Murder at Morningside (11 page)

“Ya. Know 'im?” Darryl's eyes narrowed.

“We go way back. I used to go to Sunday school with him and his brother.”

“He be nosin' around dis place, askin' all kinds 'a questions.”

I pretended to read a nearby headstone. “You don't say. So what did he ask you?”

The headstone was almost hidden by the sparse crabgrass. Darryl leaned over it and plucked at some blades. “Sometin' about Mr. Solomon. Don' know why he be askin' me. I stay outta trouble. Dat's da key.”

“You know he probably asks everyone the same questions.” I pointed to the fallen marker. “Did that belong to Mrs. Andrews?”

“Yep. Poor ting only lived ta thirty.”

“What happened to her marker?”

“It's da soil. Like quicksand. Wants ta bring tings down.”

All of this talk about gravestones and soil was well and good, but I had other things on my mind. “You know, Darryl, I couldn't help but overhear a snippet of your conversation with the police officer. Why did you tell him you'd never met Herbert Solomon? I know you have. You told me about it when we were in the chapel.”

“Did I, now?” He didn't seem surprised by my question, or that I'd eavesdropped on his conversation with Lance.

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

“Better fix dis here stone before da ghost of Miz Andrews come back.” He hoisted up the stone, using his left hand. He handled it as easily as a wisp from a neighboring willow.

My jaw dropped. The marker weighed at least a hundred pounds, if not more. That was about as much as an old rain barrel behind my store after a good, long thunderstorm, which I never could seem to budge without Ambrose's help.

So much for any talk about Darryl's handicap. The man was incredibly strong; there was no denying it. And apparently, he didn't plan to answer my questions about Hebert Solomon. There was no denying that, either. An uneasy feeling washed over me.

D
arryl walked away once he righted the gravestone. Why did he tell Lance he'd never met Herbert Solomon, when I knew otherwise?

It reminded me of my conversation with Charles. He'd denied knowing Trinity, only to later admit he knew her well. It seemed as though everyone at the plantation harbored a secret or two. My job, if I wanted to help poor Ivy, was to separate the truth from the lies, like peeling away one of the wisps from a willow.

With Darryl gone, I decided to track down Lance before he left the plantation for good. My heels sank as I walked across the grass, the soft blades tickling the sides of my feet.

The lawn was unusually lush—probably May's rainstorms—and the blades continued to squish beneath my feet. Soon my thoughts retreated to the last time I traveled across a lawn so vast and green.

The skies had been clear, like today. The smell of turned earth had encircled me, and my feet sank in the moist grass. My conversation with Darryl had sparked the memory, and the rolling expanse of lawn must have inflamed it.

A call had come from First Baptist Church in Texas. They wanted me to speak at a women's conference about trends in fashion during a garden party with a Mardi Gras theme, of all things, which they'd stage on several acres behind the sanctuary.

Although east Texas is known for summer showers, on the day of my speech, brilliant blue stretched out as far as the eye could see.

Women were buzzing around the property when I arrived. Stirring this and passing that, bustling between a giant punch bowl and a hors d'oeuvres table. They'd strewn colorful beads everywhere.

The women were so happy to see me they swarmed around me when I arrived at the party, like bees with a queen. They fired off so many questions I didn't know who to answer first.

Potato salad. The smell of onions in potato salad had wafted over to me, trapped in a Pyrex dish held by one of my questioners. The way she balanced the dish on her hip was downright impressive. We walked past tables decorated with harlequin masks, king cakes, and fleurs-de-lis.

“Where's your husband? Is he parking the car? Surely he came to hear you speak.”

It was a genuine question. The lady didn't seem particularly mean-spirited, so I mustered an answer. One I'd practiced in front of my bathroom mirror many times before; it wasn't the first time I'd been asked it, and it surely wouldn't be the last. “I don't have one. Work keeps me so busy, you know.”

“But I assumed—”

“Guess I haven't been lucky.”

The most amazing silence enveloped us. No one spoke for several seconds, until the lady with the Pyrex broke the tension. “Really? A pretty girl like you? I can't believe that. By the time I was your age, I had three children in elementary school.”

“I'm afraid it's true,” I said. “But I like to think I have plenty of time for that. Wouldn't you agree?”

Their frowns told me otherwise.

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me here today. Everything looks so lovely.”

“Of course. We wanted to make you feel welcome.” The first speaker gazed over my shoulder, as if she couldn't believe me and expected to see a wayward husband magically appear on the lawn behind us. “We have a lot of work to do. I hope you don't mind if we go set these things down.” The minute she spoke, the group dispersed like a puff of dust in the wind.

Just like that, they disappeared. Here they'd made a big show out of welcoming me, until they realized we weren't so alike, after all.

When they discovered my shortcoming—my inability to muster even one measly man at the advanced age of thirty—it was as if I'd told the group I had scarlet fever and was highly contagious.

They'd assumed something about me, only to discover it wasn't true. I'd always remember the lesson they taught me: Never rely on a first impression.

No matter how much we want to believe something about another person, that doesn't mean reality will cooperate.

My head still bowed, I continued to walk toward the registration cottage, where I'd spied Lance's car. Late-afternoon sun cast long shadows from the pin oaks and crepe myrtles onto the emerald grass.

Supper would soon be here. I hadn't eaten anything all day, unless you counted the breakfast roll I stashed in my purse before church or the handful of Altoids I'd nibbled on during it. Funny how whole meals could come and go now, and I was none the wiser without Ambrose to remind me.

After a few more steps, I discovered Lance was gone. By this time I was not only starving but parched, and I seemed to recall they had an enormous ewer of sweet tea on a side table in the registration cottage.

I made my way to the building and swung open the door. Instead of sweet tea, though, the hotel's general manager sat perched in front of a giant Dell computer. That man worked way too hard, considering it was a Sunday afternoon.

I ducked around a table piled with brochures—no ewer in sight—and approached the desk. The cottage looked much newer than the other parts of the plantation, with smooth drywall, recessed lights, and whatnot. “Hello, there. Don't the owners ever let you rest?”

The manager held out his hand. “Good afternoon. I don't think we've officially met. I'm Wyatt Burkett. And no, the owners don't really care.”

“That's a shame. Let me call them up and I'll set 'em straight.” I grinned to let him know I was teasing. “By the way, I enjoyed sitting next to you in church this morning. You seem to have a nice little congregation there.”

“Yes, we do. And it was mighty nice of
you
to offer your services for the fund-raiser tomorrow night.”

“It wasn't anything.” Which was true, considering Ambrose still had no idea I'd volunteered him. “Say, Wyatt. Do you always work Sundays? Surely the Andrews family must give you the Lord's day off and not just a few measly hours for church.”

“I work every afternoon. We're owned by something called a real-estate investment trust. Do you know what that is?”

“I'm afraid not.” I leaned against the counter. Paying bills was one thing, but I'd rather suffer through a month of root canals than learn about investment trusts, tax-sheltered annuities, and those sorts of things.

“It means a group of people owns this place. In our case, a group of hotel owners out of Dallas.”

“Can't imagine the Andrews family would up and sell their home to perfect strangers. My grandma would call that goin' back on your raisin'. I'd never do that.”

He smiled. “Everyone believes that. Until they get that first electric bill from Louisiana Power and Light. The heirs didn't have enough money to keep the place going. Oh, they tried. Let's see . . . it was a boarding house, a French restaurant, and then a day spa. You should've seen it a couple of years ago; it was a total wreck.”

“That's pitiful. There should be a law against it.”

“You'd think the locals would've been thrilled to see new owners come in and spruce it up.” His smile disappeared. “Just the opposite. Someone started a trash fire at our grand opening and nearly burned the place down. Trying to send us a message, I guess.” He stared at the computer screen. “In fact, April was one of our worst months ever.”

“Do tell! I'd have thought you'd have brides lined up from here to Alabama, trying to get married in that beautiful golden ballroom of yours.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?”

The things one found out through idle chatter. Here I'd come into the cottage for a glass of sweet tea, and I'd picked up a big cup of information instead.

“Say, where are you hiding that sweet tea I saw here before?” I asked.

“It's almost gone, so I put it in the tour guides' office behind me. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, kindly.” I glanced at the computer screen. “I'm sorry about the business dropping off. Maybe it'll pick up come summer.”

That didn't seem likely, though, since the check-in counter was as bare as a bald cypress in winter. I skirted the desk and ducked into the tour guides' office, sad to see the mansion in such poor straits.

In contrast to the rest of the plantation, the tour guides' office was nothing special. It housed a cheap laminate desk, two plastic chairs, and a giant poster board held up by thumbtacks. The owners obviously didn't spend money on places hotel guests wouldn't see.

The poster board was a calendar, with entries for guides named Charity, Mary Kate and, of course, Beatrice. I sashayed over for a better look. Oddly enough, Charity was supposed to be on duty today, not Beatrice. Strange I'd run into Beatrice a little while ago in the hall.

She must be filling in. Below the calendar sat a side table with the sweet tea, but by now only a cupful of brown liquid skulked around on the bottom. I dropped my purse to the floor and it hit the side of a trash can, which wobbled before tipping over. A stream of papers flowed out, starting with a picture of Trinity and her father, followed by the wedding announcement I'd seen earlier.

I bent and retrieved even more papers out of the trash, including a wedding invitation and a program for Trinity's ceremony. Wasn't Beatrice supposed to mail those to Ivy? If so, why did scuff marks crosshatch the special picture of father and daughter and an ugly tear bisect the wedding announcement? How could Beatrice have been so careless?

“Missy?” Beatrice hovered above me, her face rigid.

I hadn't heard her come in. Although I wasn't a bird-watcher, I must have looked like a screech owl caught in the light of a birder's lantern, my eyes three sizes too big.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Getting some tea?” I swept my hand over the debris on the carpet. “I found these in the trash. They must have fallen into the wastebasket by mistake.”

Now Beatrice looked stunned. “I—I was going to mail those. You're right. They must have slipped off my desk by accident.”

I glanced again at the wedding announcement. The nasty tear was no accident. “Maybe we can fix these things up a bit.”

“You never told me why you're here,” she said.

“I came in to find the sweet tea. By the way, according to the schedule you don't work on Sundays.”

“I've got finals coming up and I left my notes in here, so I had to come back. That's all.”

“Interesting.” I straightened and forced myself to smile. “What are you studying at the university?” Anything to distract her while I arranged the papers in my hand into a neat pile. Damaged or not, these belonged to Ivy and not in a trash can.

“Science. I'm on an academic scholarship at LSU.” She took the papers from me before I could react.

“How interesting. I wouldn't have pegged you for the science type. More like business or advertising. Something like that.”

“No, I'm a chem major. Shooting for my pharmacy degree. I'm almost done too.”

“Good for you. And please tell me you're going to mail those things to Mrs. Solomon in the morning. Wouldn't want her to wonder what happened to them.”

“No, of course not.” Beatrice bent over and swept what was left of the pile into her hand. “Can't imagine how they ended up in the trash like that.” She straightened and glanced over her shoulder.

I followed her eyes to the door. Wyatt stood under the threshold with a key in his hand.

“I'm afraid I need to lock this office up, ladies. You two all through?”

“Why, yes.” The tea was a tad dark for my tastes, anyhow. “I think we are.”

I nodded to both Wyatt and Beatrice on my way out of the office. She'd grown awfully chilly after I found those things in the trash. Not to mention she'd whisked them away from me so quickly.

Finally, where were the chemistry notes she needed? Unless she was going to return to the office, which was highly doubtful since Wyatt planned to lock it, she hadn't retrieved any notes at all.

The questions tumbled through my mind as I slowly trekked back to the main house. The stairs seemed higher than ever, and I gripped the rail for support. Enough was enough already. If I didn't get something to eat or drink soon, I surely would pass out.

It was time to eat a proper meal. I made my way through the foyer and down the hall, until the door of the restaurant finally appeared.

Hooray
! Charles had taken command of the maître d's stand, like I'd hoped.

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” I said. “Table for one, please.”

“Sure thing.” He seemed subdued as he led me into the restaurant.

My favorite table by the picture window was already occupied. I cursed my luck until I drew closer and realized it was none other than Ambrose, back from Bleu Bayou and looking none the worse for wear.

“Hello, Missy!”

I dropped my purse next to the table and planted a big ol' kiss on his forehead. Only a day apart and already I missed him so.

“I was going to call you,” I said. “How did you know I'd come here?” He'd even had the decency to wait for me before nibbling on something from the bread basket.

“I went to your room first, but you weren't there. I know you don't always remember to eat lunch, so I figured you'd come here for dinner.”

“You know me too well.”

As I settled in, Charles returned to our table, still looking miserable. “Why, Charles, whatever is the matter?” I asked. “You look like someone stole all your marbles.”

“A police officer was here.” He quietly handed us menus. “Asked me a bunch of questions about Trinity. I didn't know what to tell him.”