Cat Got Your Secrets: A Kitty Couture Mystery Read online

  Also by Julie Chase:

  Cat Got Your Cash

  Cat Got Your Diamonds

  Cat Got Your Secrets

  A Kitty Couture Mystery

  Julie Chase

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Julie Chase.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-283-3

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-284-0

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-286-4

  Cover design by Louis Malcangi

  Cover illustration by Anne Wertheim

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: September 2017

  To you, sweet reader, for making this dream possible

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Furry Godmother’s Heart-to-Heart Smoothie Bites

  Furry Godmother’s Tuna Kitty Kisses

  Furry Godmother’s Canine Cutouts

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Furry Godmother’s advice for business: Get a PFA. Personal Feline Assistant.

  “Hold still, please,” I whispered to Penelope, the adorable black-and-gray tabby on my lap. Her striped paws kneaded my thighs in anticipation of freedom.

  A pair of pint-sized silver wings bobbed against her back as she tried to bite my fingers.

  “There.” I snipped the thread and poked my needle into a stuffed tomato on my parents’ dining room table. “You’re officially the cutest little Cupid I’ve ever seen.” I fluffed the length of her dress and tugged the sleeves. “Do you feel pretty?”

  She leapt from my lap and skulked into the kitchen.

  “Good idea. Test it for comfort.”

  I scrutinized the fit as she went. “How does it feel around the collar?” I asked her retreating figure. “Are the cuffs too snug? Why can’t you talk?”

  Mom cleared the remaining breakfast plates, stirring rich scents of buttery pancakes and syrup into the air. Her cream-and-olive wrap dress was modest, but elegant, emphasizing her youthful figure without drawing attention anywhere specific enough to rouse a blush. “Have you given any more thought to making Penelope the face of Furry Godmother?” She followed Penelope into the kitchen.

  Furry Godmother was my dream come true, a pet boutique and organic treat bakery in the heart of New Orleans’s Garden District. The slogan Where every pet is royalty and every day is a celebration was chosen for its all-inclusive nature. At my shop every pet got the royal treatment, from turtle to tabby to terrier. No discrimination allowed. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression by choosing a mascot.

  “No.” I rolled my head against one shoulder and let my heavy eyelids drop. We’d had this discussion multiple times.

  “Why not?” she pressed. “Every successful business has a spokesperson. You need a brand. Something people can connect visually to your business. Why not use Penny?”

  I forced my eyes open and pulled my head upright. “Furry Godmother is more than kitty couture.”

  Mom returned with an enormous mug of coffee. Her third since I’d arrived. “Fine. We can talk about it more later.”

  “You’re having another cup of coffee?” Not that I was judging, but Mom lived to preach the perils of overindulgence. I should know. I was the poster child for her campaign.

  She lowered gracefully onto the chair across from me, her bright-blue eyes avoiding mine. “I’ve been spring cleaning, and I’m exhausted.”

  I sensed there was a deeper meaning behind the words. With my mom, there usually was. “When you say ‘spring cleaning,’ do you mean you called a service?”

  “No.” She made a crazy face. “I mean purging. Out with the old and all that. For the record, I know how to do the day-to-day cleaning as well, Lacy Marie Crocker. I just prefer not to.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Besides, outsourcing boosts the economy and frees up my time so I can give back to the community.”

  “Yep.” My mother was also known as Violet Conti-Crocker, sole living heir to the Conti fortune. To hear her tell it, Conti money had helped build the city, and she took her civic responsibilities very seriously.

  I thought she tended to exaggerate.

  She pursed her lips and held my stare for a long beat.

  I looked like my mother, from her blonde hair and blue eyes to her narrow frame and ski-slope nose. What we lacked in classic beauty we made up for in spunk and chutzpah. Her chutzpah got on my nerves and vice versa, but we were learning to live with one another in the same city again.

  I’d left for college nearly twelve years ago and rarely visited—outside the occasional holiday—until Pete the Cheat, my jerk of an ex-fiancé, broke my heart last spring and sent me running back to New Orleans. Specifically, to the Garden District, known for its stately historic mansions and megawealthy residents. As it turned out, I liked my new life here much more than I’d expected, and Mom was growing on me.

  I smiled. “So hiring a cleaning service helps the economy, but you’re doing the purging yourself?”

  Her shoulders drooped away from her ears. Whatever she’d considered saying, she let it go. “This is different because it’s personal. I’m going room to room boxing up anything I can bear to part with. A cleaner can’t do that. So far, the work is endless, not to mention thankless, which is why I need the coffee.”

  “Room-by-room purging?” I did a long whistle and made a show of looking around the cavernous spread. The historic Victorian home had been in my mother’s family for generations. It was a magnificent place to live—architecturally sound, immaculately kept, and in the most coveted section of the district, but it was stuffed to the frame with things no one needed. Five thousand square feet and nearly two dozen rooms with closets, cubbies, and built-ins. “Good luck with that.” I worked through the information she’d given me. “Why are you doing this?”

  She huffed, as if I’d somehow missed the obvious. “If I ever finish the insurmountable task, I’m going to redecorate.” She curled both hands around her steaming mug and sipped. “I’m donating some things, and I have a pickup scheduled for this morning. I honestly thought she’d be here by now.”

  “Are all those boxes by the back door going out?” A sudden yawn split my face. I covered my gaping mouth wit
h both hands.

  “That’s right.”

  “Wow.” She had her work cut out for her. Mom was a certifiable packrat, exactly like her mother before her. The attic alone was crammed with two lifetimes’ worth of things she didn’t need and couldn’t part with.

  She swept a thick swath of blonde and platinum hairs off her forehead and hooked them behind one ear. Mom had informed me long ago that our family didn’t go gray. Those pesky white hairs that came along after thirty were called platinum. “There’s a thrift shop on Jackson Avenue that guarantees anonymity and does pickups.”

  “A thrift shop?” I gawked. Who was this woman?

  I’d recently caught her wearing jeans, and she’d changed her hair last week, adding waves and bangs to a shorter cut. The effect was drastic and glaringly opposite the sleek shoulder-length bob she’d worn for at least twenty years. Honestly, she looked nearly that much younger.

  “What are you looking at?” She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

  “I don’t know,” I marveled. “I guess I’m still getting used to your new look.”

  She raised a hand toward her forehead, but stopped short, opting instead to touch the new waves dancing against her cheeks. “I needed the bangs. You’ll understand in twenty years. Sooner if you don’t get some sleep.”

  “I sleep.”

  She hiked one perfectly manicured brow in challenge.

  “I do.” Not nearly enough, and normally after face-planting at my desk midstitch, but I slept. “And I love your new look.”

  A rare blush crept over her cheeks. “I think, perhaps, spending so much time with my daughter is changing my idea of beauty.”

  “What?” I made a show of looking over both shoulders. “Me?” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Well, clutch my pearls. You’re getting soft.” I rose to my feet and clamped my arms around her. “Now it’s only a matter of time until my evil plan is complete.” I rested my head on her shoulder.

  “Get off me.” She wiggled out of my grip with a peculiar grin. “Good grief. This is why I don’t compliment you more often. You completely overreact.” She grabbed her coffee and pressed it to her lips.

  “I see you smiling.”

  “Do not.”

  I carried my cup across the threshold to the kitchen for a peek inside the boxes. “You didn’t put any of my stuff in here, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  I didn’t like that word, yet. I fingered the contents to be sure she wasn’t lying, then lingered in the doorway between the two rooms. “Don’t get rid of any of my stuff.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you mean the stuff you left here more than ten years ago? Why would I do that when you obviously use it so often?”

  “They’re memories. My memories.”

  “They’re worn out books, of which you own multiple copies, and puzzles.” She groaned. “Puzzles and games and brain teasers. I suppose you’d like to take those dusty things home and play with them again at your age.”

  I pulled my chin back. “Excuse me. I like puzzles.” I shook off the bubbling frustration. “And I’m not old. I’m thirty and you’re . . .”

  She stabbed a finger in my direction. “Do not.”

  Penelope appeared at my feet, and I pulled her into my arms, carefully removing the little dress. “Grandma has had too much coffee, and it’s making her grouchy.” I set Penelope on her feet and folded the dress.

  Mom ignored my jibe. “Who’s the packrat now?”

  “You.”

  She held a palm out. “Pot.” And then the other. “Kettle.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “New topic. Valentine’s Day is next week,” Mom said. “Have you made any plans?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pity.”

  Yes. I was thirty and single, while every last one of Mom’s friends was a grandmother. Heard it.

  The back door opened and shut. Dad wandered into the kitchen and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, then proceeded to scrub up as if he was preparing for surgery.

  Mom moved to the doorway between rooms and cocked a hip. “Well, aren’t you even going to say hello?”

  He startled. “Oh. Hello, darling.” He dried his hands on a dishtowel, then kissed Mom’s cheek. “Sorry I’m late.” He turned for the dining room and met me with a big hug.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. Fine. Fine.” His polite smile fell short, not quite reaching his normally bright eyes.

  “He was out with Wallace Becker last night,” Mom tattled. “He’s probably hung over, but since he’s finally chosen to bless us with his presence, we should talk about Friday night’s award dinner and leave last night where it is.”

  Dad was the latest in a long line of Crocker men to fill the role of beloved Garden District veterinarian. He ran a private practice out of the renovated barn in their backyard, and he’d been nominated for a community service award. Mom was throwing a party to celebrate the fact. She’d celebrate the daily sunrise if she thought people would attend.

  Dad forced the smile higher. “Great.”

  “Who’s Wallace Becker?” I asked Dad.

  Mom answered for him. “He’s that man who runs the babysitting company for pets.”

  “The Cuddle Brigade?” The Cuddle Brigade was a fairly brilliant business concept—not a new one, but lucrative nonetheless. The pet nannies were vetted by a panel of local who’s whos and rented out as in-home care to cover business trips and vacations. Some especially adoring pet owners hired the Brigade on a nine-to-five basis so their fur babies wouldn’t be alone all day every day while they worked. Not every pet was as lucky as Penelope, who went everywhere I went. More or less.

  “That’s the one,” she said.

  “What a small world. The Normans are throwing their Saint Berdoodle a Bark-Mitzvah tonight, and I have twelve dozen dreidel-shaped doggy biscuits waiting in the car for delivery. I’m making a stop at the event hall next door to the Cuddle Brigade on my way to work.”

  She nodded. “That’s Wallace’s hall. The Normans are nice people. Their Berdoodle isn’t bad either.”

  “How’s Mr. Becker doing?” I asked Dad, enticing him to join into our conversation the way he normally did.

  He set a kettle on the stove and cranked the gas. “Not good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help with your dinner Friday night?”

  Mom made a crazy face. “Of course there is. I’ve already e-mailed a copy of your duties. I thought you said you got it.”

  “Right.” I tapped my temple, pretending to have forgotten. I didn’t always open Mom’s e-mails. “Sorry.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Since you obviously haven’t read it, dinner is at the Elms Mansion at eight. Be there at seven. Bring a date. Your cat doesn’t count. And wear something pink. I’m playing off the valentine theme. Love for animals. Love the community. All we need is love. That mess. I don’t want you to clash.”

  “Got it.” I packed my things and pulled Penelope’s carrier onto the table. “I’d better get going so I can make that delivery.” I caught Penelope as she tried to slink past and stuffed her into her travel pack. “Time to go.” I kissed Mom’s cheek and motioned Dad to walk me out.

  He followed me silently into the warm Louisiana day, carrying Penelope in her pack.

  I stopped to beep my car doors unlocked. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, squinting against the sun.

  He kissed my head and loaded Penelope onto my passenger seat. “I’m fine.” He buckled the seat belt around her carrier and forced a tight smile.

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  An older model SUV appeared at the end of the drive before he could answer. The vehicle crunched over loose gravel and stopped behind my Volkswagen. A woman in her forties fell out, stumbling for balance and mumbling under her breath. She straightened her blouse and elastic-waist pants over the lion’s share of her curves. Her fuzzy brown hair flutter
ed in the wind. She gasped when she finally noticed me.

  I did a finger wave and wondered if she was lost.

  “Mrs. Crocker?” She fumbled in my direction, hand extended. A powerful cloud of essential oil scents wafted around her. “I’m Claudia Post. It’s nice to meet you.”

  I held my breath against the olfactory assault of lavender and rose hips.

  Mom bustled outside and down the driveway toward us. “There you are. I’m Mrs. Crocker. This is my daughter, Lacy Marie.” She motioned for Claudia to follow her and turned back for the house. “I’ve got everything by the door for you.”

  Claudia returned a moment later with her hands full.

  Dad jerked to life. “I’m so sorry. Let me help you.” He hustled to her SUV and opened the hatch. “I’ll carry the rest. Just a moment.”

  “No. It’s no problem, Dr. Crocker.” She slid the box inside and hurried after him.

  Mom came to join me in the gravel and beamed. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

  Wonderful? Maybe Mom wasn’t the hoarder I thought she was. “Yes?”

  “I’m told Claudia’s the best,” she whispered. “She guarantees complete anonymity for donors. Finally, I can get rid of anything I want and trust it won’t be gossiped about at the next big event.”

  “What do you have that people would gossip about?” Dare I ask?

  “Please.” She clasped her hands over her belt. “No one needs to know my dress size or what I keep in my closet. Can you imagine?”

  “Not really, no.” I wore a size eight, and I’d never considered it a secret. Also, I didn’t want to know what was in Mom’s closet.

  Dad and Claudia loaded the final boxes into her SUV. She shut the hatch and approached me with an apologetic expression. “Sorry about the mix-up earlier.”

  “It’s okay. People mix us up all the time,” Mom lied.

  “Well, if you ever have anything you’d like taken off your hands, just give me a call.” She handed me a shiny white business card with curly pink letters in the center. “Resplendent,” I read. “New Orleans’s premiere thrift shop.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Crocker. Dr. Crocker.” Claudia wrenched open her squeaky driver’s side door and climbed onto the seat with a little effort.