“It’s complicated. Let’s just say I don’t think there should be a wedding. I’ve got to go now or I’ll be really late. Mr. Solomon told me to be done with the room by eleven.” She turned away and hustled past us as quick as anything.
“Did that seem strange to you?” Ambrose asked, once she disappeared.
“Sounds like she doesn’t agree with the wedding.” Or the bride. “Though I can’t imagine why.” At least we had complimented her hat. “C’mon, Bo. Let’s get some eggs in you before you faint.” We headed for the restaurant, which was located at the south end of the property.
After a few minutes, Ambrose reached for my arm. “Wait a minute. You know you should go to the hat competition. There’s no telling how many new customers you could get.”
Sweet of him to say, what with his empty stomach and all. “Of course, you’re right. It would be fun to look around.” I’d entered a few hat contests in my day, and both times I’d won the grand prize and a handful of new clients. “Do you think I have time?”
“You won’t know until you try. I’ll check with the front desk while you go and get fixed up. How about that lapis one you wore yesterday?”
Only my Bo would know the difference between lapis and plain ol’ blue. “I brought even nicer ones.” In fact, my parabuntal straw would be perfect. And it matched my spring shift with wildflowers that bloomed across the front. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. You hop upstairs, and I’ll go put you on the list.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” Quickly, I pecked him on the cheek and hurried away as I planned the whole thing out in my head. Straw hat, spring dress, Chanel Rouge lipstick. People normally went all out for these things, so maybe I’d add white gloves and sass it up as someone on her way to a garden party. I’d completed the outfit in my mind when voices sounded from somewhere down the hall.
“You can’t go through with this!” It sounded like Beatrice again, and she seemed ready to spit nails. What was it about this place that made people yell so at each other?
“Trust me.” A man’s voice. “I know what I’m doing.”
When I rounded the corner, I almost collided with Beatrice and a man who looked like a cover model straight out of New York City. Like one of the models in a Ralph Lauren ad, with teeth as shiny as my grandma’s pearl necklace and just as straight. Gorgeous. He was simply gorgeous. But handsome or not, the stranger glared at me as if I’d waltzed into his photo shoot by accident.
“I’m sorry—” I said.
“Do you mind? This is private.” He spit the words between the pearly teeth.
Reluctantly, I began to back away. Beatrice must have been really upset because the cloche lay on the ground, where it puddled like an ink stain. I would have scooped it up for her, since felt crushed so easily, but this didn’t seem like the time, nor the place. In fact, I would have loved to sink into the carpet and reappear as a housefly on the plantation’s wallpaper. Maybe then I could figure out why the Ralph Lauren model had stopped yelling at Beatrice and now cupped her chin so lovingly in the palm of his hand.
Utterly confused, I turned away from them and almost got lost on the way to my room. The way that man cut his eyes at me! As if I’d purposefully eavesdropped. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth, since I knew better than to make eye contact with them if I wanted to overhear something juicy. Not that I had any experience with that sort of thing.
No use spending all morning worrying about other people’s problems. I made it to my room again and pulled the key from my pocket.
Once inside, I flung open the closet door and pulled out my Sunday-go-t’-meetin’ spring dress. Then I slipped out of my shorts and top, slid into the dress, and dislodged the hatbox from its place on the shelf. This one had given me fits and starts when I steamed it onto the form, since the brim was a foot and a half around, but it played up my green eyes nicely.
I quickly stabbed a couple of hat pins under the brim, drew on a slash of Chanel lipstick, and scooted out the door. This time, if I ran into Beatrice and that male model, I might pretend to divert my attention elsewhere and overhear some juicy snatches they might throw my way.
By the time I arrived at the tearoom, the two had disappeared. The room buzzed with conversation, and I paused on the threshold to work up my courage. Oh, my. Women and girls wearing hats, just like me, filled the place. They were at oval tables set for five and passed delicate trays back and forth. I scanned the competition and noticed that most people had chosen conservative trilbies, tiny fascinators, and even a beret or two. No one was brave enough to wear something oversized, which would work in my favor.
The din softly faded as people seemed to notice my arrival. It reminded me of all the times I floated into a Derby party, little whispers coming from under the hats. I squared my shoulders and did my best catwalk strut into the tearoom to a spot at the first table. After a second, the conversations around me resumed, which was just as well, and I finally exhaled.
“What an interesting hat!” A lady across the way leaned over the table. “Most people wouldn’t be able to carry off a brim that big.”
Here in the South there’s a fine line between a true compliment and a backhanded one, and since I couldn’t quite tell the stranger’s intentions, I decided to play it safe.
“Why, thank you. It’s my own creation. And yours is interesting too.” It looked expensive, with curled quills that fanned out in all directions, with not a stitch to be seen. She must have found a very good milliner in her hometown. “Love the pheasant quills.”
“Thank you, kindly.”
Truth be told, it was a beautiful re-creation of a Victorian-era hat, and she wore a high-buttoned silk blouse to boot. This one was going to be tough to beat.
“However did you pack that?” I asked. “Feathers do tend to get crushed.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
Since I still couldn’t decipher my tablemate’s intentions, I reached for a porcelain teacup, in lieu of saying more. Flowered pots sat on every table, along with sugar cubes, stir sticks, and tea bags. Mostly Earl Greys, with a few Bigelows thrown in for good measure.
“Luckily, I didn’t have to travel very far.” Then she poured hot water into her cup and began to steep a tea bag in it. “My stepdaughter, Trinity, is getting married here tonight.”
“What a coincidence! Her wedding planner hired me to make the veil.” Thank goodness I’d been civil to her, since she’d be the one to pay the 1200 dollars for a custom creation of Alençon lace. “I’m Missy DuBois. The planner hired my shop to do the bridesmaids’ hats too.”
“But of course. Ivy Solomon. Charmed, I’m sure.” She glanced at a diamond watch on her wrist and frowned. “Trinity should have been here by now. She promised she’d come down and keep me company.”
“Really? I’d have thought the bride would have a million other things to do, what with the ceremony and all.”
“Oh, no. The wedding planner took care of everything. Which didn’t leave any room for me, I’m afraid.”
What a shame. To be the stepmother of the bride and have nothing to show for it on a big day like today. “That’s too bad. I’d think she’d want your opinion on everything.”
Well, that did the trick. Ivy stood and scooted over to an empty spot beside me, her tea cooling in her cup. Apparently she wasn’t standoffish. At least not when she liked which way the conversation was going.
“It’s enough to make me cry,” she said. “Here she went and spent all that money on a ‘professional’ when I could have told her just as well what courses to serve.”
I offered her my hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.” She placed her palm in mine. “Now, where did you say you’re from?”
I hadn’t, but that was neither here nor there. “Bleu Bayou. Down the road a piece.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, my whole family’s from Bleu Bayou. The Girards. Have you met them yet?”
“Met
them? The very first person who welcomed me to town was Maribelle Girard, right around Christmastime. Couldn’t have been nicer to me.”
For the next few minutes, Ivy Solomon and I talked about her family and mine, the things we liked and disliked about wedding planners, and all the ways in which a good hat could make anything better. By the time Beatrice finished working the room and stepped up to the podium, we were thicker than thieves and laughing like a pair of wild hyenas.
We stopped when Beatrice began to speak.
“We’re going to start in a few minutes,” she said into the microphone. She’d apparently pulled herself together after the spat in the hall and placed the cloche back on her head, where it belonged. “First prize is a weekend in Charleston, so good luck to everyone.”
Not knowing what to expect, I glanced around the room at the others. Two dozen women sat at tables like mine, sipping from porcelain cups and nibbling on Walker shortbreads. Some wore parabuntal straws, the tightly-woven ones that were impossible to block, while others had on felt cloches, like Beatrice.
“Wherever can Trinity be?” Ivy glanced at her watch again. “She’s not perfect, but she is punctual. Something must be wrong.”
“She’ll be here, I’m sure. Cookie?” I passed her the plate of shortbreads in an attempt to take her mind off her troubles.
“You don’t understand.” Ivy didn’t even glance at the platter. “Ever since Trinity was little, I could set my clock by her. Ballet lessons, art classes, piano recitals . . . I can’t tell you how many times I had to wait in the car with her because we were too early for something or other. I’d better go see what’s keeping her.”
“But you’ll miss the competition.” I lowered the plate only when it became obvious Ivy had no interest in anything but finding her stepdaughter.
“How is everyone this morning?” Beatrice approached our table, looking as sunny as the skies outside. “What beautiful hats! We’ll have to take your picture for our web site. Promise you won’t leave before we can do that.”
Quickly, Ivy reached out and grabbed Beatrice’s wrist. “We can’t start yet. My stepdaughter isn’t here.”
Beatrice glanced at me helplessly as the skin above her wrist blanched white.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. “She probably overslept, what with all the excitement.”
“But this isn’t like her. I can’t understand what’s taking her so long.”
“What if I go check?” Beatrice managed to dislodge her wrist from Ivy’s grasp. “We’re not going to start for a few minutes. I can run upstairs. It’ll only take me a second.”
“Would you?” Ivy asked. “She’s in room two-fifteen. She’s a light sleeper, so you won’t have to knock very hard. Tell her I’m waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beatrice turned to leave, rubbing her wrist.
Now that everything was under control, I relaxed a bit. “Tell me about the wedding.” Anything to take her mind off her absent stepdaughter.
“First of all, the designer who made her gown told Trinity she should put the bridesmaids in black. Can you imagine? He said it’s quite popular on the East Coast. I had to put my foot down on that one. Why would the bridesmaids wear black for a spring wedding?”
I tried not to smile. She had no way of knowing Ambrose and I were friends. “Hmm. What did he say when you told him no?”
“I imagine he took offense. That’s the one good thing about hiring a wedding planner. She had to be the one to say that, not me.”
We chatted a bit more about the wedding colors—peach and cream won out—the flowers, the dance music, and whatnot. Turned out Mr. Solomon hired the Baton Rouge Symphony Orchestra to play “Here Comes the Bride” on the front lawn. Between that and a fireworks display set to explode at midnight, I got the feeling the bride could have bought a house in Bleu Bayou for the cost of this wedding.
Just then Beatrice dashed into the tearoom and made a beeline for our table.
“She’s gone.”
Since the girl seemed to have a flair for melodrama, I didn’t get too worked up. “Slow down. What do you mean, she’s gone? Maybe she took a walk to get some fresh air.”
Beatrice shook her head. “The maid told me no one used her room last night. Said she left chocolates on the pillow, and they haven’t been touched.”
I glanced at Ivy. While I did not want to be indelicate, there was one obvious explanation. “Could she be with her fiancé?” Odds were good she spent the night in his room if hers looked untouched.
“I was talking with him earlier in the hall,” Beatrice said. “He hasn’t seen her. Not since last night.”
Well, now. The handsome stranger whose eyes blazed like hellfire must have been the missing girl’s fiancé. If only the mansion’s walls could talk, I’d get an earful and then some.
“Wherever could she be?” Ivy asked. “This isn’t like her.”
Of course, Trinity Solomon wouldn’t be the first bride to up and run. But someone with a handsome catch like that, and carrying his offspring, no less, wasn’t likely to hightail it out of town. “She’s probably with her bridesmaids. You know, having fun while she still can.” That made perfect sense to me, and it seemed to calm Ivy down.
But only until Beatrice pointed to the opposite corner of the room.
Ivy and I turned at the same time. Five girls lounged around a table, wearing the peach-colored sunbonnets I’d designed. I hadn’t noticed them with all the fuss.
“The tall one told me they figured they might as well come here and get some use out of their wedding clothes,” Beatrice said. “At least the hats.”
Ivy and I both stared at the table. Sure enough, the girls took turns splashing water into each other’s glasses with lots of giggles all around.
“I’m going to find her,” Ivy finally said.
Maybe it was my Christian upbringing, but I couldn’t bear to let her go alone. “I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, no. You’ll miss the competition. I can’t let you do that.”
I tried to sound nonchalant. “It’s not that important to me.” It’d be a shame to walk away now, but my new friend was about to panic.
Beatrice cleared her throat next to us. “I’m afraid I have to start the contest.”
“Of course,” I said. “You go right ahead. We’ll slip out the back door.”
As Ivy and I left the room, I glanced back at the party of bridesmaids, who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. One by one, they stacked packages of Earl Grey into a tower and then poked at it with a stir stick until the thing came tumbling down, which made them all squeal with laughter.
Even though Mr. Solomon had broken the bank for this wedding, it looked like the bridesmaids didn’t notice the bride was gone. The squeals faded as Ivy and I made our way down the hall. She linked her arm in mine, which seemed to give her strength; though it made navigating the path a bit tricky.
Since no one had seen the missing girl inside the mansion, our best option was to explore the grounds. From what I remembered of our tour the day before, a pool and Jacuzzi lay on the south side, as well as a day spa. That was probably where I’d have gone on the morning of my wedding if I wanted to find a little peace and quiet.
We walked past a garden with a boxwood hedge first and then a brick fence that wrapped around the pool and hot tub. No one else was on the path.
The iron gate to the pool stood open. The pool was nice and broad, with more than enough room for a healthy workout. Problem was, the only people in the pool were a mother and her two small children.
Ivy glanced at me, crestfallen. “She’s not here, either.”
“Don’t be too hasty.” I’d seen a blur by the hot tub and thought maybe Trinity could be relaxing there instead. Even though a girl in her condition shouldn’t submerge herself in scalding water, she might have decided to sunbathe there.
We ducked past the woman and her kids and then headed for the hot tub. No luck. Someone was lounging there, all r
ight, but she’d tossed a chef’s coat over one of the folding chairs.
“Hello,” I said.
The stranger next to the hot tub held a copy of Gourmet. Lo and behold, an inked serpent crept around her collarbone, slithered under both ears and ended just shy of her chin. The whole thing looked like frothy swirls on parchment, which would have been beautiful if the artist had drawn it on a piece of paper instead of the poor girl’s neck.
She scrunched up her nose. She’d dyed the tips of her short blond hair red, like a book of matches set on fire. “Hello.”
“Have you seen anyone come by?” I asked.
“Mmm. Don’t think so.” She tossed the magazine onto a tempered glass table, where it landed next to an open bottle of Coppertone.
“I’m Missy DuBois and this here is Ivy Solomon.”
“I’m Cat Antoine, the head chef.”
Which was all well and good, but we still had a bride to find. “Have you seen anyone come by this morning, Cat?”
The girl stared at Ivy. “I know you. You’re married to the guy who owned that refinery my dad used to work at.”
“Excuse me?” Ivy seemed a little flustered to be recognized. “We’re looking for someone—”
“That’s it. I recognize you from the newspaper stories.” The two of them seemed to be having parallel conversations with neither one paying much attention to what the other said.
“—my stepdaughter is never late, you see.”
I had to intervene. “We’re kind of in a hurry. Do you know if the spa’s open?”
“Should be,” Cat said. “I’ve never used it, even though I live right there.” She gestured to a building behind the pool that looked exactly like the main house, only smaller. The employees’ housing, apparently.
“We should probably try the spa next.”
Who wouldn’t want a massage on the morning of her wedding? I was about to say good-bye to Cat when a high-pitched scream rent the air.
Mutely, we all turned toward the mansion. Ivy reached out and gripped my arm like she’d done with Beatrice earlier.
“Ow!” Instinctively, I pulled away. Mauling me wasn’t going to help anyone. “My goodness.” I started toward the pool gate and Ivy followed, our heels tap dancing on the deck.
Murder at Morningside Page 2