Something Foul at Sweetwater

by Sandra Bretting

  “Dis used to be da kitchen. Dat’s where da man unloaded da ice blocks.”

  Praise the Lord we live in the hot South! I’d heard stories about old kitchens and how a cook ordered a block of ice from a deliveryman. The iceman scooted the block through a special hole that led straight to a wood box. Packed with ice on the top shelf, the food below it cooled, which was no easy feat during the hot summer months.

  “You’re brilliant!’ I reached over to hug her, and this time she didn’t flinch. “Here, help me move the shelf away.”

  With Ruby at one end and me at the other, we tugged the shelf away from the wall. Since almost everything on it was gone now, it easily slid aside.

  I scooped up the plunger from the floor and grasped the wood handle. Using it as a battering ram, I struck it against the drywall over and over again, until bits and pieces of paper and plaster began to fall out. When the progress slowed, I clawed at the opening with my bare hands, pulling out chunks of gypsum board until bright light eked through a pinhole opening.

  I glimpsed some tables at the other end of the pinhole. Come to think of it, there was no need for me to make the opening larger. Not when I had a perfectly good set of lungs on me.

  “Help!” I yelled through the hole. “We’re locked in here.”

  Ruby joined me and together we created quite a chorus. A few seconds later, something scuffled on the other side of the closet door.

  “Missy!” It was Lance. “I’m here.”

  I ran over to the door. “Thank God! We can’t get out.”

  “Who did this to you?” Even muffled by an inch of wood, his voice shook with anger.

  “It was Charles. He’s the one who killed Mellette Babineaux. He panicked when I figured it out.”

  “Charles?” Lance fell silent as he pondered my response. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. And he’s getting away.”

  “Okay. Stay calm. And move away from the door.” Lance had switched to his official-sounding police voice, which I used to find irritating but now found heavenly.

  Ruby and I both hugged the back wall as Lance began to strike the doorknob. He must have pulled his sidearm out of its holster and used the butt of it. Like a hammer hitting a nail head, the noise boomed in the quiet. After two tries, the brass knob clunked to the ground and the door swung open.

  Lance quickly holstered his gun and rushed to us, arms extended, as if we’d been locked in the closet for days.

  “We’re okay.” I tried to reassure him, but he continued to fuss. “Charles didn’t hurt us. He just trapped us in here so he could get away.”

  Finally, Lance must have believed me and took a step back. “Don’t worry, he can’t get far. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

  “You and me both.”

  “I’m gonna call the station. What kind of car does Charles drive?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “My assistant will know, though.”

  “Okay. Get in touch with her while I call my sergeant.” He paused, his voice softening ever so slightly. “And I’m really glad nothing happened to you.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Now don’t get all soft on me, Lance. Ruby and I are fine. And we’ve got to find Charles before it’s too late.”

  Ruby softly tsked as she hobbled out of the closet first. “None a dis had ta happen, ya know.”

  “What?” I touched her shoulder to stop her. “What do you mean?”

  She half-turned and cocked her head. “If’n ya had yer gris-gris wit you, dis mighta not happened.”

  “Oh, Miss Ruby.” I grinned, so relived to be following her into the hall. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “Maybe I do an’ maybe I don’. But ya ain’t gonna know ’til ya try it.”

  She had a point. I followed her as she turned and made her way down the hall, inhaling deeply with each step. Amazing how thin the air had become once the door was slammed shut. Even the walls had closed in on me, squeezing oxygen out of the space. Now I could finally breathe again, and I flung my arms wide open as I walked behind Ruby.

  But my joy was short-lived. I still needed to phone Beatrice, after all, who had hopefully remained at the studio. She could give me the make of Charles’s car. I picked up the pace as I strode through the kitchen and then made my way to the employee entrance. No one seemed to notice me, or, if they did, no one tried to stop me.

  I reached Lance’s car within a few seconds. There, lying on the floorboard of the front seat, was my cell phone. Thank goodness Lance hadn’t bothered to lock his doors, which I would tease him about later, and Beatrice soon came on the other end of the line when I dialed her number.

  I told her my story in a rush of words, since we had so much to do. And this time none of the facts obscured the truth, no matter what Maya Angelou might have said.

  Chapter 18

  The moment Ambrose pulled up to Commander’s Palace in New Orleans, my breath stalled. How in the world did a Gulf wave manage to breach the levee and stop at the corner of Washington and Coliseum streets in the Garden District?

  That was exactly what the Victorian mansion in front of us looked like: a blue wave frozen on a corner, surrounded by live oaks, crisscrossed telephone wires, and waxy magnolia bushes.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I murmured.

  Ambrose smiled as we drove up to the valet stand. Even with all the hullabaloo surrounding Mellette’s death and Charles’s arrest, he’d insisted on keeping our date. “I knew you’d like it. A lot of people can’t get past the blue paint.”

  True, every shingle, plank, and doodad on the second floor of the restaurant wore the same shade of French blue. But the never-ending color dribbled away into just one half of a blue-and-white stripe by the time it reached the ground. The striped awning ran around the entire bottom floor, from front to back.

  “I think it’s quirky,” I said. “And that’s not a bad thing.”

  “You’ve got your pick of stories about the place.” Ambrose slid the Audi into park and waited for the valet to open my door. “It was either a wedding gift for the builder’s daughter, or it used to be a bar.”

  I mulled the two options. “Tell me the story about the wedding gift first. That’s much more romantic.”

  Ambrose leaned away from the steering wheel. “Supposedly Emile Commander was only twenty-two when he built his restaurant, right across from a cemetery. People talk about seeing his ghost sometimes, always standing by the bar, since he was a big drinker. There’s another ghost, a girl, who may or may not be his daughter. She never married, apparently, and she haunts the staircase looking for her lost love.”

  “Ooohhh, that’s creepy. I like it. What about the saloon story?”

  “That one’s not as fun. Other people think the guy built a saloon across the way, and since the Civil War was over, immigrants started flooding the city. The French Creoles in town didn’t want ’em, so they kinda adopted the bar as their meeting place.”

  “You’re right. That’s not as fun. Let’s go with the ghosts instead.”

  By now the valet had arrived at Ambrose’s window, so he hopped out and joined me by the front door. We walked into a lobby that was every bit as eclectic as the outside of the building.

  A cut-out panel of iron scrolls allowed me to peek into the dining room. The walls were papered in violet and gold, and above them hung wood chandeliers laced with strings of crystals that dipped and swirled through unshaded bulbs. Even higher flowed a white ceiling—as pristine as the linen-clad tables—edged with thick crown molding that circled the room like a crisp hatband.

  I immediately sighed. “It’s perfect.”

  “Good evening.” A maître d’ greeted us with a stiff bow, which he relaxed when he saw Ambrose. “Why, hello Mr. Jackson. I didn’t realize it was you. So nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” Ambrose said. “Table for two, please. It’s under my name.”

  I threw up my hands as we followed our host into the dinin
g room. “I should’ve known you’d be on a first-name basis with the staff,” I said in a stage whisper. “Let me guess . . . you’re best friends with the sommelier too?”

  “Maybe. Depends on who’s working tonight.” Ambrose took over hosting duties when we reached the table and gallantly pulled my chair away. “I promised you a special night. Trust me. The food here won’t disappoint.”

  I stifled a grin. Little did Ambrose know I would’ve been happy with a Whopper from Burger King. For after a year and a half of platonic friendship, during which time I’d spun too many daydreams about him to count, he’d finally asked me out on a real, honest-to-goodness date.

  Of course, other men had come around during that time, but they never seemed to measure up. To hear Beatrice tell it, it was because I never gave them a chance. But I knew all along I’d be wasting my time, so why bother?

  Especially after seeing Ambrose tonight, which made my heart flip-flop. Tonight he’d paired his gray Armani suit with an aqua tie that made his blue eyes pop. He’d also slicked his hair back, my favorite style for him.

  For my part, I’d put aside the Lilly Pulitzer shifts for once and picked up an “lbd” by Chanel. This “little black dress” originally cost more than a thousand dollars, but I’d paid only a hundred for it at a place called the Recycled Rag in town.

  The sleeveless dress featured a sheer bodice that ended with a high-necked lace collar. Black teardrop earrings and Chanel Rouge lipstick completed the ensemble. My goal was to channel Audrey Hepburn, which must’ve worked, since Ambrose kept staring at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I finally asked him. “Do I have something on my face?”

  He leaned across the table. “Nothing I haven’t seen a million times before. You look wonderful tonight.”

  Instead of responding like a grown-up should, a giggle formed at the back of my throat, which I desperately tried to stifle.

  He shot me a funny look when it came out anyway. “Maybe we should start with a drink.”

  “Definitely.” I gulped. “That sounds good.”

  “I’ll choose for us, if you don’t mind.”

  Hallelujah, a sommelier arrived at our table with a wine menu, which she offered to Ambrose. After reading it, he passed it back to her and murmured something or other. Say what you will about feminism, but I was more than happy to have Ambrose select the bottle, since he actually cared about things like vintages and provenances and winemakers. The last time he ordered for us, he’d selected a crisp Chardonnay, which I’d thoroughly enjoyed, although he’d mentioned it wasn’t his favorite type of wine.

  “Like I was saying . . . you seem to know the staff here,” I said. “Take many girls along?”

  “Only one.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “I meant you, of course. Usually I come here for business meetings. My clients and I like to meet over lunch.”

  “You’re lucky.” Maybe now would be a good time to steer the conversation onto neutral ground, since it’d finally give me a chance to get past his beautiful blue eyes. “By the way—did you hear what happened yesterday at the police station?”

  “No, I didn’t. I just hope they threw the book at Charles. He could’ve hurt you, you know.”

  “But he didn’t.” I took a sip of water, relieved to put the awkwardness behind us. “No one ever suspected he was the one who killed Mellette Babineaux.”

  “Did something new happen, then?”

  “It did.” He waited while I took another sip of water. “They got a preliminary toxicology report back.”

  “But I thought that usually takes weeks.”

  “Normally it does.” Even Lance was surprised by the quick turnaround on this one. “They gave Lance a preliminary because of a tip. Ruby Oubre noticed something strange yesterday. Something she found in her garden.”

  “And she only noticed it now?” He looked confused, which was understandable. Since most plants took weeks to grow, Ruby must have lived right next to this one for quite some time.

  I nodded. “It’s not the best-kept plot of land. Anyway, Charles had snuck something in there called ‘jack-in-the-pulpit.’ Hid it between the other plants. It just takes a little bit mixed in with food to poison someone.”

  “I get it . . . so the medical examiner knew what to test for.”

  “Bingo. And jack-in-the-pulpit affects the kidneys and lungs. Mellette basically suffocated in the garden shed.”

  Ambrose winced. “What a horrible way to go. But how’d he get her to eat it?”

  “That’s the thing.” I leaned forward. Even though no one else was nearby, it didn’t feel right to broadcast the details of a police investigation to a roomful of strangers. “He must have told her he’d brought her something to eat from the restaurant. Probably something for breakfast, since it was so early. The medical examiner found the poison in the fluid of her lungs.”

  “You’re right—she probably never suspected a thing.”

  “He knew exactly what he was doing. He picked something that grows well in these parts, and there’s no odor to it, so Mellette wouldn’t have known. He’d planned everything out to a T.”

  Ambrose frowned. “And he did all that because she was trying to get the locals to give up their land? Sounds kind of extreme.”

  “That’s what I thought. But he has a history with the people who live along the bayou. Apparently they took care of him when his family went broke. But it’s still no excuse for what he did.”

  Thankfully, the sommelier appeared at our table just then with two wineglasses and a bottle full of something claret-colored. She poured a sample for Ambrose, who tried it before nodding his approval, and then she filled my glass.

  Ambrose raised his drink by the stem. “Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Translation, please?”

  “Here’s to health and love and the time to enjoy it. In Spanish.”

  “That’s perfect.” ” I took a long sip and tasted cherries and licorice. “Ummm. This is good.”

  “It’s a cab from the Bordeaux region. I don’t suppose you remember what I told you the other night?” Ambrose carefully set his glass down again.

  “The other night?”

  “Never mind. It’ll sink in.” His smile dimmed a bit. “There’s one last thing I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?” I took another sip and held the wine on my tongue a second longer.

  “Why did Charles put a cross, of all things, near Mellette Babineaux’s body?”

  “Ah, the cross.” I ran my finger around the lip of my glass while my thoughts receded to Monday. I’d never seen Ambrose so shaken before, which had made me weak-kneed. Especially when he told me about the cross and how the killer had smeared fresh blood on it. “That’s another smart thing Charles did. He used chicken blood. He knew we’d waste time focusing on the bloody cross, instead of him. He thought he’d be long gone by the time we figured out the killing had nothing to do with voodoo. I guess we all underestimated him.”

  “Then I’m glad he’s in prison.” Ambrose lifted his wineglass again. “But enough about him. I think you deserve a vacation after all of this. I was thinking—”

  Just then someone appeared at our table. She wore a black military-style jacket and huge hoop earrings, so I knew she wasn’t part of the waitstaff. The twentysomething also held an iPad in her hand instead of a regular notepad.

  “Aren’t you Ambrose Jackson?” Her pixie face was hopeful.

  “I’m sorry—do I know you?”

  I shrugged when Ambrose glanced my way. I’d never seen the girl before, but she seemed anxious to speak with him.

  “I knew it was you. I write a fashion blog. It’s called Southern Comforts. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” She reached into her jacket and produced an orange business card. “Anyway, I’ve been to all of your shows. All of them. They’re brilliant.”

  Ambrose gallantly accepted the card. “Thank you very much.” He motioned to me. “But I’
m on a very special date tonight. Maybe you could call next week, when I’m back in the studio.”

  The girl’s face fell. “But I only wanted to ask you a few questions. Two, maybe three. A quick picture, and then I’ll be gone. Poof! You won’t even know I was here.”

  “That may be . . . uh—”

  “Antonella,” she said.

  “That may be, Antonella, but I’m here for a special occasion. I’ll tell you what . . .”

  My eyes widened as he leaned back. Was Ambrose really going to interrupt our dinner to do an interview for a fashion blog? And not just any blog, but one written by a stranger who’d hijacked our date without any warning?

  “. . . I’ve got an idea,” he said.

  The girl stepped closer, obviously thrilled to have run into someone like Ambrose Jackson by accident.

  “You can’t be serious, Bo.” The room around me began to warm, or was it the wine?

  He shot me a look I couldn’t quite read. “This is Missy DuBois. She’s the story you want, not me.”

  “Excuse me?” The girl swiveled her pretty head, her brows furrowing. “You’re a fashion designer too?”

  “She’s a milliner.” Ambrose sounded pleased. “One of the best. She’s been in all the top magazines.” He winked at me slyly.

  Bless his little heart. We both knew the only magazine I’d ever graced was stuck between pages of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter on Sundays. But it didn’t seem to matter, because the girl’s eyes widened at the mention of another magazine.

  “Cool. Let me log on real quick.”

  The girl—Antonella—flipped open the cover of her iPad, no doubt ready to start taking notes, when I held up my hand.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Much as I appreciated Ambrose’s sweet gesture, this wasn’t the time or the place for it.

  She glanced away from her device. “But it’ll only take a second. Promise. The site’s got thousands of readers. Some ads, even. Wanna see it?” She thrust the iPad toward me.

  “I’m sure it’s a wonderful site.” I didn’t take the bait. “And I’d love to do an interview with you. Just not now. Why don’t you call me on Monday?” I reached into my clutch and withdrew an embossed business card for Crowning Glory, which I gave her.