Murder at Morningside (9 page)

“I didn't have much choice. After the refinery blew up, my dad lost all his money. Didn't have a cent to pay for room and board at college. The only thing he had for collateral was a shrimping boat, and they took that away too.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Nearly killed him. The day the sheriff got the boat was the worst day ever.”

“You were there? How horrible.”

“I'll never forget it.” Charles's eyes glazed over. “Dad thought I was sleeping, but the dog went crazy, running around in circles and stuff. I woke up and went outside to see what was wrong.”

Instinctively, I laid my hands in my lap, since Charles's story was ten times more important than wrapping silverware.

“It was frosty out. I didn't have time to grab shoes and my feet got wet in the grass. Dad didn't know I was there because I ducked behind a cypress before he could see me.”

“Hmm.” I pictured Charles, hiding behind a tree trunk, in his bare feet.

“Dad always told me he was gonna get rich off that refinery. Said putting his money there was safer than in a bank.”

“That should have been a good plan,” I said. “Until the refinery exploded.” Not to belabor the point, but the accident had devastated so many people in the area.

“My dad lost everything, and then the sheriff came for the boat. It was the last straw. He fetched his Smith and Wesson, because he thought someone was trying to steal his baby. Who could blame him, right? But he saw it was the sheriff before he fired. He told me I must have dreamt the next part.”

“Next part?” Was it my imagination, or did Charles's eyes mist over, like the flatware, which was slick with condensation?

“I saw my dad bring the handgun to his own head when he realized what the sheriff wanted.”

“That's horrible! Do you think maybe you made a mistake?”

“I know what I saw, Missy. He was scared to death. I'll never forget the look on his face when he did that. He dropped his hand after a second, but it was too late.”

We both fell silent. The memory seemed painfully fresh for him. So fresh it looked like he wanted to reach his hand through the window and touch the cypress, the weathered fishing boat, and the father with a handgun at his head.

“I blame Mr. Solomon. That bastard.”

I flinched.

“I mean, he was such a jerk. Sorry to cuss, but that's how it is. That oil refinery hurt a lot of people around here. A lot of people.” There was no mistaking the edge in his voice.

“I've heard all about him,” I said.

“It was over a year ago, but it's why I still live at home and drive to LSU three days a week. To save money.”

“That makes sense to me. And I'm so glad your father didn't pull the trigger.”

Ever so slowly, I passed Charles a fork to see what would happen next. But he fell silent and we stayed that way for several minutes, until I remembered something.

“I have friends who are counselors back in Bleu Bayou. In case you want to talk to someone about what happened.”

“Thanks. But I don't like to talk about it. I don't even like to think about it. So, let's talk about something else. Anything new with you?”

“Goodness, what isn't new? I still can't believe everything that happened yesterday. Turns out I know the police officer in charge of the investigation. We grew up together.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. We lived next door to each other about a million years ago. The police still don't have any leads. Or any leads I know of.”

Charles looked at me quizzically. “It's only been one day.”

“True. But I've heard the first twenty-four hours are critical. We're way past that now.”

“I've heard that too.”

It felt like the right time to ask him what I really wanted to know. “What do you think happened? I mean, with Trinity and all. I know you said some people complained about noise on Friday night, but you never told me what
you
think.”

Nothing stirred then, save for the blur of silverware as we passed it back and forth. Even the birds outside had fallen silent, as if they wanted to hear what Charles would say.

“To tell you the truth, I've never trusted that Sterling guy.”

“You mean Trinity's fiancé?”

“Yeah. He didn't act like a guy who was going to get married. I mean, it sounded like he was trying to hook up with someone yesterday when I heard him talking on the phone.”

“Hooking up? What makes you think that?” Of course, the memory of Sterling and Beatrice talking in the bar flew to the front of my mind. Maybe it was common knowledge around here that those two were a couple and I was the last person on earth to figure it out.

“He was mumbling into the phone like he didn't want anyone to hear. And he must have been talking to a girl, because he kept calling her ‘baby'.” He looked disgusted, his eyebrows pulled tight. Obviously Charles didn't care a lick for Sterling Brice.

“That's a pretty good clue, all right. Who do you think he was talking to?”

“I don't know for sure, but I have a bad feeling about this. I mean, if that guy was seeing someone on the side, he'd have a good reason to kill his fiancée.”

“Maybe.”

Charles lowered his eyes to the tabletop. “What gets me is he didn't even deserve her. She could've done a lot better.”

“You don't say.” Carefully, I pulled a fresh fork from the bin. “Sounds like you were a fan of Trinity.”

“It was hard not to be. She always made you laugh. Great sense of humor—” He stopped short. The words lingered in the air, fat and bloated, for several seconds.

“But I thought you didn't know her, Charles.”

His eyes shot from the table to my face. “Well . . . um. That's what I've heard.”

“You know you can tell me anything. I've heard everything there is to hear, so don't think—”

“I've gotta go.” Charles didn't bother to accept the fork I tried to hand him. Instead, he looked desperate to leave the restaurant. “Cat probably needs me in the kitchen. I'll do this later. Thanks.”

In a poof, he was gone. Like the magician I'd imagined him to be when I first arrived.
Abracadabra.
A puff of smoke and a hasty exit . . . and there went Charles.

Maybe I'd underestimated him, after all. Maybe there was more going on behind that friendly smile and those dancing eyes than I cared to admit. But what?

I rose from the table. The best thing I could do was hike around the plantation and sort out everything in my mind. The stiff breeze might blow away some of the doubts about Charles that had begun to cloud it.

Time was running short. First there was the crash in the hall the night before, then I'd learned the head chef was pregnant, not to mention seeing the photograph of Charles and Trinity. At this point I had a thousand more questions than answers.

Maybe that was why the sight of Darryl, as I walked down the hall and toward the front door, perked me up. Next to Charles, Darryl was one of the best sources for information about the plantation.

“Hello, Darryl.” Yes, it was definitely time to enlist his help. “How're you doing?”

He was watering a potted fern and glanced up. “Good. Got time ta do tings, wot wit all da guests done gone.”

“Guess so. Sorry if I held you up from your work at the funeral home. And the church service was pretty good. You should go sometime.”

He grunted at the fern instead of speaking.

“I mean it. As a matter of fact, I'm putting on a fashion show there tomorrow night and I could sure use some help. We'll need lots and lots of flowers. Are you interested in some freelance work?”

“Maybe. What ya got in mind?”

“Several tall vases for the stage and something special for the wings. Definitely a boutonniere for Ambrose.” Which reminded me. If he didn't reappear at the mansion soon, I'd have to call him at his shop and explain about the show tomorrow night.

“I can do dat. Mixed flowers, or ya want sometin' special?”

“Your snapdragons are gorgeous. I don't want you to take any from the plantation, but do you have a garden back home?”

“Ya, a big one. Let me tink on it.”

I mentally calculated the number of arrangements we'd need for the show. “It'll probably take two four-foot vases for the front and maybe a couple of five-footers for the wings. And Ambrose likes delphiniums.”

“What kinda budget ya got?”

I clucked my tongue. “Now don't go crazy. This is for a church, after all. The last time we did this, we spent two-hundred and fifty dollars on the large arrangements.”

“Sounds good. Wot ya up ta now?”

“I've been looking around the plantation. Trying to see as much as I can before Ambrose gets back. I can't stop thinking about what happened here yesterday.”

“Ain't dat da truth.”

“I feel so bad for Mrs. Solomon. She and I know the same people back in Bleu Bayou. I can only imagine what's she's going through.”

“Her child be sainted now, is wot we say.”

I blinked. “What an interesting way to put it. No matter how you say it, she must be devastated. I wish I could do something for her.”

Something had occurred to me while I was in the restaurant, but I'd have to phrase it carefully for Darryl to say yes. “There is
one
other thing I could use help with. Is there any way I could see the room where Trinity stayed? I keep thinking the investigators came and went so quickly. What if they missed something? What if they overlooked something important?”

Darryl shook his head. “Dey's give me a key ta da rooms. But dat's not for me ta decide.”

“Nobody's talking about what happened here this weekend. The only way we're going to find answers is to pull together.” I didn't back away, though Darryl stared at me as if I'd asked him for his bank-account password instead of a room key. “We could wait for Officer LaPorte, but we're running out of time. Or we can look around on our own. Maybe they missed something in her room. They might have.”

“Dat's breakin' da law, Miz DuBois. Deys don't want us in dere.”

“Of course they don't want us in there. But nothing else has worked so far. The killer could be halfway to Baton Rouge with all the evidence by the time the Riversbend Police Department gets its act together. Honestly.”

Darryl paused. His decision could go either way.

“All right,” he finally said. “I can get ya in dere. But dat's it. Dat's as far as dat goes.”

“Fair enough. You show me her room and give me the key, and I'll never tell another soul how I got in. I'll even stand in the doorway so I don't make footprints. But sometimes things get overlooked and there might be evidence begging to be discovered.
Begging
, I tell you.”

He didn't look convinced, but he straightened anyway and walked to the stairs. He moved like someone half his age, and I rushed behind to keep up, especially when he took the stairs two at a time.

As soon as he reached the landing, Darryl turned and pulled something from his pocket. “Here ya go.” He furtively offered it to me. “Room two-one-five. Do wot ya's got ta do and den get out.”

I clutched the key. “Of course. Thank you.” The second floor was as deserted as the first had been, but I quickly ducked around him and tiptoed down the hall.

The door to room 215 stopped me cold, but I managed to turn the key in the lock and watch a shadow sweep across the carpet as it opened.

The outline of heavy furniture appeared. A divan, the same type as the one in my room, sat next to the window, and a bookshelf ran across the far wall. An enormous four-poster bed piled high with throw pillows held center stage.

My heavenly days
. Trinity couldn't have slept in her room Friday night because the pillows formed a perfect triangle on the bed. I knew from my studies at Vanderbilt first responders wouldn't touch anything at a crime scene unless it was critical to the investigation, and they certainly wouldn't make up a bed.

Trinity must have spent Friday night somewhere else. But where? Not in her fiancé's room. According to Beatrice, Sterling didn't know Trinity's whereabouts when she disappeared before the hat competition.

I kept my promise to Darryl and stayed in the doorway. It was dark and still, and I gradually noticed something else: a strange smell. Like the Cutex fingernail-polish remover I kept on my vanity back home. Which meant an investigator must have used a fuming wand to scan objects, like an alarm clock on the nightstand.

Lance told me about those things when we combed the restroom downstairs. He said the same smelly superglue people used to repair kitchen chairs and smashed pottery and whatnot would also build up ridges on a fingerprint so it could be photographed. While I couldn't pretend to understand the science behind it, the whole idea amazed me.

Lance seemed wistful when he talked about the wands. The Riversbend Police Department couldn't afford them at five thousand apiece, so they drove their evidence to a bigger county. He hoped to get one during the next budget cycle, if I recalled correctly.

So why did the Riversbend Police Department suddenly have a fuming wand? The smell made my eyes begin to water. Either the officers ranked this investigation as a number-one priority and coughed up the money somehow, or someone else was bankrolling it.

I wiped away a tear sliding down my cheek. Except for the strange smell, the bedroom was ordinary enough. Messy, but ordinary. Shirts trailed half on and half off their hangers in the closet, a pair of shorts puddled on the ground, and a paperback fanned open on the divan.