Death Comes to Dogwood Manor

by Sandra Bretting

  “You’d think they’d put up a sign for it.” She sniffed, and the glasses bobbled again. “Guess this town’s too dinky to afford one. How do they expect folks not from around here to know where to go?”

  “Maybe they figured everyone uses a GPS nowadays.”

  “Whatever. Thank you anyway.” The window slowly ascended, and the shadowy figure disappeared.

  Bless her heart. There was no need to insult Bleu Bayou like that. I purposely hung back when the stoplight changed so she and I wouldn’t be neck and neck as we both drove down the road.

  That was when I noticed the sloped trunk of the car as it flowed through the intersection ahead of me, like liquid silver from a crucible. The car turned out to be a Rolls-Royce, of all things—something as rare around here as the Hope Diamond. It can’t be, can it?

  I changed lanes and drew closer for a better look. The side of the car caught me unawares, and the breath stalled in my lungs.

  The driver’s-side mirror was gone. Shorn clean off its base, with nothing left but a stub.

  What are the odds of two different Rolls-Royces coming to Bleu Bayou…both missing their side mirrors? Slim to none, was what my granddaddy would say.

  CHAPTER 9

  The drive to work passed in a blur after that. I barely noticed when the saw-toothed outline of the Factory appeared up ahead, since the strange coincidence with the Rolls-Royce haunted my thoughts.

  Could the car really belong to Herbert Solomon? If so, who was driving it? I’d never seen the stranger before, and it was obvious she didn’t care for Bleu Bayou.

  I’d met Ivy Solomon, Herbert’s second wife, a year ago, when I worked on Trinity Solomon’s bridal veil. She didn’t look anything like the middle-aged driver of the car, and she didn’t sound like her, either. No, this woman looked younger and flashier, and she wasn’t nearly as tactful.

  By the time I entered the parking lot at the Factory, my faculties hadn’t quite returned, so I mindlessly cruised up one lane and then down the other. As always, cars and vans stood cheek by jowl in the crammed lot.

  Just when I was about to throw in the towel and head for the employee parking lot, which, unfortunately, churned chunks of pea gravel and old tar into the undercarriages of unsuspecting cars, a spot miraculously opened up in the last row. I thanked the parking gods for my good fortune and swung Ringo into the space before anyone else could snag it.

  Then I hotfooted it across the parking lot until I reached the front row, where the handicapped spots lay. Most of them remained empty, even at peak midafternoon hours, but a brilliant red car hogged the first spot on the right. The Porsche Carrera wore a license plate that read NewsChk, which sent my heart into a freefall.

  Holy schmolly! Stormie Lanai, the newscaster from KATZ, and my most recent bridezilla, must be nearby. We’d already met once today. What more can she possibly want?

  I eyed the shiny Porsche warily as I crossed in front of it. Leave it to Stormie to hang a handicapped parking permit in her windshield like a bright blue banner that advertised her total disregard for the law.

  I spied the woman through the picture window of my studio before I stepped inside. She perched on a bar stool by the counter, which effectively trapped poor Beatrice behind the cash register.

  “I’m back!” I barreled through the French doors, hoping to make a grand entrance that would allow Beatrice to escape.

  “There you are.” The newscaster spoke without turning, her heels propped on the stool’s footrest. “It’s about time.”

  “I’m sorry. Did we have an appointment?” I tilted my head, though I knew full well we hadn’t scheduled anything.

  “Not exactly.” Finally, Stormie spun around. Like before, the pancake makeup washed out her skin and made her butterfly eyelashes seem even blacker. “But I have some news.”

  “News?” I whooshed up the aisle and tossed my purse on the counter. The closer I drew, the more apparent the lines around her mouth and chin became. She looked like a ventriloquist’s puppet up close. “I know we talked about making your veil longer, but I’m afraid you’ll have to give me more time if you want that done.”

  The lashes fluttered once or twice. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  I glanced at Beatrice, who shrugged. Apparently, my assistant didn’t know the reason for Stormie’s visit, either.

  “I’m sorry…did I miss something?” I asked.

  Stormie sighed dramatically. “Most folks already know, so I’d thought I’d bring you up to speed. I’m not getting married at Dogwood Manor on Saturday.”

  “Because of what happened there? I know all about it. You see—”

  She held up her hand. “Let me finish. The wedding’s still on. Just not there. But we decided we don’t want to let anything ruin our beautiful moment.”

  Beautiful moment? I shot Beatrice another look. Surely a rough-and-tough oilman like Rex Tibideaux wouldn’t describe his wedding that way. Stormie must’ve run all over town to find another wedding venue before her wealthy fiancé could change his mind. “Where are you getting married, then?”

  She yanked a brochure from the mouth of her Louis Vuitton satchel. “The Tropicana. That’s Las Vegas, you know. They have a lovely outdoor area called the Arbor. Doesn’t that sound delicious?” She pointed to a picture of green grass, rattan folding chairs, and towering palm trees. “I got the deluxe package, of course.”

  “Of course.” To be honest, the scene looked rather pretty, with one noticeable exception: A neon sign for the MGM Grand Hotel peeked between the swaying palms. “Would you like to keep your veil the way it is, then?”

  “That’s why I came.” She refolded the brochure and returned it to her satchel. “I don’t think I’ll need a veil after all. I bought a cream Chanel suit off the Internet this afternoon, and the veil’s much too formal for that. But, I’m sure you can sell my veil to another bride.”

  My mouth fell open. “Another bride? But—”

  “I don’t mind at all. I’ll tell you what.” She leaned forward. “You can resell it and I won’t even ask who the buyer is. Of course, you’ll need to refund my deposit first.”

  She looked so sincere, as if she was doing me a huge favor, for which I should be eternally grateful.

  “Deposit?” I struggled to keep my voice even. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. You ordered a custom veil. A veil I made just for you.”

  “And now someone else can enjoy it.” She glanced at Beatrice, obviously not satisfied with my answer. “Please tell your boss I’m right.”

  Beatrice froze, caught between Stormie’s breezy nonchalance and my growing frustration.

  “I’m afraid you’re not listening,” I said. This was between the newscaster and me. No need to drag Beatrice into the fray. “Every veil I make is specifically designed to match a bride’s gown. Your gown was very detailed, which meant there was a lot of beading on the veil.”

  I refrained from using the word “expensive” to describe her dress, although the word came to mind. Stormie’s Ambrose Jackson original was one of the priciest gowns I’d ever seen, with hundreds of seed pearls and yards of crystal edging. All of which made the design for her veil twice as time-consuming.

  “Are you saying I can’t have my deposit back?” she asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve already put a lot of time into your order.”

  Beatrice softly coughed, no doubt to divert our attention elsewhere. “Why don’t we all take a nice, deep breath?” she said. “As a matter of fact…I’ll run to the back and grab us some water bottles. Is it just me, or did it get really hot in here?”

  She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she scooted out from behind the cash register as quick as a flash, then dashed across the studio. Neither Stormie nor I moved to stop her.

  “Let me think about this.” Slowly, I sank onto a b
ar stool as I mulled the predicament. Near as I could recall, Stormie’s veil featured three layers of tulle and a crown of Swarovski crystals to separate the first layer, called the blusher, from the rest. The veil featured a straight-edge design, and not a waterfall. “I might have a solution.”

  Stormie frowned, as if she suspected a trick. “What kind of solution?”

  “What if I reworked your veil into something else?”

  “Something else? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I could completely transform it into a fascinator. Do you know what that is?”

  Stormie cautiously nodded, although I could tell she hadn’t a clue.

  “It’s like the hats people wore to Princess Kate’s wedding,” I said. “Do you remember that?”

  “The little hats! Of course…so that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Exactly.” I knew she’d like the reference to the British royal family. “I could rework your veil into one of those ‘little hats.’ It’d add a whole new layer to the outfit.”

  She paused to consider it. “Are you sure? The pictures on the Chanel website didn’t say anything about adding a hat to the outfit. I don’t want to screw this up. You may not know this…but I’m not very good at this whole fashion thingy.”

  For the first time, Stormie looked insecure, and she trained her gaze on the ground instead of on my face. While she normally came across as a know-it-all, with an easy answer for everything, now she seemed vulnerable and a little imperfect.

  Just like the rest of us.

  “They probably didn’t include a fascinator because they don’t sell them,” I said. “C’mere. Let me show you what I mean.”

  I walked over to the front display with the riding crop. In addition to a snazzy silk top hat, the table held a lovely fascinator with a spotted crinoline veil. “What’s your suit made of?” I delicately lifted the hat from its stand and brought it over to the three-way mirror.

  She frowned. “I don’t know how to say it. It’s called silk jack…jaq…”

  “You pronounce it ‘jacquard.’” No need to make her struggle with the word. “And the suit sounds lovely.” I waited for her to approach the mirror, and then I softly balanced the fascinator on the side of her head. With a touch of pressure, the comb slid easily through her hair. “We always try to use a different fabric for a hat, so it doesn’t look too matchy-matchy with the outfit.”

  “You could make something like this out of my old veil?”

  “Absolutely.” I gave a confident nod, as she turned this way and that in front of the mirror. “I’d keep the crown with the crystals on it, and then I’d rework the lace into a short blusher.”

  Slowly but surely a tiny smile emerged. “I could text you a picture of the suit. It’s the first time I’ve ever bought anything from Chanel. I about died at the price, but it’s so fancy!”

  “Great.” I leaned over to remove the fascinator from her head. She didn’t even complain when the comb snatched a few strands of hair.

  “So, how do you know so much about fashion?” she asked.

  I squelched a smile of my own. “It’s my job, Stormie. I do this every day. Now, we’ll have to work fast. You said you’re leaving Saturday?”

  “Actually…I’m flying out Friday night. I booked the bridal suite for three nights, and I don’t want to miss a moment.”

  Friday night. My brain went into overdrive. Already it felt like I’d crammed a whole week into one day. It began with Herbert Solomon’s death at Dogwood Manor, and it had only gotten worse with the call from the New York magazine editor. The day didn’t have enough hours to accomplish everything on tap, and adding one more project just might push me over the edge.

  She must’ve read my thoughts, because Stormie quickly spoke again. “I’ll pay you double if you can pull this off.”

  “Double? But that would be six thousand dollars!” My hand wavered as I removed the hat. “You don’t really mean that.”

  “Oh yes, I do. My fiancé doesn’t care how much I spend, remember? He just wants me to be happy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” The price didn’t even phase her. “Have it ready by Friday night, and I’ll pay you another five thousand dollars cash money.”

  Even her newfound wealth couldn’t hide her country roots, and I grinned at her use of the old-fashioned term “cash money.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” I searched for a place to lay the hat, and my gaze immediately fell on the broken coffee table.

  Think of what all that money could buy! I could give the money to Erika Daniels to outfit my studio with brand-new furniture. Earlier, I’d almost had a conniption fit when she talked about buying some new things, but now she could do it without breaking my bank account.

  “I’ll do it.” My smile lasted a split second, until reality struck. Already my schedule was packed, and the death at Dogwood Manor didn’t help matters. But…if I could forego food and sleep for a few days, I might be able to pull this off.

  And if I couldn’t? I’d be stuck with an oversized decorating bill and one furious bride.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dawn arrived waaayyy too soon the next morning. I lifted my head from the kitchen counter to see that the sky outside had gone from black to pewter to mauve in a matter of minutes.

  Scattered around me were supplies for Stormie Lanai’s new fascinator, which included white jewelry wire, metal U pins, and some Carrickmacross lace. My eyes watered from having squinted at the lace all night as I applied the miniscule crystals one by one.

  “Whoa. Rough night?” Ambrose strode into the kitchen, already dressed in khakis and a pin-striped shirt. The scent of Acqua Di Gio followed him, which was my favorite cologne.

  “You can say that again.” I took a deep breath. “Guess what happened yesterday? You’ll never believe who came to my rescue.”

  He kissed the top of my head on his way to the Keurig machine. “I give up. Who rescued you?”

  “Stormie Lanai, that’s who.”

  “Get out. Not our favorite newscaster?”

  “The one and only.” I gave an enormous yawn. “She came by the shop yesterday afternoon to cancel her order. She wanted her money back.”

  “Now, that sounds like her.” He placed a Saints mug into the mouth of the Keurig. “When did the rescue happen?”

  “After she decided not to cancel. She gave me the okay to remake her veil into a fascinator. And she’s paying me six thousand dollars to do it.” I yawned again, sleepy, but satisfied. Even I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

  “How in the world did you get her to agree to that?”

  “It was her idea to pay me that much. Of course, it might’ve helped that I mentioned Princess Kate’s wedding. She loves the royals, you know.”

  “You’re brilliant.” He returned his attention to his coffee, and that was when his face became serious. “I can tell you were up all night. This coffee machine’s bone-dry. I wish you wouldn’t do that, Missy. You’re gonna ruin your health.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry about using up all the water. I might’ve had a cup or two.” Or five, but who’s counting?

  “I’m serious…I’m worried about you.” He took the water reservoir to the sink and placed it under the faucet to fill it. “Promise me you’ll come home this afternoon and take a nap.”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t lie to Ambrose, but I could be evasive.

  “By the way…why did Stormie want to cancel her veil? She’s already paid me for the wedding dress. Did the rich guy get smart and call off the ceremony?”

  “No, nothing like that. They’re still getting married, only now they’re eloping to Vegas. She had to find a new place since the work stopped at Dogwood Manor.”

  “I forgot about that. I guess no one can use it for a while.”
He carried the refilled reservoir back to the machine. “Have you heard anything from Detective LaPorte?”

  “Not yet. I went to the station yesterday afternoon, after our lunch. I had to give him my statement on videotape. It took forever to get out of there, because we started talking about the coroner’s report and whatnot. He might get the medical examiner’s summary today. That’s about all I know.”

  “You’ve got too much going on.” He shook his head as he punched the on button. “Anything I can do to help you out? Maybe I can work on some of your invoices or call back clients. You name it.”

  “That’s sweet, but I’m afraid I have to do it all myself.” I threw him a grateful—and sleepy—smile. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything, though. And I almost forgot…one more thing happened yesterday. I hired an interior designer for the studio.”

  He whisked away his coffee mug when the machine finished brewing. “We have got to talk more often. I had no idea you wanted to redesign your studio.”

  “I have a magazine photographer coming tomorrow. Remember? And, to tell you the truth, the furniture’s kinda outdated.”

  “Then you should’ve told me about it,” he said. “I would’ve helped you.”

  “Thanks, but Erika Daniels is a professional interior designer.” Although Bo had excellent taste, he and I didn’t always see eye to eye when it came to design. I’d rather argue with a stranger, instead of him, about whether to have scrolled legs or straight ones on my tables and chairs.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. “She’s coming to the shop this morning, too. I’d better hustle if I want a few minutes at the studio before the craziness starts.”

  He blew me a kiss, which I pretended to catch as I turned away from the kitchen.

  After heading for the bathroom and a quick shower, I changed out of my Vanderbilt pajama top and slipped on a Lilly Pulitzer shift. The bright pink-and-melon pattern perked me up and made me feel almost human again. Just to be safe, I returned to the bathroom, where I applied a little Maybelline undereye concealer, ringed my eyes with a pretty charcoal liner, and brushed some blush on my cheeks. I also coiled my hair up into a simple French twist, since the day called for a low-fuss, no-muss hairdo.