She smiled faintly. “Thank you kindly. My house isn’t fancy, by any means, but it’s clean enough and the AC’s nice and cold.” She paused, as if considering whether or not to voice her next thought. “You know, I count on those rent checks every month to help me pay my mortgage. ’Spose I’ll have to go down to Louisiana First Trust and beg for mercy. One of these days, those folks are gonna throw me out on my ear.”
“But don’t you get a salary at the historical society?” The executive director of one of the town’s only nonprofits should have made a hefty salary, in my opinion. But, then again, maybe it all depended on how much the city council was willing to pay.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘salary,’” she said. “More like a stipend. I kept threatening to get another job, but not too many people around here want to hire someone in her eighties.”
She quickly corrected herself. “Her early eighties.”
Interesting. How did Waunzy ever think she could buy Dogwood Manor if she couldn’t even scrape together the mortgage on a Craftsman cottage? Was it just wishful thinking on her part, or something more than that?
“My daddy always said life isn’t fair.” She slapped the dust from her hands, as well. “Too bad it’s more fair to some folks than to others.”
I sighed, the exhaustion hitting me full-force. I’d run across enough problems over the past two days to keep me busy into the foreseeable future. There was no need to add another one to the pile, especially since there wasn’t much I could do to help Waunzy.
“Like I told you, I’ll mention your room to my friends,” I said. “Maybe one of them is looking for a place to rent.” I gave her my most encouraging smile before turning to leave.
“Just a second, dear.”
Her hand shot out as she grabbed my forearm, her grasp surprisingly firm. “Have you heard anything about Herbert Solomon’s murder lately? You’d think they’d have a suspect by now.”
Surprised, I leaned away. “I…I know they’re working on it. He was poisoned. That much they know. And they finally figured out which poison the killer used.”
“They did?” Now it was her turn to look surprised. “What do you know…guess the old coot ticked off the wrong person this time.”
“Guess so.” I gently extracted my arm. “But I really have to get going. I haven’t been home in ages, and I’m dead on my feet.”
“Of course, dear. I understand.” Contrary to her words, Waunzy’s eyes still looked troubled. “Don’t let me stop you. You young people need your rest. And thank you for helping me with the sign.”
“No problem.” I backed away, careful to tuck my arms behind my back. “Good luck with finding a renter.”
I finally turned when I reached the edge of the asphalt, and then I ducked through the driver’s-side door of my car. Waunzy appeared in the rearview mirror as I pulled away from the property, wearing the same dazed expression I’d noticed when I’d first arrived.
The next few minutes passed in a blur as I thought about our conversation. Clearly, Waunzy was in dire straits, which didn’t jibe with her plan to buy Dogwood Manor. Maybe she was just delusional when it came to the property, or maybe she intended to solicit investors in her bid to buy the mansion. Either way, I was much too tired to worry about it now, especially since I spied my own cottage once I drove past the Sweetwater mansion.
The thought of seeing Ambrose again propelled me out of the car as soon as I’d pulled into the driveway and parked. That, and something more unusual, which I noticed as I made my way up the walk. The faint smell of cooked sausage simmering on a griddle reached me halfway through the trek.
The smell grew stronger as I stepped into the cottage, making my mouth water since I’d forgotten to eat or drink anything since that morning except those cups of coffee and some nondairy creamers.
I picked up the pace when I spied Ambrose in the kitchen. He’d donned his favorite camouflage apron, which featured the words Grill Sergeant across the front. I snuck up behind him and planted a big kiss on the back of his neck. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
He immediately turned and smiled. “Hooray…you’re home. I tried to call you, but no one answered at your studio.”
“We probably couldn’t hear you. We had people coming and going all afternoon, and, trust me, they didn’t tiptoe.”
Once I finally stopped talking, he leaned forward to give me a proper kiss. His lips tasted like spicy rice and Cajun sausage.
“Please tell me you made jambalaya,” I said. “If you do, I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Anything? Anything at all?” He smiled crookedly. “Now, there’s an interesting thought. But let me pour you a glass of wine first.” He nodded toward an open bottle on the counter. It was a Duckhorn Vineyards merlot, one of my favorites. “We can drink it while I mull over your offer.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
He reached for a wineglass and began to pour from the bottle. “Tell me when.”
I waited for the wine to reach the tippy-top of the rim. “Okay…now. Thank you.”
“You obviously had a rough day.”
“Yeah, but the studio looks amazing.” I carefully sipped the wine, which tasted like blackberries and just a hint of aged oak. “I think we’re ready for tomorrow.”
He pointed to the kitchen table. “That’s great. Go ahead and have a seat. The meal’s almost done.”
I gladly did as he asked and moved to the table, which he’d set with woven rattan placemats, porcelain soup bowls, and a burnished-silver ladle from the Bleu Bayou flea market. “You outdid yourself,” I said. “And I’ll bet you had a hard day, too.”
“For only part of it. One of my clients tore her hemline when she was getting her picture taken. I fixed it for her, but she forgot to bring in the right shoes, so we have to meet again in the morning so I can check the length.”
He poured the jambalaya into a white soup tureen with curlicued handles, which he brought to the table. He then ladled a generous serving of the dish into my bowl, while I waited.
“I hope you like it,” he said. “Odilia La Porte gave me the recipe yesterday. I called her to say thanks for packing us those lunches. I don’t know about you, but she gave me her jambalaya, and it was out of this world.”
I peered into my bowl, which held browned sausage, chopped parsley, and sliced carrots. Yesterday’s lunch was a faint memory, but I seemed to recall a plastic container filled with something very similar, which I ate before the fried chicken and biscuits. “I forgot about that. It was delicious. But how’d you find the time to shop for ingredients?”
The carrots and parsley looked fresh, but with the frenzy of the wedding season, our refrigerator hadn’t held a fresh vegetable for months.
He shrugged. “Odilia sent one of her waiters over here with some groceries. What? Don’t give me that look. She wanted to do it.”
“Okay, but I think she has a crush on you.” Far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so I took a sip of wine while I waited for the food to cool.
“That’s okay with me. Just as long as she likes one of us, we’re gonna eat like kings.”
“True. And it smells delicious. I kinda forgot to eat lunch today.”
He shot me a look. “I was worried you’d do that. I almost brought you some, but I got tied up with that client. Don’t tell me…you didn’t take a nap, either.”
“Guilty.” Maybe if I continued to sip from my wineglass, I could figure out a way to turn the conversation away from me and my forgetfulness. It was worth a shot, so I took another long, slow drink.
“You can’t keep going like this, Missy.” Apparently, Bo couldn’t be swayed so easily. “One of these days, you’re gonna crash. And then what’ll happen?”
“I know, I know.” I took another hearty swig, then held out my glass for a refill
. At this rate, I’d fall asleep at the dinner table, but the alcohol was beginning to blunt the sharp edges of my thoughts and paint the room a soft, rosy color.
Besides, I had enough guilt to keep me going for a while. It’d started when I had to explain to Erika Daniels why I couldn’t spare even a few minutes to patch an obvious water stain on the ceiling of my studio. The guilt only intensified when I spoke with Ivy, whom I should’ve visited months ago but never did. “Hey, I had a surprise visitor today.”
“Really? Who was it?” Bo refilled my glass and passed it back to me.
“Ivy Solomon. She was married to Herbert, remember? I made a veil for her stepdaughter a few years ago, and you made the wedding gown.” I set the wineglass next to the jambalaya, which finally looked cool enough to eat. After scooping up a mouthful of parsley, carrots, and andouille sausage, I savored the taste before swallowing. “This is wonderful. Anyway, she came by the shop to say hello.”
“Too bad you guys had to reconnect because of someone’s death. I remember she was really nice to work with on the other project.”
“Yeah, I really like her. She came to town to plan her husband’s funeral. But I’ve gotta tell you, she kind of worried me.”
“Worried you? Why?”
“Because of something she said.” While I didn’t want to gossip—okay, maybe a little—I wanted to share my newfound information with Ambrose. It’d be all over town tomorrow anyway, since that was the way “news” worked in Bleu Bayou…it flew at the speed of boredom.
I leaned forward. “She told me her husband was having an affair with his hairdresser. Apparently, he hired the girl to be his administrative assistant without asking Ivy.”
“You’re kidding.” Ambrose chuckled. “That old dog.”
He obviously didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “I’m serious, Bo. Ivy was fit to be tied. She basically said she’d hunt the girl down if she ever ran into her in a dark alley.”
“People say stuff like that all the time when they catch someone having an affair. She probably just wanted to vent.”
“Maybe.” I lifted the spoon and tried another bite of jambalaya. Little by little, the dull ache in my stomach had eased, until I almost felt normal again. Better than normal, actually.
“I don’t think you have to worry about his widow. She’ll have so much stuff to do between now and the funeral, she won’t have time to think about his mistress.”
“I hope you’re right.” Maybe some more wine would convince me, so I took another sip from my glass.
“But let’s not talk about her. This is the first romantic meal we’ve had in weeks. A quick lunch at Miss Odilia’s doesn’t count.” Ambrose lifted his wineglass to meet mine for a toast, which I sloppily reciprocated. “Here’s to us.”
“Whoa.” Some of the wine sloshed from my glass onto the table. “I think I messed up your place mat. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No problem. But I think you’re already kinda tipsy, sweetie. Hope you didn’t forget about your offer.”
“My offer?” I crinkled my nose, the details of our conversation growing fuzzier by the moment. “What offer was that?”
“You offered to do something nice for me, since I made you dinner. Don’t you remember?”
“I did?” To be honest, I couldn’t remember much of anything at that point. What with the heaviness of my head, which felt like a ten-pound sandbag, and the warmth of his body next to mine, it was all I could do to stay upright. Finally, I gave in to temptation and laid my cheek on his shoulder. “Sure, I remember now,” I lied.
“Uh-oh. Are you falling asleep on me?” Ambrose brushed my cheek with his thumb. “I had really big plans for us. And they involved that little pink number with the lace thong.”
“You love that one, don’t you?” I smiled sleepily and nuzzled his shoulder with my nose. “Let me rest here for a minute. Just one minute. And then we can play.”
While I wanted to keep my eyes open, my body apparently had other plans. I nuzzled his shoulder again, grateful for the silence and the feel of his shirt beneath my cheek.
“Heelllooo?” he whispered. “I’m definitely losing you.”
His voice sounded far away now, as if he’d moved to the other side of the room. Which was impossible, because his cotton dress shirt still tickled my skin.
“One minute,” I mumbled. “That’s all.” Much as I hated to drift away, my thoughts pulled me further and further from the kitchen. After a moment, even the sound of Bo’s breathing grew faint.
I gradually surrendered to the darkness. After all, what could possibly happen while I closed my eyes for just a moment or two?
CHAPTER 14
My eyes gradually opened again, nudged awake by pale sunlight that broached a nearby window. The room had brightened to a rosy glow by the time I lifted my head to take in my surroundings.
Apparently, I’d spent the night on our farmhouse bench in the kitchen. Above me was a wooden ledge, which looked suspiciously like the underside of the kitchen table. Around my shoulders lay something soft and warm, the fabric imbued with the smell of sautéed onions, cayenne pepper, and cooked meat. Since the smell was a bit much for the early hour, I pushed the material aside—it turned out to be Ambrose’s favorite apron—and slowly straightened.
While I expected to see pots, pans, and dirty dishes crammed into our sink across the way, only a pair of yellow Rubbermaid gloves hung over the faucet like wilted dandelions.
Bless his heart. Not only did Ambrose cook me the best meal I’d had in ages—although I probably drank twice as much as I ate—he’d even cleaned up the mess afterward.
And how did I repay him? Not by enjoying a romantic evening with him, which we both desperately needed, but by literally falling asleep at the table. I winced, and it had nothing to do with the kink in my neck. Bo deserved better than that, and I made a mental note to break out his favorite negligee the very next chance I got.
Stiffly, I rose from the bench. Tangerine sun poured through the window over the sink, which meant the morning was still young. As I shuffled through the door to the hall, I glanced at the clock over our key holder. Six o’clock. Perfect. I had time to shower, change clothes, and eat a light breakfast before I headed out to the Factory.
Sweet mother of pearl! The Factory. Today was Wednesday. And not just any Wednesday, but the day a magazine crew would descend on Crowning Glory. Somehow, between the wine and Ambrose’s thoughtfulness, not to mention his throaty whispers afterward, I’d managed to forget all about the photo shoot.
The details came rushing back. I was supposed to meet a crew at the shop in exactly three hours. A crew with professional-grade camera lenses, microcassette recorders, and enough New York City angst to work us all into a frenzy.
I yelped and headed for the bathroom, suddenly pressed for time. I remembered to call out to Ambrose at the last minute. “Morning, sunshine!”
Nothing answered but a songbird in the backyard, which meant that my boyfriend was already gone for the day. He’d probably tiptoed through the house as he gathered his things for work, which was one more reason for me to break out that negligee when we both got home tonight.
I ducked into the bathroom, quickly showered, and then changed into my favorite white Boss suit, which I paired with a turquoise camisole. To add more color, I roped a citrine necklace around my throat and added some matching orange slides. The white suit would complement my hats and veils without competing for attention, while the orange accessories would provide a pop of color against the pale background.
Once dressed, I grabbed a breakfast bar and a water bottle from our pantry, then I zoomed out of the house, started up the car, and pulled out onto the road. By now, the sky was a crisp aquamarine, but only a few eager beavers joined me for the trek to work. Rush hour didn’t officially start until seven, although the term hardly applied to Bl
eu Bayou’s sprinkling of minivans, oil tankers, and Fed Ex trucks.
Ten minutes later, I arrived at the Factory. Three vehicles already sat in the parking lot: Ambrose’s black Audi, a white minivan that belonged to the building’s resident florist, and a delivery truck with its back door wide open.
I entered the lot and whizzed into a space several aisles behind the truck. No need to take a front-row spot, which I liked to save for paying customers and the vendors who kept me supplied with netting, seed pearls, and whatnot.
I quickly checked my makeup in the rearview mirror once I’d parked, then I added another coat of lipstick for good measure. Even though the photographer wasn’t due to arrive for several more hours, I was ready and primed for the day ahead.
The air was steamy when I stepped out of the car, so I didn’t dillydally as I made my way to the studio. The welcome mat was freshly swept, since I’d seen to that little chore when I closed up the studio the night before.
With a grin, I turned the handle on the French door and stepped into the studio. My joy lasted exactly one second, until the orange slides pressed against the floorboards with a sickening squish.
Uh-oh. Floorboards are not supposed to squish.
Horrified, I glanced down, where undulating planks surrounded my feet. The ground was a crazy Hot Wheels track that careened up and down, from one side of the studio to the other.
Somehow, sometime during the night, water must’ve accumulated beneath the planks and loosened the glue that held them to the concrete foundation.
I almost buckled, too, once I figured that out. At the last second, I reached for the door handle and gripped it for dear life, until the feeling passed. Then I tossed my purse and keys onto a display table at the front of the store, plucked off the slides, and began to tiptoe gingerly across the floorboards. Each step brought another squish. Not only that, but water had soaked the hems of my brand-new couches and stained the edges two shades darker. Repelled by the sight, I tried to stare at the ceiling as I hopscotched across the room and slid into the workroom.
Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 11