Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  “It’ll take six weeks for a toxicology report.” I over-enunciated every syllable so she could hear me. “I’ll bet you anything the coroner lists poison as the cause of death.”

  “Such a tragedy,” she yelled. “And so close by.”

  Fortunately, the noise stopped as suddenly as it’d started. We all stared at the lot again, and my eyes swept along the wall nearest us, where the row of window boxes hung.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” The boxes held the most unusual arrangements of foxglove and calla lilies I’d ever seen. Someone had balanced the height of the callas against the depth of the foxglove, so the whole thing looked like a still life painted in watercolors. An underplanting of green-rimmed caladium only added to the beauty. “Who planted all the flowers around here? Was it you?”

  “Me and my staff.”

  Lance eyed his mother. “Yep, my mom’s a whiz with flowers. Just like she is with food.”

  “Go on.” Odilia tried to wave away the compliment, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. “It’s easy to arrange ’em once you’ve got the right ones.”

  “That’s the part I never can figure out.” Without the blaring car alarm, I could speak in a normal voice again. “I never know what will grow here and what won’t. Some of mine like the heat, but they can’t take the frost.”

  “You know the gov’ment says we’re in zone nine, right? Pick a zone-nine plant—maybe black-eyed Susan or wisteria—and you can’t go wrong.”

  “That’s where you lose me,” I said. “It’s hard for me to tell the difference between some weeds and plants down here. They all look alike if they have blooms.”

  Lance began to jiggle something in his pocket—probably his car keys—in an attempt to hurry us along. But I really wanted to know how anyone could keep their flowers so healthy in the August heat. I’d wasted buckets of money on plants since moving to Louisiana, so he could hold on for a minute or two. The investigation would still be there when we got back to the station.

  And Odilia had warmed up to the topic. “I can loan you my Farmer’s Almanac. It’ll tell you everything you need to know about zone-nine plants, like these.” She reached for a calla lily and tipped the bulb forward. “Now sometimes you have to be careful with these.”

  “With a calla lily?” I scrunched up my nose. “Why on earth?”

  “People see a stalk like this, only greener, and straightaway they think it’s a young calla. But let me tell you . . . you don’t want to mess with anything that looks like this if you’re out on the bayou.”

  Lance’s jiggling grew louder and I shot him a look. “We’re almost done, Lance. I don’t get to talk to someone very often about flowers. Or at least someone who knows what they’re talking about.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying—” Odilia gave him a stern look as well—“if you see something like this in the swamps, only greener, leave it alone. That’s something called jack-in-the-pulpit. That stuff will burn your skin if you’re not careful.”

  “Just by touching it?” The stalk she cupped in her hand looked so delicate.

  “Um-hum. Sometimes. And it makes you sick if you get any in your mouth. The Indians knew that, way back when.”

  “Good to know. I’ll be careful if I ever go out on the river again. Now, what’s this one with the green edge . . . caladium, right?”

  That pushed Lance right over the edge. “C’mon, Missy. You’re killing me. I’ve gotta get back to work and you’ve gotta get back to that store of yours. Just call up Mom sometime and she’ll teach you everything you want to know.”

  “All right.” I tried to not sound as testy as I felt. “You never could hold onto your horses. I guess I’ll have to talk to you later.” I gave Odilia a quick peck on the cheek.

  Lance sheepishly kissed her other cheek. “Sorry I have to run, but I’ve got lots of work to do.”

  We left Odilia there—after volunteering to unload her groceries one last time, though she refused—and headed for the parking lot. I paused when we arrived at Lance’s car. “I almost forgot. I need to run when we get back to the station. Ambrose loaned me his cell phone and I still have it.”

  “Okay. Hop in.”

  I opened the passenger door and gingerly sat on the hot upholstery. Midafternoon sun glared through the windshield as we drove away.

  Soon a line of smokestacks filled my view. They looked like shiny silver Q-tips, with puffs of steam stuck to the towers like wispy cotton balls. Before long we reached the police station and Lance pulled up next to Ringo, my VW.

  “Thanks for lunch.” I swung open the door. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “It was my mom’s treat. She’s told her staff not to charge me when I eat there.”

  “Then we’ll definitely have to do it again. And don’t forget to keep me in the loop if you hear anything new.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled at me, but his eyes were serious. “I’ll do that if you promise not to run off by yourself and get in trouble.”

  “Deal.” I stepped onto the warmed asphalt and slapped the side of his car, which felt gritty under my fingers. Sure enough, grime covered my fingertips when I pulled them away. Great. Maybe I should swing by the rent house first and wash up before I returned to work. It also wouldn’t hurt for me to run a brush through my air before I saw Ambrose again.

  I slid into Ringo and checked the glove compartment, just in case I had a stray Kleenex or Wet One. Instead, I found a Prismacolor art pencil, a folded sheet of sketch paper, which I always kept on hand, a few dressmaker pins, and a bottle of clear adhesive. There was no telling how long the Schick razor had been there.

  Shrugging, I closed the compartment door and started the car. Now I had no choice but to return home and freshen up before heading back to the Factory. Ambrose had been without his cell phone this long, so what difference would it make?

  Chapter 13

  I steered onto the highway and pointed the car toward town. I had my choice of lanes, since few people traveled the road at three on a Tuesday afternoon. In fact, my only companion was a Martin oil tanker made entirely of stainless steel; every side reflected the scenery around it like a fish-eye lens. I watched in amusement as my car—or at least a squatter, flatter version of my car—pulled up behind it and spread out in the reflection.

  When the off-ramp for Bleu Bayou appeared, I slowed to let the tanker pull away and drove onto the exit. After turning on the feeder road, I whizzed by the Factory first and then Dippin’ Donuts—which looked empty now—and prepared to arrive home.

  Before I reached it, though, I passed Sweetwater on my right. Crime-scene tape still stretched across the porch, the X of neon yellow harsh against the white columns. I couldn’t resist the pull of the place and slowed to take a better look. While the bright tape still reminded me of a giant Band-Aid slapped on a wound, the strip that normally covered the front door was gone. Not only that, but the door stood open. Someone must have ducked under the tape to get inside and then forgot to close the door.

  Shut my mouth and call me Shirley. Even though the sound of Lance warning me to not overstep my bounds echoed in my brain, what could I do? It wasn’t like someone else would come along who cared about the old house. And the humidity would wreak havoc on the gorgeous floors and antique wall hangings. Or, heaven forbid, what if a curious squirrel took advantage of the situation and built a nest in the kitchen? The possibilities were endless; none of which I liked.

  So I pulled off the road and parked at the lawn’s edge. Well, I’ll just swaney! Once again, the grille of Herbert Solomon’s Rolls-Royce peeked out from behind the mansion, as shiny and obvious as the backside of that Martin tanker truck I’d followed on the freeway.

  I threw open the car door, prepared to give him a piece of my mind and then some. First of all, the place was a crime scene. Although the perimeter was technically behind the house, the police had roped off the front area too. Second, what if Ashley showed up and found someone in his house
? How could he explain his presence there without a Realtor?

  My head swam by the time I reached the front door, and it had nothing to do with the heat and humidity.

  Too bad I couldn’t just throw open the door with a bang and make a dramatic entrance. Instead, I strode through the open doorway, into the foyer. The shades were drawn, which left everything shadowed and gray. I stood in the half-light and pondered my next move. Should I holler out his name? Tiptoe through the house until I found him? Or do both, and give him a chance to meet me halfway?

  I began to rock on my heels. The hardwoods around me still shone like water on a bayou, and the mahogany panels engulfed me like a warm cigar box. As for the wall hanging . . .

  I turned to take in the needlepoint tapestry of the herons, but it was gone. An outline remained—the wood inside the lines looked decades newer than the rest of the panel—but the tapestry had vanished.

  Could it be? Mr. Solomon had mentioned something or other about the antiques here at Sweetwater. He’d used the term “godawful paneling,” hadn’t he? Not to mention “the fusty antiques.”

  It was too late for me to be nice anymore. “Mr. Solomon!” He should be drawn and quartered for messing with the beautiful interior of this house.

  My voice echoed through the mansion. I waited a few seconds and then began to stride down the hall, toward the kitchen. Someone had switched on the pendant light over the sink, and the hammered copper shade bathed the room in a warm glow. I spied him there, hunched over the soapstone counter with yet another blueprint by his elbow.

  “Mr. Solomon!”

  He twisted and almost pitched headfirst into the sink. Praise the Lord, he managed to right himself at the last second.

  “Don’t do that, Miss DuBois.” He spat out the words.

  “I’m—I’m sorry.” While my anger had propelled me this far, it stalled under his glare.

  “That’s a damn fine way for a person to enter a room.”

  “Look, I said I was sorry.” I motioned behind me. “The front door was wide open.”

  “I was in a hurry.” He waved the comment away. “Must’ve left it open by accident.”

  “What are you doing here?” Although the blueprint was obvious, I hoped he’d spare me the sarcasm this time.

  “This and that. Hell of a time for this place to lose its real estate agent.” He squinted at me. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I told you . . . the front door was open. I was worried about the heat and the animals.”

  He turned away, but instead of ignoring me like he’d done at the doughnut shop, he rolled up the blueprints and faced me again. “Think I’m all done here. I’ve seen what I need to see. And don’t forget to close the door on your way out.”

  I reached for his arm when he turned. “Just a second.”

  He froze. Obviously no one had ever touched him like that.

  “There was an antique out there,” I said. “A tapestry.” I relaxed my grip. “Do you know what happened to it?”

  “How would I know?” He shook his shoulder, as if to erase my touch. “I never noticed it in the first place.”

  “But it took up the whole wall. I know you’ve been in the foyer, so you must have seen it.”

  “That’s something my wife would notice, not me. I don’t give a damn about the contents around here. Especially not some picture of birds. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  He started to move and I quickly blocked his path. “I thought you didn’t notice the tapestry. But you knew there were birds on it. I didn’t tell you that.”

  He glared at me again. “Look, Miss DuBois. I’m sure this is all very amusing for you. But if you’re accusing me of something, I suggest you call your attorney first. No one calls me a liar and gets away with it.”

  I cringed. Surely he was bluffing . . . wasn’t he? He would never involve an attorney. Would he? “I . . . I just thought—”

  “I don’t care what you thought. Unless you have proof, don’t waste my time with your goddamn accusations. Good day, Miss DuBois.”

  He sidestepped me roughly, and the blueprint brushed against my shoulder. When he reached what I guessed to be the front door, his footsteps abruptly stopped.

  “One other thing.” His voice boomed in the quiet.

  Come to think of it, I could hear him loud and clear from the kitchen, so he must’ve been able to hear me earlier. Not that he answered me . . . the weasel.

  “Don’t get your hopes up with this house,” he yelled. “I put an offer in on it this morning. By tomorrow, I can take anything from it I want.”

  My knees felt weak. What did he mean, he put an offer in on the house? There was no way he could draw up a contract so quickly without a Realtor.

  I leaned against the soapstone counter, while I frantically searched my memory. Last night, at Miss Odilia’s restaurant, two men sat at a table. It was Hank Dupre and Ashley Cox, enjoying a leisurely meal together. They looked like old friends. Either that, or new business partners. Was that what this was about? Had Ashley hired Hank to sell his house? Not only that, had Hank already sold it to Mr. Solomon?

  I gripped the counter’s edge. There was only one way to find out: I could ask Beatrice. She’d know if her uncle was representing the property. Or, if she didn’t know, she could call him and casually ask. Surely he’d tell his niece the truth.

  To be honest, I had nothing but Mr. Solomon’s word at this point. A man who obviously hated me and who obviously hated to be challenged.

  I didn’t bother to answer him. Instead, I straightened my shoulders and stalked out of the kitchen. By the time I reached the foyer, I’d decided to confront him, but it was too late. Much like the tapestry, Mr. Solomon had disappeared into thin air.

  * * *

  Once I’d returned to the rent house and changed, the afternoon sun had waned. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the sound of Mr. Solomon’s parting words out of my mind. If he did indeed own Sweetwater now, there wasn’t a whole lot I—or anyone else, for that matter—could do about it. Except watch as a backhoe devastated the beautiful old oaks and a construction crew destroyed more than a century and a half of Southern history.

  It was enough to make me cry into my gumbo. I worried a path all through my house as I gathered up comb, makeup, and clothes. I dressed quickly and then headed for the driveway, to Ringo.

  Heaven only knew I’d rather not go back to work at this point. No, a nice hot bath and a deep dreamless sleep sounded much better. But all that would have to wait while I gave Ambrose his cell back and faced the music at Crowning Glory.

  Soon enough, I drove the short distance to the parking lot at the Factory. Beatrice’s pink pickup was in its usual spot toward the back, by Ambrose’s Audi Quattro. I chose the same row and then made my way across the asphalt.

  By now the usual parade of FedEx drivers, bridal entourages, and curious looky-loos had thinned. Only a few people walked through the lot, including a lanky mail carrier and a photographer with assorted camera lenses around her neck. Rings of sweat lined the armholes of her shirt, which meant she must’ve toiled outside today, bless her heart.

  I followed them as far as the door to Ambrose’s Allure Couture. Unlike my studio, which I’d decorated shabby chic by whitewashing the walls, slipcovering the chairs, and hanging sparkly crystals, Ambrose had taken the high road and gone for Parisian chic.

  His studio featured fat plaster cherubs that floated from the ceiling. A row of gilded mirrors lined the walls, just like the hall at Versailles; rolling racks held puffy samples that billowed to the ground; and soft gray walls cocooned everything from the outside. The whole effect was ethereal, like a French boutique with a doorman and champagne on ice.

  Behind this grand salon was another, entirely different, room. The stark white fitting room held a mirror, a rolling armchair, and a Singer CG590 machine for the seamstress. Ambrose would wheel the chair around during a fitting and watch a client walk back and forth, back and forth, in fro
nt of the three-sided mirror. That was how he knew which way a skirt moved as the bride walked.

  Of course, magazine editors loved his attention to detail, and they regularly gushed about him in magazines like Brides and Martha Stewart Weddings. Even the foreign editors adored him, and his portfolio included featured stories in Asiana Wedding, Sposabella, and Anhelo magazines. The National Bridal Market in Chicago awarded him its highest honor—the DEBI—which he promptly stowed away in a drawer and forgot about.

  But before the Lucite trophy, or the elegant studio, or the exhaustive client list that stretched from New York to California, Ambrose had studied to be an architect. All that changed his sophomore year at Auburn, when the drama department needed sets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream and his professor volunteered him.

  It took him the whole second semester to construct a forest made of papier-mâché. When the costume designer flunked out, the same professor asked him to design costumes to match the elaborate sets. The professor awarded him a B for the sets, but the costumes landed him on the dean’s list.

  The rest, as they say, is history. Of course, Bo’s detractors have always suggested that real men don’t design wedding gowns. What a crock. I wish they could see his year-end statements now that his gowns command ten thousand dollars a pop.

  Luckily, I saw him right away when I walked into his studio. He was rearranging sample dresses on one of the rolling racks.

  “Hey, Ambrose.” Unlike me, Bo looked fine, despite our late night.

  The traitor.

  “Missy!” He glanced up. “I’ve been missing my phone all day. Can I have it back?”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to borrow it for so long. But then one thing led to another . . .”

  “I’ll bet. Let me guess: You finally had lunch with that cop you know.”

  “Yep.” I reached into my pocket and tossed him the phone. “We went back to Miss Odilia’s place. That’s a whole story in itself.”