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Authors: Sandra Bretting

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BOOK: Murder at Morningside
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“I think I killed him!” I stood and moved to Ambrose's side, where I'd be safe. Now that I'd swung my umbrella like a Louisville Slugger, what next?
“What is this man doing lying on the ground?” Ambrose ran his fingers through his hair, which didn't do a lick of good. “And why is he wearing that uniform?”
“It's the general manager, and I have no idea why he's wearing it. I was sitting on the floor looking at a picture book, when I heard a terrible noise in the hall.”
“Why didn't you wake me?”
“You were so tired, Bo. I didn't have the heart. I came out here with my umbrella and he ran at me.”
“This doesn't make sense. Why did you hit him if you knew it was the general manager?”
I shot him an exasperated look. “Obviously, I didn't know who it was. I swung first and asked questions later.” Although that seemed to sum up my entire life, I hoped Ambrose would spare me the sarcasm.
“We can't leave him here. Help me get him into your room.”
We dragged the unconscious man into my bedroom. Fortunately, I hadn't broken skin, but a knot the size of a billiard ball slowly erupted on his forehead. Why did I have to be such a good aim?
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Call the front desk. They'll know how to reach the night manager.”
I ran to the phone and lifted the handle. After two rings, a voice picked up on the other end.
“Night manager. May I help you?”
“I hope so. This is Missy DuBois. You have to send someone to the Eugenia Andrews room right away.”
“Is something the matter?” She sounded awfully relaxed for such an important emergency.
“I'll say. I've got Wyatt Burkett up here, and he's knocked out cold.” No need to provide details. There'd be time enough to sort out the whole mess later.
“I see. That's on the third floor, right? I'll send the guard.”
A short time later, someone clamored up the stairs. It was a security guard who didn't look too happy about walking up two flights of steps at this time of the night.
“You called, Ms. DuBois?”
He sounded dubious, as if I'd made a ruckus for the fun of it. I stepped aside to expose Wyatt, who was slowly recovering from the blow.
“Oh, my.” That woke the guard, and he hustled over to Wyatt.
“Who did this to him?”
“It's a long story.” I shrugged. “There was a noise in the hall. Turns out it was Wyatt here, running around in one of those uniforms y'all keep downstairs in the museum.” My Southern twang tended to come out particularly strong when I had to deliver bad news, which I think makes it easier to digest. “Guess I hit him just right.”
“You hit him in the head?”
“She thought it was an intruder.” Ambrose jumped in to defend me, like I knew he would. “Good news is he's breathing regular. He's got a lump, but it's on the outside of his head, so the blood's not pooling on the inside, which is always a good sign.”
Both of which were true, and that seemed to appease the security guard some. He took Wyatt by the shoulders and began to hoist him up. “Mind giving me a hand?” he asked Ambrose.
“Not at all. Will you be all right by yourself, Missy?”
“I think so. I'm a little jittery, but it's probably just the coffee.”
Ambrose got under Wyatt's other shoulder, which elicited a loud moan, and they angled his body to move him down the stairwell.
Once they left, the hall fell silent. I couldn't imagine the night would turn out so. No use trying to go to sleep, so I returned to my spot by the divan.
Why did Wyatt dash through the building like a bat after a mosquito, dressed in a stolen Confederate uniform? What did he hope to gain? Or, more likely, what did he hope the plantation would lose? If another guest had heard the noise instead of me, she might have been scared half to death. Was that his plan all along?
The picture book lay open on the floor. A fake ghost in a stolen uniform wouldn't exactly help Morningside become one of the “Famous Plantations of the South
.
” Between Wyatt's shenanigans and an unsolved murder, odds were good no one would pay to stay here again.
 
Ambrose finally returned to the hall an hour or so later. This time he went to his own room, darn the luck, and I lay wide awake for several hours.
When sleep finally came, I dreamed of shadows and baseball bats and crime-scene tape, until the sound of someone rapping on my door woke me.
“Missy. You up?”
“Oh, Bo.” It seemed like midnight and I'd only been sleeping for fifteen minutes or so.
“C'mon, wake up. It's time for breakfast,” he said.
I rolled out of bed, inched open the door, and stuck my head in the hall. Why would Ambrose rustle me out of bed at the crack of dawn?
“Really?”
“I got a call from Beatrice,” he said. “She wants us to meet her for breakfast.”
“That's nice.” I yawned loudly. “She probably wants to apologize for last night.”
“I don't know.” Doubt clouded his eyes. “She didn't seem too happy.”
“Don't be such a worrywart. My guess is she wants to apologize for what Wyatt did. Make sure we don't bad-mouth the plantation to other people.”
“Could be.” Ambrose didn't look convinced, though. “Get dressed and we'll see what she wants.”
Which was easier said than done. I retreated to the room and slogged past the warm bed. More than anything, I longed to hide my head under the covers like a turtle in its shell. But then I'd disappoint Beatrice, who was only trying to make things right with us.
Thank goodness for makeup, especially under-eye concealer. After doing what I could in the bathroom, I studied the hats lined up in my closet. Maybe it was time to bring out the big gun, the green velvet trilby with the burnt coque and hackle feathers. The velvet would play up my eyes, which was exactly what I needed this morning.
Between that and a slash of Chanel Rouge lipstick, I prayed I looked respectable as I stood outside Ambrose's door fifteen minutes later.
“I'm ready.”
He, of course, looked amazing in a crisp black polo. Remnants of the Armani cologne lingered.
“Wouldn't want to keep Beatrice waiting.”
Ambrose led the way as we traveled downstairs to the restaurant. Unfortunately, Charles was nowhere to be found, but then I remembered it
was
Monday morning, and he was probably sitting in a lecture hall somewhere on the LSU campus.
“Hello.” Beatrice had arrived before us, and she met us at the maître d' stand. “I picked a nice table in back.” She proceeded to lead us through the empty restaurant to a table by the window. Even though it wasn't my favorite table overlooking the old oak, it was pretty, nonetheless.
“Thank you.” I draped the strap of my purse over the back of the chair before sitting down. “So nice of you to invite us to breakfast like this. By the way, shouldn't you be in class right now?”
“No, it's finals week. I don't have my first one until tomorrow. Besides, the hotel asked me to stay today so we could sort out some things.”
“Now please don't think we're upset about last night.” I scooted my chair up to the table. “It's not the plantation's fault Wyatt went crazy like that.” I fanned open my napkin, like the ones Charles and I had wrapped up quite nicely, and placed it in my lap. “We're willing to let bygones be bygones.”
Beatrice kept staring at the tablecloth. Funny she wouldn't look at me.
“That's why you invited us here, right? To make amends?” I pushed the coffee cup away from my plate, since I had no intention of ever drinking caffeine again. “Like I said, we're not angry, so don't think the hotel has to make it up to us.”
She finally eyed me. “That's not it. We're going to have to ask you to leave.”
I must have misunderstood. Probably just the lack of sleep playing tricks on me. “Come again?”
“The night manager called the paramedics last night. You gave Mr. Burkett a concussion. Now, I know he was probably asking for it, but he's already talking about a lawsuit.”
“What?” That didn't make sense, but neither did the hitch in Beatrice's voice or the stunned look on Ambrose's face, as if she'd upped and slapped him.
“It's assault and battery,” she said. “You knocked him out.”
My face began to warm, even though I knew the hotel's air conditioner had run all night. “That man scared me out of my wits. I thought he was a ghost.” The nerve of Wyatt to talk about suing anyone. The gall!
“Look, the plantation's attorney said you guys don't have to pay for your stay here,” Beatrice said. “Please. We've even booked you some rooms in town. If you leave right now, the attorneys are willing to call it even.”
“Even?” I said. “I've been traumatized, and I will not be talked to like a child.” I chunked down my napkin and rose, although I had nowhere else to go.
“I'm sorry,” Beatrice said. “The attorney told me what to say. He wants you and Ambrose out by noon. I'm so sorry.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ambrose calmly entered the fray as the voice of reason. “Missy was acting in self-defense. What she did was perfectly legal.”
“I'm afraid so, Ambrose. The hotel can't afford a lawsuit. They said it would put us under.”
“But we're doing a fashion show tonight at the church.” Unfortunately, my voice came out all wobbly, like maybe I
was
a child and I'd just been told to cross a busy street by myself.
Beatrice's voice softened. “Like I said, we've booked some rooms for you in town. It's at a place called the Sleepy Bye Inn, just down the road. It's not as fancy as this one. Okay, it's a little tacky. But they've set aside the rooms.”
The name didn't sound very encouraging. I glanced at Ambrose, but he'd fallen as silent as my discarded napkin. Leave it to him to remain levelheaded while my legs turned to muscadine jelly.
“Fine, Beatrice. If we're not welcome here, we'll go there. C'mon, Bo.” I turned away from the table, forcing my shoulders back. This would surely put a crimp in my plans. How was I ever going to help Ivy if I was no longer staying at the place where her stepdaughter was murdered?
“You're making a big mistake,” Ambrose said. “But if that's how you want to play it, we'll leave.”
Chapter 12
F
ifteen minutes later, Ambrose finished loading the trunk of our car. He even took extra care with my hats, which was sweet of him, since I knew he was only trying to soften the sting of Beatrice's words.
Although it was childish, I refused to look back at the mansion when we pulled away. Why should I? Instead of thanking us for catching Wyatt at his little charade, the plantation had chosen to treat us like common criminals and had tossed us out into the mean streets of Riversbend, Louisiana. Although there were certainly more dangerous places to be.
We could always go home, but I wanted to be near the action and Ambrose had to be close to the venue for the fashion show. What good would it do for us to sit by ourselves in Bleu Bayou?
After a few moments, we drove by the two old broodmares grazing and then the sugarcane field. The parking lot of the Rising Tide Baptist Church appeared next. It was completely full this morning, lined grille to fender with pickup trucks, SUVs, and cars.
Amazing
. While most folks spent Monday morning carting around cell phones and laptops to meetings and such, these people swarmed around their church's parking lot with folding chairs, card tables and spools of electric cords.
“Why don't we pull in and say hello?” I asked.
Ambrose nodded and swerved onto the lot. The first person to appear was the lion-like deacon from the day before. Today he wore a purple T-shirt and an old LSU ball cap as he wiped down some folding chairs. It might improve my mood some to help out, so I pointed to an empty parking space.
“Do you mind?” I said. “I might as well introduce you around.”
“Not at all. Anything to take our minds off Morningside Plantation.”
As soon as Ambrose parked, I swung open the car door. It was too early in the day for humidity, praise the Lord, so the air was cool and dry. The smell of car exhaust and rubber tires drifted over on it.
The man who spoke at church the day before and had pinked up like a rosebush when I spoke to him worked alongside the deacon.
“There's the guy I talked to yesterday. C'mon, Bo.”
I walked over to him. He clutched a paper towel and seemed to be struggling with a particularly stubborn crayon mark stretching from one corner of a folding table to another.
“Morning,” I said.
Sure enough, he blushed the minute he glanced away from his work and saw me. “You came!”
“Of course we came. I told you yesterday at church that we would.” I motioned back to Ambrose. “This is the friend I told you about. Ambrose Jackson.”
The man's cheeks reddened even more. Quickly, he brushed his hand on the leg of his trousers and held it out to Ambrose. “It's an honor. A real honor. When Melissa here told us you used to be on a reality television show, I went home and found it on the Internet. Can't believe I'm talking to you.”
Ambrose looked genuinely pleased to be recognized. “Glad to be here. Looks like you've got everything under control.”
“My mama and me both watched it. She even ran out and bought a new dress for tonight. On a Sunday! Course I told her she should have waited until after the Lord's day, but she was so excited she couldn't help herself.”
As usual, seeing someone like Ambrose transformed from pixels on a television screen to actual flesh and blood had flummoxed the man. Something about the transition always made people lose their heads.
“It's all about the cause, right?” Ambrose said. “Here, let me help you clean that.”
“Oh, no. I couldn't ask you to do that.” The guy looked mortified at the very thought of Ambrose Jackson—television star—cleaning crayon marks from a folding table. “There's coffee in the social hall. Please help yourself.”
“Maybe later.” I swiped the paper towel from him and began to scrub at the marks. “Here, you need to put your back into it. Is everyone excited for tonight?”
“It's all anyone's talking about.”
“Ambrose here has done dozens of these things. You have nothing to worry about.” The harder I scrubbed at the mark, the less luck I seemed to have with it. “Here, Bo. Spit on this.” I handed over the paper towel.
That gave me a moment to survey the parking lot. A line of men were hard at work next to us. The ones in front held a thick velvet rope, like in movie-theater lobbies, while the men in back toted shiny steel posts that reached waist-high. They were building a barrier to keep people in a straight line. A lot of people.
“Here you go, Missy.”
“What?” I tore my eyes away from the men and their work. “Just what kind of a crowd are you expecting here tonight?”
“Hard to say. Course we did an e-mail blast to all the churches, so that'll bring in more people too.”
One of the men jerked extra-hard on the rope and a steel post crashed to the ground. By this time the line of poles snaked from the social hall to the middle of the parking lot.
“So, do you think you might get a couple of hundred people tonight?” From what I could see of the social hall, it seemed a tad small for that.
“Pardon me?”
“Some of my best shows have happened in little places like this,” Ambrose said. “Makes people want to sit in the front row. I like it because I can read their eyes.”
The man with the fallen pole had lifted it back in place.
“We're hoping you get a big turnout. But even if you don't, we'll give it our best shot.”
“Excuse me,” he said. “But we're not going to have a few hundred people here tonight.”
“We told you. It doesn't matter to us,” I said. “It'll be amazing just the same.”
“No, that's not what I mean. I'm guessing we'll get a thousand.”
My jaw dropped.
Of course
. The men with the rope. The trail of posts that snaked from the social hall to the parking lot. A pile of folding chairs ready to be cleaned. “I had no idea.”
“Hope that's okay, Mr. Jackson,” the man said.
“How in the world can you fit a thousand people in that little social hall?” Ambrose asked.
“We're not. We're opening up the whole parking lot. We'll put big screens everywhere and then put more in the basketball gym.”
It took me a moment to recover. That would account for the army of people swarming the parking lot. “I had no idea, Ambrose.”
To my surprise, he began to laugh.
“What's so funny?”
“That's fantastic! The more the merrier.”
“We were hoping you'd say that,” the man said.
Ambrose's eyes danced. “Like I said, the more the merrier.”
Lord love him.
There was no telling what could happen at the show tonight.
 
Once we introduced ourselves around, it was time to find our new hotel and dig out the notes for tonight's show. Ambrose and I threaded our way through the parking lot, working our way through a rope that zigged and zagged through most of it.
I didn't speak until we'd driven down the road for a while and a sign appeared for our motel. Our new accommodations had seen better days. The neon sign was missing half its bulbs, and a yellow palm tree leaned against it. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a Mack truck with silhouettes of naked girls on the mud flaps.
“You still want to stay here?” Ambrose drove us onto the parking lot. “We can always go home, you know.”
“I know. But it'll be so much easier to stage the show if we're close by.” And so much easier to help Ivy; although I didn't tell him that.
Once Ambrose parked, we both got out of the car and made our way to the manager's office. The room was little more than four cinder-block walls and a roof.
A tinny bell jangled when we opened the plate-glass door.
“Hello there.” A redhead stood behind the counter. She'd been reading a copy of
Cosmo,
and she slapped it closed when we approached. “Y'all checking in for a few days?”
“Oh, no.” I glanced at Ambrose. “I mean, yes, we're checking in. But not for a few days. Just for one night. Right, Bo?”
“Of course. Two rooms, please. I'm Ambrose Jackson and this is Missy DuBois. The plantation's paying for our stay here.”
“Nice to meet you folks.” Languidly, the woman reached for a Sharpie lying next to a legal pad on the counter. “You're my first customers today.”
Ambrose and I exchanged quick looks, which she must have noticed. “'Cept for old Clyde out there and his truck. But they don't count for much.”
“Gotcha.” Ambrose took the pen and began to scrawl our names onto the makeshift guest registry.
“Course we'll probably be full up by nighttime. I heard tell there's a big fashion show goin' on around here.”
“That's why we're here,” Ambrose said. He continued to write, which gave me a moment to look around.
I'd never seen a woman quite as suntanned as the one behind the counter. Her face was the color of wheat berries and her teeth as white as porcelain. When she smiled, tiny wrinkles appeared from her nose to her chin and then disappeared again, like ripples on a pond.
“Do ya want some extra towels?” Maybe it was my imagination, but she seemed to be smiling extra big for Ambrose's sake.
“That would be nice,” I said. “Two, please.”
Once he finished with the guest book, Ambrose laid the Sharpie on the counter. “We're the ones staging the show at the Rising Tide Baptist Church tonight. You ought to think about going, if you have a chance. Starts at dusk.”
That perked the lady up and her face rippled like crazy. “Why, I just might do that. Nice of you to invite me along.”
“He invites everyone,” I said. “His favorite saying is
the more, the merrier
. That's my Ambrose.”
“Oh.” That took a little wind out of her sails, but she slid a room key across the counter to me nicely enough. “I'll bring the towels by later. Y'all are upstairs by the Coke machine.”
“Thank you.” I hadn't meant to be rude, but the day had been so confusing. Who knew we'd be evicted from Morningside Plantation? That we'd be forced to up and leave like common criminals, without even a moment to say good-bye to the staff? It didn't seem fair, or very polite, and I made a mental note
not
to recommend the plantation to my family and friends any time soon.
On top of everything, we learned our fashion show would be seen by a thousand people, instead of the hundred I expected. What a strange and wondrous day, and lunchtime was still hours away.
Once the woman passed Ambrose his room key, we left the office. He went to park the car, while I climbed a flight of chipped concrete steps to the second floor. A laminate door greeted me when I got to my room, along with a rusty air-conditioner vent popping out from the wall like a dirty flower box. A blinking Coke machine flanked the far side of the fly-specked window.
I cautiously opened my room door. It
was
only for one night. If Mary could lay her newborn in a feeding trough, I could put up with cinder-block walls, chipped stairways, and a noisy vending machine.
At least the room wasn't a total pigsty. A poster of a magnolia bush hung over the cheap headboard, and the flower reminded me of my plants back home. Truth be told, I was beginning to feel homesick. But we'd agreed to stay the night and there wasn't much sense in turning back.
Ambrose walked up behind me. “See, this isn't so bad.” He began to lay my suitcase on the bedspread.
“You're right.” I didn't move. Heaven only knew the carpet was a bit worn, and I didn't plan to walk on it barefoot any time soon. “So, do you want to head back to the church?”
He chuckled. “That didn't take long. Sure, why not.”
There wasn't much more to see, though. Every roadside motel seemed the same: a yellowed telephone directory on a wobbly nightstand, a faded plaid bedspread on a thin mattress, and a battered captain's chair by the door. No more, no less, and it would have to do.
We returned to the car and I stared out the window to clear my mind. After several miles, a white police cruiser pulled up alongside us. Darn if the thing didn't need a good scrubbing. Well, pick my peas! It was Lance LaPorte. I lowered my window. “Yoo-hoo!”
He glanced up.
“Pull over,” I said to Ambrose. “I need to speak to Lance.”
Ambrose did as I asked—bless his heart—and pulled in front of the police cruiser. Then he gently guided the car onto the shoulder of the road.
When Lance saw Ambrose and me, he followed. I bolted from our car as soon as possible and approached his side of the squad car.
“Good morning,” I said. “What a coincidence! Didn't expect to see you out on the streets this morning.”
“Morning, Missy.” He slid a pair of aviator sunglasses down his nose. My, but he looked like his mama when he did that. “Where are you headed so early?”
“Ambrose and I are helping out the Baptists. We're using some of his gowns for a fashion show, and I'm helping to set up shop. And where might you be going?”
Lance pointed to a notebook on the seat beside him. “Got a lab analysis this morning on the Solomon case. Usually it takes 'em weeks, but we put a rush on it. Thought I'd check in with the funeral director and see what's going on with the family.”
“
Gah-lee
. That
is
something. And such a coincidence.” I eyed the notebook greedily. “Looks like we're going to the same place, since the church is right next door to the funeral home. How about if we meet up? They've probably got a big pot of coffee on and it's too early in the week to be rushing around like a crazy person.”
BOOK: Murder at Morningside
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