Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  My VW pitched and rumbled on the journey home, the sack of beignets bouncing along. Compared to Sweetwater, the little rent house we shared up ahead looked tiny.

  Tiny, but quaint. It had bubblegum-pink walls and a used-brick fireplace, and it reminded me of something Barbie would own if she and Ken ever settled in the deep South. Best of all, I’d planted bee balm next to the front gate when we first moved in, and now hummingbirds and butterflies flitted around the place in abundance. I passed several as I made my way through the gate and into the house.

  I slowed as I approached the kitchen. Here, sunshine warmed the buttercream-yellow walls and splashed across a farmhouse table that went back two generations. That was where I found Ambrose, hunched over a plate of scrambled eggs and Jimmy Dean sausage.

  “Look at you,” I said. “And here I thought you’d starve to death.”

  His knife clattered onto the plate. “Hey, there. Where’ve you been? I thought we’d meet up an hour ago.”

  Today he wore my favorite polo: the lapis one that brought out his eyes. As we said down South, “I can’t-never-could” resist a man with long eyelashes, and his reminded me of Bambi’s.

  “Here’s the thing.” Our farmhouse table had benches instead of chairs, so I plopped down next to him and laid the beignets between us. “I got to tour the Sweetwater mansion with a real estate agent. Boy, did I learn a thing or two.”

  “That so?” To be honest, his beautiful eyes kept leaving my face to scope out the oily sack on the table.

  “It goes all the way back before the Civil War. Turns out a trust owns it, and they’re looking to sell cheap. Do you know they only want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it? Never in my life did I think a house like that could be so inexpensive.”

  “Does it have a roof?”

  I shot him a look. “Of course it has a roof. You’ve seen it. And real hardwood floors on the inside. Looked like mahogany to me. Point is, someone could fix up that place like nobody’s business if they had half a mind to do it.”

  “So it’s falling down, right? Maybe that’s why they don’t want very much for it. Sounds like a lot of maintenance to me.”

  If there was one thing my Ambrose was allergic to, it was maintenance. Didn’t much matter if it involved our shops back in town, this old rent house or his brand-new Audi Quattro. He had a hard time looking beyond the elbow grease. Whereas I was the exact opposite. Give me a paintbrush, a rotary sander, and a crescent wrench, and I was happier than a dead pig in the sunshine.

  “But you’ve always told me it’s good to have a hobby,” I said. “This is something we can do together, now that our businesses have taken off.”

  What a relief to be able to say that. Ambrose and I had both arrived in Bleu Bayou with nothing more than our designer look–books and our desire to bring high fashion down to the South. Course, Ambrose also needed a fresh start, since his college sweetheart, a pretty catalogue model, had passed away from breast cancer a few years before.

  Now we owned side-by-side design studios, where a stream of brides kept us up to our elbows in netting, silk flowers and, thankfully, sales receipts.

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I was thinking maybe we could try line dancing or fly-fishing. Or go off-roading in the bayous. Not renovate an old mansion. I thought those stayed in families, anyway. Why’d this one come up on the market?”

  “Beats me. But it’s owned by a trust and they want to sell it right quick. That’s what the Realtor told me. We could do it together. C’mon, Bo.”

  He didn’t look convinced, so I reached into the sack and pulled out a doughnut. “Beignet?”

  He finally smiled. “Now, don’t think I’m gonna agree with you because you brought home-fried fritters.” He accepted the powdery offering. “I have half a mind to tell you no.”

  Hallelujah. That meant the other half was as good as mine. “It couldn’t hurt to look around the place. I even know the real estate agent. Turns out she went to Vanderbilt too. We can head on over there, poke around and maybe test the plumbing. Aren’t you curious to see what it looks like on the inside?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—”

  He never could tell me no. I planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek to show my gratitude. “I’ll grab the car keys while you finish up here. You’re gonna love it. I know you will.”

  * * *

  The road to Sweetwater seemed busier now. Contractor pickups, windowless work vans, and Marathon Oil tanker trucks cruised alongside us. Once I spied the old Sweetwater mansion, I pulled over nice and easy, so as not to scatter the pea gravel.

  Ambrose’s eyes widened when he realized where we were. “This is the place you’re talking about? It’s enormous! But I have to hand it to you, it is a good-looking house.”

  “I knew you’d think that. And it’s not so big when you get inside. It’s the columns make it look that way. C’mon.”

  I hopped out of the VW. Now that we’d hit August, humidity settled over me like a wet bedsheet, so I twisted my long hair into a bun and poked the stray ends in nice and tight.

  My plan had been to march straightaway up the lawn and rap on the door—hang the chances of running into that Ruby again—but something looked different.

  An expensive sedan sat near the kitchen now. The car’s enormous hood fanned across the space and a gleaming chrome bumper shielded its tires. Oddly enough, I’d seen it somewhere before.

  “Wonder who’s here?” Ambrose asked. “The owner?”

  “I told you, it’s owned by a trust, and I don’t think the heirs live here. But I’ve seen that car before.” A pair of interlocking R’s on the hood jogged my memory. “Why, it’s Mr. Solomon’s Rolls-Royce. Wonder what he’s doing here?”

  Herbert Solomon had hired Ambrose and me back in May to design his daughter’s wedding outfit. He’d booked Morningside Plantation down the road—now a gorgeous hotel—and even commissioned the Baton Rouge Symphony Orchestra to play “Here Comes the Bride” on the front lawn.

  Unfortunately, his daughter was murdered right before the big event. People still bragged on me for helping the Louisiana State Police solve that crime, although any law-abiding citizen would have done the same.

  “C’mon, Bo. Let’s go say hello.”

  The front door blew open the minute we started up the lawn. Herbert Solomon barreled through the entry, looking the same as always: a deep scowl, a bulging briefcase, and an expensive business suit, even on a warm day like today.

  I panicked and hopped in front of the For Sale sign. The last thing I needed was to enter a bidding war with Herbert Solomon over this property. He’d already bought Morningside Plantation and could afford to buy this place with his pocket change.

  He spied me and began to trek down the lawn, the designer briefcase slapping his leg with each step. “Well, well.” He pulled up short when he reached me. “This is a surprise, Miss DuBois.” He nodded at Ambrose. “Mr. Jackson.”

  “I could say the same.” Although I hadn’t seen him since his daughter passed away, I’d often thought about his wife, Ivy. While Herbert Solomon was brash and overbearing, Ivy was sweeter than the tea I’d had earlier. Shame on me for not paying her a visit before this. “How’s Ivy doing?”

  “She’s holding up. Some weeks are better than others.”

  “Please tell her I’m thinking about her. I’ll have to pay her a visit soon.”

  He grimaced. “It might not be easy. She spends all of her time at the Mall of Louisiana, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell her.”

  “Whatever brings you out here this morning?” I asked.

  The briefcase in his hand seemed obvious enough, but I hoped I was wrong.

  “Business, same as always.”

  “You’re not thinking of buying this dinky place, are you?” My heart stilled at the very thought.

  “Haven’t decided. My other property’s working out pretty good. It’s booked all summer, as a matter of fact. Thought I might be able to work out a dea
l here.”

  “But this one’s so much smaller than Morningside.” I tried to keep my voice level. “And not nearly as grand. Don’t those brides expect the world these days?”

  He shot me a funny look. “I guess so. What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing. Curious, more than anything else.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I couldn’t find the Realtor. That person should be fired, if you ask me.”

  “That’s too bad. But I think we’ll poke around anyway. Ambrose has never seen the inside.”

  “I told you, you’re wasting your time. But suit yourself.” He gave a brusque wave. “Good day, Miss DuBois. Mr. Jackson.”

  He strode up and over to his Rolls while I hovered protectively by the For Sale sign. I stayed there until he fired up the car and drove off the property.

  “That’s not good,” Ambrose said, once he’d left.

  “Tell me about it. If he wants to turn this place into another hotel, we’re doomed.”

  “Don’t jump the gun, Missy. I haven’t even seen the inside yet.”

  Which was true enough. I finally abandoned my post and headed for the front door. Apparently Mr. Solomon hadn’t bothered to shut the thing properly, and it stood open a half inch.

  I shouldn’t, should I? Somehow I “can’t-never-could” resist the lure of an open door, and my eyes widened at the thought of all those secrets begging to be discovered. Begging, I tell you. My hand reached for the doorknob.

  “Why don’t we knock?” It was Ambrose, standing behind me.

  Leave it to him to always do the right thing. “You heard him . . . the real estate agent’s gone. We could always peek around a little before she comes back. Doesn’t cost nuthin’ to look.”

  “Seems to me—”

  I gave in to temptation before Ambrose could finish his sentence and pushed open the door. Like before, sunlight glanced off the hardwoods and made them shine like still water on a bayou.

  Ambrose whistled. “Look at that. Mahogany.”

  “That’s nothin’. Follow me.”

  I tiptoed into the foyer as quiet as a church mouse. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I wanted to gauge Ambrose’s reaction to all of that glorious wood paneling.

  “Wow!” He turned ’round and ’round like a little boy in a fun house. “This is something.”

  “I knew you’d like it.”

  “Look at that crown molding. That’s at least four inches thick.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. C’mon.” Since Ruby could emerge from the shadows at any minute and cut her eyes at me, I hustled Ambrose through the foyer and into the dining room. Here the wallpaper bloomed with fading magnolias, and chipped dinner plates adorned an antique dining table.

  “See what I mean? All it needs is a little work to put it right again. And look out there.” I pointed to the kitchen garden, like Mellette had done.

  “What’s that?”

  “A studio,” I said. “Can you imagine me out there working on my hats? Think about it, Bo. I could turn it into a showroom and you could have this dining room. We wouldn’t have to write rent checks anymore.”

  “It’s something to think about.” He glanced nervously toward the foyer. “Maybe we should come back later. I have lots of questions for the Realtor. And then she can show us the second floor.”

  “Okay, if you say so.” He was right, although I hated to admit it. “Let’s take a peek at the studio on our way out, though.”

  We retraced our steps through the foyer, Ambrose’s head still swiveling around like a child in a fun house. I let him walk ahead of me and made sure to close the front door extra-tight on the way out. Wouldn’t want someone to wander in off the street and traipse through the house all willy-nilly now, would we?

  A pea-gravel path led around the house to the garden. By this time, sunshine kissed the Doric columns out back, and a chorus of cicadas practiced trills from inside an overgrown rosebush. We followed the path until it ended at the shed’s Dutch door.

  “This is where you’d work, huh?” Ambrose asked.

  The door’s top half stood open, so I peeked over his shoulder to get a glimpse inside.

  On the opposite wall sat a rusty metal shelf filled with broken pots, a few trowels, and leftover bags of fertilizer. A pile of towels or rags lay beneath a small window. The room seemed just large enough for a sturdy worktable and my collection of antique hat blocks, not to mention a display rack or two for my finished creations.

  “It’s perfect,” I said.

  Tiny motes of dust swooped and swirled through the light of the window like drips falling from a garden hose.

  “Looks to be about the right size.” Ambrose inched open the door’s lower half. “We could even put an awning between this cottage and the house for people to walk back and forth between our two studios.”

  I quickly moved around him and stepped into the cottage. The minute I entered, though, I noticed something unusual: the smell. Not a normal garden smell like mold or compost or rotting leaves . . . the room smelled like mint. A chemically mint odor, like the kind they used in menthol cigarettes.

  I glanced around for the source. The pile I’d spied beneath the window turned out to be a rumpled green business suit and matching shoes.

  It was Mellette Babineaux. Her feet splayed out at unnatural angles and her unseeing eyes stared straight ahead. My scream tore through the small space.

  “Missy!” Ambrose rushed forward. “Call 9-1-1. Quick!”

  But I couldn’t move. My feet had become rooted to the ground. Several seconds—or were they minutes?—passed.

  “Now!” he said.

  That woke me. I whipped out my cell and dialed 9-1-1.

  A voice answered before the second ring. “This is 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s been an accident at the old Sweetwater mansion. Not inside, but outside. We’re in a shed. Come quick!”

  “Slow down, ma’am.” The woman sounded much too calm. “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know.” A flash of memory brought me back to my conversation with Herbert Solomon, though. We’d stood on the front lawn not more than half an hour ago. “It’s down the road from Morningside Plantation. That’s the one they turned into a big hotel.”

  The dispatcher was silent, and then she rattled off an address for me to verify.

  “That sounds about right,” I said.

  “And just who are you?”

  “Missy DuBois. The gal is the real estate agent here.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  I gasped. “Lord, I hope so.”

  “Are you with the victim right now?”

  Victim? I hadn’t really thought about her as a victim. All I knew was that Mellette Babineaux—the one who’d toured me around the house not more than an hour ago—now lay puddled in a heap on a dirty cement floor. “Yes.”

  “I’m sending help. Keep your phone on you, you hear? Someone may call you back.” With that, the line went dead.

  I spun around. “They’re coming.”

  “Good,” Ambrose said. “Wait for them in the main house. It’ll make it easier for them to find us.”

  I rushed to the Dutch door, anxious to put the sight of the limp body behind me. Quickly, I stumbled over the threshold and hurried down the gravel path.

  All sound had disappeared. A cicada probably called to me from its rosebush as I ran by, and my heels no doubt churned through the pea gravel, but I heard none of it. The back door quietly swept open, my shoes floated over the hardwood floor, and I landed in the kitchen.

  I paused to catch my breath. Truth be told, I was happy to leave the cottage. At least here I didn’t have to look at Mellette and her ashen face. Her legs splayed at unnatural angles. And dear Ambrose trying to keep his composure while my screams woke the dead two states away.

  Since I still couldn’t breathe, I began to look around as I gulped in air. Above my head hung a pendant light with a hamm
ered copper shade, its soft light illuminating a soapstone counter. Next to that was a farmhouse sink surrounded by a backsplash with dozens of tiny, rose-colored tiles. Maybe if I focused on something else, I could catch my breath. I began to count the tiles from top to bottom. On the thirty-fifth tile, or thereabouts, a siren finally wailed in the distance.

  Twelve more tiles and a police car arrived. Staccato bursts of light popped through the kitchen window in candy-cane colors when the cruiser pulled into the driveway. Someone opened and closed a car door before footsteps sounded on the stoop outside.

  “In here,” I yelled at the top of my lungs, still weak-kneed from our discovery.

  A man in a navy uniform appeared on the other side of the screen door. Short and Hispanic, he wore a crew cut and mirrored sunglasses. “Did you call?” He motioned to someone behind him, and I heard footsteps on the gravel path that led to the shed.

  He looked like a teenager—all chubby caramel cheeks and black hair. Too young to be a police officer, let alone to carry a sidearm.

  “Yes, it was me.” I pulled the cell out of my pocket and laid it on the counter. “I used my cell phone.”

  The officer entered the kitchen and whisked off his sunglasses. “Officer Hernandez. Second district. What’s up?”

  “My friend and I found someone in the shed outside not more than five minutes ago.”

  The officer pulled a notepad from his pocket, where I fully expected to see race cars doodled on the cover but, thankfully, it was blank. “Do you know the person?”

  I nodded. “Yes. We went to college together a long time ago. Her name’s Mellette Babineaux, and she’s the Realtor for the property.”

  When he didn’t react, I could tell he didn’t know Mellette. Instead, he continued to jot notes while he carefully studied my face.

  Someone explained to me once why policemen watched their witnesses so carefully while they spoke. Apparently if a witness glanced left, the officer knew she was relying on memory. But look right and it meant the person was lying. I purposefully stared straight ahead since I had nothing to worry about.