“I was at Hank Dupre’s New Year’s Day breakfast. You can ask anyone who was there.”
“Really?” He didn’t sound convinced. “I was at Sweetwater yesterday too. That was some buffet, wasn’t it? What was your favorite thing?”
“The collard greens.” I knew he was testing me, but it was better to play along at this point. “Definitely not the peas. It was too early for that. I got there before nine and stayed until after ten.”
“And the medical examiner put the time of death at about nine-thirty,” Lance said.
Paxton’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “I see. Guess I didn’t pay much attention to the folks who were there yesterday.”
“No problem,” I said.
Lance lifted the folder once more. “It’s all here in this report.”
“The what?” Paxton’s gaze traveled from me to the folder. “You didn’t tell me anything about a report.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
The man grunted and then pointed to another door, which was faux-painted to match the rest of the walls. “Let’s do this in my office. Somewhere we can be alone.”
He walked to the door, which was painted with swirly knots of wood, wrought-iron hinges, and a brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s head. When he pushed against the animal’s mane, the door swung open to reveal another suite of private offices.
The one in the corner looked like it belonged to Charlotte, since mauve paint covered the walls and an antique writing desk sat front and center. A collection of silver photo frames in all shapes and sizes filled the desk until there was no room left for actual writing. Nearby was a cherry bookcase three shelves high, lined with even more frames, and a large glass bowl filled with potpourri.
“Not that one,” Paxton said. “This one.” He nodded to another office. Unlike Charlotte, who favored expensive antiques and silver picture frames, his office held a mishmash of cheap oak furniture. Two file cabinets, both overflowing with folders, bookended a battered partners desk that held a glass ashtray and calculator.
I entered the room ahead of Lance and slid onto a hard-backed chair by the ashtray. Instead of bayberry oil, the smell of stale cigar smoke reached me.
“What’s this about, then?” Paxton dropped heavily into a leather armchair that squeaked under his weight.
“I wanted to give you an overview of the autopsy.” Lance tossed the folder on the desk before taking the chair next to me. “Remember how I told you it was blunt-force trauma? Apparently on the left side of her head, just above the ear, with some lacerations on her arm and wrist, where she fell.”
I was about to interject, when I remembered my earlier promise. I’d pledged to listen and watch during the meeting, and maybe employ my “freaky sixth sense,” as Lance so delicately put it.
“I’m sure it’s all in there.” Paxton eyed the report warily. “Probably more than we ever want to know about how she died. I get that. But that’s not the most important thing.” His eyes flickered over the cover. “What I really want to know—what we all want to know—is why? Why would someone do that?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Lance said. “But we don’t have any leads at this point, so I don’t know what to say. Whoever murdered Charlotte disabled the security camera first. That tells me either they noticed the hardware, or they knew that building.”
“You want to know what I think?” Paxton seemed dazed. “I think you need to talk to Susannah Wan. You know who that is, don’t you?”
When Lance didn’t respond, I broke my vow of silence. “She’s president of the Southern Association of Wedding Planners.” I turned to face Lance. “That’s a group of people who plan all the weddings at the plantations and riverboats around here. Charlotte was a member before she died.”
“A member?” Paxton sounded wounded. “She wasn’t just a member. She was running for president. I think she would’ve won it too.”
Lance returned my gaze. “Did you know anything about that?”
“No, I had no idea.” My mind flew back to the morning’s meeting, when I first spied Suzi Wan. Normally so elegant and poised, she’d slumped by the door at Morningside as if it took every ounce of energy for her to stand upright. She didn’t even greet the people who filed past her, when normally she offered a hug, an air kiss or a handshake, at the very least.
“The election is next month,” Paxton said. “Everyone told Suzi she should retire and step aside so Charlotte could assume the office. But she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“That doesn’t mean this Wan person killed her,” Lance said. “We’re talking about a volunteer position for a group of wedding planners, right?”
Finally, Paxton snapped out of his reverie. “You’d be surprised. It’s all Suzi Wan cares about. Ever since her husband died last year, she attends every single committee meeting. Even the cleanup committee. I’m telling you, losing the election would’ve crushed her.”
“Then why did Charlotte run?” I asked. “Your cousin doesn’t seem the type who’d want to upset a widow like that.”
“It was my fault,” he said. “I told her to do it. Of course, I felt bad for Suzi, but it was time for her to retire. Especially since she wouldn’t spend any money on the group’s social media. None. Have you seen the website? It’s godawful. I told Charlotte she could change all that.”
Lance slowly rose and picked up the unread report. “Thank you, Mr. Haney. We’ll follow up on that lead. Since you don’t want to see the file, I’m taking it back with me to the station. I want you to call me, though, if you think of anything else. Anything at all.”
I followed Lance’s lead and rose as well. “Thanks for talking with us. And I’m really sorry about your cousin. Please let me know if there’s something—anything—I can do.”
He slumped in his chair now, as if talking about Charlotte had pummeled the fight right out of him. “There’s nothing anyone can do. We only want the murderer to get caught. That’s all.”
“It’s what we want too,” Lance said. “Good night.”
I cast a last glance at Paxton as I left the office. He didn’t seem nearly as intimidating now; not like he had that morning. He looked downright miserable as he slumped in his chair. Whatever would happen to him and the business now that Charlotte was gone? He might have been its brain, but she was its soul, and something told me she was the reason files overflowed from the file cabinet in Paxton’s office.
Chapter 10
By the time Lance and I parted ways in the atrium, the sun had sunk below the horizon, which darkened the sky to a deep plum. I left him standing by the entrance to the men’s restroom, while I continued on to the exit.
I felt fine until I stumbled through the door and stomped my foot on the hard pavement. Hell’s bells! Pain shot through my lower back. My spine was knotted like a rope, with someone tugging on the other end. Maybe a glass of Merlot, a hot bath, and an Excedrin PM would unknot it.
Do I even have painkillers? I struggled to remember as I limped past one empty parking space after another. If worse comes to worst, I can always drive by the pharmacy on my way home and—
“Missy! You-hoo!”
The voice stopped me cold. Please, not again. I turned and immediately winced.
The hazy outline of a faux-fur coat and fuzzy hat loomed before me. It was Prudence Fortenberry, and she was wearing the same getup as the day before.
“Prudence . . . what are you doing here?” I laid my hand against my heart. “Please don’t scare me like that.”
She giggled nervously. “Little ol’ me? Why-ever would you be scared of me?”
“Because you snuck up behind me in a dark parking lot.”
“I’m just headed for my car, same as you.”
My hand fell away. “Really? I didn’t see your car when I walked through here before. Where’d you park?”
“Behind the building.” She nodded in the direction of my studio. “There was no one there, so I thought, ‘why not’?”
As far as I knew, only employees parked back there. And not very many, either, what with the pitted blacktop and all. “How’d you know to park back there? Most people use the main lot when they come to the Factory.”
“I’ve lived in Bleu Bayou my whole life, don’t you know. I can tell you every parking space between here and the Mississippi River.”
I tentatively took another step, anticipating the jolt of pain. “Look, I have to keep moving. My back’s killing me and I really need to get home.”
“Bless your heart. Let’s go, then.” She fell in step beside me, her sleeve brushing mine as we walked. She’d wrapped a bandage around her right hand that stretched from her fingers to her wrist.
After a moment, my car appeared up ahead. It sat all alone, with nothing on either side. “Looks like we’re the last ones to leave,” I said. “You never did tell me why you’re here so late.”
“I had to visit someone in the other building.” She leaned close, as if she was about to whisper an important secret. “Actually, I came to see Bettina Leblanc. She told one of my clients they’ll have to wait two weeks for an appointment. Two weeks! It’s January, for heaven’s sake.” She finally stopped to catch her breath.
“Did it work?” I asked.
“Did what work?”
“Did Bettina give her an earlier appointment?”
“No, unfortunately. I couldn’t do anything for her. That Bettina is quite a stickler when it comes to her wait list. You’d think she’d make an exception just this once, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Oh, well. I can tell the girl I tried, anyway.”
“Bless your heart, Prudence.”
By now we’d arrived at my car, and a streetlamp cast a halo of light around it. I couldn’t very well leave Prudence all alone in an empty parking lot, now could I?
While I longed to speed right home and uncork that bottle of Merlot, my conscience wouldn’t hear of it. “Would you like a ride to your car?”
“Thank you, kindly. That’d be real nice.”
She moved toward the passenger door as soon as I unlocked it with my key fob, and then she practically dove onto the passenger seat. I waited for her to awkwardly gather her coat around her before I shut my door. Although I tried to ease onto my seat, my back spasmed anyway, and I clenched my teeth.
“You poor thing.” She struggled to fasten the seat belt as she spoke. “You really ought to go to a back doctor if it’s bothering you that much.” Finally, her seat belt clicked into place. “By the way, what are you doing here so late? I thought your studio was in the other building.”
“It is. But I had an appointment with someone else too. My friend’s a detective and he’s working on Charlotte Devereaux’s murder case. He asked me to meet with him.”
A moody silence fell over us as I started up the car.
“You know, that was a terrible tragedy,” she finally said. “Just terrible. Not to mention, I can’t think of a worse way to go.”
The silence returned as I backed out of the parking space and headed for the far corner of the building. Normally, the Factory cheered me up, with its charming brick walls, tin roof, and old-fashioned gas lamps. I especially loved it in spring, when lush pots of impatiens swung from every lamppost. Tonight, though, the building looked different. Tonight it seemed to loom in my windshield, all shrouded windows, blackened doorways, and empty flowerpots swaying in the breeze.
I drove around the building, and soon I spotted Prudence’s ancient green Volvo. By the time I’d parked my car next to hers, she’d already placed her bandaged hand on the seat belt strap. The wrap slipped a bit as she struggled to undo the latch.
“Prudence?” A jagged cut tore across the tip of her right finger and continued under the bandage. The wound was gruesome, even in the dark. “What happened to you?”
She quickly pulled her hand back. When the seat belt snapped open, she flung open the passenger door and practically tumbled out of the car. “Gotta go. Thanks for the ride.”
Still frantic, she fumbled to open the door to her car, and then she fell into the driver’s seat. She didn’t look at me as she began to pull away from the parking space.
What was that all about?
Prudence Fortenberry was a pianist, for goodness sakes. She made a living off those hands; she couldn’t afford to injure one. And the cut that ran down her finger no doubt made it impossible to play the keyboard.
Whatever the reason, she obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Judging by the way she fled, she didn’t want anyone else to know about it, either.
Chapter 11
I thought about Prudence and her injured hand all the way home. She couldn’t wait to escape my car and dive for the safety of hers. She wouldn’t even look at me afterward. Maybe I should talk to Ambrose about it once I got back to the rent house.
Ambrose. I hadn’t thought about him since I’d passed his studio on the way to the atrium. Heaven only knew how long he’d been stuck at work with his client, who just happened to look like a Victoria’s Secret model.
I wearily parked my car when I got home, and then I trudged to the front door on legs of lead. Several lights glowed inside, and the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter had disappeared from our doormat. Once I opened the door and tossed my keys on a side table, I shuffled to the kitchen, where something hard plinked against ceramic.
It was Ambrose, who sat at our kitchen table with a bowl of something or other in front of him.
“Hey.” I stepped around the farm table and plopped on the bench across from him. I’d inherited the table from my mother’s side of the family, once she died, and nicks and cuts marred the surface. A new crack recently splintered the wood, but I still couldn’t bear the thought of replacing it.
“Hi, there. What took you so long?” He laid his spoon down and grinned. Even at the end of a long day, his smile was genuine.
“I had a meeting with Lance and Paxton Haney.” I motioned for the bowl, which he gladly nudged over. Inside were some soggy Frosted Flakes half-submerged in milk. “He’s Charlotte’s cousin. You know, the one who died. I also ran into Prudence Fortenberry in the parking lot. Somehow she hurt her hand.” I motioned for the spoon too and scooped up some of the cereal. “It looked pretty bad. She ran away from me after I noticed it.”
“You don’t say. Maybe she did something stupid and she’s embarrassed. She’s always seemed a little strange to me anyway, to tell the truth. By the way, you got a phone call here at the house.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “It was your friend, Lance. Said to call him tomorrow because he has important news for you. He said something about a ‘person of interest.’”
I slowly chewed and swallowed. “Wonder who it is? And I’m surprised he didn’t just call my cell.”
“Really, Missy? Check your phone. My guess is your battery died hours ago and you’ve missed a string of calls. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I started to protest but then thought better of it. “Okay, okay. How long ago did he call?”
“Only a few minutes ago. He wants to talk to you first thing in the morning.” Ambrose carefully folded the note and returned it to his shirt pocket. “He keeps pulling you into these police investigations. I don’t like it. I think you should let him handle it on his own. That’s why they pay him.”
Any other time, I would’ve bristled at his tone, but tonight he looked worried. “It’s okay, Bo. I can handle it. He only includes me because I’m the one who keeps finding dead bodies lying around. Plus, Lance trusts me. Especially since I solved the last murder.” I passed the spoon back to him as a peace offering.
“I still think you should let him handle it. I don’t want you running around when there’s a murderer on the loose.”
“I’m not running around. And by the way—he got the autopsy report back.” While Lance had made me promise not to tell anyone, this was Ambrose, after all. He was practically family. “Turns out Charlotte Devereaux had a kid before she died. Only, she
never told anyone about it. That’s something else that doesn’t make sense.”
He considered his cereal bowl. “That does seem kinda strange. Especially since you two worked together. You’d think she would’ve shown you a picture on her cell or something. But she never mentioned it?”
“Nope, never. Not only that, but it turns out she wanted to build up her business before she died. A lot. She planned to add a bakery, a flower shop, and a photography studio. That’s what her cousin said at the meeting I went to.”
“Huh. You don’t say. Bet that didn’t go over very well with the other business owners around here.”
“Bingo. It probably made a lot people mad. They think she didn’t care about them.”
The mention of feelings reminded me of something else. Earlier in the day, I’d swore I’d tell Ambrose how he’d hurt my feelings in front of his client. Granted, I shouldn’t have interrupted their appointment, but that didn’t give him the right to pretend I wasn’t there.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” There was no time like the present. “I felt bad after I visited you at your studio today. I know you had an appointment, but you shouldn’t have brushed me off like that. I’d never do that to you.”
“I ignored you?”
“Yeah, you did. I even asked you to go to lunch, but you were too busy to notice.”
Realization slowly dawned on his face. “You’re right! I’m such a moron. But, in my defense, you know how I get when I’m working. The roof could fall in and I wouldn’t notice.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything then. But I figured if I didn’t tell you about it, you’d never know how I feel.”
He reached for my hand, his fingers cool from the metal spoon. “You know you can come to my studio anytime. I like it when you drop in. And I’ll try to remember to show it next time.”
“Thanks, Ambrose. And I’ll try not to barge in when you have a client.”
He squeezed my fingers before releasing them. “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t I take you to dinner tomorrow night to make up for it? How does that sound?”
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