Murder at Morningside (5 page)

I stepped in and approached the nearest exhibit. It featured something called
gasoliers
, which apparently were the lights Horace Andrews had installed in most of the plantation's rooms. Black-and-white photos and artists'renderings gave examples of the newfangled lights, from simple to ornate, from brass-coated wall sconces to a ballroom chandelier that dripped crystals.

The next display case held a hodgepodge of things from the Civil War. One picture showed a young Confederate soldier with a rifle clasped across his chest, as if the gun's barrel could stop grapeshot from entering his heart. Military insignia of various shapes and sizes hovered protectively around the photograph. Eagles and arrows, monograms, circles and stars.

I moved on to the next photo. This one showed a delicate young mother with a child on her lap. The two wore matching linen dresses with thick blue sashes, and the child's feet swung over her mother's knees. While the toddler stared off in the distance, the mother eyed her lovingly. Tears came to my eyes the longer I studied the photo.

I barely remembered my mother, and when I did, the scenes resembled a dream. A lady leaned over me once as I lay in my bunk bed and held a washcloth against my burning forehead. She smelled like peppermint.

The same pretty woman picked daises with me as soon as I recovered, which she strung into a chain. The next memory always left me winded: The chain broke when someone in a uniform whisked me away from my bunk. I never saw that bed again, and I refused to get my driver's license until I was at Vanderbilt. Losing two parents in one car accident was more than any child should have to face.

I blinked away a tear. Funny how the memories ambushed me. I willed myself to walk to another display case and peer through the glass. Military uniforms filled this one. A soldier's hat, called a
kepi
and made of wool, perched above a plain military vest with a standing collar. But something was missing. While artifacts filled every inch of the other cases, this one had an empty spot near its top. Only a shadow of something long and boxy remained, along with some pushpins. No other spots had a hole like this.

Could the plantation have loaned out whatever was there? Maybe, but normally a museum director would include a note card that explained the item was on loan. That way, any guests who wandered into the museum wouldn't wonder about this particular display.

Instead, the original text remained, beside the empty space. There were two paragraphs of type so miniscule they were impossible to read in the dim light.
Interesting.
Everything else in the museum was pristine. They'd restored and dusted the photos, matted the artist's renderings three times over, and cleaned the military insignia until it sparkled. I'd have to ask Charles about the mistake when I finally got around to visiting the restaurant later.

Speaking of which, the day had dragged on and on, and I was no closer to finding something to eat. Maybe it was time to finally trade my curiosity for a beignet and a nice, tall glass of sweet tea. The museum could wait, while I wasn't sure my stomach would hold out much longer.

I
closed the museum door and pondered my options. I was hungry enough to eat the backside of a skunk. But I was tired too. The day's excitement had worn me to a frazzle, and I longed for a soft bed and an even softer pillow.

What good would it do to visit the restaurant if I couldn't even stay awake during my meal? Perhaps I'd have to ignore my stomach a little longer and head for the hotel room instead.

Feet dragging, I walked up the main staircase, which seemed longer and much narrower than before. The plush carpet sucked at my shoes, like wet clay, all the way to the third floor, where something winked at me from my hotel-room door. It looked like a note, even from twenty feet away. I walked closer. It
was
a note. Who'd leave me a message in a place like this, where I didn't know a soul?

I plucked the paper off the door. It said something about Ambrose needing more time in Bleu Bayou and I should go ahead and have supper without him. Curses! I thought the bride might kidnap him for hours and hours, but part of me had hoped she wouldn't. Could it be I missed him already, and he'd only been gone for one afternoon?

Grumpy, I slogged through the doorway and into the bedroom, where nothing had changed. My oversized sun hat still lay on the window seat, across from the frothy pink bed with the wooden posts. I'd looped a sparkly fascinator onto one of the posts in hopes I could wear it this weekend, which didn't seem likely to happen now.

Maybe a good, long nap would make me feel better. The frilly bed looked especially inviting, even though a triangle of sunshine slanted through a nearby window and neatly bisected the pillow. Some delicate lace curtains were bunched behind brass tiebacks, so I set a panel free and let the lace fall against the glass. Although it didn't do much to staunch the brightness, the fabric created a pretty snowflake pattern of light through holes the size of needles' eyes.

Before I set the second panel free, I spied a smudge in the lower left corner of the window. Three crudely drawn splotches, each the size of a quarter, marred the wavy glass.

I leaned closer to the pane. The marks weren't perfectly smooth. Like hieroglyphics, the corners didn't quite meet up and flat lines drove across the spots that should have been curved.

After a minute, I realized what they were: letters from the alphabet. Initials spelling out
EBA
. What was it Beatrice had said about the Andrews family on the tour yesterday? Something about how their youngest daughter, Eugenia Andrews, had become engaged while living here. Apparently in this very room, since the hotel had christened it the Eugenia Andrews bedroom.

During the Civil War, girls carved their initials into their bedroom windows with their brand-new engagement rings. Supposedly, it symbolized the girl's love for her fiancé, although more practical sorts thought it was a sneaky way to test whether a diamond was real. No scratches on a windowpane meant the ring was nothing more than cheap crystal, white glue, and tin.

I imagined Eugenia Andrews stooped at this very window to scratch her initials into the glass. How many nights had she practiced that in the hopes of becoming engaged?

Being the youngest daughter in a large family, she probably did a bunch of things like that. She'd no doubt squirreled away a piece of wedding cake after each of her sisters got married, then stuck them under her pillow so she could dream about her future husband. While it seemed sweet and innocent more than a hundred years later, I couldn't imagine the family's housekeeper would like
that
practice very much.

I bet Eugenia turned down her suitor at least twice before she agreed to marry him. No one took those first refusals seriously, since everyone knew a girl had to play hard to get back then. If a girl said yes the first time around, she was too desperate.

Unfortunately, the love story here had a tragic ending, Beatrice had said. The night before Eugenia was to say her vows in front of God and man on the front lawn of Morningside Plantation, a messenger galloped across it on horseback to deliver a bloody missive from the Battle of Mobile Bay. Dozens of young soldiers had died, including Eugenia's fiancé. The grief-stricken girl had insisted on wearing her wedding veil for weeks afterward, even to her beloved soldier's funeral.

Despite my fatigue, I knelt again to study the monogram. Something moved beneath my window in the garden two stories below: A pair of figures, one tall and one short. Both were easy to recognize, even from a couple stories up. The general manager, with his bald head and navy suit coat, and Cat, who had changed out of the soiled towel and now wore a green sweat suit.

My, but the room felt surprisingly stuffy all of a sudden. I grasped at the window and gave it a firm tug until the ancient wood casing gave way and the pane slid up. In order to catch more of a breeze, of course. Various sounds wafted up to me, including the whoosh of a car on the road beyond, the trill of a songbird from somewhere in the garden, and a man's troubled words.

“You can't leave now,” he said.

Cat turned sideways, as if more interested in the deep emerald hedge than in her boss. “I have to.” Her words sounded muffled and weak. “Maybe I shouldn't have told you.”

“That's not it.”

Since my room still felt stuffy, I carefully pushed the window open a bit more.

“Here. Don't cry.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a square of white. Instead of giving it to Cat, though, he tenderly dabbed the handkerchief against her cheek.
My word
. What an interesting display of affection between a boss and his employee. “Does anyone else know?” He continued to press the handkerchief against her cheek.

“Not really. Don't suppose we can keep it a secret much longer, though.”

“Maybe we don't have to.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

At that moment, a semitruck, the only one I'd ever seen use the surface road out front, barreled past the plantation, canceling all other sound with its enormous tires and confounded diesel engine. Not that I'd wanted to overhear a private conversation, mind you, but my curiosity had been piqued. Like the cat with a twirly piece of string again.

When the general manager finished wiping Cat's face with his handkerchief, he held it out to her, like a gift. She tucked it into the pocket of her sweat-suit jacket, and then they both turned and walked away until I lost sight of them.

The crunch of those darn rubber tires against asphalt faded too, as the semitruck barreled farther down the road. Of all the times for someone to come roaring past the plantation, why did it have to be now? I'd have given anything to know what had caused that sweet gesture. And why didn't he want Cat to leave?

T
ry as I might, it was impossible to nap after that curious scene. After rolling around for a good half hour, I finally gave up. My mind replayed the conversation between Cat and her boss over and over again and, by the time I rolled off the bed, I was more restless than ever.

Maybe it was time to finally put my curiosity on hold while I satisfied my stomach. I left the room a few minutes later and headed for the restaurant, which Cat had opened up again. After ordering a sandwich to go, I took my feast to the garden outside and ate half of it as I strolled among the star jasmine. Once finished, I rewrapped the other half, since there was no need to spoil my dinner with the La-Portes later that evening.

I stayed outside for more than an hour, reading the headstones in the graveyard and counting the live oaks scattered across the property. Before long, the sun hung low in the sky and it was time for me to return to my room.

The minute I entered the bedroom, I headed for the closet, where one of my favorite hats peeked out from its box on the top shelf, next to Ivy's damaged pheasant quills and tangled lace.

Now, normally I'd save a fancy sinamay for outdoor weddings and such, but I hadn't seen Mrs. LaPorte in forever and that struck me as reason enough to reach for that particular hat. I pulled it from its box and fluffed up the black and red bow. Paired with a Pucci sheath and platform heels, it'd be perfect for our little get-together tonight.

Some fifteen minutes later, my hair backcombed and lips colored, I left the room and proceeded down the stairs. I managed to navigate them in high heels, even though I would have preferred to have Ambrose by my side to steady my climb, and arrived at the restaurant with five minutes to spare.

The minute I spied Mrs. LaPorte with her son, twenty years disappeared into the walls. “Hello.”

She smiled and there was the sweet-faced mother who'd doled out Gatorade in plastic cups to Lance and me. “Why, Missy, you look prettier than a pat of butter on a stack of wheat cakes!” She enveloped me in a hug of clean cotton and sparkly pearls. She wore a simple cream dress and a loose chignon of snow-white hair at her neck. “Couldn't believe it when Lance told me you'd run into each other. Thanked my lucky stars you were sitting on the front porch when he showed up.”

Poor Charles tried to intervene at this point and whisk us into the restaurant, but we chatted for a good minute before either of us felt inclined to move. For his part, Lance had no choice but to follow behind when we finally allowed Charles to guide us to a sparkling table by one of the picture windows.

We read our menus over glasses of sweet tea, while I discreetly devoured a roll. In between bites I provided a respectable report on my comings and goings at the store, until I decided to launch right into it. “Did Lance here tell you what happened this morning, Mrs. LaPorte?”

“First off, do call me Odilia.” She gently patted my hand. “And I heard a girl died right here in the bathroom.”

“Her name was Trinity Solomon.”

“That's what I heard.” She shook her head. “One of the Solomons out of Baton Rouge, but can't say as I'm too surprised.”

I nearly choked on my roll. “Really? It's not like a girl gets murdered around here every day.”

“No, dear, but she's part of the Solomon clan. I'm sure you've heard about her daddy.”

Lance squirmed, probably uncomfortable with our gossiping. Since we had yet to say anything mean-spirited, I didn't see the harm. “I did hear about him, more than once. Heard his refinery in the Gulf exploded about a year back.”

“Yes, which was bad enough. But then to find out Mr. Solomon had been pinching pennies since the day it opened. That was the last straw.”

I couldn't imagine I'd heard correctly. “Come again?”

“No one knows for sure, Mom,” Lance said. “Could have happened at any refinery.”

She wagged her finger at him. “Tell that to the night crew. It takes skill to keep those stacks from catching fire. When Herbert Solomon took the staff down to next to nothing, it was only a matter of time before something bad would happen.”

“I heard all about that from some of the people here. The man was cheap?” It was hard to imagine anyone who'd pay a full orchestra to serenade wedding guests with “Here Comes the Bride” could also pinch pennies.

“Only when he wanted to be. That's what got everyone so angry,” she said. “He cut his staff by half and then bought himself a fancy new car. One of those be-and-w's.”

Lance laughed a little. “It's
BMW
, Mom. Can't a man buy himself a new car around here without everyone getting riled up about it? They're jealous, is all. People didn't like him because he made money.”

I took a sip of tea. Plenty of people had probably made money in these parts. The very building we sat in had been the work of a wealthy sugar plantation owner. Too bad he'd chosen to make his fortune on the backs of others.

“Whenever there's a loss of life, that changes everything.” I set the glass aside. “It makes people want to strike out and hurt back.”

“True enough,” Odilia said. “He didn't have any friends. I knew Ivy Solomon personally and told her more than once it was a miracle how she stood by that man after everything came to light. Believe me, I know a bad husband when I see one, and he was tighter than the skin on a grape. Like the way he made her sew curtains for her sitting room and then went out and bought real estate. Or the way he made his future son-in-law sign a prenuptial agreement before the boy's big day.”

“Do tell.” I leaned forward.

Odilia glanced over her right shoulder, then her left. We were the only ones in our corner of the restaurant, but one could never be too careful. “You know how my boy Larry is an attorney up in Baton Rouge?”

“Lance here told me about that.” I glanced at Lance, who was picking at a roll from the bread basket. Smart of him to realize we weren't going to slow down the conversation so he could catch up.

“He graduated first in his class at Louisiana State. Always did have a mind for memorizing.”

“I know that's true.” We'd gotten sidetracked. “I remember how Larry memorized the Book of Psalms when we were only little things. I bet his clients love him. Was Mr. Solomon a client?”

“Sure enough. Called on him a few months back and said he needed legal help. Didn't like the boy his daughter was set to marry and wanted to protect the family fortune. That's according to my Larry, anyway.”

As she spoke, Charles made the unfortunate mistake of trying to approach our table to take our order. I raised my eyebrows, which was all the signal he needed to turn tail and leave. There was time enough to hear the daily specials once Odilia and I swapped stories.

“Anyway, Herbert Solomon came to my boy's office angry about how his only baby was being taken advantage of. Between you, me, and the tabletop, his baby wasn't much to look at and her fiancé could have had any girl from here to Texas.”

“I know that's true. I saw the girl on my very first day here. God rest her soul.”

“Well, Herbert Solomon was convinced her fiancé was only after Trinity's money. Didn't imagine anyone could love his daughter as much as he did.”

“So he had your Larry write up a prenup? That's a little extreme.”

“Told my son he was going to make a big deal out of presenting it before the wedding to see what the boy would do. Sort of like playing King Solomon in the Bible when those two women wanted the same baby. Figured if the boy really loved his Trinity, then he'd sign the piece of paper and give away his rights to her money.”

“That must have come as some surprise. I can only imagine how
that
conversation went.”

“It happened not more than a week ago.” Odilia held out her menu. “Apparently, Herbert told my Larry that the boy asked if he could bring home the prenup to study it.”

“See—” apparently Lance had been paying attention, after all—“he
did
care about her.”

Men can be so delusional
. If, in fact, the fiancé had been after Trinity's money, the last thing he would've done was tussle with her daddy without looking for another way around the prenup.

“Don't be too sure, Lance. Could be he hoped to change his bride's mind. Or her father's. Thought if he bought himself a little time, he could turn things around.”

Lance looked thoughtful as he finished the last of his roll. Crumbs littered his plate like birdseed on a white feeder.

“Guess it's time to order.” I felt a bit more charitable by now. Strapping guys like Lance needed their supper, and he'd already put in a full day's work, so he must have been starving. Not to mention I hadn't eaten a proper meal since who knew when. “Order whatever you want. Tonight's a special occasion.”

Even more so now I'd learned such interesting information about the Solomon family. Amazing how many tidbits could be revealed over a basket of supper rolls and a glass of sweet tea.

The rest of our meal passed uneventfully. Once again I marveled at how Odilia knew exactly what to order and how it should be prepared. She always did know her way around a kitchen.

It was good to see her and Lance, just like when we were back home chatting over something fresh baked from her oven. I always could count on her to make Lance and me laugh at her stories, and she could turn a phrase better than most anyone else I knew. Too soon, it was time to say good-bye and watch them leave.

I began to walk back to my room. My feet had bloated up, along with the rest of me, and I slogged through the carpet like a skater on a rough patch of ice.

Two hallways loomed ahead of me. One was the main hall I always used to get to the stairs, which normally was wide and welcoming. Since I was full on bread and sugar, it seemed much longer and narrower than before.

The second hall was definitely the shorter of the two. I opted for the shortcut and entered a dark corridor. A few steps along, something tingled against the back of my neck, beginning at my shoulder blades and shimmying higher to my skull.

I was being watched. From somewhere above, as if the observer was perched near the ceiling.

I raised my gaze. On the wall next to me was an enormous oil painting of a glowering Confederate general. Colorful epaulets decorated each shoulder of his boiled wool coat, and shiny brass buttons closed the lapels. It looked like Stonewall Jackson, but it was hard to tell Civil War generals apart, what with the overgrown beards and all.

I peered down the length of hall. A row of oil paintings unfurled before me.
Butter my biscuit
. Most were seascapes and military battles, with a few portraits, like Jackson's, thrown in for good measure.

I studied each one as I walked. P.G.T. Beauregard, the Battle of New Orleans, the state capitol in Baton Rouge. All were unique to Louisiana and looked priceless. The last painting was an oversized portrait of a dusty battle on an open field.

Something seemed off, though. The painting tilted lazily toward the floor. When I tried to straighten it, I realized it hung against an uneven section of wall. Deep cuts around the frame made the wall dip on one side.

The picture was nailed to a hidden door. A small door, but a door nonetheless. With no keyhole nor knob. Why would someone build a door into a wall and then not attach a knob?

Since it'd be a shame to dirty the canvas with my fingerprints, I pushed against the elaborate gilt frame instead. Slowly but surely, the door gave way and exposed a gaping black hole.

Cautiously, I stepped inside. There were no shadows or edges or corners in this space. Nothing but emptiness, dark and as cool as an abandoned coal shaft.

I felt along a wall beside me for a light switch. One click and the room instantly brightened. A brick fireplace rose floor to ceiling in front of me, the hearth taken up by a pair of velvet wingbacks. Nearby stood an elaborate writing desk covered with mother-of-pearl inlays.

Lorda mercy
. There were enough curiosities in this room to fill any Ripley's Believe it or Not! Museum. Like the bejeweled hookah on the writing desk and the emerald turban in a glass case. Didn't Beatrice say something or other about a Turkish craze that once swept through the South? People couldn't get enough of anything and everything having to do with the Middle East, which would explain the hookah, the turban, and an embroidered prayer rug on the wall.

Even the air smelled different. Like burnt leaves, earthy and dry. Cigars, maybe, or perhaps a pipe. I stepped up to one of the wingbacks and sniffed. Sure enough, burnt tobacco.

This had to be a smoking room. A place where men disappeared after dinner to talk politics, play cards, and gamble to their hearts' content. Of course, no self-respecting Southern belle would
want
to stay in a room full of smoke and foul language, but the gentlemen insisted these rooms be built into their mansions.

I moved closer to the writing desk and the trove of oddities. Beside the turban lay a sterling-silver cylinder, about the length of a rolling pin, engraved with flowers, stars, and whatnot. I delicately pulled the ends apart and discovered something shiny and round, like the pin and notch of a key, nestled on a bed of burgundy silk: An old-fashioned brass key as long as my finger.

“Hello?” someone called out.

I almost dropped the cylinder as I turned. The hotel's general manager peered from the doorway.

“My goodness, you frightened me.”

“What are you doing in here?” He didn't look particularly pleased to see me.