Murder at Morningside

by Sandra Bretting

  “No way. They belong in a museum, not in my shop. I love the gesture, but I can’t keep something that means so much to the people around here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Definitely. I’ll write Ivy a nice, long letter and explain, but treasures like this belong in a museum. They’re part of the history of this place.” I began to tuck the forms back in the box.

  Ivy’s gesture had warmed my heart, and the treasures looked radiant by the time I closed the lid.

  Chapter 17

  My room at the Sleepy Bye Inn didn’t seem nearly as dingy the next morning when I awoke. Rays of sunlight splayed across the brown bedspread and softened everything to beige.

  I’d slept like a rock. Even better than my nights in the Eugenia Andrews room at Morningside, because now we all knew who killed Trinity.

  I rolled over. The carpet on either side of me looked cleaner with sunshine to brighten the shadows and chase away thoughts of bedbugs underfoot. My skirt and top lay at the foot of the bed, where I’d tossed them last night. A program rested next to the door, and the buzz from the Coke machine outside seeped through the walls.

  A moment later someone was knocking on my door.

  “Who is it?” I yelled.

  “Santa Claus.”

  “Hilarious, Ambrose. What are you doing at my door at this ungodly hour? Go away, please.”

  “C’mon, Missy. Open up. I brought you a gift and everything.”

  I smiled and then rolled off the bed and padded over to the door. “I shouldn’t let you in. Not before I’ve had a chance to change and run a comb through my hair.”

  “Will it make a difference?”

  “Ha, ha.” That was what I loved about Ambrose. No matter how much grief I gave him—and heaven knows I tried—he served it right back to me.

  “All right,” I said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I opened the door. Ambrose was standing on the stoop with a steaming cup of coffee.

  This man knows me too well.

  “You look a fright.”

  “And that coffee looks wonderful. Just what I need. You can come in since you’re bearing gifts.”

  “That’s my Missy.” He stepped into the room and offered me the cup. I didn’t know which of the two I was happier to see: my sweet Ambrose or the coffee.

  “Careful, now. It’s hot.”

  “Ambrose, you spoil me.” I took the cup.

  “We’ve had a time this weekend, haven’t we?” He settled onto the edge of the bed. “Never thought we’d walk into a murder scene this weekend.”

  “Agreed.” Funny, but the sight of Ambrose lounging on a corner of my bedspread seemed about as natural as the sunbeams that danced across it. More natural, in fact. “To be honest, I thought the most exciting thing I’d do was get a facial or maybe swim a few laps in the pool.”

  “You still can, you know. I got a call from Morningside while you were asleep. Beatrice invited us to come back for breakfast if we want.”

  “That so?” I took a hearty drink from the cup. Hang the chances of another caffeine overload, like the night I overindulged and ran into Wyatt Burkett in the hall. “Let me finish this and we can hop to it. I need to stop by the office too and write Vernice a note, so she knows I didn’t forget about her this morning.”

  Once I finished the coffee, Ambrose left the room so I could dress. By all rights, I should have been dead tired, but the thought of sitting down to breakfast with Ambrose in the elegant restaurant gave me energy I didn’t know I had.

  We left the motel soon after—after dropping a note by the manager’s office and scooping up the gift I wanted to return to Ivy—and drove to Morningside. The mansion seemed as grand as ever and not the least bit ominous now.

  But, for some reason, I no longer wanted to be the lady of the house with a parasol as we climbed the staircase. Maybe because it was true what they said about the grass being greener. Right now I only wanted my little apartment back in Bleu Bayou, with its one bedroom and tiny kitchen, not to mention neighbors next door.

  We walked down the hall to the dining room, where someone else stood at the maître d’ stand. Charles had probably returned to LSU for his morning classes. Amazing to think that soon Mr. Solomon would buy the hotel and everyone would be replaced. I couldn’t imagine Morningside without Beatrice to lead tours through the golden ballroom, or Darryl to sneak up on people in the gardens or Charles to roll up silverware all nice and tight in the dining room. Would it even be the same place without the people who made up its heart and soul?

  The new person seemed capable enough, though, as she briskly led us to my favorite table by the picture window.

  “Care for some water?” The girl lifted a pewter pitcher from the table next to ours.

  “Yes, please,” I said. “So, is Charles back at school?”

  “I don’t know.” She began to pour without missing a beat.

  “Charles waited on us this weekend. The nicest guy you ever did meet.”

  “Someone told me all the waiters who were here before planned to go into business together. Think they want to start a waitstaff service to work at the banquets around here. They even have a contract with the Hollyhock Plantation down the road.”

  “A group of banquet servers for hire? That’s a great idea.”

  She returned the pitcher to the other table. “They’re supposed to work at weddings and parties. Maybe funerals too. Do you both want the breakfast buffet this morning?”

  “That depends.” Ambrose had finally shifted his attention away from the magnificent view. “What’s on it?”

  “Fresh fruit, country breads, and pastries for the cold offerings. For the hot, we have quiche Lorraine, scrambled eggs, and low-country steak.”

  “That sounds fine to me,” he said. “Missy?”

  “Me too. By the way, I’m Melissa DuBois. What’s your name?”

  The girl flinched. “You can call me Cynthia.” She retreated from us so stiffly she reminded me of a toy soldier wound too tight.

  “She didn’t seem very friendly,” I said. “What’s the harm in sharing your name?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t like it. Let’s go get some breakfast while there’s still some to be had.”

  I rose and followed him to a long table filled with chafing dishes, ewers of orange juice prettied up with some fresh-cut fruit slices and whatnot. Once we’d taken a bit of this and a bit of that, we returned to our table to find our waitress had gotten there ahead of us.

  “Can I get you two anything else?” she asked.

  “Got any ketchup for the steak?” Ambrose asked.

  “Oh, Bo!” Of all the things to ask for in a fancy restaurant. I almost pinched him on the arm, but I didn’t want him to drop his plate. Our waitress didn’t seem to mind, because she whooshed away from our table to hunt down some sauce from the kitchen.

  “Hope you haven’t insulted the chef,” I said.

  “I’m sure they don’t mind. You know it’s how I like my steak.”

  Luckily, no one ran out of the kitchen hollering for Ambrose’s head on a platter, and I went back to eating my quiche in delicate bites. When the waitress returned, the water pitcher was gone, replaced by a brand-new bottle of Heinz.

  “Here you go, sir.” She dropped the bottle on our table as if it were hot to the touch. “And how’s your quiche?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Thank you, Cynth—” I stopped short, remembering her hesitation earlier. “As a matter of fact . . . I’d love to get the recipe if you have a chance.”

  “I can do better than that. Let me get the chef out here for you.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think she’ll want to be disturbed.” And I didn’t want the chef to see a dripping bottle of ketchup on our table.

  “Nonsense,” Cynthia said. “She’s only filling in here. Normally she works as a caterer.”

  Before I could stop her, she stalked away, determined to drag the poor chef out of the kitchen. At least it
gave me time to swipe the bottle of ketchup and tuck it under my chair.

  “Imagine that!” I said. “The chef owns a catering company, so she must work at all of the fancy shindigs around here.”

  A moment later the girl returned. She led someone in a chef’s toque as tall as a wedding cake. When she stepped aside, I almost fell out of my chair backward.

  “Why, Odilia LaPorte! Shut my mouth and call me Shirley.”

  “How was your meal, ma’am?” Mrs. LaPorte grinned like the cat that up and swallowed the canary.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you? The hotel asked me to work part-time until they hire someone. Must’a heard about my catering business. Just hope I can live up to my reputation.”

  I decided to play along, since everything she’d said made perfect sense to me. “Well, ma’am, in that case . . . our meal was wonderful. Perfect, as a matter of fact.”

  “Perfect.” She repeated the word, obviously pleased. “And how was yours, sir?”

  “Real good. Just the way I like it.”

  “I like ketchup on my steak too.” She winked at me.

  I’d completely forgotten about that! No doubt Ambrose would tease me all the way home, but it was a small price to pay to see Odilia LaPorte wearing a chef’s toque, a professional apron, and a big grin.

  “Mr. Jackson?” The prickly waitress—Cynthia—had disappeared once we began to talk, but now she reappeared.

  “Yes?” Ambrose asked.

  “The night shift took a message for you. It’s waiting for you at the front desk.”

  “Lord only knows what it could be.” He sighed and pushed his chair away from the table. “What’s that saying of yours, Missy? It’s never nothin’, always somethin’? Guess that pretty much says it all.”

  The minute Ambrose left, Odilia began to tell me about her catering business. So many people had booked weddings, funerals, birthday parties, and whatnot at the old mansions in the area, which only opened for special events, that she was completely booked until fall. Which pleased me to no end; although I hoped she’d set aside a little time for us now we’d gotten reacquainted.

  “Are you headed back to town?” she asked.

  “’Fraid so. We’ve only been gone since Friday and already Ambrose’s assistant has called him more times than I can count.”

  “No matter what, let’s book a time for us to get together. I might even give you my recipe for quiche Lorraine, if you say please.” She turned away reluctantly, since we both knew it was time for her to go. “You stay in touch, now. Don’t make me wait for my son to tell me you’re here.”

  We hugged and the smell of sifted flour, cinnamon cloves, and clean cotton wafted from her apron. The minute she left, Ambrose reappeared. He wore a sly smile I couldn’t quite place.

  “Missy, you are not gonna believe this.”

  “Try me.” After everything that had happened, nothing he said could surprise me now.

  “It was the Hollyhock Plantation down the road. Someone decided to renew their vows next weekend and they forgot all about the clothes until now. They saw our web sites on the Internet, and my assistant told them we were staying here. Course I said no.”

  Nothing could surprise me, except for that. “Why in the world would you say no?”

  “Let’s see.” Ambrose waggled his fingers, prepared to count down at least ten reasons. “First of all, it’s a miracle you didn’t faint when you ran into Wyatt in the hall.” Down went his thumb. “Then, we all know you could’ve gotten yourself killed when you hunted down Cat like that.” Sure enough, his index finger folded next. “Third—”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.” As a matter of fact, I had some numbers of my own to recite. “How about this?” I pointed my index finger straight at him. “Maybe—just maybe—we could finally have a relaxing weekend. That’s all I ever wanted. And here you go and turn down a perfectly good invitation. All on account of one or two little hiccups.”

  He chuckled. “You sure about this?”

  “Of course I’m sure. The way I see it, what could possibly go wrong if we come back to the Great River Road?”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at Sandra Bretting’s next Missy DuBois mystery

  SOMETHING FOUL AT SWEETWATER

  coming in December 2016!

  Chapter 1

  Heaven only knows I should have brought back a tote sack full of beignets that day like I’d planned, and not a sales flyer for the old Sweetwater mansion down the road.

  But how could I resist something so full up on Southern charm first thing in the morning? Especially when I rounded the last curve before Dippin’ Donuts and saw a For Sale sign waving at me from the property’s front lawn like a friendly neighbor saying hey.

  I swerved off the road, my tires spitting pea gravel and chalk dust, for a better look. Ever since I moved to Louisiana to open a hat shop, about a year and a half ago now, I’d been mesmerized by the antebellum mansions that seemed to sprout from the soil here every so often, like elegant daylilies planted in the sugarcane fields by mistake.

  This particular mansion sat high on a hill. Two regiments of live oaks lined the front walk, their limbs bearded in wispy Spanish moss and their branches arching until the boughs touched. Beyond this leafy keyhole sat the mansion, which was held aloft by at least half-a-dozen alabaster columns. Bright August sun glanced off a column to the east, as if God had wanted to shine a spotlight there, while the rest of the pillars patiently awaited their turns.

  Best of all, a Plexiglas box full of flyers rested against the For Sale sign. My granddaddy always did say it didn’t cost nuthin’ to look, so I scrambled out of my VW and retrieved a flyer, which was written in fancy cursive type: Historic mansion for sale. Built in 1850. Jewel in the rough!

  This was all well and good, but not the most important thing. I found that two paragraphs later: Owners willing to finance. Asking price: $250,000.

  Well, that can’t be right. A house this grand—surely on the National Register of Historic Places and surely as pretty inside as out—should go for double or triple that amount. A builder would kill for the columns alone, not to mention the expensive iron railing that curled along a widow’s walk on high.

  Between all that and a wide plank veranda that circled the ground floor like a hoop skirt, I figured the flyer must be lying.

  Ambrose needed to see this. Given my best friend was already at his design studio and waiting for me to bring him some beignets, though, I’d have to choose my words carefully and not go running off at the mouth. I dialed his cell and patiently waited through a few rings.

  “Hi, Missy. What’s wrong?”

  Unfortunately, that’s the greeting you got when you’ve called your best friend so early on a Monday morning. “Nothing’s wrong. Any chance you’re up for a little drive?”

  “Why?” A suspicious pause. “You didn’t run out of gas again, did you?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was driving along, minding my p’s and q’s, when I saw that old mansion on the road to the doughnut store. You remember the one? Only now it’s got a For Sale sign in the front yard, and I’m pretty sure it’s a sign from heaven.”

  His sigh said more than any words could. “Missy, everyone knows those old houses eat money. Best thing you can do is walk away.”

  That was my Ambrose—practical to a T. Whereas, I believed that more was more and never less, Ambrose was of a different mind. Bless his heart.

  In Bo’s defense, he couldn’t see the forest-green shutters that bookended perfectly spaced windows or the attic dormers that gazed over the manicured lawn with obvious approval or how the whole shebang culminated in an actual widow’s walk. Breathtaking, it was. Simply breathtaking.

  “That’s the thing.” I added my own pause for special effect. “The price is right here on the flyer. Could be a typo, but it’s a sight less than what they charge for new houses around here.”

  �
��Missy.” Out came the voice he used when he tried to protect me from myself. “Think about it. Do you know how much it’d cost to cool a place like that all summer?”

  “No.” I hadn’t even considered the more practical matters, like air-conditioning or heaters or keeping the grass green. “Wait a minute. Someone walked out on the front porch. Wonder if they’ll let me in?”

  “Missy—”

  “Gotta run. Meet me back at the rent house,” I said.

  Ambrose and I shared what the locals called a “rent house” down the road, although one day I hoped we’d share a whole lot more. I tucked the cell into my skirt pocket and hurried up the lawn. “You-hoo! You there.”

  The stranger froze. Judging by the crook of her pale neck and the wispy ponytail she’d feathered over one shoulder—which happened to remind me of the silvered moss—the old gal was about eighty or so.

  “Are you the owner?” My voice boomed in the morning quiet, but I didn’t want the stranger to hightail it back inside before we could speak. “I see it’s for sale. I’m renting a house down the road with my best friend, and I’ve driven by your property a thousand times.”

  I was rambling, but by this time, it’d be plum rude of her not to acknowledge me. That was why what happened next startled me so. Instead of giving me a proper greeting and ushering me inside the house, like any good Southerner would do, this old gal turned tail and ran back through the door lickety-split, as if I’d waved a Smith & Wesson high in the air and not a real-estate flyer.

  Well, I never. Southern hospitality, my foot!

  I stalked to the front door and began to knock, since I never did truck with bad manners. It swung open after a moment, but only because it was manned by someone new. This woman looked to be about my age, or as I liked to say, on the north side of thirty, and she wore a frothy green business suit with matching shoes. Her face seemed vaguely familiar.

  “I’m sorry about Ruby,” she said.

  “I should hope so.” It wasn’t this woman’s fault I’d run into the rudest person I’d yet to meet in Louisiana, but the old gal had wounded my pride. “I only want to peek inside.”