Dragonwell Dead atsm-8

by Laura Childs

  A wide smile spread across Theodosia’s face. “Are you serious? You’re going to ask Delaine to marry you?” This was news! Major news!

  Bobby Wayne gave a tight, gleeful nod. “She’s the one. I know it in my heart.”

  Theodosia scurried out from behind the table, sliding the tea strainer into the pocket of her slacks. “Show me, Bobby Wayne.”

  Bobby Wayne made a furtive gesture. “Come over here. Don’t let her see us, though. It’s gotta be a surprise.”

  Theodosia stepped off the patio, following in Bobby Wayne’s footsteps. They rounded a giant magnolia bush and were suddenly in shadows. “Nobody saw us,” promised Theodosia. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’ve got it stashed in my car.”

  Theodosia followed Bobby Wayne another twenty feet to the edge of the parking lot.

  “What I need is a woman’s opinion on this,” said Bobby Wayne. He reached into his jacket pocket, fumbled for his keys. “Delaine’s got such impeccable taste, I don’t want to screw up and give her anything that could be construed as too gaudy or even old-fashioned.” Bobby Wayne popped open the trunk and reached into the darkness. When he withdrew his hand, a purple velvet ring box rested in the center of his palm.

  “I’m sure she’ll love anything you get her,” said Theodosia, plucking the box from his hand. Oh boy, will she ever.

  “Open it,” prompted Bobby Wayne.

  Curiosity aglow in her eyes, Theodosia opened the box slowly.

  It was empty.

  In a single heartbeat, Theodosia’s curiosity winked out and stunned bewilderment rushed in to take its place.

  “Bobby Wa—” Theodosia began just as she caught the blur of a giant shovel swinging toward her head. Inhaling sharply, she had time to move perhaps an inch before the enormous piece of galvanized metal connected solidly against the side of her skull. Absorbing the bone-jarring thwack, feeling every molar rattle, Theodosia was briefly cognizant that she’d sustained a terrible, crippling blow. And then she was falling. Falling softly into oblivion.

  26

  There was a whoosh and a dull roar in Theodosia’s ears that she couldn’t quite place. And a wickedly painful throbbing in her head.

  Oh no, she thought, as she entered a sort of limbo stage of wakefulness. How much did I have to drink last night?

  Trying to will away the pain, feeling completely discombobulated, Theodosia pulled her knees up to her chest and rolled over. It had to be a bad dream.

  Or maybe I didn’t drink too much last night, maybe I just came down with the flu.

  Clearly, this was a morning to sleep in. To let Drayton and Haley open the tea shop. She’d call in later, let them know how sick she was. Because Theodosia knew she was sick. Too sick to even crawl out of bed and manage a glass of water and an aspirin. Rolling sideways, she searched above her head for a pillow.

  And her elbow connected with something sharp.

  “Ouch,” she groaned. What the . . . ? She brought her arm down, reached out, and touched a hunk of metal.

  She pulled back. Something wasn’t right.

  “Wait a minute,” Theodosia mumbled to herself. “Where am I?”

  She opened her eyes to total darkness.

  Lifting her head ever so slightly, Theodosia was almost overcome with nausea. Piercing, stabbing pain exploded inside her head. Her shoulders were stiff and sore, and she couldn’t seem to straighten her legs. Impassively, almost too sick to care, she wondered why that would be.

  As seconds ticked by, Theodosia also became aware of movement. The surface she was laying on seemed to vibrate.

  That strange whooshing sound still resonated in her ears.

  Then slowly, painfully, it started to come back to her.

  I was at the orchid show . . . and Bobby Wayne wanted to show me a ring . . . and then, dear lord, the skunk clobbered me with something. What?

  Theodosia reached a hand up to where sticky dampness matted her hair. Gently felt a painful bump on the side of her head. It throbbed hard and hot. Then she reached her hand out cautiously, eventually connecting with the sharp metal edge she’d touched a few seconds ago. Her fingers traveled slowly, exploring that flat plane, touching briefly on some plastic bottles just beyond.

  “He hit me with a shovel,” she moaned to herself. “And threw me in the trunk of his car!”

  Paralyzing fear grabbed hold of Theodosia and held her in its grasp. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Balling up her fists, she fought to regain control of her emotions. Tried to force herself to think rationally, knew she couldn’t afford the luxury of panic. She had to formulate a plan. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in a tight spot, but she knew she had to think hard, had to push through the pain and fear, no matter what.

  Got to get out of here, got to get out, was her mantra.

  Theodosia’s head was pounding and spinning wildly now, her respiration felt shallow and labored. Her agonizing, viselike headache seemed to be getting worse.

  She knew there was something in that dark trunk that was prickling her eyes and making it harder and harder to breathe. Something that carried a sickly sweet familiar smell like . . . what? She gave a hesitant sniff. Gasoline?

  Or acetone.

  Like a drowning person who’s suddenly been thrown a life preserver, Theodosia grasped on to that single thought.

  Acetone. The same compound the art directors at my old ad agency used to peel layouts and storyboards off pieces of foam core. The same stuff that was found in Fayne Hamilton’s garage and al-legedly used as a fire accelerant.

  And on the heels of that realization . . .

  Bobby Wayne set Fayne Hamilton up for Mark’s murder.

  Because Bobby Wayne killed Mark Congdon.

  And Bobby Wayne set fire to the Featherbed House.

  Theodosia knew she was in terrible trouble. Knew she had to find a way out. But how? What could she use to free herself?

  Her mind spun back to the shovel. If she could punch out a taillight, or wield it as a weapon against Bobby Wayne once he opened the trunk . . . if he opened the trunk.

  Could she do that? Could she pull herself together and go on the attack? She knew she had to try.

  Then Theodosia’s restless, frantic mind circled back again and she thought, Why did Bobby Wayne hit me with a shovel? Why a shovel?

  The answer, when it finally came, rushed at her like a pack of snarling wolves.

  Because shovels are for digging graves.

  Theodosia lost track of time. Curled up in the dark, nausea increasing by the minute, she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. Wasn’t even sure how long ago it was that she’d woken up.

  And then, suddenly, she felt an imperceptible shift as Bobby Wayne’s car slowed down. She was jounced and thrown off balance, causing more twinges to erupt in her head, as he negotiated a turn. Then they were bumping along over an uneven surface. She steeled herself, knowing she’d have only one chance to make her stand.

  Theodosia wrapped her hands tightly around the handle of the shovel as they rocked to a stop.

  She waited, hunched in the darkness, poised to attack.

  But when the trunk was finally sprung open and cool night air rushed in to greet her, Bobby Wayne Loveday was standing a good ten feet back from the car, a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his hand.

  “Get out,” he told her.

  Cramped muscles protesting, Theodosia gingerly began to uncoil herself and put one foot on grassy ground.

  “Drop the shovel.”

  She touched the business end of the shovel to the ground, then released it. It fell forward and hit the earth with a loud clang.

  “Get over here,” ordered Bobby Wayne.

  Mustering her courage, Theodosia climbed the rest of the way out of the trunk and peered at Bobby Wayne through the darkness. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

  That seemed to confound him.

  “Taking care of loose ends,” he finally rep
lied. The gun moved slightly in his hands. “Now get over here.”

  Standing upright, inhaling fresh air, Theodosia finally gained the presence of mind to look around. And was stunned at what she saw. A silver penny of a moon shone down, illuminating the ancient tumbledown rice mill at Carthage Place Plantation.

  Theodosia’s first thought was, Back to the scene of the crime.

  What did Bobby Wayne mean to do? Drag her kicking and screaming into the nightshade garden and force black nightshade and poison rhubarb down her throat?

  But no, he had stealthily circled around her, was fumbling one-handed in the trunk of the car.

  Fumbling for what? Theodosia wondered.

  Bobby Wayne pulled out the bottle of acetone.

  The acetone. Whoa.

  “You don’t want to do that, Bobby Wayne.” Theodosia’s voice came across far more forceful than she felt.

  “Get inside,” he barked. He walked briskly up to her, emboldened by the gun in his hand. “Turn. Walk.”

  Theodosia complied. She turned slowly and walked the ten steps to the rickety door of the rice mill.

  “Inside, girlie,” muttered Bobby Wayne.

  That single order, phrased the way it was, incensed Theodosia. Finally helped clear her head and shoved back the pinpricks of fear. Strengthened her resolve.

  Walking through the front door into the dilapidated mill, Theodosia was forced to duck her head. Inside, the ceiling was almost as low. Huge fallen beams were spilled everywhere like Lincoln Logs. Rotting leather belts hung from the ceiling. In the low light Theodosia could see the hulking remnants of the rice mill’s giant gears.

  Theodosia remembered this old rice mill at Carthage Place Plantation was dry as tinder. The old wood was ancient, well over a hundred years old. One small spark and it would surely explode in a giant, roaring, conflagration.

  “Keep moving,” said Bobby Wayne.

  Stepping carefully, aware the floor was completely rotted through in several places, Theodosia picked her way farther into the old mill.

  “Good enough,” growled Bobby Wayne.

  Theodosia’s back rubbed up against a wooden beam as thick as a man’s torso.

  “This is such a bad idea,” Theodosia told him.

  Bobby Wayne stared at her in the darkness. “I think this is one of my better ideas, actually.” He sounded calm and rational, unlike his mad-dog, frothing-at-the-mouth inner self.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” spat out Theodosia. “The police will come . . .”

  “The police will be looking at other suspects,” chortled Bobby Wayne. “Leah Shalimar and Harlan Noble. They’ll go looking for them. Because I know how to set a trail.”

  “Like the one you set to Fayne Hamilton’s back door?” said Theodosia.

  The lower half of Bobby Wayne’s face split open in a mirthless grin. “That was good, wasn’t it. I’m good.”

  “No, you’re probably insane,” replied Theodosia.

  “And you’re really quite boring,” snapped Bobby Wayne. He held out his bottle of acetone, sloshed the sickly sweet–smelling liquid all around.

  Theodosia lifted her hands from her sides. One of them found its way to a rough railing and she gripped it tight. Her heart was hammering away inside her chest and she wasn’t sure what to do. She had to make a stand. But rushing Bobby Wayne when he had a gun pointed at her chest. Not smart.

  Bobby Wayne sloshed more of the fire accelerant around.

  The intensity on his face made him look scared, happy, and giddy all at the same time.

  “Why don’t you just walk away from this,” began Theodosia. “Leave the country. Today. Right now. After all, people are going to find out that your FOREX scheme is a fraud.” Is it a fraud? she wondered. It has to be. That’s why he panicked when he found out Tidwell called from the Bahamas. That’s why he killed Mark and burned down the Featherbed House.

  But Bobby Wayne was not to be deterred, was surely not to be reasoned with.

  “Fire is better,” he told her. “Fire is . . .” He gazed at her and his eyes seemed to gleam. “. . . cleansing.” Digging into his jacket pocket, Bobby Wayne pulled out a lighter, flicked it on, watched the flame jump high.

  Somewhere, in the back of her brain, Theodosia remembered Delaine talking about how she and Bobby Wayne had smoked cigars together. Theodosia wondered if this was the same lighter Bobby Wayne had used to light those cigars. Back pressed tight against the rough-hewn beam, Theodosia clutched the railing like a lifeline and also wondered if she’d get out of this alive.

  Holding the lighter above his head, Bobby Wayne’s pudgy face looked almost satanic in the dancing light of the flame. “Bye-bye,” he called as he pitched the lighter toward her.

  Flames immediately shot upward, illuminating the back end of the rice mill where she was crouched. As light flickered and bloomed, Theodosia spotted a gaping hole in the floor just to her left. And did the only thing she could do. Slipped under the railing and tumbled downward.

  Plunging down into that dark hole, Theodosia prayed for a soft landing.

  And whatever was in that basement, old gunny sacks, moldering pile of rice husks, manure from animals that had once been housed there, it did provide a slightly soft landing spot for Theodosia.

  But it didn’t afford a moment’s respite.

  Intense flames hissed and danced just ten feet above her, causing her cheeks to burn. Tiny sparks floated down and Theodosia feared her hair might catch fire. Worst of all, Theodosia could hear Bobby Wayne’s voice calling to her, “You can’t get away!” But his voice sounded far away, like he was probably outside by now.

  Down in the bowels of the rice mill, Theodosia’s head whipped left to right, looking for an exit, any place that would lead her out of what would soon become a roaring inferno.

  And as flames above grew in intensity, crackling and licking at the ancient roof above, Theodosia suddenly spotted an exit out of this maw of hell.

  A tunnel. Approximately three feet high, three feet wide, constructed entirely of brick.

  A tunnel? She could barely believe her eyes!

  Taking a deep breath, Theodosia dove into that dark crawl space just as the floor above collapsed and flames licked at her heels.

  27

  Skittering along on her hands and knees, Theodosia found herself inches deep in mud and slime. Thick, musty cobwebs brushed at her face.

  A tunnel, a tunnel, Theodosia kept telling herself. Yes, now I remember the quickie history lesson Drayton gave me. Rice was pounded in the mill, and fire to run the steam engine was generated in the nearby chimney. And those two components were connected by a tunnel! A tunnel exactly like the one I’m crawling through!

  She breathed a silent thank-you to Drayton. An even bigger thank-you to the highly inventive rice producers of the Carolinas.

  And Theodosia kept crawling in the pitch black. Struggling along, wondering how far the tunnel extended, hoping it wasn’t blocked at the other end.

  When her fingertips finally hit a pile of broken bricks, she had a few bad moments fumbling around in the dark. But luck was with Theodosia, and when she inched upward and tilted her head back she saw giant streams of smoke and, in between, the faint glimmer of stars overhead!

  The brick chimney, which had once soared twenty-five feet into the sky, had crumbled to a mere stub over the years. And now Theodosia was struggling to slowly pull herself up, trying to extricate herself from its archaeological remains. Clawing at broken brick and stone, she pushed and squirmed. Her silk top was in shreds, she had lost both sandals. But, finally, like a wary gopher emerging from its den, Theodosia pushed her head up slowly.

  And saw . . . the old rice mill still burning. But no Bobby Wayne.

  Is he gone? Did Bobby Wayne take off?

  Theodosia swiveled her head around, mindful of the pain that filled her head. No, there was Bobby Wayne’s car, parked right where he’d left it. So now the question remained. Where was Bobby Wayne?
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  What now? Out of the frying pan into the fire?

  No, Theodosia decided. That isn’t going to happen.

  But Theodosia found herself confronted with a new set of problems. First was orientation. She wasn’t sure which direction would lead her to the main plantation house. And second, would her legs even carry her?

  She was exhausted, hurt, and unnerved. Did she even have the strength and inner reserves to attempt a getaway?

  Theodosia knew she had to try.

  Wobbling slightly, she pulled herself upright and crept along behind the back of the burning building. She knew if she could keep the burning rice mill directly between her and Bobby Wayne’s car, she’d have a better chance of remaining undetected. Plus, sooner or later, someone would see this fire and call it in. Then fire engines would come racing out and Bobby Wayne would be forced to flee, to make his getaway.

  When Theodosia felt confident she was in the right spot, she began backing away carefully. But the ground was uneven, causing her to stumble and fall a number of times. And every time she fell, her head throbbed more.

  Fearing she’d suffered a concussion, worrying that she didn’t have much strength left, Theodosia turned and tried to pick up the pace.

  She knew she was wheezing badly, was having difficulty maintaining focus.

  If she could just make it to that grove of tamaracks up ahead . . .

  Theodosia pressed on, feet sinking in mud, willing herself to keep going.

  When she reached the shelter of the tamarack grove, she turned.

  And saw Bobby Wayne, backlit by the fire, searching for her.

  No!

  Spinning in frustration, Theodosia broke into a wobbly dog trot. If she could just put some distance between the two of them!

  Plunging into a thicket of horse nettle, Theodosia turned an ankle, fought to maintain her balance, and cartwheeled down a hill.

  That’s when she heard Bobby Wayne’s voice, calling after her.

  “You’re not going to get away!”

  Clambering to her feet, Theodosia forced herself to keep going. Dodging trees, she was hobbling down an incline now, so the going was slightly easier. Then mud squished between her toes and she found herself ankle deep in water, then suddenly almost waist deep in a soggy morass.