Murder at Morningside (2 page)

A
warm glow prodded me awake the next morning as sunshine seeped through the curtain sheers in my room. What a fantastic way to be wakened, watching everything lighten from rose to cotton candy to baby-girl pink, with nothing better to do than sit back and enjoy the show.

Time for my wake-up call to Ambrose. Normally he was up long before I was, and he'd have finished the
Times-Picayune
by the time I called. The scenery must have slowed him down, though, because he didn't answer when I dialed his room, or maybe he'd already left for the morning. Either way, I gave up after five rings.

I gathered my things and walked into the bathroom. A claw-footed bathtub sat next to a marble double sink. Once I figured out how to use the bath's handheld sprayer, after spritzing the sink, I came to like it. Easier to wash shampoo from my long hair and twice as quick.

Someone knocked on the door to my room as I stepped out of the tub.

“Hey, Missy. You up yet?” It was Ambrose, of course.

“Give me a minute,” I yelled. Guess he'd had time for the paper and a morning stroll. Luckily for him, I can put on my face and fix my hair in fifteen minutes flat. I grabbed a towel and stepped into the bedroom. “Do you mind if we walk around a bit before breakfast?” I asked, as I towel-dried my hair. There was a good chance he might say no. He'd already been out and about, and Ambrose wasn't charitable about much else getting in the way when it came to his stomach.

“Would you like that? Well then, that's what we'll do.”

It warmed my heart he could put my happiness above his appetite. “You're the best!”

We walked down the hall a short while later. Ambrose had convinced me the night before to wear my mint-green shorts that matched his, so we looked like two juleps walking down the hall. That was the wonderful thing about having a fashion designer for a best friend. Tons of fashion advice worth its weight in gold lamé.

No sooner had we walked down the stairs and reached the landing when someone rushed past.

“Lorda mercy!” I said.

The girl stopped and turned, her face flushed to high heavens. “I'm so sorry. Excuse me.”

It was Beatrice, our tour guide from the day before, wearing a felt hat called a
cloche
from the Roaring Twenties and a beaded dress to match. Whatever could Beatrice be doing running around the hall looking like an old-time flapper?

“Beatrice, is that you?”

She finally slowed and took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry if I startled you. I'm very late.”

I tried not to stare, but her hat was terribly intriguing. Lace embellished the felt and a petersham ribbon decorated its side. The milliner had done a bang-up job of balancing the ribbon against the angle of the brim, something I knew a thing or two about.

So many people took a fancy to the hats I whipped up for Derby parties and whatnot while I was a student at Vanderbilt that I decided to open a hat shop right here on the Great River Road. And not just any hats. My specialty was designing custom veils and fascinators for brides, who were a sight more difficult to manage than your average customer. Bless their hearts. Part of me always wished I'd majored in psychology at Vanderbilt and not fashion design.

After a few years in Tennessee, I shipped my grandma's chifforobe to Bleu Bayou and scouted for a storefront. Before long, Crowning Glory opened next door to Ambrose's Allure Couture, and the rest, as they say, was history.

“Are you giving another tour?” I asked.

“It's not a tour.” Beatrice laid her hand against her heart. “I need to open the tearoom for our hat competition. Those ladies don't like to be kept waiting.”

Glory be!
I'd stumbled upon a hatbox full of potential clients. The good Lord did work in mysterious ways. “You don't say.”

Of course, sometimes a hotel placed a limit on the number of people who could participate, so I could be setting myself up for a big dose of disappointment. “I don't suppose you have room for one more, do you?”

“I'll have to check. We stopped taking reservations yesterday, and I'm not sure how many the front desk got. All I know is I'd better be done with the tearoom by eleven or I'll be in big trouble.” Her eyes narrowed a smidge. “I'm not even supposed to be here today.”

“Then why are you working?”

“I need the money. You know how it is.”

I gave a heavy sigh. “Do I ever. On the plus side, that hat of yours is amazing.” And that was the God-honest truth. The black felt didn't look out of place, even in daylight, and it suited her dark hair and almond-colored eyes. Of course, the milliner did pick out the easiest fabric to work with when she chose felt, which was ten times easier to block than straw or fabric, but I couldn't fault her for that.

“Thank you.” Her frown disappeared. “I guess the wedding this weekend has me flustered. Everything has to be perfect.”

“Are you a friend of the bride?” Ambrose asked.

“I wouldn't say that.” In fact, she didn't seem to want to say much more, because her eyes darted past us as if looking for a way out of the conversation.

“Then you must be a friend of the groom,” I said.

“It's complicated. Let's just say I don't think there should be a wedding. I've got to go now or I'll be really late. Mr. Solomon told me to be done with the room by eleven.” She turned away and hustled past us as quick as anything.

“Did that seem strange to you?” Ambrose asked, once she disappeared.

“Sounds like she doesn't agree with the wedding.” Or the bride. “Though I can't imagine why.” At least we had complimented her hat. “C'mon, Bo. Let's get some eggs in you before you faint.” We headed for the restaurant, which was located at the south end of the property.

After a few minutes, Ambrose reached for my arm. “Wait a minute. You know you should go to the hat competition. There's no telling how many new customers you could get.”

Sweet of him to say, what with his empty stomach and all. “Of course, you're right. It
would
be fun to look around.” I'd entered a few hat contests in my day, and both times I'd won the grand prize and a handful of new clients. “Do you think I have time?”

“You won't know until you try. I'll check with the front desk while you go and get fixed up. How about that lapis one you wore yesterday?”

Only my Bo would know the difference between lapis and plain ol' blue. “I brought even nicer ones.” In fact, my parabuntal straw would be perfect. And it matched my spring shift with wildflowers that bloomed across the front. “You sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all. You hop upstairs, and I'll go put you on the list.”

“Thanks. You're the best.” Quickly, I pecked him on the cheek and hurried away as I planned the whole thing out in my head. Straw hat, spring dress, Chanel Rouge lipstick. People normally went all out for these things, so maybe I'd add white gloves and sass it up as someone on her way to a garden party. I'd completed the outfit in my mind when voices sounded from somewhere down the hall.

“You can't go through with this!” It sounded like Beatrice again, and she seemed ready to spit nails. What was it about this place that made people yell so at each other?

“Trust me.” A man's voice. “I know what I'm doing.”

When I rounded the corner, I almost collided with Beatrice and a man who looked like a cover model straight out of New York City. Like one of the models in a Ralph Lauren ad, with teeth as shiny as my grandma's pearl necklace and just as straight. Gorgeous. He was simply gorgeous. But handsome or not, the stranger glared at me as if I'd waltzed into his photo shoot by accident.

“I'm sorry—” I said.

“Do you mind? This is private.” He spit the words between the pearly teeth.

Reluctantly, I began to back away. Beatrice must have been really upset because the cloche lay on the ground, where it puddled like an ink stain. I would have scooped it up for her, since felt crushed so easily, but this didn't seem like the time, nor the place. In fact, I would have loved to sink into the carpet and reappear as a housefly on the plantation's wallpaper. Maybe then I could figure out why the Ralph Lauren model had stopped yelling at Beatrice and now cupped her chin so lovingly in the palm of his hand.

Utterly confused, I turned away from them and almost got lost on the way to my room. The way that man cut his eyes at me! As if I'd purposefully eavesdropped. Which couldn't have been further from the truth, since I knew better than to make eye contact with them if I wanted to overhear something juicy. Not that I had any experience with that sort of thing.

No use spending all morning worrying about other people's problems. I made it to my room again and pulled the key from my pocket.

Once inside, I flung open the closet door and pulled out my Sunday-go-t'-meetin' spring dress. Then I slipped out of my shorts and top, slid into the dress, and dislodged the hatbox from its place on the shelf. This one had given me fits and starts when I steamed it onto the form, since the brim was a foot and a half around, but it played up my green eyes nicely.

I quickly stabbed a couple of hat pins under the brim, drew on a slash of Chanel lipstick, and scooted out the door. This time, if I ran into Beatrice and that male model, I might pretend to divert my attention elsewhere and overhear some juicy snatches they might throw my way.

By the time I arrived at the tearoom, the two had disappeared. The room buzzed with conversation, and I paused on the threshold to work up my courage.
Oh, my.
Women and girls wearing hats, just like me, filled the place. They were at oval tables set for five and passed delicate trays back and forth. I scanned the competition and noticed that most people had chosen conservative trilbies, tiny fascinators, and even a beret or two. No one was brave enough to wear something oversized, which would work in my favor.

The din softly faded as people seemed to notice my arrival. It reminded me of all the times I floated into a Derby party, little whispers coming from under the hats. I squared my shoulders and did my best catwalk strut into the tearoom to a spot at the first table. After a second, the conversations around me resumed, which was just as well, and I finally exhaled.

“What an interesting hat!” A lady across the way leaned over the table. “Most people wouldn't be able to carry off a brim that big.”

Here in the South there's a fine line between a true compliment and a backhanded one, and since I couldn't quite tell the stranger's intentions, I decided to play it safe.

“Why, thank you. It's my own creation. And yours is interesting too.” It looked expensive, with curled quills that fanned out in all directions, with not a stitch to be seen. She must have found a very good milliner in her hometown. “Love the pheasant quills.”

“Thank you, kindly.”

Truth be told, it was a beautiful re-creation of a Victorian-era hat, and she wore a high-buttoned silk blouse to boot. This one was going to be tough to beat.

“However did you pack that?” I asked. “Feathers do tend to get crushed.”

“Isn't that the truth.”

Since I still couldn't decipher my tablemate's intentions, I reached for a porcelain teacup, in lieu of saying more. Flowered pots sat on every table, along with sugar cubes, stir sticks, and tea bags. Mostly Earl Greys, with a few Bigelows thrown in for good measure.

“Luckily, I didn't have to travel very far.” Then she poured hot water into her cup and began to steep a tea bag in it. “My stepdaughter, Trinity, is getting married here tonight.”

“What a coincidence! Her wedding planner hired me to make the veil.” Thank goodness I'd been civil to her, since she'd be the one to pay the 1200 dollars for a custom creation of Alençon lace. “I'm Missy DuBois. The planner hired my shop to do the bridesmaids' hats too.”

“But of course. Ivy Solomon. Charmed, I'm sure.” She glanced at a diamond watch on her wrist and frowned. “Trinity should have been here by now. She promised she'd come down and keep me company.”

“Really? I'd have thought the bride would have a million other things to do, what with the ceremony and all.”

“Oh, no. The wedding planner took care of everything. Which didn't leave any room for me, I'm afraid.”

What a shame
. To be the stepmother of the bride and have nothing to show for it on a big day like today. “That's too bad. I'd think she'd want your opinion on everything.”

Well, that did the trick. Ivy stood and scooted over to an empty spot beside me, her tea cooling in her cup. Apparently she wasn't standoffish. At least not when she liked which way the conversation was going.

“It's enough to make me cry,” she said. “Here she went and spent all that money on a ‘professional' when I could have told her just as well what courses to serve.”

I offered her my hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” She placed her palm in mine. “Now, where did you say you're from?”

I hadn't, but that was neither here nor there. “Bleu Bayou. Down the road a piece.”

Her eyes widened. “Why, my whole family's from Bleu Bayou. The Girards. Have you met them yet?”

“Met them? The very first person who welcomed me to town was Maribelle Girard, right around Christmastime. Couldn't have been nicer to me.”

For the next few minutes, Ivy Solomon and I talked about her family and mine, the things we liked and disliked about wedding planners, and all the ways in which a good hat could make anything better. By the time Beatrice finished working the room and stepped up to the podium, we were thicker than thieves and laughing like a pair of wild hyenas.