Sweat Tea Revenge

by Laura Childs

  Theodosia closed the closet door and glanced around the room. Delaine obviously hadn’t put the house cleaners to work up here because the bedside tables and dresser were coated with a fine film of dust. She wondered briefly if Allan Grumley would move in here. If so, would everything remain the way it was? The furniture, the silver, the artwork? Would Grumley jettison the clothes in Granville’s closet but sleep in the rather grand four-poster bed?

  Theodosia thought if he did, it might be an uneasy sleep.

  She folded the jacket over one arm and looked around. Somehow, the place looked a little more austere than it had the other night, the walls slightly less crowded. As she gazed at the paintings, one of the smaller ones caught her eye. An oil painting with an elaborate gilt-edged frame that tilted slightly on the wall. It was a portrait, almost Northern European–looking in origin, of an old man smoking a pipe. With its dark, moody atmosphere, the painting looked almost like a piece that might have been done by one of the Old Masters. Except she didn’t think Granville had the kind of money that could afford a Rembrandt or a Hans Holbein.

  Theodosia dropped the jacket on a nearby chair and walked over to the painting. She put her hands on either side of the frame and straightened it. Stepping back, she studied it closely. Interestingly enough, the subject of the painting looked almost like an aged Granville, right down to the sharp-edged nose, but without a beard. Really quite a curiosity.

  She wondered if the likeness had initially drawn Granville to the painting. Or if he just fancied the subject matter, an old man obviously relishing a draw on his clay pipe.

  Unfortunately, the painting had been framed poorly, because even though Theodosia had carefully straightened it, the darned thing was already listing to one side. She took a step forward and fixed it again. Then, on a whim, she lifted the painting off the wall so she could adjust the wire on back.

  As she turned the painting over, Theodosia saw a piece of flimsy yellow paper tucked into the back edge of the wooden frame.

  What’s this? A bill from the framer? Or something else?

  Slowly, Theodosia unfolded the paper.

  It wasn’t a bill from a local framer, but, rather, a copy of an invoice from something called Lightning Delivery Service.

  Hmm?

  Something pinged in the deep recess of Theodosia’s brain. The name somehow carried a familiar ring.

  Theodosia shook her head, unable to shake the answer loose. She frowned and stuck the paper back in the frame. Then she thought, Wait a minute.

  Because, just like that, her brain dredged up the memory of perusing Granville’s American Express bill. And seeing a charge for Lightning Delivery Service!

  Fumbling with the paper again, unfolding it all the way, Theodosia wondered what it was for and why it was stuck back here? She scanned the page and read a handwritten note that read, Four cases.

  Four cases of what?

  What came in a case? Beer? Bottles of wine? As Theodosia slowly pondered this, the answer leaped out at her.

  Could this have something to do with smuggled cigars? The contraband that Granville had purchased and that Jack Alston had been looking for? The Cuban cigars that Bobby St. Cloud had sold to Granville and—she thought—had possibly tried to steal back?

  Or was this piece of paper the thing Simone Asher had been hunting for last night? When she’d come up here on the pretense of having a last look around?

  Maybe.

  So where had the four cases of—supposedly—cigars been delivered to?

  Theodosia scanned the faint type. And there, at the very bottom, written in an almost illegible scrawl, were the words Barrow Hall.

  Theodosia’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O. Then she said, in a strangled voice, even though no one was around to hear her, “But that’s where Drayton and the Beckman brothers are right now!”

  28

  Theodosia drove one-handed while attempting to dial her phone. Shards of moonlight spattered down on her windshield as she gunned her way down Logan, cut over to Coming Street, and hit Calhoun. A few minutes more and she was speeding across the Ashley River Bridge.

  When Theodosia finally forced her fingers to punch in the correct digits, all she got was Tidwell’s voice mail. After screeching a garbled plea for help, she hung up and dialed 911. This time she tried to explain her problem, as calmly and succinctly as possible, begging the dispatcher to get hold of Detective Tidwell.

  “Stay on the line,” the dispatcher instructed in a crisp, even voice.

  Theodosia tromped down harder on the accelerator as she steamed down the highway.

  “He’s not answering,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “But if you’d—”

  “Please keep trying!” Theodosia implored. “It’s really important!”

  “I need you to stay on the—”

  Theodosia punched the Off button and tossed her phone onto the passenger seat next to her thermos of tea. “Not good enough,” she murmured. Then, because her brain was suddenly cognizant of barreling right through a red light and missing the front fender of a little blue car by inches, she shakily eased off her speed.

  Her heart thudding loudly, she willed herself to drive at a reasonably sane rate and try to focus. Hard to do, though, when Drayton, Jed, and Tim might have walked into some sort of trap.

  Or had they? Was she just overreacting?

  Theodosia didn’t think so. She thought that all the clues were finally pointing in one direction. That direction being Barrow Hall.

  As she drove, she tried to sort through her disparate thoughts. A, someone had murdered Granville. B, the killer had done it out of passion, on the spur of the moment, and probably for a valid (or so they thought) reason. And C, someone, maybe Bobby St. Cloud, maybe Simone Asher, maybe a wild-card someone else, was actively hunting for those cigars. Her gut told her all these things were integrally connected. How the pieces and parts fit together exactly, she didn’t know. What she did know was that her nerves were strumming a warning and her gut was churning. And if she didn’t get out to Barrow Hall to warn her friends, she feared something dreadful might happen.

  Cranking her steering wheel into a hard turn, Theodosia sped down Highway 61. This was the road that led into the heart of plantation country. To Magnolia Plantation and Middletown Place and a few more historic estates. And this same road, once they’d passed by all the nice, picturesque plantations, would eventually lead to Barrow Hall.

  She bounced along as a kaleidoscope of images flew by. Long tunnels of live oaks, kudzu-covered barns, brackish swamps where water glistened like dark coal.

  How far out was Barrow Hall? Theodosia wondered. She hadn’t been out this way in years. Now, as minute after minute dragged by, it seemed like a strange, improbable journey that was taking far too long. She grabbed her cell phone again, punched in Tidwell’s number, but once again got his voice mail. Too late now to call for backup. She’d have to wing it.

  The turnoff to Magnolia Plantation flew by. During the day, the place was thronged with tourists eager to tour the historic manse, wander through acres of gardens, and enjoy the boat tour or nature train. Now the place looked as deserted as the road ahead.

  Just how much farther was Barrow Hall? Theodosia racked her brain. Maybe another three miles? Five miles? She edged her speed upward, figuring she wouldn’t encounter pedestrians or many cars out in this neck of the woods.

  And she didn’t. There were just stands of cypress and tupelo, old rice dikes, and overgrown fields. She was so busy snatching glimpses of these ancient signposts that she almost missed the turn for Barrow Hall.

  The stone pillars and dilapidated wrought-iron sign were practically obscured by an overgrowth of trees and shrubs. But Theodosia caught sight of the pile of stones that passed for the gate out of the corner of her eye. She slammed on the brakes, her Jeep slewing from side to side. When she
finally rocked to a stop, she hastily slammed into reverse and backed up. Then, rolling down her front window, she gazed down the long drive into the darkness.

  As the moon drifted out from behind a bank of gray clouds, she could just make out the faint outline of Barrow Hall. To her eyes the place looked enormous and foreboding, like an ancient crumbling castle. Two tall towers anchored each end of the large stone building, their peaked Victorian caps lending a sinister look. The center of the building was lost in shadows.

  But if there aren’t any lights, maybe that’s good, Theodosia decided. Maybe it meant Drayton and the Beckman boys were out here all alone, just poking around with flashlights and magnetometers and cameras and having themselves a fun little creepy-crawl.

  Theodosia crunched slowly down the driveway. Thirty yards in she saw a small red car parked off to the side, half hidden among a copse of trees. As if someone had run it into the bushes on purpose.

  Whose car? she wondered. And on the heels of that she thought, That’s not a promising sign.

  Turning off her headlights, Theodosia drove another fifty yards, bumping along the narrow, overgrown driveway as branches tick-ticked at her windows like skeleton fingers.

  A blue-and-white van was pulled up close to the front of the old building. So her friends were here, all right. But were they safe? Were they okay?

  Theodosia had no clue. But she knew the safest thing, the smartest thing to do, would be to alert them and pull them out of Barrow Hall immediately.

  She glanced around the interior of her car. She’d basically rushed out here totally unprepared, wearing a silk outfit suitable only for a garden party. The least she could have done was grab some sort of weapon. A knife, a garden hoe, anything. But she was basically empty handed except for . . . her thermos bottle. She grabbed the metal cylinder and hefted it. If push came to shove, maybe she could use it as a kind of club? Maybe.

  Easing out of her car, Theodosia squared her shoulders and walked toward the building. Its monolithic presence was physically imposing, and she could almost sense the building leaning toward her. Tall, narrow windows covered with bars and metal grates seemed to peer down at her. The smooth stone stairs yawned widely.

  Slowly, Theodosia climbed the worn stairs. She wondered if, in days gone by, inmates had climbed these same steps with an insurmountable feeling of dread in their heart. Poor souls. She could almost sense their lingering spirits.

  The front door, one of a set of gigantic wooden double doors, stood partially open. So Theodosia pushed her way in. The smell of mold, mildew, and rot assaulted her nose, almost causing her to sneeze.

  She stood for a moment, rubbing a finger under her nose, feeling sick and a little bit overwhelmed. Then she drew breath and struggled to gather her wits about her. She had unfinished business here. She had to find Drayton and the Beckman boys.

  But where to begin looking?

  The entry hall was cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling and double stairways that wound upward on either side of it. Would they have gone upstairs? Somehow she sensed they wouldn’t. Having already been on one ghost hunt with the Beckman brothers, Theodosia figured they’d probably gravitate in the other direction. They’d go downstairs, searching for areas that were a bit unorthodox. Treatment rooms, underground passages, the boiler room, the morgue.

  She sighed. Going down into the basement wasn’t something she exactly relished. Crossing the floor, she stepped across fallen plaster, mounds of moldering papers, and what looked like rotting rags. At the back of the entry hall, she located a set of swinging doors.

  Tucking her thermos under one arm, Theodosia reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her trusty Mag-Lite. Two seconds later, dust motes twirled slowly in the thin beam of yellow light.

  Okay. Ready as I’ll ever be.

  Gingerly, Theodosia extended her hand and pushed open one of the doors. And there, yawning into the depths of Barrow Hall, was a long, cement ramp.

  A ramp? Why a ramp?

  But she knew why. Easier to transport food down to the kitchen and dirty sheets to the laundry. Easier to roll gurneys down to the morgue.

  The ramp felt damp and almost slick as she descended. Theodosia wondered if it was just condensation from this dank interior or if mildew had grown so thick it was like walking on a kind of nasty carpet. She decided she wouldn’t dwell on the answer.

  Flashing her light against the walls, she saw peeling institutional green paint and, in a few places, spray-painted graffiti. She wondered what other explorers had braved Barrow Hall to poke around in here. Then she decided they were probably of the same ilk as the Beckman boys. And Drayton. Was he still part of their merry band? Or had he begged off at the last minute? She’d find out soon enough.

  Reaching the bottom of the ramp, Theodosia paused. She could hear the slow, steady drip of water somewhere. And, farther off, a low whooshing sound. Wind through a tunnel? Machinery running? Something else?

  She stood absolutely still and called out, in what she hoped was a clear, controlled voice. “Drayton.”

  Her cry echoed hollowly back at her.

  “Drayton,” she called again. “It’s Theodosia.”

  There was no reply, no other sound, except the same incessant drip drip drip.

  Theodosia flashed her light one way and then the other. From where she stood, two corridors branched off in opposite directions. Her small light couldn’t pierce the gloom at the far ends of the corridors, but she saw that there were multiple doorways on each side. Walking carefully, mindful not to trip or step in something awful, Theodosia walked fifteen feet down the left-hand corridor. When she came to the first doorway, she shone her light inside.

  It wasn’t good.

  The room must have served as some sort of holding room for disturbed patients. What looked like tufts of cotton batting stuck out from the grimy walls, and leather straps hung down from the ceiling.

  The words padded cell formed in her brain, but she was too overcome with revulsion to let the thought travel any further.

  Theodosia continued down the corridor, sweeping her light to and fro, stopping every ten feet or so. Here was also a pharmacy, what had been a small infirmary, and a room piled to the ceiling with rusted metal wheelchairs and old office furniture. She could hear soft scuttling and figured there must be rodents.

  As she ducked back out into the corridor, something caught her eye.

  Huh?

  She’d picked up—or thought she had—a quick flash of light.

  Were they down here? Were they filming? There was only one way to find out.

  Doggedly, Theodosia continued down the corridor. She walked slowly and silently. If they were here, she didn’t want to freak them out. On the other hand, she’d have to make her presence known sooner or later.

  When she finally came to a set of doors with small windows covered in metal screening, she felt sure she’d arrived at the morgue.

  Oh joy. Just where I really don’t want to be.

  But she was fairly confident that was where the flash of light had come from.

  Were the three of them on the other side of this door right now, nerves fizzing, wondering who was out there? Had they detected her presence with their magnetometer or temperature gauge and figured she might even be a ghost?

  Just as Theodosia put out a hand to push open the door, it began to creak inward on its own. Rusty hinges moaned and the door swung open into darkness.

  Then a frightened, quavering voice—Theodosia thought it might be Jed—called out, “Who’s there?”

  Theodosia’s heart leaped. “It’s me, Theodosia!” she called back.

  Three anxious-looking faces suddenly appeared in her flashlight beam.

  “Theodosia?” said Drayton. He seemed absolutely shocked. “What are you doing here?”

  She didn’t waste any time. “I’m here to pull y
ou guys out,” she told them. “There’s a good chance those Cuban cigars are hidden out here and that somebody might show up to claim them.”

  “Cuban cigars?” said Jed. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Never mind,” said Theodosia. “I’ll explain later.”

  But Drayton pounced on her words. “Claim them? Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Theodosia. “But the thing is, there’s a red car stashed out front in the bushes. Does it belong to either of you guys?” She looked pointedly at Jed and Tim.

  “We all came in our van,” said Jed.

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. “That means somebody else is pussyfooting around this place. You have to pack up all your gear and get out of here pronto.”

  “You really think we’re in danger?” asked Tim. He seemed reluctant to leave.

  “There’s a reasonable chance of it, yes,” said Theodosia.

  “It could just be other urban explorers,” said Jed.

  “Really, guys,” said Theodosia. “Do you think I drove all the way out here in the middle of the night just for the fun of it? Now come on, let’s get a move on!”

  “Theodosia has good instincts for this sort of thing,” said Drayton. “If she thinks we’re in danger, then it’s time to clear out.”

  They packed up their gear and humped it down the hallway, Theodosia leading the way. As she approached the ramp, she stopped and waited for everyone to catch up.

  “What an amazing place,” said Jed. He had gear slung across him and was clutching his camera with both hands, practically walking backward. “You can almost feel the presence of ghosts.”

  “You can almost hear them,” said Tim. He paused. “Wait a minute, what was that?”

  “Water dripping,” said Drayton. “I heard it earlier when we came through here.”

  “Must be leaky pipes,” said Tim.

  “Or an underground stream,” said Drayton.

  But Theodosia, who’d been listening intently, had picked up on something else. A strange, whirring sound. Almost a metallic click-clack.