by Laura Childs
Theodosia hurriedly changed into yoga pants, sweatshirt, and running shoes. Then they were out the door and bounding down the alley.
It was another cool night with a scatter of stars glimmering in a blue-black sky, a moon peeking out from behind a few wispy clouds. As they jogged down Ladson Street, Theodosia saw that many of the homes were already decorated for Halloween. Witches peeked out of windows, fat orange pumpkins squatted on porches and front stoops, and a few ghosts fluttered from bare tree branches.
Theodosia and Earl Grey breezed along for a few blocks, turned onto Meeting Street, and then slowed down as they approached St. Michael’s Alley. This was one of Charleston’s many hidden lanes and one of Theodosia’s favorites. Most of these hidden alleys weren’t found on any tourist map and were so narrow and twisty you’d hardly think twice about venturing in and exploring them.
But you’d be remiss. Because down Longitude Lane, Philadelphia Alley, and this one, St. Michael’s Alley, was where history pulsed like the beating heart of old Charles Towne.
Theodosia loved the hush and quiet grandeur of St. Michael’s Alley. From the slate cobblestones to the tall redbrick walls and swirls and curlicues on wrought-iron gates and fences.
Now, as she walked quietly down the alley, Theodosia paused to admire a few of the homes that were neatly tucked wall to wall and shoulder to shoulder. One ginormous home featured a striking salmon pink entry with a black enameled door. Another large home was shrouded with topiary trees that practically obscured a pristine white door flanked by a pair of brass sconces.
So beautiful, Theodosia breathed. And so old. Charleston had just celebrated its 350th anniversary, and so much was still standing!
As Earl Grey tugged at his leash, the better to inspect a puckish stone frog that kept guard at one of the gates, Theodosia unsnapped him. No danger of him wandering off here.
They continued along, Theodosia wondering about the people who’d originally built these remarkable homes and town houses, Earl Grey sniffing happily. But as they reached a yard, dark and sheltered with sprawling magnolia trees, Earl Grey suddenly lifted his head. He’d either seen something or heard something. Then he padded toward a half-open wrought-iron gate, slipped through it, and disappeared into the darkness like a wayward shadow.
Oh no.
“Earl Grey,” Theodosia called after him in a low but insistent voice. “Come back here.” She stood perfectly still, listening for his returning footsteps, the jingle of his collar. And heard . . . nothing.
That’s strange.
Theodosia approached the half-open gate, still hesitant to enter a private yard. She could see that, even cloaked in shadows, the house was massive. A full three stories high with a balcony that projected out over the alley. Probably the owners had security? Maybe a yard light or an inside alarm that her dog could have tripped?
But not a single light had flashed on inside the house.
Nobody home? Maybe she got lucky.
“Earl Grey,” Theodosia called again, then let out a loud whistle.
Still nothing.
This isn’t like him.
“Earl Grey? C’mere, boy.” Theodosia was really starting to get worried. Maybe she should walk in there and . . .
A high-pitched yelp pierced the air, as if her dog was in pain!
What?
Like Usain Bolt crashing out of the starting blocks, Theodosia flew through the gate and down a narrow cobblestone walkway that led along the side of the house. Branches ripped at her face and hair as she ran, but she ignored them.
Reaching the backyard, she pulled up short and found herself in what was essentially a walled garden. She saw clay pots filled with tumbles of bougainvillea and twisted metal sculptures resting on massive cement stands. Beyond that were still-blooming hydrangeas, tall pampas grass, and a dense nest of trees.
Is he back there? Is he hurt?
Slowly, carefully, Theodosia picked her way through the garden. There were no formal stepping-stones, just winding paths. To her right she saw a tall birdbath with a stone crow attached. To her left was a stone sculpture of a grinning satyr with pointed ears.
It’s a midnight garden, dark and a little strange.
Theodosia whistled again and heard a rustle back among the trees.
“Earl Grey? Is that you?” She took a tentative step forward
There was a low SQUEAK, like a rusty gate swinging open or closed.
Oh no!
Theodosia darted in the direction of the back wall. Three steps in, she slid to a halt as Earl Grey came bounding toward her. Then he leaped up and landed with his front paws planted firmly at her waist.
“Where were you?” Theodosia cried. “I was so worried.” She pushed him down gently and knelt beside him, stroking his muzzle as she gazed into his eyes. “You can’t just run off like that and scare me half to death,” she told him as she reached for his collar so she could reattach the leash.
That’s when Theodosia noticed a tiny bit of clear plastic stuck to the buckle of his leather collar.
“What’s this?”
Earl Grey stared at her with earnest brown eyes.
“Did somebody try to grab you?” Theodosia asked. Her heart was suddenly pounding like a timpani drum, jolts of hot anger surging through her. “Did someone try to hurt you?” Theodosia looked around. She didn’t see anybody. She hadn’t heard anyone—just that strange squeak. Still, this whole incident struck her as strange and awfully sinister.
Snapping the leash back on Earl Grey, Theodosia stood up and said, “If anybody ever—ever—tries to hurt you, I promise they’ll pay dearly.”
15
“I’m back,” Miss Dimple sang out as she sailed through the front door of the Indigo Tea Shop. “Did you miss me?”
“Bonjour,” Drayton called out to her. “And how are you this fine Wednesday morning?” He was in a cheery mood, while Theodosia had woken up feeling like she’d spent the night spinning in a hadron collider. Now, as she made little tweaks to her tea shop decor, she continued to ruminate over all the strange goings-on.
“I couldn’t be better,” Miss Dimple said with a smile as she shrugged out of her coat.
“Thanks for coming in early,” Theodosia said to her from where she was standing at the window, adjusting one of her new blue toile curtains to let in the faint morning sunlight. “Having you for another day is a real help to us.”
“Happy to do it,” Miss Dimple said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to set up service today,” Theodosia said as she came over to join Miss Dimple at the counter.
“I will if you trust me,” Miss Dimple said. She looked eager but a little fluttery.
Theodosia put an arm around Miss Dimple’s shoulders and squeezed gently. “I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more.”
“Oh my. In that case . . . where do you want me to start?”
“I have to run out in a few minutes, so I’d like you to handle the whole shebang. Select tablecloths and tea lights, put out the cream and sugars, teacups and saucers, and . . . um, probably check to make sure the floral arrangements will pass muster for another day.”
“I promise to pluck out any dipsy droopy blooms.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you know which dishes you want to use?” Miss Dimple asked.
Theodosia looked over at Drayton. “Drayton? Any thoughts?”
“Far be it from me to exert any outside influence,” Drayton said.
“Gotcha,” Theodosia said with a knowing grin. She knew that Drayton adored being the arbiter of good taste and decor. It was one of his missions in life. In fact, much like his tea shelves, Drayton also art directed his bookshelves, arranging sizes, spines, and colors in pleasing patterns.
“On the other hand,” Drayton said, “today is our informal pumpkin and spice luncheon, so
that should probably factor in.”
“Then maybe the pale-yellow tablecloths with your lovely Old Imari china?” Miss Dimple suggested. “The orange-and-gold pattern ties in, and they’re a trifle exotic.”
Drayton looked pleased. “I couldn’t have chosen better.”
* * *
* * *
While Miss Dimple readied the tea room, Theodosia was at work in her office. First, she looked up Jack Schindler on the Internet. When she found his website, a pretty cool one at that, she noted the phone number and placed a call.
Schindler answered on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Schindler? My name is Theodosia Browning. I got your name from Elisha Summers at the Heritage Society. I wonder if I could drop by and ask you a few questions.”
“Questions about what?” Schindler asked. He had a pleasing baritone and sounded vaguely amused.
“Oh. Well, it would be about some of the restoration you did on the Bouchard Mansion,” Theodosia said. “The one they turned into a haunted house.”
“You can drop by, but I’m not at my studio right now,” Schindler said. “This is my cell number.”
“Elisha said you might be working at a church?”
“St. Mary’s,” he said. “You know where it is?”
“I do. And would this be a good time for us to talk?”
“Come on over,” Schindler said.
* * *
* * *
St. Mary’s was a very old church, established in the early eighteen hundreds and built in the Greek Revival style. Fronted by four massive Doric columns, it gave the appearance of an ancient temple.
When Theodosia walked into the nave of the church, she could see a man standing on a wood and metal scaffolding that had been set up at the front of the church near the altar.
“Mr. Schindler?” she called out, aware of an echo as she walked down the center aisle.
“Jack,” he called back.
“Theodosia,” she said as she continued in his direction. The church was cool and slightly dim with glowing stained glass windows that depicted traditional Bible scenes. Additionally, there were more than twenty stunning ceiling and wall paintings that were fine copies of Roman masterpieces.
“Thanks for letting me interrupt your work,” Theodosia said.
“Not a problem.”
Jack Schindler climbed down the side of the scaffold to meet her. A lanky thirty-something with long hair pulled back into a man bun, he was dressed in faded blue jeans, T-shirt, and a hoodie that said: some days i really do watch paint dry.
“You’re painting,” Theodosia said, gazing at the brush in his hand and the mural he’d been working on. “I was under the impression you did mostly carpentry and plastering.”
“Plastering, painting, I do a little bit of everything.” Schindler wiped his brush against a rag. “So what did you want to ask me? What’s so important that you came all the way over here?”
“I’m curious as to what you did in the way of sprucing up the old Bouchard Mansion,” Theodosia said.
“Oh, that. Well, first off, I shored up the floorboards on the second floor. They were in awfully tough shape, and I was pretty sure the Heritage Society didn’t want people falling through the cracks.”
“That might have been . . . problematic.”
“From there it was mostly patch, patch, patch. Fix the walls, slap on some paint, hang some wallpaper if it wasn’t patchable. You know . . . make the place look decent, make it all work.” Schindler peered at her. “But I’m guessing you’ve probably been there and seen the place for yourself.”
“I have.”
“So what’s your interest in that old rattrap?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Willow French.”
“I see,” Schindler said.
“Nothing full-fledged or authorized, mind you. Just amateur stuff,” Theodosia said.
“Like Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote.”
“Something like that.”
“That sounds like a fairly interesting pastime,” Schindler said. “Are you getting anywhere?”
“I think I might be.”
“Cool. You mind if I work while we talk?”
“Not at all.”
Theodosia followed him over to one of the walls where she watched him take a small piece of gold leaf, lay it against a mural, and then burnish and rub the gold leaf until it became part of the stucco wall.
“You do beautiful work.”
“Thank you, but these repairs are kind of a labor of love. My parents were married in this church. I was baptized here.” Schindler continued to work. Then, almost as an aside, he said, “You know, I think there might be another entrance somewhere.”
“Excuse me?” Theodosia said. This little nugget of information seemed to come hurtling out of left field. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
Schindler squinted as he dabbed on more gold leaf. “Yeah, the old house. I was working there one night—oh, it must have been two weeks ago. And I thought I was all alone and that the place was locked up tighter than a drum. But then I felt this—I know it’s going to sound kind of wacky and woo-woo—I had this feeling that I wasn’t alone. Reminded me of that old proverb about somebody walking across your grave . . .”
“Yes?” Theodosia nodded for him to continue.
Schindler wiped his brush on a rag and looked thoughtful. “Anyway, as I was saying, I felt this presence. As if there were some sort of disturbance in the ozone. And suddenly I knew I wasn’t alone in that house.”
“Did you think it was a ghost?” Theodosia asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“So a real person, then.”
“I’m fairly sure it was,” Schindler said. “Only when I called out, nobody answered.”
“That’s all you did was call out? Ask if someone was there?”
“Mmn, when nobody answered, I decided to look around. There was this one girl I’d been flirting with . . . Anne something. I thought maybe she’d snuck in and was being coy. You know, fooling around.”
“But no Anne?” Theodosia said.
“No nobody. I went downstairs and couldn’t find a living soul.”
“Interesting.”
“More like strange,” Schindler said. “And a little unnerving. It was one of those deals where the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, you know?”
“I do know.”
Theodosia thanked Schindler for his time and left. But as she drove back to the Indigo Tea Shop, she wondered if that mysterious person might have been Ellis Bouchard? Did the man possess a long-lost key? Maybe one of those handy-dandy all-purpose skeleton keys? One of those puppies could probably get you into half the mansions in Charleston, since most of the doors and locks were so antiquated.
Or could it have been one of the curators? Just popping in and out quickly, not wanting to disturb Schindler? Maybe they’d been so hurried, so focused on the task at hand, that they hadn’t heard Schindler call out.
Or maybe, just maybe, there was a different explanation. Something a little more menacing.
* * *
* * *
Miss Dimple had done herself proud. Not only did the tea shop look perfectly charming when Theodosia returned, but it was half-filled with customers.
Theodosia peeked in, saw that everything was running like clockwork, then ducked into the kitchen to talk to Haley.
“Oh good, you’re back,” Haley said. “I was beginning to wonder.” She sprinkled turbinado sugar on top of a pan of fresh-baked cinnamon scones, then said, “How goes the investigation?”
“Basically, it’s been like slogging through molasses, but I’m now happy to report there’s been some forward progress.”
“That�
�s all we can hope for,” Haley said.
“You know that Willow’s visitation is tonight?”
Haley gave a grim nod. “I know. It’s going to be a tough one.”
“I’m not looking forward to it, either. But on a more upbeat note, it looks as if you’ve got lunch well in hand,” Theodosia said.
“Yeah, it’s shaping up to be pretty cool. I gave Miss Dimple the menu if you want to take a look-see.”
“How are you doing with the scones and tea sandwiches for the Edgar Allan Poe Symposium?” Theodosia asked.
“I’m working on those right now. I know Drayton’s going over to the Heritage Society early, but if I pack everything up in two wicker baskets, can you schlep them over when you go?”
“I was planning on it.”
“Okeydoke,” Haley said.
Theodosia walked out into the tea shop where Drayton immediately held up an index finger to signal her.
“What’s up?” Theodosia asked as she approached the counter.
“I’m going to head over to the Heritage Society in precisely two minutes,” Drayton said. “Hopefully, the three of you can carry on without me.”
“We’ll be fine,” Miss Dimple said. She set a Brown Betty teapot on the counter and said, “You were right about that Earl Grey green tea. The ladies at table four adored it.”
“Light in flavor with a lovely hint of bergamot,” Drayton said. “Always pleasing to the palette.”
“Now, what can I do to help?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton whipped off his apron and handed it to Theodosia. “Trade places with me?”
* * *
* * *
Just before lunch, Theodosia took a phone call from Riley.
“Good news,” he said. His voice sounded stronger and much more upbeat. “They’re springing me this afternoon. Just as soon as the lab kicks out my test results and my blood, sweat, and tears pass muster with the doctors.”
