“Maybe I should walk it off. Wanna come with me?” Sundays for us usually meant an early night since we both had to be at work come Monday morning. But all bets were off this weekend.
“Maybe a little one. But we’ve got lots to do.”
“Let’s get at it, then. Time to go, go, go. Maybe we’ll even run into Wyatt. He’s the general manager. That guy works all the time.”
I left the bar with Ambrose two steps behind me. When we got to the registration cottage, though, someone new sat where Wyatt should’ve been. The lady seemed bored as she twisted paper clips into a chain.
“Darn. Wyatt must be off duty,” I said. “Well, there’s always tomorrow morning.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Ambrose glanced at a clock over the woman’s head. “I know we need to go over our plan for the show tomorrow, but I’m dead on my feet. How about we go back to the room and then get up early? Otherwise, I don’t know if I’ll be able to think straight.”
“Okay. I guess. Why not? I’ll race you.”
“Whoa.” Ambrose draped his arm around my shoulders. “How ’bout we walk back to the room like normal people?”
He kept me in check the whole way there. It took me three tries to get the room key in the lock with my trembling fingers once we arrived. Instead of waiting for me to walk through the doorway like he usually did, Ambrose strode ahead of me.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Everything looks clear.”
I debated whether to leave the light off. Part of me wanted to see his handsome face, so I moved to the nightstand and fumbled with the Tiffany table lamp. By the time I figured out how to work the antique lamp, my fingers still twitching like crazy, a noise sounded behind me.
Someone was snoring. It was Ambrose, sprawled across the divan.
“Really?” I stomped my foot. I had half a mind to march over there and shake him awake, but he looked so cute scrunched up on the dainty divan. And here I thought we might actually move our relationship in a new direction. Apparently not tonight.
I sighed and grabbed a cotton blanket from the foot of my bed and then draped it over him.
Might as well get ready for bed. Once I changed into my pajamas, I combed my hair and washed my face. Then I doused the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.
Sleep wasn’t an option, so I grabbed a book from the shelf and curled up next to the divan to be close to Ambrose. The smell of Armani cologne made it almost impossible to focus, but I somehow managed to read the book’s title: Famous Plantations of the South. The cover featured a beautiful picture of a crepe myrtle ablaze in reds and pinks. Such a nice coincidence we happened to visit Morningside in spring, when the myrtles caught fire and catalpa trees dusted the ground with snowy petals.
Speaking of which . . . hadn’t we paid extra for rooms with a garden view? I’d only looked out the window once or twice the entire time I’d been at Morningside, so I rose from the floor and peered through the window over the divan. Only a sliver of the moon’s light graced the sky, when I needed the whole thing to see anything but shadows and splotches.
I leaned in toward the window. At that moment something—or someone—scuttled by the garden hedge. It stood out, even in the pale moonlight: square shoulders, long coat and hat. After a second, the apparition disappeared.
Well, I’ll be. What hotel guest would wander the garden at night, with no moonlight to speak of? That didn’t make sense, but what could I do since Ambrose was asleep and I had on nothing but pajamas?
Besides, it was probably my imagination. After I settled on that, I dropped to the floor again near Ambrose and flipped open the picture book. First up was a picture of a mansion painted like an Easter egg in yellows and blues. A fat headline said it was the San Francisco Plantation, even though we were nowhere near the Golden Gate Bridge. Such a funny name for a Southern plantation.
I turned the page. Crashhh! Something sounded outside in the hall. I dropped the book and jumped to my feet.
Amazingly, Ambrose didn’t stir. So I moved across the carpet to the door. But this time around I decided to arm myself. My umbrella hung from the doorknob, ready to protect my hats against spring showers. The sharp end might come in handy, or I could always swing the wooden handle like a baseball bat. I grabbed it, turned the knob with my free hand, and then stepped into the hall.
I probably wouldn’t find anything. But then a figure came right at me like a bullet down the barrel of a .22. I immediately took aim with my umbrella and swung high and wide. Surprisingly, the crack of wood against bone rang out, and the form crumbled to the ground.
I stared at the person twitching on the floor. It was one thing to be an intruder, but quite another to see him or her at my feet. Tentatively, I poked my toe somewhere near the person’s midsection. No response. I tried again, only this time I kicked higher. That did the trick, and the form below me moaned.
I leaned over the body. The cheese-wedge moon provided just enough light to illuminate a gray felt coat, cloth haversack, and navy hat. A buckle twinkled from the hat’s epicenter, like a starburst in the night sky. I’d downed a soldier. A Confederate soldier. No doubt the visitor from the night before; the one who floated down the stairs and left behind only shadows and splotches.
I looked again. Yes, it was definitely a uniform, the wrists circled with ribbon, the neck stiff with starch, with a felt hat. My curiosity piqued, I reached for the hat and plucked it off. Wyatt’s head appeared, as shiny and smooth as the twinkly buckle. The man hired to drum up business for the plantation, not to scare it away. The general manager who found me in the smoking room and scolded me for being there. No doubt the key I saw there belonged to the plantation’s museum.
“Ambrose!” Hang any more niceness on my part. I couldn’t very well leave Wyatt lying on the carpet like a deer downed by a hunter. What if I’d killed the man, since I hadn’t heard another peep? “I need you!”
When he didn’t respond, I turned my face toward the room and tried again. “Help me, Ambrose!”
That did the trick, and Ambrose appeared in the doorway, rumpled and confused, like a little boy missing his teddy bear. Bless his heart.
“I think I killed him!” I stood and moved to Ambrose’s side, where I’d be safe. Now that I’d swung my umbrella like a Louisville Slugger, what next?
“What is this man doing lying on the ground?” Ambrose ran his fingers through his hair, which didn’t do a lick of good. “And why is he wearing that uniform?”
“It’s the general manager, and I have no idea why he’s wearing it. I was sitting on the floor looking at a picture book, when I heard a terrible noise in the hall.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You were so tired, Bo. I didn’t have the heart. I came out here with my umbrella and he ran at me.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Why did you hit him if you knew it was the general manager?”
I shot him an exasperated look. “Obviously, I didn’t know who it was. I swung first and asked questions later.” Although that seemed to sum up my entire life, I hoped Ambrose would spare me the sarcasm.
“We can’t leave him here. Help me get him into your room.”
We dragged the unconscious man into my bedroom. Fortunately, I hadn’t broken skin, but a knot the size of a billiard ball slowly erupted on his forehead. Why did I have to be such a good aim?
“What should we do?” I asked.
“Call the front desk. They’ll know how to reach the night manager.”
I ran to the phone and lifted the handle. After two rings, a voice picked up on the other end.
“Night manager. May I help you?”
“I hope so. This is Missy DuBois. You have to send someone to the Eugenia Andrews room right away.”
“Is something the matter?” She sounded awfully relaxed for such an important emergency.
“I’ll say. I’ve got Wyatt Burkett up here, and he’s knocked out cold.” No need to provide details. There’d be time enough
to sort out the whole mess later.
“I see. That’s on the third floor, right? I’ll send the guard.”
A short time later, someone clamored up the stairs. It was a security guard who didn’t look too happy about walking up two flights of steps at this time of the night.
“You called, Ms. DuBois?”
He sounded dubious, as if I’d made a ruckus for the fun of it. I stepped aside to expose Wyatt, who was slowly recovering from the blow.
“Oh, my.” That woke the guard, and he hustled over to Wyatt.
“Who did this to him?”
“It’s a long story.” I shrugged. “There was a noise in the hall. Turns out it was Wyatt here, running around in one of those uniforms y’all keep downstairs in the museum.” My Southern twang tended to come out particularly strong when I had to deliver bad news, which I think makes it easier to digest. “Guess I hit him just right.”
“You hit him in the head?”
“She thought it was an intruder.” Ambrose jumped in to defend me, like I knew he would. “Good news is he’s breathing regular. He’s got a lump, but it’s on the outside of his head, so the blood’s not pooling on the inside, which is always a good sign.”
Both of which were true, and that seemed to appease the security guard some. He took Wyatt by the shoulders and began to hoist him up. “Mind giving me a hand?” he asked Ambrose.
“Not at all. Will you be all right by yourself, Missy?”
“I think so. I’m a little jittery, but it’s probably just the coffee.”
Ambrose got under Wyatt’s other shoulder, which elicited a loud moan, and they angled his body to move him down the stairwell.
Once they left, the hall fell silent. I couldn’t imagine the night would turn out so. No use trying to go to sleep, so I returned to my spot by the divan.
Why did Wyatt dash through the building like a bat after a mosquito, dressed in a stolen Confederate uniform? What did he hope to gain? Or, more likely, what did he hope the plantation would lose? If another guest had heard the noise instead of me, she might have been scared half to death. Was that his plan all along?
The picture book lay open on the floor. A fake ghost in a stolen uniform wouldn’t exactly help Morningside become one of the “Famous Plantations of the South.” Between Wyatt’s shenanigans and an unsolved murder, odds were good no one would pay to stay here again.
Ambrose finally returned to the hall an hour or so later. This time he went to his own room, darn the luck, and I lay wide awake for several hours.
When sleep finally came, I dreamed of shadows and baseball bats and crime-scene tape, until the sound of someone rapping on my door woke me.
“Missy. You up?”
“Oh, Bo.” It seemed like midnight and I’d only been sleeping for fifteen minutes or so.
“C’mon, wake up. It’s time for breakfast,” he said.
I rolled out of bed, inched open the door, and stuck my head in the hall. Why would Ambrose rustle me out of bed at the crack of dawn?
“Really?”
“I got a call from Beatrice,” he said. “She wants us to meet her for breakfast.”
“That’s nice.” I yawned loudly. “She probably wants to apologize for last night.”
“I don’t know.” Doubt clouded his eyes. “She didn’t seem too happy.”
“Don’t be such a worrywart. My guess is she wants to apologize for what Wyatt did. Make sure we don’t bad-mouth the plantation to other people.”
“Could be.” Ambrose didn’t look convinced, though. “Get dressed and we’ll see what she wants.”
Which was easier said than done. I retreated to the room and slogged past the warm bed. More than anything, I longed to hide my head under the covers like a turtle in its shell. But then I’d disappoint Beatrice, who was only trying to make things right with us.
Thank goodness for makeup, especially under-eye concealer. After doing what I could in the bathroom, I studied the hats lined up in my closet. Maybe it was time to bring out the big gun, the green velvet trilby with the burnt coque and hackle feathers. The velvet would play up my eyes, which was exactly what I needed this morning.
Between that and a slash of Chanel Rouge lipstick, I prayed I looked respectable as I stood outside Ambrose’s door fifteen minutes later.
“I’m ready.”
He, of course, looked amazing in a crisp black polo. Remnants of the Armani cologne lingered.
“Wouldn’t want to keep Beatrice waiting.”
Ambrose led the way as we traveled downstairs to the restaurant. Unfortunately, Charles was nowhere to be found, but then I remembered it was Monday morning, and he was probably sitting in a lecture hall somewhere on the LSU campus.
“Hello.” Beatrice had arrived before us, and she met us at the maître d’ stand. “I picked a nice table in back.” She proceeded to lead us through the empty restaurant to a table by the window. Even though it wasn’t my favorite table overlooking the old oak, it was pretty, nonetheless.
“Thank you.” I draped the strap of my purse over the back of the chair before sitting down. “So nice of you to invite us to breakfast like this. By the way, shouldn’t you be in class right now?”
“No, it’s finals week. I don’t have my first one until tomorrow. Besides, the hotel asked me to stay today so we could sort out some things.”
“Now please don’t think we’re upset about last night.” I scooted my chair up to the table. “It’s not the plantation’s fault Wyatt went crazy like that.” I fanned open my napkin, like the ones Charles and I had wrapped up quite nicely, and placed it in my lap. “We’re willing to let bygones be bygones.”
Beatrice kept staring at the tablecloth. Funny she wouldn’t look at me.
“That’s why you invited us here, right? To make amends?” I pushed the coffee cup away from my plate, since I had no intention of ever drinking caffeine again. “Like I said, we’re not angry, so don’t think the hotel has to make it up to us.”
She finally eyed me. “That’s not it. We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
I must have misunderstood. Probably just the lack of sleep playing tricks on me. “Come again?”
“The night manager called the paramedics last night. You gave Mr. Burkett a concussion. Now, I know he was probably asking for it, but he’s already talking about a lawsuit.”
“What?” That didn’t make sense, but neither did the hitch in Beatrice’s voice or the stunned look on Ambrose’s face, as if she’d upped and slapped him.
“It’s assault and battery,” she said. “You knocked him out.”
My face began to warm, even though I knew the hotel’s air conditioner had run all night. “That man scared me out of my wits. I thought he was a ghost.” The nerve of Wyatt to talk about suing anyone. The gall!
“Look, the plantation’s attorney said you guys don’t have to pay for your stay here,” Beatrice said. “Please. We’ve even booked you some rooms in town. If you leave right now, the attorneys are willing to call it even.”
“Even?” I said. “I’ve been traumatized, and I will not be talked to like a child.” I chunked down my napkin and rose, although I had nowhere else to go.
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice said. “The attorney told me what to say. He wants you and Ambrose out by noon. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ambrose calmly entered the fray as the voice of reason. “Missy was acting in self-defense. What she did was perfectly legal.”
“I’m afraid so, Ambrose. The hotel can’t afford a lawsuit. They said it would put us under.”
“But we’re doing a fashion show tonight at the church.” Unfortunately, my voice came out all wobbly, like maybe I was a child and I’d just been told to cross a busy street by myself.
Beatrice’s voice softened. “Like I said, we’ve booked some rooms for you in town. It’s at a place called the Sleepy Bye Inn, just down the road. It’s not as fancy as this one. Okay, it’s a little tacky.
But they’ve set aside the rooms.”
The name didn’t sound very encouraging. I glanced at Ambrose, but he’d fallen as silent as my discarded napkin. Leave it to him to remain levelheaded while my legs turned to muscadine jelly.
“Fine, Beatrice. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll go there. C’mon, Bo.” I turned away from the table, forcing my shoulders back. This would surely put a crimp in my plans. How was I ever going to help Ivy if I was no longer staying at the place where her stepdaughter was murdered?
“You’re making a big mistake,” Ambrose said. “But if that’s how you want to play it, we’ll leave.”
Chapter 12
Fifteen minutes later, Ambrose finished loading the trunk of our car. He even took extra care with my hats, which was sweet of him, since I knew he was only trying to soften the sting of Beatrice’s words.
Although it was childish, I refused to look back at the mansion when we pulled away. Why should I? Instead of thanking us for catching Wyatt at his little charade, the plantation had chosen to treat us like common criminals and had tossed us out into the mean streets of Riversbend, Louisiana. Although there were certainly more dangerous places to be.
We could always go home, but I wanted to be near the action and Ambrose had to be close to the venue for the fashion show. What good would it do for us to sit by ourselves in Bleu Bayou?
After a few moments, we drove by the two old broodmares grazing and then the sugarcane field. The parking lot of the Rising Tide Baptist Church appeared next. It was completely full this morning, lined grille to fender with pickup trucks, SUVs, and cars.
Amazing. While most folks spent Monday morning carting around cell phones and laptops to meetings and such, these people swarmed around their church’s parking lot with folding chairs, card tables and spools of electric cords.
“Why don’t we pull in and say hello?” I asked.
Ambrose nodded and swerved onto the lot. The first person to appear was the lion-like deacon from the day before. Today he wore a purple T-shirt and an old LSU ball cap as he wiped down some folding chairs. It might improve my mood some to help out, so I pointed to an empty parking space.
Murder at Morningside Page 13