Murder at Morningside (18 page)

“All this time I've been wearing my hat wrong?”

“It's not a big deal. Here, this will just take a second.” I gently untied the knot while she waited patiently, like a show dog being fitted with a new collar. In a few seconds, I whipped up a respectable bow and smoothed it back down again. “There, that's much better.”

“Thank you, Missy. For everything.”

I patted her hand as I rose. “No problem. Tell me, what are your plans now the plantation's been sold?”

“Well, the best part of my job was helping brides plan their weddings. I'm good at it. I can pick out the decorations, choose the menus, that kind of thing.”

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” I hoped I was right, because she'd make an excellent wedding planner.

She nodded happily. “Yep. I think I'm going to go freelance. Work as a wedding consultant all up and down the Great River Road. I know there's a market for it because I've seen how busy it gets here during the wedding season.”

“That's wonderful!”

“Maybe I'll even work with you and Ambrose sometime. Looks like any woman would be lucky to own your hats and his clothes.”

Ambrose. He was still waiting for me back in the social hall. “I couldn't agree more.” I nodded toward the building. “I've got to go. Take care of yourself, Beatrice. I'm sure we'll run into each other real soon.”

“You too. And I'll think about what you said. About Charles, I mean.”

I grinned all the way back to the social hall. Ambrose stood near the rear entrance, next to an elderly lady in a flowered dress. He seemed energetic as he listened and nodded his head every once in a while.

But I knew the truth: although exhausted, my Ambrose would never shortchange a fan. I'd find him in the same spot come morning if he had his way. I only knew because I'd seen him emcee dozens of events and make dozens of exits afterward. Why, he'd still be there when the sun came up.

“There you are, Ambrose. I'm sure you don't want to leave, but I'm about ready to drop.” I smiled sweetly at his companion, hoping my acting skills were up to par.

“Of course.” He turned to his companion. “I'm afraid I need to go, but tell your husband you're not too old to wear red. You'd look fabulous.”

The lady beamed, and I knew she'd recite those words to her husband when she got home. Then Ambrose draped his arm around my shoulders and guided me back to the social hall.

Volunteers swarmed over the space. People on ladders ripped the fabric from the walls, a line of workers scooped up folding chairs, while others dismantled our makeshift stage. Amazing how quickly the illusion of glamour disappeared when faced by an army of eager volunteers.

“That was one of your best shows, Bo,” I said as we walked out to the parking lot. “They'll be talking about it for years to come.”

Our path was brightened by the moon, which had grown fat over the past two days. I paused when someone emerged from the shadows.

“Evenin', Missy. Ambrose.”

“Why, Lance! You scared me half to death.” I almost didn't recognize him without his police uniform.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I wanted to say good-bye and tell y'all how wonderful the show turned out. But I also had some police business to discuss.”

“Do tell.” What a nice surprise. And an even nicer one: He wanted to include me in his police work. What a difference from that first day, when he shooed me away from the restroom and made me promise never to tell another living soul I'd been there.

“We took Wyatt in for questioning today,” he said. “Even though he couldn't have killed Trinity because of his alibi, we knew he was involved in some way. Especially after he threatened you like that.”

“That's good,” I said. “I was afraid for my life, to tell you the truth. Wyatt looked mad enough to hurt me.”

“He had good reason to.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

Lance clasped his hands together. “He confessed.”

“Confessed to what? I thought Cat was the one who poisoned Trinity Solomon.”

“She was. But she had an accomplice. Turns out she and Wyatt were a couple.”

But, of course. Once again, a puzzle piece fell into place. I'd watched Wyatt tenderly stroke Cat's cheek in the garden and I'd wondered why a boss would touch his employee like that.

I tilted my head. “Let me guess . . . Wyatt's the father of Cat's baby.”

“Bingo. He thought he'd help her get back at Mr. Solomon by ruining the plantation's business. So he dressed up in a uniform and pretended to haunt the place.” He let his hands drop. “But Cat wasn't so patient. She wanted revenge right away, and that's when she heard Trinity was coming to town to get married.”

“They're both excellent actors,” I said. “I overheard Cat and Wyatt in the garden, and I'd be happy to give you my statement.”

“We'll talk tomorrow.” He offered me his hand. “Good night, Missy.”

“Why, Lance. Don't be so formal.” I ignored the handshake and gave him a great big bear hug instead. “I'm just down the road, you know, not that far away.”

Standing there in the faint light of the moon, with Ambrose on one side and someone from my childhood on the other, I almost hated to see the evening end. Almost.

W
e arrived at the parking lot of the Sleepy Bye Inn soon after, both of us exhausted beyond measure. Between the hoopla back at the church—and then speaking with Beatrice and Lance afterward—I didn't have one ounce of energy left.

Ambrose parked his car and shuffled over to my side, where he slowly swung open the door.
Bless his poor little heart.
We made a fine pair as he struggled to help me out of the car, and I tottered around like I'd just had a fifth of vodka.
Oh, well.
We were the only ones in the parking lot, so even Clyde must have left for the open road again and wouldn't be able to see our pitiful return.

Before I got very far, though, I noticed a light in the manager's office, giving off a dull blue fluorescent glow.

Vernice had come to our show, after all, even though I'd been so uppity to her earlier. She slunk through the staging area a few minutes before it began. She apparently didn't know anyone, because she ducked through the social hall's back door without acknowledging a single person.

Now a pale blue light spilled out from the office window to the concrete. Poor thing must get lonely in there with no one for company but the telephone, and that didn't seem to ring too much. “You go on ahead, Ambrose. I want to say good night to Vernice.”

His forehead wrinkled in surprise. “I thought you didn't like her much. Seems funny you'd pick now to be sociable.”

“I never said I didn't like her.” Heaven only knew I hadn't said more than a dozen words to her. “You don't have to come. Go on up. I'll follow you in a second.”

He started to protest, but his exhaustion seemed to win out. “Okay. Give her your best and then come upstairs.” When he turned, I marshaled my last ounce of energy and began to trudge toward the office.

Vernice sat on the other side of the streaked window. She gripped the guest registry in both hands and didn't seem to notice me until I opened the noisy plate-glass door.

“Hi, Miss DuBois. Need more towels?”

“No, I'm fine. I came to say good night. Thought you could use a little company in here.” It was time to make up for my rudeness earlier. No wonder she preferred to speak to Ambrose. “Did you like the show?” I asked.

“It was nice. I've never been to that church before.”

I stepped closer to the counter. “Really?” That didn't seem possible, since she seemed to be a local gal. From what I knew about small towns like this—or Bleu Bayou, even—almost everything happened at the local church. Weddings, funerals, bingo games . . . even special fashion shows, like ours.

“Clyde doesn't like me to go.”

“Who?” It took a moment for me to realize she was talking about the trucker. Probably because I'd been on my feet forever and my brain was mush.

“Clyde,” she repeated. “My husband. He trucks for Louisiana Foods.”

“Oh, the rig.” The one with naked girls on the mud flaps.

“Yeah, but I'm thinking maybe he's wrong about the church. The people seemed real nice.”

I leaned against the countertop. If it was possible to feel pleased and guilty at the same time, then that was how I felt. Happy other people had welcomed Vernice to their church, but sad I hadn't done the same. “You should make a habit of going.”

“I think I'll do that. At least we got some guests tonight. Tell you the truth, I was worried I'd be fired if things didn't pick up.” Her face darkened. “Most of the month was slower than Methuselah.”

“But don't you get a lot of traffic from the interstate?” Seemed to me truckers like Clyde would set this place up with a steady stream of business.

“No. Nowadays teams of people truck and they don't stay anywhere but on their rigs,” she said. “That's what Clyde and I will have to do if things go back to normal and business drops off again.”

“That wouldn't be too bad, would it? Sounds like fun. You could cruise around the country with your husband and see all sorts of things. Or am I talking out of turn?” I didn't have the slightest idea how truckers made a living and, for all I knew, this woman would
not
be happy to spend that much time on the open road.

She glanced at the registry again. “It's not that. I like hotel work. Being in one place, meeting people . . . when they come in, that is. Don't know how long they can keep me employed here, though, even with the extra guests tonight. Clyde told me the minute they let me go I'll have to start trucking with him and then we can take on more routes.”

My eyes widened. “I have a great idea.” Maybe it was because I wanted to make up for my grumpiness earlier, or because I loved to put people and situations together, but I remembered my conversation with Beatrice. “Apply at Morningside. They'll have to hire a whole new staff.”

She blinked. “They wouldn't hire me. That's a fancy place full of fancy people. I don't belong there.”

“Yes, you do. They'd be lucky to have you. As a matter of fact, I happen to know they need a general manager. If I were you, I'd head on down there tomorrow morning.”

She looked wary, as if she were waiting for a punch line. “Why are you telling me this? I thought you didn't like me much when we met yesterday.”

“Sorry. That was my misplaced aggression. I'd tell you all about it, but I'm so tired I can barely see straight. I'll bend your ear about it in the morning if you want to join me for a cup of coffee.”

She grinned. “That sounds nice. I'll see you in the morning. And sleep well.”

“I will. Thank you.” I turned to leave, so tired the room wobbled, when Vernice suddenly called out.

“Miss DuBois, I forgot something. You got a package.” She ducked under the counter and reappeared with a cardboard box. It couldn't have weighed much, because she easily hoisted it onto the counter. “Someone left this for you.”

“Me?” Who'd leave anything for me? I barely knew a soul in Riversbend. Could it be a thank-you from the church? That seemed a little soon, since the fashion show had barely ended.

Vernice handed over some scissors so I could slice through the duct tape holding the box together. A layer of crumpled newsprint came first, which I whisked away, like a little girl on Christmas morning.

“What in the world?” I said.

Underneath the newsprint was a hunk of rounded wood, as smooth as a butcher's block. I pulled it out and set it on the counter. The curved wood looked like a ball chopped in half. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn it was a doorstop or something similar. But I knew better.

“What do you know?” I flipped the dome over and found a small cross etched into the grain and another one across from it.

Vernice leaned forward to get a better look. “What is it?”

“Watch.” I tilted the block toward her so she could see underneath. “See those marks?” I waited for her to nod. “Those marks tell hat makers where to find the center front and center back on a block like this. When they lay fabric over a block—we call the stuff we use
buckram
—they know where to place it.”

She pursed her lips. “Hmm, I thought it was something for a cook. Maybe to make pie crusts or something.”

“Oh, no. These antique hat blocks are very expensive and they're hard to find. They cost thousands of dollars. Usually people walk right by them in antique stores because they don't know what they are.” I held the dome up to the bluish light to admire its size and shape. The craftsman had lovingly worked it over with a lathe until the grain was as smooth as ice.

Vernice peered into the box again. “Wait, I think there's more.”

I joined her and saw two more bulges. It was like finding several toys in a Christmas present when I expected only one.

“Oh, my.” Carefully, I withdrew the second one, which was half the size of the first and cut straight across its top. “Look. This one's for a porkpie hat.”

She took a step back. “Okay, now you've totally lost me.”

“These are different hat blocks. The first was used to make a hat with a domed crown. Try to imagine those old-time pictures of ladies riding sidesaddle and wearing black felt hats. That's how a milliner would shape it. And this one would be used to make something called a
porkpie
. See how it's cut straight across and shaped like a fat pie? Ladies wore porkpies in daytime because they weren't as fancy.”

Laying the second treasure by the first, I knew what I'd find at the bottom of the box. I reached in again. “All that's missing is a brim block to shape a huge brim on a sunbonnet.” I smiled when I saw it. The final block was shaped like a large salad bowl turned upside down. “I was right!”

“How did you do that?”

I waved away her awe. “Don't be too impressed. They only had a few hat styles back then. Women couldn't get new hats during the Civil War, since the Union put up blockades.”

“But who sent them? They arrived before I got back from the church.”

I shrugged. “That's a good question. Who around here knows I make hats, and who would give me something so expensive?”

“Maybe this will tell us.” Vernice withdrew a single sheet of stationery from the box and held it up for me. It was cream, with a beveled edge and the monogram
IS
engraved at the bottom. “Do you want me to read it?”

“Of course. Hurry up. The suspense is killing me.”

She cleared her throat. “
Please accept this gift. It's the only way I knew to thank you. For everything. They belonged to Belle Boyd, a lady who did brave things like you. Your friend forever, Ivy
.”

She stared at the card when she finished.

“That's so nice,” I said. “I'll put them in my shop so everyone can see them. I don't quite know who that Boyd person is, but I'm sure there's a story there.”

Vernice held onto the card delicately, as if it were made of gold. “Oh, my. Belle Boyd was a spy during the Civil War. A hero around here. She almost died several times. Women didn't do things like that back then.”

“What do you know?” I studied the three wooden forms on the counter. They seemed even more beautiful now and the wood glowed under the fluorescent lights. “That's about the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

The day had been so surprising. Too bad I couldn't accept such a special gift. “Let's pack them up again. You can take the box with you when you go to Morningside tomorrow.”

Vernice's mouth had fallen open. “Why? You said yourself these things cost thousands of dollars. You could sell them on eBay or take them to an antique store. Think about it.”

“No way. They belong in a museum, not in my shop. I love the gesture, but I can't keep something that means so much to the people around here.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely. I'll write Ivy a nice, long letter and explain, but treasures like this belong in a museum. They're part of the history of this place.” I began to tuck the forms back in the box.

Ivy's gesture had warmed my heart, and the treasures looked radiant by the time I closed the lid.