Death Comes to Dogwood Manor

by Sandra Bretting

  Silence enveloped us as we sipped from our cups. Her thoughts seemed a million miles away as she gazed out the window.

  After a moment, she refocused her attention. “This is really a tough break for everyone.”

  “You mean the family?”

  “Yeah, there’s that. But for everyone else, too. It’s put a lot of people out of work. All the construction guys, the electricians, the plumbers…they all need to find new jobs now. And they’re not the only ones. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my studio rent this month.”

  I nodded vaguely. While I wanted to sympathize with her, I also needed to return to work. But that would leave her with only a ficus for company, which seemed a little coldhearted. Maybe I could spare another minute or two to give her a sounding board. “I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t you have any other clients right now?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I turned down three other commissions to work on Dogwood Manor. What a mistake. That Herbert Solomon is insane.”

  “Can’t argue with you there.” Obviously, she wasn’t a fan of Herbert Solomon, either. Then again, how could she be, when he belittled her in front of other people? The way he’d spoken to her this morning had set my teeth on edge and made me wonder how much worse he treated her in private. “You poor thing. I can’t imagine having to deal with him day in and day out.”

  “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. So, you never had to work for him?”

  “Not really. I made a veil for his daughter once, but that was a long time ago. Plus, she had a wedding planner, which gave me a buffer.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky one.” She chuckled, but it was bitter. “He acted like I didn’t have a brain in my head, like I’d never decorated a room before. But that’s not true. I’ve worked on dozens of properties. I decorated some of the studios around us, and I worked on the governor’s mansion, even. She glanced at the second floor. “One of my projects got an award last month from Architectural Digest. Want to see pictures?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  She quickly dropped her shoes to the ground and placed her tea on the side table. Then she scrolled through some pictures on her iPhone until she found what she was looking for. “Here’s the studio I did upstairs. It’s for a painter who does bridal portraits.”

  She extended the phone to me. The screen showed a brick-walled loft filled with buttery-white couches and silvered side tables. She’d even stenciled a fleur-de-lis on the ceiling, which was mirrored in a shimmering table below it.

  “That’s so pretty.” My gaze traveled from the table to the ceiling and back again. “You have a great eye for design.”

  “Thanks. Here’s another one.” She took back the phone and quickly scrolled to the next photo in the lineup. This one featured a colorful artist’s easel placed on a harlequin-patterned rug. She’d copied the black-and-white diamonds in a series of picture frames over the couch.

  “Wow. I love the color palette.” Reluctantly, I gave the phone back to her. “I wish my studio looked like that.”

  While she put her phone away, a thought flittered through my mind. “Wait a minute…of course!” I didn’t mean to yell, or to startle her, but I must’ve done both, because she flinched.

  “Excuse me?”

  I lowered my voice. “Sorry ’bout that. But I just had a great idea.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “I could hire you,” I said. “I need to have my studio redone, and you now have time for a new client.” It made perfect sense. Unless…

  I gulped. Ambrose always told me my mouth ran faster than my brain sometimes. For all I knew, the girl standing next to me could charge hundreds of dollars an hour for her time, which I couldn’t afford. Judging by the pictures on her cell, I wouldn’t doubt it. “I don’t know if I can pay you what you’re worth, though.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” She patted the pocket where her phone lay. “The artist with the loft repaid me with an oil painting. I sometimes work in trade for people I like.”

  “You don’t say.” Hope began to swell in my chest again, despite the sound of Ambrose’s warning in my ear. “You don’t happen to need a hat any time soon, do you? Maybe there’s a big party or a client meeting in your future?” Although the shop’s budget was tight right now, the stockroom overflowed with supplies, and I’d happily work nights and weekends to create her a new hat.

  “I do need a hat.” Now it was her turn to look enthused. “I go to the Kentucky Derby every year. I’ve always wanted to be in Town & Country magazine, but my hats were never elaborate enough. Do you think you could make me one?”

  “Of course!” There went the volume again. “I used to make Derby hats all the time when I went to Vanderbilt. My clients loved to see themselves in that magazine!”

  “Well, this could work out pretty good.” This time she didn’t look spooked. “Why don’t I stop by your place this afternoon and take a look around? My studio is just upstairs, near Pink Cake Boxes. I could come and take some pictures of your place so I know what I have to work with. Will you be there?”

  I bit my lip while I considered her offer. I’d promised Lance I’d stop by the police station as soon as I finished lunch. Not to mention, Beatrice was supposed to reschedule our eleven o’clock appointment for later in the afternoon. Still…

  “Maybe we can work something out,” I said. “I have some appointments, but I could give you a call later. I’d love to get you started on this. Now, there’s something you should know. The deadline is kinda tight.” Which was a massive understatement, but why dampen her enthusiasm at this point?

  “A deadline?” Unfortunately, the wary look returned. “What kind of deadline are we talking about?”

  “Well, to be honest…”

  “Look, it’s not a deal breaker,” she quickly said. “I’m still up for it. I have time, and I’d really like that Derby hat. But I need to know how many weeks I have.”

  “Weeks?” My voice faltered, but there was no turning back at this point. “Okay…here’s the deal. You only have two days. It needs to be done by Wednesday.” I took a deep breath and waited for her to say no.

  “Two days? As in, this Wednesday?”

  “Yep, two days.” My mind went into overdrive again. Apparently I’d have to sweeten the pot to keep her interested. “A bridal magazine is coming to town to take pictures of my studio. A big-time magazine out of New York City.” Come to think of it, maybe I could lay it on even thicker. Give her a great incentive to meet the deadline. “They’re one of the best bridal magazines in the business. Their readership is huge. Huge! I’m sure I could get them to mention you and your work if I asked.”

  She seemed curious, which was a good sign. “You don’t say. How many readers?”

  “At least a hundred thousand a month,” I said. “Maybe more. Full-color, glossy pages. The photos would no doubt look amazing.”

  “Hmmm. And you say you only have two days?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like the studio is bare now. I have some pieces already. Maybe you could repurpose them. Plus, I’d give you free rein to do whatever else you wanted to do inside.” I stopped talking long enough for her to catch up. Hopefully, I hadn’t overplayed my hand.

  After a moment, she grinned. “Okay. Why not? I’ll do it.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “It could be fun,” she said. “Like one of those reality TV shows where the contestants have twenty-four hours to make over a house.”

  “Only you’ll have more than twenty-four hours,” I reminded her. “You’ll have a whole forty-eight hours. And it’s only a studio…not a whole house.”

  “But we have to start this afternoon.” She spoke quickly now. “We don’t have a minute to spare. Not one minute.”

  “I agree.” I tried to keep my voice in check this time. “So, you can work with that deadline?”<
br />
  “Look, to be honest…I’m probably crazy. It usually takes two days just to sketch a layout. But it sounds like you need help. And I need the publicity, not to mention a Derby hat. So, yes. If you tell the magazine people who designed your studio, I’ll do it for free.” She held up her hand. “But you’ll need to pay me if I buy any furniture.”

  “Of course... I understand. No problem.” I spoke quickly, too, before either of us could change our minds.

  “Great. Call me later this afternoon. I can’t wait to get started!” With that, she turned and walked away, her tea all but forgotten on the side table.

  My shoulders relaxed the moment she left. What a wonderful coincidence! I’d never expected to run into Erika Daniels, of all people, in the lobby of my own building. Maybe now I had a shot at impressing the writer and photographer with my studio.

  My euphoria lasted several seconds before something else flitted through my mind. The memory involved Herbert Solomon, back in the library at Dogwood Manor, when he signed a piece of paper and shoved the clipboard back at Erika. He’d mentioned something or other about her “extravagant purchases,” which he warned her not to repeat. He seemed to think she was a spendthrift.

  Uh-oh. Am I setting myself up for disaster? Maybe Ambrose was right, after all, and I’d just let my heart rule over my head again. Whether it was true or not, I’d just given a designer I knew nothing about the freedom to remake my beloved studio.

  CHAPTER 8

  After watching Erika leave the lobby, I headed for the parking lot. A few eager beavers had finished lunch and returned to work early, and their shiny SUVs filled both the first and second rows.

  I angled my body parallel to the building once I reached the sidewalk, since it was best to stay in a rectangle of shade provided by a striped awning overhead, rather than melt into a hot puddle on the steamy asphalt.

  Once I was within shouting distance of my studio, I spied the Closed sign hanging in the front window. I tried the doorknob, which was locked, of course, and then I unlocked the dead bolt before stepping inside. Everything had been put to rights, and the displays looked wonderful again. Even the riding crop nestled among the other equestrian gear on the front table.

  Beatrice’s handiwork was everywhere. Bless her heart. She must’ve worked straight through her lunch hour to rearrange the displays. I found a hastily scrawled note next to the cash register that confirmed my suspicion. Did the best I could...be back soon.

  I headed for the workroom without bothering to flip the sign around. Maybe now I finally could enjoy the feast Odilia had prepared for me. I carefully placed the sack on my drafting table and propped some paperwork on the easel.

  Then I hungrily dove into the bag. Along with fried chicken, I found a small container of jambalaya, three fluffy butter biscuits, and an equal number of Darigold pats. It didn’t take long for oily thumbprints to appear on my paperwork, which my accountant might wonder about come tax time, but the meal was well worth the mess.

  Once I finished lunch, I arose with a sigh and headed for the bathroom to wash up. Then I traipsed back through the studio and locked the door behind me. While I yearned to pop my head into Ambrose’s studio next door, enough was enough already. It was time to visit Lance at the police station before he sent a squad car out to the Factory to fetch me. That was one scene I wanted to avoid, since the rumor mill already had enough gossip to keep it churning for days.

  I hurried through the parking lot, hopped into Ringo, and cranked the AC to high. Thank goodness the police station was only five minutes away, and I immediately found an empty spot next to Lance’s car when I arrived.

  As always, dead june bugs, dried mud splatters, and streaks of bird excrement covered the hood of his car. One of these days Lance might actually pay a visit to the Sparkle-N-Shine and discover what color paint lay under his car’s hood.

  I hopped onto the sidewalk, my attention focused on the yucky spectacle. I didn’t notice anyone else nearby until a voice called out to me.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  I glanced up to see Waunzy Boudin. The stout grandmother strode purposefully down the sidewalk, an enormous purse at her side. Leave it to Waunzy to find a hot pink purse that matched her fuchsia flip-flops.

  “Hello, Mrs. Boudin.”

  She cupped a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun. “Took me a moment to realize it was you, dear. This gal-darned sun has me blinded.”

  “No doubt.”

  When she lowered her arm, the smell of Shalimar perfume reached me.

  “How are you, dear?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. A little rushed, but that’s nothing new.”

  “Now…that’s not what I heard. You don’t have to put on airs with me.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “I heard you had a horrible morning.” She reached forward to pat my shoulder, once again conjuring the Oriental smell of cinnamon and cherry blossoms.

  “I’ll be alright.” I kept my voice light to forestall a full-on hug.

  “If it’s any consolation, it would’ve happened sooner or later.” She leaned even closer. “You know what they say about karma, don’t you? What goes around comes around. That’s what they say, anyway. Herbert Solomon couldn’t treat people like dirt and expect the universe to just sit by and do nothing.”

  “Sounds like you weren’t a fan.” Which was an understatement, given the fact that Waunzy had practically hissed his name.

  “Heavens, no. Not after the way he treated Hank and me.”

  “You mean with the real estate?” Odds were good she still had a bad taste in her mouth from the sale of Dogwood Manor.

  “That man had no right to cut in line in front of us. He scooped up that property faster than you could say ‘boo.’ Shame on his momma for not teaching him better manners.”

  “But at least he tried to restore it, right?” I searched for something, anything, kindly to say about the dearly departed. “Maybe we should give him a little credit for that. No use letting another beautiful mansion fall apart.”

  “‘Restore’? That’s not the word I’d use.” She tsked. “I’d call it whitewashing. He erased all of the beautiful details that made that place special to begin with. You know that a British gentleman built the house in the eighteen fifties, don’t you? He brought over a boatload of crystal, fabrics, and furniture to fill his grand new mansion. Now, I can’t speak for Hank, but I would’ve kept the house the way it was. It’s entirely possible to restore old homes without changing them so drastically. He took way too many liberties, if you ask me.”

  “But didn’t he have to get everything approved by the planning commission? I thought they kept strict guidelines for all the historic properties around here.”

  “Normally, they do.” She lowered her voice. “But don’t you know? Herbert Solomon had the planning commission in his back pocket. He could’ve painted the house orange for all they cared. The last owners never even bothered to request historic status. It’s a shame, really. A downright shame.”

  “I guess. It’ll be interesting to see what happens to it now.”

  “Someone could still go in and fix his mistakes.” She seemed to warm up to the topic, and her voice rose again. “First thing I’d do is paint it taupe, like before. Then I’d get rid of those clunky corbels and put up some lacy fretwork. Something nice and airy. Give it character. Who knows how far a few thousand dollars could go?”

  “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” While she struck me as a mild-mannered grandmother, the steely glint in Waunzy’s eyes told me another story.

  “Not really.” She tried to dismiss her outburst with a casual wave. “What do I know? What’s done is done. Might as well make peace with it. But I really should be going. It’s hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch out here.”

  With that, she turned and trundled
down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake.

  For someone who supposedly had made peace with Herbert Solomon’s shenanigans, she sounded awfully impassioned on the subject.

  I mulled over our conversation as I continued into the lobby of the police station. After only a few minutes there, my flushed cheeks began to cool and my damp shirt collar dried. That was the thing about government buildings in the South. The minute the temperature outside nudged up a tad, the thermostats inside fell to the sixties. Shame on me for not remembering to bring a sweater. Serves me right.

  Lance arrived soon afterward and escorted me to the interview room, where I recounted my story—in between shivers—for a video camera mounted to the wall. When the red light on the machine blinked off, he and I discussed the coroner’s report, which wouldn’t be available for several weeks, and then we talked about the medical examiner’s summary, which could arrive days earlier. Lance promised to keep me apprised either way, and I returned to my car and the mud-splattered vehicle next to it.

  I vowed to revel in the warmth this time as I fired up Ringo. Even with the short respite at the police station, that vow lasted exactly three seconds, until my cheeks flamed again. I cranked up the AC at the next stoplight and cracked the window open to let the hot air escape.

  The driver next to me must’ve had the same idea, because the car’s passenger window slowly unfurled. Unlike mine, though, it didn’t stop after an inch, but continued to lower until the driver came into view.

  “’Scuse me,” a voice called out. “Are y’all from around here?”

  I opened my window more to be polite. The speaker was a middle-aged woman with a trendy asymmetrical haircut and pricey-looking sunglasses balanced on her nose. Pretty, she was, in a made-up kind of way.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am.”

  The glasses bobbled when she frowned. “I think I’m lost. Could you tell me how to get back on the highway?”

  “No problem. Just stay on this road for another mile and you’ll see the on-ramp on your right.”