Death Comes to Dogwood Manor Read online

  I nearly bumped into a display of Scotts garden hoses on my way to the paint aisle. My mind kept replaying the strange scene. Why would Shep Truitt pack his truck with embellishments from the mansion? Especially since the police had sent everyone home yesterday afternoon and secured the area with crime-scene tape.

  Lost in thought, I rounded the first corner I came to. It was an aisle dubbed “Paints and Primers,” and I began to haphazardly scan the shelves for a can of Kilz.

  “Hello, dear.”

  I turned to see Waunzy Boudin behind me. The grandmother held some strips of colored paper in her hand, which she waved in greeting.

  “Hi, Mrs. Boudin.”

  Today she wore another flower-print sundress, only this one featured tiny sprays of violets that bloomed across the front. Like before, she wore bright pink flip-flops that matched her purse. She leaned close, and the oriental smell of Shalimar washed over me.

  “It’s so good to see you!” She hugged me tightly.

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  “What brings you in today, dear? Are you finally going to paint that rent house you live in?”

  “Huh?” Her comment brought me back to the present. Leave it to Waunzy to remember the color of the home I shared with Ambrose, or what the locals called a “rent house.” Although I fancied the bubblegum-pink walls, which complemented a listing garden gate over the walk, she obviously didn’t care for the color.

  “I thought you liked pink,” I said. “You know, because of your clothes.”

  “I do, dear. But not on a house. There are limits, you know.”

  “Actually…I’m not here for my rent house. I’m looking for something for my studio. Do you know if they stock a product called Kilz?”

  “Of course, dear. Everyone loves that primer.” She pointed to a spot on the bottom shelf, which I’d somehow overlooked. “There it is. You don’t need much. If it’s a small spot, I’d recommend you only get a quart.”

  I crouched close to the floor. “Thanks. It sounds like you’re a real expert when it comes to this stuff.”

  “I’ve become quite the remodeling addict. You know, my dream is to renovate all the old mansions around here. Don’t you think this color would look wonderful on Dogwood Manor?”

  She stuck a strip of paper under my nose. Different paint colors stair-stepped down the paper, from warm toast to medium gray. She’d circled a color in the middle with a thick band of red ink.

  “That color’s pretty,” I said as I straightened. “Is it taupe?”

  “Yes, indeedy. It’s called Tantalizing Taupe. I just love the name.”

  “You mentioned Dogwood Manor had been painted taupe before. It’s so sad that Mr. Solomon passed away there yesterday, don’t you think?”

  She stiffened. Although I hadn’t meant to change the subject, I couldn’t talk about his property without mentioning his passing. “I mean, he won’t even get to see the finished product. Now someone else will have to take over.”

  “If you ask me…well, never mind.” She shook her head. “All I know is that Dogwood Manor was never meant to be painted pure white. That’s not what the original plans called for. It’s a shame no one ever pays attention to the history of these homes anymore. What’s the point of renovating something if you’re just going to whitewash it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’ve got half a mind to repaint it myself.” She stopped short, clearly flustered. “But don’t pay any attention to me, dear. I’m just rambling now. Silly idea.”

  I glanced again at the strip of paint colors in her hand. She’d drawn so many circles around “Tantalizing Taupe” that ink zigzagged through a reference number at the top of the paper.

  “I’m sure the heirs will sell the house once the dust settles,” I said. “Maybe then someone else can fix it up the way it used to be.”

  “We’ll see.” Finally, she dropped her hand. “And here I am, going on and on. I’ve got a million things to do today, so I’d best skedaddle. Good to see you, dear.”

  She hurriedly threw me a smile before she backed away. In addition to the strip with different shades of taupe, she carried several brochures on coordinating trims and exterior stains. All of which seemed a tad excessive, since she’d admitted it was a “silly idea” for her even to think about how Dogwood Manor should be repainted.

  Why would Waunzy drive all the way to the hardware store to pick out colors for a house she doesn’t even own? Either she was bored, or she already had plans to restore the manor to its former glory. And Waunzy Boudin didn’t strike me as the type who bored easily.

  CHAPTER 12

  Still lost in thought, I shopped a bit more, then wandered to the checkout line with my primer and a can of flat white paint in hand. Although the store didn’t stock the Waverly wallpaper I needed, a manager offered to place a rush order for me. He promised the paper would be delivered to my studio later that afternoon.

  Only one register was open by the time I finished shopping. Apparently, the hardware store closed most of its checkout lanes once the flow of building contractors dwindled to a trickle, and most of the cashiers now roamed the aisles, looking for shelves to restock or shopping baskets to retrieve.

  Two other people waited in line ahead of me, so I took my place behind them and balanced my items on a nearby display shelf that carried Duracell batteries and aluminum flashlights. A voice interrupted my thoughts a few seconds later, since someone ahead of me had begun to argue with the teenaged cashier.

  “What do you mean…you won’t sell it to me?” the customer demanded.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be out on the shelves.” The bespectacled high schooler wore a green apron festooned with the Homestyle Hardware logo, and she raised her voice, too, although her volume couldn’t compete with the irate customer’s.

  She seemed to be caught between trying to placate the man and following the instructions of someone else, who stood behind her. The second gentleman had helped me order the Waverly wallpaper, so I knew he was one of the store’s managers.

  “But that’s ridiculous!” the customer said. “Of course you have to sell them to me.”

  My gaze flew to the speaker. It was Cole Truitt, the familiar ponytail emerging from a hole in the back of his LSU ball cap. He sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe the cashier’s insolence. He also waved a Visa over the credit-card machine, as if he was going to insert the card no matter what she said.

  “But we’re not supposed to sell them anymore. It was a mistake.” The girl furtively glanced behind her, as if seeking her manager’s approval. She got it when the manager gave her a terse nod.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said. “We should’ve pulled that kind of ant killer from the shelf a long time ago.”

  Cole blew out a puff of air. “Pppfffttt. This is ridiculous. The stuff was sitting right there in aisle five, next to the other bug killers. Give me a break.”

  Noticeably frustrated, Cole didn’t budge his hand from the credit-card reader. It seemed the two speakers had come to a standstill, with neither side willing to compromise.

  I lowered my gaze to the items in question. Cole had thrown two boxes of Grant’s Kills Ants onto the checkout counter, a brand I didn’t know. A large banner scrolled across the top of the boxes, clearly legible. Bait Traps the type proclaimed, in all capital letters.

  The purchase seemed innocent enough, but the hullaballoo elicited a loud sigh from the woman in front of me, who abruptly left the line by stalking away. She’d been waiting to buy a pack of Duracells and some gum, but she changed her mind when the argument apparently came to an impasse.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t have a choice. I needed the paint and primer for my store, so I dug in my heels, determined to pay for my items and hightail it out of there.

  “Look, if you won’t sell them to me, you’re going
to have to throw them away.” Cole finally moved his hand from the credit-card machine, but only to balance his palm on the counter so he could lean forward.

  At that point, the manager whispered something into the girl’s ear, and her shoulders noticeably relaxed.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “We’ll sell them to you.”

  After a moment, Cole leaned away from the girl. “Well, that’s much better.” He brought the Visa back to the credit-card reader with a satisfied smirk and proceeded to swipe the magnetic strip against the machine. “It’s what I’ve been saying all along. You should thank me for taking them off your hands.”

  The girl rolled her eyes, which Cole didn’t notice, because he was so busy with the credit-card machine. The store’s manager had slipped away by this time, as if happy to be free of the situation.

  I felt sorry for the cashier, though, because she’d clearly been bullied into saying yes. I was about to tell her that when the girl addressed Cole again.

  “That’ll be four dollars and eighty-seven cents,” she said. “Do you want a bag with it?”

  “Nah. I’ll just carry them out to my truck.” Cole snatched the items up from the counter once the reader had finished verifying his information and he’d signed the keypad. He still hadn’t noticed I stood right behind him, and that I’d heard every word.

  “Thanks.” The cashier thrust the receipt at him, as if he might grab that, too.

  Once he left the store, I took his place and moved my items onto the counter. “What in the world was that all about?”

  “He was crazy, wasn’t he?” the cashier said. “We get people like that all the time. They think they own this place, and they’ll never take no for an answer.”

  “You poor thing.” I nudged the items closer, since I really did need to pay for them and hustle back to my shop. “Bless your heart.”

  “See, you understand. It’s not my fault the store has certain policies. That guy made it seem like I just told him no for the fun of it.”

  “Certain policies?” I cocked my head. I’d checked out the boxes Cole wanted to buy, and they seemed innocent enough.

  “Yeah.” She lifted my paint can and swiped its underside with the scanner. “We got a notice about that product a while ago. No one’s supposed to sell it around here, because it could be dangerous.” She focused on the primer next, once more running the scanner along the underside. “Is that all you need?”

  “Yes, that’s all.” I fished around in my clutch for my wallet. “What do you mean, dangerous? I thought those things were made of borax. Last time I checked, that was a detergent.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that. All I know is my manager told me they used to make this kind with arsenic, so we’re not allowed to sell it in the store anymore.”

  “Is that right?” My hand stalled inside the purse. How very interesting. Why in the world would Cole Truitt insist on buying a specific bait trap, when the store had so many others on the shelf that were less dangerous? It didn’t make sense, unless he didn’t know about the poison. And Cole struck me as the type who would know something like that.

  “Yep. That guy took the last two boxes off the shelf,” the girl said. “There’s none in the warehouse, either. It seems like we never, ever carried it now, which is a good thing, really.”

  “You don’t say.” I resumed the hunt for my wallet, which was wedged up under the zipper. “Why did you guys ever carry it in the first place?”

  “We didn’t know. I remember when the manager told me we had to get rid of it. I threw away boxes and boxes. Someone probably stuck those two on a different shelf, and that’s where he found them.”

  I pulled out my wallet and waited for her to give me the total.

  “That’ll be twenty-seven dollars and seventy cents,” she said.

  I handed the girl two twenty-dollar bills. “Hmmm. So, he cleaned out your entire supply?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She quickly made change, after consulting an amount on the screen of her cash register. “At least we won’t get in trouble now. Would you like a bag with that?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I quickly picked up my purchases. “I’m just going to carry them right out to my car.”

  I threw the girl a smile as I headed for the exit. How odd of Cole to choose that specific product—one that was no longer available—and then clean out the store’s supply. As if he knew someone might come looking for products that contained arsenic around here. Judging by his haste, he seemed to expect that to happen any day now.

  I nearly ran into a sliding glass door as I replayed the scene in my mind. Luckily, I paused in the nick of time, then I nearly fell through the exit when the panels whooshed open.

  The minute I stepped into the parking lot, the morning sun warmed my arms and neck, reminding me of the late hour. I’d need to skedaddle if I wanted to make it back to my store in time to work on the fixups before my client meeting at ten o’clock.

  Shards of light glinted off the asphalt as I walked. I lowered my gaze to protect my eyes and blindly made my way to the car. Once there, I opened the door and tossed the cans onto the passenger seat before moving behind the steering wheel.

  I didn’t quite make it, though. At that moment, another car came rumbling down the aisle of the parking lot, almost nicking my car’s frame with its enormous front bumper. I froze, prepared for the ssscccrrreeeccchhh of metal on metal.

  But nothing sounded. The driver swerved around me at the last second, and the car slid sideways into an empty parking space across the way. The driver must’ve been distracted, because the parking lot was practically empty, leaving lots of space to maneuver around.

  The sedan slowly pulled away, its paint glinting like a fat drop of liquid silver. Not only did it look familiar, but it was missing a rearview mirror on the driver’s side.

  Oh my stars! My gaze flew up—to the window. The same driver sat behind the steering wheel as before: a pretty, middle-aged woman with a trendy haircut and oversized sunglasses. The sunglasses never wavered as she stared straight ahead, which was amazing, considering she’d nearly smashed right into my trunk.

  What were the odds I’d spy Herbert Solomon’s pricey sedan not once, but twice, in the same week? That’d never happened before, even when the man was alive. Probably because he spent all his time at his construction projects, harassing his foremen or yelling at his work crews.

  This time, though, I couldn’t ignore the coincidence. I jumped into my car and fired up the engine, determined to find out who was driving Herbert Solomon’s car. Even though I was in a hurry to get back to work, my curiosity got the better of me.

  I threw Ringo into Reverse and quickly backed out of the parking space, grateful for the almost-empty lot. In a few seconds, I’d pulled in behind the Rolls, which caused the woman to glance from the windshield to her rearview mirror.

  She revved the engine when she saw me, and the car pulled away. I did the same, until our bumpers nearly touched. We drove that way to the feeder road, neither of us willing to back down.

  I kept pace with her for several miles. Fortunately no one else was on the road, since the morning rush hour had passed, and we sped to the outskirts of downtown. We approached the first stoplight, which signaled the start of the business district, and the light suddenly changed from yellow to red. I moved my foot from the accelerator and prepared to brake at the light.

  She had other ideas. Instead of braking, she accelerated even more, and the Rolls zoomed through the red light, its back end fishtailing as it swerved through the intersection. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally made it safely to the other side, where she sped off again.

  I merely gaped. I couldn’t put my life—or someone else’s—in danger, so I watched her disappear as I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. By the time the color flipped to green again, the Rolls was gone.


  Dagnabit. There was no telling where the driver had been, or where she was going. An unfamiliar brunette who was brazen enough to commandeer Mr. Solomon’s Rolls-Royce only a day after his death. I’d have to tell Lance about our race when I returned to the studio.

  I barely noticed the scenery on my drive back to the Factory. When I reached the parking lot at work, I found a space on the first go-round—hallelujah—then I hopped out of Ringo. I trundled my purchases, along with my purse and three stir sticks, over to Crowning Glory, where I dropped everything onto the welcome mat.

  By now the building brimmed with life, as other studio owners, clients, and vendors walked back and forth from the storefronts to the parking lot.

  I unlocked the front door and muscled the merchandise inside. It was time for me to spread the first layer of primer on the ceiling before my ten o’clock appointment and be done with it.

  I wobbled over to the counter, fortunately without dropping anything. I almost knocked everything to the ground, though, when someone coughed nearby.

  “Ivy?” I gaped at a woman who perched on the edge of my couch, wearing a pitch-black St. John suit.

  “Hello, Missy. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She rose from the couch with a shy smile. “Some girl let me in after I knocked on the window.”

  “Whew. I thought I was seeing things. I’ll bet you ran into my assistant or my interior decorator. My gosh, I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

  Herbert Solomon’s second wife had been one of the first people to greet me when I arrived in Bleu Bayou. We bonded one weekend at a “fancy hat” contest that took place at the hotel where her stepdaughter was supposed to be married. Although Ivy lived in Baton Rouge, she’d traveled back and forth between her home and the wedding venue at least twice a week for several months, and we became fast friends.

  “I’ve been meaning to come and see you,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your loss.” While I longed to tell her about my strange encounter with her late husband’s car, this didn’t seem like the time, nor the place.