I began to walk away, mulling over my conversation with Herbert Solomon. Unfortunately, everything he’d said made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t Mellette be on the planning commission? She sold real estate. And any commissioner’s death would throw a group like that into chaos for at least a few weeks. Long enough for someone like him to push through a remodeling plan.
And what about his attitude? The billionaire didn’t seem too concerned with Mellette’s death. If anything, he seemed grateful for the distraction, as if she’d done him a favor by dying.
I swung open the plate-glass door and stepped outside. Bright sun glanced off the windshields of the few cars that remained, especially the oversized Rolls. I slowed as I walked past it on my way to my car.
The exterior glowed. Even the statue on the grille looked liquid. I peered through the passenger window, wondering if it was possible for the inside to look as nice. There, on the front seat, right next to his day planner, lay a sales flyer for Sweetwater. The same flyer he claimed he’d never seen. Apparently, he not only had a copy, but he’d circled the price in black pen, which meant he’d studied the thing. Why did he lie?
I leaned away from the window. It was such a small thing, really. He should’ve admitted to knowing Mellette Babineaux was the Realtor for Sweetwater, but he didn’t.
I ambled over to my car and swung open the door. As soon as I plopped onto the driver’s seat, the cell in my pocket jangled. I pulled it out and wedged it between my shoulder and chin as I started the car. “Hello?”
“Hi, Missy. It’s me.”
I hadn’t spoken to Beatrice since yesterday. She didn’t know I’d gone to Sweetwater with Ambrose, and that we’d seen an actual voodoo ceremony. “Thank God you called, Bea. You won’t believe what Ambrose and I—”
“Uh, Missy?” Her voice was strained. “It might have to wait. We have a little . . . um . . . situation on our hands.”
I quickly took the phone away from my shoulder while the car idled. “What do you mean . . . situation?”
“One of the brides—” Before she could say more, a crack sounded as her phone smacked against something hard. She must have laid it on the counter.
“Beatrice? You pick up your phone right now!”
Thankfully, she came back on the line. “Sorry about that. You’ve got to get back to the studio, Missy.” Her voice sounded tight; not like the Beatrice I knew.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Just a second.” Another crack as she laid the phone down again.
“Stop doing that! Get back on the line right now!”
“I’m back.” She whispered into the receiver. “One of your brides came in this morning and she’s screaming bloody murder.”
“First things first. Who is it, and what’s the problem?”
“Jennalee Prudhomme. The one who’s getting married on the Dixie Queen.”
My stomach lurched. I’d met several bridezillas in my day, but Jennalee took the cake. She’d arrived at our first appointment with a year’s worth of Modern Bride magazines and dissected each and every wedding photo from top to bottom. It took her almost two hours to do that, which was when I realized that time meant nothing to her. At least not other people’s time.
“Sugar! What’s wrong now? Let me guess . . . her white lace isn’t white enough.”
“Worse.” Bea’s voice dropped even lower. “Turns out she went to a wedding this weekend. Guess what the bride was wearing?”
“Please don’t tell me she had the same type of hat.”
In the end, Jennalee had picked a flower and lace fascinator with a birdcage veil. The Alençon lace came from Switzerland and Swarovski made the crystals for the veil. The whole thing ended up costing a thousand dollars, which she happily charged to her daddy’s credit card.
“How can that be?”
“She said it was an exact match. Brought hers in here and dumped it on the floor. Thought she was gonna have a temper tantrum right in the middle of the store.”
I ran my hand across my eyes. “Sounds like she’s lost it.”
“She wants to see you too. Said she would’ve come yesterday, but the family’s jet wasn’t available. How quick can you get here?”
I thought about lying and pretending to be in a meeting, but only for a second. Instead, I glanced at the clock on my dash. “It’s a little after ten. Tell her I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Okay. But if she tries to hold her breath, I might have to throttle her.”
Chapter 10
Of course, a convoy of tanker trucks clogged the highway since I was in a hurry now. A slow-moving Peterbilt, a water-spray truck, and a shiny Liquid Transport freightliner all lumbered along beside me and wedged me in, but I made it to the off-ramp anyway and whizzed past the retaining wall.
Soon the parking lot for the Factory appeared. Apparently there was a problem here too, since a line of cars waited to enter. I pulled in behind a tiny Smart car and fiddled with the air-conditioner until it was my turn. When I reached the front of the line, the problem became obvious: a candy-apple red Mercedes had blocked the loading zone and forced everyone else to swerve around it on their way in.
I finally veered around the troublemaking Benz and cruised the lot for a few minutes until I found a parking space. Then I hurried to Crowning Glory and paused to catch my breath in front of the studio’s window.
On the other side of the glass Jennalee Prudhomme, with a high ponytail and skintight blue jeans, stood with Beatrice by the cash register. She stomped her foot a few times, and the sole of her Christian Louboutin pump flashed red like a warning sign. She didn’t seem to notice she’d almost smashed the expensive fascinator that now lay on the ground.
I plastered a smile on my face and swung open the door. “Hello, there.” I casually walked to the counter, scooping up the fascinator at the same time.
Jennalee wheeled on me. “Well, well, well. Did we wake you?”
Little does she know I’ve been up for hours. “I’m sorry, but I had some business in town. I understand you’re not happy with your order?”
“Look at it!” She pointed at the hat, the diamond ring on her left hand flashing. It was three carats, at least, or about as much as I paid to rent the studio for an entire year. “How am I supposed to wear this thing when every other girl in Louisiana has the same one?”
Beatrice opened her mouth until I shot her a warning look. Of course Jennalee was exaggerating, but pointing it out would only make things worse. Much better to catch flies with honey than with vinegar, as my granddaddy would say.
“There, there. Let’s see what we can do.”
I escorted Jennalee through the studio and over to a pair of comfy armchairs in the back. I’d slipcovered the plump cushions in white taffeta and hung a dainty chandelier above our heads. Beside the chairs was a carved armoire that held hair combs, pearls, and silk stockings; its doors closed by a beautiful antique tassel spun from glass and layered in velvet.
Many times I’d tried to close up shop for the night, only to find a bridesmaid or two napping in the homey sitting area.
Unfortunately, Jennalee did not look sleepy. She perched on the edge of her armchair with her legs crossed. “I was so mortified, I coulda’ died.”
I subtly nodded to Beatrice as I sat, who retreated to the break room to grab a water bottle for our guest. “We’ll get you some water. Now, I understand another bride had your exact design. I must say I was surprised, since yours was a custom order.”
Jennalee wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she eyed the chandelier, the chairs, the curio cabinet . . . anything but me and her very expensive hat. “I know. That’s what I thought. Couldn’t believe it when I saw it coming down the aisle.” She sniffled. “Course I didn’t see any flowers on hers. Or that lace stuff on the front. And maybe it was a lot shorter. But other than that, it was an exact match! Which your little helper didn’t seem to think was such a problem.”
Thankfully, Beatrice hadn’t eme
rged from the break room yet, and she couldn’t hear Jennalee. When she finally reappeared a few seconds later, she passed me a water bottle, which I gave to Jennalee.
“Here. Let’s see what we can do.”
The girl unscrewed the cap and chugged from the bottle as I held the fascinator to the light. Come to think of it, I should’ve asked Beatrice to bring a fifth of Jack Daniel’s instead of Aquafina.
All the while, the fascinator sparkled prettily in my hand, like a starburst twinkling under the light. Instead of simple netting, I’d used Alençon lace dusted with Swarovski Wild Heart crystals and then added silk roses at the crown. I’d cut and pleated each rose petal using silk habatoi, which took the better part of a day, if I recalled correctly. The finishing touch was a cascade of coque and hackle feathers that drifted downward.
“It’s got to be perfect,” Jennalee said. “Otherwise, I’ll be the laughingstock of the country club.”
My mind swirled as I appraised the hat. I’d run up against something similar in the not-so-distant past. Only then I’d held a hat under the harsh glare of a spotlight while technicians swirled around me as they adjusted rigging for a fashion show. Models with makeup kits and garment bags whooshed by me in the memory. Even now my heart raced when I thought about it.
The whole thing had started on a whim. I’d visited a local church near Morningside Plantation the morning after my bride was found murdered there. The church desperately needed money, and since Ambrose and I suddenly had free time on our hands, we volunteered to produce a fashion show. Or—as Ambrose liked to remind me—I volunteered us to produce a fashion show . . . with less than thirty hours to spare.
Somehow, it all fell into place, until the garment bags arrived that night and I realized my favorite hat had gone missing. I’d reserved it for the big finale and the newspaper’s photographs afterward, which meant I’d have to rework one of the other hats now.
Sometime between the start of the fashion show and the closing number, I was forced to create a masterpiece using only what I could scrounge up backstage.
Never one to panic, Ambrose had helped me by intercepting one of the first models after she strutted the runway. He plucked the hat from her head the minute she walked past the curtain, and then he passed it to me with a wink. “Do your magic.”
And I did. With only a pair of scissors, a yard of iridescent taffeta, and a handful of compacts from the models’ makeup kits, I created a design worthy of a center spread in Stylist Magazine, if I did say so myself.
First, I gathered the taffeta into dozens of tiny tassels. Then I splintered the mirrors I’d found in the compacts and glued the shards between the folds of fabric. I took extra care to glue fabric all around the bits of mirrors, so as not to scratch the model’s face.
The minute she stepped under the stage lights, the tassels glittered as if showered with snowflakes. The audience began to murmur about the design, which was simple, yet stunning.
My eyes traveled to Jennalee now and then to the armoire behind her. Of course. I rose and silently walked to the cabinet. But instead of opening the doors, I unwound the heavy glass-and-velvet tassel that bound the handles.
I’d spied the trimming in the window at Keil’s Antiques in New Orleans. It’d cost a fortune, but the salesperson explained it once belonged in an eighteenth-century salon in Paris.
I sank into the armchair with the hat and the tassel now, back in my studio. Beatrice seemed to read my mind, because she brought over some hatpins and Sticky Tack we kept at the front counter, and all the while Jennalee kept talking.
“Your dress is a sweetheart neckline, right?” I asked, once she finally paused for breath. At the same time, I pinned the tassel’s cord to a comb hidden under the headpiece.
“Yeah, it is.” Jennalee sniffled again. “A Pnina Tornai. Custom-made and everything.”
When I finished temporarily securing the tassel, I took a handful of glass beads we kept in a bowl for decoration and began to layer them into the headband, using Sticky Tack to hold them in place for now.
I could feel Jennalee’s eyes on the top of my head as I bent over the hat. When I finished attaching the beads, I flipped the tassel forward and turned to face her. The antique tassel exploded with tiny bursts of light when it caught the reflection of the chandelier.
“It’s sooo pretty.” Jennalee breathed the words.
“And the tassel’s from the 1700s,” I said. “A French baron owned it.” Now, that may or may not have been the truth, but my fib seemed to work, because Jennalee’s eyes grew to three times their normal size.
“Gorgeous!” She grabbed the hat out of my hands and raced to a three-sided mirror on the wall. After ripping out her ponytail holder, she jammed the fascinator into place. “I love it! I have to have it.”
My shoulders relaxed. I’d managed to tame another bridezilla using a bit of fabric, a touch of sparkle, and a dash of imagination. “I’m so glad you like it.”
“Finally, something’s gone right. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense I’ve had to put up with.” Jennalee swished her head this way and that as she spoke, the tassel brushing her cheek each time. “Just last month I got a call about my reception. Can you believe it? Last month!”
“You’re having it on the Dixie Queen, right?”
“Yes, indeed. But they had the nerve to call and ask if I’d mind sharing it for the evening.” Finally satisfied, she glanced away from the mirror. “They wanted me to loan the downstairs to some stupid auction house around here for the night. Of course, I told them no.”
That caught Beatrice’s attention. “Hey . . . I’ve heard about that auction house. Don’t they sell antiques on the deck of the riverboat? Really cool ones too.”
Jennalee didn’t answer at first, since she was so busy fingering the tassel’s fringe. “They could sell off the Statue of Liberty for all I care. I’m not gonna share that riverboat with anyone. It’s like the devil himself is trying to ruin my big day!”
“You poor thing,” I murmured.
After tossing her head a final time, Jennalee reluctantly whisked off the fascinator and handed it to me. “How soon can you sew everything in place?”
“I’ll start on it now. Is that soon enough?”
“Perfect. And I have a new magazine in my car for me and this one to read.” She jerked her head to Beatrice. “I’ll just run out to my Benz and get it. Won’t take me but a second since I got the best parking space in the whole lot.”
Of course . . . the candy-apple red Mercedes in the loading zone. I should’ve expected as much.
* * *
It took me an hour to restructure the fascinator to carry the weight of the tassel. When I finished, I emerged from the workroom and presented it to Jennalee with a flourish. “There you go. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
She had trapped Beatrice in the sitting area with her bridal magazine and Beatrice looked ready to kiss me on the spot. I made a mental note to pay her time-and-a-half on her next paycheck for the pain and suffering.
Praise the Lord, we’d soon be free of Jennalee. I gently wrapped her fascinator in acid-free tissue, placed it in a hatbox, and gave it to her. Then I guided her to the front door with my hand firmly on her elbow. We’d almost made it too, when Beatrice spoke up.
“You never told us what happened with the auction. Did they cancel it?”
“What?” Jennalee stopped, and the hatbox banged against her thigh. “Think they’re gonna have it at someone’s office around here. To be honest, I couldn’t care less as long as they don’t have it on my riverboat.”
I held the door open for her and she sailed out. The bang of the door behind her sounded downright heavenly.
“Hallelujah. She’s gone.”
“That one’s a piece of work.” Beatrice leaned over the counter as she paged through our calendar for the week. “But your solution was brilliant.”
“I copied it from one of my other designs.” I wandered back to the counter, the
tension leeching from my shoulders. “Back then I used shredded fabric for the fringe.”
“Whatever it takes.” Beatrice glanced down again. She’d scribbled notes on the margins of the calendar; a jumble of letters, dollar signs, and doodles. “You got some calls while that one was yakking away. Don’t think she even realized I took ’em while she was talking. Most of them were salespeople, but you got a few important ones too. Vinnie said to tell you he mailed the organza you wanted. He’s sorry about the delay.” She looked at her notes again. “And a cop called and said he’s a friend of yours. Something about a search warrant this afternoon. What’s that all about?”
To be honest, I’d forgotten about Lance. I vaguely remembered telling him I wanted to visit Ruby Oubre’s house again, but that seemed like ages ago. “His name is Lance LaPorte. I’ll tell you about it after I call him back.”
“You might want to get something to eat first. You look kinda pale.”
Why does everyone insist on telling me that? First Grady, who made up for the comment with doughnut holes, and now Beatrice. “You’re the second person who’s told me I look bad. Can’t a girl lose a little sleep around here without everyone noticing?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Let me get you a sandwich or something.”
“Okay. But nothing messy, please. I’ll have to eat it in the car on my way to the police station.”
“You got it. The bakery opens at eleven.”
Beatrice went back to studying our schedule, and I pulled out my cell and dialed Lance’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Hi, Missy. You musta got my message.”
“Uh-huh. I was dealing with a bridezilla. What’s up?”
“They came through with a search warrant for Ruby Oubre’s place. You still want to go with me?”
I checked the digital clock on the cash register. It was almost eleven, so the heat and humidity would be at full throttle. “Guess so.” At least I’d worn brown flats today that would hide the Louisiana mud. “Good thing I’m not wearing sandals.”
“I don’t care what you wear, as long as you let me do most of the talking.”
Something Foul at Sweetwater Page 10