Murder at Morningside (12 page)

I took a fat roll from the bread basket and bit into it.
Heaven on earth.
When I finished chewing, I delicately placed it on my bread plate. “You can always start with the truth. We have a saying in Bleu Bayou:
Tell the truth and shame the devil
.”

“That's the thing, Missy. I got the feeling the officer didn't believe me.”

“Exactly what did you say?” I knew better than to glance at Ambrose, because he'd no doubt give me one of his patented mind-your-own-business-Missy looks he was so good at conjuring.

“I didn't see anything strange yesterday,” Charles said. “But he wanted to know all about my past. Why does he think I had anything to do with the murder?”

“For all you know, he asks everyone the same questions,” I said.

“Can I speak plainly with you?” By now Charles had noticed Ambrose was more interested in the bread basket than in our conversation, and he turned to me. “I wasn't exactly honest with you this afternoon. I did know Trinity. I knew her well.”

It was about time he admitted it. “Why didn't you just say so?”

“It's complicated. I'm not supposed to know her, or her family. They're part of that rich crowd at the Baton Rouge Country Club.”

“And?” He wasn't making this easy, and if he didn't get to the point soon, I'd have to wrestle Ambrose for leftover bread crumbs.

“I sort of worked there last summer. I was supposed to be busing tables.”

“There's nothing wrong with that. Sounds like a good summer job.”

“It was. I'm not ashamed of it. Working at the club and a scholarship got me through my first year at LSU.”

“So you met Trinity there. Seems simple enough. Doesn't mean you were best friends or anything.”

The way he sighed said more than any words could.

“Right?” I asked.

“Like I said, it's complicated. Instead of working at the restaurant, her daddy wanted me to escort her to parties and stuff. Said she couldn't very well show up at her own parties without a date. No one ever asked her out before that Sterling guy came along.”

Finally Ambrose glanced from the bread basket to Charles. “Did you do that for her daddy?”

“It was either that or have no job,” Charles said. “Mr. Solomon is one of the owners at the country club, like he owns everything else. He would've had me thrown out of there. He even threatened to yank my scholarship at LSU.”

“He shouldn't have done that,” Ambrose said. “He should be ashamed of himself, not you.”

“Truth is, I got to know Trinity pretty well,” he said. “She was so funny, and we had such a good time together. I felt bad about taking the money, but I needed it.”

“I hope you told the police the truth,” I said. “That's all you can do.”

“But my scholarship . . .”

“You're afraid they'll pull your scholarship over this?”

“My dad lost his business, Missy. I can't graduate without it.” He looked as miserable as a house cat in a rainstorm.

“Then here's what you should do.” How could I resist offering advice at a time like this? “You tell the officer everything you know, but tell him it's between you, him, and the fence post. No need for the whole town to learn about your past.”

“I can't do that. If anyone talks, Mr. Solomon will know I ratted him out. I can't take that chance.”

I didn't want to be the one to bring it up, but lying about his relationship with Trinity would no doubt put Charles at the top of Lance's suspect list. “You need to tell the truth, Charles. Tell him how you met Trinity.”

His shoulders slumped. “The last time I saw her was Valentine's Day, right around the time that Sterling guy showed up. I didn't know they were getting married until this weekend.”

“But that was only three months ago.” I'd assumed we were talking about something that had happened years before. I didn't want to be indelicate, but there is
some
math I do understand. “How well did you get to know Trinity?”

Before he could answer, Cat appeared at our table, wearing a chef's toque. She looked fit to be tied as she approached Charles and whispered in his ear. When she finished, the two of them disappeared in a flurry of black and white.

“Well,
that
was interesting,” I said.

“Which part? The part about a dad paying someone to date his daughter, or the fact Charles would actually do it?”

“Both. Something doesn't sit right with all of this.” Which was true enough. “There are more secrets around this place than fleas on a stray cat.”

“Don't get started. This isn't any of our business.” Once again, it seemed like he wanted to save me from myself.

“It's not my fault people keep confessing their sins to me. Maybe I should've become a priest.”

He chuckled before biting into the shreds of his biscuit, probably feeling more charitable now that he had a little food in him.

As for me, if Charles didn't return to our table soon, I'd have to make do with Ambrose's leftover bread crumbs. Not to mention a slew of unanswered questions.

 

An hour later, after I bent Ambrose's ear about the shadow in the hall, my accidental eavesdropping on Beatrice and Sterling and the mansion's money woes, our meal drew to a close. We were full-up on roast duck—my choice—and medium-rare steak—his—when I pushed my chair away from the table. There was one last thing we needed to discuss before we could call it a night.

“We had some excitement at the church I visited this morning.” It was better to break it to him in dibs and dabs, instead of running off at the mouth and giving him indigestion. “Do you know they're planning a big fund-raiser for tomorrow night? A fashion show. They're trying to raise money for new choir robes.”

“That so.”

“You know we work so well together. Organizing new collections, finding just the right accessories, and then me adding the perfect hat. When you think about it, we're kinda like those magicians—Penn and Teller—only we do our magic with silk and satin.” I was rambling, but I needed time to work up to a point.

“You're right.” Ambrose even grinned, until he must have realized what I was up to. “All right, Missy—spill it. What've you done?”

He knows me so well.
“Nothing you wouldn't have done yourself.” Which was the truth. “I kind of volunteered you to host their fashion show tomorrow night. Okay, more than that. I kinda said you and me would run it. You're so good at it, Bo, and you know that's true.”

He groaned. “We're supposed to go home in the morning. Remember?”

“C'mon. You love to do this kind of thing. Show off your ball gowns, throw in a few mother-of-the-bride dresses. It doesn't have to be extravagant. We just need the Ambrose touch.”

Luckily, he didn't seem too angry. Irritated, maybe, but not downright hostile. “If you don't stop flattering me, I'm gonna say no.”

Maybe I pushed too hard. “Everything else is under control.
Everything.
They'll hold it right there in their social hall, and it's only a hop and skip away from here.” I had saved my best ammunition for last, like when Cat glazed her plain old biscuits with a dollop of shiny egg whites to make them sparkle. “After all, think about the new clients you could get. I'll bet women come all the way from Baton Rouge for the show.”

He squinted. “Maybe you're right. And if you've gone and done it, there's not a whole lot I can say.”

Hallelujah!
I wouldn't have to eat my words with the church and take it all back. “You won't be sorry.” I grasped his hand, happy as anything. “Since you've been so nice to me, we can explore anywhere you want tonight. There's not much open, but maybe we can stroll around the grounds some more. I even found a museum out back with pictures and everything.”

“I can do what I want, huh?” He smiled. “Now
that
would be a miracle. The museum sounds good.”

We both finished our coffee and then strolled out of the restaurant arm in arm. My feet weighed about a thousand pounds apiece. Cat definitely knew her way around a duck, even if she did have more tattoos than a Navy midshipman.

Once we'd walked for a few minutes, the museum appeared. Surprisingly, the door stood ajar. We entered, and I searched for a light switch on the wall and flipped it on.

“Here, I want to show you something.” I purposefully avoided the picture of the mother and her child and pulled him over to the photo of Morningside Plantation in its prime. Here, every gas lamp was lit, an elegant carriage hovered in the drive, and a uniformed liveryman stood at the ready. “Isn't it beautiful?”

Even though the trust did a bang-up job of renovating the place, my heart fluttered at how things used to look. A parade of women in enormous bonnets posed on the limestone stairway, while men in top hats and tails lined the drive. One gentleman even carried a silver-tipped walking cane.

“Just like in Bleu Bayou, this whole area used to belong to Cajuns.” I enjoyed putting my newfound knowledge to use. “But then businessmen came down from the East. Once they figured out how to make money off the river, shipping their lumber and whatnot, it was only a matter of time before they built plantations like Morningside to keep their wives happy. Course, the women probably still grumbled about trading New York City for a swamp.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Ambrose studied the picture for a moment. “Where's everyone else?”

“That's the shame. The slaves lived in cabins out back.” Another gritty black-and-white picture showed a group of people sitting behind the mansion, only this time the women wore handkerchiefs instead of bonnets, the drive stood empty, and none of the men held a walking stick. “The family hated the practice of slavery, even though they needed people to run this place. So, they paid their staff wages, which almost no one else did. One of the Andrews sons joined the Confederates, but his brother chose the Union.” I led Ambrose to the next display case, like a docent at a museum. “That's the boy who went to war for the Confederates, Jeremiah. He looks a little young to me.”

Ambrose leaned forward and began to read a note card next to the photo, his voice rumbling in the quiet. “
Jeremiah Andrews fought for the Confederacy against General Farragut in Baton Rouge. He died on the eve of his seventeenth birthday
.” He shook his head. “Such a shame. So many soldiers lost, from both the North and the South.”

“And so sad for Mrs. Andrews.”

After a moment, he straightened. “Look at all the other displays in the room. Notice anything different?”

I glanced around. Plenty of muskets, gunpowder, and military bric-a-brac. Not to mention an empty spot near the top of the cabinet in front of us. “Just that bare place up there. I noticed it yesterday too. What do you suppose used to be there?”

“Hard to say. But it was pretty big; bigger than a lot of things here. Looks like they forgot to take down the notes on it.”

“I know. I saw that too. Only I forgot to turn on the light yesterday and I couldn't read it.”

Ambrose leaned again and began to read. “
The centerpiece of a Confederate soldier's uniform was a gray shell made of wool. This one was unearthed on the battlefield of Charleston, South Carolina
.” He paused. “Looks like they had an actual Army coat here once.”

It couldn't be. Could it?
“That's what the person in the hall wore last night.”

“Are you sure?” He frowned. “I don't want you going out into that hall again without me. As a matter of fact, I'm staying in your room tonight.”

“Do you really think that's necessary?” I did my best to look nonchalant.
Please think it's necessary.

“Absolutely. I won't take
no
for an answer.”

“All right, then.” I waved away his concern. “Only because you insist.”

S
ince we'd seen most everything, I doused the light in the museum and sashayed past Ambrose, who shut the door behind him.

Shame on the hotel for not locking the place up. Anyone could come in and waltz away with a piece of history, which was apparently what someone had done.

“Tomorrow night will be here before you know it,” Ambrose said. “Why don't we go upstairs and start pulling some notes together for the fashion show.”

“Sounds good.”

My body ached from the lack of sleep, but I knew he was right.

Hallelujah—the museum wasn't far, and we soon passed the restaurant. My heels shuffled along the carpet as I followed Ambrose.

“Well, what do you know?”

He stopped so abruptly I almost ran into him. “Ambrose Jackson!”

We were at the bar; the one where I'd overhead Beatrice and Sterling earlier in the day. This time, though, a handful of people milled around the room.

“Isn't that the officer you were telling me about?” Ambrose asked. “The one you grew up with?”

A tall African-American leaned against the bar. It was Lance, all right, still in his police uniform and still carrying that notebook.

“Wonder what he's doing here,” I said. Even police officers had to go home at some point.

“Maybe he never left.”

“You're right.” Truth be told, the sight of that notebook drew me like a magnet to steel. But I also had Ambrose and the fashion show to think about.

“I need to find the washroom,” Ambrose said. “Why don't you say hi to your friend for a minute.”

“Good idea.” Dilemma solved. I sidled up to Lance at the bar. “Hi again. Whatever are you doing here so late? Don't they give you guys any time off?”

“Hey there. I've been doing interviews all day, but I'm almost finished up.” He motioned to the bartender. “Two coffees, please.”

Maybe one more cup won't hurt.
While the bartender poured our drinks, I pointed to some club chairs across the room. “Mind if we sit for a second? My dogs are barking and I'm waiting on Ambrose.”

“Sure. I've got a few minutes now my interviews are done.”

We took our coffees and walked over to the chairs. I deliberately picked a spot out in the open so Ambrose would see me.

“How'd it go today?” I steadied the coffee and carefully sat.

Lance did the same. “Good. Think I've spoken to everyone but the statues outside, and they're not talking.”

“Give 'em time. You've spoken with everyone?” I took a gulp and nearly choked. The coffee was strong enough to float a pistol. “
Gah-lee
. Now, you don't have to tell me everything. I just want to hear the good parts.”

“You know I can't do that.” He shot me a look copied straight from Ambrose's playbook. The mind-your-own-business kind of look I'd come to loathe.

“Can't or won't?” I asked.

“This is an open investigation, and I'm not at liberty to talk about it.”

“Did you memorize that line from your police manual? It's me, Missy DuBois. We grew up together. If the girl next door can't keep a secret, then I don't know who can. Honestly.” I steeled myself against the bitterness and sipped from the coffee again.

“Guess it couldn't hurt to tell you who I talked to.”

There, that's more like it.
“Tell me you started with the housekeepers. I'm sure they know more about what goes on here than everyone else.”

“Of course.” He opened the notebook halfway. The letters looked all catawampus on the page. “Along with a waiter, a tour guide, and a gardener.”

“That would be Charles, Beatrice, and Darryl.” Amazing how quickly I'd come to know the hotel's staff. “They're all nice enough, near as I can tell, but it's hard to know who to trust.”

“None of them had much to say. That Charles had a motive—his father lost a lot of money with the refinery—and he was at the right place at the right time.”

“Well, I don't know about that.”

Someone emerged from the men's room who looked like Ambrose, but he was immediately intercepted by another man at the bar. The interceptor wore a navy blazer with a name tag on the lapel.

“What else do you have?” I asked.

“Spoke with a housekeeper by the name of Laney Babin.” Lance double-checked his notes. “Guess it wouldn't hurt to let you know she found the body in a stall at oh-eight-hundred hours. Didn't think to check for a pulse, but she knew the victim was dead.”

“How could she tell?” Finding someone on a bathroom floor could have meant a lot of things: A fainting spell, a pratfall, maybe even a drunken stupor. Didn't necessarily mean the person on the ground would stay there. I mulled things over with another gulp of coffee.

“She noticed the victim's eyes were wide open. It reminded her of a fish on a platter. She said, and I quote, ‘The victim eyed me like a black drum on a bed of rice.' She was too afraid to get close, so she turned tail and ran out the door.”

“It probably scared her to death,” I said. “Imagine she wouldn't see many dead bodies, being from a small town and all.”

“I didn't tell you that.” He looked surprised. “How do you know the housekeeper is from a small town? Riversbend, to be exact. Population nine-hundred and fifty, at last count.”

“Everyone knows you find black drum in the bayous. And she had to be local with a French name like Babin.”

“You're right. She also didn't like the color of the victim's face. Thought it looked like grape Kool-Aid.”

“You never should have talked to her so early in the morning.” The caffeine was clearing the fog from my mind, so I took another sip. “You interviewed her before breakfast, right? No wonder she had food on her mind. She probably said the victim was as plump as cooked boudin. Next time, wait until later in the day.”

“We'll know more once we get the autopsy report back. Coroner got the body yesterday, so we're probably looking at Wednesday for the report.” He yawned. “I need to call it quits, though. These shifts are gonna kill me yet. Take care of yourself, Missy.”

“Don't worry about me. I have Ambrose for protection.” I glanced over. The stranger was talking Ambrose's ear off.

“Glad to hear it. By the way, you seem to have your own ideas about what happened here this weekend.”

“I do. You can be sure of that.” And most of them involved a certain tour guide and the victim's unfaithful fiancé. Everyone knows people usually murder for love or revenge. Why should this case be any different?

Once Lance said good-bye, I finished my coffee and rose. Funny how I felt like a brand-new person. Like I could square-dance all the way to Bleu Bayou and back again.

I skipped over to the bar and grabbed Ambrose by the arm. “Time to get that meeting underway. We need to get busy, busy, busy.”

The stranger speaking with him stopped mid-sentence and then turned and walked away.

“I'm so sorry, Bo. I should have let you finish your conversation.”

“Are you kidding? That guy wouldn't stop talking.” He grinned. “And you're right. We need to get our act together. But where'd you get all this energy?”

“I kinda had some coffee.”

“Oh no.” Ambrose knew all about me and coffee. He once said it was like giving uppers to a jackrabbit: totally unnecessary.

“Maybe I should walk it off. Wanna come with me?” Sundays for us usually meant an early night since we both had to be at work come Monday morning. But all bets were off this weekend.

“Maybe a little one. But we've got lots to do.”

“Let's get at it, then. Time to go, go, go. Maybe we'll even run into Wyatt. He's the general manager. That guy works all the time.”

I left the bar with Ambrose two steps behind me. When we got to the registration cottage, though, someone new sat where Wyatt should've been. The lady seemed bored as she twisted paper clips into a chain.

“Darn. Wyatt must be off duty,” I said. “Well, there's always tomorrow morning.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Ambrose glanced at a clock over the woman's head. “I know we need to go over our plan for the show tomorrow, but I'm dead on my feet. How about we go back to the room and then get up early? Otherwise, I don't know if I'll be able to think straight.”

“Okay. I guess. Why not? I'll race you.”

“Whoa.” Ambrose draped his arm around my shoulders. “How 'bout we walk back to the room like normal people?”

He kept me in check the whole way there. It took me three tries to get the room key in the lock with my trembling fingers once we arrived. Instead of waiting for me to walk through the doorway like he usually did, Ambrose strode ahead of me.

“It's okay,” he said. “Everything looks clear.”

I debated whether to leave the light off. Part of me wanted to see his handsome face, so I moved to the nightstand and fumbled with the Tiffany table lamp. By the time I figured out how to work the antique lamp, my fingers still twitching like crazy, a noise sounded behind me.

Someone was snoring. It was Ambrose, sprawled across the divan.

“Really?” I stomped my foot. I had half a mind to march over there and shake him awake, but he looked so cute scrunched up on the dainty divan. And here I thought we might actually move our relationship in a new direction. Apparently not tonight.

I sighed and grabbed a cotton blanket from the foot of my bed and then draped it over him.

Might as well get ready for bed. Once I changed into my pajamas, I combed my hair and washed my face. Then I doused the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.

Sleep wasn't an option, so I grabbed a book from the shelf and curled up next to the divan to be close to Ambrose. The smell of Armani cologne made it almost impossible to focus, but I somehow managed to read the book's title:
Famous Plantations of the South
. The cover featured a beautiful picture of a crepe myrtle ablaze in reds and pinks. Such a nice coincidence we happened to visit Morningside in spring, when the myrtles caught fire and catalpa trees dusted the ground with snowy petals.

Speaking of which . . . hadn't we paid extra for rooms with a garden view? I'd only looked out the window once or twice the entire time I'd been at Morningside, so I rose from the floor and peered through the window over the divan. Only a sliver of the moon's light graced the sky, when I needed the whole thing to see anything but shadows and splotches.

I leaned in toward the window. At that moment something—or someone—scuttled by the garden hedge. It stood out, even in the pale moonlight: square shoulders, long coat and hat. After a second, the apparition disappeared.

Well, I'll be.
What hotel guest would wander the garden at night, with no moonlight to speak of? That didn't make sense, but what could I do since Ambrose was asleep and I had on nothing but pajamas?

Besides, it was probably my imagination. After I settled on that, I dropped to the floor again near Ambrose and flipped open the picture book. First up was a picture of a mansion painted like an Easter egg in yellows and blues. A fat headline said it was the San Francisco Plantation, even though we were nowhere near the Golden Gate Bridge. Such a funny name for a Southern plantation.

I turned the page.
Crashhh!
Something sounded outside in the hall. I dropped the book and jumped to my feet.

Amazingly, Ambrose didn't stir. So I moved across the carpet to the door. But this time around I decided to arm myself. My umbrella hung from the doorknob, ready to protect my hats against spring showers. The sharp end might come in handy, or I could always swing the wooden handle like a baseball bat. I grabbed it, turned the knob with my free hand, and then stepped into the hall.

I probably wouldn't find anything. But then a figure came right at me like a bullet down the barrel of a .22. I immediately took aim with my umbrella and swung high and wide. Surprisingly, the crack of wood against bone rang out, and the form crumbled to the ground.

I stared at the person twitching on the floor. It was one thing to be an intruder, but quite another to see him or her at my feet. Tentatively, I poked my toe somewhere near the person's midsection. No response. I tried again, only this time I kicked higher. That did the trick, and the form below me moaned.

I leaned over the body. The cheese-wedge moon provided just enough light to illuminate a gray felt coat, cloth haversack, and navy hat. A buckle twinkled from the hat's epicenter, like a starburst in the night sky. I'd downed a soldier. A Confederate soldier. No doubt the visitor from the night before; the one who floated down the stairs and left behind only shadows and splotches.

I looked again. Yes, it was definitely a uniform, the wrists circled with ribbon, the neck stiff with starch, with a felt hat. My curiosity piqued, I reached for the hat and plucked it off. Wyatt's head appeared, as shiny and smooth as the twinkly buckle. The man hired to drum up business for the plantation, not to scare it away. The general manager who found me in the smoking room and scolded me for being there. No doubt the key I saw there belonged to the plantation's museum.

“Ambrose!” Hang any more niceness on my part. I couldn't very well leave Wyatt lying on the carpet like a deer downed by a hunter. What if I'd killed the man, since I hadn't heard another peep? “I need you!”

When he didn't respond, I turned my face toward the room and tried again. “Help me, Ambrose!”

That did the trick, and Ambrose appeared in the doorway, rumpled and confused, like a little boy missing his teddy bear. Bless his heart.