Murder at Morningside (8 page)

Beatrice, of all people, should've known better than to go tearing around the mansion like that again. She bent to retrieve the papers scattered around our feet.

“I'm so sorry, Miss DuBois. It's my fault. Most of our guests went home once they got done with the police. I forgot some people are still here.”

“You really should stop running around the halls. You might hurt yourself.” I bent to help her. “And please, call me Missy. Looks like we've messed up your things.”

“That's okay. They weren't in any order.”

As I helped her sort through the pages, I lifted a formal-looking note card. A wedding announcement, of all things, printed on cream linen with beveled edges and embossed gold ink. “This one's got a little tear on it. Hope that's okay.”

Beatrice plucked the announcement from me and slid it into a manila envelope. “I'm sending these things back to Mrs. Solomon. She'd planned to display them at her stepdaughter's wedding.”

“So sad.” I reached across and picked up another paper, this one a color picture. It was a photo of Trinity on her daddy's arm, God rest her soul. She wore a burgundy dress and matching hat. Why, it was a beautiful broad-brimmed hat with an enormous satin trim.

I glanced at the photo again and noticed a familiar face behind her. Wholesome good looks, big smile, prematurely gray hair. It was Charles, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, no less. A far cry from the black vest and wraparound waiter's apron I usually saw him in. “Well, I'll be. That's Charles, from the dining room.” I handed the picture back to Beatrice.

“It can't be.” She shoved it into the envelope, along with the other things. “Mrs. Solomon told me all the pictures came from the Baton Rouge Country Club. Well, I'd better pack these up. She'll be expecting them in the morning.”

She closed the envelope and walked away, a trifle slower this time. Part of me wanted to yell at her to stop and to yank that picture back for a good, long look. It
was
Charles. I just knew it. But didn't he say he hadn't met Trinity until last week? That didn't make sense, since he'd obviously been to a shindig with her and her daddy.

Could he have been a waiter there? Maybe. But something about that photo was downright strange. Put most men in a tuxedo jacket and they stiffened up like shoe leather. But Charles seemed completely comfortable, like he wore that kind of jacket every day. No, something was off, and I'd have to ask him about it the very next time I saw him.

W
ith my thoughts still on Beatrice and the odd photograph, I wandered toward the main hall. Sooner or later I'd have to see about getting lunch, which would be the perfect time to ask Charles about the strange picture of him and Trinity. In the meantime, I'd only seen about half of the mansion and still had the other half to go.

Maybe it was finally time to visit the front section, which was the part closest to the Mississippi River. I began to walk that way and soon reached the golden ballroom, where the ceiling glowed and the painted floors glistened. Hard to imagine Ambrose and I had toured this room less than forty-eight hours before.

I stepped into the room, which immediately reminded me of a bottle of amber cognac, or the inside of a priceless Fabergé egg.

The portrait of Mrs. Andrews watched as I walked along and then paused under the crystal chandelier.

Unlike most chandeliers, this one had a large glass bowl at the end of each arm, instead of a teardrop bulb. I guessed it was a gasolier, like the ones I'd read about in the plantation's museum. Mr. Andrews's neighbors probably thought he was crazy to plumb such an elegant ballroom for gas. But there was no telling how many couples had waltzed under this very light until dawn broke over the Mississippi River.

“Hey there, Missy.” Lance stood in the doorway, holding that special black notebook of his. It was part of his uniform now, as ever-present as the thick utility belt or the State of Louisiana patches sewn on his sleeves.

I didn't expect to see him so soon. “Hi there. Don't tell me you're still working. You know it's Sunday afternoon, right?”

He chuckled. “It's all the same to me. I work four on, four off. I'm right in the middle of my week. What're you doing?” He joined me under the gasolier.

“Having a little look-see around. Do you think that's real gold on the walls or just paint?”

“Hard to say. Can't imagine anyone having enough money to cover a whole room in fourteen-karat gold. You never know, though. The mirror looks real.”

Across the room, an enormous mirror in an elaborate gilt frame dangled inches above the floor. Its top leaned away from the wall.

“You know why they pointed their mirrors down like that, right?” I asked. “So girls could see their skirts and make sure they covered their ankles. Didn't want to give the men any ideas.”

“Can you imagine?” Lance shook his head. “Nowadays it's the last thing anyone worries about. Kind of miss that modesty.”

Something skirted across the mirror's reflection before I could reply. Something quick and dark and out of focus. It dashed from one end of the mirror's frame to the other. I whirled around. The mirror was reflecting the open doorway. Someone must have been listening to us from the hall.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“See what?”

“Someone just ran by the door. I saw them in the mirror.”

Lance cocked his head. “You're probably getting spooked by what happened here. Are you sure you're okay?”

The doorway was empty now. “I'm fine.” Slowly I turned back again. “But someone ran past this room. Don't look at me like that. I'm not imagining things.”

“Okay, then. Whatever you say.”

“I'm telling you, someone ran by. Do you think they were eavesdropping on us?”

“I guess there's no telling. What were we talking about?”

“I asked why you were still here. Are you doing more interviews?”

“No, I'm working on the supplemental report. I'll give it to the forensics lab when I'm done.”

“But they found the body in the bathroom. Not here in the ballroom.”

“It doesn't matter. The victim was all over the mansion before she died. This report will give them some info about what happened in the vicinity of the murder.”

“Do you have any suspects yet?”

Lance raised his eyebrows. He wasn't going to dignify my question with a response.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” I said. “Everything goes into that precious report. How about this: Is there anyone you've ruled out at this point?”

“That's better.” He finally flipped open the notebook to a spot near the middle. “We can discount any employee who wasn't on duty this weekend. That's about a third of 'em. Then there's the guest list. A lot of people only had a passing acquaintance with the Solomons. Mostly bankers and other business owners. Oh, and a few politicians.”

“Plus the family. Guess you can automatically rule out the parents.”

He shot me a curious look. “Now, why would you say that?”

“C'mon, Lance. I know there are some strange people in the world, but no one would murder their own daughter.”

“You'd be surprised.” He puffed out his cheeks, as if he'd seen it all before and would probably see it again by dinnertime. “But you go right on believing that, baby girl.”

“Don't patronize me. I'm not Pollyanna. I just can't imagine anyone would do that to their kid. Especially right before her wedding, and especially since she was pregnant.”

A picture flashed through my mind of Mr. Solomon and Trinity, his face contorted with rage. A good old-fashioned hissy fit, from what I recalled.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “I may have forgotten to tell you something.”

Lance's eyes immediately widened. “What's that?”

“I heard them fighting on my first day here. It was Mr. Solomon and his daughter. He said something about how she shouldn't have a say in the wedding. But the worst part was what she said to him.”

“Go on.” Lance pulled a pen from the spine of his notebook and held it over the paper.

“Now, it may be nothing. Just family talk. You know how you get so mad at your family sometimes you want to scream? Well, Trinity told her dad she wished he were dead.”

Lance didn't flinch, but he began to write on the notepad. Impressive that he could watch me and scribble at the same time. “What time did that happen?”

“It had to be a little after four-thirty on Friday. We'd begun our tour when we heard them.”

“They came into the room with you?”

“No. They went in through the front door. Mr. Solomon first and then his daughter. He looked ready to spit nails. I thought he was going to lose it right there in the foyer.”

“What did he say when she told him that?”

“Nothing. She turned around and left, and he just stood there. Can you imagine?”

Lance stopped writing for a moment. “Hmm. Anyone else see this?”

“Yeah. Ambrose was with me. And Beatrice. And the others on the tour. We were all kind of embarrassed. But they didn't seem to notice we were there.”

“Interesting.”

“But it doesn't mean anything, right? People get angry all the time and say stuff they don't mean. She was mad at him and she spouted off the first thing that came to her.”

Lance fell silent.

“C'mon. You can't really believe Mr. Solomon killed his daughter.” My mind swirled with possibilities. Even though I didn't know the family, there were a few facts everyone could agree on. It was well known that Mr. Solomon and his daughter didn't get along. “Everyone knew Mr. Solomon pinched pennies,” I said. “Why would he waste all that money on a wedding if he knew it wasn't going to happen? He wouldn't do that.”

“Funny you should say that.” Lance replaced the pen in the notebook's spine and began to rifle through the pages until he reached a clear plastic sleeve jammed against the back cover. It held some random papers, starting with a pale pink sheet. “Got a look at the catering bill this morning.” He didn't open the sleeve, but merely nodded at it. “This is the catering invoice. Look how much he paid for a deposit.”

I moved closer for a better look and quickly scanned the page, crammed full of letters and numbers. After a while, I found a line next to the word
deposit
, which was blank.

“You mean he didn't put down a deposit?” I asked. “That can't be right.”

“It
is
right. Normally the plantation asks for ten percent. Anywhere from twenty-five-hundred to five-thousand dollars or more. But not this time.”

I double-checked the sheet. Dollar amounts filled every other line. Come to think of it, the wedding planner had asked me to waive
my
deposit until after the wedding. Normally I'd have said no, but this was a special case. Any client who could afford such a massive wedding at Morningside Plantation wouldn't stiff me on the bill.

“I spoke with the catering manager this morning. She thought she'd insult Mr. Solomon if she asked him for a deposit. Called it a ‘professional courtesy'.”

“You don't say.” I wondered if Ambrose had waived his deposit too. He hadn't mentioned it, but then I hadn't mentioned my waiving it, either. “So, Mr. Solomon didn't put any money down for his daughter's wedding?”

“Looks like it. Otherwise he would have paid about seventy-five-hundred dollars. Maybe more. But he put down zero. Zip.”

“Seriously?” It was hard to wrap my head around. “But that doesn't mean he murdered his daughter. It only means everyone's afraid of him. No one wants to get on his bad side because he has so much money.”

“Exactly. But you wanted to automatically exclude the family. Sometimes that's not a good idea.”

“I suppose. But I still can't believe any father would murder his daughter. Even someone like Mr. Solomon.”

“I would have agreed with you a few years ago. Now I don't know. I stopped trusting people. Makes my job a whole lot easier.”

“That's the most pitiful thing I've ever heard.” And I hoped more than anything, Lance was dead wrong about Herbert Solomon. By the time I said good-bye and left the ballroom, I'd lost my enthusiasm for touring the mansion. Somehow the shine had dimmed during our talk about parents and children and murder.

I retreated to the back of the house instead, where I felt more at home. After a moment, I reached the restaurant entrance, where someone with salt-and-pepper hair stood at one of the first tables.

Watching Charles from behind was like watching a magician. Like an illusionist before an audience, he whisked something shiny from a washtub next to him and then flipped it into a napkin in his other hand. His final trick was to wrap the silverware up all nice and tight with a quick flick of the wrist. All that was missing was an “abracadabra!” and a round of applause at the end of his show.

Never let it be said I didn't know a golden opportunity when I saw one. I sidled into the restaurant, as if by accident, and then casually walked up behind him. My heels must have given me away, though, and he turned.

“Why, hello, Missy. I'm sorry, but we're closed.” He glanced around the quiet restaurant as if to prove his point.

“I know.” I pulled a chair away from the table, all nonchalance. Moist knives and forks winked up at me from the tub like shiny coins tossed into a fountain. “And how are you doing today?”

“Okay, I guess. It's my turn to prep the silverware.”

“I can see that.” Watching him roll the flatware had reminded me of making pigs in a blanket for Derby parties. It's another chore I'd done dozens of times for dozens of parties. Since my hands were clean, I might as well make myself useful. I reached into the washtub and immediately felt warm, moist metal.

After a bit, Charles and I set up a comfortable rhythm in our silence. I retrieved some silverware, shook it off, and then passed the pair to Charles, who rolled up everything all nice and neat. The give-and-take, back-and-forth, provided me with the perfect distraction.

“I saw the strangest thing earlier,” I finally said. “A picture. I could have sworn it was of you.”

“Me? What was I doing?”

“That's the thing.” I reached into the washtub and casually withdrew a wet fork. We were in no hurry, since dozens of the pieces lay waiting and supper wasn't for several hours yet. “Hard to tell. Looked like you were at a party. A fancy party too.”

“Probably wasn't me, then.”

“But it
was
you.” I married the fork with a knife and passed the pair to Charles.

The way he accepted it, so gingerly, reminded me of a museum curator with a precious artifact.

“In a tuxedo, no less. Do you belong to the Baton Rouge Country Club?”

“You're kidding, right?” He began to chuckle, but stopped when he looked at me. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. But I doubt they'd let someone like me join, even if I could afford it.”

“That so? You must have a twin, then. A spitting image too. So you've never been to the Baton Rouge Country Club?”

“Well, I didn't say that.”

“I'm sure they have lots of parties there. Did you happen to go to one, maybe with Trinity Solomon?”

“No . . . maybe . . . I don't know.” Clearly discombobulated, Charles reached across me and plucked a fork from the washtub, essentially taking away my job. Strange how he refused to look at my face.

Well, this will never do
. I decided to steer the conversation back to something neutral. “So, Charles, I'm guessing you grew up around here. It's such a pretty area. Everything looks so green.”

Luckily, he paused and waited for me to hand him a knife, instead of taking one out of the bin. “I grew up down the road, and you should see my parents' backyard. The cypress trees are so big I could hide behind them and no one would ever find me.”

“That
is
big. And to think you stayed right here after high school. So many people don't do that. I didn't.”