Prosecco Pink (9 page)

I wondered whether she was discreetly flipping Delta off and smiled inwardly at the notion.

"At least nothing was broken," Veronica said.

"Not yet, anyway," Delta remarked, putting her hands on her hips. "Now, I've got to get downstairs to see that everything is ready for the tour. Scarlett, Ms. Maggio and Ms. Amato need to ask you some questions about the murder. You make sure you cooperate, you hear?"

"Yes, Miss Delta."

Delta frowned at her and left the room.

I looked at Scarlett and noted that her hands were trembling. I couldn't tell whether it was because of what had just transpired or because she was afraid to talk to us. Either way, I knew I had to try to calm her down to have a chance at getting any information she may have. "Scarlett is the perfect name for a plantation tour guide." I smiled. "I'll bet you hear a lot of Tara jokes."

She stared at me, expressionless.

Time to try another tactic. "What's up with the pineapple?"

"It's a symbol of Southern hospitality, isn't it?" Veronica chimed in.

Scarlett nodded. "Yes ma'am. But in the old South, if you were a guest in someone's home and you woke up and found one at the foot of your bed, it meant you'd overstayed your welcome."

"Awk-ward." I laughed.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Miss Delta said you had some questions about that woman that was killed?"

Clearly, Scarlett was in no mood for jokes. "Uh, yeah," I said. "Were you here between five p.m. last Friday and eight a.m. the next morning?"

"I came in at eight thirty on Saturday for the nine a.m. tour," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"We're not accusing you of anything," Veronica began, "we're just trying to find out if you know anything that could help us."

"I don't," she said hotly.

It appeared that Scarlett had a scrappy side, like her
Gone-with-the-Wind
namesake. "Did you see the body after it was found?" I asked.

She nodded. "Miss Delta told me what happened when I came to work. I went into the room to see for myself."

"Did you recognize the victim, Ivanna Jones?" Veronica asked.

Scarlett glanced at the floor. "I seen her here before."

I felt my heart skip a beat. "When?"

"A week or so ago."

I remembered that Delta said she'd seen Ivanna two weeks before. I wondered whether Ivanna had returned to the plantation a week later. "Can you give us a more precise date?"

She tugged at the top of her corset. "Uh, actually, I think it was two weeks ago."

Veronica furrowed her brow. "You're sure?"

"You think I'm lying?" she asked, raising her chin.

"I want to make sure we have the correct information, that's all," Veronica replied.

Scarlett stared at Veronica and said nothing.

Changing the subject, I asked, "Was Ivanna on one of your tours?"

"Yeah." She paused and played with the fabric of her petticoat. "And…" Her voice trailed off as she looked out the window. Then her face clouded over. "I'd better go." She grabbed the feather duster from the bed and pulled her hoop skirt and a red dress from the back of the door. "It's almost time for my tour."

"Okay, but let us know if you think of anything else," I said.

Scarlett left the room without a word.

"Did you see that?" I asked as I hurried over to the window. "She was about to tell us something, but she changed her mind."

"Yeah," Veronica replied with a toss of her hair. "And from the way she kept messing with her clothes, I'd say she was lying about when she saw Ivanna."

I stared out onto the grounds below and immediately locked eyes with a stocky, thirty-something male standing near the back porch. He turned away and headed in the direction of the sugar mills. "I just saw a man looking up at this window. Let's go find out who he is."

I rushed downstairs with Veronica close behind. When I opened the back door, seven miniature pinschers rushed in and circled me with their teeth bared like tiny land sharks preparing for a foot-feeding frenzy. I immediately froze in my tracks and feared for my Dolce Vita wedges and my toes.

Veronica sprung into action. "Bad dogs!" she shouted, clapping her hands. "Shoo! Shoo!"

But the mini mongrels stood their battleground.

Using my best Southern canine speak, I yelled, "Go on, now!
Git!
"

Delta emerged from her office wearing her standard scowl. "What's all the damn fuss about?" she asked, waving an antique candlestick like a club. "We have a tour going on, you know."

"This pack of wild Dobermans!" I said, desperately wanting to gesticulate but holding my body mummy-style still.

Delta looked down as though she hadn't realized the dogs were there. Then she dropped to her knees and drew the dogs into a collective embrace. "Mamma's sweet babies!" she cooed in a manly maternal tone as she kissed each dog on the mouth.

I felt my jaw drop from the shock of Delta's unexpected display of affection.

She looked up, beaming with pride. "These are the seven dwarfs."

More like the seven deadly sins
, I thought.

Veronica walked around me. "Delta, we need to identify a man who was staring up at the window when we were questioning Scarlett a few minutes ago."

She used her right knee to hoist herself back to her feet. "It was probably that good-for-nothing Miles McCarthy, our groundskeeper. He's always poking around in the bushes and whatnot, sticking his blasted nose where it doesn't belong."

I noted that Delta had made a quick recovery from her bout with maternal warmth. "Does anyone else help with property maintenance?"

"No, but our historian, Troy Wilson, gives tours of the grounds. He's not here today, though."

Veronica pressed a finger to her cheek. "Hm. We'd planned on questioning everyone while we were here."

"I told him that," Delta said as she began twisting the candle in its spiral-shaped metal holder. "But he said he had some business to attend to at Tulane, something to do with his PhD dissertation. You should ask him about his research, by the way. It's fascinating."

"When can we talk to him?" I asked, glancing down at the Disney-named demon dogs.

"The day after tomorrow," she replied. Then she unceremoniously deposited the candlestick in my hands. "Here. Hold the base while I pull this candle out."

"That's a funky-looking candlestick," I said.

"It's a courter's candle." Flexing the muscle she'd exhibited earlier with the bronze pineapple, Delta gave a hearty tug and the candle slipped free from the metal spiral.

"What's that?" Veronica asked as I handed the candlestick to Delta.

"A courting timer. When a gentleman came calling for one of the eligible young ladies of the plantation, her father would light the candle. When the wax burned down to the top of the metal spiral, it was time for the young man to leave. If the plantation lord felt he was a good prospect he would turn the handle to raise the candle before he lit it to give the couple more time together. But if he didn't, he would lower it."

"Talk about getting the short end of the stick," I joked.

Delta raised an eyebrow and stared at me. She might have a secret human side, but she had no sense of humor.

Veronica peered around Delta's shoulder. "Why are you replacing the candle?"

"One of my staff lit the damn thing, and the wax dripped all over the holder. Probably Scarlett," she added, shaking her head.

"Speaking of Scarlett," I said, "what time does her tour end?"

"In about thirty minutes. There are only six people—foreigners who are blissfully ignorant of the murder, I'm sure."

"Okay, thanks," Veronica said, walking to the door.

I held back until Delta and all seven of the devil dwarfs had retreated into her office. Then I rushed out after Veronica.

"Let's go to the larger mill first," I said.

"Yeah, the smaller one is probably the storage shed."

Veronica and I walked past the slave quarters and the gift shop and veered left in the direction of the big sugar mill. As we approached the rickety old wooden structure, we saw four huge cast iron kettles arranged in order from largest to smallest in front of the building. The tallest kettle was at least five feet high and seven feet across, and the smallest was only about two feet high.

I walked up to the weather-beaten door and knocked. After a minute or so passed, I pressed my ear to the thin wood. "It sounds like a fan or something is running. Maybe he didn't hear me."

"Is the door locked?"

I pushed the door, and its rusty hinges creaked as it opened about a foot. "I'm going in."

Veronica nodded.

"Hello, Miles?" I called as I slipped inside. I followed the loud whirring, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in the back. I passed through a room equipped with several antiquated-looking machines with grooved rollers and arrived in an adjoining room with wooden worktables and shelving.

Miles was standing at a table with his back to me and using an industrial-sized Shop-Vac to remove some pink powder from a clear plastic Tupperware container. When the last of the powder was gone, he turned to switch off the machine.

I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing a white surgical mask, but I thought his brown eyes widened when he noticed me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Franki, and I'm a PI investigating the suspicious death here at Oleander Place."

He removed his mask and began stripping off his elbow-length rubber gloves. "Where y'at?" he asked in a Brooklynesque accent.

I started to say, "Right here." But then I remembered that
Y'at
is a white, working-class dialect peculiar to the area around New Orleans' Irish Channel neighborhood, meaning
How are you?,
and I cleared my throat. "Fine. And you?"

"Awrite," he replied. "I was jus' cleanin' up some rat poison. Maybe we should step outside?"

I was all too happy to leave the mill. I could almost feel airborne rat poison entering my lungs, and I was a little leery of Miles. With his bushy reddish-brown brow, flattened boxer nose, and hulking frame, he looked like he could have been an Irish Mafia extra for the cast of
The Departed
.

When we got outside, Veronica was leaning over the next to largest of the kettles.

"Careful, now," Miles said. "You don' wanna fall into de
flambeau
."

Veronica blinked. "The what?"

"All dese kettles have a name. Dis big one here is de
grande
, den come de
flambeau
, de
sirop
an' de
batterie
."

"So they were used in sugar production?" I asked, running my hand over the smooth black surface of the
grande
.

"Yeah, to boil de sugar cane juice down 'til it crystalized. But dey also used 'em to make de meals for de plantation hands. And during de harvesting season, dey took de boiled cane juice from de
flambeau
and mixed it wit' French brandy to make hot punch." He rubbed his belly. "It's dee-licious."

I felt my mouth watering. Naturally, I'd been craving a mint julep since I stepped onto the plantation. But some condensed sugar juice and European brandy would do just fine. "Listen, my partner Veronica and I would like to ask you a few questions about the murder. Is now a good time?"

"F'sure," he said, crossing his arms against his solid chest.

"Great," I said, pulling a note pad and pen from my purse. "What time did you leave work last Friday?"

"I went home early dat day, at tree p.m."

Veronica crinkled her nose. "At three?"

He nodded. "Tha's right."

I jotted down the time. "Can anyone vouch for you?"

"How ya mean?"

"I mean, do you have an alibi?"

He looked down. "I stay by myself, and I was dere all night. Pahdon my French, but I had de
fois
."

I had a hard enough time deciphering proper French, so there was no way I could do Cajun. "The
fwas
?"

"I was in de battroom," he said, raising his eyebrows.

I looked at him blankly.

He gave a sheepish grin. "I ate a bad batch o' gumbo?"

"Got it," I said, holding up my hand in a stopping motion. I didn't need any of the gory gastric details. "What about Saturday? Did you come to work?"

"I got heuh at eight."

Veronica pulled a crime scene photo from her Furla tote. "Did you view the victim's body?"

"No ma'am. No one was allowed in de house dat day."

"Do you recognize this woman?" she asked, showing him a photo of Ivanna's body.

Miles stroked his unshaven chin and looked to one side. "Nevah seen her before."

I noted that he didn't flinch at the sight of her corpse. "Her name is Ivanna Jones. Does that ring a bell?"

He looked down at his worn brown work boots. "Cain't say it does."

"Thanks, Miles," I said slipping the pad and pen back into my bag. "That's it for me. Veronica?"

She shook her head.

"Looks like we're done for now," I said, extending my hand. "If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."

He grasped my hand in a powerful grip. "Y'all have a blessed day."

As Veronica and I headed back toward the plantation, I whispered, "Miles never once looked us in the eye when we asked him about Ivanna."

"I noticed that. Suspicious, huh?"

I was about to reply when I saw something move by the magnolia tree next to the back porch. I squinted and saw Scarlett peeking out from behind the massive trunk. "True to her Clue counterpart, Miss Scarlett is a spy."

"Interesting," Veronica said. "Let's go to talk to her and find out what's going on."

I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Scarlett!"

She glanced in our direction, and then she put her head down and hurried toward the parking lot.

Veronica looked at me. "What's she doing?"

Scarlett climbed into a beat up, red Ford pickup and started the engine.

"Leaving," I replied as I watched her back up and speed away.

"That's the second time today she's run away from us," Veronica said.