Prosecco Pink (8 page)

"I wonder if it was because the woman teased her about her name," I said. "I mean, it's essentially 'Red Ketchup.'"

Veronica shot me a look. "I seriously doubt it."

I looked out the passenger window and mused, "So Miss Scarlett has a colored past…"

"If you're thinking about moving on to Clue jokes, don't," Veronica said, leaning menacingly toward me.

I moved closer to the passenger door, just to be safe. "Did you have David run a check on Delta too?"

"Yeah. Nothing."

"So, assuming Ivanna was murdered, do you think there's any chance that Delta's involved? She seems kind of proud of the fact that her plantation has a murderous history."

Veronica shook her head. "When your business is weddings, charity dinners, and craft fairs, you don't want this kind of publicity. You heard Delta say that the media coverage is costing her clients, and she practically threatened us if we went to the press."

"True," I said, again glancing out the window. We were approaching Oleander Place, and the view was spectacular. Oleander bushes dotted the grounds like pink flamingos, and there were two rows of centuries-old Southern live oak trees that dutifully lined the walkway leading to the plantation like soldiers standing at attention. Now that I was focusing on the house instead of the back of Bradley's BMW, I realized that it was painted the palest shade of pink, as was the colonnade that wrapped around the three-story home. I shifted my gaze uneasily to the balcony, and to my relief there was no sign of Evangeline.

Veronica pulled into a long driveway and parked in a lot in the back of the house that was conveniently located next to a ticket booth. Directly in front of the parking lot were the slaves' quarters and a gift shop with a restaurant. Beyond the gift shop were two old sugar mills and the sugar cane fields.

"Any special instructions,
capo
?" Veronica asked.

I got a little thrill from being called "boss," but I acted casual. "Yeah, look for any evidence that Ivanna's death was actually a murder."

"On it."

As I stepped out of the car, I saw Delta and an older Southern gentleman in a seersucker suit standing on the back porch beside a magnolia tree. I felt like I was on the set of the
Murder, She Wrote
episode where Seth Hazlitt's plantation-owner cousin is battling a perfume company over the scent of the flowers from his secret magnolia tree. But I was quickly reminded that Delta was no Jessica Fletcher when I saw her shake her fist at the man, who cowered and held up his straw hat like a shield.

"You leave this property at once, Floyd Buford!" she shouted. "I don't want to see your face around here again."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Delta," he said with a slight warble in his voice. He placed his hat on his head. "But if that's what you want, then good-day."

Veronica and I ambled toward the porch as Delta watched the man hurry away.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

"That was the president of the Antebellum Plantation Historical and Preservation Society," Delta replied. "He just canceled a luncheon they'd scheduled here for next week."

"I'm sorry," Veronica said.

"I'm not," she snapped. "Believe you me, it's no picnic catering to a bunch of snobbish geriatrics with digestive issues."

Veronica and I exchanged a look.

Delta turned and opened the door. "You girls come on in. I'll show you around."

"I'd love to," Veronica said as we entered a wide hallway with gleaming hardwood floors.

I was less enthusiastic about seeing the house. It was beautiful, but the tarnished history of plantation homes—specifically the fact that they were operated on slave labor—made me uncomfortable.

"This place is gorgeous!" Veronica exclaimed.

Delta stopped and turned to face her. "It is
now
. Knox designed the home in the Greek Revival style to make that nitwit Evangeline happy. But thankfully one of his descendants had the good sense to strip the house of the garish cornices, crown moldings, and ceiling medallions to bring it in line with the Federal style."

"What happened to those things?" I asked.

"They're stored in the little mill," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Now, my office is here on the left. And on the right is the kitchen, which used to be the house-slaves' quarters. The original kitchen was located in a separate building to keep the odors and the heat to a minimum."

I nodded and followed Delta to the front of the house.

"This is the parlor," she said, gesturing to the left. "And across the hall is the dining room."

Veronica and I peered into the parlor, which was protected by a cordon. A gold-plated crystal chandelier, a large gilt mirror, and several bronze candelabra gave the room a sumptuous look. In front of the fireplace was a courting area with Empire-period seating covered in blue velvet. Above the black marble mantel was an enormous oil painting of a beautiful blonde woman with delicate features. She was dressed in coral pink and painted against a dark background of bluish black.

"Is that Evangeline?" Veronica asked, as though reading my mind.

"Yes," Delta said drily, clutching her pearls.

"She was lovely," I enthused. "Like a real-life Disney princess."

Delta scowled. "I'll take you up to her room."

We climbed a tall wooden staircase to the second floor.

"On either side of the hallway are the guest bedrooms," Delta said, "and the children's bedroom is in the middle. In keeping with the custom of the era, Evangeline and Knox had separate bedrooms in the front of the house." She turned to Veronica and me. "I don't know why we ever did away with that tradition."

I flashed a wry smile at Veronica as we followed Delta the length of the hallway to the master bedrooms.

"Those French doors lead to the front balcony," she explained, pulling a set of keys from her pocket. She unlocked the door to the left. "And this is Evangeline's bedroom, otherwise known as 'the pink room.'"

Veronica, a connoisseur of pink décor, gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "It's pink perfection."

I had to agree that it was a beautiful room, but I'd always been partial to purple. "Can we go past the cordon?"

Delta raised an eyebrow. "Just don't touch anything."

I smirked and entered the spacious bedroom with Veronica in tow. On the right was a seating area with a pink armchair and matching chaise lounge. Between the windows was an imposing armoire with decorative wood inlay and a white marble bust on the top. But the most impressive piece of furniture in the room was a canopied bed covered with pink pillows and draped in sheer pink netting.

"Is this the original furniture?" Veronica asked.

Delta nodded. "Evangeline died in that bed."

"It's awfully small," I remarked. It reminded me of the dainty Princess furniture Veronica used to have before she redecorated her apartment like Elvis Presley's Jungle Room at Graceland.

"People were smaller back then," Delta said, eyeing my 5' 10" frame with evident disapproval.

I made a point of turning my back to her and began inspecting the area to the right of the bed, next to the windows, while Veronica searched the area to the left. On a white marble–covered night table beside the bed sat a stunning bronze snuff box adorned with a picture of Marie Antoinette.

"Is this box an original too?" I asked.

"Yes, it's from France. So is the trio of perfume bottles."

I looked at the delicate pink glass bottles with gold filigree. "I only see two."

Delta frowned and rushed to my side. "I don't understand," she muttered. "Where's the other bottle?"

"Could someone have moved it?" Veronica asked.

"That's impossible. I have the only key to this room, and no one has been allowed in here since the body was found." She knelt and looked under the bed.

I stared at the night table, deep in thought. "Are you sure the bottle was here that night?"
Delta stood up and brushed some dust off her navy blue dress. "I think so."

"Hold on," Veronica said, reaching into her beige and leopard-print Furla tote. "I have the police photos with me. There's one of the nightstand, remember?"

"That's right!" I said.

Veronica began flipping through the pictures with Delta looking on.

Meanwhile, I glanced beneath the table but didn't see anything. Then I pulled back one of the heavy, pink silk damask drapes and noticed a two-inch tear in the white sheer curtain underneath.

"It's not in the picture," Veronica said. "There are only two bottles on the nightstand."

"Wait a second!" Delta said, snapping her fingers. "That bottle was here on the day of the murder. I know it for a fact."
"How?" I asked.

"Because a French antique dealer on the same tour as Miss Jones made a comment about the trio. He said he'd never seen the full set intact."

I chewed my lip. I was starting to think there was a connection between Ivanna's death and the missing perfume bottle. "What about this?" I asked, pulling aside the drape to reveal the tear in the sheer curtain. "Did you know it was torn?"

"No, I didn't," Delta replied, her eyes smoldering with anger.

I stepped aside as she stomped up to the drapes and jerked them away from the window, causing a small object to propel across the floor.

Veronica bent down and retrieved the item. "It's a piece of pink glass!"

"That's part of the perfume bottle," Delta said, her pale skin blanching as white as the curtain.

"Was the room cleaned after the tour?" Veronica asked.

"No, the cleaning crew came the morning after I found the body, but the police had me send them away." Delta lowered her head. "I suppose it's possible that a member of my staff could have broken it, but I don't know what reason they would have had to go into the room after a tour, and especially to go behind the cordon."

I thought about the torn curtain and the broken bottle, and in my mind they added up to one thing. "I don't think that's what happened," I said. "There was a struggle in this room the night Ivanna Jones died, which means that your hunch about this being a murder is probably right."

Delta crossed her arms and curled her lips. "Of course I'm right. Like I told you, that girl was murdered in this house. The only thing you two need to worry about is finding out who did it."

"We're just covering our bases," Veronica explained.

"This isn't a damn baseball game," she snapped. "This is my business, and I'm paying you to find the killer. No more no less."

I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth to reply, but Veronica silenced me with a shut-it look.

"And you'll do it soon," Delta added. "I'm losing money by the minute thanks to this disaster."

I'd had enough of Delta and her demanding demeanor. Mentally repeating
the customer is always right
with the intensity of Dorothy when she was trying to will herself and Toto back to Kansas, I exited the room and opened one of the French doors to take in some desperately needed fresh air. As I stepped onto the balcony, I saw on old rocking chair to my right. I took a seat and let my gaze follow the striking tree-lined walkway straight to the waters of the mighty Mississippi River. I wondered how many times Evangeline had done the same as she held her pink diamond and waited for Beau.

The door flung open giving me a start, and Delta popped her head around the side. "Sorry to intrude on your quiet time, but we have a tour starting in half an hour. So, if you're going to question my tour guide, you'd better get started."

I bit my lip to keep from saying something I would only partially regret and rose from my chair. Once inside, I glanced at the narrow flight of stairs leading to the third floor. "What's upstairs?"

"Storage. It was a walk-in attic even when the plantation was functional. Now it houses our document archives as well as some antique furniture and vintage clothes."

I was about to ask whether I had time to take a quick peek when we heard a dull thud followed by a woman's scream. It sounded like it had come from the end of the hall.

"What in the
hell
?" Delta exclaimed as she rushed toward one of the guest bedrooms.

I followed her with Veronica hot on my heels. When I entered the room, I saw a petite young woman in a waist-pinching corset and an old-fashioned white petticoat. She was kneeling and examining a large bronze pineapple.

"I'm sorry, Miss Delta," she said with a distinct Southern twang. "I dropped it on accident."

"Scarlett, you fool! That's a priceless antique!"

"I know, but I didn't realize how heavy it was." She pushed a lock of frizzy, dishwater-blonde hair behind her ear and started to lift the bulky bronze fruit.

"Leave it be!" Delta shouted as she scooped up the pineapple with a single hand. "Aren't you supposed to be getting dressed for a tour?"

"Yes ma'am," Scarlett said, rising to her feet and taking a step backward. "But I remembered that I hadn't dusted the stuff on the bed."

"Never mind that now," Delta said as she deposited the pineapple at the end of the bed next to a gray feather duster. "Where's your hoop skirt?"

"On the back of the door."

Delta stormed over to the door and pulled it back. She stiffened suddenly and turned to Scarlett with a look of pure rage. "What did I tell you about hanging up vintage clothing?"

"That I shouldn't use no wire hangers?" Scarlett ventured.

I felt my body tense in preparation for a Mommie Dearest moment.

"That's right," she said through clenched teeth. "No. Wire. Hangers!"

I halfway expected Delta to pull a Joan Crawford and start beating Scarlett with the hanger. Or with the pineapple.

Instead, she inhaled deeply and looked at Veronica and me. "Scarlett earns extra money doing some light cleaning here at the plantation," she explained. Then she turned to her and gave her an icy stare. "But if she continues to drop two-hundred-year-old artifacts, I'll have to relieve her of her duties, both as a maid and as a tour guide."

Scarlett lowered her head and began biting the fingernail on her middle finger.