Wait.
Was I really considering going to the ball, Cinderella-style, piecing together something old in a trunk thinking that it would be good enough to hobnob with Shreveport’s nobility? And really, how noble were they? No Fortune 500 companies here. Just a few timber guys, a bunch of oil-and-gas people, and old family money. The city was like the stepchild of Dallas society. So why was I worried that I wouldn’t be good enough?
’Cause your mama was a barmaid, and your daddy ran off west to join up with a motorcycle gang. And you’ve been in prison, chickee.
There was that.
I laughed at myself and carefully folded the dress and set it on the back credenza where Cricket kept the Rolodex of suppliers and VIP customers. She was old school that way. In fact, that was the very best way to describe her—like someone out of the fifties.
The phone rang.
I answered. “Printemps. Can I help you?”
“Hey, uh—”
“Ruby,” I filled in.
“Yeah, Ruby,” Scott Crosby said, without a trace of chagrin in his voice. “Sorry about that. I’m bad with names.”
“It’s okay.”
“Is Cricket there?”
“She went home early. I think her chicken-salad sandwich didn’t agree with her.” Why had I offered up that information? But then again, Scott was her husband. It was okay to share such things.
“Oh. Well, I tried calling her cell phone, but it went to voice mail.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “Um, well, I’m pretty sure she was heading home. Maybe she put it on DND because she was lying down or something.”
A girlish giggle sounded in the background. I glanced at the clock. Two fifty-three p.m. School wasn’t out yet. Maybe this was about Julia Kate? But for some reason, I didn’t think so. Because Scott grew quiet, and I could envision him shushing whoever it was.
“What’s DND?” Scott asked.
“Do not disturb,” I clarified.
As much as I liked Cricket, I didn’t have the same feelings for her husband. Of course, I’d only met him two or three times, but he’d always been dismissive. Cricket may carry expensive purses and slide on jewelry that cost a small fortune, but she was always considerate and treated everyone as if they were her friends. Happy puppy-dog eyes and quick smiles were her trademark, and though I still felt uncomfortable around her, she went out of her way to include me. Like inviting me to go to estate sales with her. Like we were friends.
We weren’t. But it was nice that she had asked me.
Her husband was the type I had never cared for—a little smirky, too comfortable in his surroundings, like he owned the world. He had a little of Ty’s charming swagger, but it was kind of icky on a late-forties guy who had thinning hair and sunspots and wore jeans that would look more appropriate on someone twenty years his junior.
“Maybe so,” Scott said, another feminine noise sounding before he huffed, “Shh!” at whoever was making it. But there had been giggling and then that shushing, and suddenly I felt a knowing tingle at the nape of my neck.
“Well, if she comes back or calls, tell her I’ll be late tonight. I’m taking Julia Kate to lessons, and then she wants to eat at the club with some of her friends,” he said.
“I’ll do that, but maybe you should text Cricket.” I wanted to add on “weirdo,” because who asked a person he barely knew to give a message to someone who wasn’t there?
“Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry about that. I’ve been distracted, and I hate when she doesn’t answer the phone. You have a good day, Rosie.”
I blinked several times at those last words, and I was just about to mutter “You too” when I heard the click.
Setting the receiver back into its cradle, I tried to stop my mind from going where it shouldn’t. To the sounds in the background, to the woo-woo feeling that I’d had too many times, to Cricket’s face when she’d left earlier claiming bad chicken salad. Something was going on, and because my granny had said I was as sharp as a hedgehog cactus, I was certain that a certain skeevy husband was doing my sweet boss ten kinds of wrong.
I had that same feeling the night before my daddy joined the biker gang. Like things were about to change and not for the better.
Great.
CHAPTER THREE
CRICKET
I stared at the box in the bottom of the closet for a good ten seconds. Nothing about it seemed weird. Just a plain shipping box like something I received almost every day from Amazon. But Scott had hidden it in the back under the Peter Millar chukkas he’d bought on sale but never wore. He and I were the same in that regard. We loved a good bargain even when it sat in our closet untouched.