Murder at Morningside

by Sandra Bretting

  “You’re not going to get away with this.” I twisted around to face her. Pink and green pillows fell away like blooms from the bougainvillea outside. “They’re going to know it was you.”

  “Funny you should say that, considering you’re the one who doesn’t belong here. Me, I just came back to my apartment to change clothes, and there you were.” Cat inched closer as she spoke, her tattooed snake zeroing in on its prey. “That’s it. That’s what I’ll tell the police. How could I know it was you?”

  She glanced at a bedside table, probably looking for a weapon. Odds were good she’d turn me facedown and strike me with a heavy lamp or something even worse.

  “You didn’t know Trinity Solomon,” I said. “What did she do to you?”

  “Do? To me?” Cat’s breath brushed my cheek and her tattooed snakeskin glistened with sweat. “Everything. Everything.”

  She was so strong, my only hope was to stall. The more Cat talked, the less time she had to find a weapon.

  “Think about your baby,” I said. “What will happen to your baby if you hurt me? Sooner or later they’re going to figure out it was you.”

  She screwed up her face, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of bleach. “You don’t get it, do you? Wyatt said we’d get this place closed down by scaring everyone away. But that could take months. When I found out the Solomons were here, I knew what I had to do.” She snorted. “Told the stupid daughter the pills were a cure for morning sickness. Brilliant, right?”

  I slowly understood. And if Cat could murder Trinity in cold blood, she could do it again . . . with me.

  She closed her eyes. “The baby’s kicking,” she whispered. “He knows this is right.”

  Now was my chance. I remembered something when Cat leaned over me on the bed and her tattoo drew closer. Every scale on the snake telescoped larger and larger. Where had I seen a tattoo like that? It’d been a year or so, but the tattoo definitely looked familiar.

  And then I remembered. I had just opened my shop and was having lunch with my next- door neighbor, a handsome guy named Ambrose. My new friend was worried about a string of burglaries in our building. He told me about a self-defense class at the local Y and even offered to pay for my tuition, since I was broke.

  I decided to go—for his sake, more than mine—and gamely watched a young guy in a karate jacket and slacks enter the Y. After spending half an hour in the overheated studio, the instructor stripped down to a T-shirt and exposed an enormous tattoo on his arm. A snake slithering down to his elbow and then on to his fingertips. I remembered thinking the tattoo would make a good story for Ambrose, because I didn’t expect much else from the class.

  But darn if I didn’t learn something. That night I learned a sure-fire way to escape a kidnapper. The teacher pointed to the heel of his hand and then pretended to smash it against his chin, which didn’t seem too complicated. He made us practice the move over and over on a row of punching bags until sweat streamed down our cheeks.

  I felt ridiculous, of course, but I practiced it anyway until my hand purpled like ripe eggplant.

  The snake on Cat’s neck eyed me now as I mumbled a quick prayer for forgiveness, since I was about to strike a pregnant woman. Then I shoved the heel of my hand into her chin for all I was worth. The crunch of bone hitting bone rang out and her head snapped back like it’d been ripped clean from her spine.

  As she fell, her head crashed against the iron headboard with a sickening thud. Only then did I feel pain radiate through my hand.

  I had no time to think. I rolled off the bed and scuttled crablike toward the kitchen. Halfway there, the sound of a doorknob being turned reached me and I froze. When the door didn’t budge, something crashed against it—hard—and the panel flew open, raining wood splinters onto the carpet. It was Lance, his leg still poised in the air as if he might kick the panel again for good measure. Cat must have locked the door behind her when she entered, which sent a chill down my spine.

  “Lance!” I shouted. Across the room, Cat lay as still as an iceberg marooned in the sea of pink. Hallelujah for that punching bag in the Y’s basement and for Ambrose’s worrisome nature.

  “Missy?” Lance peered at me. “You okay?”

  I lay on the ground and clutched my throbbing hand. “I think so. It’s Cat, Lance. She’s the one who poisoned Trinity. She’s in the bedroom.”

  Quickly, Lance strode through the doorway and headed for the back bedroom. When he returned, he held Cat in his arms, her head bobbing against his shoulder.

  “You did this?” Lance squinted, as if there must be another explanation for the unconscious girl in his arms.

  “Sure did. And I found a bottle of doctored pills in the bathroom. She gave them to Trinity and said they were a cure for morning sickness.”

  “Why?” Lance looked wary, as if he couldn’t quite trust his eyes.

  “Her daddy died at Mr. Solomon’s refinery, and she wanted to get back at him. Guess she didn’t much care how she did it.” I shrugged, since nothing Cat had said would ever justify murder.

  “You’re okay, right?” Lance asked.

  “Fine. A little shook up, but I’ll be fine.” My hand still hurt like the dickens, but it was nothing compared to what could have happened. “Guess I should have waited for you, after all.”

  He grinned as he walked around me, the lump in his arms as silent as the stone mermaid outside. “Let me put this one in the squad car and then I’ll come back for you. We need to get your statement when you feel up to it.”

  I nodded and watched him walk through the jagged doorframe. Someone else arrived a few seconds later, but this person wore the most wonderful pair of pressed khakis and Sperry Top-Siders.

  I finally rose to my feet. “Hi, Bo.”

  “Oh, Missy. I’m so glad you’re okay.” Ambrose rushed to me and enveloped me in a hug so strong I couldn’t help but squeak.

  “How’d you know where to find me?”

  “Lance called the church and they tracked me down. Said something about how he was going to look for you.”

  “Y’all worry about me too much.” I looked into those beautiful blue eyes and smiled. “But I’m glad you do.”

  I didn’t ask—or care—how he knew where to find me. All that mattered was that we stayed in each other’s arms for way too long. Neither of us could think of another thing to say—but, then again, conversation could be highly overrated.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Whatever for?” Gently, Ambrose brushed aside some hair that’d fallen in my eyes.

  “For making me take that silly self-defense class back at the Y. Turns out it wasn’t so silly, after all.”

  Chapter 15

  The first person to greet us when we arrived at the church social hall that night was the elderly deacon from before. We’d rushed back to the motel to change after spending hours at the church organizing this and setting up that, and now it was time to watch our hard work pay off. Like before, the deacon flanked the open doors, like an alabaster lion, and he gave us each one of the colorful flyers the church’s staff had whipped up with the help of the local print shop.

  Fortunately, we were able to borrow most of the ideas and the talent from the fashion show we’d staged in Baton Rouge the month before. Heaven knows the days of a sedate show, with pretty girls on plywood runways, is long gone. Today’s fashion shows had omnidirectional lights, digital sound, and theatrical outfits that—truth be told—looked more like costumes than clothes.

  The only difference between tonight’s show and the affair for the Ladies’ Auxiliary League was the music. Tonight we paired each gown with a hymn instead of a popular song, since the proceeds would buy new choir robes.

  The first girl would wear a gown Ambrose designed that looked like Grace Kelly’s dress when she posed for the cover of Life. As the model walked the runway, the organist would play “Amazing Grace.” We booked the second outfit as an all-white sheath with seed pearls paired with a rousing rendition
of “When We All Get to Heaven.” We even decided to borrow some angel wings from the choir’s Christmas show and add them to the dress for special effect.

  There was a fine line between clever and sacrilegious, though, so we’d combed through every detail before we finalized the plans.

  Hallelujah—we had tons of connections in the fashion industry, because we were able to book the same models we’d used in the Baton Rouge show. We pulled in every favor our friend Natasha, who owns Southern Model Management, ever owed us, and she lured back the same six models with the promise of walking the Lanvin trunk show the following week. Working with the organist and the church’s choir wouldn’t be a problem, either, since we’d chosen only well-known hymns with which everyone was familiar. As for Ambrose, he knew his gowns better than most of us know our birth date, so he wouldn’t need to memorize anything, either. Odds were good he’d teach the audience more about hemlines, bias cuts, and beaded ap-pliqués than they ever thought possible.

  Our final stroke of luck involved Ambrose’s assistant. Although I’d complained about her earlier, she was able to pull the twenty-four dresses we needed on only a moment’s notice. Plus, she went to the trouble of pulling the same trilbies, fascinators, and veils from my shop we’d used earlier and then lugged everything to the church in her minivan. Thank goodness I’d given her a key earlier for special emergencies, because in my book this show surely qualified.

  I even offered to give his assistant one of my hats if she agreed to work with me as a dresser during the show.

  When she quickly said yes, I knew she’d never actually done the job before. Although fashion shows looked easy from the outside, it was the dressers who did the yeoman’s work from behind the scenes.

  Dressers were the ones who chased after the models backstage with safety pins to stitch clothes together a split second before a show. They improvised with rubber bands to bind a shoe to a model’s foot when her gown was extra-long and her heels were extra high.

  The most challenging trick was dressing a model in a black gown. Even a speck of lint could attach itself to a hemline and look like a white stain under a stage light. Whenever I dressed a model in black, I draped the gown’s skirt over my arm for as long as possible, even if it meant the girl had to wobble around with me while I worked backstage.

  It was a small price to pay to watch seed pearls sparkle under stage lights like tiny starbursts and to touch silk so smooth it was like running water. Dressing a model was the closest most of us would ever come to owning a ten-thousand-dollar gown, which was fine by me.

  I smiled at the deacon as we walked into the social hall, which had been transformed. Workers had hidden the plain white walls behind yards of tulle sparkling like the underbelly of a cloud. They’d also gathered the material together in the middle of the room and tied it into a rosette.

  Even Darryl surprised me. His towering arrangements of Eremu-rus in hammered steel vases were like sculptures against the velvet curtain. I’d definitely use him again whenever I needed flowers.

  By now, some ten minutes had passed, and we still had another thirty to go until the lights dimmed. A few people headed into the social hall, their eyes darting back and forth like pinballs as they scoped out the best place to sit. The crowd was mixed, with matrons in nude hose and sensible heels, teenagers in ripped jeans and too much eyeliner, and a few token males thrown in. The women all dashed for the front, but the men strolled behind nonchalantly, as if they couldn’t understand what the fuss was about.

  Finally, it was show time. I retreated through a back door and ended up in the parking lot, where a canvas canopy served as the staging area. Hallelujah! A long rolling rack awaited me with twenty-four bulging garment bags lined up like soldiers. My models trickled in, one by one, each holding a makeup box; although they’d already applied their own cosmetics at home. The boxes held everything they might need for touch-ups between gowns. Normally a show like this might employ six makeup artists and at least four or five dressers, but we didn’t have the money for that.

  From that moment on, I heard nothing but the sound of my own breath. I rushed around zipping up this and fluffing out that and stabbing safety pins into fabric and sometimes my own fingers. I was so startled when someone spoke into the microphone that I actually stabbed a model’s skin for once, instead of my own.

  The preacher introduced himself and welcomed everyone to the show. I heard only snatches: world-famous designer, honor to have him, please hold your applause. Next was Ambrose’s voice, deeper than when he and I spoke, but every bit as warm. Did someone actually wolf whistle when he took to the stage, or did I imagine that?

  My eyes never once peeked above a model’s head for the next hour. By the end of the show, I felt as if I’d lived two lifetimes.

  Ambrose found me in the tent afterward, slumped over a card table strewn with safety pins, double-stick tape, and Dr. Scholl’s shoe insoles.

  “Hi, darling,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself.” My head was too heavy to lift, so I waved a safety pin at him instead. “How was the show?”

  “Perfect. Not one wardrobe malfunction, and the crowd seemed to like it. How you holding up?”

  Only then did I lift my head. My, he looks good in a tuxedo. “I’ve been better.”

  “Have I ever told you you’re the best dresser I’ve ever worked with?”

  “No, but go ahead. I need the validation.”

  He smiled and began to stroke the back of my head, smoothing down what I imagined to be a rat’s nest by now. “We make a great team, Missy. By the way, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Me?” I dragged myself upright. Apparently a girl had walked in behind Ambrose and she wore an intriguing, yet familiar, hat. It was Beatrice, of all people, wearing her pretty cloche from the hat competition, which seemed a million years ago.

  “Missy!”

  I worked up a smile. “Hey, Beatrice.”

  “You two did a wonderful job tonight,” she said.

  “We did, didn’t we? I almost forgot you go to this church. Charles told me that.” The memory of Charles and me back at the restaurant, all alone, resurrected so many others. “Here. Have a seat.”

  I dusted some talcum powder off the folding chair next to me and motioned for her to sit. I also gave Ambrose the high sign.

  He took my cue and pretended to study his watch. “Wow. It’s getting late. There’s a reporter here from the Times-Picayune, so I’d better get going. But don’t you fall asleep on me, Missy. Come find me in a few minutes and we’ll go back together.”

  “Sounds good. See you in a minute.” I turned to Beatrice again. “Did you come alone?”

  “Sure did.”

  I took a deep breath. “You know, I never told you this, but I overheard some interesting things when I was at Morningside.” At the top of my list was the conversation with Sterling Brice I’d heard from behind the bar. Not to mention her little spat with him in the garden.

  “Like what?” She seemed genuinely curious and not the least bit alarmed.

  “You and Sterling were talking about Trinity. About how she died. And you were mad at him for proposing to her. Do you remember that?”

  I didn’t want to intrude—well, maybe just a little—but her conversations left me confused and concerned me enough that, at one point, I thought Beatrice was the murderer. It seemed far-fetched now, but I still had a few questions.

  “I didn’t know anyone was listening to us,” she said. “You see, Sterling and I go way back. I won’t bore you with the details, but he never should have asked Trinity to marry him.”

  “That’s what I got from your conversation.” I began to brush some pins into a pile to give my hands something to do. “But why?”

  “Last year, before Trinity or the Solomons ever came along, Sterling asked me to marry him.”

  I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I’d suspected she and Sterling were a couple. No one argued like that unless strong feelings flowed
underneath and, even though he’d moved on, it sounded like Beatrice might not have.

  She sighed. “I always thought one day we’d work it out. One day we’d stop arguing and get back together. But I realized something this weekend. I was mad at him, but I wasn’t devastated. Does that make sense?”

  My hand stalled over the pile of pins. “Can’t say that it does.”

  “See, if I really loved Sterling, his proposal to Trinity should have crushed me. But it didn’t. Not really. It was the idea of him getting married that bothered me more than anything else.”

  “Let me get this straight: You didn’t want him to marry you, but you didn’t want him to marry anyone else, either?” The story didn’t make much sense because I’d heard how exasperated she sounded back at the plantation.

  “Exactly. Let’s face it—Sterling’s gorgeous, but he’s pretty shallow.”

  “Maybe you didn’t give him enough credit.” I didn’t want to argue with her, since I didn’t particularly like Sterling, either, but I’d overheard him say he wanted to give Trinity’s baby a father, and that didn’t seem so shallow to me.

  “He always needed someone to take care of him,” she said. “Before now, it was me. But then Trinity came along with all that money. That was one thing I couldn’t give him.”

  I added a few more clips to the wayward pile. “So you weren’t jealous he was going to marry Trinity?”

  “No, I was jealous, but for the wrong reasons. Even though I didn’t want to be with him, I didn’t want him to be with anyone else, either. Guess that makes me selfish.”

  I chuckled. “No, it makes you human. You can’t help how you feel. Sometimes feelings have a life of their own.” Thank goodness again for those psychology textbooks back at Vanderbilt, which taught me about something called validation. It was important to recognize someone’s feelings even if you didn’t agree with them.