Murder at Morningside (14 page)

Lance pursed his lips, but I knew he'd play along. It was amazing how much power one could wield on account of knowing someone's mama, and I had every intention of pumping that well until it ran dry.

“Maybe for a little bit,” he said. “But I can't stay long. I told headquarters I'd be back soon.”

“Now you're talking. You might want to bring along that notebook of yours. Wouldn't want it to get all hot and sticky sitting in the squad car.”

The minute I got back to the car, I shared my plan with Ambrose.

“And he agreed to that?” Ambrose asked.

“Of course he did. Why wouldn't he? I've known him forever.”

“I know you too. And I know this isn't about getting Lance a cup of coffee and maybe a beignet.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” I turned my head toward the window. “Honestly, you think I'm a busybody, don't you?”

“Your words, not mine.”

We'd arrived at the Rising Tide Baptist Church, and Ambrose once more pulled into the parking lot. People milled around the property like dandelions blown about by a headwind. Some, including the elderly deacon in the LSU ball cap, had moved from cleaning chairs to wrangling thick extension cords. Others, like the guy I'd seen in the service the day before, held onto empty spools for the electric lines. Everyone seemed calm, with not a flustered face in the bunch. Which meant I could spend some quality time with Lance and that precious pathologist's report.

“Do you mind if I speak with Lance for a few minutes, Bo? I promise it won't take long, and then I'll run right back to you.”

“No problem. Just make it quick, okay?”

I nodded to Ambrose and hopped out of the car. Lance had wrangled a parking space right behind ours. He was tucking his glasses under the car's sun visor when I approached the police cruiser.

“Let's get you some coffee,” I said. “I don't have long, though.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. I heard there's a pot of coffee in the social hall.”

I waited for Lance, and then we walked through the crowd. I acknowledged some of the people I recognized with a nod, so as not to appear uppity, until we came to the social hall. I didn't see any coffee there, but then I checked a side room tucked next to it.

The room was empty, praise the Lord, except for a clean folding table with an industrial coffeepot, two cartons of nondairy creamer, and a stack of Styrofoam cups. The perfect spot. I pulled a cup from the top and handed it to Lance, since I couldn't pretend to know how he liked his coffee.

“What can I do for you today, Missy?”

“I think you know what I want. Don't make me beg.”

“That's the thing.” He filled his cup and added a drop of cream. “I can't figure out why this report is so important to you.”

“Turns out the Solomons are practically family.” Casually, I leaned against the folding table, even though it creaked something awful. Maybe if I acted nonchalant he might be more willing to part with his treasure. “Ivy Solomon is a Girard. You know the Girards out of Bleu Bayou, don't you? They're the most generous people who ever walked God's green earth.”

“I didn't know she was a Girard. Wonder if she's Ben's aunt?”

“Probably. You know how big that family is. That would mean she's directly related to sweet Miss Maribelle. How can I turn my back on the Girards—or the Solomons—if I can help them out in their time of need?”

He pursed his lips. “I guess you can't. Family's family. But if I show this to you, you can't tell anyone about it. Okay?” Slowly, he pulled some pages out of his notebook and handed them to me. “It's highly irregular, and I'm sure my sergeant wouldn't be too happy with me.”

“You won't be sorry, Lance. Mum's the word.” I gently accepted the treasure. I had an excellent reason for asking to see the report, and I'd practically
made
Lance show it to me, so it wasn't his fault. There'd be time later to sort out right and wrong.

The first page listed Trinity's name, age—only twenty-four—and her marital status. Sad to think she'd remain single for all eternity now, and sadder still to consider the baby who would never be born.

The next page was a document from the Riversbend Parish Medical Center, which the pathologist had prepared the night before. It listed the approximate time of death as 23:00, or about 11:00 p.m. A few facts about Trinity followed: date of birth, medications she was taking, that kind of thing. Honestly, I couldn't make heads or tails of a list of numbers and initials that came next. “What's this here:
WNL
?”

“Within normal limits.
This
is the important stuff.” Lance leaned over my shoulder and stabbed at a paragraph near the top. “They ran several lab tests since the girl didn't have a history of heart problems. She didn't die of natural causes, Missy. They found traces of cyanide.”

“Cyanide? How in the world would cyanide end up in little Riversbend, Louisiana?”

“That's exactly what they found,” he said. “Roughly two hundred milligrams of the stuff. Whoever poisoned her knew what they were doing.”

“That's horrible. Who would do something like that?”

“We're gonna find out. I'm only thankful they ran the lab analysis so quick. Knowing what killed someone is half the battle.”

“But you still don't know
who
did it, or why.”

He was about to say more, when darn if someone didn't walk through the door and head our way. It was the lion-like deacon from outside, wearing his LSU ball cap and a determined look.

“There you are! Your friend's been asking about you, Miss DuBois. Said something about needing those notes from the show.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Sorry for the interruption.”

“That's okay,” I said.

Lance quickly took the report back. “I've got to get to work anyway. We're burning daylight.”

“Let me know what you find out, you hear?” Not that I wanted to boss him, but I might not get Lance's ear like this for a while.

He nodded and left.

I turned to the deacon. “Okay. Take me to Ambrose.” I added a sigh to let him know I was
not
happy about being interrupted, or about being led away like a bull with a ring in its nose.

What really bothered me, though, was knowing whoever killed Trinity was probably going about his or her business at that very moment—maybe even sipping a cup of coffee too—as if nothing had happened. I pondered that as we left the building and walked to the parking lot.

The deacon had mentioned the notes Ambrose needed. No doubt he meant the fashion show we produced for the Ladies' Auxiliary League in Baton Rouge the month before. I'd e-mailed the notes to the league's chair, which meant I could still find them in my computer's in-box. The only problem was that Ambrose would need a hard copy. Although my cell phone was smart, it wasn't smart enough to print out twenty pages of notes on white bond paper.

Speaking of which . . . my skirt's pocket felt unusually light, so I patted the side where I normally stashed my cell phone. Nothing. Oh, shine. I must have left it on the vanity back at the motel. Could this day get any crazier?

“Hold on.” I came to a dead stop. “I need a computer to print out some notes. Is there one I can use around here?”

The deacon tilted his head. “Normally I'd say yes. No problem. The men's club donated a fancy Hewlett-Packard with all the bells and whistles a few years back. Only it's been going nonstop since last night and someone said the printer finally gave up the ghost about an hour ago. The pastor's assistant nearly had a heart attack. No telling when they'll get it back online.”

Now what? Apparently the day
could
get crazier, after all. I paused to think about my travels over the past few days. When I stayed at Morningside, I'd visited the registration cottage more than once, and on one of those visits, I'd watched Wyatt study his giant Dell computer screen. If I could get to that, I could access my e-mail account and find the right notes for Ambrose. I thought it over as the deacon led me away.

We came upon Ambrose a short time later, standing next to a woman in the parking lot. He must have worked himself into a lather about something or other because he windmilled his arms as he spoke.

“Hey, Ambrose. I heard about the notes.” I sidled up behind him.

When he turned, my average mood curdled like milk left too long in the sun. The person standing beside him was none other than the lady from the motel. The one who smiled a bit too much at him.

“Oh.”

She froze when she saw me too. “Hello again.”

My first thought was to grab Ambrose by the shirt collar and drag him to higher ground, but I had too many other worries at the moment. “Can you take me to the plantation, Bo?”

“Of course,” he said. “You remember Vernice here, don't you? She offered to help us out tonight. Turns out she's a whiz with cordless microphones.”

I'll bet she is.
Of all the things to worry about this morning, why did Ambrose have to be one of them? “Please, Bo. The quickest way to get those notes is to get me back to Morningside.”

“I can take you.” It was the deacon again, who had the uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“We couldn't ask you to do that,” Ambrose said.

“Nonsense. You're needed here. I can drop your friend by the plantation in a jiffy. No trouble at all.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Why don't I just wait for Ambrose to finish up here, and then we can go together.”

“I told you . . . it's no trouble.” The deacon grabbed my arm and practically dragged me away. “There's only so much time. People will be coming to the show before you know it.”

Which was true. I glanced over my shoulder. Ambrose slowly receded into the distance as we scurried away. I had half a mind to peel the deacon's hand off my elbow and bolt right back to Ambrose and Vernice.

But like it or not, we'd arrived at an enormous brown Cadillac.

“Hop in, honey,” the deacon said. “And don't forget to buckle up.”

I didn't say two words on the drive over to Morningside, which had to be a new record for me. All I could think about was the smile on Vernice's face once I'd been roped into leaving.

My driver made up for the silence by talking nonstop until the Cadillac arrived at the plantation. He was still talking when I climbed out of the massive car.

That was when I heard another voice somewhere over my shoulder.

“Quiet as da graveyard.”

That Cajun accent was unmistakable. When I turned, Darryl stood in front of me with a metal garden bench tucked under his left arm. “What in the world are you doing with that heavy thing, Darryl?”

“Deys want it over by da pool.” He nodded toward the south side of the plantation. “Not likes we gots da guests ta use it.”

“You're moving that by yourself?”

“Not a problem. Nuttin' a child couldn't do.”

That was when I remembered how he'd lifted the gravestone the day before. Apparently, those pale aqua eyes masked the will of a much younger man.

“Say, Darryl.” I glanced over at my driver, who'd also stepped away from his car but was preoccupied with a pigeon that now hovered over its hood. Just to be sure, I took a step closer to Darryl and lowered my voice. “I talked to the police officer this morning about Trinity.”

Did Darryl's eyes narrow when I said that, like the aperture on a camera right before it snapped a picture?

“They say she was poisoned,” I said. “With cyanide.” I glanced over at the deacon again, but his attention remained glued to the hood of his beloved car and the menacing bird.

“Wat do ya know. Poisoned, huh? Tought she mighta been, since der wern' no blood on da floor.”

Darryl had been one of the first people to arrive at the murder scene, right after Laney Babin. He was the one who kept people away from the house until the police could arrive.

“That's what I've been told. Can't imagine someone doing that to a young girl right before her wedding. What do you think happened?” I always said there was no better way to get at the truth than to up and ask for it. Nine times out of ten it wasn't what people told you that mattered; it was how they said it. Sort of like when Ambrose and I first met and I knew he liked me because his voice quivered like muscadine jelly. A wobbly voice, a slight pause, an unintentional flinch, or Darryl's narrowed eyes. All of it meant something. The trick was to find out what.

“Da ya wanna know my toughts, or are you jus' talkin? I tink da general manager knows sometin.' Soon as I met da man, I knew sometin' wern' right.”

“You mean Wyatt?”

“Way I see it, dat man was goin' ta lose his job.” He shifted the bench under his arm. “Didn' ya know? Mr. Solomon wanted ta buy dis place. Lock, stock, an' barrel.”

Darryl stepped back to put some space between me and the chunky garden bench. “Check out da real-estate news, Miz DuBois. Dat's all I'm sayin'.”

He began to walk away, his back ramrod straight, even with the heavy cargo under his left arm.

“Wait, Darryl.” I didn't want to harass him, or to include the deacon in our conversation about Morningside, but this might be the last time I saw Darryl for a while and his meeting with Lance in the graveyard still bothered me. Fortunately, we could have been speaking in tongues for all my driver cared, because he'd taken a few steps toward the parking lot when he thought his precious car was about to be soiled by the pigeon. “Remember when you were talking to Lance LaPorte yesterday? Out there in the Andrews family graveyard? The acoustics around here are amazing, and I might have overheard you.”