Death Comes to Dogwood Manor. Sandra Bretting
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“You, there. Drive Mr. Truitt to the emergency room.”
“Right away, sir.” The onlooker, who seemed to be about my age—in his early thirties—immediately turned and headed for a Ford dually parked nearby. He hopped into the cab and fired up his truck, while others helped Mr. Truitt lumber over to the waiting vehicle.
While they worked, my gaze returned to the Chevy. The base of the wood corbel, which was carved with the intricate design of a dogwood blossom, had been dented in the fall. Bits of wood dusted the truck bed underneath it.
“That’s too bad.” I looked up to see Hank, who stood next to me. “I wonder if that thing broke Mr. Truitt’s fingers?”
“No doubt. Well, at least he’s on his way to the emergency room.” He gently took my arm again, like he’d done earlier in the hall. “Why don’t we take those pictures and get outta here? They don’t need us hanging around.”
We slowly walked back to the Rolls, where Hank snapped half a dozen pictures of the damage with his cell phone. I promised to e-mail him my insurance information, then I headed for my car.
I drove away from the mansion with Hank in my rearview mirror. Such a strange turn of events. Already I’d visited Dogwood Manor, spoken with both Herbert Solomon and Hank Dupre, and, to top it off, witnessed the aftermath of a construction accident. Ambrose will never believe this.
I wiggled my cell phone free of my pants pocket, then punched a number on the speed dial. Ambrose Jackson, my beau and longtime friend, always said I had a knack for finding trouble. While I hated to admit it, he could be right.
Ever since I’d moved to Bleu Bayou, trouble seemed to follow me around like an angry rain cloud. It began with the murder at Morningside Plantation, and it only got worse when Ambrose and I found a body in the garden shed at the old Sweetwater place. That was followed by the incident with the whiskey barrel on New Year’s Day.
Whenever I called Ambrose from the road now, he sounded hesitant, as if he was waiting for another shoe to drop. But at least he still took my calls.
His voice came on the line after three rings. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”
Smooth jazz played in the background, which meant Bo was working on one of his creations. While I made custom veils and hats for wedding parties, my boyfriend designed couture wedding dresses for extravagant brides. People used to snicker at his occupation, since “real” men don’t make ball gowns, but they changed their tune when they learned that people paid $10,000 and up for one of Bo’s creations. Like I always said, nothing silences the naysayers like success.
“You’re not going to believe the morning I’ve had.”
Once I gave him a rundown on my mishap at Dogwood Manor, my conversations with Herbert Solomon and Hank Dupre, and then the accident in the truck bed, I got around to the real reason for my call.
“Listen…I’m afraid I’m going to be a few minutes late for my nine o’clock appointment. Could you please go next door and let my client into the studio? I don’t want her to melt in the parking lot before I get there.”
Normally I’d have my assistant, Beatrice, handle the chore, but I’d given her the morning off, since she’d sacrificed her Saturday night to help a bride with a last-minute veil crisis.
“No problem.” He sounded relieved that I wasn’t asking for more. “Whom am I looking for?”
“Stormie Lanai, the reporter from KATZ.”
He whistled under his breath. “Thought you’d be done with her by now. We finished her wedding gown months ago.”
Unfortunately, Stormie and I had a history together. She tried to ambush me in the parking lot behind my studio back when Charlotte Devereaux was murdered. She thought she could earn an easy Emmy by getting me to confess to the crime. While that didn’t work, since I had an airtight alibi for that morning—not to mention a friend who worked as a detective on the Louisiana State police force—she tried anyway, which put her on my “bad” list forevermore.
Since then, I’d handled Stormie with kid gloves. I tried to beg off when she asked me to design her wedding veil, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Today was the last fitting, and then I finally could say good-bye to her and her ilk.
“She’s coming in for a final fitting,” I said. “Could you make sure she doesn’t have a hissy fit when I’m not there?”
“No problem. And take your time. I don’t want you to get in an accident because you’re driving too fast.”
“Yes, Bo.” I tried to sound exasperated, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Truth be told, it tickled me pink whenever Ambrose worried about my welfare. Although we’d only been dating a few months, I already knew what kind of wedding veil I wanted when the time came. It couldn’t hurt a girl to plan ahead, now, could it?
I arrived at the studio a few minutes later, after first passing sugarcane fields and then one of my favorite local restaurants—Miss Odilia’s Southern Eatery. By the time I drove onto the asphalt lot at the Factory, which was the nickname all the studio owners used for the building, almost every spot in the lot was taken.
After a few turns around and around, I snagged an overlooked spot in the last row and hopped out of the car. Humidity enveloped me like a wet blanket and plastered my auburn hair to the back of my neck.
I forced a smile on my face anyway and barreled into Crowning Glory. The fake smile lasted exactly two seconds, until I realized Stormie had cornered Ambrose behind the counter, where she stroked his arm as if she was petting a Persian cat.
“Look…Missy’s here!” Ambrose yelped the greeting.
“Yeah. Sorry I’m late.” Hard to say whether I felt more irritated or amused by her clumsy attempt to flirt with him. Stormie Lanai might have a glamorous job, but she also wore pancake makeup in broad daylight and favored false eyelashes that looked like two butterflies in flight whenever she blinked. People only tolerated her because she was a news reporter for KATZ.
“Ambrose here was entertaining me.” Stormie practically purred the words, but at least she released his arm. “You’re late. I thought we had an appointment at nine.” She slumped onto a nearby bar stool and retracted her claws.
“We did, I mean, we do.” I glanced at Ambrose. “And I’m sure Mr. Jackson here needs to get back to work. Thanks for helping me, Bo.”
“Yeah. No problem. Good-bye, Miss Lanai.” He passed in a blur as he bolted for the exit.
“See you later!” she called to his retreating back. “Don’t be a stranger, now, you hear?”
Once he left the studio, Stormie’s syrupy smile disappeared. “I hope you don’t always keep your clients waiting, Miss DuBois. It’s bad form. I have important things to do, you know.”
“I’m sure you do. And again…I’m sorry.” I dropped my purse onto the counter and took the stool next to hers. “There was a little incident on the road this morning. But the good news is, I finished your veil over the weekend. I think you’re going to be very happy—”
“Here’s the deal.” Stormie slapped the counter, which made me jump. “I’ve given a lot of thought to what I want. Rex, he’s my fiancé, you know, said I can have anything I want with this wedding.”
No doubt. Rex Tibideaux, a burly New Orleans oilman, was at least thirty years older than his bride, not to mention thirty times richer. Everyone suspected Stormie only said yes because the deal included a horse farm and a fifty-foot yacht.
“Anything I want,” she repeated. “And I’ve decided my veil is much too short for my wedding dress. It’s definitely not grand enough.”
I blinked. “‘Not grand enough’? I thought you wanted a replica of Princess Diana’s veil. That’s what I made for you.”
“Correction…right