Murder at Morningside

by Sandra Bretting

  “He graduated first in his class at Louisiana State. Always did have a mind for memorizing.”

  “I know that’s true.” We’d gotten sidetracked. “I remember how Larry memorized the Book of Psalms when we were only little things. I bet his clients love him. Was Mr. Solomon a client?”

  “Sure enough. Called on him a few months back and said he needed legal help. Didn’t like the boy his daughter was set to marry and wanted to protect the family fortune. That’s according to my Larry, anyway.”

  As she spoke, Charles made the unfortunate mistake of trying to approach our table to take our order. I raised my eyebrows, which was all the signal he needed to turn tail and leave. There was time enough to hear the daily specials once Odilia and I swapped stories.

  “Anyway, Herbert Solomon came to my boy’s office angry about how his only baby was being taken advantage of. Between you, me, and the tabletop, his baby wasn’t much to look at and her fiancé could have had any girl from here to Texas.”

  “I know that’s true. I saw the girl on my very first day here. God rest her soul.”

  “Well, Herbert Solomon was convinced her fiancé was only after Trinity’s money. Didn’t imagine anyone could love his daughter as much as he did.”

  “So he had your Larry write up a prenup? That’s a little extreme.”

  “Told my son he was going to make a big deal out of presenting it before the wedding to see what the boy would do. Sort of like playing King Solomon in the Bible when those two women wanted the same baby. Figured if the boy really loved his Trinity, then he’d sign the piece of paper and give away his rights to her money.”

  “That must have come as some surprise. I can only imagine how that conversation went.”

  “It happened not more than a week ago.” Odilia held out her menu. “Apparently, Herbert told my Larry that the boy asked if he could bring home the prenup to study it.”

  “See—” apparently Lance had been paying attention, after all—“he did care about her.”

  Men can be so delusional. If, in fact, the fiancé had been after Trinity’s money, the last thing he would’ve done was tussle with her daddy without looking for another way around the prenup.

  “Don’t be too sure, Lance. Could be he hoped to change his bride’s mind. Or her father’s. Thought if he bought himself a little time, he could turn things around.”

  Lance looked thoughtful as he finished the last of his roll. Crumbs littered his plate like birdseed on a white feeder.

  “Guess it’s time to order.” I felt a bit more charitable by now. Strapping guys like Lance needed their supper, and he’d already put in a full day’s work, so he must have been starving. Not to mention I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since who knew when. “Order whatever you want. Tonight’s a special occasion.”

  Even more so now I’d learned such interesting information about the Solomon family. Amazing how many tidbits could be revealed over a basket of supper rolls and a glass of sweet tea.

  The rest of our meal passed uneventfully. Once again I marveled at how Odilia knew exactly what to order and how it should be prepared. She always did know her way around a kitchen.

  It was good to see her and Lance, just like when we were back home chatting over something fresh baked from her oven. I always could count on her to make Lance and me laugh at her stories, and she could turn a phrase better than most anyone else I knew. Too soon, it was time to say good-bye and watch them leave.

  I began to walk back to my room. My feet had bloated up, along with the rest of me, and I slogged through the carpet like a skater on a rough patch of ice.

  Two hallways loomed ahead of me. One was the main hall I always used to get to the stairs, which normally was wide and welcoming. Since I was full on bread and sugar, it seemed much longer and narrower than before.

  The second hall was definitely the shorter of the two. I opted for the shortcut and entered a dark corridor. A few steps along, something tingled against the back of my neck, beginning at my shoulder blades and shimmying higher to my skull.

  I was being watched. From somewhere above, as if the observer was perched near the ceiling.

  I raised my gaze. On the wall next to me was an enormous oil painting of a glowering Confederate general. Colorful epaulets decorated each shoulder of his boiled wool coat, and shiny brass buttons closed the lapels. It looked like Stonewall Jackson, but it was hard to tell Civil War generals apart, what with the overgrown beards and all.

  I peered down the length of hall. A row of oil paintings unfurled before me. Butter my biscuit. Most were seascapes and military battles, with a few portraits, like Jackson’s, thrown in for good measure.

  I studied each one as I walked. P.G.T. Beauregard, the Battle of New Orleans, the state capitol in Baton Rouge. All were unique to Louisiana and looked priceless. The last painting was an oversized portrait of a dusty battle on an open field.

  Something seemed off, though. The painting tilted lazily toward the floor. When I tried to straighten it, I realized it hung against an uneven section of wall. Deep cuts around the frame made the wall dip on one side.

  The picture was nailed to a hidden door. A small door, but a door nonetheless. With no keyhole nor knob. Why would someone build a door into a wall and then not attach a knob?

  Since it’d be a shame to dirty the canvas with my fingerprints, I pushed against the elaborate gilt frame instead. Slowly but surely, the door gave way and exposed a gaping black hole.

  Cautiously, I stepped inside. There were no shadows or edges or corners in this space. Nothing but emptiness, dark and as cool as an abandoned coal shaft.

  I felt along a wall beside me for a light switch. One click and the room instantly brightened. A brick fireplace rose floor to ceiling in front of me, the hearth taken up by a pair of velvet wingbacks. Nearby stood an elaborate writing desk covered with mother-of-pearl inlays.

  Lorda mercy. There were enough curiosities in this room to fill any Ripley’s Believe it or Not! Museum. Like the bejeweled hookah on the writing desk and the emerald turban in a glass case. Didn’t Beatrice say something or other about a Turkish craze that once swept through the South? People couldn’t get enough of anything and everything having to do with the Middle East, which would explain the hookah, the turban, and an embroidered prayer rug on the wall.

  Even the air smelled different. Like burnt leaves, earthy and dry. Cigars, maybe, or perhaps a pipe. I stepped up to one of the wingbacks and sniffed. Sure enough, burnt tobacco.

  This had to be a smoking room. A place where men disappeared after dinner to talk politics, play cards, and gamble to their hearts’ content. Of course, no self-respecting Southern belle would want to stay in a room full of smoke and foul language, but the gentlemen insisted these rooms be built into their mansions.

  I moved closer to the writing desk and the trove of oddities. Beside the turban lay a sterling-silver cylinder, about the length of a rolling pin, engraved with flowers, stars, and whatnot. I delicately pulled the ends apart and discovered something shiny and round, like the pin and notch of a key, nestled on a bed of burgundy silk: An old-fashioned brass key as long as my finger.

  “Hello?” someone called out.

  I almost dropped the cylinder as I turned. The hotel’s general manager peered from the doorway.

  “My goodness, you frightened me.”

  “What are you doing in here?” He didn’t look particularly pleased to see me.

  “Thought I’d take a little stroll after dinner.” I tried to sound nonchalant, although my breath stalled. “And I went through that wonderful gallery of yours. You really should—”

  “Guests aren’t allowed in here.” He whisked the antique tube away from me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” I took a deep breath for courage. “Couldn’t help myself when I saw this beautiful room.”

  “That may be, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Sure. No problem. But can I ask you somet
hing?” Might as well go for broke. “What’s that? I’ve never seen one of those before.” I pointed to the strange cylinder.

  “It’s a scroll holder.”

  “Wow. It’s beautiful. Especially all of the silk on the inside.” Was it my imagination, or did he flinch?

  Instead of responding, he carefully replaced the antique on the desk.

  “Too bad the scroll’s missing,” I said. “All I saw was a key inside.”

  “Impossible. It’s empty. Can I walk you to your room?”

  Interesting. “I’m pretty sure of what I saw. Where did you find all this stuff?” My eyes swept over the crowded space.

  “Most of it belonged to Mr. Andrews. He was a collector. There’s a lot more in the attic. You really should go.”

  “It’s a shame to hide it. Especially with all the knickknacks.”

  “I suppose. Look, it’s getting late. I’d be happy to escort you upstairs.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been a heckuva day, but I can manage on my own.”

  The manager waited for me to move. When I didn’t, he gently took hold of my elbow and guided me away from the desk.

  “You’re lucky. Most people never get to see this room. It’s time for me to lock up.”

  I tugged my arm away. “But there’s no keyhole in the door. I checked.”

  “Did I say lock? I meant to say that I need to set the alarm in here. Off you go.”

  Of all the nerve! He treated me like a bothersome child who refused to go to bed.

  “I can find my way back. Thanks a lot.”

  “Have a pleasant evening, Miss DuBois. Sleep well.”

  Before I retreated through the opening, I glanced over my shoulder. The manager opened the top drawer of the writing desk and stashed the cylinder inside.

  I took my time navigating the stairs. Strange he’d hustled me out of the smoking room so quickly. It wasn’t as if I’d sprawled across the velvet chairs or tried the turban on for size. My presence there made him nervous, although there was no telling why.

  I climbed the stairs until I arrived at the third floor. When I approached my door, there was a blotch above the peephole. Someone had taped a note there. Not again.

  This note said something about Ambrose being stuck with another crisis, so he wouldn’t be back until morning. Dadburnit! I shoved the note into my purse and turned the key in the lock.

  The room was as quiet as always and silence overwhelmed me as I went about organizing my nightclothes. Once I’d changed and used the facilities, I combed my hair a hundred times and brushed my teeth. I rushed through the rest of my routine before switching off the light and flopping into bed.

  I couldn’t stay mad forever, though. And the bed did feel nice, what with a canopy of pink silk and a tuft of matching comforter. Downright comfortable, in fact. All that was missing was a twirling ballerina like they stuck in a music box and a tiny violin to play Swan Lake in the background.

  Soon all sound disappeared. I couldn’t have been sleeping long, though, when I awoke with a start. Something had fallen out in the hall. Was I dreaming? I sat up under the canopy of pink and held my breath, listening.

  Crash. There it was again. Unmistakable. A cold fear passed through me, stitching me to the spot. I wanted to call out for Ambrose, until I remembered he was nowhere near the plantation. Maybe if I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, the noise would disappear.

  No such luck. Another crash, this time a bit farther down the hall. Whatever could someone be doing banging around like that in the middle of the night?

  By the time I flung back the comforter and jumped from the bed, my fear had hardened to anger. Some people had no respect for others. Probably a drunken guest trying to find his room with the floorboards swaying as he stumbled from door to door. I debated whether to call the front desk or give the noisemaker a piece of my mind.

  As usual, my feet moved before my brain could engage, and I moved to the door and threw it open. The hall was empty. Whatever had awoken me from my sweet sleep was gone. Or was it?

  A shadow slid along the opposite wall, like a puff of cigarette smoke against paper. A bit of gray felt cloth was visible. More curious than frightened now, I followed the blot down the hall and onto the stair’s landing. For a moment, the shadow froze, silhouetted by moonlight. A dark hat was above and heavy brogans below. If I wasn’t a practical sort, I would’ve sworn the figure on the stairs wore a uniform. A Confederate uniform, like the one I’d seen in those pictures in the history museum downstairs. Like the one of a soldier holding a musket across his chest.

  “Hey, you! What’re you doing?” I knew the person would answer, since he’d been caught red-handed, snooping around in the middle of the night.

  The figure turned and tumbled down the stairs in a flurry of gray felt and black boots. Oh my! I moved to help, but the figure disappeared as quickly as that puff of smoke.

  When I finally allowed my brain to catch up, the chill returned. It was foolish of me to confront a stranger like that. Ambrose would have lectured me twelve ways to Sunday about the importance of minding my own business.

  Slowly, I backed away from the stairs. Bravery was one thing, but foolhardiness was quite another.

  I returned to my room, with my tail tucked between my legs. Whatever had awoken me from my sweet sleep was gone, as ethereal as the moonlight that splayed across the carpet. Why couldn’t Ambrose have returned sooner? At least I’d have someone to tell about the figure that tumbled end-over-end down the long stairway. Someone to comfort me and stroke my hair until I fell asleep.

  I dropped onto the music-box bed, which didn’t look nearly as inviting now. Odds were good I wouldn’t sleep another wink.

  Chapter 7

  Sunlight glimmered against the hardwood floor in my room the next morning, patiently nudging me awake. I’d caught only a few winks of sleep after the commotion in the hall, and my head was as heavy as wet sand.

  After a long stretch, I headed for the bathroom. Maybe a steamy shower and some mint toothpaste would revive me.

  Somewhat awakened, I dressed and grabbed my favorite cloche from its hatbox on a shelf in the closet. Although Ambrose didn’t much care for this one and once compared it to an oversized French beret, now would be the perfect time to wear it, with him being gone and all.

  I schlepped to the staircase, where sunlight poured through a beveled window and hopscotched over the stairs. I continued to walk down the stairs and through the hallway by the restaurant. Nothing much registered until I passed the bathroom where Lance had reaf-fixed the crime-scene tape, and then I shuddered.

  No use starting the morning off on a sour note, though, so I veered to the bar, where fat leather armchairs clumped around tables made from old wagon wheels. The smell of cut limes, spilled gin, and Ivory dish soap rose above it all.

  Everything was ready for the day. Glasses hung from a rack above the bar like shiny raindrops poised to fall on a pile of folded towels. To one side of the bar, they’d installed a fancy double dishwasher, like the kind they advertised in Southern Living. Couldn’t help but read those ads when I sat under the hairdryer at A Cut Above. Turned out the really fancy dishwashers had a drawer above and another below, so single people like me could wash a small load and not feel so guilty about it.

  Since I was all alone, I walked up to the bar for a better look. Before I got very far, my purse snagged on the counter and plummeted to the ground, spilling the contents every which way. I bent behind the bar to retrieve a Tampax that was careening across the floor.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” a woman said.

  Another voice immediately joined the first. I sucked in my breath and silently slid to the ground.

  “I had to talk to you.” It was a man, breathy and rushed. “What am I gonna do, Beatrice? They’re gonna think I killed her.”

  “Gee, you’re worried about yourself,” Beatrice said. “What a surprise. Don’t you even care that she’s dead?”

 
“Of course I care. I’m not an animal, you know.”

  “You could’ve fooled me. Look, Sterling, what do you want me to do?”

  Since I had no choice but to overhear this conversation, I might as well get comfortable. I twisted sideways and stretched my legs in front of me. Thank goodness I’d opted for the snug cloche and not one of my oversized hats, which would surely show above the bar.

  Beatrice continued: “You’re probably being followed. I wouldn’t doubt if they get an arrest warrant for you today.”

  “That’s why we have to leave. Come with me, Bea.” A swish of fabric, as if someone had grasped at clothing.

  “Trinity’s dead.” Her retort was harsh. “Like you said, they’ll think you had something to do with it. You’re not going to drag me down with you.”

  “But that’s where they’re wrong,” he said. “Why would I kill her before we got married? I’d be stupid. I was gonna be a millionaire. You have to believe me.”

  My lips automatically pursed. According to Odilia LaPorte, Herbert Solomon forced the groom to sign a prenup that would leave him high and dry after the ceremony. Might he be talking big for Beatrice’s benefit?

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Beatrice said. “Go home and let me figure out what to do. Don’t make a move until I call you. Got that?”

  Her voice was like broken glass; so different from the chipper greeting I’d heard before.

  “If you say so, but I’d rather stay here with you.”

  “I told you . . . go home. Stay there until I call. Don’t even think about coming back or trying to contact me.”

  “But I can’t go back there.” His voice softened to a whimper; like a puppy dog begging for a treat. “The rent’s due and I haven’t got it.”

  “Not again.” Although I couldn’t see a thing from my hiding spot, I imagined Beatrice shaking her head. “What happened to the money I gave you last month? Don’t tell me you blew it already.”