Death Comes to Dogwood Manor. Sandra Bretting

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Sandra Bretting

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: June 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0574-8

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0574-5

      First Print Edition: June 2018

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0577-9

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0577-X

      Printed in the United States of America

      CHAPTER 1

      Kudzu vines hung over the mansion’s chain-link fence like tattered green bath mats tossed there to dry. Nothing could obscure what lay behind the overgrown fence, though—a beautiful antebellum mansion left to crumble and fade in the Louisiana sun.

      I’d driven by the 1850s showpiece on this Monday morning to see what all the fuss was about. I’d read about the mansion in the real estate section of the Bleu Bayou Impartial Reporter, and since my morning commute took me nearby, I’d veered from LA-18 for a peek.

      I owned a hat shop in town called Crowning Glory, so I spent my days crafting custom wedding veils, fascinators, and whatnot for brides who got married on the Great River Road. But my nights? Those told a different story. At night, I dreamt about grand Doric columns, scrolled corbels nestled beneath pitched roofs, and elegant staircases that swept toward heaven.

      All like the finishing touches on this mansion. Well, maybe not now, since cracks veined the two-story columns, paint flaked from the carved corbels, and even more kudzu covered the marble staircase. But, no matter.

      Not even a scaffold on the eastern side could obscure its beauty. The second-story scaffold was new, since it wasn’t in the newspaper photo. It looked like a giant Tinkertoy set had been clicked into place under the windows, and workers had erected another set over the front door. A Been There, Dump That trash container, layered with hunks of plaster, clumps of rotted wood, and discarded two-by-fours, held the refuse like an overturned box for the Tinkertoys.

      I slowly cruised past the Dumpster on the empty road. The layers of debris stair-stepped to an old whiskey barrel, which caught my eye. The barrel lay on its side and fingers of sunlight reached through the broken staves, like the dying whiskey maker’s outstretched hand.

      The cask sparked a memory. A similar barrel had appeared about eight months ago, when I arrived for work on New Year’s Day to find it in the parking lot behind my hat studio. A trickle of blond, blood-splattered hair spilled from the opening of that one, like dirty salt poured onto black, peppery asphalt. The scene had mesmerized and repelled me at the same time.

      Crrraaassshhh!

      I immediately hit the brakes and my Volkswagen skidded to a stop. Sweet mother of pearl! A cloud of pea gravel and road dust swirled around me. I’d obviously slammed into something…but what?

      The only sounds came from the rush of blood whooshing between my ears and tanker trucks that rumbled down nearby LA-18.

      And then I heard it. The unmistakable clunk of something hard falling on the road behind me.

      Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze to the rearview mirror. Sure enough, I’d sideswept a car that was parked under an unusually robust clump of kudzu. The impact sheared the side mirror clean off its base, and the shiny metal orb rolled merrily along Church Street, end over end, as if happy to be free of the car.

      And not just any car. I’d struck a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, which hulked by the side of the road like a shiny Marathon oil tanker.

      Only one person around here could afford such a nice car, and only one person would park it so willy-nilly. Herbert Solomon, one of Louisiana’s most notorious billionaires, had to be nearby.

      Dagnabit! I’d had the distinct displeasure of meeting Mr. Solomon when I first moved to Bleu Bayou, more than two years ago now. It’d happened at Morningside Plantation, another grand old home not far from here, when a wedding planner hired me to make a custom veil for a bride.

      The bride turned out to be Mr. Solomon’s daughter, Trinity. Only, the girl never got to wear her custom veil, because someone murdered her the night before the big event. The crime rocked our little community, and it hardened Mr. Solomon even more, if that was at all possible.

      Since then, he’d handled his grief in a most unusual way. While others might turn to exercise classes, support groups, or, unfortunately, copious amounts of alcohol to dull the pain, he chose a different path. He charged through southern Louisiana with his checkbook open and offered to buy any antebellum property an owner cared to sell, for twice its appraised value.

      He didn’t care about preserving these historic gems. No, his goal was to renovate them into high-end hotels and wedding venues and become the area’s first gazillionaire. He didn’t always succeed, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

      Apparently, he’d sweet-talked the owners of Dogwood Manor into selling it to him, since his car skulked on the property. Is nothing sacred? Why do people keep selling to him? Before long, this stretch of the Mississippi River would become known as “hotel row,” and not a historic