babies with my treats and designs. The former recognized my name from its repeated appearance in newspaper articles on various crimes. I was prouder of one of those facts than the other. Which one depended on the day.

  I tossed the needle and remaining thread back into my tackle box. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” I swept a mass of sticky hair into a loose ponytail and checked my watch. Ten minutes until lunch, and I was already dreaming of fresh air and cold water.

  The interior theater doors swept open, revealing the dreamlike courtyard inside. A troop of Dalmatians in top hats and bow ties pranced out. By the look of relief on their owner’s face, their final dress rehearsal had gone well.

  “Next!” A pale man with a clipboard and newsboy hat pressed the button on his megaphone and aimed it at the crowd. “Number fifty-four!”

  A woman in a toga and goddess sandals rushed forward, towing a cat dressed as Cleopatra in a wagon poorly disguised as a chariot. The faux courtyard doors closed behind her with a whoosh and a clang.

  Only forty-six acts to go.

  “Lacy!” A familiar voice turned my head.

  The crowd parted as Mom made her way toward me on three-inch designer heels. Her floral wrap dress was new and her hair was magnificent, either supernaturally immune to the oppressive humidity or simply wiser than to cross her. She was trailed by a gaggle of clipboard-wielding women in coordinating attire. The well-dressed posse was also known as the NPP Welcoming Committee. Mom had started the group months before the show’s arrival and arranged every detail that would make the pageant’s producers, staff, and crew more comfortable during their stays. I’d been assigned to the committee when another member dropped out. In the last few months, the fashionable group of ladies had become my sisters.

  “There you are.” She stopped moving and her entourage circled me. Around town, Mom was known as Violet Conti-Crocker, last living heir to the Conti family fortune and virtual force of nature. Mom claimed Conti money had helped build our city, and she worked diligently to see her ancestors weren’t disappointed. Everyone knew better than to get in her way. “I’d like you to meet Angelina Smart.”

  A compact woman with a cloud of puffy white hair and thick cat-eye glasses stepped into view. Her rosy round cheeks and magnified blue eyes made me smile. Her sturdy frame, snub nose, and wrinkles reminded me of a French bulldog, and I immediately liked her. I also liked the vintage pink tweed suit and matching pillbox hat, though I doubted they were vintage to her, probably just another ensemble she’d purchased personally in 1964.

  “How do you do?”

  “Very well, thank you. I’m Lacy.” I extended a hand and squeezed her soft fingers gently. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mom clasped her hands at her middle. “Mrs. Smart is the widow of Marvin Smart, creator of the National Pet Pageant. She’s here to make sure everything goes according to her late husband’s vision.”

  “I never miss a show,” Mrs. Smart said, setting a palm over her chest. “The pageant was his heart. Of all Marvin’s accomplishments, this pageant was his pride and joy.” She tapped the rubber tip of her silver duck-head cane against the floor beside her white orthopedic sneakers and smiled. “I
can’t believe I finally made it to the Big Easy. It’s on my bucket list.”

  “We’re very excited to have you and your husband’s pageant here,” I said.

  Mom looked me over. “How are you doing with the list I gave you? Have you taken care of your portion?”

  My portion of NPP Welcoming Committee responsibilities included obeying her every command and doing it with a smile, but more specifically, I was to oversee the hanging of opening ceremony banners on every light post from here to the Mason-Dixon, or until I ran out. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mom nodded. “Good. What are you wearing?”

  Mom had been insisting for months that the committee members wear dresses or skirt-and-blouse ensembles in pastels or floral patterns, preferably ones that covered our knees, as a show of unity and proper southern etiquette.

  “Jeans,” I said, both stating the obvious and continuing to be a disappointment in the coordinating-ensembles department.

  “I see that.” Mom bristled. “I’m just trying to understand why.”

  I looked to my committee sisters for support, but they were all dressed appropriately and collectively leaning away. “Honestly,” I sighed, “repairing pet costumes is rough on couture. I spend a lot of time animal hugging and crawling on the floor. Dressing up seems almost irresponsible.” Plus, I was a sticky, sweaty mess and covered in hair, most of which wasn’t my own.

  “It’s not dressing up,” Mom said. “It’s called being part of a team.”

  “My T-shirt’s pink.” I wiped a bead of sweat off my brow and wished I could do the same for a droplet cruising the valley between my shoulder blades. “There’s even a flower on the pocket.”

  “T-shirts are for men and little children,” Mom said. “Then again, so is sitting on the floor.” She scrutinized my top. “Did you draw the flower on there?” She rolled wide blue eyes, nearly identical to mine. “Lacy, really.”

  I looked like my mother. Same blonde hair and ski-slope nose. Same awkward height, too tall for petite clothing, too short for everything else. Unfortunately, for every similarity Mom and I had in appearance, we shared ten differences of opinions.

  “Miss Crocker?” A portly woman in high-waisted capri pants and tinted spectacles waved to me. “Do you have a minute? I’m afraid we’re experiencing a crisis.”

  “Of course.” I rolled my shoulders and stretched my neck. “Come on, Mom. You can yell at me while I work.” I inched between two of my committee sisters and sidestepped a poodle on two legs. The halls and corridors of the historic Louisiana theater looked the way I imagined the backstage at a Las Vegas show might, if that show was America’s Got Talent meets Barnum and Bailey.

  I stopped at the woman and her white Himalayan cat in tuxedo tails. The cat batted a toy piano and meowed.

  The woman held a small beret in each hand. “I can’t decide. Sequins or suede?” She lifted one to the kitty’s face—“Sequins—then the other—“or suede?”

  I chewed my lip. The purposely cropped jacket made the cat look doubly fluffy and squeezable. Sequins seemed a bit much, but suede wasn’t doing it for me either. I opened my supply box and fished out a packet of appliques and charms. “Can I see that one?” I took the suede cap and sewed a white band of rickrack into place, then pinned a silver fleur-de-lis front and center. “There. How about that?”

  A man’s voice boomed in the distance, drawing my attention. Viktor Petrov, the pageant’s master of ceremonies, barked orders at a pair of personal assistants until his face turned red and the coeds recoiled. He was easily as aggressive as any reality television chef and, in my opinion, only half as entertaining, but the public loved him.

  The woman beside me covered her kitty’s ears. “I wish he’d stop that. Negativity is such poison.”

  Mom scoffed. “He’s a showboat, mildly offensive but completely harmless.”

  Eva Little, the shiest of my Welcoming Committee sisters, turned her wide brown eyes toward the floor. “He can get a little handsy, too,” she mumbled.

  “Really?” I scoffed.

  The entire committee nodded.

  Mrs. Smart stiffened. She glared at the self-important man on stage. “Reprehensible.”

  I frowned. Luckily, I hadn’t experienced that side of Viktor, but I hated that most of them obviously had. I swung my gaze back to Mom. He’d be wise to keep his hands to himself with her unless he wanted to lose one.

  “I will never understand how that man has fans,” Mrs. Smart continued. “Publicity and Marketing have taken advantage of his popularity and used it to increase general interest, but I suppose that only makes them slightly more intelligent than the buffoons tuning in to watch Viktor.” She rolled her eyes. “I doubt any of his fans know the difference between a cockatoo and a cocker spaniel.”

  “Well,” Mom interjected, “my committee has worked tirelessly to ensure this year’s event will be the epitome of dignity and grace. These beautiful, intelligent, and dedicated animals, along with their trainers, will be treated as world-class performers as long as they are in my city. No buffoons welcome.” She swung her gaze in my direction. “Isn’t that right, Lacy.”

  “Yes,” I assured her. “Everything’s coming together nicely. Elegantly,” I added.

  Mrs. Smart nodded. “Thank you. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.” She produced a handkerchief and drove it under her nose. “If you’ll excuse me. I just need a minute and some air.”

  “Certainly,” Mom said, stepping aside to let her pass.

  I waited until Mrs. Smart reached the exit, then turned back to catch Mom’s narrowed stare and stood a little straighter. “The rehearsal and peripheral details are going off as planned. Yes?”

  “I don’t know.” She made a notation on her clipboard. “Are you still wearing jeans and a T-shirt?”

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. It was my only defense. “Tomorrow I’ll wear a dress and bring several changes in case of excessive slobber or a nervous bladder.” I frowned. “I’m talking about the pets, not myself.”

  Mom puffed air into her thick, side-swept bangs and marched away. The committee ladies followed.

  I handed the revised beret to the woman and smiled. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” she enthused. “It’s perfect!”

  I scanned the scene for anyone else in need of my assistance.

  Chase Hawthorne caught my attention, standing in a cluster of women and pets across the lobby. He winked at me, and a senseless but predictable blush heated my cheeks.

  I smiled, and he headed my way with a trademark wicked grin and that ever-present gleam of mischief in his eye.

  Chase was an attorney at his family’s high-powered law practice, and he understood me in a multitude of complicated ways I didn’t like to think about. If the Garden District had had royal families, mine and Chase’s would have been at the top, and it was no secret that our parents would die of happiness if he and I agreed to marry and produce heirs immediately, but neither of us were ready for that. In fact, we’d both only recently returned to the district after years of bucking parental expectations and chasing our own dreams. I’d traded the schmancy premed program at my mom’s prestigious alma mater for a degree in fashion design from an art institute in Virginia, and Chase had entered the world of professional volleyball instead of joining the family law practice after passing the bar. I’d yet to see him in any suit that hid the hard work volleyball had done for him.

  “Miss Crocker,” he said, arriving with a dog the size of a woolly mammoth. “You look positively good enough to eat this morning, and you know I’m always hungry.”

  “Get a bagel,” I suggested, dropping to my knees before the big fluffy baby at the end of Chase’s leash. “Well, hello,” I said, cupping his honey-hued face in my palms. “I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.” I kissed his nose, then nuzzled my face into his thick fur. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said slipping deeper into baby talk. “Yes, I am.”

  “I don�
�t understand why I never get this kind of greeting,” Chase said, looking delighted by the thought.

  “You’re next,” I promised, then giggled when his eyebrows rose.

  My relationship with Chase was both intensely beautiful and endlessly complicated. For starters, we were great together, and our families were close, but if we dated and things didn’t work out, a lot of people would be hurt, or at least put out. It was a lot of pressure, so we settled for shameless flirting and an appreciation of what could be. Chase had even promised to marry me one day, if that was ever what I wanted, and I had no doubt that we could make a fantastic, fun-filled life together, but there were two big problems with that.

  First, I’d been engaged before, and it had ended in betrayal instead of marriage. Some parts of me were still raw from that experience, and I wasn’t in a hurry to poke the wound.

  The second problem was someone else entirely.

  “Hello.” A woman only slightly taller than the dog smiled down at me from Chase’s side. “Here I am,” she said, taking the lead from Chase. “Thanks for watching him.”

  The giant fluffy beast sat immediately under her control.

  “Mrs. Li,” Chase said, “this is Lacy Marie Crocker. Lacy, this is Sue Li.”

  I extended a hand to her. “Nice to meet you.”

  Sue Li was the definition of petite, with straight black hair and the most beautifully tanned skin I’d ever seen. I envied both instantly. My mother would have appreciated her peach-and-cream blouse and pencil skirt. Not only did both pieces qualify as pastel, but they were clearly couture, and the navy patent-leather belt and shoes alone had cost more than I’d spent on my entire wardrobe in a year.

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” Sue Li said. “Any friend of Mr. Hawthorne’s is a gem in my book.”

  My smile widened at the sound of her addressing Chase as Mr. Hawthorne. Chase had grown up and filled out very nicely, but some part of me would always see him as my best friend’s boyfriend’s younger brother. The district playboy and formerly reckless teen who’d once driven a Segway under the influence and hit a parked sports car.