Dipped to Death

by Kelly Lane

  CHAPTER 48

  After my argument with Buck, I was pretty shaken. And I had every intention of going back inside my cottage to lick my wounds and figure out what to do next. Detective Gibbit was sure to pay me a visit soon. Except, when I reached the top of the hill, there was a large U-Haul rental truck in the backyard, parked near the outside entrance to the big-house basement.

  “Afternoon, Miss Eva!” called out someone from the other side of the U-Haul. “It’s a gorgeous day today, isn’t it?”

  Alvin Winston rushed across the yard to embrace me. Alvin was a slender, fair-haired, fair-skinned fellow with smiling blue eyes and boyish good looks. He was dressed to the nines in pressed white linen slacks, a button-down chambray shirt, spit-shined penny loafers, and a cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders—despite the fact that temperatures were already in the nineties. He air-kissed me with great flourish. He smelled like a fresh ocean breeze.

  “Alvin!” I cried. Quickly, I wiped my teary cheeks with the back of my hand. I took a deep breath. Try to look normal, Eva. “What a surprise! What on earth are you doing down here in Abundance? Can’t take the big city in Atlanta anymore?”

  “Why, my lovely, I’m moving into Knox Plantation, that’s what! Your big sis has hired me to live here, full-time, in this fancy basement apartment of hers! I mean, when she told me that the apartment is right next to the wine cellar . . . how could I say no!” Alvin waved an arm toward the basement entrance below the big house. “Your sister has such fabulous taste in wine, and I’m sure she won’t miss a few bottles here and there!”

  He tittered a laugh.

  Growing up, the basement had been no more than a dirt floor surrounded by rock walls—a homestead for spiders and crickets, snakes and rodents. It had been dirty, dusty, and mold infested. And the only electricity down there had been a little light bulb in the ceiling with a pull string. Accessed only by the exterior bulkhead, the basement had been the place where my family stashed decrepit tools, forgotten furniture, broken toys, and old lawn gear.

  But when Daphne came back from Atlanta and renovated the big house, she changed all that the basement used to be. After excavating down and pouring new concrete floors, stabilizing all the outer foundation walls, adding new inside walls, ceilings, electrical, and plumbing, Daphne created a generously sized, slate-tiled mudroom, with cubbies, shelves, and hanging hooks, that led to a small but beautiful studio apartment with kitchenette and bath. Also in the basement there was a state-of-the-art, climate-controlled wine cellar, an exercise room, and a large storage area.

  “Daphne, share her precious wine? Aw, Alvin, I wouldn’t be too sure of that!” I said, teasing him.

  In his late twenties and successful as a home decorator back in Atlanta, for several years Alvin had helped my sister and her Atlanta socialite acquaintances maintain their mansions in the up-to-the-minute style to which they’d been accustomed. Then, the economy crashed, and even my sister’s wealthy friends couldn’t afford to spend obscene amounts of money decorating their homes. Still, with a pro ballplayer’s fat income to support the family, my sister remained loyal to Alvin and single-handedly kept his decorating business afloat. Then, about the time Daphne and Alvin had finished decorating and redecorating Daphne’s Atlanta mansion, Daphne and her husband, Big Boomer, were well into their divorce. Alvin had been a lifeline and near-constant companion for my sister.

  “I can’t believe Daphne actually convinced you to leave Atlanta for Abundance.” I shook my head.

  “Well, you know I just adore your nieces and nephew. Being a full-time ‘manny,’ of sorts, will be loads of fun. Plus, your big sis convinced me that if I came down here, I could still be her personal designer and she’d find me some new clients as well—something about some B6 group needing help with their homes. Daphne said their interiors are just so passé! And best of all, your sis and I will be full-time shopping pals!”

  “That’s great, Alvin. I’m excited that you’re here. Abundance sure isn’t Atlanta, but it does have its own special charm. And the kids will be tickled to death. I know they all adore you.”

  “I can’t wait to see the little monsters again! Now, enough about me. Miss Eva, what on earth happened to you, darling?” He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me up and down with an appalled look. “You didn’t really kill that poor fellow I heard about, did you?”

  “Of course not,” Daphne answered for me. Striding across the lawn from the big house, Daphne’s soft peach–colored chiffon dress swirled around her long legs, making it look as if she was floating across the lawn.

  “Well, that’s good to know!” said Alvin. Then he gave me a little hug. “Of course, you know I’m only kidding.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Daphne handed Alvin an envelope.

  “Here are the keys, Alvin. They’re all labeled for you. One key is for the outside door to the basement; one is for the back door; one is for the front door; and another is for your apartment. Oh, and there’s a key to my Buick inside as well. Welcome home, dawh-lin.” They air-kissed. Then Daphne gave Alvin a big hug. “We’re all so delighted you’re finally here.”

  “I’m thrilled to be a part of the family.”

  “You always have been. Listen, I’ve got a ladies club meeting in town, so I’ve got to run. We’ll talk when I get back in another couple of hours. The girls are all at school, and Little Boomer is at preschool. Missus Greene will drop him off. Then, we’ll all get reacquainted this afternoon! Meanwhile . . . I’m off!” Daphne blew a kiss before she turned to hurry away. “Oh, and if you need help unloading, just ask Burl to help. He’s over at the warehouse. Eva can help you find him!”

  “No problemo!” Alvin called out with a wave to Daphne. Then he turned to me and said, “I’m too tired to unpack now. I’ll wait until she gets back home.”

  “Alvin,” I said, “I can’t believe you actually suggested that I’d killed someone.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, y’all know I was just pullin’ your leg. Although, if I do say so, you do look frightful. Is everything okay? Are you still upset about all that wedding business up in Boston? That was awful, it truly was. I’m sorry about the weatherman, and your wedding not working out and all.”

  “It’s not that, Alvin. Goodness knows, I’ve finally come to understand that when it comes to men, I’ve absolutely no clue. I’ve actually declared a moratorium on men for myself.”

  “Well, still, sweetie, you should’ve figured that marrying a queen wouldn’t work out. I mean, everyone in the gay community knew your weather guy wasn’t straight . . .”

  “Omigosh. Alvin! You know?”

  “Why, of course.”

  “Well, I wish you’d told me! I didn’t.”

  “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I guess I just assumed that you knew. I mean, it was just so obvious, wasn’t it?”

  “Alvin, honestly, I had no idea. I thought Zack Black was the real deal . . . that he loved me. We even lived together for a year. I never had a clue that I was only a prop for his career and the television station. Some promotions person, or Zack’s agent—or both—decided that Zack Black, everyone’s favorite weatherman, needed to be married to pull in better ratings. And then, along I came . . .” I sighed. “The perfect mark. A naive Southerner from a backwater town who was desperate for love and attention.”

  “Well, it must’ve been a terrible shock when you found out.” Alvin shook his head. “So, if I may ask, if you didn’t know, what finally happened to make you run on your wedding day?”

  “Minutes before our wedding was to begin, I went out in front of the church on Beacon Hill to pat the horse that was going to pull our carriage after the ceremony. I really had no reason to go out there, other than the fact that I like horses and I suppose I was nervous and just wanted to take one more look at the world before I became Mrs. Zack Black. Except when I was out in front of the church, the c
arriage driver gave me a weird look. And I heard noises from inside the carriage. That’s when I threw open the carriage door and discovered Zack inside, being cozy with his male producer.”

  “How positively ghastly! I’m so sorry.”

  “Alvin, no one knows. Especially no one in my family. And the television station threatened me about spilling the beans, especially because no one in the public actually saw anyone else inside the carriage with Zack. The world just thinks I’m a nutcase. And really, I don’t even care anymore. So please, I’m begging you, can we keep it a secret, just between you and me . . . and whoever else in your community knows?” I rolled my eyes. “I feel so stupid. As it is, Daphne bugs me every day about my need to catch a ‘suitable’ man to marry me. Already, she’s calling me an old maid. She’s driving me crazy. If she finds out that I cluelessly nearly got hitched to a gay man, she’ll never give it a rest.”

  “Sure, hon, we can keep it a secret. And I’ll even let some of my decorator buddies know, just in case they run into Daphne. No worries, Miss Eva. You can count on Alvin Winston. Mum’s the word.”

  Alvin raised his hand and pretended to zip his mouth closed.

  “Thank you. I really am glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.”

  Alvin kissed me on the cheek.

  “Now, Eva, hon, is there a spa around here somewhere? You really look like you could use a day . . .”

  CHAPTER 49

  I was too tired, too upset, and, frankly, too stupid to know how to interpret the documents that I’d photographed in Wiggy’s and Claudia’s rooms. I needed help.

  Except that Buck certainly wasn’t going to help me.

  So instead, I decided to take Ian up on his offer.

  Yer always welcome here, Eva. Anytime, Ian had said. Ye can even come up the drive, if ye like.

  Alrighty, then.

  Who better to interpret a pile of legal and land documents than the multi-estate-owning, land-grabbing, wealthy Scot who was “connected” himself?

  I was going to Greatwoods.

  With a top speed of about twenty-five miles per hour, the Kubota RTV was nearly as speedy as Daddy’s old F-250 farm truck. Only the Kubota was way more roadworthy. It had tough tires and a roll bar.

  From our place, Greatwoods was in the opposite direction down the main road from the village, and I rarely traveled that way. Regardless, tootling along the road was actually quite pleasant in the Kubota. There was a roof over my head for shade, and seated on the vinyl bench seat behind the steering wheel with the wind in my hair, I enjoyed inhaling the sweet scents of summer.

  Moreover, moving along at such a leisurely speed, I was able to take in roadside sights that I often didn’t notice. Like the snapping turtle crawling in the wetlands growth, just off the road. And beautiful pecan trees that I spied in a field down a drive that I’d never known existed. And the barbed wire fence in the woods, on the opposite side of the road.

  That would be Ian Collier’s.

  Of course, I was all-too-familiar with that danged fence in the woods. Even so, I’d never noticed the high fence from the main road before.

  I continued on until the barbed wire changed to a very tall, black, wrought iron fence that continued running along the opposite side of the road.

  Almost there.

  Fifty feet or so later, across the road I saw a massive, black, wrought iron double gate hanging from large brick pillars, marking the entrance to Greatwoods Plantation. There was a camera mounted atop one of the pillars. I shifted to neutral and waited on my side of the road while a small pickup drove past in the opposite direction, followed by a sedan and then a fertilizer truck. Then I shifted into first, then second gear, and pulled across the two-lane road to the plantation entry. Inset from the road, the entrance provided enough room for a couple of vehicles to park in front of the gate while still being off the main thoroughfare. I parked the Kubota and stepped out onto the cobblestone drive, looking for the “box.”

  There’s a button on the box at the entry gate, Ian had said. Ye just push it and someone will open the gate for ye.

  “There it is.”

  A nondescript little black box was mounted to the left pillar at about shoulder height. I walked over and pushed the button. Nothing happened. I stood and waited.

  Thirty seconds later, like magic, the huge wrought iron gates opened inward. I ran back to the Kubota, climbed in, shifted into gear, and motored on up the shady, cobblestone drive. Behind me, the giant gates closed shut.

  Huge, pink-flowering crepe myrtle trees lined the drive on either side. Honestly, the winding drive was probably a half mile long or more . . . and there were blooming crepe myrtles the entire way. Furthermore, every inch along the side of the drive was meticulously landscaped and managed. Under the crepe myrtles were sweet flowering lilies, hostas, gardenias—their scent was pure heaven. There were blooming roses, plus azalea bushes, rhododendrons, and more. The air smelled like sweet flowers and damp earth.

  Of course, Buck had driven me down the drive once before. But that had been at night. Seeing the pink-flowering trees in the daytime, along with all the landscaping, under a bright blue sky, was quite another experience altogether.

  In the woods behind the crepe myrtles were giant magnolia and holly trees, tall poplar and hickory trees. There were live oaks, red and white oaks, and probably a whole bunch of oaks that I couldn’t recognize. Also growing were majestic pines, beautiful sycamores, hemlocks and cedars, maples, and even walnut trees. And some of my very favorite beech trees.

  The place was a naturalist’s dream. Naturalist, not naturist, I thought with a chuckle.

  After a couple of minutes, I motored around a final corner, and the landscape opened dramatically to reveal acre after acre of pristinely manicured lawns dotted with perfectly trimmed specimen trees, shrubs, and topiaries, all showcasing the majestic Greatwoods Plantation mansion at the top of the hill. The fresh green grass scent of the clipped lawns was intoxicating.

  I followed the drive to a large circular area in front of the building where a ginormous circular fountain gushed water. Clad in white terra-cotta tiles, the front of the mansion was every bit as stunning as the rear of the place, with the center loggia of the H-shaped mansion showcasing an arcade of arched windows and Ionic pilasters and columns, behind which, I knew, was the stunning ballroom.

  Honestly, the understated front entry was almost a let-down compared to the rest of the façade. At one of the corner sections of the “H,” up half a dozen wide marble stairs, underneath an intricately designed wrought iron sort of pergola, was a large black door. It was at the diagonal opposite end of the building from the kitchen entrance that Buck and I had used at night.

  I parked at the base of the stairs and shut off the Kubota. Then I climbed the stairs to the door. There was no doorbell that I could see, so I reached up to an oversize bronze door knocker that was shaped like a stag’s head . . . antlers and all. Before I even touched the knocker, the door flew open.

  “Eva. What brings ye here?”

  Much to my surprise, Ian opened the door himself. I guess I’d imagined that was the sort of thing Mister Lurch would do. Or even Precious. Regardless—looking as dapper as always, this time dressed in khaki shorts and his usual pressed and starched shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of well-worn moccasins—Ian caught me off guard. Plus, I’m sure that he caught me staring . . . tanned, toned, and muscular like a runner’s, Ian’s long legs were gorgeous.

  He smiled.

  “Come inside, Eva.”

  His eyes twinkled as he looked over my shoulder at the Kubota in the drive.

  “Ah, I see ye’ve brought yer chariot!” he said with a chuckle. “Is everything alright with ye?” He took me by the elbow and ushered me inside.

  “Yes, everything is fine.” Well, not really. “Thank you,” I said, stepping over thr
eshold. “I’m sorry to come unexpectedly . . . I guess I should’ve called first. Really, I’m here to ask a favor.”

  “Ye don’t ever need to call first. Yer always welcome. What can I do for ye?”

  In the huge entry, we stood before a ginormous, curved marble staircase, covered with red carpet. The kind of thing you see in movies. Or Newport mansions. Above us, a giant crystal chandelier was suspended from a frescoed ceiling that must’ve been thirty feet high, or more. There were marble pillars and walls that were rendered with beautiful three-dimensional carvings and sculptures of South Georgia flora and fauna.

  “Can I get ye something to drink, or a snack, perhaps?” Ian motioned me to follow him. To our left was a door to the great ballroom Buck and I’d passed through before. We passed that door as Ian headed to the left corner of the grand stair, where there was a small passageway. To our right, behind and underneath the great stair, there was another door.

  Ian must’ve seen the puzzled look on my face, because he pointed to the door and said, “Coat closet under the stair.” Then he laughed. “And a mighty big one, too, I might add. This way.”

  Ahead of us, buried in the carved white wall, I finally saw the “invisible” door. Ian pushed something on the wall, and the thick door sprang open.

  We walked through the doorway and into the corner of Ian’s library. Like the wall next to it, the back of the door we’d opened was filled with book-laden shelves. The entry to the study from the ballroom—the way Buck and I’d come in the other night—was on the adjacent wall, just past the corner, on our left. The grand fireplace was at the far end of the room. Ian’s desk, where I’d discovered the maps, was in the corner to my right. Behind it, next to the bookshelves we’d just passed through, was the mysterious green velvet curtained wall, where I knew there was a painting of some sort with a gilded frame that I was dying to see.