Death Comes to Dogwood Manor

by Sandra Bretting

  “You, too,” he said. “See you around.”

  I left him by the pile of weathered shutters in the storage unit, my thoughts a million miles away. I barely noticed when Ambrose opened the car door for me. Instead, I absentmindedly slid onto the passenger seat and locked the seat belt in place.

  “That was interesting,” Ambrose said, once he hopped into the car, too.

  “Mmmm.”

  “You okay?” His hand stalled over the ignition. “You seem preoccupied.”

  I snapped out of it just as he fired up the car. “That was so strange. Cole acted like he knew Lance and I were good friends all along, and for some reason, it bothered him. But why? Why would he care what I think about that…unless he has something to hide?”

  “Good point.” Ambrose pulled the car away from the storage facility and drove onto the road. “Maybe he doesn’t want you to think he had anything to do with Solomon’s death.”

  He made a hard right when we reached the restaurant, where we joined a line of cars waiting to enter the parking lot. Once inside, we found a spot in the very back row, sandwiched between a telephone pole and a Cadillac Escalade. He parked the car, and then we both stepped onto the hot asphalt.

  The crunch of tires grinding into asphalt sounded all around me, along with the screech of metal doors opening and closing. I hurried onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, the back of my jacket already moist from the humidity.

  Despite the heat, Miss Odilia somehow had managed to keep a half-dozen flowers alive in purple boxes that lined the restaurant’s wall. In addition to red and pink zinnias, she’d carefully cultivated some foxglove plants, and the lavender stalks towered over their squatter neighbors.

  Before Ambrose could usher me through the front door, the panel whipped open to reveal a man in a black-and-fuchsia Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo pants. It was Hank Dupre, and he nearly bowled me over in his hurry to leave the restaurant.

  “Whoa!” he said, as his shoulder banged into mine. “Pardon me.”

  “Hello, Hank.”

  He did a double take. “Hi, Missy. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  “No problem.”

  Someone’s head popped around Hank’s shoulder just then. “Who’s out there?”

  “It’s Missy DuBois,” Hank said. “Nearly knocked her off the steps, I’m afraid. Can you back up a bit?”

  The woman behind him retreated into the restaurant, and we all shuffled into the foyer. The female voice belonged to Waunzy Boudin, the town’s historian and self-described remodeling addict.

  “Hello, Miss Boudin,” I said. “What a nice surprise.”

  Today, the elderly woman wore a bright yellow sundress, which she’d paired with lemon-colored flip-flops and a green parasol. “My word, it seems everyone in town goes to this restaurant. So nice to see you again, Missy.”

  “Do you know Ambrose?” I gestured in his direction.

  “I do, indeed,” she said. “How are you, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Good. How was your lunch?”

  Waunzy shot Hank a look. “It was only fair to middlin’, I’m afraid. Odilia might be cutting some corners now that she owns two restaurants.” She leaned closer. “Truth be told, my chicken tasted like it was cooked with Shake ’n Bake.”

  “Now, Waunzy.” Hank frowned. “You know that’s not possible. Maybe you just got a bad piece or two.”

  “Thank goodness it wasn’t a total loss, though. Hank here has been sharing his real-estate knowledge with me. He’s a font of information, you know.”

  “Why, you’re not thinking of selling your house, are you?” I asked.

  “I’m exploring the possibility. Might as well find out what I need to do to get the ball rolling.”

  “So, you are thinking of moving,” I said.

  “Here’s the deal.” She leaned even closer. “It’s no secret I’ve had my eye on that lovely Dogwood Manor for years now.”

  “Waunzy,” Hank cautioned. “You promised you wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Oh, Hank.” She quickly rolled her eyes. “You need to lighten up. Hank here’s just worried the property won’t come on the market after all, and I’ll get disappointed. He thinks people will fight over that property and keep it tied up in the courts.”

  “Is that so?” I said. “I thought Ivy Solomon would automatically get it.”

  “Not necessarily.” Hank met my gaze head-on. “There might be a prenuptial agreement that bequeaths it to another heir. No one knows for sure, and I didn’t write up Herbert’s will.”

  In addition to selling real estate around town, Hank had graduated with a law degree from LSU in the seventies. A lot of longtime residents still turned to him for help with wills, contracts, estate planning, and whatnot.

  “Hmmm. There’s only one problem,” I said. “Mr. Solomon’s only heir was his daughter, Trinity, but she passed away more than two years ago.”

  “That’s true,” Hank said. “But he might’ve left it to a university, or another charity, or a sibling, even. We’ll have to see.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” Waunzy said. “There’s no reason to think the house won’t go on the market, and I’ll be the first one in line when it does…you can count on that.”

  “Isn’t that house a little big for just one person?” Finally, Ambrose got a word in edgewise. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, ma’am, but that’s a lot of house for one person to maintain.”

  “Why, Mr. Jackson.” Waunzy was clearly warming up to the topic, since her eyes shone. “What makes you think I want to maintain that place all on my own? I might have other plans for it. A surprise, if you will.”

  “You’re going to turn it into a B&B,” I guessed. “Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. Y’all will just have to wait and see. Speaking of which, I probably should get going. I forgot some things at the hardware store yesterday. No time like the present.”

  With that, she sashayed past us and paused by the exit. “Are you coming, Hank? Time’s a-wastin’.”

  Hank shrugged and stepped over the threshold, while she held the door open for him.

  “Will you look at those zinnias!” She paused on the first step. “My, my. That Odilia does know her way around a flower box. ’Course, that crabgrass on the sidewalk is another story.”

  Ambrose shifted next to me, since he was ready to eat, I supposed. But I didn’t move. Curiosity kept me rooted to the spot, since Waunzy still held the door open for Hank. Maybe she’ll mention Dogwood Manor again.

  “Look,” Waunzy said, as she pointed at something. “That crabgrass should be pulled up by its roots. How much do you want to bet Odilia uses that smelly MSMA instead?”

  Finally, she released her grip on the door, and it slowly inched closed. I could still hear her voice through the gap, though, which kept me rooted to the spot.

  “No doubt,” she said. “She’ll knock it out with chemicals instead of getting down on her hands and knees.”

  Once the door banged shut, I completely lost track of Waunzy and Hank.

  “What’s wrong?” Ambrose asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Did you hear that? Did you listen to her talk about the crabgrass outside?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “She knew the trade name for crabgrass poison.” Waunzy’s words echoed around me, as if she’d just spoken. “Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

  “Maybe she learned it at the hardware store.”

  “Maybe.” I moved closer to him, although no one else could hear us. “You don’t usually get that poison at the hardware store, though. It’s a professional product.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re getting at, and my stomach is starting to growl.”

  “Ambrose Jackson.” I stre
ssed his name, willing him to understand. “Put your stomach on hold for a moment. MSMA is a compound with arsenic.”

  “Now, how would you know something like that?”

  “Because my assistant went to pharmacy school, remember? Beatrice told me about it when I found some weeds out in front of the studio. But it’s also something people use as a poison.”

  “She said that?” he asked.

  “Yep. And that’s the same poison that killed Herbert Solomon.”

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. That is a little weird.”

  “It’s not only weird, it’s downright uncanny.” I tried to recall Waunzy’s exact words. “She definitely said Odilia would use that ‘smelly MSMA,’ instead of pulling out the weeds by hand. She seemed very familiar with the chemical.”

  After a second, Ambrose groaned. “Let me guess…we’re not going to eat lunch now, are we?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re going to chase down Detective LaPorte and forget all about our lunch.”

  This man knows me too well. Although, to my everlasting credit, I almost changed my mind when I saw the look on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Bo. I really am. But you heard her. Not to mention, I ran into Cole at the hardware store, too, only he was picking up a different product with arsenic. The coincidences keep piling up, and I can’t wait anymore to let Lance know about them. As Waunzy said. ‘Time’s a-wastin’.”

  CHAPTER 19

  By the time Waunzy and Hank disappeared down the sidewalk, another pair of diners had taken their place by the entrance, and they barreled through the door.

  One of the men wore a gold LSU Tigers’ T-shirt with a Pelicans’ ball cap, as if he couldn’t decide between the two sports teams, while his buddy wore a “Who Dat?” jersey and a matching cap that left no question as to his loyalty.

  The Saints fan slapped his friend on the back, then they both moved into the restaurant.

  “Look, I can’t call Lance from here,” I whispered. “There’s too much going on. Mind if I call him from your car?”

  “No, of course not.” Ambrose reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his keys. “Just keep the air conditioner on, or you’ll burn up out there.”

  “Deal.” Although it wasn’t the best option, it was the only one I had. “You go ahead and grab a table. I don’t mind.”

  “No,” he said. “On second thought…I’ll go with you. There’s no use for you to sit outside in the parking lot all by yourself.”

  We made our way to the exit and walked down the steps. At that moment, a large silver sedan pulled into the lot, with its right blinker on. I only noticed the car because sunshine ricocheted off the amber light and nearly blinded me.

  I cupped my hand over my eyes, and that’s when I spied the car’s hood, where a shiny statue of a winged nymph looked ready to dive off the slick grille.

  “Sweet mother-of-pearl,” I whispered. “Look who’s here.”

  I pointed at the Rolls-Royce, which slowly cruised down the aisle, headed straight for us. The woman behind the wheel sported the same trendy, asymmetrical haircut and oversized sunglasses as always.

  “Who’s that?” Ambrose asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s Mr. Solomon’s girlfriend.”

  Without thinking, I automatically jogged forward to flag her down, since I wasn’t about to let her disappear for the third time. Somehow, she didn’t see me, or more likely, she pretended she couldn’t see me.

  “Here, let me.” Ambrose strode into the path of the oncoming car and firmly crossed his arms, which left the driver only two options: She could either stop, or she could swerve around him and crash that expensive hood ornament into one of the neighboring cars.

  She finally tapped the brakes and stuck her head out the window as the Rolls shuddered to a stop. “Yes? What do you want?”

  I moved over to the driver’s side, which still was missing its mirror, of course. “Hi there. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Look. Do I know you?” she asked.

  I couldn’t read her eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but she sounded peeved. “You asked me for directions on Monday. Did you ever find the interstate?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You asked me about the interstate,” I prodded. “You missed the on-ramp for it, and you were lost.”

  “That’s right.” Finally, she pulled off the oversized glasses and tossed them onto the dash. She had classically beautiful features—upturned eyes with long, thick lashes; a delicate, heart-shaped face; and a small cleft in the middle of her chin.

  “Sorry. I thought you were someone else I ran into yesterday.”

  Ambrose joined me at the window. “Wow, what a great car! I used to know a guy who owned one just like this.”

  “I highly doubt it. They’re not very common around here.” She spoke without looking at him.

  “No, I’m pretty certain he had a Silver Shadow, too.”

  When she finally glanced up at Ambrose, she did a quick double take. “Oh my. Is that so? Not too many people around here drive one of these. Thank you for the compliment.” She batted her lush eyelashes at him.

  Is she flirting with him? “Anyhoo, what a coincidence to run into you here,” I said.

  “I’ll say.” She offered Ambrose her hand. “I’m Evangeline. And you’re…”

  “Ambrose. Ambrose Jackson.” He gamely took the hand she offered. “And this is Melissa DuBois.”

  “We met on Monday,” I reminded her, hoping she’d forget all about our little interaction yesterday. “This is such a beautiful car. Is it yours?”

  “Of course it’s mine.” Her gaze remained locked on Ambrose. “The engine purrs like a kitten. And the upholstery…well, it feels like butter. Have you ever driven one?”

  “Can’t say I have,” he answered. “But I used to know someone who owned one just like it. He was a property developer.”

  She blinked, but this time it wasn’t flirtatious. “Why, you must be talking about Herbert. Herbert Solomon.”

  “That’s him,” he said. “Did you know him?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. Well, I’ve got to get going. It’s about a million degrees outside, and y’all must be burning up.”

  “We’re fine,” I lied. In reality, humidity pressed my suit jacket flat and made it hard to breathe. “How did you happen to get Mr. Solomon’s car?”

  She reached for the sunglasses. “Not that it’s any of your business…but he gave it to me.” By now, her phony politeness had worn thin. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry.”

  She moved again, but this time she reached for a button to close the window.

  “Don’t go!”

  The car lurched forward as Evangeline floored the accelerator. The Rolls sped away in a cloud of road dust and pea gravel, its whitewall tires blurred by the haze.

  I turned to Ambrose. “We’ve got to follow her!”

  Luckily, he was one step ahead of me. “C’mon,” he yelled over his left shoulder, as he sprinted toward the Audi.

  I followed, doing my best to run in the stiff business suit. By the time I pulled up next to him, the pants encased my legs like a wet, clammy blanket.

  I threw open the passenger door and slid onto the seat as Ambrose drove the car away from the parking lot. In no time flat, we’d pulled up behind the Rolls.

  “She’s going to get us killed,” Ambrose said, as the fancy car careened through an intersection without slowing. “Remind me again why we’re doing this.”

  “Because Lance will want to talk to her. I mean, c’mon...this can’t be legit.” I spied the outline of the Factory up ahead, but it whizzed past in a blur of red bricks and tin roof. “And I think I know where she’s going. It looks like she’s headed for Dogwood Manor.”

  �
��Hold on!”

  Ambrose accelerated the car until it touched the Rolls’ bumper. A pair of shocked eyes appeared in the rearview mirror ahead of us, Evangeline’s glances becoming more and more furtive as the two cars raced down Church Street.

  After tailgating a moment longer, Ambrose swerved left, prepared to pass her on the two-lane road.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “She’ll turn right here.”

  Sure enough, the chain-link fence around Dogwood Manor appeared up ahead. Evangeline checked her rearview mirror one last time, then she swerved through the mansion’s wrought-iron gate. She finally skidded to a stop by the marble steps.

  She hopped out of the car as I wrenched open the door of the Audi.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she yelled.

  “Me?” I carefully stepped toward her, since we’d already spooked her once today. “We just want to talk to you. We know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course we do. You’re Herbert Solomon’s girlfriend.” I kept my voice neutral, since it wouldn’t do a lick of good to judge the woman at this point. While I didn’t approve of cheating spouses and illicit affairs, her love life was really none of my business. The same couldn’t be said of Herbert Solomon’s death, though, since that had become my business the moment I stumbled across his body in the back bedroom.

  Ambrose joined us by the kudzu-encased steps. “Thank goodness you stopped.”

  “You could’ve gotten us killed back there,” she said. The flirtatious tone was gone. “Why would you try to pass me like that?”

  “Because I was afraid you were going to run another stop sign,” he said.

  “She’s not the best driver,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “Look, I shouldn’t even be here.” The woman quickly glanced at the mansion. “I really don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  It’s a little too late for that. “What’re you doing here, then?” I asked.

  “I forgot something inside.”

  I glanced at the house, too, which seemed so lonely now. Strips of yellow caution tape crisscrossed over the blue tarp like leftover sticks from the Tinkertoy set, and the tools once more lay idle. Even the cicadas refused to sing without an audience. “You can’t go in there. I bet the police took everything back to the station, anyway.”