Along with the squish of my toes on the floorboards, I now heard a new sound, a whoosh of water that came from the workroom’s sink. The door beneath the basin hung open, and a stream traveled down the pipe and through a crack in the elbow joint.
Sure enough, I must’ve left the water running all night. Probably after I refilled the coffeemaker for the umpteenth time, since I’d made enough cups of it to satisfy a small army.
Deflated now, I made my way to the sink and slapped the faucet off. The water stopped flowing and the splish-splash disappeared, although it was much too late to do any good.
I wanted to scream, but how could I? It was me who’d forgotten to turn off the faucet. I was the one who hadn’t noticed the crack in the pipe until it was too late. And it’d now be up to me to call the magazine crew at their hotel and tell them to stay put. Tell them they’d wasted their time when they hopped on an airplane and traveled all the way down to Bleu Bayou. They really hadn’t needed to stay in a Quality Inn last night, where the best thing to eat would be a soggy waffle or a bruised banana this morning. Everything was ruined, all because of my negligence.
After cursing softly under my breath, I whipped out my cell to check the time. The minutes seemed to be speeding by, and already the screen read 6:50 a.m. D-day was a little over two hours away.
Maybe I should run next door and fetch Ambrose. Then again, odds were good he wouldn’t know what to do, either. He didn’t know anything about plumbing or carpentry. The same could be said of Beatrice. She could arrange hat displays and work with customers all day long, but she sure didn’t know her way around a jackhammer, a crowbar, or an elbow joint.
My next thought seemed a bit more practical. I knew a perfectly good contractor who happened to be out of a job right now. A man with the tools, and the know-how, to fix this mess. And if he couldn’t do it, he might know someone else who could.
Shep Truitt, the foreman at Dogwood Manor. Even though he’d surprised me yesterday by stashing a corbel from Dogwood Manor in his truck bed, I didn’t have any other choice at this point. My suspicions about him would have to wait until after the crisis passed.
There’s only one problem. I didn’t know how to reach him. We’d never exchanged phone numbers when we met up at the hardware store, or at the mansion on Monday.
Just when I was about to give up, inspiration struck. I quickly dialed the number for the police station, and Lance picked up after the second ring.
“Good morning. You’re up bright and early.”
“Hey there. No time for small talk. This is an emergency.”
A heavy sigh sounded over the phone. “Please don’t tell me you found another dead body. I just got started on the Solomon case.”
Although it was worrisome that Lance equated my phone calls with dead bodies, that was neither here nor there at this point.
“Don’t worry. It’s something else. Did you get the phone numbers for all of the workers at Dogwood Manor on Monday?”
“Of course I did. I’m interviewing each of them. Why?”
“Then you must have a number for Shep Truitt. He was the construction foreman there.” I took a deep breath to buy some time. The trick would be to give Lance enough information to convince him to give me Shep’s number, without letting him know why I needed it.
“You sound awfully evasive, Missy. What’s up?”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. I walked into my studio this morning, and everything’s a mess. The whole floor buckled in waves of flooding water.”
He whistled under his breath. “How in the world did that happen?”
“I kinda left the faucet running in my workroom last night. Don’t say it. I didn’t mean to leave it on…it was an accident.”
“Missy, Missy, Missy.”
I could only imagine the way he shook his head. “I told you not to say it,” I snapped.
“Hey…you’re the one who called me.”
Then again, fighting with Lance wasn’t going to help my case. “I’m sorry. I’m just mad at myself because I screwed up. But there’s more to the story. A magazine crew will be here in a couple of hours, with a photographer. May I please have Shep Truitt’s phone number?”
“I dunno…”
Since he sounded on the cusp of a “yes,” it was time to push a little harder.
“I really need your help, Lance. The magazine story’s a big deal for me. A huge deal. It’s the best thing that’s happened to Crowning Glory all year long.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. This is important to you. And you’ve helped me out more than once, so I guess I owe you.”
“Thank you.”
After a moment of silence, Lance rattled off a phone number, which I quickly memorized. I repeated it back to him for good measure before telling him good-bye.
Once we both clicked off the line, I tapped the phone number I’d memorized onto my screen and waited through a few rings.
Finally, a sleepy voice sounded on the other end. “Ye’lo.”
“Mr. Truitt? Good morning. It’s Melissa DuBois. We met yesterday, remember?”
“I’m sorry. Who’s this?”
“Melissa. All my friends call me Missy. I met you a few days ago at Dogwood Manor, and then we saw each other again in the parking lot at the hardware store.”
“Yeah. That’s right.” He yawned loudly, a whoosh of air over the line. “What can I do for you this morning, Miss DuBois?”
“It’s a long story, but did I catch you at a good time?”
“I guess so. I’ve got nothing going on right now. Matter of fact, I was sleeping.”
“Then I’m sorry I woke you, but there’s been an emergency at my hat studio. I got to work this morning, and the hardwood floor is ruined. One of the pipes leaked all night long.”
“That’ll do it. Those floorboards don’t like water.”
“Unfortunately, I found that out,” I said. “Look, I need someone to come in and fix it. Quickly.”
“How quickly?” He sounded wary, but curious.
“Ridiculously fast. I have a photographer coming here at nine.” I waited for the inevitable groan.
“You mean nine tonight, right?”
“No…I’m talking about two hours from now.”
The silence was deafening. After several beats, he finally spoke again. “You got me at a good time, actually. I don’t have anything else going on this morning. Or the rest of the week, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m so glad!” My voice squeaked, but I didn’t care. “Not about you being out of work, I mean. That’s not good. That’s bad.” Focus, Missy. Focus. I closed my eyes so I could concentrate. “But I’m glad you can help me out this morning.”
“Not so fast.”
My eyes popped open again. Uh-oh.
“I won’t be able to glue the boards back down in time,” he said. “That would take at least a few hours to dry.”
“Really?” Apparently my squeal had been premature. “Then, how can you fix it?”
“Your best bet is for me to pull the floor up. Get all the wet wood out of there. It’ll leave you with concrete, but that’d be better than warped floorboards.”
My mind worked overtime as I thought about it. The “industrial chic” look was undeniably hot right now, and lots of designers purposefully left a building’s foundation exposed as part of the design. Maybe the option wasn’t so bad, after all.
“If that’s what you think is best,” I finally said.
“I do. I’ve got a crowbar and some industrial fans I could bring over. Should be able to pull those babies up pretty fast. Especially if I bring some help.”
“Help?” While one part of my brain—the practical part—wanted to ask how much the extra “help” would cost me, the other part didn’t care. “Okay. Do what you think is best. I’ll try to stay out of your w
ay while you work. How fast can you get here?”
“Is ten minutes fast enough?”
“Definitely. Bring whatever supplies and people you need. I’m so grateful for your help, but right now we’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER 15
I clicked off the phone line just as something else sounded in the studio. I shoved the phone back in my pocket, then I tiptoed across the floor to the door of the workroom. After peeking my head through the doorway, I spied Beatrice in the shop’s foyer, her mouth agape. Next to her was Erika Daniels, who wore the same, incredulous expression.
“What happened?” they cried in unison.
I moved into the studio, the boards squeaking beneath my feet. “We sprung a leak last night back in the workroom. But I’ve got Shep Truitt coming over. I’m gonna flip on the air conditioner for him.”
“You mean the foreman at Dogwood Manor?” Erika had yet to look up from the floor. “He’s coming here?”
“Thankfully, yes. He said he can rip up the floorboards before the magazine crew gets here. I’m sorry, Erika, but water ruined some of the furniture, too.”
Her gaze immediately flew to the velvet couches. “I see what you mean. But I don’t think they’re completely ruined. I can tack up the hems, and no one will see the stains today. They might even look better without that extra panel at the bottom.”
Thank heaven for small miracles. “That would be great.”
“What can I do?” Finally Beatrice was ready to join our conversation.
“There’s a product I’ve been dying to try,” Erika told her. “It’s a stain from that company called Quikrete. We can roll it onto the concrete to give it a marbled look. You can help me with that.”
“Gotcha,” she said.
My gaze took in the studio. The blue velvet couches, the mirrored walls, the shiny surfaces in between. “Do you think that would look good with your design?”
Erika nodded. “I do. And the first coat only takes an hour to dry. You’re supposed to do a couple of coats and a sealer, but we don’t have time for that. Can you go to the hardware store and get some?”
“I suppose so.” Thank goodness, once again, for Homestyle Hardware and its early-morning hours. “I’ll go right now.”
“Okay. We need a gallon of Quikrete stain in light gray.” She paused a moment, as if thinking through the steps. “Two paint rollers, with poles, for use to swirl on the stain. We’ll also need a paint pan and a few pairs of gloves. That oughta do it.”
“Got it. Do you want to come with me, Beatrice?” I asked.
“I’d better stay here and help Erika with anything else she needs,” she said. “Where do you want me to move the furniture?”
I quickly gathered my purse and keys. “Well, Ambrose is already here. Go next door and see if he can help you carry the furniture into his studio while Mr. Truitt rips up the floor. That’s our best bet right now.”
“Got it. Good luck at the store,” she said.
I said good-bye, then moved to the exit. I glanced at my white clutch at the last minute, which reminded me of something else.
“Think I’ll grab some coveralls while I’m at it,” I said over my shoulder. “Staining a floor in a white pantsuit sounds like a bad idea.”
I hurried outside and jumped into Ringo. Then I floored the accelerator all the way to Homestyle Hardware. After finding the supplies, I whipped out my credit card and paid for the purchases.
The sun was brighter than ever when I emerged into the parking lot, tossed my bags in the backseat of Ringo, and then hightailed it back to work.
The parking lot at the Factory looked much different now. A line of cars queued up to enter the gate, and drivers inside cruised up and down the aisles, their necks craned expectantly.
Once I entered the lot, I circled it twice before I found a space in the last row. Then I parked and muscled the packages past line after line of cars, including a bright red Chevy Silverado that sat in the second row.
Hallelujah…the cavalry’s arrived. Even with my prayer answered, I still approached the door to Crowning Glory cautiously, since I had no idea what I’d find inside.
The welcome mat, which had been so carefully swept, was gone, replaced by an industrial fan set to high. The machine churned air into the studio, the noise a dull roar, like an airplane engine idling. Over that sound came the sharp crack of splintering wood, which was enough to make me want to drop the packages and run.
Which I didn’t do, of course. Instead, I gingerly stepped around the fan and entered the studio.
I barely recognized the place. Everything below the waist was gone. The new coffee table, the velvet couches, the glossy hat boxes arranged as a side table. Nothing remained but a pile of splintered wood, a set of open toolboxes, and sheets of wavering plastic that ruffled over the walls and ceiling. Even Beatrice and Erika had disappeared.
“Hello?” My voice got lost in the noise.
Two men crouched over the floor in front of me, but neither of them turned.
“Excuse me!”
That did the trick. Shep glanced up, then flipped off the circular saw in his hand. Meanwhile, the other man set his crowbar on the ground without turning.
“Hey there.” Shep leaned back on his haunches, his face streaked with sweat and sawdust. “You’re right…the floors were a mess.”
“What did you say?” I yelled.
Since I still couldn’t hear him, I quickly turned around and flipped off a switch on the back of the fan. Not that I wanted to interrupt their work, but the bags from Homestyle Hardware had grown heavier and heavier while I waited for someone to notice me.
“The floors were a mess,” he repeated, once the fan shut off. “We’re almost done pulling them up. It wasn’t hard, since the water loosened everything.”
Hooray for more miracles. “Where do you want me to put these bags?”
He looked at me quizzically, so I hoisted my purchases higher.
“Is that the stain for the floors?”
“It is. I got everything Erika said she’d need. Where do you want me to put it?”
“Bring it around back.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Cole here will help you with that.”
Cole. Of course. The other man was Shep Truitt’s son, the one who had handed me a water bottle in the hall at Dogwood Manor, not to mention the one at the scene at the hardware store yesterday.
“By the way,” Shep continued, “I think you’d better let us stain the floor.”
I lowered my arms again. “Are you sure? I thought the designer wanted to do a pattern in the stain by herself.”
“We already talked about it. She wants it marbled. We—me and Cole here—have done that a thousand times before.”
Relief washed over me. “That’d be great! I’m sure we could do a million other things in the meantime.”
“Hey, Cole,” Shep called over his shoulder. “Help the lady with her bags.”
“Yes, sir.” Cole rose and picked his way across some rubble. “Can I give you a hand with those?”
“Thanks.” The minute I gave him a few bags, I noticed angry red slashes on my wrist from the plastic handles.
The foreman’s son didn’t seem to mind the weight, though, because he grabbed the bags and casually hopped over the fan. I fumbled after him, once I turned the fan back on, and then I emerged into the bright sunshine of the parking lot.
“Thank you.” I hurried to catch up with him. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you and your dad to help me.”
Cole casually swung the packages. “It’s no problem, really. I’m kinda glad you called, to tell you the truth.”
“Glad? Don’t tell me you think this is fun.”
“I know it sounds crazy.” He grinned. “But we love this kind of stuff. There’s nothing like doing dem
o first thing in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.”
We soon approached the corner of the building that shielded the employee parking lot from view.
“I was really afraid your dad was going to say no,” I continued.
“He doesn’t have much choice. Ever since my dad’s construction business went bust, he’s had to take any job he could find. Even the ones he doesn’t want.”
“You mean like working at Dogwood Manor for Mr. Solomon?”
“Of course. That’s the only reason my dad would put up with his crap.” He swung one of the bags extra hard, and metal clunked against asphalt. “A year ago, he would’ve told the old man to take a hike. But he’s got too many bills now.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It’s not just that. There’s more to the story.”
We rounded the building and stepped into the lot where employees kept their cars. At least a few of them, anyway. Most people didn’t trust their vehicles to the pebbly, cracked asphalt.
“What happened?” I asked.
“My dad put up with way too much guff from the old geezer, and then the guy stiffed him. Can you believe it? That Solomon had some nerve.”
“He stiffed him?” I nodded to the back door of my studio. “But I thought he had an assistant who paid all the workers.”
“That was his excuse, all right.” Cole’s easygoing gait had grown stiffer with each step. By the time we reached the back door, his brisk stride matched mine. “Truth is, the guy never intended to pay my dad. Everything came to a head at the end.”
“Let me guess…somehow your dad figured out Mr. Solomon wasn’t going to pay him.” I dropped the plastic bags and turned, my curiosity piqued. “What tipped him off?”
“A few things.” He dropped his packages, too, and the metal can once more thunked the asphalt. “But the kicker was when my dad found Mr. Solomon’s cell phone in the bathroom at the mansion.”
“Really?” Although he was a whiz with business, Mr. Solomon didn’t take very good care of his phone. If he had, Ivy never would’ve found out about the affair between him and his hairdresser. And now this.
Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 12
