Once I’d finished in the bathroom, I called out to Ambrose, who didn’t answer. By the time I whisked Stormie’s supplies into a satchel, left the kitchen, and hopped into Ringo, it was already eight. So I floored the accelerator all the way to the Factory.
After snagging a spot in the third row, I walked to the studio as fast as my tired legs could carry me. The sun warmed the crown of my head, and a light breeze ruffled the shift around my bare legs.
I expected to find the lights doused when I arrived at Crowning Glory, but every light blazed through the front window, including a trio of pendant lights I’d installed above the counter. Since I was usually the first one to arrive, I normally turned on the lights and fired up the coffee machine.
I cautiously opened the French doors and peeked inside the studio. “Hello?”
Erika Daniels stood in the middle of the room, stock-still. She clutched a sequined pillow in one hand and a cut-glass table lamp in the other, her eyes flitting from me to the lamp like she was a wild animal caught in a rifle’s crosshairs.
“Erika? How’d you get in here?”
She gulped and nodded toward the workroom. Beatrice must’ve arrived first and let her into the studio, which was all well and good, but it wasn’t what I’d expected.
“You guys are sooo early,” I said. “And it looks like you’ve already found some new things for the studio.”
“Just a few.” She smiled sheepishly. “I had this stuff lying around, and I thought it might look good in here.”
The desk lamp in her hand looked oddly familiar, not to mention expensive. “Is that lamp from Tiffany’s?”
“No.”
Thank heaven for small favors. “It does look familiar, though. Where’ve I seen it before?”
“This old thing? I’m going to use it in your sitting area, which I’m moving over there.” She pointed to a spot near the entrance. “Under a chandelier. Which they’re going to deliver this afternoon, by the way.”
“Oookkkaaayyy.” She hadn’t answered my question. “But I know I’ve seen that lamp somewhere.”
“You probably saw it at Dogwood Manor. It was sitting next to the bookcase in the library.”
“That’s it!” I said. “Does Detective LaPorte know you took it from the mansion?”
She nodded. “He does now. It belongs to me. I bought it wholesale, and then I invoiced Mr. Solomon for it afterward. Only he never paid me for it.”
“Gotcha.”
“Or, I should say, his assistant never paid me for it.” She placed the lamp on the floor and shook her wrist to work out a kink. “She said she forgot. But don’t you think the lamp would look great in here?”
“It is beautiful.” I walked past her, toward the cash register. “And what do you mean, his assistant ‘forgot’ to pay you? Settling my debts is the very first thing I do every morning.”
“To be honest, I don’t think she’s that bright.” Erika retrieved the lamp from the floor. “Rumor has it he hired his former hairdresser out of Baton Rouge to be his administrative assistant.”
“Really?” Somehow Mr. Solomon didn’t strike me as the type to hire someone who wasn’t qualified for a job. He’d made his wedding planner check me out twelve ways to Sunday before I was hired to make his daughter’s veil.
“Hey, Missy.” Finally, Beatrice emerged from the workroom with a rolled-up tube of paper in her hand. “When’d you get in?”
“Just a minute ago. I thought I’d be the first one here, but you guys beat me to it.”
She waved the paper. “I wanted to get Erika this blueprint for the studio, since she asked for it yesterday.”
“Thanks for doing that.” I tried to stifle a yawn, but it slipped out anyway.
“Wait a second.” Beatrice frowned at me, just like Ambrose had done. “You stayed up all night again, didn’t you? Admit it. I bet you worked on Stormie’s hat and never went to bed.”
“Maybe.” I never could lie to Beatrice, either.
“You can’t keep this up.” She wagged a finger at me in a perfect imitation of my grandmother.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Seriously,” she said. “Sooner or later, you’re going to crash.”
“I vote for later.” I plucked the store’s calendar from a peg next to the cash register. “It’s sweet of you to worry about me, but our schedule is packed today. There’s no time to rest.” I flipped the calendar open to Tuesday and ran my finger down the page. In addition to working with Erika, I had two clients coming in for fittings, a telephone consultation with a third bride, and a meeting with my favorite vendor. All before 1 p.m. Welcome to wedding season. “Do you need me for anything right now, Erika?”
She shook her head. “Not right away. I’m going to double-check the measurements for the floors and walls. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Great. I’m heading to the workroom.” I took the calendar and started to move across the room. “You guys call me if you need help,” I said over my shoulder.
Just then the front door of the studio swished open. In strode Lance LaPorte, wearing his police uniform and carrying a manila folder.
“Good morning. Is Missy around?” He strode over to the counter, obviously unaware of my presence.
There goes my quiet time. While I enjoyed talking to Lance, sometimes our conversations lasted way too long.
“I’m right here.” With a sigh, I turned and walked back to the counter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“To this.” He held up the folder, which twinkled under the pendant lights. The all-too-familiar logo for the St. James Parish Coroner’s Office winked at me.
“I see. Why don’t we go back to the workroom and get some coffee?” Odds were good Beatrice had fired up the pot once she let Erika into the studio, which meant we could review the medical examiner’s report over something stronger than bottled water.
Beatrice and Erika exchanged quick looks.
“Don’t worry, ladies,” I said. “We’ll be right back there in the workroom.” I waved the calendar at Lance to indicate he should follow me. “Give us a holler if you need anything.”
I headed for the workroom, Lance on my heels. Once inside, I pointed to a swivel chair by the drafting table, then I closed the door behind him. “You got that report back pretty fast.”
He nodded as he slid onto the seat. “It only takes a day or two for the preliminary. The ME worked on Solomon last night.”
I sank into a chair next to his. “Here we go again.”
“Tell me about it.”
Only eight months before, Lance and I had reviewed another autopsy report when the owner of a special events company had died right behind my studio. I helped solve that crime, like I’d done with two previous murders, which established a pattern between us. Lance collected the report from the medical examiner, then gave it a quick perusal. Once finished, he shared the report with me for my opinion.
He balanced the folder on the drafting table, but before he opened the cover, his eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t want to sound harsh, but you look kinda rough this morning.”
“I love you, too, Lance.” I tried to play off his comment, but all the attention on my appearance was getting old. “It’s the wedding season. I had a big project last night, and I may have stayed up a little too late.” Which was an understatement, but why worry him any more than necessary?
“Whatever you say.” He finally flipped open the cover, which doused the twinkle from the foil seal. “Remember what happened with the last case?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Imagine my horror when the police found a bloodied hat stand near Charlotte Devereaux’s body. Some of the locals actually suspected me of the crime, even though I had an airtight alibi for that morning.
&
nbsp; “At least I’m not a suspect in this case, right?” I shot him a quick look. Although I’d discovered the old man’s body yesterday, I didn’t know him very well and had no reason to want him dead.
“No, you’re not a suspect in this case. Looks like he succumbed to renal failure after long-term exposure to a contaminant.”
“I knew he didn’t have a heart attack.” Call it instinct or call it women’s intuition, but he’d seemed to have other health problems. Maybe it was the strange skin rash or the sudden baldness that tipped me off.
Lance thumped the folder with his finger. “Someone poisoned him with arsenic. It rose to toxic levels in his blood, liver, and kidneys before shutting down his entire system.” He eyed me curiously. “I’ve gotta say…you don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.” I leaned back. “One look at him yesterday, and I could tell he was sick. Plus, Beatrice told me he was probably poisoned.”
“He never went to the doctor. We already checked with his GP. He probably thought it was something he could just shake off. The ME noticed a strange smell during the autopsy.” Lance quickly scanned the page, and his gaze stopped midway through it. “It smelled like almonds. He noted it in the section under ‘external investigation.’”
“So…it was arsenic, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Did the ME notice anything else?” The words on the page looked blurry from so far away.
“He did. Arsenic victims usually get Mees’ lines on their fingernails.”
“What’s that?”
Lance normally simplified medical terms for me whenever we reviewed a report together.
“It’s a white line that appears on the fingernails after someone’s been exposed to arsenic. Look here.” He pointed to a picture in the folder.
The close-up photo showed a purplish, liver-spotted hand with short fingernails. Mr. Solomon’s hand, I presumed. A white band ran across each nail, and several bands striped his thumb and forefinger.
“Okay. I get it.” I glanced away, slightly nauseated. “Any idea how long it’d been going on?”
“A long time. Long enough for him to develop hyperkeratosis, too. It thickened his skin and caused raised bumps on places like his scalp.”
“I noticed the top of his head, too, when I saw him. Wow. So, someone’s been poisoning him all this time.”
“Apparently so. The actual report won’t be available until next week, but this’ll give me something to go on.”
At that moment, a soft knock sounded at the door of the workroom.
“Excuse me,” Beatrice called out.
“Come on in, Bea.” I glanced at Lance, and he closed the report.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” She entered the room. “But there’s something Erika needs to show Missy. Will you guys be much longer?”
Lance rose with the folder. “No. We’re done here. I’ll call you later, Missy. The judge came through with the search warrants last night, so I’m starting on the interviews.”
My gaze moved past him to a small table set up against the wall. “Shoot. I forgot to pour you some coffee. Do you want to take a cup with you?”
“Nah. I’m good. And it sounds like you’re going to need it more than I am today.”
I wanted to protest, but how could I? Odds were good I’d drink half the carafe in the next few hours. “You’re right, but don’t forget to call. And if I think of anything else from yesterday, I’ll let you know.”
“Deal.”
I followed Lance out of the workroom. Once I stepped into the studio, I spied Erika by a back wall. I stopped midstride and let Lance continue without me.
“’Bye, Lance,” I called out as he slipped through the exit.
Once he waved, I moved over to where Erika stood. She gazed at something or other on the ceiling, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Has that always been there?” She pointed to something over our heads.
A dark brown stain floated on the white paint, the edges ruffled and watery.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “It happened back in January, when we had those really bad rainstorms.”
“Hmmm. It doesn’t look good. Not to mention, it could cause mold. We need to cover it up with a primer like Kilz. Then we can repaint it.”
I should’ve remembered to fix the water stain months ago, when it first appeared. Shame on me for not doing it. That was the thing about owning a small business. So many projects competed for your attention, and only the most obvious ones actually got it. The rest, like the brown stain on the ceiling, quickly got forgotten. “Will Kilz take care of the mold?”
“Definitely. I know they have it at Homestyle Hardware. We need to do it this morning, so the primer has a chance to dry. I’d run out and get some myself, but I’m right in the middle of finalizing a design for the studio.”
I glanced across the room. “I guess I could ask Beatrice.” Odds were good my assistant would happily run the errand. Which was all the more reason for me to be grateful she’d arrived at work earlier than normal.
“I forgot something.” Erika finally looked away from the ceiling. “Beatrice said to tell you she had to go to the bank. Something about one of your clients finally paying a bill.”
My heart sank. Not only had I lost out on my quiet time when Lance had appeared at the studio, but now I had to run an errand to Homestyle Hardware. “Guess I’m the only one left to do it.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I really need to get this design finished so I can start adding the furniture. The paint looks like a flat white from Sherwin-Williams. And water dripped down on the wallpaper, too.” She pointed to a spot under the molding, where the wallpaper took over after the paint. “That looks like Emma’s Garden from Waverly’s Cottage Series. It’s a pretty popular wallpaper, so the hardware store should sell it, too.”
I blinked. “Wow. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who could tell me the exact name of my wallpaper.”
She threw me the same patient smile I’d used with Stormie earlier. “It’s my job. I work with wallpapers all the time. You’ll need to get a roll of paper and a quart of paint. Kilz comes in a quart size, too.”
“Gotcha. See you in a few minutes. And I think I’ll lock the door when I leave so nobody walks in on you. I’m not expecting anyone until ten, but you never know.”
I headed for the front of the studio, where I flipped the Open sign around and stepped outside. After locking the dead bolt, I walked to my car, parked in the third row. Although I hadn’t planned to leave the studio so soon, sometimes these things couldn’t be helped.
CHAPTER 11
I drove away from the parking lot on autopilot. By the time I arrived at Homestyle Hardware, my dashboard clock read 9 a.m., which was late by some people’s standards, including every construction worker in Bleu Bayou.
Only a few pickups remained in the hardware store’s parking lot: a cherry-red Chevy Silverado with a busted towing hitch.
It looked like Shep Truitt’s car, which I’d spied at Dogwood Manor yesterday. Sure enough, Shep stood just behind the pickup, holding a beige plastic sack from Homestyle Hardware.
As I pulled into a parking space, I noticed he took a bungee cord out of the bag, then began to tie it over something in the truck bed.
“Good morning,” I said as soon as I stepped out of my car and approached him.
He immediately whirled around. “Good…good morning.” He tossed the bungee cord into the truck bed without securing it to anything.
“How are your fingers?” I asked.
“So-so.” He lifted his injured hand in the air. “It kills me I can’t use them for much. What’re you doing here this morning?”
“I’ve got a little chore to do back at my studio. And you?”
“Nothing much. Well…it was good to see you again.”
He turned slightly, but something about his tone sparked my curiosity.
“Are you still working at Dogwood Manor?” Although I assumed Mr. Solomon’s death had put everyone out of work, I couldn’t help but notice dusty fan prints marked the front of his Carhartt work shirt.
“Nah. The police roped off the place. Just like you said they would. I couldn’t get back in.”
“Then I guess you must have another job.”
He scrunched his nose. “What makes you think that?” He followed my gaze down. “Oh…the shirt. I’m hauling some supplies this morning. Haven’t landed another job yet, though.”
“I’m sure you will soon.” I took a step toward the truck bed, but he moved sideways to block my view.
“Well, looks like I should get going,” he said.
At that moment, something light fluttered against my ankle. It was the discarded plastic bag, which ruffled around my feet. “You dropped something.”
He bent to retrieve his sack, which gave me a moment to glimpse over his shoulder. Sure enough, he’d packed the truck bed with dusty architectural elements: everything from a stained-glass window with pink and green inserts to a pair of worn shutters. A wood corbel carved with the image of a dogwood blossom lolled next to the other items.
Sweet mother of pearl! I recognized the corbel immediately. It belonged to Dogwood Manor—one of several that held up the roof on the front façade. There was no mistaking the dogwood flower carved into its center. “Mr. Truitt?”
He forgot all about the bag and immediately straightened. “Well, I’ve gotta go. I have to haul this stuff away today. Lots going on. Guess I’ll see ya later.”
With that, he headed for the cab of his truck, then fired up the engine. The truck whooshed away in a cloud of dust and loose gravel.
How odd. I mulled over his strange behavior, not to mention the stash from Dogwood Manor in the truck bed, as I slowly picked up the plastic bag and walked through the parking lot. After tossing the rubbish in a trash can by the entrance, I stepped into the lobby of Homestyle Hardware.
Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 8
