I didn’t budge. While I wanted to help Lance with the investigation, the clock was speeding toward the top of the hour. If I didn’t watch out, a photographer would show up on my doorstep before I had a chance to put the studio back together again.
“I can’t go, Lance. I’ve got to fix this place up before the magazine crew gets here.”
At that moment, the front door banged open and I gasped, certain my fears were about to be realized.
“Good morning.” Erika Daniels strode into the room with a large bag in her hand, and Beatrice loped in behind her.
“Thank goodness.” I clasped my hand to my chest. “It’s only you.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Erika smiled, but she stopped when she noticed Lance. “Uh-oh. Has something happened, Officer?”
“Just asking some questions,” Lance said. “I’m working on Herbert Solomon’s murder case.”
“What a horrible thing to happen,” she said. “And to think it happened right here in Bleu Bayou. I hope you catch the person who did it.”
“He’s working on it.” I studied the bag in her arms. “What’d you bring us?”
“It’s something from my own house.” She pulled a faux-fur blanket out of the sack, which she unfurled. “It’ll look great on one of your new couches, and I can bill you for it later.”
“It’s pretty. Hey, Lance. Before you go…could you help us move a few couches over from next door? It’ll only take a second, since I know you’re in a hurry.”
Lance shot me a look, but he hustled next door to help move the furniture anyway. The minute the couches hit the floor, he vanished, anxious to join Shep and investigate the contents of the man’s truck.
By the time Beatrice and I wrangled the couches into the perfect position, and Erika finished adding her accessories, the studio looked wonderful.
“Everything looks beautiful.” I plopped onto a couch, relieved beyond words.
“It does look good, doesn’t it?” Erika nudged a table lamp to the left. “I’m going to take a few pictures for my portfolio before the magazine people get here. And don’t let me forget to give you the bill before I leave.”
At the mention of money, my chest tightened. I never did ask Erika for an estimate, and now it was too late. But really…how bad can it be? Plus, there’d be plenty of time to deal with the price tag once the magazine crew was gone. I could study the invoice then and maybe slide a few things around in the budget to make it work.
“Thank you, Erika. You really saved my hide.”
“Don’t mention it.” Something dark flittered across her face. “I wish Mr. Solomon was here to see all this. He never thought I had good taste.”
“That can’t be true. If it was, he wouldn’t have hired you to decorate Dogwood Manor.”
“Yeah, but he watched my every move. I had to get his approval for everything. Everything! Plates, tablecloths…you name it. It was like being twelve again and having to ask my dad for an allowance.”
The memory of a pink receipt from Harrods fluttered through my mind. It wasn’t exactly the type of purchase someone made who was worried about her employer’s approval.
She continued, oblivious to my stare. “Maybe the magazine story will make it all worthwhile, though. They might even ask me to do freelance work. Wouldn’t that be something? I’d better hurry if I want to get those pictures.”
While Erika took her photos, I moved back to the counter to check the schedule. The minute I finished, the door to the studio once more burst open.
“Hello, hello, hello.” A burly man in a jaunty porkpie hat slipped over the threshold.
“Greetings!” I plastered a giant smile on my face as I stepped out from behind the counter. “We’ve been waiting for you. Love the hat!”
The man, obviously a photographer, given the professional-looking Nikon strung around his neck, made his way to the sitting area, where he dropped a tripod next to one of the couches. He was followed by a pale, thin woman who wore trendy eyeglasses and a thick black braid.
“You must be Melissa DuBois.” The woman bypassed her associate and approached the counter. “I’m Daphne Lewinsky. I’ll be interviewing you today.”
When I moved to greet her, I noticed the smell of cigarette smoke. “Nice to meet you, Daphne. Everyone loves your magazine.” Which was true, so I didn’t have to embellish anything. “Where would you like to do the interview?”
“Do you have a table we can use? I need to set my notepad on something hard.”
“Sure, follow me.” I was about to lead her into the workroom when I remembered something else important. “Where are my manners? Miss Lewinsky, I’d like to introduce you to Beatrice Rushing. She’s my assistant. I couldn’t run this business without her.”
I motioned to Bea, who grinned at the recognition. While the two women shook hands, I pointed to the very back of the room, where Erika stood with her cell phone, snapping pictures. “And over there is Erika Daniels. She’s the interior decorator who created this beautiful space.”
“Well, it’s lovely. Nice to meet you.” Daphne shook Erika’s hand. “We won’t keep you guys any longer than necessary. I’ve got a list of questions I need to run through, and then I’d like to speak with one of your clients. You know, to include a quote from an outside source, so it’s not just the two of you talking about the studio.”
“Of course,” I said. “Beatrice, could you please rustle up Stormie Lanai’s telephone number and give it to Miss Lewinsky?”
Beatrice nodded, while I explained the choice. “Stormie’s a local newscaster. We just finished working on a fascinator for her wedding.”
Daphne jotted the name into a Moleskin notebook she carried. “Good. I’ll need to talk to her today, if possible.”
“That should be fine. Stormie’s getting married in Las Vegas, but it’s not until this weekend, so she should be around. She might be able to give you an interesting perspective, since we had to remake her hat from scratch.”
The writer glanced up. “Any chance I could get a glass of water, too? I really don’t know how you guys put up with this weather.”
I squelched a smile, since I’d heard that comment my whole life. First in Texas, where I was born and spent my childhood; and then in Nashville, where I went to college; and now in Bleu Bayou. “You get used to the heat and humidity after a while. Beatrice, could you bring Miss Lewinsky some water, too?”
“You got it,” she said.
In the meantime, I escorted Daphne to the workroom. The place looked completely different now. The old cherrywood drafting table was gone, replaced by a sleek, modern one in glass and chrome. Kind of like the Mies van der Rohe couches in our building’s lobby, made with straight lines and hard angles.
A few ergonomic office chairs sat by the table, and I offered one to Daphne. I sank into the other one as she got settled.
“Tell me a little bit about your company.” She shifted, and the chair squeaked. “Whatever made you set up shop down here?”
I squelched another smile, since I’d been asked that question a thousand times before, too.
“Bleu Bayou kind of found me, to be honest,” I said. “I thought I was going to stay in New York City once I graduated from Vanderbilt. You know, the whole story about small-town girl making good in the Big Apple? But a funny thing happened after graduation.”
I leaned back in my chair as the memory washed over me. Even though it’d taken place seven years before, I could still smell the diesel fuel on the tarmac at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport.
I’d flown in from my miniscule apartment in New York City, where I worked as an intern for a famous fashion designer who had more hutzpah than talent. The man loved to send me on pointless errands, just so he could feel important, and to change my schedule on a whim.
In March of that year, he ordered me to
visit New Orleans Fashion Week. He’d recently become enamored with jazz, and he’d planned to launch a line of women’s ready-to-wear with flapper dresses and wide-legged pants.
So off I went. It was the first time I’d visited Louisiana, and it turned out to be a turning point in my career, although I never suspected it at the time.
The memory continued to unfurl, as if it’d happened only yesterday. Halfway through the week, after running from one fashion show to the next, I’d decided to take a break. I’d ditched out of the last show early, with my right hand aching from the nonstop sketching and note-taking.
Somehow, I ended up on Canal Street. I remember ignoring the trash that lay in the gutters and the smell of urine in the alleys, because I was so enamored with the quaint storefronts that lined that historic street. So quaint, I spent hours going from one shop to the next, until I finally arrived at Feathers and Lace, one of the oldest hat stores in the country.
The window display had stopped me in my tracks. It was pure perfection: framed by a pink-and-brown awning and a display of women’s fascinators that floated on heavenly clouds. Since I’d created Derby hats for many college friends, I’d become semi-knowledgeable about the art of hat-making. But that visit to Feathers and Lace marked the first time I realized someone could actually build a successful business around hats, veils, and accessories.
The next few hours had sped by, I recalled. The owner, a sweet octogenarian who’d moved to New Orleans in the fifties, had convinced me to visit the Great River Road, which she thought offered limitless possibilities for anyone brave enough to open a hat shop there.
Apparently, brides had recently rediscovered the old mansions that lined the Mississippi River, and they were eager to spend their wedding budgets on elaborate ensembles to match the opulence of the homes.
I took the shopkeeper’s advice and visited Bleu Bayou the very next day.
“And that’s how it all started,” I told the reporter. I noticed she had stopped taking notes by now, and her pen lay idle. “I’m sorry. Am I speaking too fast?”
“No, not at all.” She leaned close. “I think it’s so interesting to hear about people who actually follow their dreams. You know, I wanted to be a novelist at one point.”
“That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you?” The writer struck me as the type of person who could accomplish anything once she set her mind to it.
“I was too chicken,” she said. “The magazine gives me a steady paycheck and insurance benefits. I always thought I’d write my novel at night, when I wasn’t working. But somehow that never happened.”
I nodded, since I’d become acquainted with several folks who’d thought they could pursue a passion at the end of the workday, only to find they barely had enough energy to make dinner, let alone create something.
“It’s never too late,” I said. “You could still do it.”
“I suppose.” She furtively glanced at a watch on her wrist. “And I’d love to talk to you more about it. But I really need to get back to my questions. So, after you launched your studio, was there ever a point when you thought you weren’t going to make it?”
“Of course.” I shrugged, since it all seemed so simple in retrospect. “I wondered what would happen if I fell flat on my face. But then I met the shopkeepers who worked here, and they became a kind of support group for me.”
No need to mention I’d also taken up with one of those shopkeepers, who happened to own a studio right next to mine. Ambrose was another reason I’d felt so at home in Bleu Bayou, but I wanted to keep my private life to myself for now.
“Let me tell you about hat-making.” Time to change the subject. “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. It seems to be a lost art. Do you think hats will ever make a comeback?”
“Well, I can’t speak for men’s hats, since haberdashery is a whole ’nother field. But I’m pretty sure women’s hats are coming back in fashion, especially for special occasions like garden parties and weddings.”
Together, she and I flipped through my sketch pad, while I began to explain the process for turning a fanciful idea into an actual hat or fascinator. I even included a little history lesson about women’s headwear.
“Do you know why we call a hatmaker a milliner?” I asked. “It’s because shopkeepers in Milan, Italy, would supply the ribbons, laces, and bows back in the old days.”
“I never knew that.” She jotted another note in her book, and then we chatted a bit more about hat-making.
Finally, after forty minutes or so, she softly closed the notebook’s cover. “Well, I think I have everything I need for the story.”
“Great. Could I offer you one of my hats before you leave? It’ll protect your face from the hot sun out there.”
She pondered the offer for a moment. “Well…I don’t normally take gifts from my sources, but it might inspire me while I’m copywriting. Sure. Go ahead and show me what you had in mind.”
We left the workroom and walked into the studio. By now, the photographer was done with his pictures, and he gave us a nod as we approached.
“I’ve just got one more picture to take. I need a head shot of Melissa.”
My hand flew to my hair, which wasn’t surprising, given the morning I’d had. “Do you mind if I run to the ladies’ room first? I haven’t checked a mirror all morning.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ve got to set up a backlight anyway. We might want to use a couch over there. It’ll be good for what we need.”
He indicated the sitting area by the front door. Nearby was a table full of straw picture hats, which I pointed out to the writer.
“Any one of the picture hats on that table would look wonderful with your long hair. Please feel free to try some on while I run to the restroom.”
“Okay.” She tentatively reached for a sisal hat with a satin headband as I walked by her.
Once I ducked into the restroom, I fingered my auburn hair and mentally perused my stock of hats, since it wouldn’t do for a milliner to appear in a photo bareheaded. Then I dusted off my jacket and pants, which were still white, praise the Lord, and reentered the studio. Daphne stood by the display table with a confused look on her face and nothing in her hands.
“Here, let me.” I scooped up the perfect sisal hat for her once I reached the table. “We call this style a ‘picture hat’ because it circles your face like a round picture frame.”
I placed the hat on her head, and then I gently retrieved a hat pin from the gold satin headband, which I used to secure the hat to her braid. “At one time, women were told they should wear this style with full skirts, to balance everything out, but now people wear picture hats with pretty much anything.”
I smoothed a bump created by the hat pin, and then I gently turned her toward a three-way mirror.
A broad smile broke out on her face. “It’s beautiful. And it’s not too wide, so I could wear it in the city.”
“That’s why I picked it out. Normally, I’d suggest a fascinator for you, since New York City has such tight spaces. But that wouldn’t help you with the sun.”
While she appraised her reflection, I automatically moved to a different display, which held various fascinators and hair combs. I picked out one with silk Chinese rose petals and ostrich feathers, which I balanced on my head before smoothing the comb in place. By now, I knew each of my designs backward and forward, and I could easily affix a hat to my head without checking a mirror.
I met the photographer in the sitting area afterward, where he took about a thousand pictures of me from every angle. That was how it felt, anyway, since my cheeks smarted by the time he finally capped the lens.
“Got it,” he said. “You have a great profile. Have you ever thought about modeling?”
“Not really.” I held my breath while he lifted his camera bag off the ground. Tha
nkfully, none of the gray stain had rubbed onto his bag, which was my worst fear.
“Well, you should,” he said. “Even if you’re not six feet tall, you can still work as a catalog model.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to hats. I love what I do.”
“Suit yourself. It was nice working with you.”
Once the photographer left with Daphne, who now had Stormie Lanai’s telephone number and a brand-new hat, I sank onto the bar stool by the cash register and carefully unthreaded the fascinator from my hair.
“Hallelujah and pass the mustard,” I said. “I thought they’d never leave. That was fun, but it was exhausting.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” Beatrice slid onto the bar stool next to mine. “I’d crack up if someone took that many pictures of me.”
“You get used to it after a while. It’s weird, but I almost forgot he was there. He told me to lift my chin once or twice, but that was it. By the way…thanks for helping me out.”
“No problem.” She snapped her fingers when she remembered something. “I almost forgot…Erika had to leave. She dropped an invoice for you over there.” Beatrice pointed to the cash register, which had a piece of paper propped against its keys.
I warily stood. “Now comes the reality check. I have no idea how much she charged me for all this stuff.”
Head ducked, I slunk toward the invoice and pulled it off the register. I purposely held it at arms’ length as I returned to the bar stool.
“I can’t do it. You look at it.” I thrust the paper at Beatrice, as if it might burst into flames. “Break it to me gently.”
Once she took the paper, Beatrice gasped, which said more than any words could.
“That bad?” I tried to peer over her hand, but she’d pulled it away.
“’Fraid so. Guess we need to reopen Saturday afternoons again.” She slapped the bill onto the counter, facedown.
That’s impossible. I’d spent two long years working overtime so I could afford to close the studio by noon on Saturdays. I treasured that time off, since it was my only chance to run errands in town, like everyone else.
Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 14
