“It wasn’t anything. Figured you could use a hand. Like you said, the good Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“When people hear a TV star is helping with our fund-raiser, they’ll burn up the telephone wires wanting to come. We’ll start the program at dusk with a choir number or two and then turn it over to you and your friend. If that’s okay with you.”
“Don’t you worry. Give us a runway and a microphone, and we’ll be good to go.”
He nodded briskly. “We’ll be in touch. I’m guessing you’re staying at the plantation?”
“Sure enough.” He still seemed a tad nervous, so I decided to put him at ease. “Please don’t fret. It’s nothing Ambrose and I can’t handle.” Really, he was going to age something awful if he worried about every little detail in life.
That did the trick, and he smiled. “Thanks again. It’s a miracle you came here today.”
“I don’t know about that.” Truth be told, my idea had been to visit the funeral parlor next door and hunt up anything I could find about Trinity. I never expected to offer Ambrose and me to a roomful of strangers like a slab of sponge cake on a dessert plate. The way I figured it, this would play out nicely, as long as Ambrose didn’t mind me steamrolling him like that.
By now the congregation, including the lion-like deacon, had left. I had a lot of time to think as I wandered back to the plantation. Time to ponder how I’d line up my ducks when I talked to Ambrose. Maybe that was why I barely noticed the sugarcane stalks or the two old broodmares or the rattle of a truck that approached me on the road.
In fact, I didn’t notice it until the tires ground to a halt not more than five yards ahead, spitting pea gravel and chalk dust. The driver’s window was open and a hand with tattooed knuckles and blue fingernail polish gripped the steering wheel, which pretty much gave away the owner’s identity.
Sure enough, after killing the ignition, Cat Antoine threw open the door of the Ford dually and proceeded to throw up in the crabgrass by the side of the road.
“Oh, my.” I picked up my pace and soon reached the truck.
After she once again baptized the ground—like she’d done with the azalea bushes earlier—she slithered out of the truck and bent over. She seemed even tinier without her chef’s coat.
“Are you all right?”
Obviously, she wasn’t and she didn’t answer me right away. Finally, she nodded. “Guess so.” She wouldn’t look at me, which was probably for the best since a trickle of ooze dangled from her chin.
I fumbled around in my purse for a stray Kleenex. “Here, Cat. Use this.”
“Uuuggghhh.” She wiped her mouth, which was a good sign she wasn’t too far gone.
“You need to get right back to your room and go to bed.” Honestly, sometimes people had no sense. Here she was, running around like a rooster with its head cut off, when she should have been lying under a quilt with a cool washcloth and a hot-water bottle.
“You don’t understand.” She still wouldn’t look at me, but kept her eyes trained on the dirtied ground.
“What I understand is you’re sick and you shouldn’t be going anywhere but right back to your room.” I took hold of her shoulder and squeezed it gently to show her I meant business. Somewhere along the line I’d switched to the voice I used with children who ransacked my store.
She shrugged out from under my grasp, which meant she truly was feeling better. Whatever stomach bug had possessed her to stop by the side of the road now lay in a puddle at our feet. “I’m not sick, Missy. I’m pregnant.”
Oh, my. Now the conversation between her and her boss in the garden the day before made sense. This changed everything.
“Okay, then.” I tucked back into my purse and found one of the Altoids I’d rescued from the bar’s floor. I blew on it softly and gave it to her. “Have this. First things first. How far along?”
She accepted my offering and shrugged. “About three months.”
“Does the daddy know?”
“Not exactly.”
“Imagine you’re going to have to take maternity leave.” There was no way she could manage those big pots and pans with a baby growing in her belly, and maybe that was what had upset her boss so.
“I suppose. I think I’ll go back to my room now. Want a lift?”
The question stumped me. On the one hand, it was a lovely day. On the other, here was my chance to find out more about one of the employees who worked at Morningside Plantation. My curious nature won out, of course. “I’d love a lift.”
We both climbed into the Ford dually. A jumble of notebooks, magazines, and Louisiana road maps cluttered the dashboard and floor, and torn plastic seats stretched from side to side like a dirtied church pew. The only feminine touch was a strawberry air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
“This was my dad’s.” Once Cat fired up the engine, we pulled onto the road. “He passed away last year. Mom gave it to me since she couldn’t drive it.”
That made sense. It looked tricky enough to drive at any age, although Cat was doing a fine job as we bumped and banged and jostled our way toward the plantation. Her cheeks were even pink again. With her green jacket and reddish cheeks, she reminded me of the strawberry air freshener on the rearview mirror.
“I can’t bring myself to clean it out,” she said. “Everything reminds me of him. Is that weird?”
“No. I think it’s sweet you want to keep your daddy’s memory around.” That explained the tin of Skoal wedged against the front window and the hardhat I’d spied in the truck bed. “What did your daddy do?”
“He was a journeyman at the refinery.”
“Really? Would that be the same place everyone’s told me about?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. By this time we’d arrived at the plantation, and she swung the truck around to park by a massive pin oak.
“Doesn’t much matter now.” She opened the door of the cab and heaved herself up and out. She seemed winded by the effort, even though she was only three months along.
I followed her lead and did my best to make a ladylike exit. “Sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Always am. My stomach’s feeling queasy, though. Might get something from the kitchen to settle it down.”
I’d spent a lot of times in kitchens through the years, baking cookies for the store, making umpteen casseroles for Ambrose, who doesn’t cook, and helping my friends with their Derby parties. Seeing someone else’s kitchen was like exploring an overgrown bayou. You never knew what lurked behind the sauce pots, inside the cupboard, or next to the teakettle. “Mind if I tag along?”
She shrugged and shoved the truck’s keys into her sweat-suit pocket. “Help yourself. It’s closed to the public, since our Sunday brunch is already over.”
We fell silent as we walked through the clipped garden and under an overhang shading the entrance to the kitchen. Inside, an enormous Vulcan range monopolized the back wall. It was as slick as a mirror, with more knobs than a rocket ship. Everything was coated in aluminum or polished brass, which made me worry for the poor staff that had to clean it.
Over our heads hung a rack of bright copper pots. You could always tell a real chef by the condition of her pots, and Cat’s looked well-loved, judging by the dented sides, scraped bottoms, and wobbly handles. The kitchen walls had the same used brick as the floor, and a single window welcomed daylight into the space.
Cat moved to a door by the entrance and turned the knob, which made a gaping black hole appear. Pasta boxes, produce crates, and spice tins lined the pantry, and, like the rest of the kitchen, seemed frozen in time, even with the fancy range. I half expected to see a Revolutionary woman in a calico dress and floppy bonnet come waddling along to fix her family lunch.
Cat reappeared from the pantry. “Keep forgetting to take these.” She held a bottle that looked like prenatal vitamins.
“Do you want something to eat with that?” I asked. “You might feel worse taking them on an empty stomach.�
�� Heaven only knew she’d need her strength since she was eating for two. “I’ve whipped up a few meals in my day.”
“You’d cook for me?” She looked surprised. “Okay. As long as it’s not too spicy. Don’t want to lose my lunch too.”
“Put up your feet and I’ll make you an omelet.” I pointed to a spot by the kitchen island, which was as wide as the counter at my store and nearly twice as long. I heaved open a double-sided refrigerator next to the stove and found enough eggs to feed a starting lineup. I brought out the eggs, a jug of milk, and some cheese, all of which would be nice and bland, but good for her too.
“You seem pretty handy around the kitchen.” She watched me warily.
I dislodged a skillet from the pot rack and began to crack eggs on its side. “Should be. I’ve been living on my own long enough to figure out the difference between braising and poaching.”
“Do you like to do it?” she asked.
“Guess you could say that.” I poured some milk in the skillet and swished it around with a whisk that hung from a corkboard above the burners. “As long as I have company in the kitchen.”
Cat seemed to think on that. “I don’t like to work that way. People tripping over each other. That’s how it was at my cooking school in France, and I couldn’t wait to get out on my own.”
“Well, there’s good and bad to it.” I flipped the eggs with a turner. “No sense in making four-dozen cookies all by yourself. Don’t you have any help around here?”
“A sous-chef comes in to get supper started, and my pastry chef works Saturdays.” Cat began to rock back and forth. The more she rocked, the younger she seemed, and I almost forgot she was in a family way. “By the end of the night, it’s only me, though, unless we’re talking about a weekend.”
“Can’t imagine that’s much fun. Sounds kind of spooky.”
“It can be, since I’ve been hearing all those ghost stories. Guess I should know better than to listen to ’em.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re going to think I’m crazy, Missy, but I swear I saw a ghost here one time. Gray felt coat and everything.” She pointed to the ancient window next to the stove. “There at the window. It happened one night when I was by myself. Nearly scared me to death.”
Doesn’t that just beat all? “Why, Cat, that sounds like the figure I saw last night. But don’t you think it might have been a guest?”
“What kind of guest comes up and taps on a window?” She held out her arm. “Look, I still have a scar from when I jumped back from the stove.” Sure enough, a thin brown line cut across her wrist.
Since she and I were getting to know each other, I decided to share my story. “Something like that woke me up last night. Something loud.”
“A ghost?”
“Hard to say. It moved so fast I only saw a blur.” I sprinkled some cheese on the omelet, then grabbed a plate from a rack next to the stove and flipped the eggs onto the platter. “It was wearing a gray felt coat, though, and heavy boots, like a uniform. But I doubt it was a ghost.”
The minute I set the steaming plate in front of Cat, she lifted some omelet with her fingers, dripping cheese and all, and shoved it into her mouth. “Whah makes you say daht?”
“Careful! You’ll burn yourself.” Honestly, how could this girl be trusted with a baby if she didn’t have enough sense to let her food cool?
“No biggie,” she said, once she’d swallowed. “Can’t feel a thing in my fingers anymore.” She held up her hand to prove her point and darn if she didn’t have the smoothest fingertips I’d ever seen. “By the second year of cooking school, you’ve burned your fingers too many times to count.” She tucked back into the omelet, oblivious to any pain.
“Anyway, I heard a crash. When I came around the corner, it tumbled down the stairs, all gray coat and black boots. Then it ran away.”
“Was there a hat?”
“Now that you mention it, there was.”
“Sounds like the same guy,” she said.
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Why would someone do that?”
“Beats me.”
We chatted for a few more minutes. After a bit, Cat took one last bite from the omelet.
“Looks like you’re good to go now. Don’t forget to take your vitamins. Wouldn’t want your little one to be puny.”
Once we’d said good-bye, I left the dark kitchen and stepped into the bright hall. So much brickwork was a tad oppressive. How could Cat stand to cook there night after night, all by herself?
A blurry figure darted past me as I stepped over the threshold to enter the main hall. My purse smacked into it something awful and a bunch of paperwork flew in the air. “Oh!”
Beatrice, of all people, should’ve known better than to go tearing around the mansion like that again. She bent to retrieve the papers scattered around our feet.
“I’m so sorry, Miss DuBois. It’s my fault. Most of our guests went home once they got done with the police. I forgot some people are still here.”
“You really should stop running around the halls. You might hurt yourself.” I bent to help her. “And please, call me Missy. Looks like we’ve messed up your things.”
“That’s okay. They weren’t in any order.”
As I helped her sort through the pages, I lifted a formal-looking note card. A wedding announcement, of all things, printed on cream linen with beveled edges and embossed gold ink. “This one’s got a little tear on it. Hope that’s okay.”
Beatrice plucked the announcement from me and slid it into a manila envelope. “I’m sending these things back to Mrs. Solomon. She’d planned to display them at her stepdaughter’s wedding.”
“So sad.” I reached across and picked up another paper, this one a color picture. It was a photo of Trinity on her daddy’s arm, God rest her soul. She wore a burgundy dress and matching hat. Why, it was a beautiful broad-brimmed hat with an enormous satin trim.
I glanced at the photo again and noticed a familiar face behind her. Wholesome good looks, big smile, prematurely gray hair. It was Charles, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, no less. A far cry from the black vest and wraparound waiter’s apron I usually saw him in. “Well, I’ll be. That’s Charles, from the dining room.” I handed the picture back to Beatrice.
“It can’t be.” She shoved it into the envelope, along with the other things. “Mrs. Solomon told me all the pictures came from the Baton Rouge Country Club. Well, I’d better pack these up. She’ll be expecting them in the morning.”
She closed the envelope and walked away, a trifle slower this time. Part of me wanted to yell at her to stop and to yank that picture back for a good, long look. It was Charles. I just knew it. But didn’t he say he hadn’t met Trinity until last week? That didn’t make sense, since he’d obviously been to a shindig with her and her daddy.
Could he have been a waiter there? Maybe. But something about that photo was downright strange. Put most men in a tuxedo jacket and they stiffened up like shoe leather. But Charles seemed completely comfortable, like he wore that kind of jacket every day. No, something was off, and I’d have to ask him about it the very next time I saw him.
Chapter 9
With my thoughts still on Beatrice and the odd photograph, I wandered toward the main hall. Sooner or later I’d have to see about getting lunch, which would be the perfect time to ask Charles about the strange picture of him and Trinity. In the meantime, I’d only seen about half of the mansion and still had the other half to go.
Maybe it was finally time to visit the front section, which was the part closest to the Mississippi River. I began to walk that way and soon reached the golden ballroom, where the ceiling glowed and the painted floors glistened. Hard to imagine Ambrose and I had toured this room less than forty-eight hours before.
I stepped into the room, which immediately reminded me of a bottle of amber cognac, or the inside of a priceless Fabergé egg.
The portrait of Mrs. Andrews watched as I walked along and then paused unde
r the crystal chandelier.
Unlike most chandeliers, this one had a large glass bowl at the end of each arm, instead of a teardrop bulb. I guessed it was a gasolier, like the ones I’d read about in the plantation’s museum. Mr. Andrews’s neighbors probably thought he was crazy to plumb such an elegant ballroom for gas. But there was no telling how many couples had waltzed under this very light until dawn broke over the Mississippi River.
“Hey there, Missy.” Lance stood in the doorway, holding that special black notebook of his. It was part of his uniform now, as ever-present as the thick utility belt or the State of Louisiana patches sewn on his sleeves.
I didn’t expect to see him so soon. “Hi there. Don’t tell me you’re still working. You know it’s Sunday afternoon, right?”
He chuckled. “It’s all the same to me. I work four on, four off. I’m right in the middle of my week. What’re you doing?” He joined me under the gasolier.
“Having a little look-see around. Do you think that’s real gold on the walls or just paint?”
“Hard to say. Can’t imagine anyone having enough money to cover a whole room in fourteen-karat gold. You never know, though. The mirror looks real.”
Across the room, an enormous mirror in an elaborate gilt frame dangled inches above the floor. Its top leaned away from the wall.
“You know why they pointed their mirrors down like that, right?” I asked. “So girls could see their skirts and make sure they covered their ankles. Didn’t want to give the men any ideas.”
“Can you imagine?” Lance shook his head. “Nowadays it’s the last thing anyone worries about. Kind of miss that modesty.”
Something skirted across the mirror’s reflection before I could reply. Something quick and dark and out of focus. It dashed from one end of the mirror’s frame to the other. I whirled around. The mirror was reflecting the open doorway. Someone must have been listening to us from the hall.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“See what?”
“Someone just ran by the door. I saw them in the mirror.”
Murder at Morningside Page 8