Death Comes to Dogwood Manor

by Sandra Bretting

  The highway narrowed as we began to move into the countryside. Soon I spied a petroleum plant with shiny silver tubes that crisscrossed like a child’s jungle gym. An orange flame shot from a smokestack on the end, the color translucent in the early evening sky. I closed my eyes when I suddenly remembered the last time I’d seen the plant.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I think I know where we’re going.”

  “You do?” Ambrose sounded disappointed. “And here I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Don’t worry.” My eyes fluttered open again, and I placed my hand on his knee. “I’m still surprised.”

  Sure enough, the rough-wood sign for Antoine’s Country Kitchen appeared up ahead. Ambrose took a hard right, and the car careened into the pea-gravel parking lot.

  The restaurant in front of us wore sheets of corrugated tin on its roof, raw-wood planks on its porch, and whittled-pine posts that held everything up.

  The place looked like a fish-camp bunkhouse, one that would offer crawfish—what the locals called “mudbugs”—any day of the year, and not just during crawfish season in the spring.

  Despite its rough exterior, though, critics from New York to Florida loved the place. Even Ruth Lehcier of Appetites magazine lauded its down-home menu and authentic atmosphere. That was the word she used…“authentic.” While I would call it “kitschy,” who was I to argue with one of the country’s most famous food writers?

  Fortunately, the praise didn’t go to the chef’s head, and the restaurant continued to get rave reviews from everyone who posted about it on the Internet.

  “Are you sure you’re surprised?” Ambrose still looked disappointed, those beautiful blue eyes cloudy now. “You’re not mad at me for choosing it, are you?”

  “Mad?” My heart melted all over again when I saw the look on his face. “No, of course not. I’m glad you brought me here. Seriously. I never had a chance to eat my dinner the last time, since I lost my appetite when Grady started talking.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “I’m glad you have an open mind. Best of all…today’s Wednesday. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Zydeco night!” I squealed the response so loudly, folks halfway across the parking lot probably heard me.

  “Yep.” Ambrose gave me a crooked smile that melted what was left of my heart. “There’s no telling what could happen tonight.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Ambrose happily escorted me up the rough-wood planks that led to the front porch. As we climbed, the sound of music leached through the weathered floorboards. It was the clickety-clack of a rubboard, keeping time to a wheezy accordion and a hyperactive fiddle.

  We entered through the front door and landed in a massive dining hall. The room was dark, or maybe it just seemed that way after the brightness of the parking lot, so I waited for my pupils to adjust to the light, and then I carefully followed Ambrose through the hall.

  It looked like a giant warehouse, with exposed ductwork overhead, more two-by-fours on the walls, and acid-washed concrete for the floor.

  We skirted a ring of people who moved around a parquet dance floor on our way to a picnic table. Music flowed from a raised stage, where a Cajun band sat beneath a plastic banner that read The Cajun Country Stomp Swampers. Like before, a man in a red vest crooned a Cajun tune with his lips so close to the microphone, they nearly touched it.

  “Hé tite fille, héite Fille tite fille, ooh tite fille…” he sang, his voice soulful and raw.

  I expected to see an old man behind the singer with his rubboard, like before, but a young girl sat there now. She ran a spoon along the rubboard’s crimped edges, and the clack-clack-clack kept the accordion, fiddle, and steel guitar in check.

  “Oǜ Tas été hier aux soir,” crooned the singer, oblivious to anything but the music.

  Ambrose pointed to an empty table on the outskirts of the dance floor. The minute I settled onto the bench, I pulled a menu from a clothespin attached to the table’s edge and began to read the offerings.

  “Say, Ambrose.” I pretended to study the menu, knowing full well what I wanted to eat. “What would you think if I ordered frogs’ legs?” It was a little test, which might’ve been sneaky, but I really wanted to hear his response.

  He cocked his head. “Frogs’ legs? That’s what you want? Okay, then…go for it.”

  Bingo. I ducked my head and smiled. With Grady, I never got a chance to make my own decisions; it was always about what he wanted. My Ambrose not only listened to me, but he obviously cared about my opinion.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You just sighed.”

  “Yeah, but it was a happy sigh. I really want the shrimp étouffée, but I thought I’d ask you about the frogs’ legs anyway.”

  “And you thought I was being weird tonight?” He chuckled and rose from the table. “If you stay here, I’ll go place our order.”

  While Ambrose left to join a line at a nearby counter, I scanned the room. Like before, pictures of famous zydeco musicians—including Buckwheat Zydeco, Dr. John, and Boozoo Chavis—lined the walls. The dance floor took up most of the space—which was nothing new—and picnic tables ringed the periphery like an afterthought.

  The room was as kitschy as ever. Too bad I’d never gotten to enjoy it the first time around.

  “All set.” Ambrose returned to our table and slid onto the bench across from me. “It’s nice to see you smiling again.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” A thought suddenly crossed my mind, and I straightened. “Let’s dance.”

  “Dance?”

  “Yes. I’d like to dance. Just until our food gets here.”

  “I guess so.” He shrugged, not the least bit threatened by my change in plans.

  I took his hand and practically pulled him to the dance floor, giddy with happiness. The band had launched into a tune that called for the Zydeco Bounce.

  The dance steps were simple, really, and we picked them up right away. After moving four steps right, and then four steps left, we shuffled back four steps, dipped forward, and then returned to our original spots.

  The second time around, when I took four steps back, I almost collided with the dancer behind me.

  “Whoa!” the stranger said.

  I turned to see a good-looking man about my age—just north of north—who wore a plaid country-and-western shirt and a black felt cowboy hat. He tipped the hat and smiled. “Watch out there, little lady.”

  “I’m sorry.” My voice was barely noticeable above the music.

  “Not me,” he said. “Name’s Hunter. Hunter Brown.”

  He extended his hand, oblivious to the people dancing all around us, but Ambrose intercepted the handshake before I could return it.

  “Back off there, Hunter.” He nudged the man’s hand away. “This little lady’s already got a date.”

  “Hey, no problem.” The cowboy quickly dropped his hand and shuffled away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ambrose said.

  By now, the crowd had moved on to the forward dip, and couples bobbled all around us. Ambrose took my hand and led me toward the exit.

  I pulled my hand away when we got to the edge of the dance floor. “But what about our food?” There was no telling when it would arrive, and I couldn’t imagine eating cold étouffée.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  I shrugged and followed him to the exit. If he didn’t balk when I spontaneously asked him to dance before dinner, then I couldn’t balk now.

  He threw open the door, and we stepped out onto the porch. By now, the sun had stalled on the horizon, and the orange glow resembled the ethereal flame of the smokestack. It was a beautiful sunset, accompanied by the lilting sound of zydeco music.

  Bo nodded to the back of the porch, where we walked.

  “What’s up, ho
ney?” I asked, once we stood in the corner.

  Instead of answering me, he slowly sank to one knee and pulled a box from the pocket of his khakis.

  Time slowed. I recognized the light blue box in his hands…and I knew the logo for Tiffany & Co. But, somehow, my brain couldn’t process it.

  When it finally caught up with the moment, my hand flew to my mouth.

  “Missy,” he began, his face more serious than I’d ever seen it, “it’s no secret how I feel about you.”

  The musical notes softened as my thoughts flew back to the very first time I had met Ambrose Jackson. It had happened in my new studio, when a shopkeeper arrived from next door to welcome me to the Factory.

  He was gorgeous, with chestnut hair, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of robins’ eggs. Right then and there, I thanked my lucky stars for bringing him so close to me. But then, as the morning wore on, he’d told me about his late wife, a pretty catalog model who’d lost her battle with breast cancer. He obviously adored her, because his eyes misted whenever he said her name. Right then and there, I put him in the “friend” category and vowed to give him time to grieve his late wife.

  “Missy?”

  My hand slowly fell to my side. “Uh, what?”

  “I asked you a question, honey.”

  “You did?”

  He laughed. “Yes, and it’d be nice to hear your answer. I just asked you to marry me.”

  No more thinking was necessary. Just when I opened my mouth, a cell phone blasted a ringtone that shattered the quiet.

  Dagnabit! Of all the times for someone to call me…

  “Don’t worry…I won’t answer it.” My voice was wispy, since I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. “They can leave a message.”

  “Okay…let me try this again. Missy DuBois, would you marry me?”

  He stared at me with those beautiful blue eyes, which sucked the last bit of air from my lungs.

  “Oh, Bo. You don’t know—”

  A second ringtone sounded, this one even louder than the first. Ambrose half-rose from the floor and plucked the phone from his back pocket.

  “Let me turn this off.” He moved to do just that when his hand stalled. “Uh-oh. It’s the police department. You’d better check yours, too.”

  Numbly, I reached for the phone in the pocket of my dress, wanting nothing more than to smash it on the floor. But, sure enough, Lance’s number appeared on the screen.

  “Oh, shine.” I gazed at him helplessly. “What should we do?”

  “Just a second.” He straightened completely and tapped the screen. The phone stopped ringing, and then he held it out to me. “He sent us a text, too. They found another body—this one in the bayou. And you’ll never believe who it is…”

  About the Author

  Sandra Bretting has written for several national newspapers, including the Houston Chronicle and the Los Angeles Times. A graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, she currently lives with her family in Houston, Texas. Readers can visit her website at www.SandraBretting.com.