“I suppose. What do you want to do now?” He pulled the last item from the bag: the catnip. “Want to go back to the police station?”
“I guess so. By the way, that’s catnip, right?”
“Yep.”
“So why would she put that in there?”
“It’s supposed to make people happy too. Not just cats.”
“How would you know such a thing? Wait . . . don’t tell me.” I held up my hand. “I’ve had enough craziness for one day.”
“So, let’s go then. Before the officer from this morning gets off work.”
Truth be told, what I wanted to do was draw a nice, hot bath and wash my filthy toes, but maybe the police should be told about the crosses.
“Let me change first,” I said. “These poor clothes have been through the wringer.”
I rose from the bench and headed for the bathroom, desperate to run a washcloth over my feet and ankles. Once done, I tossed on a new shirt and a pair of shorts.
Five minutes later, I returned to the kitchen. “All set. This time I’m not going to let the officer’s age throw me for a loop. I know what I saw today, even if he acts like I’m crazy.”
Ambrose and I made our way through the living room, where he held open the front door for me. The sun had mellowed, although the air still felt thick enough to drink with a straw.
Halfway to the Audi, I stopped. “I almost forgot. I left my cell back at Sweetwater this morning. Mind if we go and get it?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers stalled over the passenger-door handle. “The police will have the place roped off. They don’t want us there.”
“But I need my phone. We might as well get it over with. And I won’t touch anything else inside. I promise.”
He went back to opening the car door and stepped aside as it swung open. “It’s also getting kinda late. Your Officer Hernandez could’ve gone home by now.”
“I know, I know. It’s not convenient. But do it for me?” I didn’t mean to pout, but somehow my bottom lip jutted out. Thankfully, Ambrose can’t-never-could tell me no, and he rolled his eyes.
“Fine. If that’s what you want.” He went over to his side of the car and dropped into the driver’s seat. “Honestly. You do have me trained, don’t you?”
“Now don’t go saying that, Bo. You’re concerned for my welfare. I think it’s sweet.”
He fumbled with the ignition before firing up the car. “That’s a nice way of saying I’m whipped.”
“Sweet,” I repeated, although he did have a point. I decided then and there to tone down the bossiness, although it was anyone’s guess how long that would last.
Silence enveloped us as we drove away from the rent house. Thick mats of kudzu rolled by, the ropey vines swallowing everything in their path, from chain-link fences to telephone poles and stop signs.
After a bit, we passed Morningside Plantation—the one owned by Mr. Solomon—which was fronted by a mile of white picket fence. The house resembled a grand wedding cake, with two tiers of sugared columns and a flat roof where someone could plop a porcelain bride and groom.
Ambrose must have enjoyed the view too, because he slowed the car.
Vvvrrrooommm. A driver behind us revved his engine, apparently not sharing our enthusiasm for the mansion next to us. Although Ambrose had picked up the pace, the car soon pulled up alongside us.
“Sugar! They’re sure in a hurry,” I said.
“That’s okay. We’ll let ’em pass. Probably on their way to Baton Rouge.”
The speeding tires created a funnel of dirt and pea gravel, but I managed to glimpse a Mississippi license plate amid all of the dust. Definitely an out-of-towner with no appreciation for history and a lead foot.
Everything returned to normal after that, and we arrived at Sweetwater within a few minutes. My heart sank when the car came to a stop, though. Yellow Day-Glo caution tape wound in and around the gorgeous old oaks, culminating in a giant X between the two front columns nearest the door. Did it have to be so ugly? Even the ever-present kudzu would have been better than this.
“Now, that’s just pitiful,” I said.
“So, what do we do?”
“I guess we go to the kitchen.”
Although I hadn’t mentioned it, I had another reason for wanting to return to Sweetwater: Somehow I felt responsible for it. As if the mansion needed me. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth. By this time, at least five generations of messy toddlers and hell-bent kids had careened through the property, not to mention assorted dogs and cats. Even Civil War soldiers had bloodied the dirt with their muskets and gunpowder. But silly or not, I wanted to watch over it.
I climbed out of the Audi and hurried up the lawn. Couldn’t they at least have been more careful when they threaded the tape through the columns? Someone had used jagged strips of duct tape at the X’s corners, which made them look like silver Band-Aids on a fluorescent dressing.
I paused, and not just because of the catawampus tape, either. We weren’t the only ones on the property. Another car sat in the same spot where Herbert Solomon had parked his Rolls-Royce. A dusty car, with Mississippi license plates, of all things.
“Someone’s here,” I said.
“I can see that.” Ambrose joined me on the lawn. “Wonder who it is?”
“I think it’s the guy who passed us on the road.” I walked beyond the front door and headed around the corner of the house.
Sure enough, someone stood next to a gnarled oak, his lips curled around an electronic cigarette. The guy was in his late twenties, with blond hair shaved at the sides and a lick of it in his eyes. What really surprised me, though, was a chunk of gold that glinted on his right wrist. It was an enormous Rolex that sparkled in the sun. I’d never seen one so large or so shiny.
“Hello, there,” I said. Might as well announce myself since it was only a matter of time before he spotted me.
He lowered the cigarette. “Uh, can I help you?”
“That depends. I’m Missy DuBois, from down the road. I think you passed us on the highway.”
“Probably. I like to go fast.”
“I can tell.” I glanced behind him. “Do you know if the police ever came back?”
“No idea. Just got here myself, so I wouldn’t know.”
By this time, Ambrose had rounded the corner, and he joined us. “Hi. I see you’ve met Missy. I’m Ambrose Jackson.” He held out his hand to the stranger.
“Ashley Cox. I’m the owner here.” The guy clicked off the cigarette and pocketed it before shaking Ambrose’s hand.
“Really? If you don’t mind my saying, you look a little young to own this place,” Ambrose said.
He shrugged. “It was my parents’. My brother and I took over their trust when they died.”
“That’s too bad about your parents,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He tossed off the comment with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, well, it’s been a while. I left for college, and then my brother moved out. We didn’t come back much after that.”
I purposefully softened my tone. “Such a pity. But surely you must have heard about what happened here this morning.”
“The police told me. Said something about finding a body at the house. That’s all I know.”
“It was Mellette Babineaux, your real estate agent. But . . . you must have known her.”
He shook his head. “I never met her. Not once. We did everything by text. Same thing, really.”
It wasn’t the same thing at all, but that was neither here nor there at this point.
“So, where’s your brother?” Ambrose asked.
“Beats me. I think he’s in Colorado. He wants me to handle this mess, like I handle everything else.” The words dripped with sarcasm.
“Hmmm.” The conversation had turned a little dark. “Say . . . I went inside your house this morning,” I said. “My favorite part—”
“Look.” He pulled away from the oak. “I’m sor
ry, but I don’t have a lot of time. The cops want me to check out the house and tell ’em if I see anything different. Hell if I’d know. I haven’t been back in ten years.”
Ambrose took the hint. “We won’t keep you, but we left something inside. Mind if we go get it?”
“Suit yourself. The back doors aren’t taped.”
We walked to a set of French doors with Ashley leading the way. He pulled a key ring with a Yale crest from his pocket and then jammed a key into the lock.
I walked behind him as the door swung open. Only shapes and shadows were visible in the dim light, but then he flipped on a light switch, and fat magnolias bloomed on the wallpaper. We stood in the dining room, with its exquisite chandelier and antique porcelain.
“You have such gorgeous things.” I absentmindedly reached for a teacup on the table until I remembered my promise to Ambrose not to touch anything but my cell phone. My finger recoiled as if the cup was hot.
“These things didn’t belong to us,” Ashley said. “The real estate agent told me she was gonna bring in a stager. Probably bought all of this stuff at a store around here.”
“Really.” Somehow that changed everything. Now the china cups didn’t look quite so shiny, or the oil painting on the wall so exquisite. In fact, it was probably a poster from the local Hobby Lobby, now that I had a chance to examine it. My eyes flew to the cut-glass chandelier above my head.
“Plastic,” he said. “We sold most of my mom’s stuff after she passed away.”
Ambrose hadn’t said a word, although I knew what he was thinking. He was probably wondering why I’d fallen so hard and so fast for a house I knew so little about. Like how the family china probably came from Tuesday Morning, or how the “crystal” chandelier was really plastic.
“Guess it’s time to get my cell.” I faked a smile. “I’ll just pop into the kitchen and get it.”
“Here.” Ashley reached out to stop me. “Let me go first. All the lights are off.”
He darted in front of me and began to walk toward the kitchen. I followed, while Ambrose stayed behind.
At least the kitchen up ahead looked authentic. The heavy soapstone counter still looked like it’d been there forever. Ditto for the tin ceiling tiles that stretched from one edge of the room to the other. Not to mention the mosaic tiles above the sink, which had given me a welcome distraction while I waited for a police officer.
I spied my cell on the counter. “There it is.” Someone—probably Officer Hernandez—had pushed it into the corner.
“Well, there you go.”
Casually, I dropped the phone into the pocket of my shorts. “So when did your parents buy this place?”
“They didn’t buy it. My grandfather gave it to them for a wedding present. He got it from his dad. Guess we’re done in here.”
Ashley kept glancing at the doorway to the kitchen as if he couldn’t wait to leave. But I was hungry for more information. “Aren’t you sorry to see it go? Imagine all the history that took place here.”
“I guess. But it’s only business.”
Cccrrraaassshhh! Before I could say more, something banged in the hall. Something loud and hard and hollow, like a bowling ball falling on a pine alley.
“What the—”
We both sprinted out of the kitchen. I skidded to a stop when I reached the foyer and saw Ambrose leaning over the floor with a rolled-up carpet next to his feet. He held a curved ruler—of all things—in his hand, and he straightened when he saw me.
“Sorry.” He sheepishly pocketed the tailor’s tool. “Couldn’t help myself when I saw the trapdoor. Didn’t think it’d slam shut like that.”
I glanced down. Although it was dark, four lines appeared in the hardwoods near Ambrose’s feet, where someone had carved the trapdoor. “What does it lead to?”
Ambrose didn’t answer. And that was when I remembered his admonition not to touch anything. “Ambrose Jackson. I thought we weren’t supposed to touch anything. What exactly did you do?”
“Couldn’t help myself. And I happened to have my tailor’s ruler on me.”
“That’s no reason—”
“You found it.” Ashley’s voice was soft.
I wheeled around. “What exactly did he find?”
“The trapdoor leads to a storage box. My parents installed it.”
“Really?” Ambrose shot him a funny look, which I couldn’t quite place. “It’s empty now.”
“Yeah, well, my mom was a compulsive cleaner. Probably hauled everything out before she passed away.”
“A real trapdoor.” Wonder tinged my voice. Now the store-bought china and plastic chandelier didn’t seem quite so important. “How many houses have one of those?”
“Not many,” Ambrose said.
“Well, it’s getting late.” Ashley made a big show out of checking his enormous Rolex. “No harm done. But it’s time for me to close up the house.”
“No problem,” Ambrose said. “And we’ve got to go to the police station. Nice to meet you. Give us a shout if you need anything while you’re in town.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
Somehow I knew he wouldn’t take Ambrose up on the offer. “Ambrose is right. We’re just down the road. And one more thing.” Even though this might not be the time nor the place, something else had been bugging me. “You might want to slow down when you drive around town. You don’t want to get a speeding ticket.”
Chapter 5
Ambrose and I left the mansion the same way we’d entered it: through a side door.
I finally turned to him when we reached the Audi. “All right, Ambrose Jackson. Spill it. You’ve been dying to tell me something. It’s written all over your face.”
“You know me too well.” He opened my car door before walking around to the driver’s side. “That guy is lying, Missy. There’s no way his family put in that trapdoor.”
I slid into the passenger’s seat and waited for him to join me in the car. “Now how could you possibly know that?”
“Easy. The hinges were cast iron. That’s why the door banged so loudly when I let it go.”
I must’ve looked confused because he leaned toward me.
“Cast iron,” he repeated. “Not stainless steel. Everyone started using stainless steel when it came out in the sixties. Those hinges are original to the house.”
I studied his face, only inches from mine. His beautiful blue eyes looked serious now. “Wow. But what if Ashley didn’t know any better? What if he just assumed his parents added it?”
“No, there’s more to the story than that. He’s hiding something.” Ambrose straightened and turned on the car’s engine.
“What do you know?” I tried to stifle a grin, without much luck. “Usually I’m the suspicious one, not you. What makes you say that?”
“That door was lined in lead.” Though Ambrose somberly watched the road, his thoughts seemed a million miles away. “Which means they were worried about fire. Now, why would they worry about fire so much?”
“The house is made of wood. You know how paranoid people were about kitchen fires back then.”
“But the kitchen’s in the back of the house. No, there’s more to it than that. And the house was built around the time of the Civil War. Maybe it had something to do with that.”
“Cool! But why wouldn’t Ashley admit it? Why would he lie to us?”
“Beats me.”
Come to think of it, Ashley did seem desperate to escape the house once Ambrose discovered the trapdoor. Maybe that was why he made a big show of checking his watch. “By the way, did you see his Rolex?”
Ambrose guffawed. “Hard to miss. Pretty fancy for a guy his age.”
“That’s what I thought. A lot of things here don’t add up. If he’s got so much money, why’s he in a panic to sell the house?”
“Good question.”
“No matter what, I don’t think he liked me very much.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Ambrose made a
hard left. “Of course he liked you. He kept checking you out whenever you turned around. I caught him two or three times. Would’ve punched him if he did it again.”
Now my grin blossomed into a full-blown smile. Not because of Ashley—I didn’t care about him—but because of Ambrose’s reaction. “Why, Ambrose Jackson. You sound jealous. That guy is young enough to be my kid brother. He also had a Yale key ring, so he’s practically a Yankee.”
“Really?” His tone was teasing. “But if you marry him, you could get that big old house in the bargain. He could be Rhett, and you could be Scarlett O’Hara.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ashley was the one Scarlett wanted, not Rhett.” Which was highly ironic, given the guy’s name.
“Whatever. You could live in that big ol’ house with your twelve kids and two nannies.”
I reached over and pinched him, since I’d heard just about enough. Maybe that would put a stop to the teasing. “How about if you drive us to the police station and leave my love life alone?”
“Whatever you say, Scarlett.”
Thankfully, he dropped the subject after that. Which left me free to think about other things, like the way my hair was beginning to stick to the back of my neck. The car felt stuffy, even with the lukewarm air blowing through the Audi’s air-conditioning vents. That was one thing about living in a small Southern town: Everything was so close together cars never had a chance to really cool down in the summertime.
I cracked my window and fiddled with the knobs on the vents. At least the air became tolerable by the time we arrived at the police substation. We drove onto the sparse parking lot and Ambrose cut the ignition.
Our car joined two others. A new Ford Focus sat in a front space; probably owned by the radio dispatcher. The second, a dirty Louisiana state police squad car, sat two rows behind. Dried mud caked that car’s undercarriage and its windshield looked like a strip of used flypaper. It couldn’t be, could it? I knew of only one police officer who’d treat his car like a sedan in a demolition derby.
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 5