Haunted Hibiscus

by Laura Childs

  “Oh no,” Theodosia said. “He’s my nemesis.” She wasn’t in the mood for jokes, and she certainly didn’t feel like having a verbal joust with Detective Tidwell. She was still digesting the news about the newly purchased, paid-in-full house.

  Tidwell had just settled his bulk into a captain’s chair when Theodosia arrived at his table.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Tea would be lovely,” Tidwell said. “And perhaps a sweet to go along?”

  “That goes without saying,” Theodosia said.

  She went into the kitchen, rummaged around, finally found the absolute last scone, then placed it on a plate along with a small container of strawberry jam and one of Devonshire cream. When she returned, Drayton was pouring Tidwell a cup of tea.

  “This is Rose White from Elmwood Inn,” Drayton said. “It’s a white tea with a rather refreshing floral flavor. I daresay you don’t need to add any extra sweetener.”

  “I can’t imagine a lump or two of sugar would hurt,” Tidwell said.

  Drayton’s brows arched as he retreated.

  Theodosia placed Tidwell’s scone in front of him.

  “So,” she said.

  Tidwell stirred in a single lump of sugar, then a second one, tasted the tea, and declared, “Perfect.”

  “I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

  “I understand Robert Vardell told you about the missing diamonds,” Tidwell said.

  “The Hibiscus Diamonds, yes.”

  “He and Timothy seem to think they were the primary motive for the murder and subsequent theft.”

  “You see it differently?” Theodosia asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Tidwell said. He picked up his butter knife, cut his scone in half with surgical precision, then applied generous dollops of jam and Devonshire cream.

  Theodosia knew they were playing cat and mouse and it tired her. So she decided to cut to the chase.

  “I’ve come across some information that might interest you,” she said.

  Tidwell glowered at her from beneath his bushy beetle brows as he chewed his scone. “You promised me you weren’t going to snoop.”

  “I made no such promise. Besides, I didn’t snoop. I had my real estate agent do the legwork for me.”

  Tidwell sighed. “A mere technicality.”

  “Do you want to know what I found out?”

  “Only if it pertains to the investigation.”

  “It might.”

  Tidwell continued to nibble his scone.

  “Here’s the thing,” Theodosia said. “It turns out that Willow French bought and paid for a rather fancy home at 17 Lamboll Street and put Robert Vardell’s name on the deed.”

  Tidwell stared at her. He didn’t seem all that shocked.

  “So that begs the question . . .”

  “Yes?” Tidwell said.

  “Could Vardell have murdered his own fiancée?” Those words were so distasteful that Theodosia cringed as she spoke them.

  “I suppose it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

  “But what do you think?” Theodosia asked.

  “At this time we’re pursuing several leads while we investigate a number of possibilities.”

  “That’s a stock-in-trade police answer, and you haven’t even come close to addressing my question. In fact, you haven’t told me anything at all,” said a frustrated Theodosia.

  “Which is as it should be,” Tidwell said.

  “You have to tell me something. Like . . . what did your crime scene investigators find? Did they determine how Willow was hanged?”

  “With rope,” Tidwell said.

  “What kind?”

  “Nylon. The sort you’d use on a boat. I suppose you’d call it marine line.”

  “Did you find any fingerprints?” Theodosia asked.

  “None so far.”

  “What about tracks in the attic? There might have been dusty floorboards . . .”

  Tidwell shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “There’s something else you should know,” Theodosia said.

  “Pray tell what is that, Miss Browning?”

  “Ellis Bouchard, the man who’s been trying to wrest control of the Bouchard Mansion back from the Heritage Society, is going broke. His apartment buildings are apparently all in receivership.”

  “And this is my problem—why?” Tidwell asked.

  “Because Ellis Bouchard has a motive. He’s desperate for money.”

  “And you think this elderly gentleman is a cold-blooded killer?”

  “He could be,” Theodosia said.

  “At this point anyone could be.”

  Theodosia stared at Tidwell, wishing he wasn’t so obstinate, wondering if she should tell him about the sort-of love note from Frankenstein that she’d discovered in Willow’s apartment. And decided not to. It was something she wanted to look into herself. Without police interference. Without Tidwell questioning her ability and making her feel silly and incompetent.

  Instead Theodosia said, “Is it true that most murder cases are solved within twenty-four hours? That if the investigations run longer, then the odds of solving them are practically nil?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Tidwell asked.

  “From you?”

  Tidwell shook his head.

  “Okay then,” Theodosia said. “Maybe on TV? An episode of Law & Order?”

  “Television,” Tidwell snorted.

  * * *

  * * *

  Once the very maddening Detective Tidwell had left the tea shop, Theodosia got on the phone with Timothy Neville. She quickly told him about her conversation with Maggie Twining and then broke the rather surprising news that Robert Vardell was now the proud owner of a fancy and rather expensive new home in the Historic District.

  Timothy digested her words for a few moments, then said, “I hear the doubt and worry in your voice. And I can understand why. But I have to tell you that Robert is absolutely heartbroken. I just spoke with him no more than an hour ago and he was utterly bereft. Willow meant the world to him.”

  “And he told you about the house?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Theodosia didn’t think she was going to change Timothy’s mind armed with just one single fact. She needed a lot more. She needed concrete evidence of wrongdoing. And if it was there, she vowed to get it.

  “Okay then. I just wanted you to know the situation,” Theodosia said.

  “I sincerely appreciate your efforts. I really do,” Timothy said.

  “Well, I’m not done yet. I still plan to interview Henry Curtis the intern. Tonight, over at the haunted house.”

  “Good luck with that. Oh, and one more thing,” Timothy said. “Willow’s visitation will be held tomorrow night at Doake and Wilson Funeral Home, with a graveside service to be held at Magnolia Cemetery the following morning.”

  “Okay. I . . . okay.” Theodosia hung up as a wave of overwhelming sadness washed across her.

  14

  The haunted house was going gangbusters tonight. Edgar Allan Poe was glad-handing guests on the front lawn; Count Dracula was taking tickets. There was also a new feature—a chorus of moaning pirates. Theodosia wasn’t sure how the pirates tied in except that they were passing out flyers for the Ghosts and Goblins Parade that was to be held Friday night. Just a little bit of cross promotion, she surmised.

  Claire Waltho was there, too. When she saw Theodosia hovering at the front door, she whispered something to Dracula and—presto—Theodosia was whisked inside. She mouthed a thank-you to Claire as she was suddenly pulled into the fray and found herself rubbing shoulders with at least a hundred eager guests.

  Theodosia wandered through the ground floor of the old mansion. A magician who was all duded up in tie and tails was performing sleight-of
-hand tricks. A woman wearing a purple paisley turban and shawl was reading palms. There was no guest author signing books in the parlor tonight, but there was a young sketch artist doing quick cartoon portraits of anyone who wanted to pose for a few minutes.

  Going from room to room, studying the people as well as her surroundings, Theodosia kept an eye out for Henry Curtis as Frankenstein.

  At the rear of the old house, a space had been transformed into a dusty sitting room where Miss Havisham from Great Expectations was holding court. As Theodosia ducked through a doorway that was dripping with cobwebs (all fake, but looking convincingly real), she ran smack-dab into Ellis Bouchard.

  He gave a tentative smile, as if he recognized her, then the smile slipped from his face. Yes, he’d definitely placed her. From yesterday morning when he stormed into her tea shop, made a scene, and then was asked to leave.

  “Hello, Mr. Bouchard,” Theodosia said, buttonholing him before he had a chance to get away.

  Bouchard stopped and nodded at her. Maybe he was embarrassed? Or maybe something else was going on?

  “How interesting to find you here,” Theodosia said.

  “Not really,” Bouchard said. “I still haven’t given up hope of recovering this property.”

  “You seem to have serious issues with your properties,” Theodosia said.

  Bouchard’s face darkened. “Excuse me?”

  “I understand you’ve had some financial problems.”

  “Not really. Besides, even if I did, what business is it of yours?” Bouchard said.

  “None at all. Except when it intersects with the welfare of people I care about.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And this time Bouchard really did push his way past her and disappear into the crowd.

  Theodosia stood there for a moment, feeling unsettled. Bouchard was rude and abrasive, that’s for sure. But was he a killer? A cold-blooded murderer? She didn’t have any evidence to that effect, just the knowledge that he was financially desperate. But that alone was enough to keep him on her suspect list.

  Turning, heading back through the house, Theodosia walked past a darkened solarium where actors in plant costumes—she thought they might represent hemlock and deadly nightshade—waved their spiny leaves as they tried to caress the guests.

  Kind of cute. I guess.

  Still, that wasn’t the reason Theodosia had come here tonight. Her real mission was to confront Henry Curtis and ask him about his relationship with Willow. She hadn’t seen Frankenstein walking around tonight, so maybe Henry was wearing a different costume?

  Theodosia found a stairway that was decorated with skulls and bats and headed up to the second floor. Here she found Bill Sikes from Oliver Twist as well as Captain Ahab from Moby-Dick.

  Interesting. But what about the third floor? The floor where Willow met her untimely death?

  Theodosia tried to look nonchalant as she hunted around for a way up to the third floor. She peeked in closets and around corners until, finally, she found it. A narrow flight of stairs that was tucked behind a carved coromandel screen.

  She grabbed the railing and, feeling some serious trepidation, headed upstairs.

  Ten, eleven, twelve . . .

  Theodosia counted each step, wondering if poor Willow had counted steps as she was being forced up this staircase at gunpoint.

  Steeling herself, Theodosia reached the third floor. And was it ever awful. A large, mostly open room with dirty wallpaper peeling off plaster lath boards. Dust motes twirled in the dim light, and the scents of mold and rodents rose up in a punishing stink. Trying to stifle her gag reflex, Theodosia would have turned around right then and there, except for the faint glow from a row of small overhead lights. Those beckoning beams prompted her to continue moving forward.

  And then she saw it directly in front of her. The tower room. An architectural blip that hung out from the third-floor footprint. It was a small octagonal-shaped room with a single window boarded over with plywood. What a terrible visual reminder of the tragedy that had taken place here just two nights ago!

  Theodosia forced herself to think. To try to imagine herself having the mindset of a killer. So . . . what had been his play? The killer had lured Willow all the way up here, probably holding a gun to her head. He’d grabbed the diamonds, draped a noose around Willow’s neck, and then—crash!—shoved her out the window.

  A key question blipped deep inside Theodosia’s brain.

  How did the killer escape?

  Had he gone back downstairs and mingled with the crowd? Just blended in like one of the locals? Had he pretended to be shocked and outraged at the sight of her poor body dangling there? Or had he found another way out?

  Theodosia tiptoed around, nervous but determined to explore this terrible place that reeked of death. There were other windows, yes. But they were small and dirt streaked, and looked as if they’d been stuck shut for decades. The house was so old and decrepit that there didn’t seem to be any outside fire escape.

  Maybe some kind of exit on the second floor?

  Theodosia walked back downstairs and looked around, opened doors, snuck around corners. But for all her careful and methodical searching she found no secret back staircase. Tired, feeling a little out of sorts, Theodosia threaded her way down the center hallway.

  Which is when she ran smack-dab into Frankenstein.

  “Henry!” Theodosia cried. He’d popped up so unexpectedly, he’d startled her. “Henry Curtis.”

  Henry stared at her, a questioning look on his green painted face. “You can tell who I am behind all this makeup?”

  “I know who you are because of your makeup,” Theodosia said.

  “Whuh?”

  “You work as an intern at the Heritage Society. And you were a friend of Willow French.”

  Henry continued to stare at her.

  “What I want to know is—how good of a friend were you?” Theodosia asked.

  “Who . . . who are you?” Henry asked. “Why are you asking me questions?”

  “I’m looking into Willow French’s death. As a favor to Timothy Neville. You remember Timothy, your boss?”

  A kind of recognition dawned on Henry’s face. “Okay, I have heard about you. You’re that tea lady who was skulking around the Heritage Society yesterday, interviewing everybody.”

  “I was also here Sunday night when Willow was tossed out an upstairs window and murdered.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it!” Henry sputtered.

  “But you had a relationship with Willow,” Theodosia pressed. “You two were friends, maybe more than friends.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I found the note you sent her. ‘My dear Willow,’” Theodosia quoted. “‘I will never forget you.’”

  Henry’s eyes bulged, and his face seemed to turn hot pink even under all his green makeup. “That note was between me and her. It was supposed to be private.”

  “I think you loved Willow. Which meant you were deeply upset when she got engaged to another man. So upset that maybe you did something you now regret horribly?” Theodosia threw the full force of her anger at him, biting off each word. She didn’t know if anything she said was true, but she was taking a shot, seeing how Henry would react.

  “No, never! I cared for Willow.”

  “You were in love with her.”

  Henry shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I was more like . . . infatuated with her. Willow was nice to me, encouraged me to not be afraid, to develop my talents and spread my wings at the Heritage Society. We used to joke around with each other, do pretend flirting.” Now Henry’s face took on a sorrowful, almost pleading expression. “You have to believe me, I would never hurt Willow! I wish I knew who did! It’s been tearing me up!”

  “Listen to me,” Theodosia said. “I am go
ing to turn your note over to the Charleston Police Department. To their chief investigator. They are going to contact you, and if you were involved in Willow’s death, in any way, they will come after you hammer and tongs.”

  “But I didn’t . . . I couldn’t,” Henry said. “Really, we were just good friends!”

  He was still protesting as Theodosia spun on her heel and walked away from him.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back downstairs, Theodosia ran into Elisha Summers, one of the curators she’d interviewed yesterday.

  “Elisha, what did this place look like when it was empty, before you guys started decorating?” Theodosia asked.

  Elisha made a face. “It was awful. Plasterboard walls with half the plaster falling off. No lights. Broken floorboards. Like the place should have been condemned.”

  “But it seems almost habitable now,” Theodosia said, looking around. “At least the first and second floors do.”

  “That’s because we made a ton of repairs,” Elisha said.

  “You and the other people from the Heritage Society did the work?”

  “No way,” Elisha said. “Most of us can barely handle a nail gun. No, we hired outside help. There’s a local guy named Jack Schindler who did a lot of the carpentry and plastering. I think he’s kind of a painter, too. But not just plain old house painting; restoration-type work.”

  “You know where I can find him?”

  “Sure. For one thing Schindler’s got a website. Oh, and I know for a fact that he’s working at a local church doing some mural restoration. Maybe you could find him there.”

  “Do you know which church?”

  “I think it’s St. Mary’s,” Elisha said.

  “Over on Hassell Street.”

  Elisha nodded. “That’s the one.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Theodosia returned home, Earl Grey was waiting for her.

  “You’re all geared up for a run, aren’t you?” she said to her dog. Earl Grey had a dog walker and doggy day care person, a lovely woman named Mrs. Barry, who stopped by afternoons. She was a retired schoolteacher who was good for a couple of spins around the block. But she was no match for a long-legged, raring-to-go guy like Earl Grey.