Funny, but someone had left the doors ajar. Normally, we slammed the doors shut to lock the air-conditioning inside and keep the sticky heat outside. I tapped the door open and tentatively stepped onto the welcome mat inside the shop.
“Hello?” For some reason, every light was off, and what little light remained came from the display window by my cash register. “Anyone home?”
At that moment, the lights flicked on and a chorus of voices greeted me.
“Surprise!”
It was quite a gathering. Someone had pulled a display table to the back of the room and then dressed it with fine linens and delicate bone china. A sweating champagne bucket stood at attention nearby. Best of all, my sweet fiancé sat at one of the place settings, with another reserved for me.
In addition to Bo, I spied Beatrice, my intrepid assistant, and Odilia LaPorte, the matriarch of Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery.
“Did we surprise you?’ Ambrose gazed at me hopefully. Today he wore my favorite azure polo, which played up his Tiffany-blue eyes, and he’d slicked his hair back with mousse.
Talk about a sight for sore eyes.
“Did you ever!” I hurried over to him and the others, momentarily forgetting my exhaustion. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“To the weekend you’ve had.” He gestured over his shoulder, to a serving cart I hadn’t noticed before. It held silver chafing dishes stuffed with fried chicken and fluffy butter biscuits—Odilia’s specialties. No doubt the fare came straight from the kitchen of her restaurant.
I reached for a biscuit without thinking.
“Careful,” she said. “They’re hot. Don’t want to burn yourself.”
I ignored the warning and took a hearty bite. Say what you would about the calorie count, but nothing could appease an empty stomach like one of Miss Odilia’s biscuits.
“Mm, hmm.” I hastily swallowed my mouthful. “That’s worth burning my tongue for.”
“I almost forgot something.” Beatrice hustled away from the table, and then she returned a moment later. “Look! Your veil turned out perfect. You can’t even see the stain.”
She held out the bridal veil, which was fashioned from very delicate, and very expensive, antique Alençon lace. The lace flowed across the table and pooled in my lap.
“You’re right.” I held the biscuit at arms’ length so it wouldn’t touch the veil as I studied the lace. The entire veil was eggshell white, softly faded with age, and I’d lined the scalloped edges with hundreds of tiny seed pearls that sparkled just so in the light. A pattern embroidered in the center evoked a large garden rose in full bloom.
“Whoa.” Ambrose leaned away from the table. “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see that stuff before the wedding?”
“We’ll make an exception this time.” I winked at Beatrice, and she whisked the veil away from me. “Okay, that’s one problem solved. At last count, we had at least two more, and there are only a few weeks to go until the wedding.”
The thought made me cringe, even with the wonderful tableau in front of me. I had labored under a cloud of worry all weekend. Not just about the murder, which was horrible enough, but about all the things that had gone wrong with the wedding plans.
“Well, it looks like your veil turned out fine.” Ambrose held three fingers in the air as he counted down his points. “That’s one problem solved. Then I already told you the photographer agreed to shoot our pictures. That’s number two.”
I felt my shoulders untense, ever so slightly. “You’re right. But we still don’t have a place to hold it, and we can’t use our backyard.”
“Why not?” His smile was playful. “I can even move the barbecue grill behind the garage, if you ask me nicely.”
“Very funny. The way I figure it, we’ve got two hundred guests coming, and nowhere to put them.”
“Really?” Odilia hadn’t spoken for a while, and I almost forgot she was there. “Are you sure about that? Have you thought about using my restaurant?”
My mind reeled. I hadn’t thought about it. Which was ridiculous, because her restaurant would be a perfect site. A wonderful solution. A…
“Wait a minute.” When reality hit, it hit hard. “We’re about talking about a Saturday night, Odilia. Where you serve, what, about five hundred dinners? Plus, all that takeout. I couldn’t possibly ask you to give up that kind of revenue.”
“Pshaw,” she said. “What’s a little lost revenue between friends? You know, you could always hold the ceremony in the main dining room, and then we could flip it for the reception. Of course, there might be some downtime between the two. Hadn’t really thought about that.”
We all fell silent, until Ambrose snapped his fingers. “Wait a second! What about using the Rising Tide Baptist Church? You know, the place where we held that fashion show a few years ago.”
My jaw fell open. I hadn’t thought about that little country church in ages. While Ambrose and I attended a much larger church about a half hour away, the country chapel was right next door, in Riversbend.
I automatically beamed. “Of course! I’m surprised we didn’t think of that sooner.”
A few years ago, when I first opened Crowning Glory, I met Ambrose at his studio next door, and we hit it off right away. We both worked at a wedding at a place called Morningside, where I happened to stumble upon a quaint country church on one of my walks.
It turned out the church needed help with a fundraiser, so I volunteered to help them stage a fashion show. Ever since then, the church had held a soft spot in my heart.
Unfortunately, reality returned much too soon. “But the chapel is really tiny. I seem to recall it only holds about fifty people.”
“That’s true.” Ambrose played with a napkin ring. “It’d be much too tight for our crew. Unless—”
We both reached the same conclusion at the same time.
“The social hall!”
We’d staged the fashion show in a large social hall located at the back of the church’s property. The room could easily hold five hundred people, or twice as many as we needed room for. It was a blank canvas, perfect for adding special touches, like twinkling lights, fabric walls, and gorgeous topiary sculptures, courtesy of my favorite landscaper, Darryl.
“That’s a wonderful plan,” Odilia agreed. “Afterward, you can come back to my restaurant and have the reception in the main dining room.”
Beatrice decided to get in on the action, and she leaned forward excitedly. “You can even use my Ford truck as your getaway car.”
The thought of rumbling away from my wedding in a vintage bubblegum-pink Ford brought a smile to my face.
“Ambrose?” While I wanted more than anything to say yes to all the excited plans, I had no idea what he thought of them.
“Are you kidding?” He reached for the champagne bottle in response. “I’m in.”
“Great. I’ll contact them tomorrow. One last thing.” I cut my gaze to Beatrice. “What was all this talk about a crazy day at the shop yesterday? Did you just say that to lure me in today?”
“Maybe.” She toyed with the words. “Or maybe I really needed you, but I handled everything myself. In which case, you’re welcome.”
Bo winked at her, which gave me my answer.
“Why, Beatrice Rushing. You lied! You said the studio was chockablock with customers and you needed me to get back here, pronto.”
“And it worked perfectly, didn’t it?”
Leave it to Beatrice to show no shame when it came to fooling me. I still intended to stuff a nice, fat bonus into her next paycheck, but now I thought about adding a whoopee cushion or something equally silly to even the score.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” Bo interrupted our make-believe spat by dredging the champagne bottle from the icy water. “I’d marry you in a bowling alley, Missy DuBois.”
Sweet of him to say that. And thank goodness it wouldn’t come to that.
Chapter 23
Once Ambrose and I polished off the dinner provided by Odilia, it was time to go home. To the sweet little cottage on the outskirts of town, where nothing exciting ever happened, which was just the way I liked it.
I rode with Ambrose in his car, since we could always return to the Factory to pick up my Volkswagen later. We pulled onto Highway 18, prepared to leave Bleu Bayou, when I thought of something.
“You know, I’m glad we’ll be home soon. I have a feeling Stormie is going to lead off the newscast this evening.”
He glanced at me warily. “What’s the deal with you two? I thought you hated her.”
“Hate? That’s much too strong a word. We have our differences, that’s all.”
“Seems to me, your ‘differences’ happen every other day.”
I playfully swatted his arm as our drive continued. Before long, we pulled up to the “rent house,” and Ambrose extinguished the engine.
Unlike Honeycutt Hall, the tiny cottage in front of us could fit in the palm of a giant’s hand. Early on, I planted a wisteria bush over an arched trellis, and the blossoms dipped over a brick path that led to the front door. Nothing about the house said “grand.” Not the crooked shutters or the overgrown wisteria or a garden gnome that waited for us near the front door.
I paused to pat the gnome for good luck—it was a silly tradition we started a few years ago—and ambled into the living room. Now I was both sleepy and full, which meant I’d barely crossed the threshold before I flopped onto the sofa.
“Ambrose? Could you please be a dear and bring me the remote?”
He pretended to bow as he scooped it off the table. “As you wish, m’lady.”
I caught the remote when he tossed it to me, and then I automatically turned to KATC. Channel 11 came through loud and clear on our set, since the signal originated in Baton Rouge, which couldn’t be said for some of the other channels. The reception for phones and our television was iffy, at best, which only added to the house’s charm, or so we told ourselves.
Ambrose joined me on the couch, and he draped his arm across my shoulders. To feel him so close to me was heavenly, and I sighed deeply as I laid my head on his shoulder.
“Shhh,” he teased. “The news is starting.”
Right there, on the screen in front of us, appeared Stormie, in all her technicolor glory. She still wore the crimson jacket from earlier, only she’d added some chunky gold earrings and a matching necklace to the mix.
“Honestly, you’d think they’d hire a professional makeup person for her,” I whispered.
“What? And spoil the fun for the rest of us?”
Like always, Stormie looked like she’d applied her makeup with a trowel, and a thick line appeared where the foundation ended at her chin. She also wore false eyelashes again, not to mention about a gallon of eyeliner. Too bad she didn’t know the art of subtlety, because she was a pretty woman under all that paint.
“As many of our viewers know, the family of Wesley Carmichael finally got a break in the case today.” She looked straight into the camera.
So far, so good. She didn’t seem nervous about appearing in the studio, since she normally reported her stories from the field. Apparently, this was the “big break” she’d been hoping for, and the reason she hung around Honeycutt Hall all weekend.
“I had a chance to speak with the lieutenant in charge of the case,” she continued, “a Detective Lance LaPorte with the Bleu Bayou Police Department.”
She pointed to the screen behind her, where Lance’s face suddenly appeared on footage shot earlier by her cameraman. The video showed Lance and Stormie standing in the pull-through drive in front of the mansion, and Lance looked twice as nervous as Stormie did.
“Detective, what can you tell us about the latest development in the case?” she asked.
I knew Lance well enough to know when he was uncomfortable, and his gaze flickered back and forth across the screen. It was his patented “I’d rather be anywhere else than here” look, which I’d seen countless times over the years.
“We apprehended two suspects in this case. Apparently, the victim was poisoned overnight on Friday, and the suspects are well known to the Carmichaels.”
“Well known?” Ambrose was incredulous. “I’d say they’re well known. Considering one of them almost married their son.”
“Shhh.” I playfully poked him in the ribs. “Let her talk.”
“I understand the defendants decided to plead guilty,” she continued. “What does that mean for the case?”
“Anytime suspects plead guilty, it means they’re waiving their right to a jury trial. In this case, they must’ve been swayed by the amount of evidence stacked against them.”
“That’s fascinating.” Stormie leaned closer to Lance, as if they were best friends or something.
“She doesn’t even know him, Ambrose,” I said. “Look at her! She’s acting like they’re best friends.”
Ambrose shrugged. “She’s okay. Are you sure you’re not jealous?”
“Go on.” I swatted his arm again. “Jealous of Stormie? Ha! That’s a laugh.”
Fortunately, the interview continued, so I didn’t have to dwell on it. It wasn’t that I envied Stormie, but she always seemed to get what she wanted. Lead story on the nightly news? Check. Exclusive interview with a detective on the case? Check. Whereas I felt like I was swimming upstream most of time, trying to keep my small business afloat and my personal life on track, Stormie made everything look so easy. Almost too easy.
“I understand you were the one who solved this case,” Stormie said on the video. “Can you tell our viewers what tipped you off?”
“Actually…” Here, Lance faltered, as if he couldn’t quite decide how to phrase his next thought. “That’s not entirely true. I had help.”
“Help?” Stormie frowned, clearly not expecting that answer. “But I thought you were the lead detective on the case.”
“I am, but I have a very special friend who helped me crack it. I’d like to thank Missy DuBois for her assistance in solving the murder. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Awww.” I leaned my head back on Ambrose’s shoulder as I listened to the newscast. “How nice of him to say that.”
Stormie sniffed at the comment, though. “Well, that may be, but I understand you were the one who took the suspects into custody. Anyway, now that guilty pleas have been entered, we’ll see how the judge reacts when it comes time to sentence them.”
With that, the video ended and the camera cut back to Stormie in the studio. She seemed pleased with her report, because she grinned from ear to ear. Yep, it seemed awfully easy for Stormie to get everything she ever wanted. If only life happened that way for the rest of us.
“Thank you for that report, Stormie,” the anchor told her. “Now I understand you have some news for our viewers.”
“I do.” She tugged at the bottom of her jacket, which barely closed over her bulging stomach. “Today is my last day at the station. I’ve decided to leave for ‘personal reasons.’” She flicked two fingers up and down to indicate air quotes around the phrase.
“Good luck with the newborn.” The anchor, on the other hand, obviously hadn’t been coached by a human resources rep on what to say, because he felt no need to hide the truth. “We’ve very excited for you. Up next, a look at the weather as we enter our workweek.”
I turned to Ambrose on the couch, incredulous. “I don’t believe it. Stormie just gave up her perfect career for her family?”
It seemed completely out of character, and it turned my impression of her on its head. I always assumed Stormie cared more about herself more than anyone else.
“Hey,” Ambrose said. “People change. Isn’t that what keeps lif
e interesting?”
“You’re right, of course.” I made a mental note to call Stormie tomorrow and congratulate her. Not to mention, to get ahold of Lance so I could thank him for including me in his statement. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if I reached out to her. You know, to smooth things over.”
“No, it wouldn’t hurt. But first, you need to get some rest. You’ve had a big weekend. Probably the biggest one yet.”
“And thank goodness it’s over.” My eyes slowly drooped closed. “Not a moment too soon.”
Chapter 24
The morning of August 10, the day of my wedding, I awoke to thunderclouds hovering behind the bedroom window. The clouds hung low in the sky and turned everything gunmetal gray. “Butter my biscuits!”
I immediately hopped out of bed and threw on a bathrobe. Out of all the days for it to rain, why did it have to be today?
My eyes misted as I headed to the kitchen, even though I didn’t need more water in my life. How could I forget the way Lorelei panicked when a thundershower threatened her wedding weekend? Even though a rainstorm turned out to be the least of her worries, I remembered feeling sorry for her and throwing her one of my patented “bless your hearts.”
Now I was the one people would feel sorry for, and I was the one they’d lob that little bon mot at.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen, where I automatically checked a clock built into the microwave. The hands stood at nine and twelve. Thankfully, Beatrice would be here in about an hour, since I’d promised to do her hair and makeup for the wedding, and she’d promised to do the same for me. Beatrice would know how to make me feel better.
One glance through the kitchen window, though, and I realized some of our plans would have to change. Instead of enjoying mimosas in the backyard, for example, we might have to settle for champagne in the kitchen. And instead of picking roses from my garden for the head table? I’d have to call Darryl and ask him to supply yet one more bouquet.
Luckily, Ambrose wasn’t here to see me, since I didn’t want to hear the advice he’d no doubt offer. For some reason, he thought anytime I complained about something, like the weather, it meant I wanted him to fix it. More often than not, though, I only wanted a sounding board, and I wasn’t asking for a solution.
What the Hatmaker Heard Page 18