Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Read online

  “Thank you.” Her face fell at the mention of Herbert’s passing. “It’s funny, but I kept nagging Herbert to go to the doctor. I wanted him to find someone here, since he practically lived in Bleu Bayou while he was renovating Dogwood Manor. He didn’t listen to me, of course. You know how difficult he could be.”

  Since my grandmother always said it wasn’t nice to disparage the dead, I kept my mouth shut about that, too, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “If I told him once, I told him a thousand times, ‘You need to see a doctor. Go find out what’s wrong.’ He always told me he’d go the next day.”

  I hurried over to the couch and gave her a quick hug. “You poor thing. You must be in town to plan the funeral. Here, let’s sit down again.”

  She nodded and sank onto the couch. “I’m organizing a small service for a few family and friends. But I wanted to visit my favorite hatmaker, too. I couldn’t very well come all the way down to Bleu Bayou without saying hello to you.”

  “I’m so glad you did.” I settled onto the cushion next to hers.

  Her face looked lined from this distance. Taut grooves surrounded her eyes and mouth, and a wisp of gray hair fluttered against her cheek. She still was beautiful, of course—nothing could change that—but her delicate features seemed more fragile now.

  “It looks like I’m interrupting you, though.” Her gaze wandered to the can of Kilz on the countertop. “I can see you’re busy.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The painting can wait a minute or two. I’m working with a decorator, and she sent me to the hardware store for some supplies.”

  “Is that the girl who let me in?” She brought her gaze forward again, but her stare was vacant. “A tiny thing in high heels?”

  “That sounds like Erika Daniels. She’s sprucing up the studio for a magazine interview tomorrow. Did you meet my assistant, too?”

  “I think so. Pretty face, big earrings, brown bangs?”

  “That’s Beatrice. Looks like you met everyone.”

  “The first girl, the interior decorator, her name sounds familiar.”

  “Erika? Your husband hired her to decorate Dogwood Manor. She only got about halfway through the project before he died.”

  “I see.” She shuddered, and the vacant look disappeared. “Can we talk about something else for a minute? I haven’t heard any good news for days now. What’s all this about a magazine interview?”

  Since she seemed desperate for a diversion, I obliged. “An editor called me yesterday from one of the big bridal magazines in New York City. He wants to do a feature story about the shop, only it’s not quite ready for its close-up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you have an interior designer. How’s it working out?”

  I shrugged. “Too early to tell. I just hired Erika yesterday. She’s out of work now that the police cordoned off the mansion.”

  “I suppose. Wonder if I should call her and ask her to finish the project at some point? It’d be a shame to only finish half of the renovation.”

  Unfortunately, we’d already returned to the subject of Dogwood Manor, since we couldn’t seem to avoid it. “She’d probably like that. Erika turned away other jobs so she could work on the mansion. And I know she needs the money.”

  Ivy’s jaw subtly tensed. “Don’t tell me Herbert refused to pay the poor girl.”

  Since Ivy would be the first person to admit that her late husband was tighter than the skin on a grape, I didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat anything. “She didn’t get paid…but it wasn’t your husband’s fault. His administrative assistant kept forgetting about it.”

  “His assistant?” Her face tensed even more. “I hope Herbert didn’t make the designer work with Evangeline. That bimbo couldn’t find her way out of a paper bag.”

  “I didn’t catch a name,” I said, truthfully. To be honest, Ivy’s expression surprised me. I’d never known her to dislike anyone, much less one of her husband’s employees.

  She pursed her lips as if the name left a sour taste in her mouth. “I’m sure it’s her.”

  “All I know is the assistant kept forgetting to pay Erika’s bill. I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. You have so many other things to worry about right now. I never should’ve brought it up. I’m sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” she snapped. “I’m glad you told me. I’ve been trying to get rid of Evangeline for weeks now. Herbert tried to defend her, but there was no defense for what she did.”

  “‘What she did’?”

  Ivy’s face remained clenched. “I might as well tell you the truth. Evangeline threw herself at my husband. I got proof of it when Herbert left his cell phone lying around. The pictures that girl sent him! She never thought I’d see them, of course.”

  “You poor thing!” I tried to hide my surprise, but my tone, no doubt, gave me away. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Not now. But if Evangeline comes to the funeral, I don’t know what I’ll do. You may need to bail me out of jail. You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

  I started to chuckle, but stopped short when she didn’t join me. “C’mon, Ivy. You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t I? They were having an affair, Missy. There’s no other way around it. I suspected something was wrong when he kept charging haircuts to our Visa bill. If you hadn’t noticed, my husband was bald.”

  I couldn’t help but wince. Who in their right mind would have an affair with Herbert Solomon? While I didn’t mean to be cruel, it defied reason. “Are you sure about this, Ivy?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But it’s true. Apparently, she talked him into hiring her for his business because she wanted to get close to him. I know he doesn’t look like much on the outside, but my husband was a brilliant man. And he could be charming when he wanted to be.”

  I rose from the couch, completely flummoxed by our conversation. “I’m sure she wouldn’t dare show up at his funeral, so you don’t have to worry about that. How about if I call you later?” While I wanted to help Ivy as much as I could, she’d given me a lot of information to process, and I needed some time to work through it. “Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow. I know this great place in town called Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery.”

  She rose, as well. “I’d like that. You can reach me at Morningside Plantation. I’ll be staying there all week.”

  Now, that makes perfect sense. Her late husband had bought that property, along with Dogwood Manor, for his portfolio of historic homes. And since I knew the general manager, she’d no doubt connect me to Ivy’s room if I asked. “Sounds like a plan. I look forward to it.”

  “Me, too. It’ll be like old times again.” The wistfulness had returned, and Ivy stared vacantly into space. “Well, I should get going. I’ve got to stop by the funeral home and make some decisions. And a police detective keeps calling and leaving messages. Maybe I should visit him and see what he wants.”

  “Good idea.” I reached for her hand. “Please swear you won’t do anything rash in the meantime.”

  “Don’t be silly. It was just wishful thinking.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice was high and tight. “I really wouldn’t hurt that girl.”

  “Good, because she’s not worth your time. Please remember that. We can talk more about it tomorrow.”

  I walked Ivy to the front door and watched her step out onto the sidewalk. Her black suit stood out against the pale concrete, like the feathers on a crow as it moved through a sugarcane field.

  For some reason, though, Ivy didn’t walk to the parking lot when she reached the end of the path. She turned left, instead, toward the building’s lobby.

  She quickly glanced over her shoulder, then she ducked through a plate-glass door. While she might’ve had other business at the Factory, the move seemed entirely spontaneous. Please
tell me she’s not going to do anything rash. Although the day was young, my heart couldn’t take any more trauma.

  CHAPTER 13

  The workday passed in a blur after that. A parade of deliverymen tromped through the studio with furniture, accessories, and whatnot from places like Pottery Barn, Ethan Allen, and even a few antique stores in New Orleans. I rose my voice to be heard through the din, but it was hard to ignore the bumps and bangs and thumps that deliverymen made only a few yards away while I met with clients.

  To make matters worse, an electrician almost toppled off his ladder at one point. He held an enormous crystal chandelier in his hands, but his foot slipped through the third rung and the chandelier swayed, so I dashed away from my appointment to help him. My nerves never quite recovered after that, and I muddled through the rest of the appointment before disappearing into the workroom, my sanctuary, for a little peace and quiet.

  It was about time I focused on the projects at hand. One bride, in particular, had presented me with a unique challenge, which still baffled me. She planned to be married at dawn in an outdoor pavilion at Morningside Plantation, some six months down the road. Which meant the weather would be nice and cold by then, given February temperatures on the Great River Road hovered in the mid-forties.

  To compensate for that, she’d chosen a heavy satin gown trimmed in faux fur at the cuffs and collar. She’d happily presented me with a picture she’d found in Today’s Bride.

  The girl wanted something formal, yet fitting for wintertime. Since a heavy satin didn’t quite work with featherweight lace, though, I’d have to use another material to construct the veil.

  I poured through my design books for at least an hour before I came up with a solution. Since the weather would be coldest at dawn, and her gown featured an off-the-shoulder design, it made sense to cover her head with something extra thick and warm. No need for her to shiver through her vows, especially since February normally also brought a heavy dose of morning mist.

  The idea came to me bit by bit. I finally imagined a snowy faux-fur hat with a birdcage blusher to cover her face. I’d construct the blusher from Chantilly lace, a heavier weave, and scallop the edge for a bit of interest.

  I sketched several renditions, my hand flying over the sketchpad. At one point, Bea poked her head through the door, but I waved her away.

  Unfortunately, the minute I stopped to catch my breath, my eyes threatened to droop closed, so I’d rush to the Keurig machine and chug another cup of coffee. When I finally rose from the drafting table for the last time—exhausted, but exhilarated—I stood under the threshold of the door to the studio, which had fallen silent again.

  Somehow I’d managed to control my curiosity about the shop during the day. It wasn’t easy, what with the bumps and bangs and thumps, but I’d angled my drafting table away from the door and suppressed the urge to sneak a quick peek.

  Erika had crept into the workroom once or twice to ask for my opinion, but it felt like a formality. I was a firm believer in letting creative people do their jobs without my interference, so I gently declined her offer and encouraged her to follow her instincts.

  I fanned my fingers across my eyes now and carefully threaded my way through the studio. When I dropped my hand to flip on a light switch near the exit, the breath caught in my throat.

  She’d outdone herself! The chandelier popped overhead like a starburst and bounced light from one mirrored surface to the other. Gone was my tired-looking studio, replaced by a glitzy, glamorous showroom, complete with mirrored walls, a silver-leaf pattern on the ceiling, and ice-blue velvet couches.

  Everything was perfect, and no one would ever guess that deliverymen had rushed the furniture into the studio that afternoon. No doubt price tags still hung from the undersides of the couches and chairs, but I could remove them when I returned to work in the morning.

  Satisfied, I left my shop through the French doors. Once I locked them, I made my way through the parking lot to my car.

  The sun hung low on the horizon as I wearily pulled away from the Factory. Only a few other cars joined me on the highway, and even the flow of Marathon oil tankers that normally traveled this stretch of road had slowed to a trickle.

  After a few miles, my eyelids began to droop closed again, even with myriad cups of coffee coursing through my veins, so I slapped my left cheek to shock my system awake.

  Maybe it’ll help if I focus on the scenery. Over there sat Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery, with its purple flower boxes full of zinnias and caladiums, not to mention a parking lot crammed to the gills with hungry diners. Odilia had opened the restaurant earlier last summer, after she’d successfully launched a sister property in New Orleans. Now Lance’s mother was known by the locals for her chicken and biscuits, not to mention her love of passing along town gossip in the guise of “news.”

  Just beyond the restaurant lay Grady’s donut store, which was home to the best beignets on the planet. Unfortunately, it’d be a lllooonnnggg time before I could frequent Dippin’ Donuts again, since I’d suffered through a disastrous date with Grady that had squelched my desire for any more of his baked goods.

  The bakery signaled the end of Bleu Bayou’s business district, and it was followed by a row of modest ranch homes. Soon I’d come across the immense columns and the grand lawn of the Sweetwater mansion, but for now, the single-story brick houses were neither immense nor grand.

  In fact, builders had focused on the working class when they designed the houses. Each featured a concrete driveway placed front and center, instead of soaring Doric columns, and crabgrass filled the lawns instead of the more elegant St. Augustine variety.

  A Craftsman cottage followed the first three ranch homes, and it, too, had seen better days.

  Although Waunzy Boudin spoke passionately about renovating the antebellum homes in Bleu Bayou, she apparently didn’t feel the same passion for her own home. The brown Craftsman wore a tired roof with several bare patches, and a large crack split the concrete driveway in two.

  Everyone said the property began to decay the minute Waunzy buried her husband. Since then, the house had seemed to fall apart little by little, until all that remained was the craggy roof with its missing shingles, the cracked driveway in need of patching, and a front door held together with duct tape and spackle.

  I noticed the door just as the panel swung open and Waunzy stepped out onto the landing.

  She’d donned a plaid apron since our last meeting, and it hung low on her hips as she struggled to pull something out of the house and onto the lawn. She’d also traded in her pink flip-flops for a pair of fuzzy slippers, and one of them fell off during the struggle.

  I slowed the car for a better look, after first checking the rearview mirror. The struggle involved a metal sign of some sort, which was too heavy for her to manage. Waunzy tried to lift the thing over the doorjamb, but it wouldn’t budge. I quickly pulled the VW curbside to offer my assistance.

  “Hey! Need any help with that?” I called, once I lowered the passenger window.

  Waunzy’s head jerked up at the sound. She looked confused, as if she didn’t recognize my car. But the moment she saw me sitting behind the steering wheel, her expression changed.

  “Oh, it’s you. I couldn’t tell who it was at first.”

  “Hope I didn’t scare you. Need any help over there?” I jerked my head toward the open door and the heavy metal sign.

  “Why, yes. That would be great.” She sounded relieved. “Every time, that thing gets heavier and heavier. Do you mind helping me pull it onto the lawn?”

  “Not at all.” Once I put the car in Park and slid out from behind the steering wheel, I dropped the key in my pocket and made my way up the crabgrass.

  “What is that thing?” I appraised the metal sign. It reminded me of something a Realtor might use for an open house.

  Waunzy followed my gaze to the
rusted metal. “Just something I picked up at Homestyle Hardware a while back. It’ll let everyone know my rental unit is available again.”

  When she moved to grab one edge of the sign, I took hold of the other.

  “Okay…let’s lift it on three,” I suggested, since nothing else she’d tried had worked.

  “Gotcha.”

  “One…two…three.” Together, we lifted the sign a few inches and whooshed it over the doorjamb. Then we half-pulled, half-pushed the panel onto the lawn. After that, it was only a matter of hoisting it high enough to clear the crabgrass and moving it down the lawn bit by bit until Waunzy motioned for me to stop.

  “It goes right here,” she said, sweat appearing on her upper lip.

  Even at this late hour, sunlight ricocheted off the sign and warmed the metal under my fingers. I quickly lowered the sign and wiggled my fingers to cool them.

  “Does it work?” I asked, once we’d planted the sign in the grass.

  “You mean the sign? I suppose. It’s the only way I can let people know about the property without having to pay for advertising. Those folks at the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter want two hundred fifty dollars for a little-bitty ad on the back page.” She scowled at the very thought. “Can you believe it? If I could afford that, I wouldn’t need to rent out a room.”

  “Good point.” I slapped my hands together to shake off the dust. At least the chore had woken me up. “Bet you get great exposure with the road being so close.”

  “Just hope it works. My last renter skipped town without paying his rent. Any of it. By the time I figured out what he was up to, he’d vanished without a trace. Poof!”

  “That’s terrible. Did you file a police report?”

  “Why bother? He’s probably halfway to Mississippi by now. That’s how some people operate…they hop from one place to the next and never pay a dime.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’ll try to spread the word about the unit being available. I’m sure someone would love to live here.”