I turned to Beatrice the moment the door closed behind her. “Now that was one tall drink of water. Bet she was a featured twirler in college.”
“Probably.” Beatrice had returned to the counter and picked up our pile of mail again. She leafed through the pile until she found the postcard we’d discussed earlier. The one with a tapestry on its front that should’ve cost a whole lot more. “And I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to go to this thing tonight. It starts at six in the atrium. Will you be my date?”
“Sure, I’ll go with you. I’ve never been to an auction preview.”
We still had a full day’s work ahead of us, though, and heaven only knew how many more dramas we’d face between now and then.
* * *
The rest of the day whizzed by. One of my favorite clients, who was a physician who’d met her police-officer fiancé in the emergency room, came in for her first fitting. She’d chosen a theatrical boater with oodles of tulle, so I first measured her head and traced the dimensions onto a piece of insulation foam, which would give me a template later on.
After she left, I split my time between two other projects. Normally, I stopped taking custom orders at around four pieces or so, or else everything would start to get muddled in my brain and then I’d only get frustrated.
Time sped by. When I finally glanced up from my sketch pad, wisps of hair fluttering around my face, it was already six, according to my cell phone. I tossed down the Prismacolor pencil and stretched, realizing—once again—I’d forgotten to eat lunch.
Lately I’d gotten into the bad habit of skipping meals. Thank goodness Beatrice usually made it her business to watch out for me, and she often snuck into the workroom around noon to slide a plate of Ritz crackers and string cheese under my nose. She also stood behind me and delicately cleared her throat until I put aside my work. But she hadn’t remembered to do that today, unfortunately, and my stomach complained with a loud gurgle.
I emerged from the workroom to find her standing by the cash register, counting sales receipts.
“Man, am I’m bushed.” I rolled my shoulders as I walked over to her.
“Oh, hell’s bells.” She glanced up from the receipts. “I forgot to bring you lunch today, didn’t I? You must be starving.”
“Kinda. But maybe they’ll have hors d’oeuvres at that auction preview.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s right. My uncle always bragged about the food they served at those things. Said they also stocked an open bar to get people drunk and bidding like crazy.”
“Good to know. Are you ready?”
“Almost done. We’ve had a big week and it’s only Wednesday. You keep going like this and you can start taking Saturdays off.”
Now that would be something. Everyone in the fashion industry looked forward to the day they could close up their studios on the weekends and enjoy a normal schedule like everyone else. But I needed a steady stream of referrals from wedding planners, dress designers, and personal shoppers to do that, which might take a while. In the meantime, I felt fortunate to get Sundays off, and sometimes even that didn’t happen during wedding season.
“We’ll see. I’m gonna freshen up a bit. Be right back.”
I headed for the bathroom, where I found a tube of extra eyeliner, my favorite Chanel Rouge lipstick, and a plastic comb, which I used. Then I brought everything into the workroom and dropped them into a satin clutch I’d stashed in the bottom drawer of my desk. As an afterthought, I pulled the cell out of my pocket and slid it in there too. When I returned to the showroom, Beatrice was waiting for me by the front door.
“One more thing.” I quickly scanned the studio before plucking up a cream picture hat with a demure pink hatband. “This one’ll do.” I would’ve preferred a zesty orange one to match my shift, but everything in my studio came in one of three colors: white, cream or whitish cream. Not one crazy color or loud pattern in the bunch. Although. . . I once had a biker bride who asked for a cherry-red bowler to go with a black ball gown, but that was a whole ’nother story.
Once finished, I flicked off the light and followed Beatrice through the doorway and into the parking lot. We walked by several studios—including Ambrose’s, of course—until we reached the entrance to the atrium.
The glass pyramid was the crown jewel of our shopping center. Four sheer panes rose twenty feet in the air before meeting at the apex. Underneath the triangles of glass were white marble floors that held a Starbucks coffee bar, two public restrooms, and a sitting area with a Mies van der Rohe couch. A real one too; not a fake.
The rest of our building might have looked like a former spice factory, which it was, but the atrium reminded me of the pyramid at the Louvre. A security guard once told me the spice factory needed a tall center space for its bottling equipment and the architect simply substituted glass for brick during the building’s remodeling.
It definitely looked like a museum tonight, with a dozen birch-wood easels placed around the space as we walked in. A nearby table held bidding paddles and brochures, and directly across from it loomed the open bar Beatrice had warned me about.
Thankfully, tuxedoed servers moved through the small crowd with silver trays.
“Hallelujah,” I said. “Time to eat.”
“Think I’ll mingle for a bit. I’m not really hungry and I want to see the auction stuff.”
While Beatrice wandered away, I scanned the room. Several other tenants stood nearby, nibbling appetizers and gossiping. I noticed Bettina Leblanc right away, who owned Pink Cake Boxes. Bettina personally handed out samples every Tuesday and Friday afternoon . . . or so I’d been told.
Behind her sat a folding table loaded with DJ equipment and our very own DJ Freestylez. He’d forbidden us from using his real name, which was Francis, although sometimes we couldn’t resist, since his face always pinked to high heaven whenever we did that. Tonight Francis, aka DJ Freestylez, wore his headset half on and half off his head, which made him look like a mad scientist with a new experiment.
But enough with the people-watching . . . if I didn’t eat something soon, DJ Freestylez would be playing a dirge at my funeral. I’d spied a particularly tempting appetizer tray ahead that held plain, instead of fried, spring rolls, so I followed the server until she came to a stop and then asked for one.
The minute I bit into the shrimp doused with lime juice and a touch of mint, I knew I’d made the right choice.
“Good, aren’t they?”
I turned. Bettina smiled and lifted a half-eaten roll in greeting.
“Hm-mmm.” I quickly swallowed.
“I love it when they leave the wrapper alone. I always say if God had wanted us to fry spring rolls, he wouldn’t have made flour wrappers.”
“You could be right. Course, I forgot to eat lunch again today. Almost anything would’ve tasted good at this point.”
Bettina rolled her eyes. “You too? Can’t believe how busy we’ve been this wedding season. I’ve baked over a hundred cakes since June. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I’d like to see my grandkids again.”
It was easy to forget Bettina had grandchildren, since she looked so young. The first time I saw pictures of them in her bakery, I did a double take, mainly because she wore her shiny black hair in a ballerina bun and none of the strands were gray, as far as I could tell. She also scurried back and forth from the bakery to the parking lot like someone half her age. Many times she schlepped cake boxes out to a customer’s car first thing in the morning and was still at it after nightfall.
“You should bring your grandkids around to the shop,” I said. “I’m sure they’d love to help you out.”
She chortled, which jiggled the appetizer in her hand. “They’d help me out, all right. They’d help me right out of my profits. Those rascals will lick a cupcake bald and slip it right back in the box.” She leaned close. “They think I won’t notice.”
“I used to do that.” For some reason, I’d lowered my voice too.
Thank goodness DJ Freestylez preferred soft Michael Bublé tunes over something louder.
“Or I took a bite out of every piece of chocolate until I found one with caramel.”
“So you understand.” She straightened. “Figure I can visit the kids in November, once wedding season is over.”
When she popped the last of her appetizer into her mouth, I took a moment to scan the crowd. Groups of twos and threes milled around us with hors d’oeuvres and champagne glasses. Farther back stood the serious auction-goers, who hovered around the easels. Every once in a while, one waved over an attendant, who wore a navy blazer and linen gloves. Then the girl—or guy—stepped up like a tin soldier, clapped a thin piece of cardboard behind the item and another one in front, and then flipped the whole thing around like a pancake on a griddle. A girl did that twice before I noticed something else.
Bookending the line of easels were two cherrywood columns about five feet high, their shafts carved into perfect corkscrews. I knew enough about antiques to spot a curve made by a machine and not a wood-carver, but antique or not, they were still pretty. They’d look wonderful in Ambrose’s studio, with its plaster-of-Paris cherubs, elegant dove-gray paint, and gilded mirror.
Speaking of which . . . where was he? Maybe I should’ve mentioned the preview to him over breakfast. Although, truth be told, Ambrose wasn’t a huge fan of antiques, which surprised me to no end when I first met him. How could someone who designed a studio to look like a Parisian atelier not like antiques? It didn’t make sense, but then again, not much about Ambrose did. Maybe that was why I liked him so much.
As soon as Bettina finished her spring roll, she wiped her lips with a cocktail napkin. “I need to use the ladies’ room. See if you can try the crab puffs too. The server’s over there by Francis. The cook went and fried ’em, but they’re still tasty.”
She scurried away, while I finished eating. Then I rubbed my oily fingers on a napkin and pondered my next move.
“Hello, there. Aren’t you Beatrice’s friend?”
I nearly dropped the napkin when a man spoke behind me. It sounded like Hank Dupre, Beatrice’s uncle. So I turned and immediately blinked at the sight of so much purple and gold splayed across one shirt. The fleurs-de-lis collided with each other, all the way across his chest, shoulders, and arms. There were too many to count and too many for any one shirt.
“Um, hmmm.” It was the most I could manage, given the circumstances. The last time I saw that pattern was at Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery, when he’d met with Ashley Cox for dinner. They’d been so chummy, they looked like old friends or, heaven forbid, new business partners.
Realization dawned on his face. “That’s it. You’re Bea’s boss. You two borrowed my pirogue the other day. My niece sure has a strange sense of humor.”
A thousand questions flittered through my mind, and none of them had anything to do with his boat. “You know, I think I saw you the other night.” I did my best to sound casual. “You were at Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. You and Ashley Cox, the guy who owns Sweetwater.”
Was it my imagination, or did his jaw tense?
“Did you now? We had us a little business meeting. Nothing serious. I should probably stop taking people out to dinner there. Maybe then I’ll lose this-here weight.” He gave a forced chuckle.
“I had some questions for you, as a matter of fact.” The most important one being whether Mr. Solomon really did own Sweetwater now. “I heard somebody up and bought the old Sweetwater mansion. But I couldn’t imagine that was so, since the property doesn’t have a real estate agent. Do you know anything about it?”
His jaw definitely clenched now.
If I hadn’t spent time with him on our drive down to the river, I might’ve been a little frightened. “Mr. Dupre?”
“Just thinking, that’s all. Look, I’d love to stay and chat with you, but I have to make a call. A . . . um . . . really important call.”
He turned and dashed away. It was amazing how fast his mood had changed.
My stomach complained again with a loud rumble as he disappeared. Lorda mercy. One spring roll obviously wasn’t going to cut it. I might as well get something else to eat, so I glanced around the room, seeking out the server from before, and found her by the row of easels.
When I reached her, her tray was half empty. While good manners dictated I should take a smaller one this time, it being my second helping and all, my stomach convinced me otherwise, and I scooped up the fattest one in the bunch. I backed away from the girl before starting in on it.
Cccrrraaassshhh! Something landed on the ground behind me with a sickening clatter.
Good Lord, what did I do?
I whirled around. An easel sprawled on the ground, next to something sheathed in layers of Mylar. At least half-a-dozen layers covered the document, no doubt to protect it from clumsy people like me.
Even with the wavering Mylar, I spotted an inked compass in the lower right-hand corner, which meant I’d apparently toppled over a map. And not just any map, either. The shimmering outline of Louisiana also appeared.
The document looked old and very valuable. No wonder I felt a hundred eyes on me as I dropped my appetizer and my purse to the ground and lurched forward.
But I was too late. An attendant in a navy blazer and thick glasses, who must’ve been waiting behind this particular easel, whooshed forward to sweep it off the ground. She was joined by a security guard, who moved almost as fast as she did.
Briskly, efficiently, the attendant ran a gloved finger along all four corners, while I held my breath.
After at least ten years, she smiled. It was a tight smile, but a smile nonetheless. “No harm done.” She made the announcement to the crowd as if she’d been the one to topple the treasure and not me. Bless her heart.
“Thank goodness.” I could’ve kissed her on the lips.
Now more attendants sprang into action. One stepped around the security guard to produce two boards, which he held open so the girl with the glasses could slip the map between them. Then she ferried the whole shebang to its original easel, which someone else had righted. Inch by inch, the attendant slid the map back into place, like a jeweler mounting a precious stone.
“I am sooo sorry,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. These things happen.”
Not knowing what else to do, I glanced down, where bits of lettuce and shrimp lay scattered around my purse. The spring roll must’ve burst open, so I bent and scooped the mess into my napkin, which I stashed in one of the clutch’s pockets, before rising again. “Next time I’ll pay more attention.”
“Like I said, there was no harm done. Would you like to see the map?” Now the girl’s smile looked genuine, which I appreciated even more.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded to the security guard before starting in on the protective sleeves. She removed one sheath of Mylar after another, until all that remained was a map of the Great River Road. The delicate parchment rippled in spots, and time had faded the ink several shades lighter. The date scrolled across the top in sweeping, fanciful strokes was 1862.
“Wow. What a great piece. Made during the Civil War, right?”
The girl nodded briskly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Since she’d just saved my backside, I tried not to notice she’d addressed me like a much older woman, even though we were both about the same age. “What are those marks along the river?”
She leaned in to get a better view. “The squares, ma’am? They show the location of the plantation homes around here.”
“Really?” Now it was my turn to peer. About a dozen squares dotted the riverbanks of the Mississippi; some small, some large. I automatically sought out Bleu Bayou, which had four squares and a drawing of what looked like sugarcane. The largest square obviously stood for Morningside Plantation, since its fence line was enormous, compared to the others. A smaller square nestled near a curve could’ve been Sweetwater.
“Here. See this one?” My finger hovered over a spot under the wavering plastic, since I had no intention of ever touching the map again. “Does that look like an S next to it?”
She squinted. “It does. Let’s check the legend.”
We both stared at what could’ve passed for a legend, since it accompanied the compass, only the type was so fine and so small, it was impossible to read.
“Maybe the brochure will say.” She pulled an auction catalog from the pocket of her blazer. “I’m not real good with these new glasses.”
She held up the thin booklet, which had a picture of the map on its cover. Now I felt even worse, since she was going to so much trouble on my account.
“Sure enough.” She looked at me. “The square is Sweetwater Plantation, and there’s a star next to it. That meant a Confederate general had ordered his troops to hide ammunition there. The brochure says a plain square meant Confederates shouldn’t stop, probably because the house belonged to a Union sympathizer or didn’t have ammunition. But a star meant someone had stashed cannonballs, case shells, or grapeshot there. That’s so cool! No wonder this thing costs so much.”
The voices around me gradually softened. They were replaced by the memory of something hard and hollow—like a bowling ball, wasn’t it?—that fell onto a floorboard at Sweetwater. It was a trapdoor, and Ambrose had leaned over it with a tailor’s ruler in his hand, if I recalled correctly.
Ashley and I had come running from the kitchen to the foyer, only to find him there. While I’d been thrilled by the idea of a secret compartment, Ashley couldn’t care less. Apparently his mother had installed the hiding place in the floor and then emptied it sometime before she died. That was what he’d said, anyway.
Only Ambrose didn’t buy that story. Not when he found cast-iron hinges on the door instead of stainless-steel ones, which he seemed to think was a big deal.
“It’s being offered by someone named H. Dupre,” the attendant said. “And the bidding will start at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She softly whistled.
Shut my mouth and call me Shirley. Of course. Ambrose had known that hiding place was no accident. He could tell it’d been designed to hold something special; maybe even priceless. That was why Ashley’s story didn’t convince him.
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 16
