Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  “Not at all. I’ll find us a table in the back. But don’t take too long or I may have to start in on your food.”

  “Don’t you dare!” I would’ve pinched him in the arm for good measure, but the hot coffee in his hand swayed me. “I’ll be just a second. Try to behave yourself for that long.”

  He wandered away, trailing the sugary smell of fresh beignets behind him, and I turned to face Ruby. “Are you eating alone?”

  “Nah. Takin’ dem home. I gots lotsa time for breakfast now.”

  “That’s right. Guess you’re not working at Sweetwater anymore.”

  She blew out a puff of air. “Pfffttt. Deys don’ need me now. Da police have dat place all roped off. Can’t touch it ’til dey done.”

  “Well, it is a crime scene. Say, I noticed something yesterday. Something strange.” I waited for Grady to pass her some doughnuts from the case. “I was at the house. Just Herbert Solomon and me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Whatcha two be doin’ dere? Ain’t nobody supposed to be dere. How’d ya get in?”

  “That’s the thing. The front door was wide open. I think Mr. Solomon forgot to close it. Remember that big tapestry in the front hall? The one with birds on it? I always thought it looked like a scene from the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Yeah, I know da one. Why?” She handed Grady a couple of dollars in exchange for the doughnuts.

  “It’s not there anymore.”

  “Dey stole it? I knew dose boys was trouble.”

  I assumed she was talking about the Cox brothers. “But they own the house. Why would they take anything from their own house?”

  “Hard ta say. But dose boys be like Cain and Abel. One wants wot da other one has. Dey don’ git along.”

  I began to chew my lower lip. “I’ve only met one of them. And they know they’re going to inherit the money once the house sells, so why would they take anything? Plus, Ashley Cox already told me they sold a lot of the good stuff when their mom died and they replaced it with fakes.”

  “Some a’ dat stuff ya can’t fake.” Ruby shook her head. “Maps and ol’ letters, pictures even. Lotsa pictures. Dat’s why da museums wanta buy it. Collectors too. So many people come ’round to look at it.”

  My breath stalled. I had no idea the property was so popular. I’d assumed everyone would be turned off by its peeling paint and small rooms, or that was what I’d hoped would happen. Somehow I still nursed visions of Ambrose and me on the front porch with the sun lightening the columns all around us, no matter what anyone said.

  Ruby cocked her head. “Don’tcha know? Da Confederates used Sweetwater durin’ da war. Ta hide stuff dere.”

  “Then how did it survive the war?” I’d seen pictures of the Great River Road during the Civil War days, back in the museum at Morningside. Blurry photographs with smoky sugarcane fields and scorched, black earth where elegant plantations once stood.

  Thankfully, not all plantations suffered the same fate, I’d learned. One Union officer told his men to hold their fire when he came upon Morningside and realized he’d been to a dance there the year before. Another plantation earned a pass because its owners had sons in both the Union and Confederate armies.

  “Ya heard about da Freemasons?”

  “Sure. They’re the ones with a square and compass on their signs.”

  “Da owner of Sweetwater was a Freemason. So when da troops come, he gives ’em da secret sign an’—et voilà—turns out da general was one too.”

  “Wow. Mellette never told me that.”

  “Yep. No one done touch it after dat. So deys hid papers an’ such. Why do ya tink I worked dere fo’ so long? Dat place be special ta lotsa folks.”

  “Does everyone else know about this?”

  “Not sure. Look, I gots to go. Hollis will be waitin’ on his food. Check out da history books. Deys chock fulla stories.”

  She walked past me and disappeared through the exit. She seemed to know a lot about the history around here, while I was learning such interesting tidbits, one by one.

  Chapter 15

  I waited for Ruby to leave before searching for Ambrose. He was sitting in a booth toward the back of the doughnut shop, with the still-unopened bag of beignets on the table. Bless his ever-lovin’ heart.

  Before I could signal to him, someone grabbed my elbow. I turned to find Lance, who was wearing a short-sleeved police shirt today, behind me. He must’ve arrived while I was talking to Ruby.

  “There you are,” he said. “I tried calling your studio, but no one answered.”

  “My assistant just left and I’m here with Ambrose. He’s buying me breakfast this morning. By the way, you can wipe that grin off your face.”

  “Who, me?”

  He did his best to look innocent, although I wasn’t fooled. “I know what’s running through that head of yours right now, so you can just knock it off.”

  “Okay.” He dropped the grin. “Here’s the thing: I got a fingerprint report back on the Sweetwater murder.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yeah. Normally it takes a week, but it’s a slow time for them. I’d rather not get into it right here. Why don’t we take a table or something?”

  “Let me talk to Ambrose first. He’s waiting for me to join him.”

  I walked back to Ambrose but, instead of sitting down, I reached into the bag and plucked out a beignet. “Would you please take one? I ran into Lance up there and he wants to show me a report on Mellette’s murder. I’d like to hear about it. Do you mind?”

  “Lance, huh?” He accepted the beignet and took a big bite from its end.

  “He said something about getting the fingerprint analysis back early.”

  It took Ambrose a moment to finish chewing. “No, I don’t mind. But I know you don’t like cold beignets.”

  Which was true enough. Every time I ate one, it reminded me of a lump of paste. Thankfully, Grady kept a microwave by the Bunn coffee machine, which I knew he’d let me use.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I can pop it in the microwave later. I promise I won’t be more than five minutes.”

  “Toss me a section of that newspaper first.” Ambrose pointed a powdery finger at the trash can, where someone had thrown a disheveled copy of the Times-Picayune on top. “And I’ll be fine.”

  I walked to the trash can and grabbed the paper. Once I’d handed it to Ambrose, I headed for a long counter Grady had nailed into the eastern wall of the shop. Lance sat on a stool there, with a powder-blue folder on the counter in front of him.

  “No doughnuts for you today?” I slid onto a stool next to him.

  “Nah. I’ll have something later. Hope Ambrose didn’t mind you leaving him like that.”

  “He’s reading the newspaper. And the beignets can wait. So, what did they find at Sweetwater?”

  “I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version, since the report’s pretty long. I want you to tell me if anything rings a bell, since you were at the house before the investigator dusted for prints.”

  “Sure thing.” It was nice to be able to discuss a case with Lance without him telling me it was none of my business.

  “Bottom line is there’s good news and bad news.” He picked up the folder. “The good news is they got to the body within two hours. You can’t pull prints off skin that’s been left alone for longer than that.”

  “That means the killer must have come to Sweetwater right after Ambrose and I left.”

  Lance nodded. “You got it. They pulled some latent prints, which are the ones you can’t see by using powder.”

  “Great. What’d they find?”

  “There’s the bad news. It’s hard to pull a print from a body since you’re talking about skin-to-skin contact. They got prints, all right, but the oils got all mixed up, so none of them are clear.”

  “Which means they couldn’t read them? What about her business suit?”

  “More bad news. Her jacket was a cotton blend—rough and raw. The more porous the clothes, th
e harder it is to pull off clean prints.”

  “You’re telling me they didn’t get anything?”

  “They found prints, all right, but most of them were the victim’s. First thing they do is powder the entrance and exit of a crime scene. Since the shed only had one entrance, it made the job a whole lot easier. Miss Babineaux’s prints were all over that.”

  I gasped. “But what about Ambrose’s and mine? We went into the shed through that door too.”

  “We found some for Ambrose, all right. We already had his prints on file because of the murder at Morningside. They didn’t find any of yours.”

  “He must’ve opened the door for me, like he always does.” I could picture Ambrose and me approaching the listing door of the cottage. It was a Dutch door, like something the seven dwarfs might’ve used. The top half was open, but the bottom half wasn’t. I’d smelled menthol cigarettes the moment I’d walked through it. “I’m sure that’s what happened.”

  “We guessed that.”

  “But the door was wood and the knob was brass, I think. Those aren’t porous,” I said. “They should’ve found the criminal’s prints too.”

  “Bingo,” he said. “I like the way you think. It should’ve been covered with prints. But there weren’t any others. Nada.”

  “Which would mean the guy—or the girl—must’ve worn gloves.”

  “Yep. Clean as a whistle. It’s the only way that door would come up clean.”

  “Then it was premeditated, all the way. Otherwise the criminal wouldn’t have brought gloves. Which points back to my theory about poisoning.”

  “I agree with you there. The killer didn’t leave anything behind. No hairs, no fibers, no nothing. But we don’t know the poison and we won’t ’til we get the tox report back probably for several weeks.”

  “What if—”

  At that moment, a streak of purple and white rushed up to us.

  “—goodness gracious,” I said.

  Ruby skidded to a stop in front of us, her face flushed to high heavens and her breathing labored. “Ma boy’s done gone.”

  “Whoa . . . hold on there,” Lance said. “What are you talking about, Miss Oubre?”

  “He done left da house wit da door open. Cain’t find my dog, neither. He ain’t never done dat before. Never.”

  She couldn’t catch her breath, so I slid off the stool and offered it to her. “You’d better sit down, Miss Ruby. You look kinda pale.”

  She gratefully took the seat. “I done got back in ma car. Saw yer cruiser in da parkin’ lot here.” She spoke to Lance, but her eyes flittered from his face to mine. “Ya gots ta help me.”

  “Maybe he went for a walk,” I said.

  “Dat boy knows better den ta leave dat door open. He ain’t dere. He ain’t nowhere.”

  I glanced at Lance. “Maybe he went to find his friends. The ones we saw him with on Monday night.”

  “Ya tink he done run off ta Mother Belle? Deys some bad people dere. He could be in trouble den.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Lance said. “Did you try calling his cell?”

  “Four times. Maybe five. Dat boy always take my call. He be in trouble. I can feel it.”

  She was becoming more and more agitated, her legs twisting and untwisting. “Wot am I gonna do?”

  “Guess we should go look for him,” I said. “Do you have any idea where he could’ve gone?”

  She finally stopped moving. “He like da comic book store. Dat’s by da liquor store. Maybe dat’s where he be. Gah-lee, dat boy done scare me half ta death.”

  “I’ll take you there, Miss Ruby.” Lance eyed me. “You go back to Ambrose and eat your breakfast. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  “Okay. And please call me if they find anything else in the shed.” Luckily, Miss Ruby’s complexion had evened out by now and her breathing seemed steady. I began to walk away from the counter, relieved to hand over the reins to Lance, when I remembered something and glanced back. “Don’t worry about your dog, Miss Ruby. I’m sure he’ll come back.”

  Her eyes looked doubtful. “Tank ya.”

  Although I had no way of knowing whether the mutt would actually return, it couldn’t hurt to comfort Ruby in her time of need. She obviously had a soft spot for Jack, whereas I’d written him off as a menace.

  I made my way to the back of the doughnut store. Hallelujah, the bag of beignets still sat on the table, although it looked a little thinner now. “Whew.” I plopped beside him on the bench. “Glad I escaped that bullet. Miss Ruby can’t find her grandson and Lance is gonna help her. The last thing I need to do is go back to the bayou.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “Near enough.” A feathering of powdered sugar dusted Ambrose’s bottom lip. While I longed to kiss it away, I reached over and brushed it off with my hand. “I’d much rather be here with you. Someone has to keep you decent.”

  “Whatever you say. Hey, I’ve been thinking about all the places we could go on our date Friday night. I think you’d like that restaurant called Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. You up for that?”

  “Commander’s Palace?” But that was an hour away. Which meant our date could easily stretch into the wee hours—or, heaven help me—overnight. That was, if we both played our cards right.

  Chapter 16

  After asking Grady to warm my breakfast, I finished eating and Ambrose drove us back to our place, where I retrieved Ringo and then headed back to the Factory for what I knew would be a busy day.

  Sure enough, by the time I arrived at Crowning Glory, Beatrice had her hands full with our first bride of the day.

  MaryLouise Scarborough was a former champion baton twirler—a fact she’d managed to work into our very first telephone conversation, bless her heart—and she still had the posture to prove it. The girl sat ramrod-straight in one of the armchairs with her feet delicately crossed at the ankles.

  I could tell Beatrice had done her best to occupy her, since a slew of bridal magazines sprawled across the floor, but they both looked relieved to see me when I walked in.

  “You’re here!” Beatrice waved me over.

  “Yep. Right as rain now I have some food in me. You must be MaryLouise.” I walked to the armchair with my hand outstretched.

  When the girl rose, I nearly fell over backward. No wonder she was a champion twirler; she nearly touched the clouds. My guess was six foot five, at least.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  Not surprisingly, her grip was nice and strong. “Likewise.”

  “I’ve heard so much about your studio. You get great reviews on the internet.”

  “That so? Must be my friends and family.” I winked and led her over to the mirror. “Let’s try on different styles so I can get an idea of what you’re looking for.”

  She eyed a tiny fascinator that perched on a nearby stand. While most people expect me to dress a tall girl in a close-fitting hat—like a fascinator, which wouldn’t add any more height to her frame—I knew better.

  I bypassed the fascinator for another display. One that held an ivory riding crop, a pair of lace gloves, and a silk ascot. A white satin top hat ringed with French netting completed the display. It was one of my favorites, and I knew it’d be perfect for my bride.

  I plucked it up and headed back to the mirror. Before I could place it on MaryLouise’s head, though, she reeled away from me.

  “Heavens, no. I could never wear that.” Her eyes were twice their normal size. “It’d make me look like a giant. Don’t you have anything nice and small?”

  “That’s the point. You have to trust me on this.”

  I gently took her shoulders and turned her away from the mirror. Then I placed the top hat on her head and spun her around until she faced the glass once more.

  “See?” The proportions worked perfectly. An extra four inches balanced out her limbs and torso and drew attention to her face. “Tall people usually reach for small hats, but that
’s a big mistake. Large frames need large hats. The bigger, the better. Otherwise it looks like your head is out of proportion with the rest of your body.”

  “I get it.” MaryLouise tilted her chin and smiled, while she studied her reflection.

  “That one’s pretty on you.” Beatrice had walked up behind us. “And since you’re getting married outside, you can wear something a little more casual.”

  I stepped away from the women and reached for the fascinator I’d seen earlier. “Let’s try an experiment.” I walked back to the mirror with the delicate hat, which had a base no bigger than a teacup saucer. I handed it to MaryLouise, who balanced it on her head and immediately laughed.

  “See what I mean?” I asked.

  “Okay. You’re right.” She couldn’t wait to take off the hat. “No small hats for me.”

  “Let’s try on some more.”

  I walked her through the various styles—all oversized this time—I’d put on display. Everything from wide-brimmed picture hats to a straw derby with a velvet hatband and a lampshade hat with a sheer brim. Each time, though, we returned to the top hat with its gauzy netting and dusting of seed pearls.

  “Why don’t you sleep on it, before you order this one,” I said. “If you still want it in the morning, I’ll create a custom piece based on this one.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Gotcha. And promise me you won’t show that top hat to anyone else in the meantime!”

  “We’ll see.” I returned the hat to its display, while smoothly deflecting her request. Part of my job involved diplomatically sidestepping demands like that one. Of course I’d let another girl try on the top hat if it struck her fancy. For some reason, every client wanted her hat to be the most unique creation that had ever walked down a wedding aisle. Which was possible, up to a point. I could embellish the heck out of a hat, but I couldn’t change its basic form. Not that my brides wanted to hear that.

  “See you tomorrow!” MaryLouise whisked open the front door and practically skipped out of the studio.