Читать книгу Death Comes to Dogwood Manor - Sandra Bretting - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

I turned to see several construction workers run out of the mansion with their hammers, while another one threw his trowel to the ground before shimmying off of the second-floor scaffold. I began to sprint toward the property, with Hank on my heels.

The yowl came from a pickup parked next to the house. A Chevy Silverado, to be exact, with a broken hitch and its tailgate lowered. I headed for a group of construction workers who’d gathered around, their gaze trained on a man who writhed on the truck bed.

Shep Truitt clutched his hand to his chest, a broken corbel nearby.

“Someone help him!” Mr. Solomon’s voice boomed through the chaos. “Now!”

I glanced at a construction worker beside me. “What happened?”

“He was trying to load a corbel into his truck, but it fell onto him. Those things have to weigh fifty pounds.”

Several Good Samaritans scrambled up the tailgate and moved the corbel even farther from Shep’s hand.

He grimaced as he cupped his lifeless fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said, to no one in particular. “The thing slipped. I thought I had a better hold on it.”

“Well, don’t move your hand.” Mr. Solomon approached the truck and pointed to a ponytailed worker nearby. “You, there. Drive Mr. Truitt to the emergency room.”

“Right away, sir.” The onlooker, who seemed to be about my age—in his early thirties—immediately turned and headed for a Ford dually parked nearby. He hopped into the cab and fired up his truck, while others helped Mr. Truitt lumber over to the waiting vehicle.

While they worked, my gaze returned to the Chevy. The base of the wood corbel, which was carved with the intricate design of a dogwood blossom, had been dented in the fall. Bits of wood dusted the truck bed underneath it.

“That’s too bad.” I looked up to see Hank, who stood next to me. “I wonder if that thing broke Mr. Truitt’s fingers?”

“No doubt. Well, at least he’s on his way to the emergency room.” He gently took my arm again, like he’d done earlier in the hall. “Why don’t we take those pictures and get outta here? They don’t need us hanging around.”

We slowly walked back to the Rolls, where Hank snapped half a dozen pictures of the damage with his cell phone. I promised to e-mail him my insurance information, then I headed for my car.

I drove away from the mansion with Hank in my rearview mirror. Such a strange turn of events. Already I’d visited Dogwood Manor, spoken with both Herbert Solomon and Hank Dupre, and, to top it off, witnessed the aftermath of a construction accident. Ambrose will never believe this.

I wiggled my cell phone free of my pants pocket, then punched a number on the speed dial. Ambrose Jackson, my beau and longtime friend, always said I had a knack for finding trouble. While I hated to admit it, he could be right.

Ever since I’d moved to Bleu Bayou, trouble seemed to follow me around like an angry rain cloud. It began with the murder at Morningside Plantation, and it only got worse when Ambrose and I found a body in the garden shed at the old Sweetwater place. That was followed by the incident with the whiskey barrel on New Year’s Day.

Whenever I called Ambrose from the road now, he sounded hesitant, as if he was waiting for another shoe to drop. But at least he still took my calls.

His voice came on the line after three rings. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”

Smooth jazz played in the background, which meant Bo was working on one of his creations. While I made custom veils and hats for wedding parties, my boyfriend designed couture wedding dresses for extravagant brides. People used to snicker at his occupation, since “real” men don’t make ball gowns, but they changed their tune when they learned that people paid $10,000 and up for one of Bo’s creations. Like I always said, nothing silences the naysayers like success.

“You’re not going to believe the morning I’ve had.”

Once I gave him a rundown on my mishap at Dogwood Manor, my conversations with Herbert Solomon and Hank Dupre, and then the accident in the truck bed, I got around to the real reason for my call.

“Listen…I’m afraid I’m going to be a few minutes late for my nine o’clock appointment. Could you please go next door and let my client into the studio? I don’t want her to melt in the parking lot before I get there.”

Normally I’d have my assistant, Beatrice, handle the chore, but I’d given her the morning off, since she’d sacrificed her Saturday night to help a bride with a last-minute veil crisis.

“No problem.” He sounded relieved that I wasn’t asking for more. “Whom am I looking for?”

“Stormie Lanai, the reporter from KATZ.”

He whistled under his breath. “Thought you’d be done with her by now. We finished her wedding gown months ago.”

Unfortunately, Stormie and I had a history together. She tried to ambush me in the parking lot behind my studio back when Charlotte Devereaux was murdered. She thought she could earn an easy Emmy by getting me to confess to the crime. While that didn’t work, since I had an airtight alibi for that morning—not to mention a friend who worked as a detective on the Louisiana State police force—she tried anyway, which put her on my “bad” list forevermore.

Since then, I’d handled Stormie with kid gloves. I tried to beg off when she asked me to design her wedding veil, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Today was the last fitting, and then I finally could say good-bye to her and her ilk.

“She’s coming in for a final fitting,” I said. “Could you make sure she doesn’t have a hissy fit when I’m not there?”

“No problem. And take your time. I don’t want you to get in an accident because you’re driving too fast.”

“Yes, Bo.” I tried to sound exasperated, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Truth be told, it tickled me pink whenever Ambrose worried about my welfare. Although we’d only been dating a few months, I already knew what kind of wedding veil I wanted when the time came. It couldn’t hurt a girl to plan ahead, now, could it?

I arrived at the studio a few minutes later, after first passing sugarcane fields and then one of my favorite local restaurants—Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. By the time I drove onto the asphalt lot at the Factory, which was the nickname all the studio owners used for the building, almost every spot in the lot was taken.

After a few turns around and around, I snagged an overlooked spot in the last row and hopped out of the car. Humidity enveloped me like a wet blanket and plastered my auburn hair to the back of my neck.

I forced a smile on my face anyway and barreled into Crowning Glory. The fake smile lasted exactly two seconds, until I realized Stormie had cornered Ambrose behind the counter, where she stroked his arm as if she was petting a Persian cat.

“Look…Missy’s here!” Ambrose yelped the greeting.

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late.” Hard to say whether I felt more irritated or amused by her clumsy attempt to flirt with him. Stormie Lanai might have a glamorous job, but she also wore pancake makeup in broad daylight and favored false eyelashes that looked like two butterflies in flight whenever she blinked. People only tolerated her because she was a news reporter for KATZ.

“Ambrose here was entertaining me.” Stormie practically purred the words, but at least she released his arm. “You’re late. I thought we had an appointment at nine.” She slumped onto a nearby bar stool and retracted her claws.

“We did, I mean, we do.” I glanced at Ambrose. “And I’m sure Mr. Jackson here needs to get back to work. Thanks for helping me, Bo.”

“Yeah. No problem. Good-bye, Miss Lanai.” He passed in a blur as he bolted for the exit.

“See you later!” she called to his retreating back. “Don’t be a stranger, now, you hear?”

Once he left the studio, Stormie’s syrupy smile disappeared. “I hope you don’t always keep your clients waiting, Miss DuBois. It’s bad form. I have important things to do, you know.”

“I’m sure you do. And again…I’m sorry.” I dropped my purse onto the counter and took the stool next to hers. “There was a little incident on the road this morning. But the good news is, I finished your veil over the weekend. I think you’re going to be very happy—”

“Here’s the deal.” Stormie slapped the counter, which made me jump. “I’ve given a lot of thought to what I want. Rex, he’s my fiancé, you know, said I can have anything I want with this wedding.”

No doubt. Rex Tibideaux, a burly New Orleans oilman, was at least thirty years older than his bride, not to mention thirty times richer. Everyone suspected Stormie only said yes because the deal included a horse farm and a fifty-foot yacht.

“Anything I want,” she repeated. “And I’ve decided my veil is much too short for my wedding dress. It’s definitely not grand enough.”

I blinked. “‘Not grand enough’? I thought you wanted a replica of Princess Diana’s veil. That’s what I made for you.”

“Correction…right now I have a miniature version of her veil. My veil is only twelve feet long.” Her mouth collapsed into a pout.

Far be it from me to remind her that most wedding veils only ran between three and six feet long, which meant her cathedral-length veil was already grand by any definition. Then again, I’d already used honey instead of vinegar with Herbert Solomon, which had seemed to work, so maybe it’d work with her, too.

“Well, that’s true,” I said. “But yours is just as beautiful as hers. You have to remember, Princess Diana had a very different wedding venue.” The princess got married in St. Paul’s Cathedral, for heaven’s sake. That venue could handle a twenty-five-foot veil.

“Are you saying my wedding isn’t going to be as good as hers?” Stormie’s lashes went wild at the very thought.

“No, no. Of course not,” I lied. “But the aisle at Princess Diana’s cathedral was extra big and it could handle both her veil and train. I’m not sure the chapel at Dogwood Manor has enough space for a twenty-five-foot veil.”

“Well, I don’t care. Rex said I could have anything I want. Anything. And I want a veil just like hers.” Now Stormie sounded like a three-year-old who wanted ice cream for dinner and couldn’t have it.

“Let me look at your veil again.” I pulled out my most soothing voice. “Would you like to try it on anyway, since you’re here?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I want to try it on when it’s fixed.” With a flounce, Stormie hopped off the bar stool and practically skipped away. “Call me when it’s ready,” she called over her shoulder as she pranced through the studio. “I’ll expect to hear from you in…what? Two, maybe three days?”

I gulped. Realistically, that kind of change could take weeks to pull off. “That’s not possible.” My voice came out much too soft for its own good. “There’s the beading to think about, not to mention the lace trim—”

“Whatever.” By now she’d reached the exit, where she did an about-face. “Do whatever it takes to make my veil longer. I’ll make it worth your while. Rex doesn’t even check my bills anymore.”

The minute she stepped outside, I wearily folded my arms on the counter and plopped my head onto the makeshift pillow. Two, maybe three days? That was barely enough time to order more fabric, let alone bead the extra yardage. I could never lengthen her veil on such short notice.

Or could I? Slowly, I straightened. Stormie never said I had to attach the beads and lace by hand. Given a little fabric glue, I could add the embellishments onto the extra fabric in a matter of hours, not days.

Not only that, but I happened to have a whole roll of Carrickmacross lace, the same type used for Princess Diana’s veil, sitting in my workroom. I’d planned to use it for another bride, but we had six months to create that girl’s veil, which was more than enough time to get another shipment.

I rose from the bar stool and stepped behind the counter, where I’d stashed a sketch pad and charcoal pencil. After opening the pad, I began to draw on a fresh page.

A bit of ruching in the back and the audience will never know. The folds would pillow to the ground and hide the seam.

Inspired now, my hand flew across the page. That’s it. A bit of ruching here at the waist, a nip and tuck at the feet…

The pencil faltered. Only one problem. I’d seen some old footage of Princess Diana’s wedding, and the poor girl had had to walk forever to reach the altar. The aisle in her church ran at least four hundred feet, while the one at Dogwood Manor probably topped out at twenty.

A twenty-five-foot veil would never fit. Frowning, I dropped the pencil. Maybe I could fudge on the yardage and give Stormie a little less than twenty-five feet. But how much less? There was only one way to find out.

I grabbed my purse and made my way to the exit, where I flipped the Open sign to Closed. It was time to see the chapel for myself.

Thank goodness my next appointment wasn’t due for an hour. That would give me plenty of time to drive to Dogwood Manor, measure the chapel’s aisle, and then return with the answer in hand.

By the time I drove down the highway and pulled up to the mansion, Mr. Solomon’s car still sat under a clump of kudzu. I quickly parked my Volkswagen and walked up to the gate. Once inside the property, I passed the rosebush with its noisy cicada and skirted under the plastic tarp. A symphony of clanks, whirs, and bangs echoed through the walls and made the light fixtures tremble.

Mr. Solomon would never hear me above the noise. Since I couldn’t yell for him, I’d have to hunt him down to get his permission to measure the chapel. Heaven forbid he find me there by accident and wonder why I snuck onto the property—without a hard hat, no less—for the second time in one morning.

Maybe I should check the library first, since that was where I’d found him last time. So I entered the east hall and made my way across the tarp. I had a clear shot to the double-wide doors at the end of it.

One closed door after another passed in a blur. I did my best to ignore the other rooms, although my fingers itched to turn a doorknob or two. There was no telling what secrets lay on the other side of those closed doors.

I hurried before temptation could strike, and then I even worked up a respectable smile to help me sweet-talk Mr. Solomon into letting me measure the chapel. Once I entered the library, though, my grin faltered. No one stood under the ladder this time, and nothing greeted me but a squat cardboard box from Olde Time Books of New Orleans.

Drats. I quickly retraced my steps and reentered the hall. Mr. Solomon wasn’t on this side of the building. Maybe he’d wandered to the other end. That’s it. No doubt he wanted to check on Erika Daniels’s work over there, or, more likely, he wanted to criticize her work over there.

I set off again, but this time I noticed something odd after only a few feet. Every other door in front of me, about eleven doors in all, had been closed, except for the first door on my right. That one stood open an inch or two, and weak lamplight spilled onto the drop cloth. Tiny motes of dust swirled prettily through the yellow light before landing on the muslin.

Since I “cain’t-never-could,” as we said here in the South, resist the lure of an open door, I paused. Although the room probably wasn’t an office, given the insufficient light, there was no telling what else it could be. Perhaps it was a storage closet, with cleaning supplies and whatnot, or maybe an electrical room with breaker boxes for the property. Either of those could’ve lured Mr. Solomon away from the library. My conscience assuaged, I softly pushed the door open.

“Hello?” I carefully entered the room, convinced I might find him there.

Unlike the plaster walls in the foyer and library, this room was covered in wallpaper. Bright green leaves twirled up curlicued vines and ended just shy of some thick crown molding. Even after so many years, the leaves’ green color was vibrant.

Above the climbing vines, an antique gasolier hung from the ceiling. The frosted globes cast a pale halo on everything under the light fixture.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the half light. Then I noticed a boxy object covered in an old bedsheet, which sat against the far wall. A dresser, maybe? I stepped forward and waited for the back half of the room to come into focus.

Next to the mysterious object was something left uncovered: a beautiful cherrywood bed, the posts carved in ornate swirls. Under its canopy lay a lumpy mattress covered by an old quilt. The quilt was rumpled and whorled, which meant I’d definitely stumbled across someone’s bedroom.

My curiosity piqued, I cautiously approached the bed. A folded newspaper lay on top of the quilt, which I lifted to the light. It was the front page of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter, with today’s date printed in the upper-righthand corner.

How very strange. I softly put the newspaper down again. Judging by the knots in the bedding, someone had spent the previous night in this room. Their tossing and turning had even jostled a pretty glass finial that hung above the carved headboard.

The finial, which tilted sideways, was swirled with browns and golds, and it reminded me of the old cat’s-eye marbles I used to play with as a child.

I reached for the glass ball to straighten it, but I stumbled against a corner of the bed instead and knocked the globe off its base. The finial dropped to the quilt and quickly rolled over the side before I could stop it.

I grimaced and waited for the crack of glass. When nothing sounded, I quickly stepped around the bed. A pile of men’s laundry lay on the other side, and the globe wobbled on top of it. Hallelujah! The clothes must’ve broken the finial’s fall.

It took a moment or two for the truth to dawn. A pile of fabric had broken the finial’s fall, all right, but it wasn’t dirty laundry. It was someone’s back. A kneeling figure, whose head was tucked close to his chest, and whose feet were painfully askew.

Nothing moved for at least a minute. Not the finial, not the form…and certainly not me. I did, however, finally back away, and then I let loose a scream louder than any electric belt sander or hammer or skill saw I’d yet to hear at the mansion.