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 lifeless fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said, to no one in particular. “The thing slipped. I thought I had a better hold on it.”
“Well, don’t move your hand.” Mr. Solomon approached the truck and pointed to a ponytailed worker nearby. “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.”
