“Rules say they’ve got twenty-four hours to write it once we’ve transported a body. But like I said, they didn’t find any blunt-force trauma.”
I remembered finding Mellette in the garden shed with Ambrose. Puddled under the windowsill in her business suit, which looked clean. “I believe it. She didn’t look like she’d been attacked. But what about toxins?”
“That’s the thing. We won’t get a tox report back for six weeks or so, but the coroner’s calling this one a negative autopsy.”
“A what?”
“It means he didn’t find anything wrong with the body. The ME did a good job too. I was there when he cracked her open.”
“Eww.” I scrunched up my nose.
“Sorry about that; but it’s what we call it. The coroner checked her organs for damage. Nothing. Her heart looked good, her kidneys were fine. Then he checked her eyeballs.”
“Her eyeballs?”
“For suffocation. The blood vessels behind ’em burst when there’s no air. We call it tiki eyes.”
“You guys have a weird sense of humor.”
“Guess you get desensitized to it after a while.” He exhaled loudly. “But she wasn’t suffocated, either. Too bad I can’t wave a magic wand over this-here report and come up with something more conclusive than that.”
Lance’s mention of magic wands spurred another memory. The night before, while driving home with Ambrose, we’d seen a pulsing light behind Sweetwater. It was an otherworldly bonfire, where a woman danced with a snake over her head before tossing it into the nearby woods.
“You need to know something,” I said. “Ambrose and I stopped by Sweetwater after we left your mama’s restaurant last night.”
“Now why would you do that?” This time he looked put off. “That’s a crime scene, Missy. You can’t go running around there. You could’ve—”
“Hush a minute.” Thank goodness we had such a long history together, so I knew he wouldn’t take offense. “We happened to see something behind the house, so we stopped. Don’t scowl at me like that. What’d you want us to do? Ignore a huge bonfire burning behind the property?”
Finally, he stopped grimacing.
“That’s better. Anyway, we went around to the back to check out the light. Never thought we’d find a bunch of people there. This one gal had a poor snake over the fire, and she sang in something that sounded like Creole.”
“You know that was a voodoo ceremony, right? They don’t want strangers there. And it was probably Mother Belle you saw.”
“I know all about her. Your mom told me. But there’s more. I recognized one of the guys in the crowd. It was Hollis Oubre . . . Ruby’s grandson.”
“Now that’s interesting.” Lance’s eyes narrowed. “He’s on probation from juvie hall, so he’s not supposed to be trespassing anywhere. Who else have you told?”
“No one. Well, no one but Ambrose.”
“Good.” Lance gave the coroner’s report a slap. “Don’t tell anyone else what happened at Sweetwater until I can talk to Ruby and Hollis. I don’t want them to hear about it before I can get out to their place.”
“Can I come too?”
He looked at me askance. “Now why’d you want to do that?”
“Ambrose recorded Mother Belle singing on his cell phone. I’d like to play it for Ruby. I’m pretty sure it was in Creole.” I started to speak again, until I remembered something. “Rats! I need to stop by Ambrose’s studio and get his phone back.”
“I was gonna tell you no, but it might be interesting to see what that recording’s all about.” Lance reached for a telephone on his desk. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll try to get a search warrant for Miss Ruby’s place, and you can come with me. But you gotta promise to behave.”
“Scout’s honor. And thanks.” Finally, I relaxed enough to lean back. “Maybe we can finally get that cup of coffee when you’re done with your call.”
“No, this might take a while.” He held the receiver in the air. “You can either sit tight or get something done in the meantime.”
“Hmmm.” Funny, but all of our talk about breakfast and such had made me want that cup of coffee more than ever. Especially since I’d only slept five hours or so, which wasn’t nearly enough. “Okay. I’m gonna get some coffee. Do you want anything?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I have to start this process so we can get out there this morning. I’ll grab something later.” He shot me a funny look. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I can start on this.”
“Okay, okay. I can take a hint.” I rose, my eyes still drawn to the folder on the desk. “Just once I wish you’d let me read a coroner’s report without me having to beg for it.”
“Maybe next time.”
I made my way to the door, my shoulders shrinking under my thin cotton blouse. “And why don’t you tell that headquarters of yours to turn the air-conditioning off in here while you’re at it?” I threw the words over my shoulder. “I’m frozen solid.”
I turned to see him roll his eyes. Yes, we most certainly had a history together.
Chapter 9
My shoulders began to relax the minute I stepped into bright sunshine. I made my way to the car, yanked the door open, and sat on the warmed driver’s seat. A quick glance at the dash told me it was 8:30 and already edging up to 85 degrees. Welcome to summer in the South. Where a girl could freeze one minute and melt the next.
I pulled away from the lot and headed for the highway. Traffic was blessedly light today, and I had no problem merging into a lane. Normally I had to negotiate my way around a swaying oil tanker with its grinding gears, jostling axles, and squeaking air brakes.
Within minutes, I’d pulled off the road and arrived at my destination. Dippin’ Donuts had the best coffee in town, not to mention the quirkiest atmosphere. It was housed in a 1950s bungalow topped by a giant neon sign shaped like an arrow. TASTY D-LITES, read the shaft. Also attached to the roof was a striped metal awning that stretched over a drive-through lane that no one ever used, since everyone came to the doughnut shop for the conversation as much as the crullers.
Once Grady, the owner, had bought the place, he pretty much left it alone and eventually stopped tugging at the weeds that appeared in the cracks between the drive-through’s concrete.
A handful of cars sat on the lot today, including Grady’s two-tone pickup. What caught my eye, though, was an enormous sedan that straddled two parking spaces near the entrance. Sleek as a Gulfstream jet, its hood gently inclined as it offered up a hood ornament of a winged woman poised for flight. I knew at a glance who owned it. But whatever could Herbert Solomon be doing at Dippin’ Donuts on a Tuesday morning?
I parked near the Rolls and scooted around its massive hood on my way into the bakery. The aroma of fried dough, sugar frosting, and coffee grounds greeted me as I entered.
Grady stood behind the display case this morning, wearing a white apron and a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his tattoos. His elbows rested on the glass, which showed off the newest one: a giant whisk on his right bicep.
“Hey, Grady.” I walked up to him and he straightened.
“Hi, Missy.”
Somehow he made the ordinary chef’s apron look sexy. Even though he definitely wasn’t my type—my type being big-city boys like Ambrose—he did have a charming smile and those toned biceps. “Got any coffee left?”
“Think I do.” He turned and pulled a carafe from the Bunn machine. “You’re in luck. I still have half a pot.” He swirled the carafe a few times before pouring some into a Styrofoam cup and passing it to me.
“All the coffee drinkers must be at work already.” I smiled and rummaged through my pocket for change.
“Don’t worry about it.” He waved my efforts away. “It’s on the house. If you don’t mind my saying . . . you look kinda rough this morning. Late night?”
I groaned. “Is it that obvious? Maybe I should have used more Maybelline concealer.”
“No, it’s not
obvious.” He seemed to regret having made the remark. “But your eyes look tired.” He grabbed a paper sack and ducked behind the case. When he reappeared, the sack bulged with doughnut holes. “Here . . . my treat. Didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I know you didn’t.” I willingly accepted his offering, even though Ambrose had spoiled me rotten with breakfast not long before. At this rate I was going to be fatter than a tick if I didn’t watch out.
“You never did answer my question, though,” he said. “Anything wrong?”
“Just a lot on my mind. Speaking of which—” I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, Herbert Solomon had unfurled a sheath of papers on a back table and was pouring over them. “What’s Mr. Solomon doing here? It’s hard to miss him with that big ol’ car of his.”
“True.” He jerked his head at the billionaire. “He’s been here all morning. Brought in some blueprints and hasn’t budged.”
My smile faded. No doubt he’d brought blueprints for Sweetwater.
“Missy?”
“Excuse me, but I’ve gotta take care of something.” I fished a dollar from my pocket and shoved it into the tip jar before Grady could stop me. “I’ll be right back.”
While I felt like dashing over to Herbert Solomon and ripping away the blueprints, I took my sweet time sashaying over to his table, where I stopped. “Why, hello there.”
He glanced up. “Hello.”
“What a nice surprise.” I hoped my smile didn’t look too forced. “Is Ivy here too?”
“No, she stayed home.”
“Mind if I have a seat, then?” I quickly sat and placed the coffee cup next to me on the laminate bench. “Don’t you look busy this morning. What is all this?”
“Obviously, they’re blueprints.”
I ignored the condescending tone. “You don’t say. You and your wife must be planning a big remodel.”
“Hell, no. We did that last year. Nearly bankrupted me.”
Since my chitchat was getting us nowhere, I casually held up the bag of doughnut holes. “Want one?” Maybe the fried balls of dough would loosen his tongue.
“Sure.” He reached across the table and plucked a doughnut hole from the bag, which he popped into his mouth.
“Grady’s a whiz with these,” I said. “Here. Have another.”
This time he pulled two from the sack. “Don’t mind if I do.” He shoved them both in his mouth and began to chew. He might be worth a billion dollars, but he also smacked his lips something awful.
Bless his heart. “So . . . what are the blueprints for?”
He finally swallowed. “I’m trying to buy another plantation around here. One that’ll work as apartments. High-end, you know.”
“That so.” My cheeks began to warm, even though Grady kept the air in here so low it reminded me of the police station.
“But I need to make a few changes first,” he said. “Place needs a new entrance and a parking lot out front.”
Lorda mercy. “All that at Sweetwater?”
“Yeah. How’d you know that’s the place I’m talking about?”
“I was there yesterday morning too. Remember?”
“Now I do. That’s when I couldn’t find the goddamn real estate agent.”
“And the property just came on the market.” The image of a bulldozer clawing at tree roots ran through my mind. “How’d you get the plans drawn up so quickly?”
“Trust me. I know all about the plantations around here. I’ve been interested in that one for a long time.” His eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you want to buy that place too?”
“Who . . . me?” I pretended to be shocked. “There’s no way I could afford it.” A little white lie never hurt anyone, especially since we both knew he could buy and sell me ten times over. “But I thought you didn’t tour it yesterday. You never know. Some of the rooms could be a wreck.” Of course they weren’t, but that was neither here nor there at this point.
“Doesn’t matter. All of those places need remodeling anyway. The rooms are never big enough and the walls have that godawful paneling. Don’t even get me started on the useless antiques. Nothing a complete reno can’t fix.”
Dawg nabbit . . . he’s put some thought into this. “But don’t you need to get changes like that approved by the National Registry of Historic Places?” Surely they wouldn’t let him destroy a hundred-year-old live oak or a beautiful mahogany panel.
“Funny you should say that.” He smirked, as if he knew I wouldn’t find it the least bit funny. “No one ever bothered to get historic status for that house. The registry can’t force private owners, you know.”
My cheeks flamed even more. He was right. It was all voluntary. People applied for historic status because they wanted to preserve a house. Sometimes for the bragging rights and sometimes after pressure from neighbors and friends. “But there must be a local planning board.”
“Sure, there’s that. But the city’s planning commission is in a mess right now. One of their directors died yesterday.”
“Died?”
“Some Realtor. Helluva time for it to happen.”
The sounds of the bakery began to fade as his words sunk in. Could it be possible? Did Mellette serve on the planning commission before she died? Come to think of it, it did make perfect sense. Planning commissions usually included builders, inspectors, and real-estate agents. “You must be talking about Mellette Babineaux.”
“Who the hell’s that?”
“The Realtor for Sweetwater. Her name was right there on the sales flyer.”
“I don’t waste my time reading those things.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It’s all advertising, anyway.”
“But—”
“Look, Miss DuBois. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. Nice to see you again.” He dismissed me with a nod.
I slowly rose, knowing he wouldn’t say anything more. “Nice to see you too.”
Somehow I made my way to the counter without spilling my coffee.
Grady stared at me. “What’d he say to you?”
“Huh? What?” I barely felt the weight of the cup in my hand.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.” I took a sip of the lukewarm coffee to buy myself some time. No need to get into a windy conversation with Grady about Sweetwater. He’d only tell me to forget about the property, like everyone else had done.
“You don’t look like he said nothing. I’m gonna go over there and give that guy a piece of my mind—”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s okay. He just told me some disturbing news, that’s all. No big deal.”
Grady wouldn’t let it drop, though. “I still think something’s up. What’d he say?”
“Look . . . Mr. Solomon’s trying to buy Sweetwater. He wants to turn it into high-end apartments. Thinks he can do anything he wants because the planning commission’s a mess right now.”
“He said that? That doesn’t make sense. The commission gave me so much stuff to do when I bought this place, it was crazy. We’re talking checklists and legal forms and so many phone calls I stopped answering ’em. That’s why I left everything here the same.”
That would explain the cheesy neon sign outside and the drive-through lane that no one ever used.
“But there’s more. You know about Mellette Babineaux, right?”
“Of course,” he said. “Everyone knows.”
“I met her yesterday, when I went to see the property.”
“You went to Sweetwater? You’re not thinking—”
“Hold on.” My granddaddy always said the best defense was a good offense. “I know what people say about the place. That it’s haunted. They practice voodoo there. And now there’s been a murder. But I tell you, Grady, it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s got a shed out back that would make a perfect design studio.”
When he didn’t reply, I shrugged. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?”
“I get it. I really do. The house is nice
to look at. But a lot of people won’t go near it. That should tell you something.”
“But you told me this building was filthy when you bought it. People probably told you to walk away from it, but you didn’t. Mr. Solomon wants to tear down the old oaks on the front lawn and pave right over the grass.”
“He said that?”
“Well, not exactly. But if he wants to add a parking lot, he’s gonna have to tear down the trees. Course I told him he’d never get away with it. But there’s more. No one ever applied for historic status for that house.”
“That would’ve been the Coxes’ job. They owned it for a long time.”
“I know. I met one of their sons—Ashley—yesterday.”
Grady grimaced. “He’s supposed to be a little shit. That’s what everyone around here says, anyway. Him and his brother went to some fancy schools back East.”
“I think Ashley went to Yale.”
“Whatever. It might as well have been Mars to hear people around here tell it. They say the kids didn’t come back until their parents died. And then only to get the money.”
“Interesting.” That would explain the expensive Rolex. “Anyway, Mellette Babineaux was the real estate agent there. And apparently on the local planning commission.”
Before I could say more, a little girl wearing turquoise cowboy boots wiggled her way between me and the doughnut case.
“’Scuse me.” She pointed to a doughnut on the lowest shelf. “Can I have a chocolate sprinkle, please?”
Grady bent to retrieve it. “Sure, darlin.’ Now don’t eat it too fast.” He winked after he’d straightened and handed her the doughnut. “You’ll give yourself a bellyache.”
“Thanks.” She stuck out her arm and handed him a dollar.
While Grady made change, I glanced at the clock behind him. “Look, I shouldn’t even bother you while you’re working. Thanks for the coffee. And for the doughnut holes.”
“No problem.” He doled out the little girl’s change. “And don’t let Mr. Solomon get to you. That one’s slicker than snot.”
I couldn’t help but grin. Now there was an expression Ambrose would never use. “See you later.”
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 9