Murder at Morningside (6 page)

“Thought I'd take a little stroll after dinner.” I tried to sound nonchalant, although my breath stalled. “And I went through that wonderful gallery of yours. You really should—”

“Guests aren't allowed in here.” He whisked the antique tube away from me.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude.” I took a deep breath for courage. “Couldn't help myself when I saw this beautiful room.”

“That may be, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Sure. No problem. But can I ask you something?” Might as well go for broke. “What's that? I've never seen one of those before.” I pointed to the strange cylinder.

“It's a scroll holder.”

“Wow. It's beautiful. Especially all of the silk on the inside.” Was it my imagination, or did he flinch?

Instead of responding, he carefully replaced the antique on the desk.

“Too bad the scroll's missing,” I said. “All I saw was a key inside.”

“Impossible. It's empty. Can I walk you to your room?”

Interesting
. “I'm pretty sure of what I saw. Where did you find all this stuff?” My eyes swept over the crowded space.

“Most of it belonged to Mr. Andrews. He was a collector. There's a lot more in the attic. You really should go.”

“It's a shame to hide it. Especially with all the knickknacks.”

“I suppose. Look, it's getting late. I'd be happy to escort you upstairs.”

“That's okay. It's been a heckuva day, but I can manage on my own.”

The manager waited for me to move. When I didn't, he gently took hold of my elbow and guided me away from the desk.

“You're lucky. Most people never get to see this room. It's time for me to lock up.”

I tugged my arm away. “But there's no keyhole in the door. I checked.”

“Did I say
lock
? I meant to say that I need to set the alarm in here. Off you go.”

Of all the nerve! He treated me like a bothersome child who refused to go to bed.

“I can find my way back. Thanks a lot.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Miss DuBois. Sleep well.”

Before I retreated through the opening, I glanced over my shoulder. The manager opened the top drawer of the writing desk and stashed the cylinder inside.

I took my time navigating the stairs. Strange he'd hustled me out of the smoking room so quickly. It wasn't as if I'd sprawled across the velvet chairs or tried the turban on for size. My presence there made him nervous, although there was no telling why.

I climbed the stairs until I arrived at the third floor. When I approached my door, there was a blotch above the peephole. Someone had taped a note there.
Not again
.

This note said something about Ambrose being stuck with another crisis, so he wouldn't be back until morning.
Dadburnit!
I shoved the note into my purse and turned the key in the lock.

The room was as quiet as always and silence overwhelmed me as I went about organizing my nightclothes. Once I'd changed and used the facilities, I combed my hair a hundred times and brushed my teeth. I rushed through the rest of my routine before switching off the light and flopping into bed.

I couldn't stay mad forever, though. And the bed
did
feel nice, what with a canopy of pink silk and a tuft of matching comforter. Downright comfortable, in fact. All that was missing was a twirling ballerina like they stuck in a music box and a tiny violin to play
Swan Lake
in the background.

Soon all sound disappeared. I couldn't have been sleeping long, though, when I awoke with a start. Something had fallen out in the hall. Was I dreaming? I sat up under the canopy of pink and held my breath, listening.

Crash.
There it was again. Unmistakable. A cold fear passed through me, stitching me to the spot. I wanted to call out for Ambrose, until I remembered he was nowhere near the plantation. Maybe if I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, the noise would disappear.

No such luck. Another crash, this time a bit farther down the hall. Whatever could someone be doing banging around like that in the middle of the night?

By the time I flung back the comforter and jumped from the bed, my fear had hardened to anger. Some people had no respect for others. Probably a drunken guest trying to find his room with the floorboards swaying as he stumbled from door to door. I debated whether to call the front desk or give the noisemaker a piece of my mind.

As usual, my feet moved before my brain could engage, and I moved to the door and threw it open. The hall was empty. Whatever had awoken me from my sweet sleep was gone. Or was it?

A shadow slid along the opposite wall, like a puff of cigarette smoke against paper. A bit of gray felt cloth was visible. More curious than frightened now, I followed the blot down the hall and onto the stair's landing. For a moment, the shadow froze, silhouetted by moonlight. A dark hat was above and heavy brogans below. If I wasn't a practical sort, I would've sworn the figure on the stairs wore a uniform. A Confederate uniform, like the one I'd seen in those pictures in the history museum downstairs. Like the one of a soldier holding a musket across his chest.

“Hey, you! What're you doing?” I knew the person would answer, since he'd been caught red-handed, snooping around in the middle of the night.

The figure turned and tumbled down the stairs in a flurry of gray felt and black boots.
Oh my!
I moved to help, but the figure disappeared as quickly as that puff of smoke.

When I finally allowed my brain to catch up, the chill returned. It was foolish of me to confront a stranger like that. Ambrose would have lectured me twelve ways to Sunday about the importance of minding my own business.

Slowly, I backed away from the stairs. Bravery was one thing, but foolhardiness was quite another.

I returned to my room, with my tail tucked between my legs. Whatever had awoken me from my sweet sleep was gone, as ethereal as the moonlight that splayed across the carpet. Why couldn't Ambrose have returned sooner? At least I'd have someone to tell about the figure that tumbled end-over-end down the long stairway. Someone to comfort me and stroke my hair until I fell asleep.

I dropped onto the music-box bed, which didn't look nearly as inviting now. Odds were good I wouldn't sleep another wink.

S
unlight glimmered against the hardwood floor in my room the next morning, patiently nudging me awake. I'd caught only a few winks of sleep after the commotion in the hall, and my head was as heavy as wet sand.

After a long stretch, I headed for the bathroom. Maybe a steamy shower and some mint toothpaste would revive me.

Somewhat awakened, I dressed and grabbed my favorite cloche from its hatbox on a shelf in the closet. Although Ambrose didn't much care for this one and once compared it to an oversized French beret, now would be the perfect time to wear it, with him being gone and all.

I schlepped to the staircase, where sunlight poured through a beveled window and hopscotched over the stairs. I continued to walk down the stairs and through the hallway by the restaurant. Nothing much registered until I passed the bathroom where Lance had reaf-fixed the crime-scene tape, and then I shuddered.

No use starting the morning off on a sour note, though, so I veered to the bar, where fat leather armchairs clumped around tables made from old wagon wheels. The smell of cut limes, spilled gin, and Ivory dish soap rose above it all.

Everything was ready for the day. Glasses hung from a rack above the bar like shiny raindrops poised to fall on a pile of folded towels. To one side of the bar, they'd installed a fancy double dishwasher, like the kind they advertised in
Southern Living
. Couldn't help but read those ads when I sat under the hairdryer at A Cut Above. Turned out the really fancy dishwashers had a drawer above and another below, so single people like me could wash a small load and not feel so guilty about it.

Since I was all alone, I walked up to the bar for a better look. Before I got very far, my purse snagged on the counter and plummeted to the ground, spilling the contents every which way. I bent behind the bar to retrieve a Tampax that was careening across the floor.

“You shouldn't be here,” a woman said.

Another voice immediately joined the first. I sucked in my breath and silently slid to the ground.

“I had to talk to you.” It was a man, breathy and rushed. “What am I gonna do, Beatrice? They're gonna think I killed her.”

“Gee, you're worried about yourself,” Beatrice said. “What a surprise. Don't you even care that she's dead?”

“Of course I care. I'm not an animal, you know.”

“You could've fooled me. Look, Sterling, what do you want
me
to do?”

Since I had no choice but to overhear this conversation, I might as well get comfortable. I twisted sideways and stretched my legs in front of me. Thank goodness I'd opted for the snug cloche and not one of my oversized hats, which would surely show above the bar.

Beatrice continued: “You're probably being followed. I wouldn't doubt if they get an arrest warrant for you today.”

“That's why we have to leave. Come with me, Bea.” A swish of fabric, as if someone had grasped at clothing.

“Trinity's dead.” Her retort was harsh. “Like you said, they'll think you had something to do with it. You're not going to drag me down with you.”

“But that's where they're wrong,” he said. “Why would I kill her before we got married? I'd be stupid. I was gonna be a millionaire. You have to believe me.”

My lips automatically pursed. According to Odilia LaPorte, Herbert Solomon forced the groom to sign a prenup that would leave him high and dry after the ceremony. Might he be talking big for Beatrice's benefit?

“It doesn't matter what I believe,” Beatrice said. “Go home and let me figure out what to do. Don't make a move until I call you. Got that?”

Her voice was like broken glass; so different from the chipper greeting I'd heard before.

“If you say so, but I'd rather stay here with you.”

“I told you . . . go home. Stay there until I call. Don't even think about coming back or trying to contact me.”

“But I can't go back there.” His voice softened to a whimper; like a puppy dog begging for a treat. “The rent's due and I haven't got it.”

“Not again.” Although I couldn't see a thing from my hiding spot, I imagined Beatrice shaking her head. “What happened to the money I gave you last month? Don't tell me you blew it already.”

“It's those acting lessons, Bea. They charge so damn much. How can they expect us to pay for it? They know we're starving artists, but they don't care.”

“Why do you always come to me for it? I don't have any more money than you. Guess you should have asked your fiancée.”

“You know how her father was, tightfisted bastard. I'm only two weeks behind. That's all I need. I promise I'll pay you back. Every dime of it.”

More rustling, and then a hand slapped something on a bar stool not too far away. Hallelujah I was up to date on my prayers, or else I'd want to confess something right then and there and beg God to hide me. As it was, I simply held my breath and hoped for the best.

“There. That's all I have,” Beatrice said. “Take it. But don't ask me for anything more until the end of the month.” Her voice quieted. She must have stepped away from the bar. “And be careful. The police are probably checking out your apartment now.”

“I will. And I'll pay you back. Promise.”

“Yeah, right. Any day now.”

Finally, the bar fell silent. I snatched up the Tampax, along with some Altoids and my cell phone, and tucked them all in my purse. Not that I wanted to overhear a private conversation, mind you, but I couldn't very well have stood and excused myself to go use the ladies' room. No, proper etiquette dictated I let them finish their little chat, even with me listening from not more than four feet away.

Surprising how different Beatrice sounded. She couldn't have been nicer to Ambrose and me, while she sounded ready to bite that guy's head off and spit it out the nearest window. More like a parent giving a scolding.

Not that either of them sounded a bit sorry Trinity was dead. They seemed put out, inconvenienced. Like they wanted to save their hides instead of find out who murdered the young bride.

Which meant I'd have to chew on their words, along with some biscuits and gravy, at breakfast. As if on cue, my stomach growled, so I smoothed down the cloche before straightening and moseyed over to the maître d' stand.

Sure enough, Charles stood sentinel behind the wooden podium as fresh-looking as one of the linen tablecloths draped over the tables.

“Morning, Melissa. Is your friend still upstairs?”

I focused on closing my purse so the tension had time to dribble from my face. No need to let Charles think something was wrong. “No. He's not coming this morning. He had to put out some fires at his shop yesterday, and he never made it back. And please call me Missy.”

“Will do. And that's too bad about your friend.” Charles led me through the restaurant to a table near the window, where he expertly scooped up the unneeded place setting.

“His assistant can't seem to get along without him,” I said. “Someday he's going to have to cut that apron string.”

Charles handed me a menu as I slipped into the seat. “Sounds like they need him.”

“Must be.” Since Charles and I were the only two people in the restaurant, perhaps now would be the perfect time to chat. “Has everyone recovered from yesterday?” While Trinity's body had surfaced only the day before, these people still had a business to run.

“Guess so. It would've been a lot worse if we'd known her better. I mean, I never met the girl until last week.”

“Really?”

He offered a basket of rolls as round as pond stones and lightly glazed.

“Still, it must have come as a terrible shock when they found her body so close by,” I said.

“That's true. Kind of creepy, when you put it like that.”

“I should think so.” Daintily, I placed a roll on my plate. “Where do you think they took the body?” While this wasn't the best mealtime conversation, Charles would have the inside scoop.

“There's only one funeral parlor in town. It's right next to the Baptist church.” He set down the rolls and hovered over me, as if waiting for me to look at my menu. He should have known by now he'd have to wait a bit longer.

“That must make it very convenient. Back in Bleu Bayou, the funeral parlor is way across town.”

“Riversbend is much smaller, so our church pastor works at both places.”

“Do you go to church there?” I asked.

“Yeah, when I'm not working.”

I glanced around the empty restaurant. I was probably the only person within a ten-mile radius sitting down to breakfast instead of sitting in a pew at the Baptist church. Shame on me for forgetting today was the Sabbath.

“Where did you say the church is?” There was no telling how much longer Ambrose would be away, and I
was
wearing my favorite hat. It could be interesting to see how the people around here worshipped, especially if it meant being closer to the place where they'd taken Trinity. Might be downright fascinating.

“Half a mile down the road, on your left. You can probably make the morning service if you leave right now.”

I glanced out the window. Bright sunshine and a few wispy clouds. Perfect weather for a stroll. And I could always use some fresh air to get over my encounter in the hall the night before. “Say, Charles, I think I saw something outside my room last night. Or some
one.
Wearing a uniform, of all things.”

“That right? Must have spooked you with all that talk of ghosts yesterday. You know there's no real evidence.”

“Of course.” When he put it like that, it
did
sound silly. “I'll tell you what. You get me some coffee to go and I'll head over to the church and put that nonsense about ghosts and such out of my head.”

“You got it.” Charles left, which gave me a moment to slip a breakfast roll into my purse. I could always repay the hotel later with a big supper order. After a minute or two, he returned with a Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with something black and steaming
.

“It might be fun to visit a new church,” I said. “Want me to say hello to anyone for you while I'm there?”

His face softened a bit. “If you see Beatrice, tell her hey.”

“I'll do that. If I see her.” Now that I had a plan, I slid out of the seat, renewed by our little chat. If I was ever going to help sweet Ivy Solomon, there was no time like the present. And there was no telling how long until Lance got an official police report. By then, whoever killed Trinity could be miles and miles away, and it didn't seem right to be so close to the person doing the investigating—my old neighbor, Lance LaPorte, all grown up—without helping if I could.

Coffee in hand, I left the plantation. The only other souls out on this bright May morning were two broodmares who watched as I walked along their fence line. They looked recently brushed, with manes that lay flat against their crests
.

“Morning, ladies.”

The smell of dry willows, spent wildflower stalks, and dusty pea gravel followed me as I hiked down the road. I longed for a sketchpad so I could capture the way the willows bent in the morning breeze. Even though I normally used feathers for the trims of my hats, I could always replicate the pussy willows with some rolled organdy or silk. I tried to memorize their exact bend so I could sketch the stalks when I returned to my hotel room later.

Once I'd passed the horse pasture, I came upon columns of spiky plants grown chest-high, spaced a foot apart. Sugarcane. Not a kitchen garden, by any means, but a commercial operation that stretched back as far as a football field.

A bit farther along, the church/funeral home/coroner's office Charles had described came into view. First up was the church, made with white clapboards, rounded windows, and flower boxes full of purple irises. The picture of a quaint country church. The building stretched back a ways, and it had sired an identical building next door. The two were joined by a fabric awning that arched over a cobblestone path.

It all looked perfect. Too perfect, as a matter of fact. When I drew closer, the wood clapboards were actually plastic and the flowers made of silk. Even the roof's shingles were so evenly spaced they must have come off a roll. A marquee in front of the first building announced the Rising Tide Baptist Church, while a smaller sign pointed to the Riversbend Funeral Home next door, like an afterthought.

Church had yet to begin. An old man in a gray suit guarded the doors like a stone lion. I automatically walked toward him until I remembered the real reason for my visit. Niceties would have to wait if I wanted to explore the funeral parlor next door.

I ducked my head and pretended to be searching for a trash can for my coffee cup, which I found by the cobblestone path. I made a big show out of tossing the cup, then dashed toward the funeral parlor, which had the same plastic siding, indoor/outdoor grass mats and artfully arranged window boxes as the church. I was beginning to feel like a tourist at Disneyland, where artists used paint and plywood to create the illusion of actual charm.

Fortunately, the door was unlocked; probably left that way by the church's cleaning crew. The moment I stepped through the doors, I paused. The room was dark compared to the parking lot, and a stained-glass window at the front provided the only light. In it Jesus wore an enormous halo, which looked more like an oversized sombrero, truth be told, and raised his hands heavenward. A half-dozen folding chairs separated me from the figure's embrace.