“It’s only been open a few days. Everyone knows all new restaurants have kinks. I’ll tell Mrs. LaPorte she should turn this spot into a waiter’s station or something.”
“It’d be perfect for the busboys.”
“At least we didn’t have to confront Ashley right away. I’m still trying to figure out what he’s doing here with Beatrice’s uncle, of all people.”
“Could be nothing.” Ambrose’s gaze swept over the bare table. “Looks like we don’t have any menus. I’ll have to take your word for it on what to order.”
“Go with the fried chicken. You can’t go wrong with that. She used to make it for Lance and me back when we were just little kids. Everybody on our whole block went crazy for it. That and her butter biscuits.”
By the time we had settled on that, Charles was back. His hair looked wild from all of the coming and going, and a lock of it stood straight up. My assistant, Beatrice, had always commented on his crazy hair when the two were dating.
“Tonight’s special is fried catfish with lemon cream,” he said.
I smoothed some of my hair down, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Missy here has been telling me all about the fried chicken,” Ambrose said.
“Can’t go wrong with that.”
Unfortunately, Charles didn’t catch the clue I was trying to throw him, and I lowered my hand. “By the way, have you talked to Beatrice recently? I know you two went on a couple of dates, but I haven’t heard anything since.”
He shrugged, the shock of hair bobbing along. “I don’t know what her problem is. We were doing fine until she freaked out. Guess she wanted to be more serious than I did.”
“Hmmm.” Now that didn’t sound right. Beatrice wasn’t serious about much of anything, except for fashion, and then she was downright passionate. She did say Charles was too unpredictable, or something like that, but she wouldn’t gossip behind his back. “You don’t say. That’s too bad. I always thought you two would make a good couple.”
“Missy.” Ambrose shot me a look that warned me not to overstep my bounds.
“What?” I said. “Can’t a girl ask an innocent question?”
“It’s okay,” Charles said. “We kind of left it open. So, what about the fried chicken?”
“Perfect,” Ambrose said. “And some butter biscuits. Missy has been pining for those since we got here.”
“Not to switch subjects,” I said, although I had every intention of doing just that, “but you wouldn’t believe what happened to us today. Ambrose and I went to the old Sweetwater mansion this morning.”
“Whoa.” Charles’s eyes darkened. “That place is messed up.”
“You must have heard about the murder. We were the ones who found the victim in the shed.”
“You know what they say about that place, right? It’s haunted.”
“C’mon. It’s probably just rumors. You know how stuff like that gets around.” For some reason, I felt protective of the old mansion, as if I needed to guard it against naysayers. That hadn’t changed since the moment I’d stepped onto its lush grounds.
“Uh-huh.” Charles didn’t look convinced. “I’m not sure that going over there is such a good idea. You two should probably stay away.”
“Why, Charles.” I said. “Can’t imagine why you’d talk ugly about one of the prettiest houses I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t lived very long in this town. I have. Some weird stuff goes on down there. Better for you to keep your distance.”
Ambrose straightened next to me. “That’s right . . . you grew up here. What do folks say?”
“Just take my word for it,” Charles said.
“Okay, okay.” I threw up my hands. “No need to get all worked up.”
“I’m serious. You two shouldn’t mess with that place. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
His scolding caused my cheeks to heat. “Fine. We’ll order and try to forget all about Sweetwater for a while. By the way, we don’t have any silverware. Could you please bring some?”
“Sure thing.” He shot Ambrose a final look. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
“I’ll try.” Ambrose sounded resigned, as if he knew he was in for an uphill battle. He waited for Charles to disappear before he spoke again. “Boy, does he think that house is bad news.”
“I know. But Mellette would’ve warned me if something was wrong with it. She called all that voodoo stuff ‘hooey.’”
“Think about it.” Now even Ambrose sounded spooked. “She also was trying to sell the place. Would you tell a client about something like that?”
Why does everyone insist on bad-mouthing Sweetwater? “I would. And she was my sorority sister.” Enough was enough, already. “I don’t know why people are so set against that house. Can we drop the subject now?”
Finally, his jaw relaxed. “You’re right. And the good news is Mrs. LaPorte’s restaurant looks like it’s a hit. The food here must be great.”
“It is.” Only then did I notice something else was missing from our table. Something crucial, after the day we’d had. “We don’t have wineglasses, either.”
“I can fix that.” Ambrose rose, ducking his head to avoid hitting the crossbeams. “There’s a bar out front, behind that long line we were in. What would you like?”
“White wine, please. I think we’ve both earned it after the day we’ve had.”
He flashed a grin. “You got it. And don’t look so worried. I’ll be right back.”
The minute he left, I settled back. My gaze flickered to the dining room, or at least the parts of it I could see. Most everyone was grouped in threes and fours. A hostess struggled to wedge a high chair under one of the tables, which meant Charles must have wrangled a spot for the mother and her baby after all.
After a minute or so, someone stepped in front of me and blocked my view.
“Why, Missy DuBois!” Odilia LaPorte, her snowy hair wound in a chignon tonight, towered over me. “Whatever are you doing here?”
The mother who fed me fried chicken on those summer days so many years ago. She ducked the crossbeams too, and took Ambrose’s seat. “What a terrible spot for a table! I’ll have to tell my staff. C’mon, let’s get you a proper seat.”
“No, no. It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m comfortable enough. How are you?”
“Good. I’m doing good.”
She looked good. A sprinkle of flour dusted her apron, and her moon face glowed under the old-fashioned Tiffany lamps. “So, who’re you here with?”
“Ambrose Jackson. You remember him, don’t you? He’s the one who came with me to Morningside Plantation last May.”
She tittered. “Do I ever. How is that fine-lookin’ man doing?”
Not only did I meet up with Charles on that trip, but I was able to reunite with Odilia as well. We ate dinner one night, and she confided she’d been working quietly behind the scenes for several years to get two restaurants up and running. She’d been planning it all with an architect, without telling a soul.
“It’s not what you think,” I said. “Ambrose and I are friends. Good friends.”
She chuckled again. “Um-hum. I’ll bet you are. When will one of you make a move, like I told you? Don’t be so old-fashioned. Nowadays a lot of girls make the first move.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My words might have been more believable if a giant grin hadn’t appeared on my face.
She jabbed a finger at me. “Sooner or later one of you is going to have to gin up and say something. Gah-lee. And let me tell you, it’s about time you two came to this restaurant. We’ve been open three whole days already, and this is the first time I’ve seen you.”
I winced. She was right. “Sorry about that. Things have been kinda crazy. I’m proud of you, though. We had to circle the parking lot three times to find a space.”
She waved away the compliment, but only halfheartedly. “You always were my favorite ch
ild back in the neighborhood. Speaking of which . . . have you seen my Lance lately? You and he made a fine team back then.”
“I saw him this afternoon. He’s helping the police here with a murder investigation. Only this one happened at Sweetwater mansion. Did he tell you about that?”
“He did indeed.” The smile slipped from her face. “What’s the world coming to? I told that boy he needs to be more careful out there. You never know how these things will turn out.”
“I suppose. The really strange thing is I knew the gal. We were sorority sisters at Vanderbilt. Can’t imagine why someone would kill her.”
“Me, either.” She leaned in a tad. “But it was only a matter of time before something bad happened at that house. You know what they say about it, right? A voodoo queen uses it for some kind of ceremony. Every month is what I’ve heard tell.”
Here we go again. “You don’t say.”
“Um-mmm.” Her eyes looked troubled. “This time’s different, though. Mother Belle—she’s the voodoo queen—performs all kinda rituals there, but not the killing kind. No, this time’s different, all right.”
“Now, Miss Odilia. People keep bad-mouthing that plantation house to me. But how do you know it’s true?”
“True?” She looked surprised, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “Why, Charles told me. He’s friends with all those folks.”
My mouth fell open. Charles? The one who tried to convince Ambrose and me to stay away from the mansion? How could he know those people?
Before I could respond, a noise sounded behind Odilia. It was Ambrose, bearing a bottle of Chardonnay and two wineglasses.
“Why, hello there.” He reached over Odilia’s head to place the glasses on the table.
Odilia craned her neck. “Look at you, Ambrose Jackson. As handsome as ever. Hmmm, mmm.”
“How much do I owe you for saying that?” He winked as he sat on the last empty chair.
“I’ll take a good restaurant review for starters. But it looks like y’all are about to have your dinner, so I won’t interrupt. Only came in tonight to work with the chef since that poor boy can’t tell the difference between chutney and plain ol’ jelly.”
I reached for her hand. “Don’t go. We were talking about Charles.”
“Let’s save that for another time.” Gently, she loosened my hand and lumbered to her feet. “A lot of it’s hearsay, anyway. And Lord knows what’s been going on in my kitchen since I’ve been out here yapping. Excuse me.”
She stepped around Ambrose and began to sashay through the dining room, every once in a while leaning over to speak with a patron.
“She seems nice,” Ambrose said, once she’d disappeared. “Busy, but nice.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
He motioned to the wine bottle. “First things first. You look pale. Maybe a drink will help. It’s not the best vintage, but it’ll do.”
“I just heard something about Charles.” Could Odilia be right? Maybe I didn’t hear her correctly. “It’s probably nothing. Let’s forget about Sweetwater for one night. It’s all we’ve been talking about and my head hurts.”
“Deal.” Ambrose poured Chardonnay into a glass for me. “By the way, my first choice would’ve been a nice cabernet. That’s what I order on special occasions.”
“Don’t worry. This is fine.” Hallelujah, my day was finally turning around, even though I had to wait fifteen hours for it to happen.
Chapter 7
An hour later, I pushed aside my empty plate with a grunt. “I’m gonna burst. This very second. Don’t laugh.”
“No one ever spontaneously combusted in a restaurant.” Ambrose didn’t even try to suppress a chuckle. “But I promise I’ll pick up the pieces if you do.”
“Lean over here so I can pinch you.”
He finally stopped mocking me long enough to point to a pair of empty wine bottles on the table. “Looks like we killed ’em. I must say, you have an impressive appetite for a woman your size.”
“It’s the first time I’ve eaten since breakfast. I told you . . . she makes the best fried chicken around.”
Ambrose turned to appraise the restaurant behind him. Most of the diners were long gone, and he slowly turned around again. “You know, we probably shouldn’t spend the night here. The waiters will talk. Let’s get you in the car.”
He began to rise but immediately smacked his head against the crossbeam. “Damn! Forgot that was there.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked. “You might want to give me the car keys.”
“No, no. I’m fine. I’ve just got a rude headache now.” He paused before trying again, and this time he offered me his hand.
I placed my palm in his and shakily rose to my feet. For some reason the ceiling tilted crazily. “Well, this is going to be interesting.”
“You’re doing great.” He gently led me away from the table and into the restaurant. Soon we wobbled past an older couple who had taken the place of the young family; the ground beneath their chairs was dusted with bread crumbs, smashed Cheerios, and juice stains. A middle-aged couple sat not too far away. I resisted the urge to steady my hand on their table as I walked by.
After a minute, Ambrose veered right, to a part of the dining room I hadn’t seen before. Here, pretty mullioned windows lined the wall and each had a flower box under it. Even in my stupor, I noticed Odilia had chosen the same flowers—foxglove, caladium, and calla lilies—that she used outside. By the very last flower box sat two men with suit coats slung over their chairs. A ridiculous pattern splashed across the older man’s back.
“Gol-darn it.”
“Huh?” Ambrose paused next to me. “What’s up?”
“That’s Hank Dupre. With Ashley Cox.” Apparently they’d finished their meal, because soiled napkins covered their dinner plates.
Ambrose tried to pull me forward, but my feet were stuck to the carpet. “C’mon, Missy.” His tug grew more insistent. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t you see them?”
He stopped tugging. “Yeah, I do.”
Both of us were whispering, the words thick and sluggish.
“What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know.” Ambrose’s eyes darted to the front door. “Okay. Let’s get out of here. We can talk about it in the car.”
We tottered away from the men and swerved toward the front door. Once we emerged outside, I realized Ambrose had taken my hand. I tried to focus on the feel of his palm, the sound of the cicadas nearby, and the lingering smells of oil and car exhaust. Anything but the smarmy grins on the two men’s faces.
By the time we found his car and drove away from the restaurant, my head had begun to clear.
Seeing the two men had sobered me up like a splash of ice water. “Why would Ashley Cox meet with Hank Dupre?”
“I told you, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with real estate. Could be he’s giving Dupre the listing.”
“It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
Ambrose glanced at the rearview mirror. “Got any better ideas?”
I began to chew my lower lip, which still tasted sweet from the Chardonnay. “The whole thing seems sketchy.”
Ambrose glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “Even if it is sketchy, there’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s just make it home in one piece tonight.”
He was right, of course. The day had been overly long and utterly exhausting, without my dramatics. We fell silent as the car passed the Factory, the building’s roofline pitched and dark against the midnight sky. A few miles later, Dippin’ Donuts appeared, also mired in shadows. Amazing to think Grady, the owner, would strike the lights in only a few hours. A mile or so down lay Sweetwater, and then our cozy rent house with its cotton-candy walls and listing garden gate.
Ambrose suddenly leaned forward. “What the hell?”
Sweetwater appeared, all right, the opening between the live oaks like the gaping mou
th of a cave. But behind the row of tress and the darkened mansion rose an even odder sight: A pulsing, effervescent light.
The light roiled.
“Should we stop the car?” My voice came out high and tight.
“No, I’m driving closer.” Ambrose inched the car forward and then turned off the road and parked. “I’ll be damned.”
“What do you suppose it is?” The glow splashed shadows onto the trees like ink being thrown against parchment.
Instead of answering, Ambrose reached for the handle of his car door. “Hell if I know. I’ll check it out while you wait here.”
“No, you don’t. You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with you.” Quickly, I grabbed for my door handle too.
Out shot his arm. “No way, Missy.”
Damn him and his quick reflexes! “Let me go, Ambrose.”
“You stay put. I mean it. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t move.”
I collapsed into the seat, deflated. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m coming to get you.”
“Deal.” He finally removed his hand and then switched off the headlights. Everything disappeared but the light show up ahead.
His car door creaked open as he folded out, and then the crunch of his shoes on the pea gravel sounded. He must have forgotten something, though, because he returned a few seconds later.
“What now?” I asked.
“I’m not kidding. Don’t follow me.” With that, he slammed the door shut.
Fine by me. I began to mull my options. It seemed I could either stay in the car and wait patiently for his return or make myself useful and join him. Who was I kidding? With a deep breath, I slid out of the car. Thank goodness the ground didn’t tilt this time, like it had at the restaurant.
Since Ambrose had disappeared straight ahead, I chose to zigzag across the front lawn, moving from oak to oak. As I approached the mansion, the leaves began to pulse to a faint beat; one that was hollow but insistent. Afterward came the reedy notes of a flute, almost as high as a bird’s call.
My heart quickened. By pinballing from one gnarled oak to the next, I soon arrived at the side of the house and peered around the corner. A small crowd had gathered around a fire pit about the size of a child’s wading pool. Flames shot up from the pit’s center.
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 7
