Murder at Morningside (7 page)

The only thing missing was a casket. A stand was there, with four wheels and thick hospital-grade steel bars, but the space between the front and back of the cart was empty.

I quietly slid into one of the creaky folding chairs and pondered my options.

“Lookin' for sometin'?”

“Darryl! You gave me a fright.” The voice nearly brought me to my knees, and I placed my hand on my chest. “You've got to stop sneaking up on me like that. It's not polite.”

Darryl, the gardener at Morningside, kept popping up when I least expected it. He tucked his head, hopefully because he realized he'd done something wrong.

“Yer too early for da memorial service, an almos' too late for da church next door.” He jerked his thumb toward the Baptist church. “Deys asked me to take care of te chapel here. Keep her clean. Whatcha doin' here?”

“Me? I'm out for a stroll. Thought I'd check out this place before my friend gets back. The door was open. It's a quaint little chapel.”

His eyes narrowed. “Dis be te funeral parlor, Miz DuBois. Notin' quaint about dat. Ya best be gettin' to church, and I'll lock up te place.”

His tone made the hairs at the nape of my neck bristle. “I didn't mean any harm. Honestly, you act like I broke in here for fun.”

“Didn' mean no offense, Miz DuBois. Guess all dat talk about te family burnin' up dat girl's body done make me crazy. Poor ting, so young an all.”

“Really?” Casually, I leaned back. After spending so much time in psychology classes at Vanderbilt, I knew plenty of tricks to get people to tell me more. One of my favorites was a little something called “reflection,” where you simply parroted back what a person had just said. It made people want to prattle on. “They want to burn the girl's body?”

“Dat's what te fater said. Goin' on about cremation. An him bein' Cat'lic an' all.” By this time, Darryl had moved his good hand forward, so I quickly moved my hand too. That was another trick called “mirroring,” but that was neither here nor there at this point.

“If they're Catholic, then they'll probably have the funeral back in their own parish, don't you think?” I asked.

“Lots of dem churches don letcha bring te ashes in. Could be te priest be makin' em stay here for dat. Hard ta say.”

“I'm surprised she's being cremated. Doesn't sound like the kind of thing most parents would agree to.”

“Dey be gettin' bad information.” Darryl shook his head. “Someone be tellin' em what ta do.”

I hadn't thought of that. But what could they possibly gain by cremating the girl's remains instead of having a proper Catholic burial in their own parish? I'd have to ask Ambrose when he returned.

“I guess I should get to the church service, then.” I rose and wandered past him. “Are you coming?”

“Oh, no.” His face grew even more somber, if that was possible. “I don' belong in tere. Dey don wan' me any more ten I wan' tem.” He stood with his legs pressed tightly together, which was definitely a defensive position, according to the textbooks.

“All right, then. See you back at the plantation.” I waved and ducked past him into the bright sunshine, relieved to be free of Darryl's stare.

Compared with the gloom and doom of the funeral parlor, the church positively glowed. I hurried under the awning to the church's double-wide doors, which were closed. They never do seem to latch right, though, so I gently depressed the handle and pushed them open without a sound.

The place was small. Two columns of pews ran front to back and held about four-dozen people in all. I could tell from the back of the heads it was a family crowd, with parents bookending their offspring at the ends of the aisles.

A baldheaded man sat a few rows up on the left. When he turned, I glimpsed the profile of the general manager of Morningside.

I sauntered over to his aisle and tucked into the row as inconspicuously as possible. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't worn a more showy hat, because I'd surely put folks to whispering about my appearance. As it was, only a few people seemed to notice my arrival, including the general manager, who nodded.

“Morning,” I whispered.

He opened his Bible and turned it my way to give me the chapter and verse. I lifted a book from a holder in front of me and located the day's passage in Psalms. Pretty innocent stuff, compared to Revelations, and since I'd memorized most of it anyway, I let my mind wander to the people who sat around me.

The smallish group was well-behaved, with most of the families keeping their toddlers in check. In my book, there was a fine line between family togetherness and tempting fate, but butter my biscuit if these children didn't behave as well as a convention full of librarians.

Once the pastor finished dissecting the passage, he turned our attention to a man who sat in the first row. The stranger popped up from his pew and joined the clergyman, all the while waving a bulletin in the air.

“Thank you, Reverend,” he said. “Good preaching today. Mighty fine. If y'all will open your bulletins, there's a little something in there about the ladies' fashion show tomorrow night.”

Fashion show? My ears immediately perked up. A spaghetti supper I could understand. Same thing with a bake sale or bingo night. But fashion show? Be still my heart.

“Now, we planned to put on the show tomorrow night in the social hall. Heaven knows we need the money for our new choir robes. I'm sorry to say the organizer's backed out, so we're going to have to cancel the event.”

The congregation groaned in unison, like a choir exhaling at the end of a long whole note. Whatever did he mean? Seemed a shame to cancel on account of one person backing out.

“Yes, it's true. I know how disappointed y'all are, but there doesn't seem to be any other choice. We've already sold a bunch of tickets, and we'll return everyone's money as quick as we can.”

I couldn't, could I? The way I figured it, I needed more time at Morningside if I was ever going to help Ivy unravel the horrible tangle of events. It might give me the perfect reason to stay in town, plus a little privacy to look around the plantation, since everyone else would be at the church tomorrow night. I could always offer up Ambrose as master of ceremonies and then sneak away from the show when the opportunity arose.

My mind made up, I rose from the pew. “Y'all don't know me, but my name is Missy DuBois.”

Heads turned my way in response.

“You may have heard of my shop, though. It's called Crowning Glory, and we make couture veils and whatnot for bridal parties.”

That caused some nodding and general agreement among the crowd.

“Anyway, the way I figure it, you need someone to organize a fashion show tomorrow night. My best friend happens to be Ambrose Jackson. He's been on television and everything.”

The whispers came back now as loud as a kettle brought to boil. Just like I thought. The mere mention of Ambrose got them riled up. Ever since he did a reality show for the Learning Channel, where he turned ordinary girls into princesses, there weren't many places we could go without being recognized. Sometimes I wondered if the women we met were more interested in his dress designs, or in Ambrose.

“Between the two of us, we can come up with enough fashion to make your head spin.”

“That's a wonderful idea, Miss DuBois!” The speaker with the bulletin looked positively ecstatic.

“It'd be a shame for you to have to cancel your event.” Guilt should have overcome me by then, offering up Ambrose on a silver platter, but in my experience, it was better to act first and seek forgiveness later. It wouldn't hurt him to help out the locals here. “He'll be thrilled, I'm sure.”

Since I'd spoken my piece, I sat again. It felt good to help other people, even if the other people hadn't exactly asked for my help.

“We would be most grateful,” the speaker said. “Guess the good Lord works in mysterious ways. Sounds like we're going to have an amazing fund-raiser tomorrow night. Make us forget all about the violence here this weekend. Praise the Lord, and let's pass the plate.”

N
ow that I'd done my part to help the Rising Tide Baptist Church, I simmered in a warm gumbo of helpfulness until the preacher blessed us with the benediction. Even though fashion shows involved endless details, like pulling dresses, matching accessories, and hiring models, it was like falling off a greasy log backward if you'd staged them enough times, which I had. In fact, the Ladies' Auxiliary League asked us to produce a similar fashion show just last month, and I still had all of the notes and contact info at my fingertips.

As I made my way to the narthex now, someone touched my elbow. It was the speaker with the bulletin, and his eyes shone like new pennies.

“Can't thank you enough, Miss DuBois, for helping us out. I don't know what we would have done otherwise.” His cheeks shone too, and were as pink as the blush on a rose.

“It wasn't anything. Figured you could use a hand. Like you said, the good Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“When people hear a TV star is helping with our fund-raiser, they'll burn up the telephone wires wanting to come. We'll start the program at dusk with a choir number or two and then turn it over to you and your friend. If that's okay with you.”

“Don't you worry. Give us a runway and a microphone, and we'll be good to go.”

He nodded briskly. “We'll be in touch. I'm guessing you're staying at the plantation?”

“Sure enough.” He still seemed a tad nervous, so I decided to put him at ease. “Please don't fret. It's nothing Ambrose and I can't handle.” Really, he was going to age something awful if he worried about every little detail in life.

That did the trick, and he smiled. “Thanks again. It's a miracle you came here today.”

“I don't know about that.” Truth be told, my idea had been to visit the funeral parlor next door and hunt up anything I could find about Trinity. I never expected to offer Ambrose and me to a roomful of strangers like a slab of sponge cake on a dessert plate. The way I figured it, this would play out nicely, as long as Ambrose didn't mind me steamrolling him like that.

By now the congregation, including the lion-like deacon, had left. I had a lot of time to think as I wandered back to the plantation. Time to ponder how I'd line up my ducks when I talked to Ambrose. Maybe that was why I barely noticed the sugarcane stalks or the two old broodmares or the rattle of a truck that approached me on the road.

In fact, I didn't notice it until the tires ground to a halt not more than five yards ahead, spitting pea gravel and chalk dust. The driver's window was open and a hand with tattooed knuckles and blue fingernail polish gripped the steering wheel, which pretty much gave away the owner's identity.

Sure enough, after killing the ignition, Cat Antoine threw open the door of the Ford dually and proceeded to throw up in the crabgrass by the side of the road.

“Oh, my.” I picked up my pace and soon reached the truck.

After she once again baptized the ground—like she'd done with the azalea bushes earlier—she slithered out of the truck and bent over. She seemed even tinier without her chef's coat.

“Are you all right?”

Obviously, she wasn't and she didn't answer me right away. Finally, she nodded. “Guess so.” She wouldn't look at me, which was probably for the best since a trickle of ooze dangled from her chin.

I fumbled around in my purse for a stray Kleenex. “Here, Cat. Use this.”

“
Uuuggghhh
.” She wiped her mouth, which was a good sign she wasn't too far gone.

“You need to get right back to your room and go to bed.” Honestly, sometimes people had no sense. Here she was, running around like a rooster with its head cut off, when she should have been lying under a quilt with a cool washcloth and a hot-water bottle.

“You don't understand.” She still wouldn't look at me, but kept her eyes trained on the dirtied ground.

“What I understand is you're sick and you shouldn't be going anywhere but right back to your room.” I took hold of her shoulder and squeezed it gently to show her I meant business. Somewhere along the line I'd switched to the voice I used with children who ransacked my store.

She shrugged out from under my grasp, which meant she truly was feeling better. Whatever stomach bug had possessed her to stop by the side of the road now lay in a puddle at our feet. “I'm not sick, Missy. I'm pregnant.”

Oh, my.
Now the conversation between her and her boss in the garden the day before made sense. This changed everything.

“Okay, then.” I tucked back into my purse and found one of the Altoids I'd rescued from the bar's floor. I blew on it softly and gave it to her. “Have this. First things first. How far along?”

She accepted my offering and shrugged. “About three months.”

“Does the daddy know?”

“Not exactly.”

“Imagine you're going to have to take maternity leave.” There was no way she could manage those big pots and pans with a baby growing in her belly, and maybe that was what had upset her boss so.

“I suppose. I think I'll go back to my room now. Want a lift?”

The question stumped me. On the one hand, it was a lovely day. On the other, here was my chance to find out more about one of the employees who worked at Morningside Plantation. My curious nature won out, of course. “I'd love a lift.”

We both climbed into the Ford dually. A jumble of notebooks, magazines, and Louisiana road maps cluttered the dashboard and floor, and torn plastic seats stretched from side to side like a dirtied church pew. The only feminine touch was a strawberry air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

“This was my dad's.” Once Cat fired up the engine, we pulled onto the road. “He passed away last year. Mom gave it to me since she couldn't drive it.”

That made sense. It looked tricky enough to drive at any age, although Cat was doing a fine job as we bumped and banged and jostled our way toward the plantation. Her cheeks were even pink again. With her green jacket and reddish cheeks, she reminded me of the strawberry air freshener on the rearview mirror.

“I can't bring myself to clean it out,” she said. “Everything reminds me of him. Is that weird?”

“No. I think it's sweet you want to keep your daddy's memory around.” That explained the tin of Skoal wedged against the front window and the hardhat I'd spied in the truck bed. “What did your daddy do?”

“He was a journeyman at the refinery.”

“Really? Would that be the same place everyone's told me about?” I asked.

She didn't answer. By this time we'd arrived at the plantation, and she swung the truck around to park by a massive pin oak.

“Doesn't much matter now.” She opened the door of the cab and heaved herself up and out. She seemed winded by the effort, even though she was only three months along.

I followed her lead and did my best to make a ladylike exit. “Sure you're going to be okay?”

“Always am. My stomach's feeling queasy, though. Might get something from the kitchen to settle it down.”

I'd spent a lot of times in kitchens through the years, baking cookies for the store, making umpteen casseroles for Ambrose, who doesn't cook, and helping my friends with their Derby parties. Seeing someone else's kitchen was like exploring an overgrown bayou. You never knew what lurked behind the sauce pots, inside the cupboard, or next to the teakettle. “Mind if I tag along?”

She shrugged and shoved the truck's keys into her sweat-suit pocket. “Help yourself. It's closed to the public, since our Sunday brunch is already over.”

We fell silent as we walked through the clipped garden and under an overhang shading the entrance to the kitchen. Inside, an enormous Vulcan range monopolized the back wall. It was as slick as a mirror, with more knobs than a rocket ship. Everything was coated in aluminum or polished brass, which made me worry for the poor staff that had to clean it.

Over our heads hung a rack of bright copper pots. You could always tell a real chef by the condition of her pots, and Cat's looked well-loved, judging by the dented sides, scraped bottoms, and wobbly handles. The kitchen walls had the same used brick as the floor, and a single window welcomed daylight into the space.

Cat moved to a door by the entrance and turned the knob, which made a gaping black hole appear. Pasta boxes, produce crates, and spice tins lined the pantry, and, like the rest of the kitchen, seemed frozen in time, even with the fancy range. I half expected to see a Revolutionary woman in a calico dress and floppy bonnet come waddling along to fix her family lunch.

Cat reappeared from the pantry. “Keep forgetting to take these.” She held a bottle that looked like prenatal vitamins.

“Do you want something to eat with that?” I asked. “You might feel worse taking them on an empty stomach.” Heaven only knew she'd need her strength since she was eating for two. “I've whipped up a few meals in my day.”

“You'd cook for me?” She looked surprised. “Okay. As long as it's not too spicy. Don't want to lose my lunch too.”

“Put up your feet and I'll make you an omelet.” I pointed to a spot by the kitchen island, which was as wide as the counter at my store and nearly twice as long. I heaved open a double-sided refrigerator next to the stove and found enough eggs to feed a starting lineup. I brought out the eggs, a jug of milk, and some cheese, all of which would be nice and bland, but good for her too.

“You seem pretty handy around the kitchen.” She watched me warily.

I dislodged a skillet from the pot rack and began to crack eggs on its side. “Should be. I've been living on my own long enough to figure out the difference between braising and poaching.”

“Do you like to do it?” she asked.

“Guess you could say that.” I poured some milk in the skillet and swished it around with a whisk that hung from a corkboard above the burners. “As long as I have company in the kitchen.”

Cat seemed to think on that. “I don't like to work that way. People tripping over each other. That's how it was at my cooking school in France, and I couldn't wait to get out on my own.”

“Well, there's good and bad to it.” I flipped the eggs with a turner. “No sense in making four-dozen cookies all by yourself. Don't you have any help around here?”

“A sous-chef comes in to get supper started, and my pastry chef works Saturdays.” Cat began to rock back and forth. The more she rocked, the younger she seemed, and I almost forgot she was in a family way. “By the end of the night, it's only me, though, unless we're talking about a weekend.”

“Can't imagine that's much fun. Sounds kind of spooky.”

“It can be, since I've been hearing all those ghost stories. Guess I should know better than to listen to 'em.”

“Hmm.”

“You're going to think I'm crazy, Missy, but I swear I saw a ghost here one time. Gray felt coat and everything.” She pointed to the ancient window next to the stove. “There at the window. It happened one night when I was by myself. Nearly scared me to death.”

Doesn't that just beat all?
“Why, Cat, that sounds like the figure I saw last night. But don't you think it might have been a guest?”

“What kind of guest comes up and taps on a window?” She held out her arm. “Look, I still have a scar from when I jumped back from the stove.” Sure enough, a thin brown line cut across her wrist.

Since she and I were getting to know each other, I decided to share my story. “Something like that woke me up last night. Something loud.”

“A ghost?”

“Hard to say. It moved so fast I only saw a blur.” I sprinkled some cheese on the omelet, then grabbed a plate from a rack next to the stove and flipped the eggs onto the platter. “It was wearing a gray felt coat, though, and heavy boots, like a uniform. But I doubt it was a ghost.”

The minute I set the steaming plate in front of Cat, she lifted some omelet with her fingers, dripping cheese and all, and shoved it into her mouth. “Whah makes you say daht?”

“Careful! You'll burn yourself.” Honestly, how could this girl be trusted with a baby if she didn't have enough sense to let her food cool?

“No biggie,” she said, once she'd swallowed. “Can't feel a thing in my fingers anymore.” She held up her hand to prove her point and darn if she didn't have the smoothest fingertips I'd ever seen. “By the second year of cooking school, you've burned your fingers too many times to count.” She tucked back into the omelet, oblivious to any pain.

“Anyway, I heard a crash. When I came around the corner, it tumbled down the stairs, all gray coat and black boots. Then it ran away.”

“Was there a hat?”

“Now that you mention it, there was.”

“Sounds like the same guy,” she said.

“Hmm. Maybe you're right.
Why
would someone do that?”

“Beats me.”

We chatted for a few more minutes. After a bit, Cat took one last bite from the omelet.

“Looks like you're good to go now. Don't forget to take your vitamins. Wouldn't want your little one to be puny.”

Once we'd said good-bye, I left the dark kitchen and stepped into the bright hall. So much brickwork was a tad oppressive. How could Cat stand to cook there night after night, all by herself?

A blurry figure darted past me as I stepped over the threshold to enter the main hall. My purse smacked into it something awful and a bunch of paperwork flew in the air. “Oh!”