Haunted Hibiscus

by Laura Childs

  “Who doesn’t love a literary reference.”

  “And for dessert Haley is serving ginger cake,” Theodosia said. She glanced at her watch. “But I may not stick around for that. I still want to deliver the recovered Edgar Allan Poe book to Timothy.”

  “He’s working at the Heritage Society today?” Drayton asked.

  Theodosia shook her head. “He’s at home. I called earlier to check.”

  “Then you’d better get cracking. This is a busy day.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Timothy Neville was not only thrilled to have his book returned, he also knew about the murder of Henry Curtis.

  “The police called me,” Timothy said. “First thing this morning.” His sharp eyes probed at Theodosia as she sat across from him in a leather club chair. “They also told me that you and Drayton were the ones who found him.”

  They’d settled in Timothy’s home library, a place of grace and elegance, filled with a trove of leather-bound books. But Theodosia still felt a trifle uneasy.

  “We . . . yes,” she said, fumbling her words a little. “We thought Henry had figured out who Willow’s killer was. And that he was going to tell us, which is why we went over there.” She frowned, thinking about the horrific surprise they’d found. “Turns out we were too late, that we missed the mark entirely.”

  Mentioning Willow’s name seemed to bring sadness back to Timothy’s lined face.

  “Ah well,” he said. “But the police are working hard to solve these crimes. And, if I could look on the bright side for a moment, you did manage to recover a very valuable book.”

  “Sure,” Theodosia said. In the scheme of things, the book seemed like a minor victory.

  “Dare I ask where you found it?”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

  Timothy looked as if he was going to push for an explanation, then thought better of it. Instead he said, “I have something to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Robert Vardell was just here. In fact, you missed him by all of five minutes.”

  Theodosia eyebrows shot up. “What was on his mind?”

  “This may come as a shock to you—it surely did to me—but he handed over the paperwork for the house,” Timothy said.

  “The house,” Theodosia responded, not fully comprehending his words.

  “The one Willow purchased for them. Robert told me he didn’t feel it was rightfully his.”

  “You mean now that he’s been ‘outed’ as a gold digger?” Theodosia said.

  “He talked about that, too. Begged my forgiveness for his transgressions. Swore to me that he loved Willow very much.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Timothy nodded. “I did. If you could have seen the poor man . . . the pain he was in, the sincerity etched across his face . . .”

  Theodosia didn’t want to hear about Vardell’s sincerity. She figured it was an act. Like everything else.

  “I believe you misjudged him,” Timothy said. “Because he gave me the engagement ring, too.”

  “Willow’s ring?”

  “Robert said she threw it at him. Right after she broke off the engagement.”

  “Because . . . she found out about him?” Theodosia asked.

  “Because they had a fight,” Timothy said. “About her buying a house without talking to him.”

  “Still, Vardell never mentioned the broken engagement when we talked to him in your office,” Theodosia said. “When he gave us the story of the Tereshchenko diamonds.”

  “Robert said he was too embarrassed. And frightened of being a suspect.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Timothy’s head bobbed. “Yes.”

  “So what’s Vardell’s plan now?” Theodosia asked.

  “For one thing he’s leaving town.”

  This was news. “And going where?”

  Timothy shrugged. “Robert wasn’t entirely clear about his plans. But his car was packed to the gills, and I’d guess that he intends to spend some time with his folks in Myrtle Beach. A few days anyway.”

  “You mean until he gets his act together,” Theodosia said. “Until he adopts a new charade.”

  “You’re being awfully harsh,” Timothy said.

  Theodosia shrugged. “Maybe.” Then she considered her words. “I suppose you’re right; I am being harsh. So you say Vardell is on his way out of town?”

  “Yes, but first he’s going to stop at the cemetery.”

  “Magnolia Cemetery?” Theodosia blinked. “So Vardell can . . . ?”

  Timothy looked profoundly sad. “He wanted to visit Willow’s grave.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Robert Vardell was still a huge sticking point for Theodosia. In her estimation, he was a snake in the grass bunco artist. Long story short, she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

  That might be why Theodosia was speeding down Morrison Drive on her way to Magnolia Cemetery at this very moment. She wasn’t sure why she was tailing Vardell; she just was. She had no intention of following him to the ends of the earth. Just to the cemetery.

  And what do I do once we get there? Theodosia asked herself. Confront Vardell? Yell at him? Beat a heartfelt confession out of him?

  All good questions. Probably there was an answer lurking there somewhere.

  The low-hanging sun was strafing the trees as she drove through the gates of Magnolia Cemetery. And this time Theodosia knew exactly where to go. Hang a left, pass the chapel, drive up the hill, and continue past the pyramid tomb.

  When Theodosia finally saw Vardell’s black VW Jetta parked up ahead, she slowed to a crawl. Poking along, she saw a spot where the spreading branches of a live oak tree dipped to meet the road and would offer a perfect hiding spot. She pulled her Jeep to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Her eyes followed Vardell as he walked slowly across the grass, headed for the granite stone that marked Willow French’s grave.

  Slowly, quietly, Theodosia opened the driver’s side door and slipped out.

  From there it was a piece of cake to jump from tree to tree, hiding behind each one as she crept up on Robert Vardell.

  Theodosia watched with rapt attention as Vardell approached Willow’s grave. He stood there for a moment gazing at the headstone, then knelt down in front of it. He was doing something with the flowers that were there—rearranging them? She wasn’t sure.

  Theodosia slipped around a small willow and crouched down behind a crepe myrtle.

  There. Now she had a good sight line on Vardell.

  He was talking to himself out loud, but she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. She caught every third word or so as it floated back to her on a cool breeze. It was like listening to a faulty AM radio station that faded in and out.

  Theodosia still wasn’t sure why she was hunkered down here, spying on Robert Vardell. Did she still suspect him? Maybe. And if she suspected him of orchestrating Willow’s death, did that mean he’d murdered Henry Curtis, too?

  Maybe.

  Did Vardell do it or not? Was he a stone-cold killer or just a misguided soul? Maybe Vardell existed in his own universe. Maybe he wasn’t a bad guy; he was just brimming with visions of grandeur. Maybe he really had loved Willow.

  Now what’s he doing?

  Theodosia watched as Vardell pulled something from his jacket pocket and placed it carefully on Willow’s headstone. She wondered what it could be.

  Then Vardell knelt down, and his right hand began moving to and fro in the dirt.

  How strange.

  Finally, after two or three minutes, Vardell got back on his feet, brushed off his slacks, and walked slowly back to his car.

  Theodosia waited until Vardell’s car had safely disappeared down the road and ov
er a hill. Then she walked quickly across the grass to Willow’s grave. She saw that he’d placed a small white envelope there with Willow’s name written on it.

  Theodosia shook her head. No, she couldn’t read it. It wouldn’t be right. Whatever Vardell had poured out to his dead fiancée in this letter was his business alone.

  Then her eyes fell on the dirt surrounding the gravestone. In the dirt he’d traced a message—I will always love you.

  Theodosia walked back to her car, tears sparkling in her eyes.

  32

  “Where have you been?” Drayton demanded. “It seems like you’ve been gone for hours.”

  “Did you need me for something?” Theodosia asked. She felt a tiny wave of guilt seep in. Maybe she had been gone too long.

  “Well, not really,” Drayton said. “But we were worried about you nonetheless. How did things go with Timothy?”

  “I gave him the long-lost book, and he seemed happy enough,” Theodosia said. She decided to leave it at that. No need to tell Drayton about her side trip to the cemetery.

  “Did Timothy want to know how we recovered it?”

  “He asked, but I didn’t tell him.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not,” Drayton said.

  “Maybe we should just let the whole Claire episode play out and see where it goes,” Theodosia said. “You think you can live with that?”

  “For now, I probably can,” Drayton said.

  “I also arrived at Timothy’s place, like, five minutes after Robert Vardell had left.”

  “What do you mean left? Is Vardell going somewhere?”

  “Leaving town. Timothy thought he’d probably spend some time with his folks in Myrtle Beach, then move on.”

  Drayton narrowed his eyes. “That man’s a skunk. I’m also not sure we’ve seen the last of him.”

  “I’m not, either,” Theodosia said. “Trouble is, Timothy isn’t furious enough at Robert Vardell.”

  “Even though Vardell is a murder suspect?”

  “Timothy doesn’t see it that way at all,” Theodosia said.

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not sure anymore.”

  Theodosia wandered into the kitchen where Haley was baking sultana raisin scones and making Brie cheese and cranberry pastries.

  “How are you doing?” Theodosia asked her. “Need any help?”

  “I’m a teensy bit nervous about getting everything done, but I expect I’ll manage,” Haley said. “Thank goodness Angie’s chefs are handling the roast pork and the two side dishes. I hope they follow my recipes to the letter.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  Haley cleared her throat.

  “What?” Theodosia asked.

  “I have a kind of confession,” Haley said.

  “You do?” Why Haley and not the killer? “What is it, Haley?”

  “I adopted a cat. Well, more like took him in.”

  “That little brown-and-orange cat that’s been hanging around out back?”

  “He’s been hanging around because I’ve been feeding him.”

  “Of course you have,” Theodosia said. “Where is he now?”

  “Upstairs. In my apartment. I love Teacake. I want to keep him.”

  “You’ve already named him?”

  Haley nodded.

  “Then I guess you have to keep him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Theodosia said. She glanced around the kitchen. “Do you need me to pitch in on anything? Right now I mean?”

  Haley thought for a moment. “Nope.”

  “Okay then. I’m going to get busy and pack up a couple dozen teacups and saucers. I doubt that Angie will have enough.”

  Theodosia wandered back out into the tea room where Drayton was deep in one of his contemplative moods, pulling down tea tins from his shelves and viewing them with his critical tea sommelier’s eye.

  Drayton saw her and said, “Did Haley tell you about Teacake?”

  “She did.”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  “I don’t see why not, especially since he’s already living here as part of the family.” Theodosia glanced at Drayton’s array of tins. “You’re still deciding on a tea for tonight?”

  Drayton nodded. “Vacillating between my witch’s broom puerh and a Chinese black tea with cinnamon and cloves.

  “It’s Halloween. Doesn’t that pretty much dictate your choice?”

  “So the witch’s broom?”

  “It sure sounds perfect,” Theodosia said.

  “Oh, I think people will get a chuckle. Witch’s broom, as you probably know, is an aged green puerh tea made from large, dried tea leaves that have been tied into bundles resembling a witch’s broom.”

  “Remind me of the taste,” Theodosia said.

  “Slightly sweet, reminiscent of peaches or plums.”

  “Bingo. That’s it.”

  “Now I’m wondering . . . will I have full access to the Featherbed House kitchen? Where exactly am I going to brew my tea?”

  “Maybe in the breakfast nook,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton lifted a single eyebrow and let it quiver. “Please don’t tell me I’ll be working on a single hot plate.”

  “I’m sure Angie and her crew can do better than that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They could. And they did.

  With Drayton and Haley ensconced in the Featherbed House’s large industrial kitchen along with two of Angie’s regular chefs, Theodosia left them alone to check their entrées, prep the side dishes, and start brewing tea. Stepping out of the kitchen, she walked through the cozy breakfast nook and then out through a door that led to the Featherbed House’s lobby.

  The place was adorable as always, homey and comfortable with Angie’s trademark geese scattered everywhere. There were quilted patchwork geese, plaster geese, carved wooden geese, and ceramic geese. Needlepoint geese decorated fat patchwork pillows that were propped against the backs of overstuffed chintz sofas and matching chairs.

  Bottles of wine and sherry stood on a long, rough-hewn wooden side table, along with a wheel of orange cheddar cheese and baskets heaped with sliced French bread and crackers. A few guests milled about, enjoying the warmth and hospitality of the place.

  “Theodosia?” Angie’s voice tinkled merrily over the soft music that played on the sound system. And then she was skipping toward Theodosia across the planked wooden floor. Angie’s hair was curly blond and shorter than ever; her lovely oval face held a wide smile. Tonight she’d traded her ruffled blouse and homey denim skirt for a long black velvet witch’s costume.

  “You look appropriately spooky,” Theodosia said to Angie as they exchanged hugs.

  Angie stepped back and did a little pirouette. “Don’t I just? Tonight I feel more like Morticia Addams than an innkeeper.”

  “Maybe I should have worn a costume, too,” Theodosia said. “But I figured a black apron over black slacks and a white blouse would be more appropriate for serving tea.”

  Angie held up an index finger. “But I have an extra costume if you’re interested . . . if you dare!”

  Theodosia was interested.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Come with me.” Angie grabbed Theodosia’s hand and pulled her behind the reception desk and into her overstuffed office. She grabbed a cardboard box, rustled around inside it, and pulled out a long white shroud. “This is the first part.” She handed it to Theodosia.

  “Okay,” Theodosia said.

  “And here’s the rest.”

  “Whoa.” Angie had just handed Theodosia a tattered wedding veil and a rubber skull mask.

  “Cool, huh?” Angie said. “It’s a ghost bride costume.”

  “It’s . . . interesting,”
Theodosia said.

  The ghost bride costume had caught her slightly off guard. For some reason, an image of Willow French flashed through her mind. Then she fought hard to try to shrug it off.

  “I’ve never seen this side of you before,” Theodosia said.

  Angie grinned. “You’ve never seen me at Halloween. Or hosting an Enchanted Garden Party.” Then she got serious. “You remember my asking if you’d be part of our Pepper’s Ghost illusion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, that would be your costume.”

  Theodosia needed to know a few more details. “Why haven’t you shanghaied your boyfriend, Harold, into being part of this magic trick?”

  “Because he’s upstate in Murrells Inlet looking at a possible vacation property for us.”

  “Okay, got it. So . . . Pepper’s Ghost. Explain, please.”

  “Here’s the thing. Pepper’s Ghost is an old illusion that originated in Europe in the eighteen hundreds. At magic shows and what they used to call phantasmagoria performances.”

  “How’s the trick work?” Theodosia asked.

  “It’s basically a kind of hologram prototype,” Angie explained. “A reflective screen bounces a two-dimensional image of a person onto a see-through screen.” She laughed. “You know, smoke and mirrors. In fact, that’s probably where the term came from.”

  “And you’ve got this mirrored contraption all set up and ready to go?”

  “It’s sitting in the courtyard waiting for someone—hopefully you—to be part of the illusion. To scare the bejeebers out of my guests at the dinner’s grand finale. Right before the music and dancing starts.”

  “And then what happens?” Theodosia asked.

  “Ideally you go poof—and disappear into the night,” Angie said. “So. Are you interested? Can I count on you?”

  Theodosia stuck a hand inside the grinning skull mask, manipulated the rubber mouth, and said in a hoarse whisper, “We thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’re going to die when you see what we did to the back patio,” Teddy Vickers said. Teddy was Angie’s manager, a thin man with thinning hair who favored a Charleston wardrobe of seersucker suits, silk cravats tucked into shirt collars, and pastel Ben Silver polo shirts. Always a trifle flamboyant and over-the-top, Teddy was dressed in a devil costume tonight—red sequined jacket, skinny black slacks, tiny white horns stuck on the side of his head—and carrying a glittery pitchfork. Or, as he explained it to Theodosia, “Devils are so run-of-the-mill. Tonight I prefer to think of myself as Mephistopheles.”