Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Page 3

  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.

  CHAPTER 3

  After what felt like forever, a stampede of work boots thundered down the hall and into the bedroom.

  The next thing I knew, someone grabbed me from behind and yanked me away from the bed. Soon I stood in the hall, which seemed much too bright after the gloom of the bedroom.

  “What…what happened?” I asked.

  “You’re okay now.” It was a man’s voice, and the stranger continued to grip my shoulders, even though we’d come to a standstill. “Take a deep breath. That’s good.”

  I wrenched out of his grasp and turned. My captor was the ponytailed owner of the Ford dually.

  “But who was that in there?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about it right now. Everything’s okay.”

  “Please tell me. I went in there to…” My voice faltered. Why did I go in there again?

  Mr. Solomon never said I could wander around the mansion all willy-nilly. In fact, he didn’t want me in the house—and especially not without a hard hat.

  “Are you breathing?” the stranger asked. “You have to take some deep breaths.”

  I did as he suggested and inhaled loudly. Slowly, my head cleared and I could think again. “I was looking for Mr. Solomon.”

  “Well…I think you found him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t flinch. “You found Mr. Solomon in the bedroom.”

  “Is he—”

  “Yes, he’s dead. Someone already called for the coroner.”

  My knees turned to jelly. The stranger carefully helped me sit on the ground. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him.”

  “Me, too. Wow. I can’t believe it.”

  He pulled off his hard hat and joined me on the floor. “Were you a friend of his?”

  “No, but I knew his wife. Ivy Solomon was a great lady.” Poor Ivy. First, her stepdaughter, Trinity, was murdered at another plantation down the road. And now this. “I’ve got to give her a call.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” He casually crossed his legs and set his hard hat on top of one of his blue-jeaned knees. “You know, we all thought this was coming.”

  “Really?” Heaven only knew there was no love lost between Mr. Solomon and me, but I never expected to find him crumpled on the floor of his mansion.

  “Yep, the guy was a walking heart attack,” he said.

  “But you don’t know that’s how he died. It could’ve been anything.”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?” The stranger slowly straightened his legs again. “He worked day and night, and he lived on junk food. We even had a pool going. I think Randy picked this week for the old man to croak.”

  A memory slowly worked its way forward. It had happened earlier this morning, when Shep Truitt and I stood in the foyer. He’d said something about the work crew, followed by the word “mutiny.”

  “Did you guys really have a pool going?” The idea chilled me.

  “Of course we did. You saw him. He looked like death warmed over. He only ate stuff he could microwave, like Totino’s Pizza Rolls, and Diet Coke.” He stuck his hand out. “By the way, I’m Cole. Cole Truitt. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same. I’m Melissa DuBois.” I returned the handshake. “Say, are you related to Shep Truitt, the foreman here? You kinda look like him.”

  “Yeah, he’s my dad.”

  “I hope his hand is gonna be okay.” I swallowed, but a tickle emerged at the back of my throat. “I only came here because of one of my clients,” I said, once I swallowed. �
�I own a hat shop in town called Crowning Glory.”

  He didn’t say anything, which told me he wasn’t familiar with the shop.

  “Brides hire me to make their veils,” I explained. “And I worked with the Solomons once, when Trinity Solomon was engaged.”

  “Then you understand. Mr. Solomon had a lot of money, but he sure made you earn it. My dad thought it’d be a good experience for me to work on this project. Pppfffttt.”

  The tickle in my throat hardened to a cough. “Excuse me, but I really need some water. Do you know if there’s any bottled water around here?”

  “Sure. I can get you some.” He swiftly rose and handed me his hard hat. “Could you hold on to this? I think I saw some bottles in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

  Once he disappeared, I set aside the hat and fumbled for the cell in my pocket. It was time to call Lance LaPorte, my childhood friend, at his office in the police station.

  I swallowed hard and pushed a button on the cell’s speed dial. He’ll never believe I found another body.

  Unfortunately, I’d developed a bad habit of finding murder victims before anyone else did. Although, to my credit, I also had a habit of figuring out who’d killed the victims, which had made Lance eager to work with me.

  After two rings, his voice came on the line. “Hiya, Missy. What’s up?” Unlike Ambrose, he didn’t sound wary of my call. No doubt because detectives got bad news all the time.

  “Something’s happened, Lance.”

  “Uh-oh.” His tone turned on a dime. “You don’t sound good. What’s wrong?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “What for? Now, don’t tease me. Out with it.”

  “Give me a second.” It was still hard to speak. Where is Cole with the water bottle? “Okay. No wisecracks, but I found another body.”

  The silence was deafening.

  “Lance? Did you hear me?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Is that all you’re gonna say?” I couldn’t read his mind from ten miles away, no matter how hard I tried.

  Finally, he sighed. “You’re not going to tell me you’re kidding, are you? Just once I’d like to hear you say, ‘Haha. Gotcha. It’s all a joke.’”

  “Now, why would I do that?” My voice rose a level or two, which only made my throat feel worse. “I don’t have time to harass you with prank calls.”

  “A guy can hope, can’t he?”

  “Did you even listen to what I just said? I found a body, here at Dogwood Manor. It’s Mr. Solomon. You know…the billionaire.”

  “Herbert Solomon?”

  I nodded, although he couldn’t see me. “The very same.”

  “Okay, you’re not kidding. I get that. What happened?”

  I coughed again, but the tickle wouldn’t leave. “I came to Dogwood Manor to measure the chapel. I tried to find Mr. Solomon first.”

  It was hard to believe that Stormie Lanai had sat in my studio not more than half an hour ago, fussing about the length of her wedding veil. We’d both thought it was the most important thing in the world at the time. Little did we know what would happen next. “Anyway, I couldn’t find him. On the way out, I kinda wandered into another room.”

  “What do you mean…you ‘wandered into another room’?” While he didn’t outright accuse me of anything, his tone was suspicious.

  “Okay, I kinda went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to go. But let’s focus on the important things here. I found Mr. Solomon in an old bedroom. They’ve already called the coroner.”

  “Got it. Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  “One more thing…wasn’t Mr. Solomon an old man?” he asked. “It could’ve been a heart attack.”

  Now he sounded like Cole Truitt. “That’s what someone else said. But you wouldn’t believe how many enemies he had made around here.” About as many enemies as fleas on a stray cat, is what my granddad would have said. “They even had a pool going on when he’d die.”

  “Ouch. That’s a little cold.”

  Someone moved next to me, and I glanced up. Cole Truitt silently passed me a sweating bottle of Aquafina.

  “I gotta go, Lance. Just hurry up and get here.” I clicked off the line and dropped the phone to my lap. Once I twisted off the cap, I took a long swig from the bottle and swallowed. “Thank you,” I said to Cole.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Just a friend.”

  Come to think of it, anyone could’ve played a role in Mr. Solomon’s death. Even a friendly construction worker—like the one who hovered over me now. I quickly slipped the phone back into my pocket. “It was just an old friend from my neighborhood.”

  “Gotcha. They told me the paramedics are on the way, so it’s okay if you want to leave.”

  “Hmmm.” I took another swig of water instead of answering. For some reason, Cole Truitt seemed awfully anxious to be rid of me, as if I didn’t belong in the hall. But I was the one who’d found Mr. Solomon’s body in the first place.

  I took another sip and let his comment pass. “I think I’ll wait for my friend. He said he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Suit yourself. I’d stay out of the way, though. They’re gonna need all the room they can get in this hallway.”

  Which was true, but it also was beside the point. Only Lance could tell me where I should and shouldn’t go, and even he had a hard time trying to control me.

  Cole didn’t budge from his spot. He gave me the strangest feeling, and no amount of water was going to be able to wash it away.

  CHAPTER 4

  True to his word, Lance arrived at the mansion in under ten minutes. The moment he entered the hall, a stately African American in a crisp navy police uniform, the crowd reverently parted to let him through.

  He quickly made his way toward me and offered me his hand.

  “Hey there.” He pulled me to my feet.

  “Hi, Lance.”

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Missy. People are gonna talk.”

  “Let ’em. I’ve been accused of worse things.”

  He led me down the hall to the empty foyer. Once there, he withdrew a notebook from the pocket of his uniform, while I tossed the empty water bottle into a trash can.

  I proceeded to tell him every detail about the morning. How I’d tried to find Herbert Solomon in the library…the box from Olde Time Books of New Orleans that sat on the floor…even the way Cole Truitt spoke about his boss’ death.

  By the time I finished, at least four pages’ worth of notes spooled through Lance’s notebook. He flipped it closed, then checked his watch. “Is that everything?”

  “’Fraid so.” I swallowed, annoyed to feel the tickle return. “That’s all I can remember anyway. You’ve got your hands full here, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll call you later.” He gazed over my shoulder. “I need to go inspect the bedroom and establish a chain of command. Don’t forget to come over to the station later so I can videotape your statement.”

  “I know, I know.” I didn’t mean to sound flippant, but I’d been through the drill many times before. “I’ll head over there after my eleven o’clock appointment.”

  “Sounds good. And you might want to take it easy today.” He frowned. “Don’t roll your eyes at me… I mean it. Sometimes shock doesn’t set in for several hours. And I know how you get. You’ll tell everyone you’re ‘fine,’ and then you’ll fall apart in private.”

  He knows me too well. “Okay. I’ll take it easy.”

  “I’ll call Ambrose for you, so he knows what’s going on.”

  “Please don’t,” I said. “We’re right in the middle of the wedding season. He’s got a thousand things on his mind, and he doesn’t need something else to worry about. I promise I’ll tell hi
m tonight. Just as soon as I get home.”

  While Ambrose and I had started out as friends, we were now roommates in a bubblegum-pink cottage that sat on the outskirts of Bleu Bayou.

  “Good,” Lance said. “He should know what’s going on with you.”

  Once our interview was over, Lance turned and began to walk toward the bedroom. Unlike before, when construction workers gathered in tight clumps to gossip, hard hats in hand, now the hall stood empty.

  I turned the other way and left the foyer. It felt surreal to dart under the tarp and emerge in bright sunshine. Everything looked so normal outside the mansion.

  Over there was the rosebush, where a lone cicada had serenaded me earlier. Beyond it were the marble steps, which led to an ornate gate with a useless lock that dangled from a length of chain. It felt like days had passed—not just minutes—since I’d arrived on the property, and I was surprised to see the sun wasn’t higher in the sky.

  Once again, the hammering, sanding, and scraping were silenced, replaced by the cccrrruuunnnccchhh of pea gravel under my feet. Once I reached Ringo, I started the car’s engine and began to drive down LA-18, my thoughts a million miles away. I barely noticed the sugarcane fields, which looked brown in the summer sun, or my favorite restaurant, Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery.

  I only snapped to attention when I entered the parking lot at the Factory and spotted cars crammed cheek by jowl. It’ll take a miracle to find a parking spot this time of the morning.

  Unfortunately, arriving at the Factory at eleven was as bad as getting to work at three. No one would leave until lunch, and then they rushed out en masse, leaving the whole lot wide open.

  In between, the stragglers—like me—cruised around and around, until the patron saint of parking blessed us with an empty spot.

  This time, the saint heard my prayers on the third go-round, and a gap appeared between a tiny MINI Cooper and a white-paneled van in the last row. No doubt the oversized van, splashed with the colorful logo for Flowers by Dana, had shielded the spot from other drivers.