“Are you hungry?” Beatrice glanced at me again. Since her pickup couldn’t do more than forty miles an hour, we practically crawled past the shop.
“I don’t think so. To be honest, I just want to go home.”
“No problem. Course, I haven’t asked you the most obvious question.”
“I know what you’re going to say.” No need for her to voice it. “But they wouldn’t tell me the victim’s name. I only know the girl had long, blond hair.”
“That could be anyone. I hope we didn’t know her.”
“Me too. Look, do you mind if we stop talking about it? It makes me picture the blood in her hair when we do.”
“No, of course not.” Her chandelier earrings jostled when Beatrice ran her finger across her lips. “I’ll keep my lips zipped.”
“Thanks.”
We fell silent again as we passed the doughnut shop and arrived at the sloping lawn of the Sweetwater mansion. The curb was empty now, the cars long gone, but tire treads marked the watery pea gravel.
Which reminded me of something else. “Say, did Mr. Solomon give you a hard time about parking so close to his Rolls-Royce this morning?”
“You saw that?”
“Well, it was hard to miss. I can’t believe you were brave enough to mess with him like that.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t have anywhere else to park. You know, he’s still mad at my uncle for buying the Sweetwater place. The only reason he went to brunch this morning was to spy on him.”
“Hmmm. Can’t imagine what those two talk about. But I’d love to be a fly on the wall when they do.”
She chuckled as we finally drove up to my rent house. “You and me both. Say . . . do you want some company? I don’t see Ambrose’s car.”
I shook my head as she parked, and then I swung open the cab’s door. “No, that’s okay. He’ll be home sometime this afternoon. Right now, all I want is some peace and quiet and maybe a hot bath.”
“Okay. But I’d take tomorrow off if I were you. Unless you want people to come around to the store and pester you with questions.”
I paused. Maybe she was right. By now, half of Bleu Bayou would know about the murder, and they’d tell the other half by dinnertime. That was the curious thing about living in a small town: There were so few people, but so many opinions.
I couldn’t help but bristle at the thought, though. “I don’t want to lock myself up in the house. I’ll go stir-crazy. Besides, I have a big meeting tomorrow. It’s the wedding planners’ association, and I haven’t seen those folks since before the holidays. At some point, they’re going to forget about Crowning Glory if I don’t go to their meetings.”
The Southern Association of Wedding Planners met only once a month, and it just so happened the January meeting was right down the road at Morningside Plantation. At least a hundred people would be there, including some I’d never met. How could I pass up a chance like that?
“Suit yourself.” The earrings jostled again as Beatrice tilted her head. “But I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“Maybe they won’t even know about the murder. Not everyone is from Bleu Bayou, you know.” A girl could hope, anyway.
“Sure,” she said. “And this old pickup will win at Daytona next year.”
“Aren’t you supposed to make me feel better? FYI: You’re not. And you never know, maybe Lance will find a suspect by then. That way people won’t have to make one up.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
I wearily hopped out of her truck. “See you tomorrow.”
“By the way . . .” She leaned over the seat and peered through the passenger window. “Did you ever eat any of those black-eyed peas at the party this morning?”
“Nope. I never did.”
“Maybe you should do us all a favor, then, and have some for dinner.”
Chapter 4
The next morning dawned cold and clear. Once I’d retrieved my car from the Factory, I spent the night before talking to Ambrose, purposefully dancing around the subject of the dead girl in the parking lot. After a glass—or was it three?—of wine, I finally slumped off to bed around midnight.
Maybe that was why the earthy smell of Community coffee, which wafted from a travel mug I placed in Ringo’s center console for the drive to work, smelled especially good this morning.
I gathered my hair into a high ponytail, lowered Ringo’s soft top—since it was the first rain-free morning we’d had in a while—and purposefully took side streets and back alleys to reach the Factory. I even popped a Harry Connick, Jr. disc into the CD player and let the opening notes of “One Fine Thing” wash over me.
My somewhat-good mood immediately soured, though, as soon as I arrived at the Factory. Parked smack-dab in front of the building was a white news van for KATZ, the local ABC affiliate. The van’s windows were down and its passengers gone.
My heart raced. As much as I needed to get back to my shop and a normal routine, I couldn’t handle a reporter so soon after yesterday. I glanced at the rearview mirror and then threw the convertible into reverse, the sound of Harry’s crooning fading beneath my growing panic.
Why didn’t Beatrice call to warn me? Obviously, KATZ knew about the murder. The reporter was probably camped out in the employee parking lot at that very moment, or—worse yet—by my studio’s front door.
I shoved my hand into the center console and yanked out my cell, which was wedged next to the travel mug. The screen showed I’d missed three calls. Ouch. Two of the calls were from Beatrice and one from Ambrose. No doubt I couldn’t hear the ringtone over the music.
My mind swirled as I drove back onto the street. Along with missed calls, I’d noticed the time on the phone’s screen. It was only nine, which was an hour too early for the wedding planners’ meeting at Morningside. But, since I couldn’t go to work, maybe I should head over to the plantation anyway. I seemed to recall the hotel kept an ewer of sweet tea on a sideboard in the registration cottage, not to mention a workstation where people like me could plug in a laptop or cell phone while they waited.
Even though I wasn’t staying at the plantation overnight, maybe I could crash there until the meeting began. I pulled onto Highway 18 and then waited for the wind to die down a bit before I reached for my cell again.
Thankfully, once I punched in the number for Crowning Glory, Beatrice answered right away.
“Where are you?” she hissed.
“I’m on Highway 18, headed for Morningside.”
“That’s good. You don’t want to come here.”
Her tone sent shivers pinballing down my spine.
“I know . . . I saw the news van in the parking lot. What in the Sam Hill is going on over there?”
“You’re not gonna believe this, but the station sent out Stormie Lanai.” A whoosh of air sounded over the receiver as Beatrice shifted the phone from one hand to the other. “She’s even worse in person. I swear she’s wearing three layers of makeup.”
Oh, shine. Stormie Lanai was the investigative reporter for channel 11, not to mention its weather girl, traffic reporter, and all-around gaffer. Her signature sign-off included a cheesy wink that always set my teeth on edge.
“Did she come into the studio?”
“Of course. But she only stayed for a minute or two when she found out you weren’t here. Said something about coming back at noon. You might want to disappear for a while.”
“Will do. I’ve got nothing to say to her, anyway. Why doesn’t she talk to the police?”
“She did, but my guess is she wants to film her news report here. She kept saying the studio had such ‘wonderful color’ ... whatever that means.”
“Great. That’s just great.” No doubt Stormie had grabbed a hat stand when she got there and practiced a few swings for her news report. Why didn’t she just audition for a soap opera instead of the five o’clock newscast? “Okay, if the reporter tries to come in again, meet her at the front door. Don’t let her get inside. Maybe
she’ll get bored and go back to the station.”
“I don’t know, Missy. She almost drooled on me when she saw all the hat stands around here. But, I’ll try.”
“I know you will. And I’ll pick up your call next time too.”
I clicked off the line and tapped the screen for Ambrose’s studio. After filling him in on my comings and goings, I said good-bye and slid the cell into my pocket.
Soon, the entrance for Morningside Plantation appeared on the road ahead. Hallelujah. My mood couldn’t help but lighten again at the sight of the gorgeous mansion and its rolling emerald lawn. Two stories high, with frosted white paint and a creamy marble staircase, it practically floated above the grassy knolls. If not for a black iron handrail that tethered the staircase down, it might have blown away with the first good headwind.
It’d been more than a year since I last visited Morningside. That was when I created a one-of-a-kind veil for a society wedding with the rich Solomon clan out of Baton Rouge. The night before the big event, though, a maid discovered Trinity Solomon’s body in a downstairs bathroom. She’d been poisoned and left to die on the cold marble tile.
Hopefully, people’s memories from that horrible time had dimmed, which seemed to be the case, since cars now filled the hotel’s parking lot. I cruised past car after car until I found a spot in the next-to-the-last row, where I parked and hopped out of Ringo.
Once again, my feet landed on rough pea gravel as I joined a path that wended to the registration cottage. Today, though, I wore sensible black flats, which I’d paired with a wraparound dress and an orange cashmere sweater. Although people insist redheads like me should shy away from the color, I like to think orange complements my green eyes and light skin.
The door to the registration cottage swept open easily, and I stepped inside. Everything looked exactly the same. The same desk held a giant Dell computer, catercorner to a sideboard stocked with an ewer of sweet tea. Even the stack of brochures next to the ewer hadn’t changed. The only difference was the person standing behind the registration desk. Since Herbert Solomon had bought the place and fired its entire staff, a new general manager now stood watch over the front office.
“Hello, Missy!” A huge grin split Vernice Ficklin’s face. Her tanned skin was the color of wheat berries, even in the middle of winter, and her teeth shone like the fluted columns outside.
“Shut my mouth and call me Shirley!” I ran to the desk to give her a quick hug. “Don’t tell me: Mr. Solomon gave you the general manager’s job!”
She happily hugged me back. “I only applied for it because you said I should.”
Which might’ve been true, but it was neither here nor there at this point. “You deserve this job. Anyone who could turn a profit at the Sleepy Bye Inn will go over like gangbusters here.”
She finally released me. “Ain’t that the truth. But I’m only the assistant general manager. For now.”
“Nothing says you won’t be promoted.”
She grinned. “You know, the Sleepy Bye Inn is still open. Don’t know how they stay in business, what with that dime-store furniture. So, what brings you to Riversbend?”
I scooted over to the sideboard and the ewer of sweet tea. “I’m here for the wedding planners’ meeting.” I spoke over my shoulder as I plucked a Styrofoam cup from a stack. Then I turned to place it under the spigot and watched brown liquid fill the cup. “They invite vendors like me to their meetings.”
“I’ve seen your work in the newspaper.” She tsked a few times. “They always mention Crowning Glory whenever there’s a big to-do around here. You must be working overtime.”
“Most days. And I hope it stays that way.” I rapped my knuckles on the wood sideboard after turning off the spigot. “Say, do you mind if I plug in my phone and answer some e-mails while I’m here?”
“Not at all. We keep two or three different cords by the outlet, so find one that fits. You know where it is.”
I edged closer to the wall, trying to balance a full cup in one hand and my phone in the other. Somehow, I managed to plug the phone into the right cord without spilling a drop. But the minute I rose, someone barreled through the front door and made a beeline for the registration desk.
Lorda mercy. I gasped as a girl rushed past me and tea sloshed everywhere. The fireball didn’t even pause to look back at the commotion she’d caused.
“Whoa, nelly,” Vernice said. “You almost ran down Miss DuBois.”
Finally, the stranger stopped and shot me a look. She wore sky-high Manalo Blahniks and a back-combed ponytail every inch as tall as her heels. “Sorry about that. But this is an official emergency.”
Vernice cocked her head. “May I help you?”
“We need a projector screen brought to the Magnolia Room. Stat.”
Stat? I grabbed a cocktail napkin from the sideboard to wipe the cup clean. “What happened? Does a doctors’ convention need an emergency PowerPoint presentation?”
Vernice chuckled. “I think we have a screen somewhere. How long do you need it for, honey?”
“Long enough to show some pictures of one of our members,” the girl said. “She was a wedding planner, but someone killed her yesterday.” Her eyes opened wide, as if she couldn’t believe it.
“Excuse me?”
She glanced over at me. “It’s true. And you’d think they’d give the first vice president for conferences and committees—that’s moi—more time to plan a tribute after something like that.”
Can it be? The trickle of blond hair that flowed from the cask? “Are you talking about the body they found yesterday?” My voice was soft. “At a place called the Factory?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?” I asked.
“Charlotte. Charlotte Devereaux. We’re all devastated, of course.”
I swayed, even though no one had brushed past me this time.
“Are you okay, Missy?” Vernice shot out from behind the counter and clasped her arm around my waist.
“No. No, I’m not.”
The stranger squinted. “Did you know Charlotte?”
“Yeah, I did. We worked together.”
While we weren’t best friends or anything, I got to know her pretty well over the past year and a half. Charlotte also rented a studio at the Factory, and she sent plenty of clients my way. I tried to reciprocate and even recently recommended her to one of my contacts. Willowy and stylish, Charlotte was a product of Riversbend and its Catholic schools here. Who would do such a thing?
“I’m afraid it’s going to be a terrible shock to our members,” the stranger continued. “Not to mention we’ll have to fill her committee spot, which isn’t going to be easy.”
Vernice gave a tight smile. “Let me see about getting you that projector screen.”
Thank goodness Vernice spoke first so I wouldn’t have to. Imagine worrying about such a trivial detail like a volunteer committee at a time like this! The girl had no sense, not to mention any shame.
“Thank you,” the girl said. “Oh, and we might need some more sweet tea. You wouldn’t believe how people guzzle that stuff. Just charge it to our account.” With that, she tottered away on her designer heels.
I wiggled away from Vernice. “Can you believe that girl? Of all the things to worry about at a time like this! She didn’t even mention Charlie’s poor family or friends.”
“Some people have no horse sense.” Vernice shook her head as she returned to the registration desk. “Try not to let her get to you. I’m sure your friend was a wonderful person.”
“She was wonderful. She and her cousin had this business called Happily Ever After Events. She did all the wedding planning and he handled the accounting.” I racked my brain for her cousin’s name but came up empty. “He must be devastated. Anyway, I’m sure going to miss Charlotte.”
Vernice tentatively pointed to the phone on her desk. “I’m sorry, Missy, but I have to get that screen delivered to the Magnolia Room. With my luck, that girl will throw
a hissy fit if I don’t move fast enough.”
“You’re probably right. Speaking of which . . . is it okay if I still hang out here until the meeting starts? I know you’ve got work to do, so I won’t distract you.”
“No problem. Really . . . I don’t mind. But you might be more comfortable over at the mansion. They delivered some new couches for the lobby, and they look really comfortable.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll do that. But I’ll stop by here afterward. I want to find out all about your new job.”
She chuckled. “There’s not a whole lot to tell yet. But I’ll be here this afternoon.”
Once Vernice fell silent, I backed out of the office and stepped onto the walkway. The morning air immediately cooled my cheeks, which had warmed during the conversation with the callous stranger.
Little did I know when I first arrived at Morningside that someone would confirm my worst fear. Not only did I know the person who’d been stuffed into my rain barrel, but I liked her. I liked her a lot.
Which meant Lance had to hurry up his investigation. Anyone who could murder a sweet woman like Charlotte Devereaux didn’t deserve a single day of freedom.
Since we hadn’t spoken since yesterday, I decided to place a call to the police station. I pulled the cell from the pocket of my sweater, tapped the screen, and waited for him to answer.
“Uh, good morning.”
He sounded hesitant, no doubt because of our little spat yesterday.
“Hey, there.” I grimaced, thankful he couldn’t see me. “Sorry about what happened yesterday. Guess I got a little mad at you.”
“That’s okay. I should be the one to apologize.”
I started my trek toward the mansion, sidestepping puddles along the way. “No, it was my fault. You were just doing your job.”
“But I never doubted you for a minute. You have to believe me, Missy. It bothered me all night long I didn’t tell you that.”
“Yeah, our conversation bothered me too. Why don’t we call a truce?”
“Deal. How’re you doin’ this morning?”
Someone's Mad at the Hatter Page 3
