Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Read online

  “You’re just being dramatic. I’m sure it’s not that bad.” I flipped the bill over, then let out a gasp as loud as Beatrice’s. “There must be some mistake.”

  A line of zeros jumped off the page. The final bill came to $55,000, including $45,000 for furniture and $10,000 for accessories.

  “How…how could that be? How could this furniture cost so much?” My gaze ping-ponged around the room, until it landed on one of the velvet couches. “She must’ve done the math wrong. There’s no way everything added up to that. No way!”

  “Okay, calm down. Maybe you could get her on the phone, and she’ll explain everything.”

  Something moved at the door just then, and I turned to see Ambrose wander in.

  “Explain what?” he asked innocently.

  “You’re back!” I rushed to meet him, my troubles momentarily forgotten. “I’m so glad you came home.” I gave him a big hug to show I meant every word.

  “I was only gone a few hours.”

  “I know, but it felt like forever.”

  We remained locked in our embrace until Beatrice delicately cleared her throat.

  “Sorry.” He pulled away. “So, Missy. Tell me all about the interview this morning. How did it go?”

  “Good.” I quickly corrected myself. “I mean, great. I wouldn’t change a thing. The reporter took tons of notes, and the photographer got loads of pictures.”

  “So, why don’t you look happy? You should be thrilled to have that behind you.” He indicated the floor with a nod. “Plus, it looks like you got new floors in here. I had no idea you wanted to refinish them.”

  “I didn’t want to,” I said. “The studio flooded last night and Shep Truitt made an emergency house call.” My chest tightened again at the thought of Shep Truitt and all the equipment he’d brought. “I guess that’s another bill I’ll have to pay…”

  “C’mere.” Ambrose gently took my arm and guided me back to the bar stool at the counter. “Now, sit down and tell me everything. What happened?”

  I did as instructed and weakly sank onto the chair. Somehow the furnishings around me began to lose their luster, given the hefty price tag. “The designer is charging me forty-five thousand for the furniture in here. Can you believe it? I don’t have that kind of cash, Ambrose. And there’s no way I can come up with it in thirty days.”

  “Don’t forget about the accessories,” Beatrice added, unnecessarily. “That’s another ten grand.”

  I shot her a look. “Thanks for reminding me, Bea. But it’s beside the point. It doesn’t matter if it’s fifty-five thousand or fifty-five million… I still don’t have that kind of cash on hand.”

  While I wanted to bolt from the studio right then, and run as far and as fast as my legs would carry me, Ambrose didn’t flinch.

  “The way I see it, you have two choices,” he said. “You can go back to the designer and question the bill. Or you can send all this stuff back.”

  “Send it back?” I hadn’t even thought to return the merchandise.

  “The furniture was the biggest chunk of the bill,” he said.

  My gaze once more swept the room, but this time I mentally cataloged the items. Truth be told, they didn’t amount to much. A pair of couches, a coffee table, a few crystal lamps. All of it magnified by shiny mirrors that lined the walls. There was nothing I couldn’t replicate by going online and snooping through some Internet shops. Of course, I’d still have to make Erika a custom Derby hat for her fee, like I’d promised, but I could try to return the furnishings, once I did my best to restore it all to its original condition.

  “By the way”—Ambrose turned to face Beatrice—“do you mind if I steal your boss for an hour or so? I want to get her out of here and maybe buy her some lunch.”

  “Okay by me.” Beatrice shrugged. “Bring me back something to eat, and it’s more than okay.”

  “Deal. Let’s get out of here, Missy. It sounds like you’ve had a long morning.”

  “Just a second.” A memory niggled at the corner of my mind. “I think I promised Ivy Solomon I’d meet her for lunch today. Let me check my phone. Maybe she left a message.”

  I moved behind the counter to retrieve my clutch. Sure enough, the screen on my cell showed a missed call from Ivy, along with a text message. Apparently she’d been delayed at the funeral home and needed to reschedule our lunch date. Just when I was about to slip the phone back into my clutch, the ringtone sounded. Not only that, but the screen showed the caller’s identity.

  “Uh-oh,” I said in a stage whisper. “It’s Erika Daniels.”

  Cautiously, I tapped the phone’s screen. “Hello, Erika. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Missy. Did you have a chance to look at my bill yet?” She sounded far too perky for someone who’d just handed me a bombshell.

  “About that—”

  “The terms are net thirty, so you have a whole month to pay it off.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a problem,” I said. “I have to send all this stuff back. It’s beautiful, but I can’t afford it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I took a deep breath. “I love what you did with the studio. I really do. But I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of cash right now.”

  “Then why did you hire me?” Her sharp tone caught me off guard.

  “I…I honestly didn’t know everything was going to cost so much. I thought you were going to use stuff I already had.” While I didn’t want to argue with her in public, I also didn’t want to be a pushover.

  “You should’ve told me that up front.” She practically spat the words. “Now I’m stuck with a bunch of expensive furniture I don’t need.”

  “Can’t you return it?”

  “Maybe, but this will kill my reputation with my suppliers. No one’s going to want to work with me after this. I can’t believe you did this to me!”

  “Look, I said I was sorry.” Unlike her, my voice remained level. “I don’t know what to tell you. Believe me, I’d love to keep the studio exactly as you designed it. Maybe someday—”

  At that, Erika abruptly hung up, and it took me a moment to realize she’d ended the call.

  “My gosh,” Beatrice said. “What happened? You look shell-shocked.”

  Slowly, I lowered the phone. “She told me off…that’s what happened. And then she hung up on me.”

  “That’s very unprofessional,” Ambrose said. “She should’ve given you a chance to explain.”

  “She didn’t want to hear my explanation. She froze me out the minute I said I couldn’t afford her furniture.”

  “Okay, then.” Ambrose offered me his arm. “Let’s get out of here. I want to get you away from all this craziness for a while. It won’t kill you to take a break, and it just might save your sanity.”

  I walked through the studio in a daze. While the call from Erika Daniels was over, I had a sinking feeling that my troubles with her were not.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time I reached Ambrose’s car, the cloud hanging over my head had begun to lighten. Leave it to him to make me feel better, even though I’d still have to deal with Erika when I got back to the studio.

  “Thanks for getting me out of there, Bo.” I waited for him to open the car door, and then I ducked inside. “You always know how to cheer me up.”

  He smiled as he rounded the hood of his Audi and whisked open the driver’s-side door. “No problem. It’ll be good for you to take a break.”

  We didn’t say much as he drove us through the parking lot and onto the surface road. I knew our destination without asking. For some reason, we always gravitated toward Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery whenever we had a chance to break for lunch. There was no telling when the habit started, but neither of us wanted to stop it now.

  Within a few minutes, we arrived at the last curve before the restaurant. So
meone had parked a pickup half-in and half-out of a pull-through driveway right before the restaurant’s parking lot. The driver’s maneuver forced Ambrose to swerve around the truck’s bumper.

  He jerked the wheel left. “Oh, crap!”

  I stared at the offending truck as we drove past, since its profile looked awfully familiar. Sure enough, the Ford dually was the same one I’d seen at Dogwood Manor—the one that’d whisked Shep Truitt to the ER after he’d smashed his hand. Not only that, but the ponytailed driver who crouched on the truck’s lowered guardrail looked exactly like Cole Truitt.

  The truck hulked in the driveway of Uncle Billy’s Self-Storage. The one-story brick building wore an orange roof, and it had a line of matching orange garage doors that fronted the road. The last storage unit on the left stood open, the yawning chasm like a missing fence post in a line of tangerine boards.

  Apparently, Cole was busy arranging things in the bed of his truck, and he pushed aside a pile of shutters to make room for something else.

  “Hey, Ambrose. Stop here.” I leveled my gaze at the man by the truck bed.

  “What for?”

  “Just, please stop.”

  He didn’t probe for a reason. Instead, he carefully pulled the Audi to the side of the road and slid the gearshift into Park. “What’s going on, Missy? We’re almost at the restaurant. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  “Um-hum.” I wasn’t listening, though, since the activity in the truck bed mesmerized me. Cole had found a stained-glass window in the pile of shutters, which he carefully dislodged from the debris. The pink-and-green glass glistened in the midday sun. “That’s Cole Truitt,” I said.

  “Cole who?”

  Finally, I brought my gaze back to Ambrose. “That’s Shep Truitt’s son. The one who helped me out on Monday. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “He’s probably filling up a storage unit. Does it really matter?”

  “It might.”

  At that moment, Cole placed the window on a quilted pad and carefully slid it to the ground, using the lowered guardrail for leverage.

  “Do you mind if we go back there so I can talk to him?” I asked.

  Ambrose looked askance. “Now? Can’t you do it after lunch?”

  I shook my head. “He’ll be gone by then, I just know it. Please?”

  “Okay.” Ambrose didn’t seem too happy with my request, but he put the car in Drive and pulled back onto the road. After making a U-turn, he returned to the self-storage facility and maneuvered the Audi alongside the pickup. We barely slid past the truck, with only five inches of space to spare between the two vehicles.

  Once safely beyond the pickup, Ambrose parked in front of the manager’s office, a squat stand-alone building with a neon Open sign flashing in the window.

  “We’re here,” he said. “Now what?”

  “Follow me.” I hopped out of the car and made my way to the Ford. Thank goodness I was done posing for the magazine’s photographer, because humidity seeped under my makeup the minute I stepped on the asphalt. I could only imagine what my shiny lip gloss and liquid foundation looked like by now.

  Cole didn’t seem to notice my arrival; he was too busy pulling things into the gap left by the stained-glass window.

  He wore a New Orleans Baby Cakes gimme cap and a navy T-shirt, and sweat plastered the shirt to his back.

  “Hello,” I said once I reached him.

  He started at the sound of my voice, before quickly turning. “Uh, hi.”

  “We were just driving down the road when we saw your truck.” I tried to keep my tone light; no need to put him on the defensive. “Did I ever thank you for finding me a water bottle at Dogwood Manor?”

  It was a lame way to start the conversation, and we both knew it.

  “Uh…I don’t remember. I think so.”

  I threw him a smile, which I hoped looked more genuine than it felt. “And then you helped me carry some supplies back to my studio. That was very nice of you. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “Oookkkaaayyy. You’re welcome. I guess.” He indicated the pile in his truck bed with a sweep of his hand. In addition to the window, he’d stacked chipped shutters, pieces of crown molding, and a few marble pedestals in the truck bed. “I’m kinda busy here.”

  “I can see that. What’s all this stuff?”

  He returned his attention to the pile instead of answering me. Ambrose must have noticed the snub, because he quickly moved up beside me and extended his hand.

  “Hey there. I’m Ambrose Jackson. Can I help you with all of this stuff?”

  Cole stopped appraising the pile. “Man, that’d be great.” He quickly rubbed his palm on his T-shirt and returned the handshake, his tone much warmer now. “I thought this stuff would be a lot lighter than it is. Guess I overestimated my strength.”

  Meanwhile, I subtly backed away from the two men. While I wanted to keep the conversation going, my white pantsuit had suffered more than its fair share of trauma today, and I wasn’t sure it could handle any more. I’d have to ask my questions from a safe distance away.

  “All of this wood looks really old,” I said. “Especially the paint on the shutters. Did it all come from a construction site?”

  “You could say that.” Cole turned to Ambrose. “Let’s lift on three. One…two…three.”

  The men hoisted the pile of shutters above their heads, then walked them away from the truck bed.

  “Which construction site?” I hurried to catch up with them. At this point, I didn’t care if Cole thought I was crazy, nosy, or a pain in the ass. I’d seen the same shutters in the back of his father’s truck, so I knew they came from Dogwood Manor.

  “I’m helping my dad out,” he said. “Pop got them out of the trash at Mr. Solomon’s place.”

  So the two men’s stories did match. But what if both were lying? “Your dad got that window out of the trash? It seems awfully nice for someone to throw it away.” I gazed toward the glass, which was propped against the side of the truck.

  A similar window had hung in the foyer at Dogwood Manor. Three images marked it: a delicate flower with translucent petals; a silver chalice, flat and dull; and a green fleur-de-lis. The pink dogwood blossom, which was rimmed in red, stood out particularly well against the aqua background.

  “It has a crack,” he said. “Look at the bottom corner. You can barely see it now, but it’s pretty obvious when there’s light coming through it.”

  “That’s a shame,” Ambrose said. “So, what does your dad do with all this stuff?”

  “He sells it online.” Cole’s gaze drifted to the pile of shutters again. “He figures he might as well get something out of that job he did for Herbert Solomon.”

  A memory came rushing back: Cole and I had stood in the parking lot behind my studio, our arms full of supplies from Homestyle Hardware. His paint can hit the pavement when he railed against Herbert Solomon and how the man had treated his father.

  “You told me about that,” I said. “Didn’t Mr. Solomon try to cheat your dad out of some money?”

  Instead of launching into another tirade, which I fully expected, Cole flinched. “Yeah…about that. I shouldn’t have gone off about Mr. Solomon like that. He wasn’t such a bad guy.”

  Wasn’t a bad guy? Earlier, Cole had made it sound like he was angry enough to go after Mr. Solomon himself, which he would’ve done if the man wasn’t already dead.

  “I mean, look.” The change in Cole’s demeanor was striking. He’d gone from irritated to contrite in a matter of seconds. “The guy wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t the perfect employer, but I’m sure there are a lot worse.”

  I threw Ambrose a look. This new attitude was downright unnerving. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Cole Truitt had an evil twin. One twin thought Mr. Solomon deserved every bad thing that ever
happened to him, while this new, improved version was ready to forgive him on the spot.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’ve really changed your mind about him. What happened?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “No use getting bitter about the past. By the way, that detective who came around the mansion said he knows you. Said you two grew up together. You never told me that before.”

  Aha. No wonder Cole had changed his tune. Now that he knew about my friendship with Lance, he didn’t want to say or do anything that would make me suspicious of him.

  “So Lance told you about that?” Now it was my turn to be evasive, since I had nothing to gain by being forthright. “Yeah, I guess I know him.”

  “That’s not what he said.” Obviously, the tables had turned, and Cole’s eyes blazed with curiosity. “He said you two lived on the same street when you were growing up. You were neighbors, even. What a coincidence you both ended up here in Bleu Bayou.”

  Ambrose must have noticed when I blanched, because he placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave, Cole. Can I help you move some of that other stuff?”

  “Nah.” Cole waved away the offer. “It’s not that heavy. The shutters were the hardest part. If you’ll just help me move those inside the unit, I can take it from there.”

  Together, the men lifted the pile of shutters from the ground and hoisted them waist-high this time. They quickly transferred the pile from the doorway of the unit to a far corner.

  I tagged along behind them.

  “That’ll do it,” Ambrose said. “You’ve got a huge unit here. It has to be, what? Fifteen, twenty feet?”

  Cole nodded. “The biggest one they have. It’s ten by twenty, to be exact.”

  All that room, for so few items. Could it be that Shep Truitt intended to “salvage” a lot more from Dogwood Manor?

  “Guess it’s time to go.” Ambrose dusted his hands on the sides of his slacks.

  “It was nice to see you again, Cole,” I lied.

  In fact, our visit with him left me feeling terribly unsettled. His attitude had changed so quickly, as if he wanted to rewrite our conversations in the past.