Death Comes to Dogwood Manor. Sandra Bretting
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off its base, I might charge into the mansion and give Mr. Solomon a piece of my mind. Or, as my granddaddy would say, I’d “lay down the country and lay it down good.”
Instead, I pulled the Volkswagen to the side of the road and hopped out of the car. Once I slammed Ringo’s door shut—I’d nicknamed my car for another, more famous, Beatle—I hightailed it to the mansion.
Heat radiated off the asphalt and warmed the soles of my ballet flats, even at eight in the morning, as I made a beeline for a massive iron gate left to stand between brand-new sections of chain link. A Master padlock held the original gate closed, which meant I’d have to come up with plan B to get inside the property.
I carefully threaded my face between two of the gate’s rusty bars and gazed over the lawn.
Tools lay everywhere. A belt sander topped a pile of shutters; two wood sawhorses held what I guessed to be the front door, since a blue plastic tarp covered a hole over the entrance; and an industrial pressure washer suckled at a rusty faucet.
“Yoo-hoo!” While tools lay everywhere, the people who operated them were nowhere to be found. “Anyone here?”
A cicada in a nearby rosebush provided the only response.
I frowned and pulled away from the bars. I could leave a note on the windshield of Mr. Solomon’s Rolls and explain what happened. Or I could call his office and confess my mistake, hopefully to an answering machine. Then again, I had a perfectly good Allstate insurance agent back in town who might be willing to bear his tongue-lashing in my place.
But none of those options sounded good. They all sounded cowardly, not to mention downright unneighborly. I paused, and in a moment, the problem resolved itself. Someone’s voice rose above the cicada, loud and clear, and his sharp words roiled under the plastic tarp.
“We open in five days. Five days! Do you understand that?” The voice came from inside the mansion, and the speaker didn’t wait for a response. “We’re running out of time, gentlemen.”
There was no mistaking Mr. Solomon’s voice. While his tone made me rethink my enthusiasm for a face-to-face meeting, I didn’t have much choice at this point, so I took a deep breath and grasped the brand-new padlock on the gate. Whoever placed it there forgot to engage the lock, bless his heart, and the shackle hovered over the locking mechanism. One twist and the gray chain slithered to the ground.
I waited for the last link in the chain to drop. Then I pushed on the massive iron gate for all I was worth.
Cccrrreeeaaakkk! Slowly, it yawned open, like every rusted gate in every low-budget horror movie I’d ever seen. The only things missing were a creepy butler in a tuxedo jacket and the minor chords of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 17.
Thank goodness I’d opted to wear ballet flats today. I carefully stepped around dropped nails, shards of wood, and broken kudzu vines to reach the marble staircase and the makeshift front door.
The scaffold loomed above me. Is it bad luck to walk under a scaffold, à la a ladder? Since I guessed not, I ducked beneath the planks and emerged in a cavernous foyer with whitewashed walls and a stained-glass window at the tippy top. A floating staircase, with mahogany banisters, rose through the center of the foyer and split the house in two. One wing led east, while the other headed west. The scent of sawdust and turpentine tinged the air.
I didn’t have much time to look around, though, since the voice returned.
“No excuses, gentlemen! Either meet the damn deadline, or you don’t get paid.”
As soon as he fell silent, footsteps scurried across the floor, as if Mr. Solomon’s audience couldn’t wait to escape. Someone quickly popped around the corner, and I nearly toppled back against the tarp.
“Whaddya want?” An older man in an orange vest and battered hard hat appraised me warily.
“Um, hello.”
He appeared to be a supervisor, since he held a paint-flecked clipboard.
“I need to speak to Mr. Solomon. Can you tell me where he is?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” The foreman rolled his eyes. “He’s always hanging around here. We’d finish this project a hell of a lot quicker if he’d just stay away.”
“I won’t keep you, then. I just need to know where he is.”
Little by little, the man’s jaw untensed. “Yeah, okay. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just that Mr. Solomon’s paying me good money to oversee this project, but he won’t let me do my job. The whole crew’s ready to mutiny.”
“Uh, that’s too bad. Could you maybe tell me which way to go?”
He flicked the clipboard east. “He’s over there, in the library. I’m warning you, though. You might be sorry you asked for him.”
“Fair enough. And I’m sorry about your troubles, Mr.…”
“Truitt. It’s Shep Truitt. I’m the construction foreman here. Or so I like to think. To hear Mr. Solomon tell it, he’s the one doing all the work.”
Before the scowl could return, I carefully sidestepped the foreman. Apparently Shep Truitt had plenty to say about his employer, and all day to say it. “Thank you,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried away.
After a few steps, I entered the hall to the east wing, which was covered in muslin to protect the hardwood from paint splatters. My feet slapped the runner, like a dry paintbrush hitting the side of a can, and I passed a jumble of paint rollers, tape, and caulk. The walls were primed, but not yet painted, and a raw-wood chair rail ran down the length of it.
By the time I reached a double-wide door at the end of the hall, after passing a half-dozen closed doors on either side, the construction noise resumed. Someone fired up a belt sander on the second floor, while hammers and nail guns took up the chorus. Before long, a symphony of clanks and whirs and bangs rang out.
The double-wide door lay open at the end of the hall. I stepped into the library, which was lined from floor to ceiling with glimmering mahogany bookcases. On each side of the cases sat elaborate end tables decorated with cut-glass lamps. A large ladder—its feet shod in shiny brass wheels—leaned against the bookcase nearest me.
That was where I found Mr. Solomon, standing under the fifth rung, as he gazed at a bare shelf. Apparently he doesn’t care about bad luck and ladders.
He turned when I approached, no doubt alerted by my footsteps in the hall.
He’d aged since our last meeting. What was left of his gray hair was gone, and purple spots flared across his scalp.
“The hotel isn’t open yet.” He waved his right hand dismissively. “Come back next week.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” I threw him a half-hearted smile as I entered the room, knowing full well he wouldn’t return it. “We’ve met before, Mr. Solomon. I’m Melissa DuBois. I made the veil for your daughter’s wedding.”
“I know who you are. You shouldn’t be here.”
Although I didn’t expect a hug, for goodness sakes, would it kill him to be civil? I inched closer. “I thought you might’ve mistaken me for a tourist.”
“This is a construction zone, Miss DuBois. No one’s allowed in here without a hard hat.”
I glanced at his bald head but withheld my comments. Better to use honey than vinegar with this one. “I only want a minute of your time. I’m afraid there’s been a little fender bender.”
“What do you mean…a ‘fender bender’?”
“I kinda knocked the mirror off your car.” My voice faltered. Admitting the mistake was one thing, but his icy stare was quite another.
“I’ll be happy to pay for it,” I quickly added. “The mirror’s still okay. It’s just not where