Murder at Morningside

by Sandra Bretting

  He nodded and left.

  I turned to the deacon. “Okay. Take me to Ambrose.” I added a sigh to let him know I was not happy about being interrupted, or about being led away like a bull with a ring in its nose.

  What really bothered me, though, was knowing whoever killed Trinity was probably going about his or her business at that very moment—maybe even sipping a cup of coffee too—as if nothing had happened. I pondered that as we left the building and walked to the parking lot.

  The deacon had mentioned the notes Ambrose needed. No doubt he meant the fashion show we produced for the Ladies’ Auxiliary League in Baton Rouge the month before. I’d e-mailed the notes to the league’s chair, which meant I could still find them in my computer’s in-box. The only problem was that Ambrose would need a hard copy. Although my cell phone was smart, it wasn’t smart enough to print out twenty pages of notes on white bond paper.

  Speaking of which . . . my skirt’s pocket felt unusually light, so I patted the side where I normally stashed my cell phone. Nothing. Oh, shine. I must have left it on the vanity back at the motel. Could this day get any crazier?

  “Hold on.” I came to a dead stop. “I need a computer to print out some notes. Is there one I can use around here?”

  The deacon tilted his head. “Normally I’d say yes. No problem. The men’s club donated a fancy Hewlett-Packard with all the bells and whistles a few years back. Only it’s been going nonstop since last night and someone said the printer finally gave up the ghost about an hour ago. The pastor’s assistant nearly had a heart attack. No telling when they’ll get it back online.”

  Now what? Apparently the day could get crazier, after all. I paused to think about my travels over the past few days. When I stayed at Morningside, I’d visited the registration cottage more than once, and on one of those visits, I’d watched Wyatt study his giant Dell computer screen. If I could get to that, I could access my e-mail account and find the right notes for Ambrose. I thought it over as the deacon led me away.

  We came upon Ambrose a short time later, standing next to a woman in the parking lot. He must have worked himself into a lather about something or other because he windmilled his arms as he spoke.

  “Hey, Ambrose. I heard about the notes.” I sidled up behind him.

  When he turned, my average mood curdled like milk left too long in the sun. The person standing beside him was none other than the lady from the motel. The one who smiled a bit too much at him.

  “Oh.”

  She froze when she saw me too. “Hello again.”

  My first thought was to grab Ambrose by the shirt collar and drag him to higher ground, but I had too many other worries at the moment. “Can you take me to the plantation, Bo?”

  “Of course,” he said. “You remember Vernice here, don’t you? She offered to help us out tonight. Turns out she’s a whiz with cordless microphones.”

  I’ll bet she is. Of all the things to worry about this morning, why did Ambrose have to be one of them? “Please, Bo. The quickest way to get those notes is to get me back to Morningside.”

  “I can take you.” It was the deacon again, who had the uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “We couldn’t ask you to do that,” Ambrose said.

  “Nonsense. You’re needed here. I can drop your friend by the plantation in a jiffy. No trouble at all.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Why don’t I just wait for Ambrose to finish up here, and then we can go together.”

  “I told you . . . it’s no trouble.” The deacon grabbed my arm and practically dragged me away. “There’s only so much time. People will be coming to the show before you know it.”

  Which was true. I glanced over my shoulder. Ambrose slowly receded into the distance as we scurried away. I had half a mind to peel the deacon’s hand off my elbow and bolt right back to Ambrose and Vernice.

  But like it or not, we’d arrived at an enormous brown Cadillac.

  “Hop in, honey,” the deacon said. “And don’t forget to buckle up.”

  I didn’t say two words on the drive over to Morningside, which had to be a new record for me. All I could think about was the smile on Vernice’s face once I’d been roped into leaving.

  My driver made up for the silence by talking nonstop until the Cadillac arrived at the plantation. He was still talking when I climbed out of the massive car.

  That was when I heard another voice somewhere over my shoulder.

  “Quiet as da graveyard.”

  That Cajun accent was unmistakable. When I turned, Darryl stood in front of me with a metal garden bench tucked under his left arm. “What in the world are you doing with that heavy thing, Darryl?”

  “Deys want it over by da pool.” He nodded toward the south side of the plantation. “Not likes we gots da guests ta use it.”

  “You’re moving that by yourself?”

  “Not a problem. Nuttin’ a child couldn’t do.”

  That was when I remembered how he’d lifted the gravestone the day before. Apparently, those pale aqua eyes masked the will of a much younger man.

  “Say, Darryl.” I glanced over at my driver, who’d also stepped away from his car but was preoccupied with a pigeon that now hovered over its hood. Just to be sure, I took a step closer to Darryl and lowered my voice. “I talked to the police officer this morning about Trinity.”

  Did Darryl’s eyes narrow when I said that, like the aperture on a camera right before it snapped a picture?

  “They say she was poisoned,” I said. “With cyanide.” I glanced over at the deacon again, but his attention remained glued to the hood of his beloved car and the menacing bird.

  “Wat do ya know. Poisoned, huh? Tought she mighta been, since der wern’ no blood on da floor.”

  Darryl had been one of the first people to arrive at the murder scene, right after Laney Babin. He was the one who kept people away from the house until the police could arrive.

  “That’s what I’ve been told. Can’t imagine someone doing that to a young girl right before her wedding. What do you think happened?” I always said there was no better way to get at the truth than to up and ask for it. Nine times out of ten it wasn’t what people told you that mattered; it was how they said it. Sort of like when Ambrose and I first met and I knew he liked me because his voice quivered like muscadine jelly. A wobbly voice, a slight pause, an unintentional flinch, or Darryl’s narrowed eyes. All of it meant something. The trick was to find out what.

  “Da ya wanna know my toughts, or are you jus’ talkin? I tink da general manager knows sometin.’ Soon as I met da man, I knew sometin’ wern’ right.”

  “You mean Wyatt?”

  “Way I see it, dat man was goin’ ta lose his job.” He shifted the bench under his arm. “Didn’ ya know? Mr. Solomon wanted ta buy dis place. Lock, stock, an’ barrel.”

  Darryl stepped back to put some space between me and the chunky garden bench. “Check out da real-estate news, Miz DuBois. Dat’s all I’m sayin’.”

  He began to walk away, his back ramrod straight, even with the heavy cargo under his left arm.

  “Wait, Darryl.” I didn’t want to harass him, or to include the deacon in our conversation about Morningside, but this might be the last time I saw Darryl for a while and his meeting with Lance in the graveyard still bothered me. Fortunately, we could have been speaking in tongues for all my driver cared, because he’d taken a few steps toward the parking lot when he thought his precious car was about to be soiled by the pigeon. “Remember when you were talking to Lance LaPorte yesterday? Out there in the Andrews family graveyard? The acoustics around here are amazing, and I might have overheard you.”

  “Dat was private. No cause for listin’ in.”

  “I didn’t mean to listen in.” Okay, I did, but that was neither here nor there at this point. “You said something that didn’t make sense. At least not to me.”

  “Don’ know what you’re talkin’ about, Miz DuBois.”
r />   “You said you never knew Mr. Solomon or his daughter, Trinity. I couldn’t imagine that to be true, since you worked for the man. He was the one who told you all about the cremation. Surely you must have met him a time or two.”

  Darryl’s face slowly hardened. “Don’ recall dat. Never met da man. Only by da phone.”

  “But Trinity must have spoken to you about the wedding. About the flowers and such.”

  “Did ya meet her?”

  “Well, no.”

  “But ya made her veil. How can dat be?”

  “I worked with the wedding planner—”

  “An’ ya tink I didn’t? I’m tellin’ ya, Miz DuBois, I never met da gal. Mostly, I keeps to myself. It’s da bes’ way.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I asked.

  “People git involved when dey shouldn’t. Best ting is ta walk away.” As if to prove it, he turned his back on me and walked away.

  I stared at his retreating form. For one thing, I had no idea the plantation was for sale because no one had ever mentioned it. Then there was Darryl’s tone. He knew more than he was telling me; that much was clear.

  Too bad Ambrose wasn’t with me because he’d know what to make of it all.

  Ambrose. By now the overly tanned manager of the Sleepy Bye Inn, Vernice, had probably cornered him and was flirting up a storm, only he’d be too polite to do anything about it. Darn, I wished I had my cell. The only reason I’d discovered it was missing was because of the hullabaloo back at the church with my fashion-show notes and their broken printer.

  No use worrying. I’d promised Ambrose I’d retrieve the show notes, so it was time to make good on that promise by hook or by crook.

  The best way was to visit the registration cottage and find the wayward notes in my e-mail. There would be time enough to check out Darryl’s story about the mansion being for sale and time enough for me to shake off the feeling of gloom he always left behind.

  Chapter 13

  I told the deacon he might as well have a look around the plantation since we weren’t leaving anytime soon. At first he refused. But then I remembered the history museum so few people seemed to know about, with its treasure trove of Civil War artifacts. When I told him about that, he perked right up and trotted away without a fuss. One problem solved, so I headed for the registration cottage on my own.

  When I entered the registration building, it was like stepping into a Food Faire at midnight: quiet as a tomb. A hinge creaked when the door closed, but—other than that—nothing stirred.

  Even the desk sat empty. Given that it was a Monday morning, I wasn’t too surprised. Most hotels stayed busiest over the weekends, with many guests checking out late Sunday afternoon to avoid the traffic on their way home. Either way, whoever was on duty wouldn’t leave their post for long, so I needed to hurry.

  The Dell computer sat on the desktop as always, along with a pair of walkie-talkies.

  I glanced over my shoulder and then ducked around the desk. Someone had been working on the Dell, which meant I wouldn’t have to break into the system by trying different passwords. Breaking into the computer would only add to my offenses and land me in the local jail.

  I slid into Wyatt’s chair and pecked at the keyboard to coax it to life. A familiar blue glow appeared, along with a half-dozen icons on the left-hand side of the screen. One was an icon for the Internet, which would carry me to my precious e-mail account and Ambrose’s notes.

  Before I did that, though, I studied some of the other icons on the screen. Most of them had boring names like sales tax, revenue projections , and competitive analysis, but one was labeled BigD REIT. Hadn’t Wyatt mentioned something about a real-estate investment trust out of Dallas? Not only mentioned it, but complained about the people who owned it?

  I clicked on the icon, which produced a folder labeled staff letters. Inside the folder was a letter for each employee. Included were letters for Cat, Beatrice, and Charity, the other tour guide. The first words on each were draft of termination. Strange. Darryl had mentioned Mr. Solomon wanted to buy the plantation, which might put Wyatt’s job in jeopardy, but he never said anything about the rest of the staff.

  The first letter in the lineup belonged to Beatrice. The text said something about a change in ownership, regret to inform you, blah, blah, blah. The letter was dated three days ago. That was right before Laney Babin discovered Trinity in the hotel’s bathroom.

  The next one was for Charles and it contained the same language. Ditto for Darryl Tibodeaux, whose letter said something about one week’s pay, plus the obligatory letter of recommendation. Why hadn’t he said anything to me about it? He’d been awful surly, but that struck me as normal by now.

  I leaned back to mull my discovery. The only one who didn’t seem to have a letter was Wyatt. Then again, if the investment trust had asked him to prepare termination letters in anticipation of the mansion being sold, they couldn’t very well ask him to write his own letter. And after his shenanigans the night before, they, no doubt, had more than enough reason to fire him.

  Either way, my discovery put a whole new slant on things and expanded the pool of suspects, as they said in those magazines I sometimes read while checking out at the Food Faire. Maybe I should speak again to Beatrice, Darryl, Charles, Cat, and whoever else might be swimming in the suddenly large pool of suspects.

  It was something to think about as I tried to refocus my attention on the task at hand. I clicked on the icon for the Internet next and logged into my e-mail account. Within a few minutes I’d forwarded the notes Ambrose needed to his account, where they belonged.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice fell like a sledgehammer. Looking over the screen, Wyatt Burkett stood in the doorway, his face taut.

  “But—”

  “Be quiet.” He stepped up to the registration desk, much larger than I’d remembered and certainly more intimidating. An angry welt appeared near his hairline, and the skin underneath it had purpled like grape jam.

  Oh, sugar! And here I’d left my cell phone back at the motel. There was only one other phone within reach and it sat on the desk between us, as close to him as it was to me. If I tried to reach for it, he’d have ample time to grab my wrist.

  “Calm down.” My voice was surprisingly flat.

  “You don’t quit, do you? You were supposed to leave. They were supposed to make you and your friend check out.”

  “Yes, but what about you? I’m surprised you’re still here.” I couldn’t ignore the anger in his eyes or the nasty welt above them.

  “They told me I could come back and pick up a few things. Didn’t think I’d run into you, though.”

  “Well, I’ll just leave, then.”

  “Not so fast.”

  He stood between me and the only way out of the office. If I wanted to run, my words would have to clear-cut a path for me. “I’m so sorry about last night, Wyatt. I swear I didn’t know it was you.”

  “You almost blinded me. Do you know that? The doctor said you were an inch away.”

  “Really?” My heart sank when I realized he had no intention of letting me leave the office. “It was so black in the hall I couldn’t see anything. I’m surprised I hit you at all.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” He stepped closer, which seemed to suck the air from the room. Funny, I’d never realized how thick his neck was or the way his chest barreled over his waistline. It would be no contest, physically, between the two of us.

  “Why did you do it?” I asked. “Play dress up, I mean?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “My guess is you’re mad at the plantation and you wanted to get back at them.”

  “You’re a pretty good little guesser.” His hand shot across the desk and he grabbed my shoulder.

  Ouch. The man’s grip was strong, just like Ivy’s when she realized her daughter was missing.

  I wasn’t about to let him know that, so I gritted my teeth. “Hurting me isn�
�t going to help anything.”

  Why had I come to the cottage by myself? No one knew I was there, not even the elderly deacon who drove me over in his huge Cadillac. By now, Ambrose could be heaven-only-knew where, since Vernice obviously meant to monopolize his time at the church. The only other person I’d seen since I arrived at the plantation was Darryl, and he didn’t seem happy about Mr. Solomon’s plan to purchase the plantation.

  Darryl. My eyes darted to the walkie-talkies on the desk, deliciously close to the computer screen. I didn’t know the first thing about operating them, but how hard could it be?

  Quickly, I grabbed the nearest unit and depressed a button that read talk. Wyatt immediately released his grip on my shoulder, which ended the sharp pain at my collarbone. The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

  “Darryl!” As the word flew from my mouth, I realized Darryl might not have a walkie-talkie or he might have forgotten to turn it on. I let up on the button to see if anyone responded.

  A split-second later, broken air whooshed over the unit.

  “Dat you, Miz DuBois?” He sounded confused, or about as confused as I felt.

  “I need you at the registration cottage, Darryl!”

  “Comin’.”

  Ah, the man of few words. Before I could breathe, or even blink, a noise sounded at the door. Wyatt had darted for the exit. Oh no, he didn’t! If he thought he could threaten me and get away with it, he had another think coming.

  I bounded out of the chair and dashed for the door. My fingers touched the cold brass doorknob, which startled me. What was I doing? Wyatt weighed at least eighty pounds more and was ten times stronger. Plus, there would be time enough later to figure out why he’d cornered me like that.

  Like it or not, I knew who’d killed Trinity. If Wyatt could hurt me like that—my shoulder still ached—he could no doubt summon the will to poison Trinity.

  I reached that conclusion as Darryl appeared in the doorway, his cheeks flushed. It was time for me to call Lance and put away the person who murdered Trinity Solomon.