Murder at Morningside by Sandra Bretting Page B

this bright May morning were two broodmares who watched as I walked along their fence line. They looked recently brushed, with manes that lay flat against their crests .
    â€œMorning, ladies.”
    The smell of dry willows, spent wildflower stalks, and dusty pea gravel followed me as I hiked down the road. I longed for a sketchpad so I could capture the way the willows bent in the morning breeze. Even though I normally used feathers for the trims of my hats, I could always replicate the pussy willows with some rolled organdy or silk. I tried to memorize their exact bend so I could sketch the stalks when I returned to my hotel room later.
    Once I’d passed the horse pasture, I came upon columns of spiky plants grown chest-high, spaced a foot apart. Sugarcane. Not a kitchen garden, by any means, but a commercial operation that stretched back as far as a football field.
    A bit farther along, the church/funeral home/coroner’s office Charles had described came into view. First up was the church, made with white clapboards, rounded windows, and flower boxes full of purple irises. The picture of a quaint country church. The building stretched back a ways, and it had sired an identical building next door. The two were joined by a fabric awning that arched over a cobblestone path.
    It all looked perfect. Too perfect, as a matter of fact. When I drew closer, the wood clapboards were actually plastic and the flowers made of silk. Even the roof’s shingles were so evenly spaced they must have come off a roll. A marquee in front of the first building announced the Rising Tide Baptist Church, while a smaller sign pointed to the Riversbend Funeral Home next door, like an afterthought.
    Church had yet to begin. An old man in a gray suit guarded the doors like a stone lion. I automatically walked toward him until I remembered the real reason for my visit. Niceties would have to wait if I wanted to explore the funeral parlor next door.
    I ducked my head and pretended to be searching for a trash can for my coffee cup, which I found by the cobblestone path. I made a big show out of tossing the cup, then dashed toward the funeral parlor, which had the same plastic siding, indoor/outdoor grass mats and artfully arranged window boxes as the church. I was beginning to feel like a tourist at Disneyland, where artists used paint and plywood to create the illusion of actual charm.
    Fortunately, the door was unlocked; probably left that way by the church’s cleaning crew. The moment I stepped through the doors, I paused. The room was dark compared to the parking lot, and a stained-glass window at the front provided the only light. In it Jesus wore an enormous halo, which looked more like an oversized sombrero, truth be told, and raised his hands heavenward. A half-dozen folding chairs separated me from the figure’s embrace.
    The only thing missing was a casket. A stand was there, with four wheels and thick hospital-grade steel bars, but the space between the front and back of the cart was empty.
    I quietly slid into one of the creaky folding chairs and pondered my options.
    â€œLookin’ for sometin’?”
    â€œDarryl! You gave me a fright.” The voice nearly brought me to my knees, and I placed my hand on my chest. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that. It’s not polite.”
    Darryl, the gardener at Morningside, kept popping up when I least expected it. He tucked his head, hopefully because he realized he’d done something wrong.
    â€œYer too early for da memorial service, an almos’ too late for da church next door.” He jerked his thumb toward the Baptist church. “Deys asked me to take care of te chapel here. Keep her clean. Whatcha doin’ here?”
    â€œMe? I’m out for a stroll. Thought I’d check out this place before my friend gets back. The door was open. It’s a quaint little chapel.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Dis be te funeral parlor,