Murder at Morningside (10 page)

Someone had confiscated the wedding dress. In fact, the room didn't seem to belong to a bride. No jewelry or box for fancy shoes or lace garter. But maybe they gave those things to Trinity's stepmother once they'd been fumed for evidence.

I wiped another tear and pulled the door closed. Heaven only knew it'd take a proper search warrant to do more, and I'd seen and smelled enough. I pocketed the room key and made a mental note to return it to Darryl as soon as I could.

By the time I swept down the hall, my stomach was growling like a vacuum cleaner set to
high
. Enough was enough. It was time to dry my eyes and find something to eat.

I headed for the stairs. There was only one problem: I desperately needed a Kleenex, but the bathroom downstairs still gave me the heebie-jeebies. Since my room was only one flight up, it'd make more sense to go there first.

I climbed the steps to the third floor. My eyes still watered from the chemicals, and I almost tripped on the landing and landed face-first on the carpet.

This hall was empty too. Only a few people had chosen to remain at the plantation, and most of them had nothing to do with the wedding. Heaven only knew whether the hotel even told them about the weekend's grisly events.

I steadied my hand against the wall for balance. The hall was wide and not nearly as intimidating as the night before, when the ghostly figure trailed past like a puff of smoke. In fact, I felt a little foolish now as I walked along the carpet.

Halfway down, I paused. Someone had left a package by my door. I rubbed my eyes and glanced at it again. Was it a package, or something else? It seemed more green than brown, and it stood about a foot tall.

Of course. That sweet, sweet Ambrose. He'd ordered a flower arrangement to cheer me up since he had to leave and return to Bleu Bayou.

I should have expected as much. He always put my happiness above his own, often when I least expected it. Like the time I held a grand opening for Crowning Glory on a summer day with unusually stormy weather.

How I struggled to make it the best grand opening ever. I spent six months beforehand ironing out the details. I ordered five hundred business cards and five hundred glossy postcards to mail to banquet halls, wedding planners, and photographers all up and down the Great River Road.

When the printer returned the postcards—awash in beatific brides and frothy veils—I addressed each one by hand, since mailing labels seemed too impersonal. Then I bought rolls and rolls of stamps and dropped the cards into the mailbox two weeks before the big event.

That same day, I began to bake. Trays and trays of pralines, macaroons, and anything else that wouldn't stain lace. Even though I planned to exhibit my wares up high on shelves, I knew one or two would make the rounds through the shop as guests passed them back and forth.

With a week to go, I broke out the Borax. I mopped the floor two times, wiped every surface, whether it needed it or not, and cleaned both the inside and outside of the front window.

Ambrose arrived for the grand opening an hour early. He even vacuumed the rug, my protests notwithstanding, and Windexed the glass again for good measure. By then, sheets of rain had fallen and his collar was soaked through, but he didn't care.

I threw open the front door at the stroke of ten. When no one arrived that first hour, I started to make excuses. It was too wet, it was too early, they'd come at lunch.

Ambrose tried to distract me with games of gin rummy and crazy eights. He even let me win when he could have played the eight in his hand.

Time dragged on and on, and still the store resembled a church on New Year's Eve. Ambrose finally laid down his cards and mumbled something about getting us lunch. Soon after he left, the front door swung open and I assumed he'd forgotten his keys. But in trotted a wedding planner, who bemoaned the weather and her busy schedule and blah, blah, blah. She even whipped out her cell and called a client on my behalf.

On her heels came a photographer. And then a group of caterers. Before long, so many people stood shoulder to shoulder in the store no one could see the shelves. But it didn't matter. All anyone wanted was a business card, along with a praline or two.

When the trickle swelled to a throng, the truth dawned on me. Ambrose must have called in every favor that anyone in town owed him.

He finally got back to the store an hour later. I glimpsed him through the window, as he stood on the sidewalk. When a guest left the store they passed him my business card and he handed over some cash. It looked like a drug deal in broad daylight, with the pusher selling cardstock instead of cocaine. Every transaction was the same: card, then cash; card, then cash.

It went on all afternoon. Ambrose finally elbowed his way into the store twenty minutes before closing time.

“Where have you been, Bo?”

I remembered the look on his face. He casually leaned against the counter, as if he'd never left. “Nowhere special. Tried to get us some Chinese, but then a client called. Oh, well. Looks like your opening was a smash.”

Two could play at his game. “I know. It's been crazy. I talked to people and passed out business cards all afternoon. Guess that postcard I mailed out worked, huh?”

“It
was
a nice postcard,” he said.

I tried to be angry, but couldn't. “You didn't have to pay all those people off. But I'm glad you did.”

Over the next few weeks, I tried to figure out how he came up with the money to bribe my guests. He ate ramen noodles for a month afterward and never once complained. And now this. Fresh flowers delivered right to my doorstep.

I stepped closer to my hotel-room door. The flower arrangement was more wide than tall, and it spread in front of the kick plate. My eyes had stopped watering, and I paused some twelve feet from the door. The colors were a jumble of greens, golds, and tans. But no cut flower I knew, even a fresh one, shimmered quite like that.

Plus, the arrangement seemed jagged, much too jagged for a professional bouquet. I crept a foot or two closer. Was that a feather sticking out from the top? It
was
a feather, although that didn't make much sense.

I froze. My eyesight had cleared. It wasn't an arrangement of blooms and bulbs, leaves and stems. It was fabric, poking out from a greasy paper grocery sack. It had been left on the ground where I'd be sure to find it.

I forced myself to walk the last few feet to the door. I bent to pluck the feather from the sack. It was a quill, of all things. A pheasant quill, with barbs ripped out at random spots. A quill like the one used in Ivy's Victorian hat.

My fingers released the feather, and it twirled to the floor. Whoever destroyed Ivy's hat must have been angry, because the cuts were jagged, unplanned. They must have found the hat on the front porch, where I'd forgotten it once Lance arrived.

Why would someone destroy her beautiful hat like that? Even smashed, the hat was exquisite and obviously expensive. Now it sat in a ripped grocery sack, a jumble of tulle, ribbon, and felt, topped with a bedraggled pheasant quill.

It was a message, obviously. Someone wanted to frighten me. I'd been holding my breath for the past few moments, which I slowly exhaled. If that was the person's goal, they'd accomplished their mission.

I backed away from the hideous pile, then turned and ran down the hall to the stairs. I almost smashed into the front door before I remembered to open it, and then I stumbled out onto the porch.

What to do now? Ambrose was down the road in Bleu Bayou, and I'd apparently spooked Charles with my questions. Even Cat said she wanted to close up her kitchen for the day once she ate my omelet.

My eyes swept the grounds. The parking lot was empty, except for a lone car next to the registration cottage. It was a Louisiana State Police car, covered with mud. Dirt was smeared across the windshield, grime spread across the side panels, and the whitewall tires were black. Which could mean only one thing: Lance LaPorte was back. He never could take care of his toys, even when we were little. He always was as reckless as a tornado.

Yes, Lance LaPorte must be close by. I could tell him about the chilling discovery by my hotel-room door.

I gazed over the front lawn as I descended the stairs. A dark form stood amid the green grass and wispy willows. Lance stood in the small graveyard beside the mansion, which Beatrice had mentioned during our tour. The cemetery held the remains of Mr. and Mrs. Andrews and most of their children.

There was no telling why Lance was in the graveyard, with no one for company but a bunch of headstones. Every once in a while he shifted, and the blue of his uniform blurred for an instant.

Thank goodness he was still at the mansion. I skirted the perimeter, the sound of willow wisps rubbing in the breeze following me. Lance didn't know I was there, and I was about to call out to him, when something else moved. Hidden behind Lance was another man, only this one wore coveralls and carried a pair of mud-caked garden clippers.

Darryl stood by Lance beneath a canopy of willow branches. In the Andrews family graveyard, no less.

The meeting piqued my curiosity. Any thoughts of interrupting Lance to tell him about my discovery gradually faded away.

The conversation seemed cordial enough. Lance spoke loudly, probably due to Darryl's age, while Darryl responded by methodically rubbing the garden clippers against the sleeve of his coveralls.

Nothing stood between me and them but an expanse of wide-open lawn. Since it wouldn't be polite to interrupt the conversation at this point, I hightailed it back up the steps and walked out on the balcony of the restaurant. I stood above them now, looking down on two dark forms in the deserted cemetery.

I shouldn't eavesdrop. Since Ambrose wasn't there to whisper
no
in my ear, I soon caved and ducked behind a fat column.

Luckily, Lance continued to raise his voice and it boomed in the quiet. I grabbed a nearby chair and scooted it behind the column, since I had no way of knowing how long they'd been speaking or how long it'd last. Then I settled in, which might not have been the morally right thing to do, but I felt God would forgive me, even if the two gentlemen below might not. There would be time enough to tell Lance about my chilling “gift” once the men finished their conversation.

“You're saying you never met him,” Lance said. “Not once?”

I peeked around the pilaster. Lance withdrew his notebook.

“Hard ta say. Lots of dem folks come 'round dis weekend. Strangers, dey were.” Luckily, Darryl had raised his voice to match Lance's.

“Surely you'd remember him, though.”

“Lots of folks come 'round. Can't remember dem all, can I?”

Lance scribbled something on the page before looking up again. “Think hard, Mr. Tibodeaux. Maybe you ran into him
before
the wedding. You must have spoken to him at one time or another.”

Were they talking about Sterling Brice, the dead girl's fiancé? Why would Lance care whether Darryl had spoken to him? That seemed like a stretch, even though I couldn't read Lance's mind.

“Ya be askin' de wrong person,” Darryl said. “Ya gots lots of people 'round here who don' like de Solomons. Ask some of dem.
Pardonnez-moi
.”

“Just a minute.”

I peeked around the column again. Lance had closed the notebook and now grasped Darryl's shoulder. Everything stilled at that point, from the shuffling willows to a few cicadas in the bushes and even the dull roar of traffic on the highway.

“You're officially telling me you've never met Herbert Solomon or his daughter, Trinity?” Lance's posture was rigid. “Think carefully, Mr. Tibodeaux, before you answer.”

“Dat's what I'm sayin'.” Darryl roughly shrugged out from under the officer's grasp.

I must have been hearing things. Or maybe it was Darryl who didn't understand the question. Of course he knew Herbert Solomon. He'd worked for the man, for goodness' sake. And Mr. Solomon had confided to him that the family would be cremating Trinity's body.

I was about to call out to Darryl when I remembered my predicament. He didn't know I was listening from the balcony.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Lance said. “I might need to question you again, so don't leave the property.”

“Where am I gonna go? I'm crippled, ya know. Not much strength in dis ol' body.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Lance's tone was wary.

He must have figured out what Darryl meant. How could Darryl, with only one hand, have murdered a healthy young woman? That was probably what he wanted the officer to think about.

“No, sir,” Darryl said. “Dis ol' body good for nuttin'.”

“I see. Thank you for your time.”

Lance pivoted and retreated through the garden gate. The interview ended so quickly. Did Lance believe Darryl, or did he feel guilty about badgering him?

Either way, the conversation did
not
sit well with me. Why would Darryl lie to Lance and say he'd never met Hebert Solomon?

There was only one way to find out. I rose and made my way downstairs. Darryl had finished cleaning the clippers by the time I crossed the lawn, and he shoved them angrily into his tool belt, like a gunslinger in the wild, wild West, as I approached.

“Afternoon,” I said.

He glanced up, startled.
“Bonjour
.
”

For once I'd surprised Darryl. I strode through the garden gate and into the cemetery. “Nice day out. A little humid, but when isn't it?”

“Say dat again.”

“Wasn't that Officer LaPorte just now?”