Murder at Morningside

by Sandra Bretting

  “It’s those acting lessons, Bea. They charge so damn much. How can they expect us to pay for it? They know we’re starving artists, but they don’t care.”

  “Why do you always come to me for it? I don’t have any more money than you. Guess you should have asked your fiancée.”

  “You know how her father was, tightfisted bastard. I’m only two weeks behind. That’s all I need. I promise I’ll pay you back. Every dime of it.”

  More rustling, and then a hand slapped something on a bar stool not too far away. Hallelujah I was up to date on my prayers, or else I’d want to confess something right then and there and beg God to hide me. As it was, I simply held my breath and hoped for the best.

  “There. That’s all I have,” Beatrice said. “Take it. But don’t ask me for anything more until the end of the month.” Her voice quieted. She must have stepped away from the bar. “And be careful. The police are probably checking out your apartment now.”

  “I will. And I’ll pay you back. Promise.”

  “Yeah, right. Any day now.”

  Finally, the bar fell silent. I snatched up the Tampax, along with some Altoids and my cell phone, and tucked them all in my purse. Not that I wanted to overhear a private conversation, mind you, but I couldn’t very well have stood and excused myself to go use the ladies’ room. No, proper etiquette dictated I let them finish their little chat, even with me listening from not more than four feet away.

  Surprising how different Beatrice sounded. She couldn’t have been nicer to Ambrose and me, while she sounded ready to bite that guy’s head off and spit it out the nearest window. More like a parent giving a scolding.

  Not that either of them sounded a bit sorry Trinity was dead. They seemed put out, inconvenienced. Like they wanted to save their hides instead of find out who murdered the young bride.

  Which meant I’d have to chew on their words, along with some biscuits and gravy, at breakfast. As if on cue, my stomach growled, so I smoothed down the cloche before straightening and moseyed over to the maître d’ stand.

  Sure enough, Charles stood sentinel behind the wooden podium as fresh-looking as one of the linen tablecloths draped over the tables.

  “Morning, Melissa. Is your friend still upstairs?”

  I focused on closing my purse so the tension had time to dribble from my face. No need to let Charles think something was wrong. “No. He’s not coming this morning. He had to put out some fires at his shop yesterday, and he never made it back. And please call me Missy.”

  “Will do. And that’s too bad about your friend.” Charles led me through the restaurant to a table near the window, where he expertly scooped up the unneeded place setting.

  “His assistant can’t seem to get along without him,” I said. “Someday he’s going to have to cut that apron string.”

  Charles handed me a menu as I slipped into the seat. “Sounds like they need him.”

  “Must be.” Since Charles and I were the only two people in the restaurant, perhaps now would be the perfect time to chat. “Has everyone recovered from yesterday?” While Trinity’s body had surfaced only the day before, these people still had a business to run.

  “Guess so. It would’ve been a lot worse if we’d known her better. I mean, I never met the girl until last week.”

  “Really?”

  He offered a basket of rolls as round as pond stones and lightly glazed.

  “Still, it must have come as a terrible shock when they found her body so close by,” I said.

  “That’s true. Kind of creepy, when you put it like that.”

  “I should think so.” Daintily, I placed a roll on my plate. “Where do you think they took the body?” While this wasn’t the best mealtime conversation, Charles would have the inside scoop.

  “There’s only one funeral parlor in town. It’s right next to the Baptist church.” He set down the rolls and hovered over me, as if waiting for me to look at my menu. He should have known by now he’d have to wait a bit longer.

  “That must make it very convenient. Back in Bleu Bayou, the funeral parlor is way across town.”

  “Riversbend is much smaller, so our church pastor works at both places.”

  “Do you go to church there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, when I’m not working.”

  I glanced around the empty restaurant. I was probably the only person within a ten-mile radius sitting down to breakfast instead of sitting in a pew at the Baptist church. Shame on me for forgetting today was the Sabbath.

  “Where did you say the church is?” There was no telling how much longer Ambrose would be away, and I was wearing my favorite hat. It could be interesting to see how the people around here worshipped, especially if it meant being closer to the place where they’d taken Trinity. Might be downright fascinating.

  “Half a mile down the road, on your left. You can probably make the morning service if you leave right now.”

  I glanced out the window. Bright sunshine and a few wispy clouds. Perfect weather for a stroll. And I could always use some fresh air to get over my encounter in the hall the night before. “Say, Charles, I think I saw something outside my room last night. Or someone. Wearing a uniform, of all things.”

  “That right? Must have spooked you with all that talk of ghosts yesterday. You know there’s no real evidence.”

  “Of course.” When he put it like that, it did sound silly. “I’ll tell you what. You get me some coffee to go and I’ll head over to the church and put that nonsense about ghosts and such out of my head.”

  “You got it.” Charles left, which gave me a moment to slip a breakfast roll into my purse. I could always repay the hotel later with a big supper order. After a minute or two, he returned with a Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with something black and steaming.

  “It might be fun to visit a new church,” I said. “Want me to say hello to anyone for you while I’m there?”

  His face softened a bit. “If you see Beatrice, tell her hey.”

  “I’ll do that. If I see her.” Now that I had a plan, I slid out of the seat, renewed by our little chat. If I was ever going to help sweet Ivy Solomon, there was no time like the present. And there was no telling how long until Lance got an official police report. By then, whoever killed Trinity could be miles and miles away, and it didn’t seem right to be so close to the person doing the investigating—my old neighbor, Lance LaPorte, all grown up—without helping if I could.

  Coffee in hand, I left the plantation. The only other souls out on this bright May morning were two broodmares who watched as I walked along their fence line. They looked recently brushed, with manes that lay flat against their crests.

  “Morning, ladies.”

  The smell of dry willows, spent wildflower stalks, and dusty pea gravel followed me as I hiked down the road. I longed for a sketchpad so I could capture the way the willows bent in the morning breeze. Even though I normally used feathers for the trims of my hats, I could always replicate the pussy willows with some rolled organdy or silk. I tried to memorize their exact bend so I could sketch the stalks when I returned to my hotel room later.

  Once I’d passed the horse pasture, I came upon columns of spiky plants grown chest-high, spaced a foot apart. Sugarcane. Not a kitchen garden, by any means, but a commercial operation that stretched back as far as a football field.

  A bit farther along, the church/funeral home/coroner’s office Charles had described came into view. First up was the church, made with white clapboards, rounded windows, and flower boxes full of purple irises. The picture of a quaint country church. The building stretched back a ways, and it had sired an identical building next door. The two were joined by a fabric awning that arched over a cobblestone path.

  It all looked perfect. Too perfect, as a matter of fact. When I drew closer, the wood clapboards were actually plastic and the flowers made of silk. Even the roof’s shingles were so evenly spaced they must have come off a roll. A marquee in front of the first building a
nnounced the Rising Tide Baptist Church, while a smaller sign pointed to the Riversbend Funeral Home next door, like an afterthought.

  Church had yet to begin. An old man in a gray suit guarded the doors like a stone lion. I automatically walked toward him until I remembered the real reason for my visit. Niceties would have to wait if I wanted to explore the funeral parlor next door.

  I ducked my head and pretended to be searching for a trash can for my coffee cup, which I found by the cobblestone path. I made a big show out of tossing the cup, then dashed toward the funeral parlor, which had the same plastic siding, indoor/outdoor grass mats and artfully arranged window boxes as the church. I was beginning to feel like a tourist at Disneyland, where artists used paint and plywood to create the illusion of actual charm.

  Fortunately, the door was unlocked; probably left that way by the church’s cleaning crew. The moment I stepped through the doors, I paused. The room was dark compared to the parking lot, and a stained-glass window at the front provided the only light. In it Jesus wore an enormous halo, which looked more like an oversized sombrero, truth be told, and raised his hands heavenward. A half-dozen folding chairs separated me from the figure’s embrace.

  The only thing missing was a casket. A stand was there, with four wheels and thick hospital-grade steel bars, but the space between the front and back of the cart was empty.

  I quietly slid into one of the creaky folding chairs and pondered my options.

  “Lookin’ for sometin’?”

  “Darryl! You gave me a fright.” The voice nearly brought me to my knees, and I placed my hand on my chest. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that. It’s not polite.”

  Darryl, the gardener at Morningside, kept popping up when I least expected it. He tucked his head, hopefully because he realized he’d done something wrong.

  “Yer too early for da memorial service, an almos’ too late for da church next door.” He jerked his thumb toward the Baptist church. “Deys asked me to take care of te chapel here. Keep her clean. Whatcha doin’ here?”

  “Me? I’m out for a stroll. Thought I’d check out this place before my friend gets back. The door was open. It’s a quaint little chapel.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Dis be te funeral parlor, Miz DuBois. Notin’ quaint about dat. Ya best be gettin’ to church, and I’ll lock up te place.”

  His tone made the hairs at the nape of my neck bristle. “I didn’t mean any harm. Honestly, you act like I broke in here for fun.”

  “Didn’ mean no offense, Miz DuBois. Guess all dat talk about te family burnin’ up dat girl’s body done make me crazy. Poor ting, so young an all.”

  “Really?” Casually, I leaned back. After spending so much time in psychology classes at Vanderbilt, I knew plenty of tricks to get people to tell me more. One of my favorites was a little something called “reflection,” where you simply parroted back what a person had just said. It made people want to prattle on. “They want to burn the girl’s body?”

  “Dat’s what te fater said. Goin’ on about cremation. An him bein’ Cat’lic an’ all.” By this time, Darryl had moved his good hand forward, so I quickly moved my hand too. That was another trick called “mirroring,” but that was neither here nor there at this point.

  “If they’re Catholic, then they’ll probably have the funeral back in their own parish, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Lots of dem churches don letcha bring te ashes in. Could be te priest be makin’ em stay here for dat. Hard ta say.”

  “I’m surprised she’s being cremated. Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing most parents would agree to.”

  “Dey be gettin’ bad information.” Darryl shook his head. “Someone be tellin’ em what ta do.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. But what could they possibly gain by cremating the girl’s remains instead of having a proper Catholic burial in their own parish? I’d have to ask Ambrose when he returned.

  “I guess I should get to the church service, then.” I rose and wandered past him. “Are you coming?”

  “Oh, no.” His face grew even more somber, if that was possible. “I don’ belong in tere. Dey don wan’ me any more ten I wan’ tem.” He stood with his legs pressed tightly together, which was definitely a defensive position, according to the textbooks.

  “All right, then. See you back at the plantation.” I waved and ducked past him into the bright sunshine, relieved to be free of Darryl’s stare.

  Compared with the gloom and doom of the funeral parlor, the church positively glowed. I hurried under the awning to the church’s double-wide doors, which were closed. They never do seem to latch right, though, so I gently depressed the handle and pushed them open without a sound.

  The place was small. Two columns of pews ran front to back and held about four-dozen people in all. I could tell from the back of the heads it was a family crowd, with parents bookending their offspring at the ends of the aisles.

  A baldheaded man sat a few rows up on the left. When he turned, I glimpsed the profile of the general manager of Morningside.

  I sauntered over to his aisle and tucked into the row as inconspicuously as possible. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t worn a more showy hat, because I’d surely put folks to whispering about my appearance. As it was, only a few people seemed to notice my arrival, including the general manager, who nodded.

  “Morning,” I whispered.

  He opened his Bible and turned it my way to give me the chapter and verse. I lifted a book from a holder in front of me and located the day’s passage in Psalms. Pretty innocent stuff, compared to Revelations, and since I’d memorized most of it anyway, I let my mind wander to the people who sat around me.

  The smallish group was well-behaved, with most of the families keeping their toddlers in check. In my book, there was a fine line between family togetherness and tempting fate, but butter my biscuit if these children didn’t behave as well as a convention full of librarians.

  Once the pastor finished dissecting the passage, he turned our attention to a man who sat in the first row. The stranger popped up from his pew and joined the clergyman, all the while waving a bulletin in the air.

  “Thank you, Reverend,” he said. “Good preaching today. Mighty fine. If y’all will open your bulletins, there’s a little something in there about the ladies’ fashion show tomorrow night.”

  Fashion show? My ears immediately perked up. A spaghetti supper I could understand. Same thing with a bake sale or bingo night. But fashion show? Be still my heart.

  “Now, we planned to put on the show tomorrow night in the social hall. Heaven knows we need the money for our new choir robes. I’m sorry to say the organizer’s backed out, so we’re going to have to cancel the event.”

  The congregation groaned in unison, like a choir exhaling at the end of a long whole note. Whatever did he mean? Seemed a shame to cancel on account of one person backing out.

  “Yes, it’s true. I know how disappointed y’all are, but there doesn’t seem to be any other choice. We’ve already sold a bunch of tickets, and we’ll return everyone’s money as quick as we can.”

  I couldn’t, could I? The way I figured it, I needed more time at Morningside if I was ever going to help Ivy unravel the horrible tangle of events. It might give me the perfect reason to stay in town, plus a little privacy to look around the plantation, since everyone else would be at the church tomorrow night. I could always offer up Ambrose as master of ceremonies and then sneak away from the show when the opportunity arose.

  My mind made up, I rose from the pew. “Y’all don’t know me, but my name is Missy DuBois.”

  Heads turned my way in response.

  “You may have heard of my shop, though. It’s called Crowning Glory, and we make couture veils and whatnot for bridal parties.”

  That caused some nodding and general agreement among the crowd.

  “Anyway, the way I figure it, you need someone to organize a fashion show tomorrow night. My best fr
iend happens to be Ambrose Jackson. He’s been on television and everything.”

  The whispers came back now as loud as a kettle brought to boil. Just like I thought. The mere mention of Ambrose got them riled up. Ever since he did a reality show for the Learning Channel, where he turned ordinary girls into princesses, there weren’t many places we could go without being recognized. Sometimes I wondered if the women we met were more interested in his dress designs, or in Ambrose.

  “Between the two of us, we can come up with enough fashion to make your head spin.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Miss DuBois!” The speaker with the bulletin looked positively ecstatic.

  “It’d be a shame for you to have to cancel your event.” Guilt should have overcome me by then, offering up Ambrose on a silver platter, but in my experience, it was better to act first and seek forgiveness later. It wouldn’t hurt him to help out the locals here. “He’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”

  Since I’d spoken my piece, I sat again. It felt good to help other people, even if the other people hadn’t exactly asked for my help.

  “We would be most grateful,” the speaker said. “Guess the good Lord works in mysterious ways. Sounds like we’re going to have an amazing fund-raiser tomorrow night. Make us forget all about the violence here this weekend. Praise the Lord, and let’s pass the plate.”

  Chapter 8

  Now that I’d done my part to help the Rising Tide Baptist Church, I simmered in a warm gumbo of helpfulness until the preacher blessed us with the benediction. Even though fashion shows involved endless details, like pulling dresses, matching accessories, and hiring models, it was like falling off a greasy log backward if you’d staged them enough times, which I had. In fact, the Ladies’ Auxiliary League asked us to produce a similar fashion show just last month, and I still had all of the notes and contact info at my fingertips.

  As I made my way to the narthex now, someone touched my elbow. It was the speaker with the bulletin, and his eyes shone like new pennies.

  “Can’t thank you enough, Miss DuBois, for helping us out. I don’t know what we would have done otherwise.” His cheeks shone too, and were as pink as the blush on a rose.