Someone's Mad at the Hatter

by Sandra Bretting

  “I left it open?” He still looked confused, but at least the wariness was gone. “First time that’s ever happened.”

  “It’s okay . . . we closed it for you.” Ambrose had joined us by the fireplace. “We knew you were home, so we figured you just forgot.”

  “Guess my old age is catching up with me,” he said. “I’m grateful you two happened to come along.”

  I reached for a different dining chair, after first setting the wine bottle on the floor, and took a seat next to him. The poor man needed a moment to wake up. “We were glad to help you. You’d do the same for us.”

  “Darn right I would.” His gaze traveled to the floor. “What’d you bring me?”

  “Huh?” I followed his eyes. Dadgummit. So much for a romantic evening sharing a bottle of wine with Ambrose. I couldn’t very well take the bottle back now without hurting his feelings. “Miss Odilia gave it to me. It’s from her restaurant.”

  “That was nice of her. Is it your birthday?”

  “No.” I glanced over to Ambrose, who shrugged. “But we are celebrating tonight. Lance LaPorte got the people who murdered Charlotte Devereaux.”

  Hank’s mouth rounded to a perfect O. “You don’t say! Who was it?”

  “Two people you might not know: one of the brides who originally hired Charlotte to plan her wedding and her fiancé. Everything went bad when the fiancé got a little too close to the wedding planner. They killed her afterward and then tried to hide the body in a whiskey barrel.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “There’s more.” I scooted a bit closer to the fire, grateful for its warmth. “At one point, I actually thought Paxton Haney might’ve killed her. Now I know he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why’d you suspect him?”

  “Because he told me he wanted to sell the business. Who sells a business only a few days after a partner dies?”

  Hank crossed his arms. “I would have explained it to you, if you asked me.”

  Was that a reprimand? I couldn’t quite read his expression in the half-light, but the tone definitely sounded parental. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done that. But . . . why did he ask you to help him sell the business so soon after Charlotte died?”

  “Because he was devastated. He couldn’t imagine running the business without her.”

  “He told me he wanted to retire,” I said. “But Charlotte wouldn’t let him.”

  “That was a ruse. He loved that business deep down. But he didn’t think he could run it on his own. And he was so frustrated about the murder, since there weren’t any suspects right away. He had to do something to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself from going crazy. So, cleaning up his records and listing the business gave him something to do.”

  My memory reeled back to the day before, when I spied him shredding bank statements. “There’s something I don’t understand. I happened to see him in his office this morning. He was shredding papers. Lots of papers. And they were statements from the local bank.”

  “Good. He listened to what I told him.”

  “Come again?” I couldn’t imagine any real estate agent would advise a client to shred records. Especially not so close to a sale.

  “Those were duplicates, Missy. The man was a pack rat. Sheridan was always trying to get him to consolidate. Guess it finally sunk in.”

  Ah, the accountant. “So those were only duplicates?”

  “Of course. Both Sheridan and I told him he had to do a clean sweep. Otherwise, he’d scare off any potential buyers.”

  Ambrose stepped behind my chair and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I hate to say this . . . but we should probably get going. Lance will need us down at the station, and we should let Mr. Dupre here finish his nap.”

  “Nah.” He waved away Ambrose’s comment. “I’m good. Just grateful you two came along when you did.”

  “No problem, Mr. Dupre.”

  He shot me a funny look.

  Since I knew exactly what was coming next, I beat him to the punch. “I know, I know. It’s Hank. Mr. Dupre is your dad.”

  “You got that right.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I just realized something. This is where it all started. The three of us, just two days ago. Right here in this dining room.”

  Hank and Ambrose glanced at each other, and then they both opened their mouths to speak. “Next time, eat the good-luck peas!” they said in unison.

  Sandra Bretting has served as a freelance feature writer for the Houston Chronicle since moving to Texas in 1996. She received a journalism degree from the University of Missouri School of Journalism, and spent her early career in health-care public relations at medical centers throughout Southern California. Other publications for which she’s written include the Los Angeles Times and Woman’s Day. Readers can visit her website at www.SandraBretting.com.