Colorful zinnias bloomed in purple flower boxes nailed to the wall. In addition to being one of the best cooks in southern Louisiana, Odilia LaPorte had two green thumbs. She’d tried to share her knowledge of flowers and plants with me when I was a child, although I’d much rather have careened through the neighborhood on a bright pink Huffy than learn about flora and fauna.
When I made my way inside, I spotted her next to a hostess stand made from an old church pulpit. “Hey there.”
She immediately glanced up. “Look what the wind blew in! Come on over here so I can give you a big hug.”
When I moved to greet her at the stand, the scent of cooking oil, cinnamon sugar, and fresh batter immediately reached me. “It’s sooo good to see you, Mrs. LaPorte.”
She pretended to scowl as she pulled away. “You’re making me feel old again. I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Odilia.”
“Yes, you have. I do it to Hank Dupre all the time, too, so you’re not the only one. I can’t help myself…it’s how I was raised.”
“I get that.” She finally noticed Ambrose, who’d joined us at the pulpit. “Hello, Ambrose. Haven’t seen you in ages, either.”
“I’m afraid we’re right in the middle of the wedding season,” he said. “We barely have time to breathe, let alone go out to lunch. I practically had to drag Missy here today.”
“Pshaw.” Odilia waved away his excuse. “She’s always been hard to pin down. Even when she was a little thing, we had to trick her into getting off that darn bike so she’d come in for a bite to eat.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Have a seat at that table near the front, where we can be close.”
I winced. “I wish we could stay. I really do. But I’m afraid we only have a few minutes.”
“You don’t want to get something to go, do you? That’s silly. You need to sit down and enjoy your food. No use upsetting your stomach. Come with me.”
While I wanted to follow her more than anything, I felt like a rubber band at this point, being pulled in all directions. Not only that, but the magazine editor’s words kept running through my mind: Your design background, the hats, the whole shebang.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay.” I stood my ground, which wasn’t easy with Odilia. “Not today.”
She paused, and something flickered across her face. “That’s right… I forgot about this morning. You’re the one who found the dead body. Such a terrible thing. And here I am, bossing you around. Just tell me what you want to eat, and I’ll go get it.”
“Some of your fried chicken would be great.” I quickly checked my watch. “I need to drive to the police station after I eat so Lance can videotape my statement.”
“No problem. Hopefully he didn’t make you stay in that big ol’ house too long once you found the body.” She shuddered. “Even the thought of it makes my blood run cold.”
“No, he didn’t. And you should’ve seen how Lance handled the crowd. You would’ve been proud of him.”
“I’m always proud of my son. But whatever happened to Mr. Solomon? Did Lance tell you anything about how he died? Now, you know, I can’t say the news surprised me.”
“Me, either.” Finally, Ambrose got a word in edgewise. “Seemed like it was only a matter of time before that guy had a heart attack.”
I lowered my voice, although no one else could hear us. “You’re not the only one who thinks he had a heart attack, Bo, but I’m not convinced. I’ll talk more with Lance, once he gets the ME’s report, but I think someone deliberately killed him.”
“Well, between you, me and the fence post”—Odilia glanced around before she continued—“he gave people enough ammunition to hate him, that’s for sure. He even tricked people around here so he could buy that mansion before anyone else had a chance.”
“What do you mean…he ‘tricked people’?” I asked. “He bought Morningside Plantation down the road only a few years ago, and no one complained then. Why would this one be any different?”
“Because it was different,” she said. “This time he went too far. Didn’t you hear? Someone else was supposed to buy that place, but he went around the Realtor and offered cash money on the spot, plus a share in his other properties. That’s something no one else could offer. He always did play dirty pool.”
“‘Dirty pool’?” I scrunched my nose. “I didn’t know anyone else even wanted Dogwood Manor. The newspaper made it sound like the place was a disaster before he bought it.”
“‘Disaster’?” She scoffed. “Ha. That’s a good one. That mansion was a steal, and Herbert Solomon knew it.”
“Sounds like you have the inside scoop.” Somehow Ambrose managed to squeeze in a few more words. “What else did you hear, Odilia?”
She leaned in close, clearly warming to the subject. “I’ll tell you, but only because you asked. I’m not one to gossip, you know.”
“Of course not.” I pretended to agree with her, although we both knew the truth. “You’d never gossip, Odilia. We know that. You’re just making friendly conversation.”
“That’s right.” Her eyes narrowed. “You see, both Waunzy Boudin and Hank Dupre had dibs on that property. But neither of them got the chance to buy it once Herbert Solomon came calling.”
The names tumbled through my mind. Hank Dupre made perfect sense. As a Realtor, he had several clients who might want to buy an unrenovated property and then make it their own. He’d even purchased an old mansion for himself—the Sweetwater place—which I’d had the chance to visit on New Year’s Day.
“You don’t say,” I answered vaguely.
Waunzy Boudin was a much different story. The octogenarian headed up the Bleu Bayou Historical Society. She was its administrator and the Society’s only paid employee, which ruffled the feathers of several folks in town. It happened right after her husband died, which left her with a mountain of bills and no way to pay them. So the mayor put her on salary and let her run the Historical Society. He even let her add a back bedroom to her house for renters, which was against our deed restrictions.
“I do say,” Odilia responded.
“Did Waunzy want to buy it for the Historical Society?”
“Not the Society.” Odilia shook her head. “For herself. She told people she wanted to retire there.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.” While Waunzy tried to keep up appearances, there was no denying her dire straits. Especially when an extra satellite dish popped up on the back of her home, courtesy of the new tenant. How could she afford a full-blown mansion when she couldn’t even manage the mortgage on a Craftsman cottage?
Ambrose finally broke rank and leaned away. “We could stay here all day to talk about this. But I promised to get Missy back to her studio.”
“Of course.” Odilia suddenly became mindful of her surroundings. She leaned over the hostess stand and pulled out a few paper sacks. “And here I am, jabbering away. You should’ve said something earlier. I’ll get you that to-go order.” She motioned to an empty table as she walked toward the kitchen. “You two can sit there while you wait.”
“Thank you.” I took the nearest chair and settled into it wearily. “I’m bushed. This day isn’t half over, and already I feel like something that’s been rode hard and put away wet.”
Ambrose sat next to me. “You know, I never did hear about what happened to you this morning. People said you found the body, but that was it.”
“There’s not much else to tell. It happened right after I went back to measure the chapel at Dogwood Manor. By the way, you’re not going to believe what Stormie Lanai wants.”
He shot me a sideways glance, which made me reconsider. “Okay, maybe you will believe it. She wants me to make her veil twice as long.”
“You’re kidding. That will never fit in a small wedding chapel.”
“I know…but try telling that to Stormie. She acted like it w
as my fault that she can’t have an exact replica of Princess Diana’s wedding veil.”
Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Princess Diana? That Stormie’s a piece of work. I hope you told her no.”
“Not exactly.” Come to think of it, everything that happened afterward could’ve been avoided if I’d only refused her request. Then I never would’ve driven to the mansion pell-mell and found Herbert Solomon doubled over on the floor. “I panicked and said I’d try to make it longer. So I went back to the mansion to measure the aisle, and that’s when I found Mr. Solomon in one of the bedrooms.”
“Was he already dead?”
“I think so. He wasn’t moving. I called Lance, and that’s where my story ends.”
Someone rushed past our table just then, and his side brushed my shoulder. The stranger stopped and turned when he realized his faux pas. “Sorry ’bout that.”
It was Shep Truitt, the construction foreman at Dogwood Manor. My gaze immediately flew to his injured hand, which wore an Ace bandage that stretched from fingertip to wrist. “Hello, Mr. Truitt.”
He wiggled the injured fingers in greeting. While I’d expected to see a full-blown cast, the bandage barely gripped his wrist and the silver clasp hung by a thread.
“Hello,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
“Ambrose, this is Shep Truitt.” I indicated the foreman. “He’s overseeing the job at Dogwood Manor. We met this morning.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ambrose extended his hand.
“Sorry. Can’t.” Shep nodded at the bandage. “Got a bum hand. But it’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Looks like they fixed you up at the ER,” I said. “I was afraid you’d broken your fingers. That corbel looked awfully heavy.”
“It was, but the doctor said I just bruised it really bad. Should be able to go back to work in a day or two.”
“Work?” I quickly glanced at Ambrose. Surely this man knows. “People are still working at Dogwood Manor? I thought the police roped it off with crime-scene tape.”
“Tape? Now, why would they do that?” He paused to consider something. “Although…I thought some of the guys would try to reach me when I was in the ER, since they always have a million questions. But not this time.” He shrugged. “Maybe I trained ’em better than I thought.”
“Mr. Truitt…didn’t anyone tell you what happened this morning?” By now the truth was painfully obvious. “Mr. Solomon died at the mansion.” I spoke slowly to soften the blow. “I found him this morning after you left. He was in one of the bedrooms by the library.”
Slowly but surely, the man’s face fell as the truth set in. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “Why…why didn’t anyone call me?”
I glanced helplessly at Ambrose. Why, indeed? His son should’ve called him, at the very least, if no one else had the heart to do it. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe your crew was so busy calling the ambulance, they didn’t have time to reach you at the ER.”
“Sure, that’s it,” Ambrose said, doing his best to be helpful. “They probably panicked after Missy here found the body. I’m sure one of them would’ve called you this afternoon.”
“You think?” Wonder tinged his voice. “Can’t believe the old man’s gone.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Truitt. There was nothing anyone could do. Your son helped me out afterward, which I really appreciated. I know it’s a huge shock.”
He shuddered, and his whole body shook. “I should get back there. The guys need to know someone’s in charge. Yeah, that’s it. I need to let them know they’re gonna be okay. Thank you for…for letting me know. Mighty kind of you.”
“Kind?” I shot Ambrose another look. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Truitt?”
“Sure. Sure I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
With that, he turned and stumbled away from our table. The clomp of his work boots on the carpet softened as he rounded a corner and moved into the foyer.
Before I could say a word, Odilia appeared at our table with two lunch sacks. “Here you go. My chef made some extra chicken, and I threw in a little surprise, even though y’all didn’t ask for it. What’s wrong? You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Huh?” I said. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. We were just chatting with someone.” I glanced at the two sacks. “How much do we owe you?”
“Now, you know your money’s no good here. I’ve told you that a thousand times, too.”
“It’s very nice of you.” Ambrose took the sacks from her and rose. “Missy and I better get back to our studios. I’d love to repay you sometime for the food. Stop by my studio and I’ll alter anything you want.”
“Might just take you up on that,” she said. “So good to see y’all again.”
“You, too,” I murmured. For some reason, everything seemed a little off-kilter as I followed Ambrose’s lead and rose from the chair. As if something had shifted during our conversation with Shep Truitt, but no one had bothered to fix it again. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, and that was what troubled me most of all.
CHAPTER 7
By the time Ambrose and I returned to the Factory, the parking lot had thinned. The lunch hour was in full swing, and only a few die-hard shopkeepers remained at work.
Ambrose chose a parking spot in the second row, where he pulled into a space before leaning across the console and handing me a paper sack. “Do you want to eat this together before we jump back into work?”
“I’d love to,” I said. “But I’ll probably eat at my drafting table while I go over some bills. Rain check?”
“Of course.” He leaned over to kiss me, then he hopped out of the car to open the passenger door. “Call me if you need any help this afternoon at the police station.”
“Will do.” I carefully rose from the seat. When he leaned over to kiss me again, my knees once more weakened, but I resisted temptation and took a step back. “I think I’ll grab some sweet tea from the lobby to go with this chicken. Do you want some?”
“Nah. I’m good. See you later. And don’t work too hard.”
I waved good-bye and then hopscotched across the steamy pavement, while he closed the car door and headed in the opposite direction. One glance back and I’d be a goner, so I stared straight ahead as I plowed toward the building’s lobby.
My studio sat just off the parking lot, like Ambrose’s, but the lobby held a secret weapon, a side table anchored by an enormous jug of sweet tea. It’d been called the “house wine of the South,” and I couldn’t agree more, since we all gathered around the cylinder of brown liquid like moths to a flame. It was the one place we studio owners could exchange gossip, trade war stories, and engage in whatnot.
Although I didn’t have time for chitchat today, at least a cupful of sweet tea seemed to be in order.
I entered the lobby and found someone else had the same idea. It was Erika Daniels, the interior designer over at Dogwood Manor. She stood by a fiscus plant placed next to the side table and, for some reason, she seemed even shorter now, since her head barely cleared the top of the spindly plant. That was when I noticed a pair of high heels in her right hand. She’d threaded her fingers through the skinny straps.
She couldn’t quite work the tea ewer with one hand while she juggled a cell phone and strappy shoes in the other, so the Styrofoam cup she’d placed under the faucet was bone dry. Bless her heart.
“Need any help with that?” Even though I carried a lunch sack, I could maneuver it around to help her with the ewer.
“Do you mind?” She shot me a grateful smile. “I almost broke my ankle with these stupid shoes, and now I have to lug them around.”
“Not at all.” I walked over to the table and helped her work the spigot. When tea filled the cup, I leaned away again. “I wondered about you this morning. I thought it was awfully brave of you to wear Jimmy Choos to a construction site
.”
She winced. “Not brave, desperate. All my business books say tall people get more respect at a job site. Plus, these ridiculous shoes cost me four hundred dollars.”
“Ouch.” I pulled another cup from the stack and waited for her to remove her tea before I put mine in its place. “Sometimes it’s more painful to let them wither away in a closet.”
“Amen to that. Though, I’m sure I looked like a total dork this morning. I could barely walk straight. You’re Melissa, right?”
“Yep. Call me Missy.” I returned her smile, since shaking hands was out of the question. “Nice to see you again.” In no time at all, sweet tea filled my cup, too, so I pulled it away from the dispenser.
“Likewise,” she said. “I didn’t know you worked here. What kind of studio do you own?”
“I’m a milliner. I make hats and veils for bridal parties. It’s called Crowning Glory. Ever heard of it?”
“You bet. I looove your displays.”
“Thanks.” A twinge of guilt fluttered through my chest then, since I’d left Beatrice to rearrange the displays all by herself while I galivanted here, there, and everywhere else. “Speaking of which…I should probably get back to work. We have a lot going on right now.”
“I understand.” She eyed her cup wistfully. “Too bad we can’t spike this tea with something stronger. What a horrible morning we’ve had.”
“You can say that again.” It sounded like she knew all about Herbert Solomon’s death, unlike Shep Truitt, who had to be told the news.
“I heard you were the one who found the body this morning. That must’ve been awful.”
“It was.” I paused to sip from my cup. Nice and sugary, and, hopefully, full of caffeine. I quickly swallowed once I had a chance to savor the sweetness. “’Course, I didn’t really know it was him at the time. I only found out afterward.”
“Did the EMS crew get there right away?”
“Pretty much. They called the coroner, too. I got out of there as quickly as I could.”
Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 5