Prosecco Pink

by Traci Angrighetti

  "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.

  I wondered whether she was discreetly flipping Delta off and smiled inwardly at the notion.

  "At least nothing was broken," Veronica said.

  "Not yet, anyway," Delta remarked, putting her hands on her hips. "Now, I've got to get downstairs to see that everything is ready for the tour. Scarlett, Ms. Maggio and Ms. Amato need to ask you some questions about the murder. You make sure you cooperate, you hear?"

  "Yes, Miss Delta."

  Delta frowned at her and left the room.

  I looked at Scarlett and noted that her hands were trembling. I couldn't tell whether it was because of what had just transpired or because she was afraid to talk to us. Either way, I knew I had to try to calm her down to have a chance at getting any information she may have. "Scarlett is the perfect name for a plantation tour guide." I smiled. "I'll bet you hear a lot of Tara jokes."

  She stared at me, expressionless.

  Time to try another tactic. "What's up with the pineapple?"

  "It's a symbol of Southern hospitality, isn't it?" Veronica chimed in.

  Scarlett nodded. "Yes ma'am. But in the old South, if you were a guest in someone's home and you woke up and found one at the foot of your bed, it meant you'd overstayed your welcome."

  "Awk-ward." I laughed.

  She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Miss Delta said you had some questions about that woman that was killed?"

  Clearly, Scarlett was in no mood for jokes. "Uh, yeah," I said. "Were you here between five p.m. last Friday and eight a.m. the next morning?"

  "I came in at eight thirty on Saturday for the nine a.m. tour," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

  "We're not accusing you of anything," Veronica began, "we're just trying to find out if you know anything that could help us."

  "I don't," she said hotly.

  It appeared that Scarlett had a scrappy side, like her Gone-with-the-Wind namesake. "Did you see the body after it was found?" I asked.

  She nodded. "Miss Delta told me what happened when I came to work. I went into the room to see for myself."

  "Did you recognize the victim, Ivanna Jones?" Veronica asked.

  Scarlett glanced at the floor. "I seen her here before."

  I felt my heart skip a beat. "When?"

  "A week or so ago."

  I remembered that Delta said she'd seen Ivanna two weeks before. I wondered whether Ivanna had returned to the plantation a week later. "Can you give us a more precise date?"

  She tugged at the top of her corset. "Uh, actually, I think it was two weeks ago."

  Veronica furrowed her brow. "You're sure?"

  "You think I'm lying?" she asked, raising her chin.

  "I want to make sure we have the correct information, that's all," Veronica replied.

  Scarlett stared at Veronica and said nothing.

  Changing the subject, I asked, "Was Ivanna on one of your tours?"

  "Yeah." She paused and played with the fabric of her petticoat. "And…" Her voice trailed off as she looked out the window. Then her face clouded over. "I'd better go." She grabbed the feather duster from the bed and pulled her hoop skirt and a red dress from the back of the door. "It's almost time for my tour."

  "Okay, but let us know if you think of anything else," I said.

  Scarlett left the room without a word.

  "Did you see that?" I asked as I hurried over to the window. "She was about to tell us something, but she changed her mind."

  "Yeah," Veronica replied with a toss of her hair. "And from the way she kept messing with her clothes, I'd say she was lying about when she saw Ivanna."

  I stared out onto the grounds below and immediately locked eyes with a stocky, thirty-something male standing near the back porch. He turned away and headed in the direction of the sugar mills. "I just saw a man looking up at this window. Let's go find out who he is."

  I rushed downstairs with Veronica close behind. When I opened the back door, seven miniature pinschers rushed in and circled me with their teeth bared like tiny land sharks preparing for a foot-feeding frenzy. I immediately froze in my tracks and feared for my Dolce Vita wedges and my toes.

  Veronica sprung into action. "Bad dogs!" she shouted, clapping her hands. "Shoo! Shoo!"

  But the mini mongrels stood their battleground.

  Using my best Southern canine speak, I yelled, "Go on, now! Git!"

  Delta emerged from her office wearing her standard scowl. "What's all the damn fuss about?" she asked, waving an antique candlestick like a club. "We have a tour going on, you know."

  "This pack of wild Dobermans!" I said, desperately wanting to gesticulate but holding my body mummy-style still.

  Delta looked down as though she hadn't realized the dogs were there. Then she dropped to her knees and drew the dogs into a collective embrace. "Mamma's sweet babies!" she cooed in a manly maternal tone as she kissed each dog on the mouth.

  I felt my jaw drop from the shock of Delta's unexpected display of affection.

  She looked up, beaming with pride. "These are the seven dwarfs."

  More like the seven deadly sins, I thought.

  Veronica walked around me. "Delta, we need to identify a man who was staring up at the window when we were questioning Scarlett a few minutes ago."

  She used her right knee to hoist herself back to her feet. "It was probably that good-for-nothing Miles McCarthy, our groundskeeper. He's always poking around in the bushes and whatnot, sticking his blasted nose where it doesn't belong."

  I noted that Delta had made a quick recovery from her bout with maternal warmth. "Does anyone else help with property maintenance?"

  "No, but our histo
rian, Troy Wilson, gives tours of the grounds. He's not here today, though."

  Veronica pressed a finger to her cheek. "Hm. We'd planned on questioning everyone while we were here."

  "I told him that," Delta said as she began twisting the candle in its spiral-shaped metal holder. "But he said he had some business to attend to at Tulane, something to do with his PhD dissertation. You should ask him about his research, by the way. It's fascinating."

  "When can we talk to him?" I asked, glancing down at the Disney-named demon dogs.

  "The day after tomorrow," she replied. Then she unceremoniously deposited the candlestick in my hands. "Here. Hold the base while I pull this candle out."

  "That's a funky-looking candlestick," I said.

  "It's a courter's candle." Flexing the muscle she'd exhibited earlier with the bronze pineapple, Delta gave a hearty tug and the candle slipped free from the metal spiral.

  "What's that?" Veronica asked as I handed the candlestick to Delta.

  "A courting timer. When a gentleman came calling for one of the eligible young ladies of the plantation, her father would light the candle. When the wax burned down to the top of the metal spiral, it was time for the young man to leave. If the plantation lord felt he was a good prospect he would turn the handle to raise the candle before he lit it to give the couple more time together. But if he didn't, he would lower it."

  "Talk about getting the short end of the stick," I joked.

  Delta raised an eyebrow and stared at me. She might have a secret human side, but she had no sense of humor.

  Veronica peered around Delta's shoulder. "Why are you replacing the candle?"

  "One of my staff lit the damn thing, and the wax dripped all over the holder. Probably Scarlett," she added, shaking her head.

  "Speaking of Scarlett," I said, "what time does her tour end?"

  "In about thirty minutes. There are only six people—foreigners who are blissfully ignorant of the murder, I'm sure."

  "Okay, thanks," Veronica said, walking to the door.

  I held back until Delta and all seven of the devil dwarfs had retreated into her office. Then I rushed out after Veronica.

  "Let's go to the larger mill first," I said.

  "Yeah, the smaller one is probably the storage shed."

  Veronica and I walked past the slave quarters and the gift shop and veered left in the direction of the big sugar mill. As we approached the rickety old wooden structure, we saw four huge cast iron kettles arranged in order from largest to smallest in front of the building. The tallest kettle was at least five feet high and seven feet across, and the smallest was only about two feet high.

  I walked up to the weather-beaten door and knocked. After a minute or so passed, I pressed my ear to the thin wood. "It sounds like a fan or something is running. Maybe he didn't hear me."

  "Is the door locked?"

  I pushed the door, and its rusty hinges creaked as it opened about a foot. "I'm going in."

  Veronica nodded.

  "Hello, Miles?" I called as I slipped inside. I followed the loud whirring, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in the back. I passed through a room equipped with several antiquated-looking machines with grooved rollers and arrived in an adjoining room with wooden worktables and shelving.

  Miles was standing at a table with his back to me and using an industrial-sized Shop-Vac to remove some pink powder from a clear plastic Tupperware container. When the last of the powder was gone, he turned to switch off the machine.

  I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing a white surgical mask, but I thought his brown eyes widened when he noticed me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Franki, and I'm a PI investigating the suspicious death here at Oleander Place."

  He removed his mask and began stripping off his elbow-length rubber gloves. "Where y'at?" he asked in a Brooklynesque accent.

  I started to say, "Right here." But then I remembered that Y'at is a white, working-class dialect peculiar to the area around New Orleans' Irish Channel neighborhood, meaning How are you?, and I cleared my throat. "Fine. And you?"

  "Awrite," he replied. "I was jus' cleanin' up some rat poison. Maybe we should step outside?"

  I was all too happy to leave the mill. I could almost feel airborne rat poison entering my lungs, and I was a little leery of Miles. With his bushy reddish-brown brow, flattened boxer nose, and hulking frame, he looked like he could have been an Irish Mafia extra for the cast of The Departed.

  When we got outside, Veronica was leaning over the next to largest of the kettles.

  "Careful, now," Miles said. "You don' wanna fall into de flambeau."

  Veronica blinked. "The what?"

  "All dese kettles have a name. Dis big one here is de grande, den come de flambeau, de sirop an' de batterie."

  "So they were used in sugar production?" I asked, running my hand over the smooth black surface of the grande.

  "Yeah, to boil de sugar cane juice down 'til it crystalized. But dey also used 'em to make de meals for de plantation hands. And during de harvesting season, dey took de boiled cane juice from de flambeau and mixed it wit' French brandy to make hot punch." He rubbed his belly. "It's dee-licious."

  I felt my mouth watering. Naturally, I'd been craving a mint julep since I stepped onto the plantation. But some condensed sugar juice and European brandy would do just fine. "Listen, my partner Veronica and I would like to ask you a few questions about the murder. Is now a good time?"

  "F'sure," he said, crossing his arms against his solid chest.

  "Great," I said, pulling a note pad and pen from my purse. "What time did you leave work last Friday?"

  "I went home early dat day, at tree p.m."

  Veronica crinkled her nose. "At three?"

  He nodded. "Tha's right."

  I jotted down the time. "Can anyone vouch for you?"

  "How ya mean?"

  "I mean, do you have an alibi?"

  He looked down. "I stay by myself, and I was dere all night. Pahdon my French, but I had de fois."

  I had a hard enough time deciphering proper French, so there was no way I could do Cajun. "The fwas?"

  "I was in de battroom," he said, raising his eyebrows.

  I looked at him blankly.

  He gave a sheepish grin. "I ate a bad batch o' gumbo?"

  "Got it," I said, holding up my hand in a stopping motion. I didn't need any of the gory gastric details. "What about Saturday? Did you come to work?"

  "I got heuh at eight."

  Veronica pulled a crime scene photo from her Furla tote. "Did you view the victim's body?"

  "No ma'am. No one was allowed in de house dat day."

  "Do you recognize this woman?" she asked, showing him a photo of Ivanna's body.

  Miles stroked his unshaven chin and looked to one side. "Nevah seen her before."

  I noted that he didn't flinch at the sight of her corpse. "Her name is Ivanna Jones. Does that ring a bell?"

  He looked down at his worn brown work boots. "Cain't say it does."

  "Thanks, Miles," I said slipping the pad and pen back into my bag. "That's it for me. Veronica?"

  She shook her head.

  "Looks like we're done for now," I said, extending my hand. "If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."

  He grasped my hand in a powerful grip. "Y'all have a blessed day."

  As Veronica and I headed back toward the plantation, I whispered, "Miles never once looked us in the eye when we asked him about Ivanna."

  "I noticed that. Suspicious, huh?"

  I was about to reply when I saw something move by the magnolia tree next to the back porch. I squinted and saw Scarlett peeking out from behind the massive trunk. "True to her Clue counterpart, Miss Scarlett is a spy."

  "Interesting," Veronica said. "Let's go to talk to her and find out what's going on."

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Scarlett!"

  She glanced in our direction, and then she put her head down and hurried
toward the parking lot.

  Veronica looked at me. "What's she doing?"

  Scarlett climbed into a beat up, red Ford pickup and started the engine.

  "Leaving," I replied as I watched her back up and speed away.

  "That's the second time today she's run away from us," Veronica said.

  "And both times it was right after she'd seen Miles." Now I was positive that Miles was hiding something, but what? And what about Scarlett? It seemed like she was afraid of Miles. If she was, I had no idea whether it was because of something he knew about her or because of something she knew he'd done. Either way, I needed to talk to Scarlett. And soon.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Okay, message delivered." I pressed end on my phone and dropped it in the cup holder beside the passenger seat of Veronica's Audi. "Now we just have to hope Scarlett calls us back."

  "She will," Veronica said, frowning at the old tan Lincoln Town Car puttering along in front of us on the single-lane highway. "Otherwise, she'll have Delta breathing down her neck."

  "Surely she’d want to avoid that," I replied. Although I wasn't convinced she'd call. Scarlett had seemed scared, and fear was a powerful motivator to keep your mouth shut, even when you were mouthy by nature.

  Veronica fidgeted in her seat and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "How could anyone stand to drive so slowly? They're doing 40 miles per hour."

  "I think it's an older couple," I said in an attempt to stave off any impending reckless driving on Veronica's part. Ever since she'd driven the Ferrari racetrack in Italy, she thought she was a Formula One driver. And trust me when I say she wasn't. For starters, she could barely see over the steering wheel, and she had to drive in high heels so she could reach the pedals.

  "Sunday drivers," she muttered as she craned her neck looking for oncoming traffic. "Don't they know it's Tuesday?"

  "You can't pass here," I said. "There's a double yellow line."

  Flagrantly ignoring both my comment and the law, she flipped on her turn signal and floored the gas pedal as she steered into the next lane.

  I braced myself against the seat and pressed my feet on the floorboard as though that would protect me in the event of a fiery crash. When we'd safely made it around the startled-looking elderly driver and his equally startled-looking passenger, I relaxed a little and glanced at the odometer—85 mph. "Okay, we've passed them. Do you think maybe you could slow down now?"