Ambrose’s wineglass hovered in midair, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. But as much as I needed the publicity, I wanted to know where the two of us stood even more. And that couldn’t happen with a stranger standing by our table.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive.”
The girl reluctantly snapped her iPad’s cover closed. “Okay. I’ll call you then.”
“And I just finished a project for one of the Prudhommes out of New Orleans,” I said. “They’re a big deal around here. I can send you pics from the fitting.”
She looked uncertain as she began to back away. “Sure . . . um . . . whatever.”
She slunk away, her shoulders slumped and her footsteps much slower now.
“Uh-oh,” I said as soon as she was gone. “I think I burst her bubble.”
“She’ll get over it. But I’ve gotta warn you . . . sometimes these people don’t give you a second chance. She might not call you Monday.”
I leaned back. “That’s okay. But thank you for giving me the chance.”
“Look, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” He rested his hands on the table, his face suddenly serious. “How about—”
At that moment, someone else approached us, only this stranger wore a black vest and matching wraparound apron.
Dagnabbit!
“Good evening.” The waiter presented me a menu with a flourish, which I grudgingly accepted, and then I waited for him to give one to Ambrose, as well.
I gave a cursory glance to the dinner offerings. “Since you’re the regular around here, I’ll need some advice. You must have a favorite . . . even if you’re usually here for lunch.”
“I do.” His eyes flittered over the menu. “You should try the turtle soup. And we’ll definitely have bananas Foster for dessert.”
Once the waiter took our order, I moved closer to the table. “Anyway, you were saying . . . ?” I tried my best to sound nonchalant.
“Was I? Let’s enjoy dinner first.”
Everything moved along in a blur after that: a wash of soft music, shared dinner plates, and lighthearted conversation. Since the person responsible for Mellette’s death had been caught, I felt free to joke again, without the investigation hanging over my head.
At some point, Ambrose ordered another bottle of wine, which featured the same label and also tasted like cherries and licorice. By the time we’d finished our meals, I’d remembered one last detail.
I gently tucked my napkin under my plate. “You know, it turns out Herbert Solomon didn’t buy Sweetwater, after all.”
“Really?” Ambrose gazed at me, his eyelids heavier now. “Why would he lie about it?”
“Good question. I know he wanted to buy it, and he figured it was only a matter of time. But Ashley wouldn’t sell it to him, after all.”
“But you said the owner needed the money.”
“He did. But once the map sold, he realized maybe he and his brother could survive on that.”
Ambrose’s eyes widened slightly. “So you’re saying it’s still on the market?”
“I wish. But, no, it’s not.” Surprisingly, I wasn’t too disappointed after all. I figured I had everything I needed within arm’s reach, mansion or not. “He wouldn’t sell it to Herbert Solomon, but he agreed to give it to Hank Dupre.”
“I didn’t know Beatrice’s uncle was in the market for a new house.”
“He wasn’t. That’s the best part.” I rested my hand on the table, only inches away from Ambrose’s. “He only wanted the mansion so he could preserve it. And finally put it on the National Register of Historic Places, where it belonged.”
Ambrose’s fingers felt warm when he cupped his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. I know you really wanted that place. We would’ve had a lot of fun renovating it.”
“It’s okay. I have a feeling we’ll find something else to do with our time.”
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Sandra Bretting’s next
Missy DuBois mystery
SOMEONE’S MAD AT THE HATTER
coming soon wherever e-books are sold!
Chapter 1
Maybe it was the sight of so many eyes swimming around in the stockpot that bothered me. I couldn’t exactly scoop up the black-eyed peas when they squinted like that. Not to mention the sauce was full of garlic, jalapenos, and onions, which made my nose itch. Whatever the reason, I walked past the pot of good luck peas on the mansion’s buffet table and headed for a stack of sweet-milk biscuits instead.
“Missy! Over here.” Ambrose waved to me from the other side of the dining room.
I grabbed a biscuit and crossed the room, which was easy, since Mr. Dupre’s New Year’s Day breakfast had thinned and only a few folks remained.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “And aren’t you gonna try the peas?”
“Not this early in the morning.” Unlike me, my best-friend-turned-beau had a cast-iron stomach. “I’ve been here awhile, but I ran across Beatrice and we wanted to catch up.”
My assistant, Beatrice, and I had been invited, along with half of Bleu Bayou, to usher in another January at the old Sweetwater mansion, Southern style. Along with black-eyed peas, the buffet held breakfast tacos with collard greens, which folks swore would fatten your wallet, and omelets filled with roast pork, which was another tradition Southerners held near and dear. Not sure how that one started, since it involved pigs and the way they rooted forward in the mud, but, as my granddaddy used to say, “Traditions are what put the sugar in sweet tea.”
So come January first, everyone loaded a Chinette plate with cooked greens, roast pork, and swimming peas and hoped for the best.
Ambrose shook his head. “You’re missing out.”
“It’s early. I want to give my stomach a chance to wake up first.”
He flashed a crooked smile, which made my heart flip-flop. We’d only recently begun to date, after wasting a perfectly good year and a half as friends and roommates, but my heart couldn’t help the palpitations.
His lopsided grin quickly faded, though. “Say, something happened a little while ago. I took a phone call from one of my clients, and she’s panicked. Gained fifteen pounds over the holidays and now she’s afraid her wedding gown won’t fit. I promised I’d meet her at the studio for another fitting.”
“Today? But it’s New Year’s Day!” I popped the biscuit in my mouth. After spending so much time designing wedding gowns for persnickety brides, Ambrose deserved a holiday. Not to mention I’d created enough hats, veils, and fancy headbands to crown every bride from here to the Louisiana border. I quickly chewed and swallowed. “Can’t it wait? We never take time off. I was hoping we’d spend the day together.”
“Sorry, but it can’t. She’s paying me fifteen thousand for the gown.”
He pecked me on the cheek, and the palpitations began again. That man always does know how to shut me up. “Okay. Do what you gotta do.”
“I’ll be home soon.” He held up his hand. “Promise. I’ll give her one quick fitting and then I’ll head back to the rent house.”
Ambrose and I shared what the locals called a “rent house.” Although we each had our own bedroom, I hoped one day we might share a whole lot more.
“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” I said. “Please come home at some point, though. I know how you get when you’re with a client.”
“I will.” He held up his hand again. “I swear. It’ll be a couple hours, max. And I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you go to your hat studio in the meantime? You can pick up your mail and maybe double check the locks.”
Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. I’d been meaning to stop by Crowning Glory over the holidays, anyway. But somehow I’d never made it out of fuzzy socks, tattered Vanderbilt T-shirts, and faded yoga pants, which wouldn’t be the best advertisement for my business.
Today was different, though. Today I wore a
Brooks Brother’s blazer, a wool pencil skirt, and brand new boots, so maybe I should make the most of it. “Okay, okay. You’re probably right.”
He passed me his plate. “I know I am. And here. Eat some peas while I’m gone. I want you to have good luck too.”
I accepted the leftovers halfheartedly as he walked away. The fact that we stood in this beautiful dining room at all struck me as lucky enough. Only a few months ago, a greedy property developer tried to snatch the mansion from its heirs and convert it to high-end condos, until a local realtor rode to the rescue. If not for him, we might’ve been standing in a sales office instead of a formal dining room built in the 1800s.
Speaking of which . . . where was he? Usually there was no mistaking Mr. Dupre, with his colorful dress shirts in their crazy colors.
I quickly scanned the room. Someone in a riot of purple and gold stood across the way, near the kitchen, with his back to me.
I padded over to him. “Good morning, Mr. Dupre.” The colors swirled as he whipped around.
“Hello, there! And please call me Hank. Mr. Dupre’s my dad. Happy New Year!” Instead of shaking the hand I offered, he grabbed me in a bear hug.
“You too.” My voice squeaked. When I recovered, I noticed someone else was standing nearby. The old woman wore a flour thumbprint in the cleft of her chin. “Did you cook for us today, Miss Ruby?”
“Oui. Da cornbread and collard greens.” She spied the nearly full plate in my hand before I could do anything about it. “And ya barely touched yers. Gah-lee. Ya be gettin’ so skinny, betcha don’ even throw da shadow.” She leaned in close. “I gotta magick potion put soma dat weight back on ya.”
“I’m sure you do.” Everyone in Bleu Bayou knew about Ruby Oubre and her magick potions. She cooked them up in a singlewide she kept on the banks of the Atchafalaya River. Her specialties included love potions, court case spells, and “gris-gris,” which was a traditional voodoo charm.
“Ma oil will put da fat back on ya.” She clucked her tongue. “Make yer shadow come round.”
“I’m sure it would. But something came up and I should get going. Thanks again for inviting me, uh, Hank.”
“You’re very welcome.” His eyes narrowed. “And be careful out there. Last night’s storm left the roads real slick. Don’t drive too fast.”
“I won’t. See you both soon.”
As I ducked into the kitchen, I spied a silver garbage bin by the back wall. Good luck was one thing, but eating stone-cold peas was quite another, so I carefully tipped Ambrose’s plate into the trash before dashing out the back door.
A cool wind feathered my face the minute I stepped outside. Once I drew the flaps of my blazer closed, I joined a gravel path that led from the back of the mansion to its front, pebbles crunching beneath my feet. Normally, a majestic pin oak blocked the property from the street, but the cold had stripped the tree bare, exposing a line of cars parked grille to fender on the road’s shoulder.
Most of them I recognized. One, a battered pickup painted surprisingly pink, was pushed into the gleaming bumper of a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow parked in front of it. Since the pickup belonged to Beatrice, my assistant, I should’ve been mortified, but the cold urged me to forget about anything but finding my car.
I’d parked my VW all the way on the end, so I rushed to it and fumbled with the door handle until it swung open. Thankfully, the engine started right away, and I drove from the mansion under a blanket of wet, gray skies.
Soon a blurry stretch of sugar cane fields materialized in the windshield, the ground littered with leftover stalks from the fall harvest. While fields and petroleum plants dominated this part of the Mississippi River, most folks pictured antebellum mansions when they heard about the Great River Road. It was understandable, since the farmland and factories couldn’t possibly compete with the beautifully restored wedding-cake mansions sandwiched in between them.
A few minutes later, I passed the kitschy neon sign for Dippin’ Donuts, where a lighted arrow shot from the roof and pierced the sky. As I passed, I began to mentally compose a to-do list of all the things I wanted to accomplish once I reached my hat studio.
First, I’d scoop up the mail that puddled behind the front door. Next, I’d answer a river of e-mails that no doubt flowed into my computer. I owed several people phone calls, including my accountant, my largest supplier, and the building’s landlord. Since that last person had promised to fix a water stain on my studio’s ceiling, I mentally moved him to the top of the list.
And while I didn’t have any appointments booked for today, I could always leave a few reminder calls for girls coming later in the week.
As soon as I arrived at the studio, I swerved the VW convertible, which I’d nicknamed Ringo, since it was a Beetle, after all, into the main parking lot. The landlord provided a separate lot for us employees behind the shops, but the blacktop on that one spit dirt and tar everywhere, which wouldn’t be good for Ringo’s undercarriage.
I’d discovered this building by accident. It was two stories tall and made of thick, weathered brick on the outside, with the original hardwood plank floors inside. Everyone called it the Factory because the building had once housed a hot-sauce plant. That was before the tabasco companies all hightailed it out of here, except for the most famous one, which still operates out on Avery Island.
Somewhere along the line, an architect added a soaring glass pyramid between my studio’s wing and the one across from it to give the building a modern twist. Sort of like the glass prism at the Louvre, rising smackdab from the middle of buildings made centuries before it.
I pulled into the parking lot, which was mostly empty, and parked next to Ambrose’s Audi. Once outside the car, I began to make my way to my studio. Normally it was a straight shot, but today I hopscotched over puddles slick with leftover motor oil. Apparently the storm had even ripped a downspout from the wall, and it blocked my path like something tossed there by the Tin Man.
Curious now, I paused. If last night’s storm had pulled a metal downspout clear off a brick wall, I had to wonder how much damage it had caused to my roof. A water mark had appeared overnight on a standalone section of ceiling that jutted out from the building. The stain seemed to grow until it reached the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter.
A call to my landlord definitely was in order. Although . . . he might be more willing to fix it if I could report the actual amount of rainfall. Maybe I’d even embellish the total a bit, although that didn’t seem like a very Christian thing to do. Either way, I had a perfect tool to help me build my case.
A few months back, I’d stumbled across a page on Pinterest, the motherlode for do-it-yourself projects, which explained how to make a homemade rain gauge from an old wood base, an ordinary dowel and a glass vial from the hardware store. Since “I cain’t-never-could,” as we say here in the South, resist the urge to fluff things up a bit, I faux-painted an old hat stand for the base and substituted a ribbon curler’s handle for a plain dowel. Then I painted fat raindrops on a clear tube from Homestyle Hardware and violà! I’d made a custom rain gauge with an artful twist.
I’d set the creation on a curb in the employee parking lot, right behind my studio. Just in case, I’d also rescued an old whiskey barrel from the trash heap and rolled it nearby for a second opinion. One look at those two, and I’d know how much rainwater to report.
So I rounded the building and came across the empty parking lot, which wasn’t surprising, since everyone had probably stayed home with their good-luck peas and cornbread. I hugged the back wall and sidestepped more puddles until I reached the curb behind my studio.
Something was wrong, though. My beautiful rain gauge was gone, and the barrel that normally sat next to it lay on its side. Who’d steal a rain gauge? And, more importantly, how could a few inches of water upend a heavy whiskey barrel like that? I stopped in front of the barrel, where I bent to take a glimpse inside.
A lock of hair flowed from the cask onto the asphal
t, like a trail of salt poured over pepper. Not only that, but blood matted the strands.
The scream I let loose no doubt sounded four states away.
Sandra Bretting is a journalist who has written for the Los Angeles Times, Houston Chronicle and others. A graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, she turned to writing fiction after twenty years in that field. Her first mystery debuted in 2012. Readers can visit her at www.SandraBretting.com.
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 20
