Death Comes to Dogwood Manor. Sandra Bretting
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laugh about it?”
“No, no.” I shook my head. “I’m not laughing about it. And I couldn’t drive away without telling you. I fully intend to pay for the damages. I just didn’t notice your car when I drove by.”
“How could you miss it?” He scoffed, until something worse flickered across his face: doubt. “Wait a minute. You weren’t texting, were you? By God, if you were on your cell phone, I’ll sic my attorney on you!”
I shook my head even harder. “No, no. That’s not it. I swear, I wasn’t texting.”
“Then why didn’t you see my car?”
“I noticed something in your trash bin. It’s a long story. I just didn’t want you to think I hit your car and took off again.”
He stared me down for a moment, until his gaze finally swept to the doorway. “Hank! Get in here.”
A middle-aged man appeared. It was Hank Dupre, a local Realtor and my assistant’s uncle. Everyone knew Mr. Dupre on account of his loud parties and even louder wardrobe. Today he wore an orange polo with red flames that licked across the front panel like wildfire.
“Hello, Mr. Dupre.” I realized my mistake right away. “I mean, uh, Hank.” I always forgot to call him by his first name, which drove him to distraction.
“That’s better. Hello, Missy.”
“What brings you out here this morning?”
“I handled the sale for this place,” he said. “And I wanted to meet the interior designer today. She’s supposed to be a real whiz.”
I hadn’t spoken to Hank Dupre since Ambrose and I discovered a dead body at a mansion not far from here, which happened at the start of the new year. That was the case that involved a whiskey barrel, which got me into this mess in the first place. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too.” Hank turned to Mr. Solomon. “Is that the designer in the hall?” He jerked his thumb back to indicate a petite woman standing behind him.
She wore a beige linen pantsuit and sky-high stilettos. The shoes seemed a little unsafe for a construction zone, if you asked me, but she stood barely five feet tall, so maybe she needed every inch she could get.
“That’s her,” Mr. Solomon said. “Erika, come over here.”
The woman quickly approached us when he called, then she extended her right hand. She held a clear Lucite clipboard in the other one. “Hello. I’m Erika Daniels.”
“Melissa DuBois. Pleased to meet you.” I returned her handshake, surprised by the strength of the woman’s grip. And, unlike me, she wore a white hard hat over her hair.
I waited for her to shake Hank’s hand before I spoke again. “I hear you’re an interior designer.”
“Yes. I got my degree at the New York School of Interior Design. I focus on old homes, like this one.” She turned to Mr. Solomon. “By the way, the west wing is shaping up nicely, so now it’s time to work on this wing. I think—”
“We need to talk about that.” Mr. Solomon obviously couldn’t wait to regain control of the conversation. “I thought you promised that the library would be done by now. We have our first wedding on Saturday, remember? I don’t want you to slap it together at the last minute.”
Her smile thinned. “I don’t intend to ‘slap anything together’. The books will be delivered this afternoon. All the classics, like you wanted. And, I found the perfect mirror for the hall bathroom. I just need your signature on the purchase order.”
Mr. Solomon snatched the clipboard from her. Purple spots covered his wrist, too, and I wondered whether the stress of the renovation had caused the rash to spread.
“All right.” He removed a pen from the hinge and hastily scrawled his name. “Here you go.” He thrust the clipboard back at her. “Hope this purchase doesn’t break our budget, like some of your other ones.”
“Of course not. Well, it was nice to meet you two.” She began to back away from us, as if she didn’t trust Mr. Solomon enough to turn her back on him.
“As for you,” Mr. Solomon returned his attention to Hank, “I need you to go outside with Miss DuBois and check on my car. Apparently she barreled into my side mirror.”
“Not sure I can do anything about that,” Hank said.
“I need you to take some pictures with your phone and then send them to my assistant.” He shook his head, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “And you’ll need to get the number for Miss DuBois’s insurance policy and a photocopy of her driver’s license.”
“Is that all?”
I detected some sarcasm from Hank, but Mr. Solomon didn’t seem to notice.
“I think so. Send those things to my assistant so we can get this sorted out. That’ll do for now.” Another dismissive wave of his hand.
The Realtor and I turned to leave, an awkward silence falling between us. I finally broke it when we reached the hall.
“I can take that picture for you,” I said. “No need for you to run around and do his errands.”
“Nah, that’s okay. I was on my way out anyway.” He gingerly took my elbow and led me to the foyer, where we sidestepped paint cans and packs of roller brushes. “We’ll make this quick. I’m sure we both need to get back to work.”
“I know I do.” I checked my watch. “I have a bride coming in at nine, and it’s close to that now.”
After we took a few more steps, I paused. “Does he always talk to you like that?”
“He talks to everyone like that.” He shrugged. “What’re you gonna do? I only stopped by today to meet the designer and see the renovations. You know this place is supposed to open on Saturday, right?”
“So I heard. His construction foreman was fit to be tied.”
“It helps that Herbert dangles cash in front of everyone.” When Hank drew the plastic tarp aside, sunlight leaked into the foyer. “I heard he’s paying the workers double time to have the place ready for the wedding.”
We picked our way down the marble staircase and landed at the gate, where I rechecked my watch. Already 8:50. Time to hustle.
“The mirror’s over there.” I pointed to an aluminum orb still sitting on Church Street, untouched, since I’d forgotten to pick it up and move it safely out of the way. Praise God for good drivers and empty roads.
I stepped onto the asphalt, but that was as far as I got. A scream pierced the air, and it sounded more animal than human.
CHAPTER 2
I turned to see several construction workers run out of the mansion with their hammers, while another one threw his trowel to the ground before shimmying off of the second-floor scaffold. I began to sprint toward the property, with Hank on my heels.
The yowl came from a pickup parked next to the house. A Chevy Silverado, to be exact, with a broken hitch and its tailgate lowered. I headed for a group of construction workers who’d gathered around, their gaze trained on a man who writhed on the truck bed.
Shep Truitt clutched his hand to his chest, a broken corbel nearby.
“Someone help him!” Mr. Solomon’s voice boomed through the chaos. “Now!”
I glanced at a construction worker beside me. “What happened?”
“He was trying to load a corbel into his truck, but it fell onto him. Those things have to weigh fifty pounds.”
Several Good Samaritans scrambled up the tailgate and moved the corbel even farther from Shep’s hand.
He grimaced as he cupped his