Murder at Morningside (15 page)

“Dat was private. No cause for listin' in.”

“I didn't mean to listen in.” Okay, I did, but that was neither here nor there at this point. “You said something that didn't make sense. At least not to me.”

“Don' know what you're talkin' about, Miz DuBois.”

“You said you never knew Mr. Solomon or his daughter, Trinity. I couldn't imagine that to be true, since you worked for the man. He was the one who told you all about the cremation. Surely you must have met him a time or two.”

Darryl's face slowly hardened. “Don' recall dat. Never met da man. Only by da phone.”

“But Trinity must have spoken to you about the wedding. About the flowers and such.”

“Did ya meet her?”

“Well, no.”

“But ya made her veil. How can dat be?”

“I worked with the wedding planner—”

“An' ya tink I didn't? I'm tellin' ya, Miz DuBois, I never met da gal. Mostly, I keeps to myself. It's da bes' way.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” I asked.

“People git involved when dey shouldn't. Best ting is ta walk away.” As if to prove it, he turned his back on me and walked away.

I stared at his retreating form. For one thing, I had no idea the plantation was for sale because no one had ever mentioned it. Then there was Darryl's tone. He knew more than he was telling me; that much was clear.

Too bad Ambrose wasn't with me because he'd know what to make of it all.

Ambrose
.
By now the overly tanned manager of the Sleepy Bye Inn, Vernice, had probably cornered him and was flirting up a storm, only he'd be too polite to do anything about it. Darn, I wished I had my cell. The only reason I'd discovered it was missing was because of the hullabaloo back at the church with my fashion-show notes and their broken printer.

No use worrying. I'd promised Ambrose I'd retrieve the show notes, so it was time to make good on that promise by hook or by crook.

The best way was to visit the registration cottage and find the wayward notes in my e-mail. There would be time enough to check out Darryl's story about the mansion being for sale and time enough for me to shake off the feeling of gloom he always left behind.

I
told the deacon he might as well have a look around the plantation since we weren't leaving anytime soon. At first he refused. But then I remembered the history museum so few people seemed to know about, with its treasure trove of Civil War artifacts. When I told him about that, he perked right up and trotted away without a fuss. One problem solved, so I headed for the registration cottage on my own.

When I entered the registration building, it was like stepping into a Food Faire at midnight: quiet as a tomb. A hinge creaked when the door closed, but—other than that—nothing stirred.

Even the desk sat empty. Given that it was a Monday morning, I wasn't too surprised. Most hotels stayed busiest over the weekends, with many guests checking out late Sunday afternoon to avoid the traffic on their way home. Either way, whoever was on duty wouldn't leave their post for long, so I needed to hurry.

The Dell computer sat on the desktop as always, along with a pair of walkie-talkies.

I glanced over my shoulder and then ducked around the desk. Someone had been working on the Dell, which meant I wouldn't have to break into the system by trying different passwords. Breaking into the computer would only add to my offenses and land me in the local jail.

I slid into Wyatt's chair and pecked at the keyboard to coax it to life. A familiar blue glow appeared, along with a half-dozen icons on the left-hand side of the screen. One was an icon for the Internet, which would carry me to my precious e-mail account and Ambrose's notes.

Before I did that, though, I studied some of the other icons on the screen. Most of them had boring names like
sales tax
,
revenue projections
, and
competitive analysis
, but one was labeled
BigD REIT
. Hadn't Wyatt mentioned something about a real-estate investment trust out of Dallas? Not only mentioned it, but complained about the people who owned it?

I clicked on the icon, which produced a folder labeled
staff letters
. Inside the folder was a letter for each employee. Included were letters for Cat, Beatrice, and Charity, the other tour guide. The first words on each were
draft of termination
. Strange. Darryl had mentioned Mr. Solomon wanted to buy the plantation, which might put Wyatt's job in jeopardy, but he never said anything about the rest of the staff.

The first letter in the lineup belonged to Beatrice. The text said something about a change in ownership, regret to inform you, blah, blah, blah. The letter was dated three days ago. That was right before Laney Babin discovered Trinity in the hotel's bathroom.

The next one was for Charles and it contained the same language. Ditto for Darryl Tibodeaux, whose letter said something about one week's pay, plus the obligatory letter of recommendation. Why hadn't he said anything to me about it? He'd been awful surly, but that struck me as normal by now.

I leaned back to mull my discovery. The only one who didn't seem to have a letter was Wyatt. Then again, if the investment trust had asked him to prepare termination letters in anticipation of the mansion being sold, they couldn't very well ask him to write his own letter. And after his shenanigans the night before, they, no doubt, had more than enough reason to fire him.

Either way, my discovery put a whole new slant on things and expanded the pool of suspects, as they said in those magazines I sometimes read while checking out at the Food Faire. Maybe I should speak again to Beatrice, Darryl, Charles, Cat, and whoever else might be swimming in the suddenly large pool of suspects.

It was something to think about as I tried to refocus my attention on the task at hand. I clicked on the icon for the Internet next and logged into my e-mail account. Within a few minutes I'd forwarded the notes Ambrose needed to his account, where they belonged.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice fell like a sledgehammer. Looking over the screen, Wyatt Burkett stood in the doorway, his face taut.

“But—”

“Be quiet.” He stepped up to the registration desk, much larger than I'd remembered and certainly more intimidating. An angry welt appeared near his hairline, and the skin underneath it had purpled like grape jam.

Oh, sugar!
And here I'd left my cell phone back at the motel. There was only one other phone within reach and it sat on the desk between us, as close to him as it was to me. If I tried to reach for it, he'd have ample time to grab my wrist.

“Calm down.” My voice was surprisingly flat.

“You don't quit, do you? You were supposed to leave. They were supposed to make you and your friend check out.”

“Yes, but what about you? I'm surprised you're still here.” I couldn't ignore the anger in his eyes or the nasty welt above them.

“They told me I could come back and pick up a few things. Didn't think I'd run into you, though.”

“Well, I'll just leave, then.”

“Not so fast.”

He stood between me and the only way out of the office. If I wanted to run, my words would have to clear-cut a path for me. “I'm so sorry about last night, Wyatt. I swear I didn't know it was you.”

“You almost blinded me. Do you know that? The doctor said you were an inch away.”

“Really?” My heart sank when I realized he had no intention of letting me leave the office. “It was so black in the hall I couldn't see anything. I'm surprised I hit you at all.”

“You shouldn't have done that.” He stepped closer, which seemed to suck the air from the room. Funny, I'd never realized how thick his neck was or the way his chest barreled over his waistline. It would be no contest, physically, between the two of us.

“Why did you do it?” I asked. “Play dress up, I mean?”

“Why do you think?”

“My guess is you're mad at the plantation and you wanted to get back at them.”

“You're a pretty good little guesser.” His hand shot across the desk and he grabbed my shoulder.

Ouch.
The man's grip was strong, just like Ivy's when she realized her daughter was missing.

I wasn't about to let him know that, so I gritted my teeth. “Hurting me isn't going to help anything.”

Why had I come to the cottage by myself? No one knew I was there, not even the elderly deacon who drove me over in his huge Cadillac. By now, Ambrose could be heaven-only-knew where, since Vernice obviously meant to monopolize his time at the church. The only other person I'd seen since I arrived at the plantation was Darryl, and he didn't seem happy about Mr. Solomon's plan to purchase the plantation.

Darryl. My eyes darted to the walkie-talkies on the desk, deliciously close to the computer screen. I didn't know the first thing about operating them, but how hard could it be?

Quickly, I grabbed the nearest unit and depressed a button that read
talk
. Wyatt immediately released his grip on my shoulder, which ended the sharp pain at my collarbone. The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

“Darryl!” As the word flew from my mouth, I realized Darryl might not have a walkie-talkie or he might have forgotten to turn it on. I let up on the button to see if anyone responded.

A split-second later, broken air whooshed over the unit.

“Dat you, Miz DuBois?” He sounded confused, or about as confused as I felt.

“I need you at the registration cottage, Darryl!”

“Comin'.”

Ah, the man of few words
. Before I could breathe, or even blink, a noise sounded at the door. Wyatt had darted for the exit. Oh no, he didn't! If he thought he could threaten me and get away with it, he had another think coming.

I bounded out of the chair and dashed for the door. My fingers touched the cold brass doorknob, which startled me. What was I doing? Wyatt weighed at least eighty pounds more and was ten times stronger. Plus, there would be time enough later to figure out why he'd cornered me like that.

Like it or not, I knew who'd killed Trinity. If Wyatt could hurt me like that—my shoulder still ached—he could no doubt summon the will to poison Trinity.

I reached that conclusion as Darryl appeared in the doorway, his cheeks flushed. It was time for me to call Lance and put away the person who murdered Trinity Solomon.

The sun kissed my face as soon as I emerged from the cottage with Darryl. Across from us sat the enormous brown Cadillac, still moored in its parking space and still without its captain. My driver must have spent the entire time in the plantation's museum, pouring over the artifacts.

No matter. Once Darryl realized I was safe and sound, he left, as well, and I stood by myself on the brick walk in front of the mansion. The place didn't seem nearly as inviting now after everything that'd happened.

It was time to get back to Ambrose and put myself out of harm's way. The quickest way to get to the museum and my driver was by traveling through the garden with the four stone benches and a fountain smack-dab in the middle of it all.

Nothing stirred as I walked. I expected to come upon the soothing sound of water lapping against stone, but something was wrong. Eventually I heard a sound, all right, but it wasn't gurgling water. Two voices came from somewhere in the garden. Angry voices, judging by the tone.

Who would rendezvous in the garden? I peered around the corner.

“You're getting what you deserve,” Beatrice said.

“Don't talk like that, Bea.”

My view was limited by the boxwood hedge, but I heard every word. Quickly, I stepped backward.

Only two days had passed since Trinity's murder, and Beatrice and Sterling had already found a way to rendezvous twice that I knew of. Shame on them.

“It's not my fault,” Sterling said. “At least she was happy before the wedding. I gave her that.” Even though he whispered, his tone was confident now. Gone was the whine from the day before in the bar. Somehow he'd grown a spine over the weekend.

“But it was all a lie. You lied to her, Sterling.”

Since I knew the speakers' identities, I sank back on my heels. It wasn't fair for me to eavesdrop once again, but I wasn't in the most charitable mood.

“If you'd been honest with her from the beginning, none of this would have happened. Would that have been so hard?”

“But she was pregnant,” he said. “What could I do? She told me she couldn't rat out the father and the guy had no idea the baby was his. She couldn't exactly ask her dad for help. You know that guy's a jerk.”

“But propose to her? That was a little extreme, even for you. Couldn't you have been her friend instead and maybe helped out with the baby? Did you have to be her husband, of all things?”

“Look, Bea. I'm an actor. By the time we got this far into it, she really thought I was in love with her. What was the problem? I'd give the kid a dad, Trinity would have a husband, and maybe I'd finally have a place of my own.”

“Aren't you forgetting something? You didn't love her.”

“All bets were off when you told me good-bye,” Sterling said. “You wanted me gone, and you got your wish.”

“How do you know I didn't change my mind?”

Something rustled in the bushes in front of me—something small and quick and dappled brown—but it could have been the Hope diamond for all I cared. If Beatrice had changed her mind about Sterling . . . if she wanted him back after all . . . who knew what lengths she'd go to in order to make that happen?

Suddenly the thought of Wyatt rushing around the plantation in a borrowed soldier's uniform seemed almost tame compared to the hard edge I heard in Beatrice's voice.

Time was growing short. No matter how much I wanted to hear this conversation, Lance LaPorte needed to be involved. Before Wyatt traveled halfway to Mississippi, or Beatrice destroyed evidence, if it turned out she had something to do with Trinity's murder. I didn't have time to stand in the bright sunshine and listen any longer to this conversation when there was so much work to be done.

I turned my back to the garden. The voices continued, so I knew they wouldn't follow me as I walked on to the museum, where I'd probably find my driver. I ducked low and out of sight until I reached the area by the back of the mansion, just in case.

I was rattled by what I'd heard, and I almost didn't see someone exit the plantation house at the same time. The figure wore a dark blue uniform, just like the ones worn by the Louisiana State Police.

It was Lance, leaving the back door of the mansion with that precious notebook still in his hand.

“Lance, you're a sight for sore eyes!”

He stopped. “Hi, Missy.”

“I thought you were going back to headquarters.” At least, that's what he'd said when we bid good-bye in the church's social hall.

“I still had a few more things to check out here. What's going on with you? You look a little winded.”

“I am. You won't believe what just happened.” I proceeded to tell him all about the conversation I'd overheard between Beatrice and Sterling in the secret garden. About Beatrice's wistful tone when she confessed she might have changed her mind about Sterling. “But that's not all.” Lance looked shell-shocked after my frantic recitation, but he didn't try to stop me or slow me down, bless his heart. “There's also Wyatt Burkett. I ran into him in the registration cottage. He came at me—right at me, I tell you!”

“Whoa. Slow down, Missy. You're not making sense.” He laid his hand on my shoulder—fortunately, the one Wyatt hadn't bruised—to steady me. “What do you mean, Wyatt came at you? And what's all this with Beatrice?”