by Laura Childs
Drayton walked down a row of books, ran his finger along several spines, and pulled out a volume.
“You found one?” Theodosia asked.
“I did,” Drayton said as he paged through it. “And . . .” He turned a few more pages. “According to this, sous-sol means basement.”
Theodosia frowned. “Basement? I never even thought about the house having a basement.”
Drayton returned the book to its shelf and came back to study the plans some more. “From the looks of things, there is.” Then, with more certainty, “There had to be one. To accommodate storage, a fruit cellar, maybe even a furnace.”
“Then do you think that mark I showed you indicates some sort of door?” Theodosia asked.
“No idea.”
Theodosia’s finger tapped the sheet again. “But what if there is?” She was thinking about the killer and what an easy getaway he’d been able to make. “What if there’s a hidden exit? One we don’t know about?”
17
Doake and Wilson Funeral Home was located in a redbrick building on Montagu Street. It was your basic nineteen twenties’ mansion that had been gussied up with white pillars, a circular drive, and improved landscaping. A large white stucco building with frosted windows had been tacked onto the back part of the old residence—basically the mortuary where bodies were prepared for viewing.
Theodosia had picked up Drayton, and now they sat in the funeral home’s small parking lot, listening to the engine tick down. Neither of them wanted to get out of her Jeep and go in, but they knew they had to.
“We’re delaying the inevitable,” Drayton sighed.
“Come on then,” Theodosia said, opening her door and climbing out. “Maybe we’ll learn something tonight, maybe we’ll pick up some bit of information.”
“Maybe,” Drayton said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
They walked up the sidewalk, where a scatter of low-level outdoor lights shone from behind stands of bougainvillea, and pulled open one of the stately entrance doors.
“Agh,” Drayton said as they stepped inside. He’d caught a whiff of chilled air, the scent of flowers mingled with chemicals that permeated most funeral homes. It was hardly pleasant.
Theodosia, on the other hand, hated absolutely everything about this funeral home. The smell, sad gray carpet, dusty potted plants, solemn funereal music that groaned from the speakers, the overstuffed, over-upholstered chairs in the reception area, and, most of all, the ugly, knobby cocktail table that held a single box of Kleenex.
“We’re here for the Willow French visitation,” Drayton said in a decorous tone to the gray-haired receptionist who sat at the front desk.
The receptionist gave a practiced sad smile and lifted a hand. “It’s the room to your left,” she said. “The Slumber Suite.”
Drayton turned to Theodosia. “The Slumber Suite,” he echoed.
“Of course,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
They drifted through a doorway that was swagged with plum-colored velvet draperies and into a fairly large room. It had ghastly floral wallpaper, a few pieces of clunky upholstered furniture, two dozen folding chairs, and more potted plants. At the front of the room Willow’s coffin rested on a wooden bier.
“Oh no,” Theodosia whispered as she put a hand to her mouth.
Willow had been laid to rest in a pure white coffin, wearing a high-necked white dress with her blond hair spread out around her on a white silk pillow. A bountiful bower of pink and white flowers and tall, flickering candles surrounded her. The setting was peaceful yet surreal. To Theodosia, Willow looked just like Snow White, waiting for her Prince Charming to come and deliver a kiss that would wake her from this terrible slumber.
Wasn’t going to happen.
Instead, there was a sad procession of mourners filing past Willow’s coffin. Haley was among them, as were Delaine and Timothy Neville. And everyone seemed to be either sobbing openly or wiping at their eyes.
“This is so awful,” Theodosia said as they approached the coffin.
“Tragic,” Drayton agreed.
Theodosia said a whispered prayer as she gazed at Willow, then joined the line to offer condolences to Willow’s parents and her fiancé, Robert Vardell. Timothy Neville stood behind them, wringing his hands, his face a mixture of anguish and grief.
The room continued to fill with mourners. Allan Barnaby, Willow’s publisher, arrived. So did Claire Waltho, Sybil Spalding, Elisha Summers, and dozens more from the Heritage Society. They’d all come to show the flag and honor Timothy Neville.
Strangely enough, Ellis Bouchard was also present.
Theodosia jabbed an elbow into Drayton’s ribs and whispered, “Ellis Bouchard, homing in at three o’clock.”
“Strange that he would show up here,” Drayton murmured as he threw a quick glance at him.
“Isn’t it?” Theodosia turned and studied the room. “But no Henry Curtis.”
“Who?”
“You know, Frankenstein. The young man who sent Willow the note.”
“Perhaps he’ll put in an appearance later.”
“Maybe,” Theodosia said slowly. But something else was bothering her. “Drayton, when we filed past Willow’s coffin, did you notice her hands?”
Drayton looked puzzled. “Um, her hands were clasped together, were they not?”
“And she was wearing that pretty moonstone ring we saw her wearing last Sunday night. Right before . . . you know.”
“What are you getting at?” Drayton asked.
“If Willow was engaged, why wasn’t she wearing her engagement ring last Sunday night?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the moonstone ring was part of her costume? Of her author persona?”
“There could be another explanation. One I hadn’t thought of before.”
Drayton frowned and leaned closer to Theodosia. “Explain, please.”
“What if . . . what if Willow was no longer engaged?” Theodosia whispered.
Drayton shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“What if Willow had broken off her engagement with Vardell?”
Simultaneously, their eyes darted to Robert Vardell, who was slumped in a chair, his hands clasped over his stomach. His expression was unreadable.
“I suppose that’s possible,” Drayton said slowly. “That Willow might have given the engagement ring back to him.” He thought for a moment. “But she bought the house.”
“Maybe that was before. Maybe Willow had a change of heart somewhere along the line. Or Vardell did.”
Drayton looked stunned. “You think he killed her?”
“It’s horrible to imagine, but maybe once Vardell knew he could have the house free and clear, he wanted the diamonds, too,” Theodosia said. “Now we’re probably talking a grand total of at least two to three million dollars. People have been known to commit murder for far less.”
Drayton looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right.”
“The other thing is, Vardell could have gotten severely cold feet and was terrified of going through with the wedding—the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, the wedding itself, the honeymoon, the whole shebang. Maybe he just wanted out.”
Drayton frowned. “Dear Lord, it could be like those poor couples who get married, go on a fantastic honeymoon cruise, and then one of them ends up dead! Takes a header over a railing into the ocean.”
“Or they get pushed,” Theodosia said.
“So you’re implying that Vardell . . .” Again, the word murdered hovered on the tip of Drayton’s tongue.
But he stopped short as they both turned to inspect Vardell once again. The man’s pose and expression hadn’t changed.
“He does appear somewhat brokenhearted,” Drayton said.
“Yes, but he still could have killed her,” Theodo
sia said. Then, “Would he have killed her?”
“I don’t know,” Drayton said. “You’re veering into extremely dangerous territory here.”
“But something strange is going on. The police don’t have any real suspects, the Hibiscus Diamonds are missing, and Vardell is the proud owner of a fancy new house.”
“It’s all so circumstantial,” Drayton said. “I don’t know what to think.”
“We have to figure this out,” Theodosia said. “For Timothy’s sake, for our own peace of mind, we have to keep pushing on this.”
“Then we need to buttonhole Vardell. Talk to him. Question him carefully but thoroughly.”
“Maybe I should . . .” Theodosia began, just as Allan Barnaby walked up to them and interrupted.
“A sad night,” Barnaby intoned.
Drayton nodded. “It certainly is.”
Barnaby didn’t have much to say; he just stood there looking mopey and staring at them. That is until Delaine suddenly rushed over to join them. She was wearing an adorable peach-colored skirt suit with a stand-up collar and carrying a purse that was covered with crystals and shaped like a bird. Maybe a parrot, possibly a macaw. In any case, she looked like she was ready to hop a plane to Bermuda.
“Theo,” Delaine said in her hurried, breezy fashion. “I need to bounce out of here and . . .” She stopped suddenly, took notice of Allan Barnaby, and broke into a slow smile. “Why hello there,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Theodosia made hasty introductions, then pretty much stood back as Delaine took over.
“A publisher,” Delaine cooed. “Isn’t that absolutely amazing. I simply adore reading books.” (Insert eye flutter here.) “Tell me, Mr. Barnaby . . . or may I call you Allan? What types of books do you publish? No, wait, let me guess.” And Delaine was off and running, monopolizing the conversation, giggling, asking and answering her own questions, and flirting outrageously with Allan Barnaby.
Barnaby, who’d always struck Theodosia as being rather bookish and timid, was suddenly finding himself basking in the reflected glow of the giddy and exotic-looking Delaine Dish. She was clinging to his arm and hanging on his every word (but only when he was able to get a faint word in).
Theodosia threw Drayton her best Let’s get out of here look, but their escape was foiled when Haley and Timothy Neville came up to join their circle.
That slowed things down as they all exchanged somber greetings as well as a few fond remembrances about Willow.
Then Timothy rocked back on his heels and said in a sad voice, “We can only wonder about Willow’s next book. What it would have been.”
“Willow’s book?” Haley said. “Oh, I have it.”
You could have heard a pin drop as everyone stared at her.
Theodosia was the first one to find her voice. “You have it?” Her words seemed to echo loudly in the room. “Why is that?”
Haley shrugged. “No big reason. Just that Willow asked me to read it. To, you know, see if it all hung together.”
“Does it?” Barnaby asked. He looked like a wolverine ready to move in for the kill.
“Well, I only got a chance to read the first chapter, like, an hour ago,” Haley said.
“Excuse me, are you talking about the history of the Heritage Society that Willow was thinking of writing?” Drayton asked.
Haley shook her head. “No way, this is a novel. A really good one, too. It’s about this Russian . . .”
“Tereshchenko,” Theodosia said.
Haley grinned. “The diamond guy you told us about, yeah. How did you know that’s what Willow’s novel was about?”
“Just a lucky guess,” Theodosia said.
* * *
* * *
Once Theodosia and Drayton pulled themselves away from the group, Theodosia said, “What if Allan Barnaby is the guilty party?”
“You don’t like him, do you?” Drayton said.
“It’s not a matter of liking or not liking him. The fact is, I’m fairly sure Barnaby was at the haunted house Sunday night. So he had the perfect opportunity.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Drayton said. “Also, Barnaby seemed ravenously eager to get his hands on Willow’s next book, if that counts for anything.”
“What if Willow was going to take her book to a different publisher, a more prestigious publisher, and Barnaby got wind of it?”
“Interesting thought. So maybe, in a fit of rage, Barnaby murdered Willow, stole the diamonds, and then stole her computer?” Drayton said.
“Let’s assume for the time being,” Theodosia said, “that whoever stole Willow’s laptop might have thought they were getting their hands on her second manuscript. And now, seeing as how Haley has it, she could be in serious danger!”
Drayton touched his bow tie nervously. “What do we do now?”
“I’m not sure. But first things first, we need to get into that haunted house again. Check out the basement and see if there’s a hidden exit.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“You brought along Xerox copies of the house plans, right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Theodosia looked around the room, trying to figure out her next move. Her eyes skittered across the crowd and landed on Claire Waltho.
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll ask Claire for a key. That way we can go into the haunted house tonight, take our own sweet time looking around, and then lock up afterward.”
“Gulp,” Drayton said.
18
“I have to make a stop,” Theodosia told Drayton as they drove down Queen Street.
“What’s that?”
“I want to drop off a basket for Riley. Just some food and stuff I put together for him.”
“Beer and chips?” Drayton asked. He sounded amused.
“Nope, healthy stuff,” Theodosia said. “More like chicken soup, zucchini bread, and a couple of sandwiches.”
“Organic?”
“Well, health conscious anyway.”
“Perhaps you should drop me at home before you run your little errand. You might change your mind and decide to stay awhile.”
“No way, we’re going to explore that haunted house, and you’re coming with me.”
Drayton gave a faint smile. “Aren’t I the lucky one.”
It really did take Theodosia all of two minutes—well, maybe three minutes—to stop at Riley’s apartment, deliver her care package, and bestow a few meaningful hugs and kisses. Then she was back in her Jeep with Drayton, driving down Tradd Street, headed for the haunted house.
“It doesn’t look as busy tonight,” Drayton remarked as they hurried up the front walk. Where there had been fifty people waiting to get in Sunday night, now there were only a dozen or so.
“Maybe the novelty has worn off. Or maybe Willow’s unsolved murder has put a damper on the fun,” Theodosia said.
At any rate, they walked right into the haunted house—again without any problems—thanks to Julia, one of the Heritage Society’s admin assistants who was minding the front door.
“Is Henry Curtis here tonight?” Theodosia asked her.
Julia shook her head. “Henry was supposed to be here, but he never showed up.” She rolled her eyes to show her obvious displeasure. “We had to fill in for him. People are upset.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Uh, you do know we’re closing this place in ten minutes, right?” Julia said.
“No problem,” Theodosia said. “Claire Waltho was good enough to give us a key and told us we could lock up once we’re finished here. Drayton and I are just going to do a quick walk-through. Check out a few things.”
Julia shrugged. “Okay then. But be sure to turn off all the lights.”
Theodosia grabbed Drayton’s elbow and steered him down the center
hallway. They walked past a Sherlock Holmes look-alike who had a cluster of visitors around him, and a woman who was reading tarot cards.
“So how exactly do we find the entrance to this mysterious basement?” Drayton asked.
“We poke around, cross our fingers, and hope for the best.”
But they didn’t have to search all that hard.
In a stripped-out kitchen that was clogged with cardboard boxes and basically being used as a storage room, they found a narrow door leading to the basement.
“Spooky,” Drayton said as he peered down into the darkness.
Theodosia wasn’t looking forward to a creepy-crawl through a dingy basement, either, but she tried to keep a stiff upper lip. They were investigating, after all. This was what investigators did. They took risks.
“Are there lights?” Drayton asked. “Please tell me there are lights. The last thing I want to do is fall and break a hip.”
As if to answer his question, Theodosia flipped a switch that turned on a single bare bulb dangling at the foot of the stairs.
“And I brought along a small Maglite,” she said as she started down the flight of narrow steps that creaked and groaned beneath her. “Come on. Just be a little careful. Use the handrail.”
“I feel like Schliemann searching for the lost city of Troy,” Drayton said.
“Drayton, your analogies are always so academic.”
Drayton smiled as they descended the narrow basement stairs. “Do you know the story?”
“About Schliemann?” Theodosia shook her head. “No. What is it?”
“Holding a copy of The Iliad in one hand, Schliemann stood in the prow of a small boat and navigated according to all the landmarks that were mentioned in the text.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And that’s precisely how he discovered the lost city of Troy.”
“True story?”
“Cross my heart.”
“That’s amazing,” Theodosia said as they arrived at the bottom of the steps. “Sounds like he was an archaeologist and an investigator.” She turned to face Drayton. “Okay, now we’ve got to buckle down and do that same kind of thing here. Use our blueprint to . . .”
