Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  “I do believe Lance LaPorte is here,” I said.

  “You mean the cop from Morningside?” Ambrose sounded skeptical.

  That was many months ago, when I’d landed smack-dab in the middle of another crime scene, this time at Morningside. After I fingered the person responsible for the bride’s death, the killer tried to get me too, until Lance arrived and put a stop to that nonsense.

  “The very same.”

  Lance’s boss had promoted him to the criminal-investigations division around the same time, if I recalled correctly, and now St. James Parish must’ve called him back to investigate Mellette’s murder.

  “He’d definitely drive that car.”

  We made our way to the substation, passing under a sign that read Troop C of the Louisiana State Police. As soon as we ducked into the lobby, the sweat on my collar began to dry.

  Along with being over–air-conditioned, the room we entered was entirely beige, as if a cleaning crew had tried to bleach the color away. A row of tan filing cabinets ran along an off-white wall, behind which four battered beige desks angled to face each other.

  Maybe that was why Lance stood out in his navy-blue police uniform. He stood behind a low counter that separated visitors from employees, and I spotted him right away.

  “I knew it!” I said.

  Lance glanced up. He’d been reading from a manila file folder, which he snapped shut. “Why, Missy DuBois. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. What’re you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  When he grinned, the gap-toothed kid who sat next to me in Sunday school reappeared. The same one who ogled naked pictures of Adam and Eve in the Bible instead of memorizing verses, like we were supposed to do. I surely hoped he’d matured since then, since he now wore a shiny badge and a sinister-looking sidearm.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “What, they only call you in when there’s a murder at a fancy house?” I asked.

  “Ain’t that the truth. Let me guess . . . you had something to do with this one too?”

  I waggled my finger at him. “Don’t mock me, Lance. It’s not my fault people around me keep turning up dead. You remember Ambrose, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Hi, Bo.”

  I waited for the men to exchange nods. “Ambrose and I were the ones who found the body this morning at Sweetwater.”

  He dropped the file folder to the counter, where a foil seal on its cover glimmered prettily under the fluorescent lights. The seal of the St. James Parish coroner’s office was impossible to miss, even upside down.

  “Speaking of Sweetwater,” Ambrose said. “We came to see the officer who was at the house this morning.”

  Lance shook his head. “Sorry. He already went home. You should tell me about it, though.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But promise you won’t think we’re crazy.”

  “No guarantees. You and I go too far back for that, Missy.”

  “Very funny.” I should’ve reached across the counter and pinched him, but this didn’t seem like the time, nor the place. “Anyway, Ambrose found the strangest thing out by the body this morning. A cross. And there was blood on it too.”

  Lance cocked his head. “I saw the pictures. The responding officer took ’em before he bagged and tagged it. Looked like a plain wood cross.”

  I lowered my voice. “That’s the thing.” The dispatcher—no doubt the owner of the new Ford Focus outside—was on the other side of the room, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “You know there’s a caretaker at Sweetwater. A gal by the name of Ruby. I went to her place today.” My voice fell even further. “It was chock-full of crosses. You should’ve seen it.”

  Lance didn’t seem surprised by my news. “Yeah, we all know Ruby. We’ve been out to her place a coupla times. All domestic incidents.”

  My mind reeled back to Ruby’s mobile home, where a lanky sixteen-year-old with dirty-blond hair had emerged from the shadows. “Was her grandson involved in those?”

  “That’s confidential. Let’s just say that family has a mess of problems.”

  “But what about the crosses? Do you think the one by the body could’ve belonged to her?”

  “Hard to know. Especially ’til the prints come back. We’re waiting on those, and the coroner’s report.”

  Not that I wanted to snoop—well, maybe a little—but the shiny logo on the folder in front of me glimmered like pond water. I pointed at it. “Isn’t that the coroner’s report?”

  “No. It’s too soon for anything official,” he said. “That’s just a list of things the medical examiner will look for. Things like sexual assault, drug use, that kind of thing. Evidence that might point to someone.”

  Several images immediately began to float through my mind. Memories of people I’d spoken with, like Ruby, the caretaker and Hollis, her grandson. With Beatrice, even.

  “What about poisons?” I asked. “Someone said it looked like she could’ve been poisoned with acid because of her skin tone.”

  “It’s hard to tell. We won’t get the tox report back for several weeks, and that’s the only way to know for sure.”

  I couldn’t resist a minute longer, so I reached for the folder. “I can tell you right now the victim didn’t look like she’d been sexually assaulted.”

  “Whoa.” Lance reached for my wrist. “Right now, everything is conjecture.”

  It was happening all over again. Just like the episode at Morningside, when Lance wouldn’t give me a lick of information until he’d thought I’d earned it. He wanted to make me work for it, apparently. “Okay, I get it. But remember what I said about Ruby.”

  “I won’t count her out. But we don’t have a primary suspect at this point.”

  “By the way, the victim wasn’t on drugs.” I eased my wrist away from his hand. “She looked fine to me when I saw her this morning.”

  “Maybe she put on a good act.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t get it. We were in the same sorority and everything. She was an overachiever even back then. And she looked as healthy as a horse this morning.”

  “Let’s see what the preliminary report says, okay? Right now, you and Ambrose should go home and try to decompress. You know . . . do relaxation exercises or something.”

  “Bless your heart,” I said. “You’re quoting from one of those police manuals. But I get it. Just let us know if you need help.”

  “Agreed,” Ambrose said. “We got a real eyeful this morning.”

  “I’ll do that.” Lance finally seemed like his old self again. “And we need to catch up, Missy. Did you hear Mama opened her second restaurant right here in Bleu Bayou? Whoo-ee . . . that woman is on fire.”

  “I heard about that. Good for her. We can go there, or wherever else you want. You choose. I’m not picky.”

  I purposefully avoided Ambrose’s gaze just then, since I knew he’d be rolling his eyes. Instead, I threw Lance a smile and backed away from the folder.

  Chapter 6

  The late-afternoon sun felt wonderful on my shoulders after the chill of the police station. I followed Ambrose to the Audi, where he opened my door before settling into the driver’s seat.

  “That was interesting,” I said.

  “Which part?”

  Where to begin? “For one thing, the stuff the medical examiner will look for. I hadn’t even thought of assault. But I’m telling you, Mellette didn’t look like she’d been assaulted.”

  “Maybe the person assaulted her somewhere else and then brought her body back to the cottage.”

  I thought it over as Ambrose started the Audi and we pulled away from the lot.

  “But there weren’t any drag marks on the floor,” I finally said. “We would’ve noticed that with the dust. And her clothes looked fine to me. They hadn’t been messed up. Kinda looked like she was sleeping.”

  “Except for her legs.” Ambrose spoke slowly. “They were all crumpled up. And her head was at a weird angle.
”

  “That’s right. I forgot you had to stay with her until the police came. Sorry about that. But I do know Lance is wrong about drugs. Can’t imagine any sorority sister overdosing.”

  “But you haven’t seen her in—what’s it been—ten years? Maybe something happened to her after college.”

  “Don’t you think I would’ve noticed if something was wrong this morning? She was right as rain. No, I won’t even consider it.”

  Ambrose pulled into the next lane. “Lance did say he wants to meet up with you tomorrow. Maybe he’ll speak his mind when he’s away from the police station. Especially if you load him up with a big plate of food. Speaking of which, you look pale. When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”

  Sweet of him to notice. “I don’t remember. This morning? And you’re right. I’m so hungry I could eat the backside of a skunk.”

  “Me too,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”

  Good question. Although I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be so bossy in the future, Lance had reminded me of something I’d long forgotten.

  Years ago and miles away, when Lance and I were just kids, we whiled away the summer days playing slapjack at his house. Then we headed to his kitchen, since his mom made the best fried chicken on the block. Not to mention the world’s lightest butter biscuits, which twisted apart like Oreos.

  But it was the smell I remembered most. Warm butter and cooking oil, thick enough to keep us kids inside on even the most glorious summer day. Since that time, Miss Odilia had opened two restaurants, like Lance said, with one of them being down the road from us. I’d read a review in the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter, but had forgotten all about it with the hullaballoo at Sweetwater.

  Even before the review, I’d seen workers buzzing around a 1930s gingerbread house downtown. Chunks of shag carpeting and wallpapered Sheetrock had been piled up outside the front door during the transformation. At one point a massive range hood moved in and a dingy bathtub moved out. The last time I drove by, there was a sign that announced the grand opening of Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery.

  “Lance said something about his mom’s new restaurant,” I said. “She makes the best Southern fried chicken of anyone.”

  “But didn’t he want to take you there tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but it couldn’t hurt to preview it. I don’t mind going two times in a row.”

  “Okay, then. Where is it?”

  “Not too far off.”

  It wasn’t hard to find once we’d passed our shops. I pointed out two left turns and one right and, within a few minutes, we reached the parking lot.

  Compared to the fancier places in town, Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery was nothing special on the outside. The red brick walls had gone pink with age, and the same bricks covered a chimney. Over the door hung a kelly-green awning and purple window boxes bloomed with freshly planted flowers.

  But simple or not, a line of cars zigged and zagged through the parking lot. We weren’t the only ones curious about the new restaurant. By the time we joined the lineup and found a parking space, my stomach gurgled like a teapot brought to a boil.

  I practically raced to the front door, notwithstanding my pledge to be less feisty in the future. An old man held the door open for me, apparently the last person in a line that snaked all the way to a hostess stand.

  Ambrose frowned. “Think Lance’s mother can help us out here?”

  “I don’t know. She might not even be here. She’s got the other restaurant too.”

  Glumly, I eyed the crowd. Most of the people around us were grouped in families, like the senior who’d helped me with the door. He was surrounded by a group of teenagers, who I guessed to be his grandchildren. A few steps ahead a young mother held a drooling infant propped over her shoulder.

  “You stay here,” Ambrose said. “I’ll go to the front and see what the wait’s like.”

  “Yes, sir.” Normally I would’ve saluted too, but this didn’t seem like the time, nor the place. Instead, I dug in my heels and surveyed the line again.

  Turned out the man standing in front of me was a Navy veteran, according to an emblem on his bomber jacket. His grandkids were all a foot taller, and they crouched forward whenever the old man spoke. Meanwhile, the baby up ahead gummed a Saltine cracker until it became a messy paste.

  I couldn’t see anyone else in line. Only when the baby pitched forward in her mother’s arms did I spy the next customer, who wore a dress shirt covered with gold and purple fleurs-de-lis. It looked like something LSU’s mascot might cough up after licking its fur. Where had I seen that hideous pattern before? And then I remembered. The break room, on a calendar Beatrice had tacked to the wall. The one with her uncle, Hank Dupre.

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  Stretching on my tiptoes, I peered around the senior in the bomber jacket. It was Hank Dupre all right, and he stood beside a guy with the strangest haircut: bushy on top and shaved clean at the sides. It was Ashley Cox. But didn’t Ashley say he didn’t know anyone in town?

  “Hey, I’m back.” Ambrose returned, looking a little winded.

  “Hallelujah. Now go back up there and talk to the hostess or something. I need a minute to check out a hunch.”

  “Why would I do that? It’s a madhouse up there.”

  “Because.” I pulled him close. “Look up ahead, just past the baby. That godawful shirt in purple and gold. It’s Hank Dupre, Beatrice’s uncle. He’s the one who loaned us the boat today.”

  “What do you know.” Ambrose chuckled. “That’s quite a shirt. We could go say hello, but after we eat.”

  “There’s more.” I yanked him closer. “Look again. Do you see who he’s talking to? It’s Ashley Cox, from the house. The guy who told us he didn’t know anyone here.”

  “Guess he knows at least one person.”

  “But don’t you think that’s strange?” I asked. “And it’s Beatrice’s uncle, of all people.”

  Ambrose blew out a puff of air. “Maybe they have a family connection. And didn’t you say the uncle’s a real estate agent? Could be he just wants the listing for Ashley’s house.”

  “Maybe. But it’s awfully soon after Mellette’s death for someone to come sniffing around for one of her listings.” Though, to be honest, her uncle had given me his business card when I mentioned my interest in Sweetwater. Maybe Ambrose was right. Maybe the meeting was purely business, after all.

  “Excuse me.” A figure rushed past, heading into the restaurant, shoving me into Ambrose’s side.

  “Lorda mercy!” I said.

  The culprit, a waiter in a black apron and a pressed white shirt, suddenly stopped. “I’m sorry, but I’m late.”

  In addition to the black-and-white getup, streaks of silver shot through the guy’s dark hair.

  Why, I’d know that salt-and-pepper combination anywhere. “Charles?”

  His eyes widened. “Is that you, Miss DuBois?

  He always did have nice manners. He looked more haggard since the last time we’d met, no doubt because he took classes at LSU and worked too.

  “I told you to call me Missy. And I haven’t seen you since Morningside!”

  That was a while ago, when I’d arrived at Morningside for the ill-fated wedding. As luck would have it, I sat at one of Charles’s tables in the dining room on my very first night there. Too bad Herbert Solomon had bought the mansion and fired everyone, including Charles.

  “I thought you were gonna start a waitstaff service with some of the other waiters who used to work at Morningside,” I said.

  “We did.” He shrugged listlessly. He’d definitely aged since our last meeting. “We do catering on the side. I told Miss Odilia I’d work here too. What about you?”

  At this point, the drooling baby up ahead decided to howl, so I raised my voice to compensate. “I’ve been busy. Really, really busy.”

  “Look, it’s too crowded,” Charles said. “Come with me.”

  He quickly disappeared, leav
ing me no choice but to signal Ambrose. “C’mon, Bo. You remember Charles, don’t you?”

  I dashed behind Charles as he retreated through the front door and down the walk. He moved so fast—all nervous energy—my side ached by the time we reached the rear of the house. Once there, we faced a door marked employees only, which Charles strong-armed until it opened.

  The kitchen was bright and as hot as a gas burner. A few servers walked through clouds of steam, carrying dinner plates loaded with fried chicken and what looked like spoonfuls of jelly.

  “They’ve got to fix the employees’ door,” Charles said. “That’s why I parked on the street and went through the front door.”

  Then he took off again, which meant Ambrose and I could either keep up with him or be left behind. We chose to hustle and stayed on his heels all the way through the kitchen. Finally, we passed through a swinging door that propelled us into the dining room.

  Compared to the kitchen, this room was soft and homey and quiet, with chintz curtains and polished wood tables and captain’s chairs with rounded arms.

  Diners filled the room. Only one table sat empty, and that was stuck in an awkward alcove across the way. There was barely enough headroom for someone to sit upright, but that’s where Charles pointed. “You can sit there. I have to clock in.”

  “No, we couldn’t.” I reached out to stop him, and not just because of the table’s placement. “There are too many people waiting in line. It’s not a great spot, but you should at least offer it to one of them first. Especially that poor mama with the fussy baby.”

  “But we haven’t been using it. We call it ‘no-man’s-land.’ If you don’t use it, no one will.”

  I studied his eyes, which looked sincere enough. “Promise? Okay, then. But try to get that family a table too.”

  “Okay. Back in two seconds.”

  Ambrose and I headed for no-man’s-land, while Charles went to clock in and speak to the hostess.

  I ducked under the crossbeam and settled into the captain’s chair. The table immediately wobbled. “Well, it is a table.”

  “Technically, yes.” Ambrose braced his palms on the surface to steady it. “Good thing we didn’t come here for the ambience.”