Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  He shot me a funny look. “But that’s where we ate dinner last night.”

  “It’s his mom’s place, remember? I didn’t want to tell him no.”

  “Guess I understand that. How was your meal?” Ambrose looked at the rack again and rifled through it until he found a certain mermaid gown, which he moved forward.

  “Good, but that’s not all that happened.” I waited for him to rearrange the rack some more, hoping it would distract him from what I was about to say. “By the way, I kinda went back to Sweetwater today.”

  No such luck. “Now, why would you do that?” His hand stalled in midair. “You promised me you wouldn’t go back there on your own.”

  “I never said that.” Which was true enough, but it didn’t seem to help matters any. “I told you I was going to meet up with Lance, but I never said anything about Sweetwater.”

  “You should have told me first.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. The front door was wide open. What could I do? Trust me, you have no idea where I’ve been today.”

  “And I’m not sure I want to know. I think it’s time for you to let the police handle this. Past time, actually.”

  There, he’d said it. What I knew Ambrose had been thinking all along. He wanted me to leave the investigating to Lance and go on my merry way. While he was probably right, something about his tone of voice made me dig in my heels. “For your information, the door was wide open. Anyone—or anything—could have wandered into that house out of the clear blue. Mellette isn’t around to protect it anymore, and someone’s gotta do it.”

  “Why?”

  His curt response silenced me. Why, indeed? Several reasons floated through my head, but when I tried to snatch one, I got lost in Ambrose’s beautiful sky-blue eyes all over again. More of a Tiffany blue, actually—

  “Well?”

  I glanced away. “We already went over this. Mellette was my sorority sister. She’s dead now and the police don’t have any leads. The first twenty-four hours are critical after a murder. If you haven’t noticed, we’re past that now.”

  “Of course I noticed.” He reached over the clothing rack. “Look at me.” He gently lifted my head with his hand.

  Too bad a dozen yards of satin and silk stood between us, because I would’ve liked to inhale his Armani cologne at the same time.

  “I don’t want you going over there anymore. You could get in trouble.”

  Damn him and those eyes. Especially when they looked soft, like now, which meant he wasn’t mad anymore . . . he was worried. “Why, Ambrose Jackson. I do think you’re concerned for my welfare.”

  “Of course I’m worried about you. We share a house together.”

  “So that’s it.” I stepped back so his hand would fall away. “You only want me to stay safe because we’re roommates. Argh! I should’ve known as much.”

  “No, no. Of course not. I’m kidding.”

  Now was probably not the right time or the right place to speak my mind, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe because I hadn’t slept in forever and Odilia’s words kept running through my mind. “We’ve been friends for a long time now, Bo. I’ve been patient, but just how long can a girl wait?”

  “You’ve been great. Look—”

  Before he could say more, the mail carrier I’d seen outside walked into the studio with a package under her arm.

  “I’ve gotta go.” I moved away from the rack before he could stop me.

  “Don’t. Please don’t go.”

  But I’d dug in my heels so deep that even his gentle prodding couldn’t move me. “Look, I’ve been away from my studio for hours. It’s not fair to Beatrice. See you later.”

  I sped away, knowing the mail carrier would probably block Ambrose if he tried to follow me. If he was so concerned about my gosh-darn welfare, he should gin up and say something, like Odilia had mentioned. He could ask me out on a real, honest-to-goodness date. But every time I tried to bring the subject up to him, he said something funny and we got off track again. I could never seem to bring us back ’round again once that happened.

  I studied the floor as I walked. Travertine tile gave way to a rush welcome mat and then pavement as I stepped outside. Our two studios shared a wall, so the window for mine appeared right away. Through it I could see Beatrice standing by the counter, a stack of mail in her hand.

  She glanced up when I walked into Crowning Glory. “I haven’t seen you in hours. Thought you might’ve gone home to catch up on your sleep.”

  “Nah, I’ve got too much going on today.” I flopped onto a stool beside her. “Anything new here?”

  “Let’s see.” She peeked at a schedule taped next to the cash register. “MaryLouise Scarborough wants to come in first thing tomorrow morning for her fitting, not Thursday. I said that was fine. And that gal who called off the internet? She wants to come in tomorrow now too. Looks like we’re gonna have a busy day.”

  “As long as it’s not Jennalee Prudhomme, I don’t mind.”

  Beatrice cocked an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? You look kinda down.”

  “I’m just tired. That’s all. I’ve driven all over Louisiana today. But at least I had a nice lunch with Lance LaPorte. He’s the one who called here this morning.”

  “That’s right. He said something about getting a search warrant. What was that all about?”

  “Remember the voodoo ceremony I told you about? Hollis Oubre was there, of all people. Lance wanted to look around his grandma’s mobile home, and I said I’d go with him.”

  Beatrice pursed her lips. “Hollis Oubre, huh? Now there’s a strange one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard he got kicked out of high school. Something about putting a curse on another kid. Creepy stuff like that.”

  “That makes sense. He’s supposed to be homeschooled now. But we didn’t find any textbooks in his room. We did find a book about voodoo. He’d even written an M and a B next to one chapter . . . like in Mellette Babineaux.”

  She shrugged. “That could mean anything. A lot of people use it for ‘maybe’ when they’re texting, and people who write on message boards use it too.” She began to leaf through the pile of mail. “Guess I should probably handle the bills first. And the bank statements.”

  Since Beatrice handled the books for the studio—in addition to helping with customers and whatnot—I was more than happy to let her have them.

  “At least give me the letters on the bottom. Those don’t look like statements.”

  She split the pile in two and gave me half. My mail was mostly ads for local stores and car dealerships, but one oversized postcard stood out. It was a plain card with ink-jet printing. The front showed a wall hanging that reminded me of the tapestry back at Sweetwater. Even though Sweetwater’s had herons on it and not peacocks, like this one, both were the same size and shape.

  “Well, that’s weird.” I held up the card. “They had a tapestry like this one at Sweetwater. A different pattern, but the same size and everything.”

  “Lemme see that.”

  I handed her the card, which she studied for several seconds.

  “It’s an ad from the auction house,” she finally said. “For a preview party tomorrow night. That’s the place that usually works on the Dixie Queen.” She turned the card over. “Gee, even I could afford this one.”

  I leaned over her shoulder. The text said something about bidding starting at fifty dollars, which seemed ridiculously cheap, since the tapestry was so big and in such good condition. “Wonder if they always sell their stuff so cheap?”

  “I doubt it. The furniture and other stuff probably goes for a whole lot more. My uncle said auction places try to sell textiles first because they don’t bring much. That’s why rugs aren’t a good investment, no matter what anyone tells you.”

  So much for the Oriental rugs I’d seen advertised in fancy decorator magazines. Sad to think people would only get pennies on the dollar if they ever sold them. “That’s got
ta suck if you’re the seller.”

  “Yeah, it does. My uncle said people have to be desperate to sell off their textiles.”

  My eyes widened. “Dag-gum-it!”

  “What?”

  A memory flickered by. Herbert Solomon and I had stood in the kitchen at Sweetwater, by the soapstone counter. He’d been shocked by my suggestion that he might have taken the tapestry off of the wall. So shocked he threatened to sic an attorney on me if I ever said it again. “I kinda accused Herbert Solomon of taking something like this from Sweetwater.”

  “Tell me you didn’t.” Beatrice tried to be serious, but a smile played on her lips. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “What am I gonna do? I honestly thought he took it. He was the only one in the house this morning and the wall was blank. I saw a big ol’ tapestry there yesterday and today—poof—it’s gone.”

  “You do know that Herbert Solomon is one of the richest men in Louisiana, right? He must’ve died when you said it.”

  “He did. He threatened to call his attorney. I thought he was bluffing, but you never know.”

  She finally sobered up. “Okay, so you made a mistake. Maybe he’ll forget about it the next time he sees you.”

  “Yeah, right. He doesn’t seem the type to forget anything.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. But I doubt a billionaire would steal something that sells for less than a hundred dollars.” She held the card up to the light. “Anyway, I wouldn’t mind going to this thing on Wednesday and seeing what else they have. Wanna go with me?”

  “Huh? Yeah, sure.” One last memory pinballed around my skull, refusing to be ignored. It was Herbert Solomon again, only this time he stood by the front door and yelled at me. Told me he’d purchased Sweetwater and he could take anything from it he wanted, starting tomorrow. “He said something else. Something shocking.”

  “Like what?”

  “He told me he bought Sweetwater. Said it belongs to him now.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure did. But I can’t believe it, since the house doesn’t even have a real estate agent. Who would write up the contract?”

  “Maybe he got someone else.”

  “Bingo. And I think I know who it is. I saw your uncle last night at dinner. He was there with one of the guys who own Sweetwater. They looked like friends.”

  “Friends? That doesn’t sound right. The owners are young and they don’t even live here anymore. Don’t think my uncle would be friends with one of ’em.”

  “That’s what I thought. Is there any way you can find out? Maybe call your uncle and ask if he’s representing the property?”

  “I guess so. But it’s really none of my business.”

  “That’s okay.” I slid off the stool. “I’m making it your business. It’s time for me to go home, or else I’m gonna fall asleep right here.”

  She set the postcard aside. “No problem. I’ll lock up. Hope you get some sleep tonight.”

  “Me too.” I left the studio and walked to the parking lot. Most of the cars were gone now, except for Ringo and a lonely-looking U.S. Post Office van. I’d have to remember to thank my letter carrier later for running interference for me in Ambrose’s studio.

  Chapter 14

  I drove away from the Factory in a fog. While I’d planned to make a nice, hot dinner when I got home—and maybe even pair it with a glass of Merlot—that all changed the minute I walked through the door. Instead, I made a beeline for my bedroom and flopped onto the mattress fully clothed. I didn’t wake up until a noise sounded on the other side of the door.

  “Missy?”

  I moaned and rolled over. It was Ambrose, of course, calling to me from the hallway. “Hmmm. Yeah. I’m in here.”

  “Can we talk?”

  I ran my hand across my eyes. How long had I been asleep? Apparently long enough for Ringo’s key to make a perfect imprint on my right palm. “I guess so.”

  The door swept open. Ambrose lingered in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, instead of barreling into my room like he usually did. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

  He looked sorry; his gaze studied the floor instead of my face. But I wasn’t ready to give him a pass. He’d hurt my feelings, and I wasn’t going to pretend that he hadn’t. “For what?”

  “You know . . . for stuff.”

  He looked miserable, or about as miserable as a house cat in a rainstorm, as my grandpa said. While I wasn’t one who normally enjoyed watching other people suffer, it wouldn’t hurt for him to twist in the wind a bit. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Can I just come in and sit down?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He walked into the room and awkwardly perched on a corner of the bed. Although I must have looked a fright, he didn’t seem to notice, because he reached for my right hand and gently rubbed at the key’s imprint.

  “I know you’re mad at me,” he said. “And I think I know why. I haven’t been very honest with you.”

  “Do tell.”

  “It’s true. And I’m not gonna lie to you now and say I have everything figured out. But you’ve been patient while I got over, you know . . .”

  There was no need for him to finish. We both knew what he was talking about. Ambrose had married his first love, a pretty catalogue model he’d met in college. She died not more than two years later, which nearly killed him.

  “You know, it’s okay if you want to talk about it with me,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

  “I know you don’t. But I feel like I’ve been taking advantage of you all this time.”

  I started to protest, but he brought his other hand to my lips.

  “Let me finish. I’ve been taking advantage of your patience. I do want to be more than friends with you.”

  It was hard to decide which of the two I enjoyed more: the feel of his hand on my lips or the sound of his precious words.

  “In fact, I’ve been thinking about it all night. Missy DuBois . . . will you go out with me?”

  I cracked an enormous grin. So much for being coy. “Why, yes. I’d be honored to go out with you.”

  “How about Friday night? And I’ll even treat you to breakfast now. Sort of like a trial run. I happen to know a place around the corner that makes the best beignets.”

  Apparently I’d been asleep for twelve hours and never once stirred. “That sounds good to me. Give me half an hour to shower and change. By the way, the gentleman usually pays.”

  He smiled back at me. “Of course. You’re worth it.”

  As he bounded out of the room, so different from the way he’d entered it, I flopped back on my mattress and bit into my pillow so I wouldn’t scream. Maybe things were turning around, after all.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later I entered the kitchen wearing another of my favorite Lilly Pulitzer shifts. This one’s print was a tad splashy, but I wanted to look as good as I felt. I walked up behind Ambrose and peered over his shoulder at the business section of the Times-Picayune. “Ready to go?”

  He turned around and smiled. “Don’t you look bright this morning.”

  When he rose, he offered me his arm. Somehow we maneuvered through the tiny cottage side by side until we emerged into bright sunshine. The Audi waited for us near the listing garden gate.

  He held open my door and I climbed into the passenger seat. Neither of us said much as we began the drive to Dippin’ Donuts, which was fine by me. After a few minutes, we passed a Shell oil tanker and then a cargo van for UniFirst uniforms. Before long, Ambrose made a hard right and we arrived at the bakery’s parking lot.

  Cars buzzed in and out of the parking lot. Beatrice’s pink Ford was parked in the second row, next to a blue Chevy Nova. I didn’t have time to wonder about Ruby Oubre, though, because Ambrose immediately swerved the car into a parking space and yanked the keys from its ignition.

  “Let’s go. I’m famished.” He jumped out of the car and hustled over to my side.

/>   Once I took his hand and stepped onto the asphalt, we practically ran to the plate-glass door, which he threw open. Sure enough, Beatrice stood by the doughnut case, with Ruby behind her, when I entered.

  Beatrice waved to me. “Hey, you look a thousand times better.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I joined her by the case. “Now there’s a backhanded compliment if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “You know what I mean.” She motioned to Grady, who stood behind the case. “I was just about to order a beignet.”

  He waved. “Hi, Missy. What—”

  Ambrose walked through the door just then and joined us.

  “Did Missy tell you guys she slept twelve hours last night?” Ambrose said. “Thought I was gonna have to pry her out of her bed with a crowbar.”

  I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. “You did not. And yesterday was the longest day of my life. I was a zombie . . . I’m amazed I got anything done.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “You two should have seen her go at it in the studio. This horrible bride came in and threw a hissy fit.” Beatrice pouted like Jennalee had done. “Anyway, most people would have told that girl where to go. But not Missy. She whipped up a new design in no time flat and saved the day. Course, I still wanted to punch Bridezilla.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Ambrose’s voice was thick with pride. “Just when you think she can’t top herself, she goes and does it.”

  “Congrats.” Grady’s eyes darted over our heads. “Look, I hate to do this, guys, but I’ve gotta get back to work. What can I get you?”

  I started to place my order, but then I remembered something. Ruby had been standing behind us the whole time, patiently waiting while we chitchatted about this, that, and the other thing. I swiveled around. “Do you want to go ahead of us?”

  Today she wore a bright-purple LSU T-shirt with a matching sun visor. She smelled like cigarette smoke, even so early in the day. “Nah, go on. Don’t take dat long ta order.”

  I turned around again and asked for two raspberry beignets and a large coffee. Once Ambrose had placed his order and then paid for our food, I pulled him aside. “Listen, I want to talk to Ruby for a few minutes. Do you mind?”