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DAUPHINE
EVER SINCE MY first fantasy on the Abita River almost a month ago, I felt as though an extra line of
voltage had been installed in my body. How else to explain my energy that day? Not only did I send
Elizabeth home, I sorted and priced the last of the estate-sale boxes, purged old stock and made the
store so pristine, so sparkly, I had the urge to close up shop for good lest any of my hard work be
disturbed by actual shoppers.
I even took a picture. And instead of feeling drained by the exertion, I felt victorious, energized.
Then I spotted them in the front window—the tables! I forgot the folding sale tables on the sidewalk.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I said, quickly unlocking the door. It was after hours, so Magazine
Street was almost empty. I stacked the scratched plastic bins, which contained everything from
mismatched opera gloves, lopsided wigs, dyed-satin clutches with tiny stains, odd-sized fishnets, soso
rhinestones that I had left under a sign marked “Charity Bins: $2 each—or $20 takes it all.” I had
been warned several times by the Magazine Street Retail Association that I wasn’t allowed to put my
inventory on the sidewalk unless it was Spring Fling, when the whole street shut down for an outdoor
sale. Last year I was slapped with an eight-hundred-dollar fine when I ignored the rule on Easter
weekend. But I was so proud of myself for making a dent, even a small one, in moving some of the
dead inventory, I justified my infraction.
I saw a tall, imposing shadow cross the table in front of me.
“Miss Dauphine Mason?”
I slowly turned around, clutching a pink pageboy wig in one fist, two stray gloves under an armpit.
I was eye-level with a taut blue shirt and a shiny brass badge.
“Well, shut my mouth,” I said, my mother’s accent flying out of me. Police officers do bring out the
Belle in me, what with their close-cropped hair and broad shoulders.
And this one was particularly … arresting, with his grey-flecked eyes and a singular dimple in his
cheek that disappeared when he chewed his gum. He stood cocking a hip, a man used to his own
authority, with a set of handcuffs dangling from his belt.
“I need you to step inside the store, Miss Mason,” he said, looking around, his jaw clenching.
“Who squealed on me this time?”
“Just step inside, please. Don’t worry. There’s no trouble.”
He had the thighs of a runner—maybe from chasing bad guys?
“Jesus Murphy’s cousin,” I said, both hands on my hips now. “It’s just a gosh darn table, Officer.”
“Language, Miss Mason.”
“If I am asked to pay another eight-hundred-dollar fine for putting tables on the sidewalk, I am not
going to be very happy.”
Without answering, he followed me into the store, where I could no longer contain my outrage. I
flicked the lights back on.
“You know this is ridiculous,” I said, tossing my store keys on the glass counter. “You should be
catching criminals, not businesswomen eking out a living.”
While I ranted, he moved slowly around the store, ducking his head into the men’s side, peering
over the high racks.