Murder at Morningside (4 page)

Maybe that wouldn't be
too
bad. There were a few things I'd wanted to do around the plantation that Ambrose might not enjoy. Reading in the library was one, along with getting my toes done at the day spa. “Well, if you insist.”

He smiled, which brought out the blue in his deep-set eyes. “Try to stay out of trouble for once, okay?”

So much for the day's plans. I settled back in the rocker, but then changed my mind and snatched up Ivy's hat. Even though Ambrose was determined to fix things at his store, I could always help him by finding him something to eat on the way. I walked across the porch, but before I got very far, a shrill noise sounded below me. It landed a half-note shy of being on pitch as someone whistled away. Sounded to me like an off-tune rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Curious now, I peeked over the rail as the front door closed behind Ambrose. Someone stood over a clump of impatiens next to the house, tugging at a weed. Thinning hair, blue coveralls, and a low-slung tool belt around the waist. It was the gardener from before. The one who'd ordered everyone to stay away from the house once the maid discovered Trinity Solomon.

Despite the horrible morning, he seemed calm as he casually pulled at a stalk.

“Good morning,” I said, as I began to descend the staircase. “Crazy times we've had this morning, right?”

He didn't bother to rise to meet me; though he did glance my way.

“You can say dat again. Crazy 'nuf to scare da guests away.”

Judging by the man's pale face and watery blue eyes, he looked to be about eighty or so. His accent reminded me of the Cajun store owner in my building.

“You were very brave this morning,” I said.

“Tank ya. Didn't know what else ta do, ta be honest.”

“I'm Melissa DuBois.” I stopped and held out my hand. “You do a great job with the gardens here. They're absolutely beautiful.”

“Gotta cover da soil in acid. Git it from da coffee. Pour dat stuff on da plants and never tink twice 'bout dem again.” He slowly straightened and held out his left hand. He'd pinned the empty sleeve on his right side to the blue coveralls.

“Nice to meet you.” I gently shook his hand. “I'll have to remember that about the coffee, Mr. . . .”

“It's jus' Darryl. Darryl Tibodeaux. Nice ta meet ya.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about plants. Been here long?”

He ducked his head. “Not dat long. Use ta work at da oil refinery. Dat's water under da bridge. Water under da bridge.”

“I heard about the big accident there.”

“Da refinery weren' so good ta me.” He glanced at the empty sleeve of his coverall. “Happy ta have dis job. Happy ta have any job.”

“I think they're lucky to have
you
. I mean, look at those flowers!” A low rumble careened through my empty stomach. “Say, Darryl. What with all the craziness this morning, I completely forgot to eat breakfast. Do you know if the kitchen's still open?”

“Should be. Dat Cat works round da clock. If'n it's not, she'll open it right up for ya.”

I smiled gratefully. “Good to know. Thanks.” It was probably time for him to get back to his work and for me to snag a bite to eat. “See you around the plantation.”

My mind swirled as I reversed course and began to ascend the stairs. First, the maid's horrible discovery of Trinity in a bathroom stall. Then, I'd already met two people who'd been affected by the fire at Mr. Solomon's oil refinery, and I'd only been talking to folks for a little while.

Finally, there was the assistant back at Ambrose's store, who couldn't breathe without his help.

I'd almost reached the top landing when something else sounded. Unlike Darryl's whistling, this noise sounded downright pitiful. Someone was gagging. Or were they retching?

I took stock. While I couldn't see the person, I definitely heard them. And even though Ambrose always said my feet moved faster than my brain, I didn't see any other option but to help if I could.

I turned and went back down the stairs, following the noise. Sure enough, a figure on the other side of the staircase had bent over an azalea bush and was retching. It was none other than Cat, the chef I'd met by the pool. She still wore a beach towel around her waist, only now her hands clutched at it for dear life.

“Cat!” She'd probably be mortified to know someone had witnessed her baptizing the bushes like that. But, in my book, protocol took a backseat to practicality, and she'd stained the front of her towel something awful with the vomit.

She looked ready to crumble, so I quickly jogged over, after first tossing the smashed hat onto the lawn. No need to deface
that
any more than necessary. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She looked up from the mess in the bushes, clearly disgusted.

“Do you want water or something?” Poor thing looked as pale as a bedsheet, which was saying a lot since her skin looked like fresh milk to begin with.

“No, I'm fine. Really.”

The strain of the morning must have been too much for her. “Was it someone finding that poor girl's body? Is that what set you off?”

Cat didn't answer right away, but she didn't have to. She stared at the ground as if it took too much effort to lift her chin. “I guess so. I'm not really good around blood and stuff. It makes me queasy.”

There hadn't been any blood, according to Beatrice, but that was neither here nor there at this point.

“Come on,” I said. “Let's go sit on the porch and rest until you feel better.” She let me lead her away like a newborn calf, her knees knocking all the way to the stairs, after I'd first stopped to retrieve Ivy's hat.

We climbed the steps together and ambled to the same old rocker I'd just left. At this rate, the thing was going to mold itself to my backside, but I slid into it anyway.

She wiped her mouth again, although her skin looked clean now. The same couldn't be said of the towel, though. “Look at me. Yuck.”

“It's okay. It's a natural reaction to stress.” I wished for a handkerchief at that moment, or at least a paper towel, to clean her up. “We should get you a washcloth or something.”

Cat shook her head. “No, really. I'm fine. Don't go to any trouble. Look, I shouldn't even be here. You're one of our guests—”

“No biggie. You rest a spell and then we'll get you cleaned up.”

She must have realized I was right because she sagged into the rocker beside me. “Something must have upset my stomach.”

“Bless your heart.”

We rested on the porch like that for a few minutes, rocking and chatting about this, that, and the other thing, until the color slowly returned to her face.

After a bit, she straightened. She must have seen something near the river because she pointed. “Look. A police car.”

A white squad car cruised along the road in front of the plantation.

“Wonder why they don't use the parking lot?”

“Beats me. Maybe they're checking the area for evidence.” But contrary to my opinion, the squad car stopped right in front of us. A tall African-American man ambled out, hopped over the low garden fence, and began to walk toward the main house. He wore a navy blue uniform with gold piping and shiny doodads on his chest. This definitely wasn't the same trooper I'd seen earlier, and he was headed in our direction.

Cat and I waited while he climbed the stairs. His dark uniform against pure white paint stood out beautifully. Didn't I almost say the same thing to Ivy when she'd complained about the dress designer? The one who suggested the bridesmaids wear black? Ambrose was right. It would've looked stunning against the snowy paint.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, the policeman tipped his hat to expose a thinning head of hair and two bushy black eyebrows. A crescent-shaped scar followed his left brow.

“Well, shut my mouth and call me Shirley,” I said. Whatever was Lance LaPorte doing standing in front of me in a policeman's uniform? Last time I saw him, he'd pestered me in our church's social hall as we both graduated from Sunday school. Had a twin brother, if I recalled correctly. But twenty years had passed, not to mention a slew of meals, judging by his waistline.

“Missy DuBois?” He looked surprised to see me too, and he tilted his head like a kitten with a twirly piece of twine. “That you?”

“Sure is, Lance.” Nice to find there were still some surprises left in this old world. “Now, you start at the beginning and tell me whatever it is you're doing here in that uniform.”

He laughed. “Didn't you hear I graduated from the police academy? My brother took up law and I took up order. I'd have thought everyone back home knew that by now.”

“We sorta lost track of you after your family moved. Someone said you'd all gone south, but no one knew for sure.”

“That right? My brother and I came down here with my mom after she divorced.”

“How is your mom?” Near as I could recall, Mrs. LaPorte left her no-account husband after he lost one too many factory jobs.

“She's good. She'll be tickled to hear we met up. She got married again, but to a nice guy this time.”

“Well, that's good. But what brings you here? Is it about the body they found this morning?”

When he finally noticed Cat, he fell silent. Maybe it was the mess on her towel, but more likely he didn't know whether he could trust the stranger sitting next to me.

“This is Cat. She's the chef here. And she knows all about the body in the restroom.”

“That's why I'm here,” he said. “I'm a detective with investigative-support services for the Louisiana State Police. Got a promotion last month.”

“Your mama must be so proud.” What a stroke of luck! I'd never been this close to a real police investigation before. At least one that didn't involve smudged newsprint at a grocery-store checkout counter. It awoke my natural curiosity, like that kitten with the twirly twine.

“It's so good to see you again, Lance. Can't wait to spend some time with y'all.”

O
nce Cat was feeling up to it, Lance and I helped her through the front door and into the foyer. Thank goodness she wanted to return to the kitchen to prepare the night's supper, since I had every intention of following Lance around as he did his police business, whether or not my stomach complained. I didn't think Lance would mind, given we'd known each other since he was a little boy in short pants and I wore pink flip-flops to that Sunday-school graduation.

“Are you here alone?” He led the way as we walked past the golden ballroom, obviously headed for the bathroom by the restaurant.

“No, I'm with my best friend, but he had to leave for a bit. The woman who was murdered was to get married this weekend. He designed the wedding gown.”

“Terrible shame.” Yellow caution tape dressed the closed bathroom door like a satin sash on a prom queen's gown.

Carefully, Lance peeled back the tape and pushed open the door. I snuck in behind him as quiet as a church mouse, since I knew police normally didn't want the public in the primary area of a crime scene.

An investigator had already come and gone, though, because a fine silver powder dusted every flat service. Magna powder. Looked to me like they scrounged whatever evidence had been left behind.

Everything seemed in place. Everything except for the last stall, the handicapped stall. Here someone had ripped the receptacle for sanitary products clean from the wall, leaving behind bits of tile grout, crumbled caulk, and milky-white dust.

Lance pulled a camera out of his pocket and began to take pictures.

“Interesting,” I said.

“Missy!” He whirled around. “What are you doing in here?”

“Helping?” It was worth a shot, albeit a long one.

“Please wait outside. I'll be done in a few minutes, after I've taken some pictures.”

“Sure thing. By the way, you know the bride was pregnant, right? Wouldn't have any need for that maxi-pad bin.”

Lance squinted. “Now, just how would
you
know that?”

“I saw Trinity Solomon arguing with her daddy yesterday, and she was clearly showing.” I backed out of the handicapped stall and left him to do his work, if that was how he wanted it.

I managed to peek into each stall as I strolled along, but they all looked perfectly normal. This police business was tedious work. Not nearly as exciting as what I read in the
National Enquirer.

Next, I stepped over to a trio of pedestal sinks. Magna powder dotted the surfaces, along with tape marks where an investigator tried to lift prints. Since Lance was busy with his pictures, I sidled over to a trash can built into the tiled wall. Someone had whisked the plastic bag away and hadn't bothered to replace it yet. Everything looked perfectly normal there too. I was about to leave when something sparkled from behind the first sink. Glimmered, really. It was a tiny starburst I'd have missed if I'd blinked.

As it was, the wall and crown molding merged together since both had been painted beige. The bit of sparkle I'd seen had lodged itself in the crease.

I glanced back. Lance was so busy he didn't pay me any mind. So, I leaned over the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and then bent to retrieve something shaped like the spore of a honeycomb: Golden, soft to the touch, and pliable. Like it had been spun from amber plastic. If I squinted just so and imagined the piece missing, I could see it was the outer casing of a pill.

Lance coughed, which startled me to no end. Like it or not, the piece of trash I held in my hand was part of a crime scene. I shouldn't even have held it, so I returned the pill to its spot in the crease and tossed aside the paper towel. “Looks like the investigator missed something.”

Lance left the commode and strode over, glancing at the spot I pointed at. As I thought, the plastic wasn't visible unless the light hit it just so, and the light didn't seem to want to cooperate at that moment.

“Here.” I grabbed another paper towel from the wall holder, reached down and plucked out the casing. Tampering with evidence was one thing, but leaving perfectly good evidence behind was quite another. Sheepishly, I handed it over to Lance. “Now, don't you scowl at me like that. You know you'd have missed it if I hadn't pointed it out.”

Lance held the capsule in the palm of his gloved hand. I'd been right about the casing part. It was clearly meant for a medicine of some sort.

He pulled a small paper baggie from his pocket and dropped the honeycomb spore into it. “Glad you found that, Missy.”

Well, that's better
. I hadn't meant to intrude, but two sets of eyes were always better than one. “Looks like medicine to me.”

“I'll get it to the lab so they can analyze it.”

“Any idea when you might get the results back?”

“Hard to say, but it shouldn't take more than a day or two.”

“That's good. Say, is it cold in here to you?” Truth be told, the place was starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. It had been exciting, at first, to be smack-dab in the middle of a real police investigation, but now, the silence was getting to be a bit much. Not to mention that someone had died right near where I stood on the cold tile floor.

“Say, Lance, how do you know if the killer struck here or brought the body to the bathroom when she was already dead?”

“There'd be scuff marks on the floor. Lots of little details determine the place of death.” He glanced at his watch and then at me. “You should probably go now. I've got to finish in here and then get back to the station. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else you were here.”

“Of course.” Not that there was anyone left to tell, what with Ambrose back in Bleu Bayou. In fact, not one person in this huge, hollow mansion would care a blessed thing about what I did, and that seemed downright pitiful. “I have a wonderful idea, Lance. Why don't you call your mama and tell her we'll all have supper here tonight?”

He stared at me blankly.

“My treat. It'll be nice . . . like we're all back home sitting around your kitchen table.” Well, not exactly like that, but I could sure use some company. Even though Ambrose insisted he'd be back in a few hours, I knew better. Brides were a breed apart, and she probably wouldn't release him until after nightfall.

“All right.” He finally smiled. “Let me call Mom and get it squared away. It's a little fancy, though. Sure you don't mind paying?”

“Wouldn't hear of anything else.” After all, I had twelve hundred dollars due me for the wedding here. “What about your brother? He can come too, if he's in town.”

“Naw. Larry decided to set up shop in Baton Rouge. Guess he got a little bigheaded once he got that law degree.”

“No matter. I'll see you and your mama here tonight at seven. Does that sound good?”

“Sure. Let me guess. You'll be the one wearing a Sunday hat to supper?”

“But of course.” Sweet of him to remember. I always wore a sunbonnet bigger than me to church, even when I was a little thing. “See you at seven. Good luck with the investigation. Such a tragic thing.” I turned away from him, the powdered surfaces and the crime-scene tape that limped against the paneled door.

Although my stomach might complain, I still had a mess of things to see around the plantation. Supper would be here soon enough.

I decided to explore the front of the mansion next. The hall leading to the foyer was empty this time. The hotel must have refunded everyone else's money; but I had no intention of asking for mine back. How could I ever look my new neighbor, that sweet Maribelle Girard, in the eye again unless I tried to help find the killer?

The beveled glass door swept open, and I stepped onto the porch. A paved road lay just beyond the white picket fence, but not a single car was on it. The only sound was a trickle of water that lapped against stone somewhere in the distance.

I reveled in the peace and quiet, especially after all the hubbub of the morning. Now might be the perfect time to look around the plantation. I walked down the stairs and took the brick path traveling east, to the far side of the property. I had all the time in the world and no one for company but me, myself, and I, so the three of us walked until we arrived at the source of the gurgling noise. A stone fountain stood smack-dab in the middle of a round garden with four benches and a plaster statue of a Roman lady watching over it all. Why, I'd discovered a secret garden in the middle of Morningside Plantation.

Jutting out from the garden were two more paths. One path must have led to the registration cottage, which sat at the front of the property, while the other path probably headed to the back, toward the pool and spa. It all looked perfectly symmetrical.

I headed for one of the wood benches and sat, surrounded by the sweet smell of star jasmine. The flower beds shimmered like the crown of a hat made from shot silk when two pieces combined to look iridescent in the sun. In fact, these colors looked like they'd been stroked on with a paintbrush, which made my plants back home seem pitiful by comparison. “Wonder if Darryl siphons off any of that special water from the Mississippi?”

The plaster statue behind me chuckled at that. At least it sounded like the statue, until I whirled around and saw Darryl poke his head out from behind.

“
Mo chagren
. . . I'm sorry.”

My, but that man did get around. “You scared me half to death! Thought I was hearing things.”

He ambled over to where I sat. “Sorry 'bout dat.”

Everywhere I turned this morning, I ran into Darryl. Wonder how he did that?

“No matter. Since we're both here, you might as well join me and rest for a few minutes.” No use in him working himself to a frazzle since the wedding had been cancelled.

He carefully eased onto the bench. “Been meanin' to take da rest, but da work never gits done.”

“I can imagine. This garden is beautiful too, like those other flower beds. My snapdragons wither once we get this close to summer.”

He glanced at me. “Remember, it's da coffee. Git it from da kitchen. Keeps dem blooms from fallin' off.”

“That's right. You mentioned that. I'll have to try it sometime.”

“Don' go crazy. Jus' a lil bit. 'Nuf to give it da acid.”

“See? This place is lucky to have you.”

He shook his head sadly. “Can't do much else now. Jus' tendin' da plants and keepin' bugs off 'em.”

“At least you get to be outside all day. So, Darryl, can you believe all the hubbub around here? What a horrible shock for the Solomon family.”

Darryl didn't blink. “Truth be told, dat family axed for it. Hurt lotsa folks 'round here wit' dat refinery.”

“Really? You think they got what they deserved?” Hard to imagine the mild-mannered gardener sitting beside me might actually condone violence like that. “I don't agree. I don't think it gives anyone the right to go after his daughter. Do you have any idea who could've done something like that?”

“Naw. Mostly I keeps ta myself. It's da bes' way.”

“I suppose. But just the same, you must have a theory. Maybe someone came around who didn't belong here or you saw a strange car in the parking lot?”

“I told ya. I keeps ta myself.” His brow furrowed. “Why you be askin' me all dese questions?”

“I met Mrs. Solomon this morning and it turns out we have a lot in common. A lot. I want to help her if I can, but no one seems to have seen or heard much of anything.”

“I dink ya bes' be leavin' dis to de police. People don' take kindly to snoopin' 'round here. Makes folks wonder 'bout cha.”

“Me? I only want to help out Mrs. Solomon. I can't do that if no one's willing to say anything. Surely you must have seen something unusual. Maybe you thought it was nothing at the time—”

“Like I said, bes' be leavin' dis to da police. Ya don' know wot you be gettin' into. I gots to go. Weddin' or no, there's still lotsa work ta be done.”

With that, Darryl abruptly rose from the bench and left. Strange how he refused to speak to me about the morning's turn of events, and stranger still that he felt no pity for the Solomon family.

His voice stayed with me as I left the garden by way of a cobblestone path. I was so busy replaying the scene in my mind I didn't pay attention to where I was going until I found myself on a route that led to the back of the house. The general manager had announced the maid's discovery here. And this was where everyone else was so preoccupied with the details that no one seemed to mourn the poor girl. I couldn't help but shudder when I saw the glossy back door.

Something was different, though. I hadn't noticed anything earlier but the sheen of the paint and the bald man who'd emerged from the mansion. Now I could tell the wall's bricks were discolored. The ones on the left were weathered and worn; the ones on the right looked clean and much newer. Maybe the bricks to the east had been added later, which would explain the difference.

I crossed the lawn and approached the wall. Sure enough, this part of the house looked like it had been added to the original. I pulled aside a scrim of vines and discovered a door few people probably even knew existed.

Someone had nailed a small bronze plaque to it with the words
Andrews Family Museum
. The only thing I loved as much as hats was history, and seeing that plaque made me smile like a child who'd stumbled upon an
OPEN
sign in a toy-store window.

The doorjamb was warped, so I put my shoulder against the panel and pushed for all I was worth, which sent me stumbling into a darkened room. A row of smudged windows allowed weak sunlight to pool on the hardwood floors. Half a dozen glass display cases loomed around the room.