“Agreed. Just my luck I’d find another corpse.”
Amazingly, he chuckled. “Wait a minute . . . you’re not pulling my leg, are you? Kind of like a New Year’s Day joke? You’d better not be—”
“Of course not!” This time I didn’t mind interrupting him, since he was talking crazy. “Who in their right mind would pull a stunt like that? Honestly, Lance. You know me better than that.”
“Guess you’re right. Okay, then.” Now his voice turned serious, as if he’d flipped a switch to turn from friend to policeman. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything. Where are you and when did it happen?”
I didn’t take offense at his clipped tone, since he was only doing his job. “I’m at work. Got here a little after ten.”
“Did you go there alone?”
“Yes. Ambrose is here, but he came a few minutes before me.” Hearing Lance take charge made me feel about a hundred times better, so I rose from the curb. “I came here to do paperwork, but I wanted to check on last night’s storm first. When I went to the employee parking lot . . . there she was. She’d been stuffed into an old whiskey barrel.”
“How’d you know it was a girl?”
“I saw the hair. Long and blond.”
Lance gave a low whistle. “Interesting. Did you see anyone else come or go? Or hear anything unusual?”
“No, nothing.” I shook my head, although he couldn’t see me. “There’s no one else here. It must’ve happened right before I got to the building. I only wanted to check my rain gauge—”
“Uh, Missy? Save it ’til I get there. Right now I need to call a unit to your building. Don’t move, okay?”
“Where am I gonna go?” The thought of leaving never even occurred to me. How could I abandon the person I’d found, whoever she was?
Suddenly, my eyes widened. “Oh, shine!”
“What now?”
“What if it’s someone I know? It could be anyone. Maybe someone from the building.” I clutched my waist. “Or a friend. I didn’t see the hair that closely. My gosh, Lance. What if I knew her?”
“Okay, calm down.” He’d definitely switched into cop mode. “Get ahold of yourself. There’s nothing you can do right now. Stay away from the victim and we’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I pressed the phone to my ear, since his voice calmed my nerves. “Do you have to hang up?”
“’Fraid so. But I’m calling for the unit now. Just hold on ’til we get there.”
“Please be quick.”
He hung up and I stumbled toward the next curb in the lineup. It was all I could do to keep myself from throwing up.
What I needed was a hand to hold, a friend to calm me down. Even though Ambrose might be with a client, he’d come to my aid if I called. I fumbled for the cell and clumsily hit the button for Ambrose’s Allure Couture. Like Lance, Bo answered on the third ring.
“Hey, there.” His voice was ebullient too, since he had no idea what I’d been through.
“Ambrose?”
“What’s wrong?” he quickly asked. “Where are you?” One word from me changed everything.
“I’m in the employee parking lot at our building.”
“Say no more. I’ll be right there. And don’t move.”
Why do people keep telling me that? I couldn’t move any more than the body in the barrel could up and walk away. “Okay.”
The phone tumbled into my lap. An eternity later, something sounded behind me and I turned to see Ambrose, who raced around the building as if his feet were on fire.
He ran even faster when he spied me. He plowed forward and then dropped next to me on the curb, his face wild with worry. “Missy.” He wrapped his arms around me before I could even speak.
We stayed like that for a minute or two, until he gently pulled away.
“Okay. What happened?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I silently pointed at the rain barrel.
“What’s that?” He eyed the cask. “And how’d it get there?”
“It’s a rain barrel. And it’s mine.”
His eyes slanted, as if I’d answered in Swahili. “I don’t get it. Why’s it turned over like that?”
“There’s a body inside. I found her this morning.”
He didn’t respond, which only amplified the sound of dry leaves rustling in a nearby chinaberry tree.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” I asked.
Finally, he found his voice. “No wonder you’re so pale. You poor thing. But you know what we have to do, right? We have to call your friend. The one who works with the police department. Here . . . give me your cell. Is he in your contacts?”
I shook my head instead of offering up the phone. “No, we don’t have to do that. I already called him and he’s on his way. He told me to wait here.”
Right about then, a siren overrode our voices and the dry sound of leaves rustling. Ambrose rose from the curb first, and then he helped me up.
It was Lance’s dirty Oldsmobile, which zoomed toward us with a strobe light flashing on its roof. The lights turned off when the car skidded to a stop and Lance jumped out.
“Are you okay?” Today he wore a baggy green sweater and wrinkled khakis instead of his usual police uniform. A handsome African-American, a shadow of stubble dappled his cheeks.
I nodded weakly. “I’m okay now. Ambrose kept me company. She’s over there.” I jerked my thumb at the barrel, which probably wasn’t necessary, since it was the only whiskey barrel in the parking lot.
“Okay. You might want to stay put.” He pulled a pair of latex gloves from a back pocket and walked around his car’s bug-splattered grille. When he reached the cask, he crouched in front of it and instantly stuck his hand into the opening. No doubt he wanted to check for a pulse.
We watched him work for a minute or two, until something else pierced the air. It was another siren, and it grew louder as a Louisiana State Police car screeched into the parking lot.
Instead of making a beeline for us, though, the cruiser first careened over to a dumpster, where a uniformed officer jumped from the passenger side. Once he cleared the car, the officer behind the wheel continued, until the unit pulled up alongside Lance’s car.
“C’mon. Let’s step over here.” Ambrose gently led me to a spot near the wall, but I couldn’t resist peering over my shoulder as we walked.
The officer behind the wheel looked oddly familiar. Black crew cut, freshly shaven, with caramel skin. Of course . . . it was Officer Hernandez. The same policeman who responded to my 911 call when I discovered the body of an old sorority sister at Sweetwater.
He hopped from the squad car and strode over to Lance, his gaze glued to the rain barrel. As he crouched beside him, he began to speak in low, urgent tones.
I tried to read his lips, but my attention waned when someone else shouted. The other officer, the one who’d jumped from the cruiser by the trash bin, came running through the parking lot with something in his hands. Whatever it was, he held it at arm’s length, as if it might detonate, and he didn’t stop running until he reached his coworkers. Then he held up his treasure for everyone to see.
“Here you go,” he hollered. “Buried under some newspapers.”
I gasped. The officer held a chunk of wood painted the same French blue as my rain gauge.
Everyone turned to stare at me, but Lance spoke first.
“Could you come here, Missy?”
It wasn’t a question, so I reluctantly ambled over to where they stood. I didn’t dare glance at the hat stand, which was splattered with blood.
“Officer Paschal found the murder weapon in the trash,” he said. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Yes. It’s mine. I made it.”
“Do you want to tell us about it?” His voice was curt, as if we were strangers, for goodness sakes. He didn’t sound like someone I’d grown up with and he sure didn’t sound like a friend.
“I don’t kno
w how it got there; I swear. I placed it on that curb—” I frantically pointed “—about a month ago. I only checked it once or twice.”
“So you have no idea how it got in the trash?”
“No, none.” I reluctantly glanced at the hat stand. Splashes of crimson streaked its base. “Wait a minute.” My mind raced as I struggled to make sense of it all. “That’s fresh blood. I just got here. I was at a party at Hank Dupre’s this morning. Call him . . . he’ll vouch for me.”
Lance and Officer Hernandez exchanged quick looks, and then the younger policeman turned away.
“We’ll do that.” Now Lance’s tone was soft. “I need you to come with me to the station, though, to give your statement. I’ll drive. Ambrose, you’re free to go.”
Ambrose and I locked gazes, neither of us willing to leave each other. He looked numb, which was understandable, since I felt exactly the same way.
Chapter 3
After an hour or so in the interview room at the police station, I finally sagged back into the regulation armchair. I tried not to think about how many criminals had slumped against the very same cushion, or whether they’d stared at the same blank walls.
Obviously, the good folks at the Louisiana State Police Department didn’t believe in adding color to a room. The walls were beige and the furniture included a putty-colored desk, a white clock with skinny hands, and an unframed two-way mirror. A video camera perched in the far corner.
Since there was nothing else to look at, I closed my eyes and gave my statement to Lance and the blinking video recorder. I included everything: the flour thumbprint on Ruby’s chin, the pea gravel that bit into the soles of my brand-new boots, the way the barrel lolled on its side in the employee parking lot. By the time I finished and reopened my eyes, it was noon, according to the bald-faced clock. That can’t be right. It felt like days had passed since I’d found an upended rain barrel that dripped blond, bloodied hair.
After a moment, Lance clicked off the video camera. “We’re all done. Since you have an alibi, you’re free to go. Want me to drive you back to your studio?”
Numbly, I shook my head. That’s the last place I want to be. “I’ll go home. My assistant will come and get me.”
“You sure?” Lance looked confused. He probably wondered why I didn’t phone Ambrose first.
“I’m positive. And Ambrose deserves a break after everything that happened this morning. I’ll let him be for a while.”
“Suit yourself.” Lance waited for me to rise and then he followed behind as I left the interview room.
We passed putty-colored file cabinets and a few more regulation armchairs on our way through the station. When we reached the front counter, Lance popped open a swinging gate with a hidden button, while I whisked out my cell. Thankfully, Beatrice, my assistant, answered on the second ring once I tapped the number for my hat studio. She’d mentioned wanting to get some work done once she left the New Year’s Day breakfast.
“Crowning Glory. May I help you?”
“Hey, Beatrice. It’s me.”
“Missy? Where’d you go this morning? I looked for your car after the party, but you’d already gone.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s a long story. The bottom line is I’m here at the police station, and I need a ride home. Can you come get me, please?”
“Of course.” She didn’t hesitate and she didn’t ask a million questions, which made me so grateful that I decided to add a fat bonus to her next paycheck.
“Thanks, Bea. I’ll wait for you in the parking lot.” I clicked off the line and returned the phone to my pocket.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Apparently, Lance had been eavesdropping on my conversation.
“Do what?”
“You might be more comfortable if you wait here in the lobby.” He threw me a hopeful smile. “I’ll keep you company. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, you know.”
“No?” My tone was icy. “You acted like I was guilty before. Like you didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know how the body got there. It’s me, Lance. Missy DuBois. We’ve known each other forever.” I didn’t mean to bark at him, but he’d worn out my patience with all the police rigamarole.
“Whoa. Hold on.” He raised his hands in protest. “You know I can’t play favorites. We needed an official statement, since it was your rain gauge we found at the scene.”
“I know that, Lance. You don’t have to state the obvious.” A little voice in my head told me to shut up now, before I said something we’d both regret, so I swallowed my words and turned away.
“I’ll call you later.” He spoke to my retreating back.
“Yeah, right.” Once I reached the exit, I threw open the plate-glass door and barreled outside. My heart pounded against my chest, but, little by little, the thumping subsided and I approached a stone bench near the curb.
I plopped onto the seat and laid my hands in my lap. Might as well get comfortable, since there is no telling when Beatrice will arrive. I rested my weary head on the makeshift pillow and closed my eyes.
“You-hoo! Missy!”
Lorda mercy. Please don’t let it be who I think it is. I cocked open one eye. Sure enough, Prudence Fortenberry came sailing through the parking lot, as if it was a concert stage. Tall and thin, the reedy pianist wore a boxy faux-fur coat and matching hat.
As soon as she reached me, she tottered to a stop, as if she might fall into the orchestra pit otherwise. “Whatever are you doing here?” she asked.
“Hi, Pru. I’m just resting. Love the hat.” I threw her a sweet smile, since it was best to stay on Prudence Fortenberry’s good side. I learned the hard way what could happen if you didn’t.
It happened a few months ago, when I suggested to a client that “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” was a bit overplayed. Little did I know it was also Prudence Fortenberry’s favorite song. She came unglued when the bride struck it from her playlist, and she snubbed me for weeks afterward, referring all her contacts to another hat-maker way up in Baton Rouge.
I quickly found out she had more contacts in this town than a stray cat had fleas. Now I treated Prudence with kid gloves and bit my tongue whenever she said anything ridiculous.
“Is that real fox?” My only hope was to distract her so she wouldn’t ask why I was at the police station.
“No, it’s not. Why’d you say you’re here again?” Apparently, she couldn’t be swayed so easily.
“I didn’t say. But if you must know, I met up with an old friend this morning. He works as a detective.”
“How nice for you.”
“And why are you here?” I asked. My guess was to complain about something or other to the chief of police, but I could have been wrong.
“I got popped for parking in a handicapped spot.” She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how picky they are about that. As if I didn’t have a million other things to worry about.”
“You don’t say. Guess you should hop to it, then, and go inside to pay your bill.”
“It’s a horrible way to start the morning, if you ask me. You’d think they’d give me a break, since I’m an artist and all.” She clutched at the coat’s collar with her long, thin fingers. Although Prudence was as phony as the faux-fur coat, she had the most elegant hands I’d ever seen.
Hallelujah—someone new drove into the parking lot at that moment. It was Beatrice in her pink pickup, which rolled through the entrance like a giant slug.
I quickly rose. “Gotta go, Prudence. Good luck with the parking ticket.” I waited for Beatrice to pull over, and then I hiked up my skirt and jumped into the cab. “Thanks, Bea. You’re a real lifesaver.”
“No problem.” She waited for me to close the door before pulling away from the curb. “What did Prudence Fortenberry want?”
“To irritate me, but that’s nothing new.” I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Prudence and her ridiculous coat sashay into the station.
“Okay, next questio
n,” Beatrice said. “Why are you at the police station?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Since word, no doubt, would spread through town like wildfire, I might as well confess to my part in the fracas. “I found a dead body behind our studio today. She was stuffed in that whiskey barrel I use to catch the rainwater.”
“Lorda mercy!” Beatrice jerked sideways. Thank goodness we hadn’t pulled onto the road yet and there was nothing for her to hit but a few curbs.
“There’s more.” I glanced into the passenger-side mirror again—just in case—but Prudence was long gone. “Do you remember the rain gauge I made from an old hat stand?”
“Of course. You were so proud of that thing. Why?”
“Someone used it as the murder weapon, and then they tossed it in the trash.”
She whipped her head around again. “You’re kidding!”
“Stop doing that, Beatrice! At this rate we’ll never make it to my house in one piece. And why would I kid about something like that?”
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. But you caught me by surprise.”
“Think about how I felt.” I sighed and leaned against the seat. “Can we just drive now?”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
We pulled out of the parking lot and, after a mile or so, Highway 18 appeared. Neither of us spoke, but, every once in a while, I caught Beatrice sneaking a peek at me.
After a few more miles, she couldn’t take it anymore. “They seriously can’t think you had anything to do with the murder. Can they?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to believe.” But that was before I saw a shadow of doubt cross Lance’s face back there in the interview room. It flickered from one of his ears to the next, and that small moment cut me to the core. Probably because he and I spent every summer of our childhoods side by side, playing marathon rounds of Chinese checkers, slapjack, and crazy eights. How could he doubt me now?
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said.
Once we’d driven another mile or so, we reached Grady’s doughnut shop, with its familiar neon arrow on the roof. About a half-dozen cars sat in the parking lot, including Grady’s, as the arrow blinked away.
Someone's Mad at the Hatter Page 2
