Читать книгу What the Hatmaker Heard - Sandra Bretting - Страница 9

Chapter 2

The next morning dawned hot and bright, and the air sizzled with leftover moisture from last night’s thundershowers.

I drove onto the grounds of Honeycutt Hall, accompanied by the cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster. Since I rarely heard farm fowl back home in Bleu Bayou, it cheered my heart to be welcomed onto the property in such a unique way.

I continued down the pea-gravel lane—appropriately named Sugar Street, since the mansion’s founders mined the crop in the eighteen hundreds—and entered a curved driveway that fronted the house. Once I found a parking spot, I stepped from my VW. I’d nicknamed the car Ringo in honor of another, more famous Beatle, and faint watermarks splashed my little bug from bumper to hood.

Thankfully, that seemed to be the only casualty from last night’s thunderstorms, along with a few rain puddles on the gravel. Once the thundershowers finally disappeared last night, the wedding party went on to have a flawless rehearsal, capped by a champagne toast at midnight. Too bad the groom had to miss the festivities.

Other than that, everything was on track, as far as I could tell. I climbed the grand staircase to the first floor, and then I paused a moment to catch my breath.

Since Lorelei had invited me to spend the entire day at her house when we spoke at the rehearsal, I’d brought an arsenal of supplies with me: a carpenter’s toolbox filled with beauty products, in case any of the bridesmaids needed a last-minute touch-up; a shoebox full of sewing supplies, including no-stick tape, several different spools of thread, and a chain of safety pins as long as my arm; an industrial-strength steamer for the lace veil; and my own gown for the occasion, which Bo chose for me. His pick? An Adrianna Papell sleeveless sheath with gold lace that stopped at the knees. A bit sassy and fun, it was formal enough to please even the most stalwart Southern hostess but cool enough to keep me comfortable during the reception, since July weddings in southern Louisiana could be notoriously steamy.

As a milliner, I couldn’t attend such an important event bareheaded, though. In addition to the myriad boxes and bags I carried, I toted a hatbox with one of my favorite summer creations inside: a Parabuntal straw picture hat with a gold grosgrain bow. The simple design would complement the more ornate dress, while the wide brim would shield my face from the late-afternoon sun.

Thank goodness I spied someone standing on the other side of a window in the front door, and she opened the panel for me.

“Everyone’s in the sunroom.” She looked like the mother of the bride, with fair skin and chestnut hair. While I wore my auburn hair in an updo ninety percent of the time, this woman wore hers chin-length.

I happily relinquished my packages to her when she motioned for them. “Thank you so much. I’m the milliner, and I need to do some last-minute touch-ups on the bride’s veil this morning. You must be Mrs. Honeycutt.”

“Yes, indeed. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Melissa DuBois, but everyone calls me Missy. By the way, you have a lovely daughter.”

“Thank you.” Her smile broadened even more. “I’m quite partial to her myself. Now, everyone is already enjoying brunch in the sunroom, so please join them for a bite to eat.”

At that moment, someone new entered the hall with her own armload of packages, so I cleared the way for my hostess to greet her next guest.

Once I said goodbye, I made my way down the hall, which featured oversized lanterns overhead, a white wainscoting that reached my waist on the walls, and honey-colored hardwoods underfoot. I followed the hardwoods into another room, this one built with floor-to-ceiling windows, used-brick floors, and enough greenery to fill an arboretum. I’d apparently reached the sunroom.

A half-dozen tables decorated the space, each topped with a linen cloth and magnolia centerpiece. One of the largest tables groaned under the weight of fruits, pastries, and enough orange juice to satisfy even a daycare center. I moved closer to the table, marveling at the size of the fruit, given that it was July and way past the end of the growing season.

Conversation buzzed around me. Most of the tables were full, and ones that weren’t had purses or cell phones strewn across them as placeholders. I picked my way to a table on the right, where I recognized several of the bridesmaids and a groomsman or two.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I addressed the nearest bridesmaid, who looked to be about Lorelei’s age.

“Of course not.” She edged her plate closer to her elbow. “You’re the milliner, right? We were just talking about Lorelei’s veil. It’s gorgeous!”

“Thank you.” I placed my lime-green clutch on the table and nodded at the buffet. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to grab one of those delicious-looking pastries. Would you like one, too?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ve been here for a while. I thought I’d see how Wesley’s doing, but he hasn’t come down yet. No one’s seen him.”

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. From what I heard yesterday, his voice sounded like he’d been gargling with pea gravel, and the nasally tone signaled a head cold. He also mentioned a high fever to Lorelei.

“Oh, dear. I hope he’s feeling better tonight.”

The girl nodded noncommittally and returned to her breakfast, so I felt free to take my leave. I headed for the buffet table, where a stack of warmed plates anchored one end. Just as I was about to pull a plate off the top of the stack, I heard a loud clacking noise behind me. It sounded like a Clydesdale had entered the sunroom and clomped its way to the tables.

Sweet mother of pearl! The moment I turned, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t wearing stilettos, because I would’ve toppled onto the buffet table. As it was, my mouth fell open and cool air rushed to the back of my throat.

There, next to a chocolate fountain surrounded by plump strawberries, stood Stormie Lanai, a local newscaster. She wore a pure-white pantsuit and leopard Manolo Blahniks that, no doubt, created the sound of horses’ hooves.

Unfortunately, Stormie and I shared a long and complicated history, and I couldn’t believe we both occupied the same space now.

It all began last fall. Stormie, a reporter for KATC in Baton Rouge, decided to return a veil I’d created for her wedding, exactly one week before her big day. She somehow landed a rich Texas oilman, and she planned to marry him at a renovated plantation as soon as possible. Those plans changed, however, when someone went missing there and police cordoned off the property. The resulting investigation forced her to come up with Plan B, which meant a Las Vegas wedding and a tiny fascinator instead of a floor-length veil. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t gladly refund her money, even though I’d spent months creating a beautiful cathedral-length train with carrickmacross lace and hundreds of tiny seed pearls.

We finally resolved the matter with me taking apart the intricate veil and using the pieces to create a one-of-a-kind fascinator.

Stormie stood with her back to me now, as she picked among the strawberries by the fountain. I marshalled my courage, since there was no way we could avoid each other in a room this size, and I tapped her on the shoulder.

She instantly whirled around. “Why, Missy DuBois. Whatever are you doing here?”

Like always, Stormie wore so much foundation, her face resembled a Kabuki mask. As a newscaster, she was conditioned to wear heavy makeup for the cameras, but she’d never mastered the art of applying it in real life. Case in point, she wore false eyelashes so thick they resembled two butterflies about to take flight whenever she blinked, which was often.

“The bride hired me to make a wedding veil. What about you?”

“Why, I’m covering the wedding for Channel Eleven, of course. This shindig will be the biggest show our little state has ever seen!”

Leave it to Stormie to sound like a carnival barker as she described the Honeycutt wedding. No wonder she garnered such high ratings for KATC, since she tended to sensationalize everything she came across.

“Well, it was nice to see you again.” I turned to leave, since even one minute with Stormie felt like ten times that amount.

“Just a second.” She grabbed my arm before I could escape. “Have you heard my big news? I’m going to have a baby!”

“A baby?” I quickly glanced at her waist. Her flat-panel pants hugged her hips tightly and showed only a bit of a telltale bump. “That’s wonderful! How far along are you?”

“Just a few weeks. But I couldn’t wait to share my big news. And it’s going to be a Christmas baby. We’re thinking of naming her Holly, if it’s a girl, or Nicholas, if it’s a boy.”

“Those are great names.” Whether or not Stormie and I saw eye to eye on most things, my heart always melted whenever the conversation turned to babies. “I’m sure y’all will find just the right name. I’m very happy for you and your husband. Now, if you don’t mind, I really should be going.” With that, I delicately extricated my arm and made my way back to the right side of the room. By now, several of the bridesmaids had left my table, with only a few leftover crumbs to testify to their presence.

Speaking of which, I had completely forgotten to grab a pastry! Seeing Stormie again had rattled me so, I could barely remember my own name, let alone to grab a beignet or two.

With a sigh, I turned again. Luckily, Stormie had disappeared, and someone new stood in her stead. It was Mrs. Honeycutt, only now she looked terribly upset.

I gingerly approached her. “Are you okay?” I couldn’t imagine things could have changed that much since we met in the hall.

“No. No, I’m not.” She looked at me with drowning eyes. “Something’s terribly wrong.”

“Wrong?” Earlier, she seemed so calm and collected, as if she hosted fancy get-togethers every day. But now, she seemed frazzled, as if she didn’t know what to do first. “What’s happened?”

“No one can find Wesley. He isn’t in his room, and no one’s seen him this morning. I sent our houseman to go look for him, but he hasn’t found him yet.”

Something about the mother’s distress pulled at my heartstrings. Of all the things for the mother-of-the-bride to face on the day of her daughter’s wedding, a missing fiancé should not be one of them.

“Please let me help you. I’m not busy right now, and you must have a million other things to worry about.”

“Oh, dear. That would be wonderful.” Her relief quickly gave way to doubt, though. “But I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. You should be our guest today.”

“Nonsense. I’m happy to help you. Where did you say the houseman went?”

“I didn’t, but he’s over there.” She quickly pointed to the nearest window.

An elderly man stood on the other side of it, wearing navy coveralls and a tool belt slung low on his waist. Something about the getup sparked a hazy memory, but it refused to crystallize.

“Great. I’ll go talk to him.” I hurried away from the sunroom and followed the hall to the front door. Once I moved outside and traipsed down the stairs, I spotted the houseman in a side garden. Even with his back to me, something about his posture looked oddly familiar.

“Hello, there,” I called.

The moment he turned, the memory solidified. It was Darryl Tibodeaux, the Cajun caretaker from Morningside Plantation. Darryl and I met three years ago, when a bride disappeared the night before her wedding at the plantation. Darryl worked as a groundskeeper, and he and I bonded during the police investigation.

Time hadn’t changed a thing. Darryl’s coveralls still wore a fine layer of potting soil, and his thinning hair exposed a pale, freckled scalp.

He recognized me right away, too. “Miz DuBois!”

He hurried over and thrust out his left hand, since the sleeve on his right side was empty. Darryl lost the appendage in a horrible accident at an oil refinery, but he refused to be bitter about it. In fact, he could hoist things that were so heavy they would challenge a man half his age.

“No need to be so formal, Darryl.” I smiled and gave him a quick hug. “Last I heard, you were managing an arboretum in Alabama.” In addition to being a top-notch handyman, Darryl possessed a love of plants that inspired me to start my own garden back home. “What made you decide to come back?”

He winked. “Dat’s water under da bridge. I missed ma people too much ta stay away.”

“So, now you’re working here?” I was stating the obvious, since an embroidered HH decorated his coveralls, but I didn’t care. I was just so happy to see him.

“Yes, ma’am. Come back las’ month. Got da job here wit’ da Honeycutts now.”

“Darryl, that’s so wonderful! I guess you can take the man out of Louisiana—”

“But not da Louisiana outta da man,” he finished for me.

The minute our conversation lagged, I remembered why I came outside in the first place.

“Say, Darryl, I’m afraid Mrs. Honeycutt sent me out here to help you. She’s worried sick about her daughter’s fiancé, and she thought I might be able to help you find him.”

His aqua eyes slanted a bit. “It don’ look good, ta tell you da truth. I covered da house from top ta bottom, and most a’ da fields out back.”

“Hmmm.” It seemed to me Darryl would have a handle on the best places for someone to hide if he wanted some peace and quiet. Especially someone who wasn’t feeling well. “So, what’s left to search?”

“I was abou’ ta look at da silos.” He nodded at the twin water towers that bookended the mansion. Two stories tall, they resembled thin, pastel pagodas that stood watch over the property.

“But how will you get inside?” I peered at the nearest one, which faced east.

“Look closer. Deys got doors on der backs.”

Sure enough, someone had carved three-foot-high doors into the backsides of the towers, and crude wood handles kept the panels in place.

“I see. Why don’t we divide and conquer? I’ll check the one on the right, and you can check the one on the left.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied with the plan. “Meet ya back here. And be careful, Miz Dubois. No tellin’ what’s inside dem.”

I gulped, since I hadn’t even thought about what could be lurking in the structures. For all I knew, the towers could be home to a family of possums, a fez of armadillo, or worse. At least the structures were close to the house, so everyone would hear if I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

We turned, and, like two gunfighters in a duel, we each took a dozen paces to our respective water tower. Being July, the ground had hardened, even with last night’s showers, and my flats slapped against the hardpacked earth. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t wearing stilettos, because my toe caught on the exposed root of a pin oak on my way to the tower, and it nearly upended me.

After I regained my balance, I appraised the silo in front of me. In addition to a simple door that covered the opening, a turret spiraled from the roof of the tower, and it was made of horizontal slats that allowed water to seep into a holding tank. It was quite charming, actually, given the sunny yellow paint on the walls and peacock-blue turret on top.

I paused in front of the door. One twist of the handle and it slowly swung open, emitting a loud and high-pitched squeak.

My, but it’s dark inside. I automatically reached for the flashlight app on my cell phone. Once I trained it into the darkness, it pierced the black with a shaft of light. I leaned as far as I could into the opening, since I had no desire to wiggle into the tank and come across a curious marsupial or two.

I waved the phone at the walls, but they all looked perfectly normal to me. A sheet of aluminum covered them, and mineral deposits freckled the surface. The storms last night had added about a half-inch of water to the tank, and a lone ladder stretched from the concrete floor to the roof. Apparently, no one had used it in quite some time, because cobwebs crisscrossed the ladder’s rungs.

Just when I was about to shut off my phone and cry “uncle,” I noticed something navy lying against the far side of the ladder. It looked like one of Darryl’s coveralls, which he must’ve tossed into the tower at some point and forgotten about.

“Interesting,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

“What’s dat?”

The voice startled me so much, I dropped my cell phone and it lurched toward the water.

“Oh, sugar!” I quickly dove for it. Luckily, my reflexes saved the phone from a watery death, and I scooped it up in the nick of time.

“Ya shouldn’t drop yer phone like dat.” It was Darryl again, who hadn’t moved from his spot behind me.

“And you shouldn’t scare the bejesus out of me.” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Okay, then. Did you find anything in your water tower?”

“Nuthin’ but sum fresh rain and spiders. You?”

“Same. Oh, and you might want to check your supply of coveralls. I think you left one over there.” I pointed my cell into the maw, which illuminated the pile of clothing I’d spotted earlier.

“I don’ keep nuthin’ in here. I gots a supply closet for dat.”

Now it was my turn to look confused. “So, what’s that over there?”

We both reached the same conclusion at the same time.

“Aaaiiieee!” we screamed, the noise ping-ponging around the tower like machine-gun fire.

The moment we finished, our individual instincts kicked in. I moved aside so Darryl could hop into the tower ahead of me. Bravery was one thing, but foolhardiness was quite another, and Darryl knew the towers much better than I did. Once he disappeared into the darkness, I did the same. He bent to inspect the pile of clothes as the rainwater puddled around his ankles.

“Don’t tell me—” I trained the phone lower to give Darryl a better view.

“Yep, it’s da boy ’sposed to be gettin’ married today.”

My heart fell. Of all the horrible discoveries to make, this one took the cake. While I’d uncovered more than my fair share of bodies here on the Great River Road, not one of them was a groom. I could only imagine how Lorelei would feel on what should’ve been one of the happiest days of her life.

Darryl extended his shaking hand to Wesley’s body and placed two fingers against the groom’s neck. When he quickly withdrew his hand, I knew there was no hope.

“Dead?” I asked.

“Yep. Cold as ice.”

“What should we do?” The moment I said it, though, I knew the answer. It was time to call Lance LaPorte, one of my oldest and dearest friends, who served as a detective with the Louisiana State Police Department. Lance would know what to do.

Once again, he’d innocently take my call and breezily ask about my morning, never once imagining I was about to report a dead body. It had happened time and time again. And every time I thought I had found the last one, I’d stumble across another victim.

I wouldn’t blame Lance if he blocked my calls permanently and “unfriended” me from his life.