Haunted Hibiscus

by Laura Childs

  “Terrible,” Theodosia agreed. She hated to even dredge up the memory.

  “It was garish, yes,” Claire said. From the way she shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, Theodosia could tell she hated talking about it. Hated recalling the grisly details.

  “Do you know . . . are the police close to arresting someone?” Barnaby asked. He searched their faces. “Have you ladies heard anything at all?” He looked both shattered and hopeful.

  “Not a word,” Claire said.

  “Nothing yet,” Theodosia said.

  Now Barnaby looked slightly confused. “I understand from the article I read in this morning’s Post and Courier that a police officer was shot last night in the line of duty?”

  “It was a police detective,” Theodosia corrected. “He’d gone to Willow’s apartment to have a look around and, I guess, stumbled on her killer.”

  “How awful. I hope the detective is going to be okay,” Barnaby said.

  “I have it on good authority that the detective will make a full recovery,” Theodosia said.

  “Good to hear,” Barnaby said.

  Theodosia gazed at Barnaby. “I bought a copy of Willow’s book last night. Carolina Crimes and Creepers, the one your firm published.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find it highly entertaining. Willow is . . . was . . . an excellent writer.” Barnaby stopped and looked suddenly stricken. “Bless me, now I have to refer to her in the past tense. How perfectly awful.”

  Theodosia tried to lighten the conversation. “How many books does your firm publish in a year?”

  “Last year we put out ten books. This year we’re aiming for fifteen.” Barnaby seemed momentarily pleased. “We may be a small Southern press, but we have excellent distribution and several of our authors have garnered good reviews as well as some rather prestigious awards.”

  “Small independent presses are enjoying a resurgence now, aren’t they?” Theodosia asked.

  “They are indeed,” Barnaby said. “Of course I’d always hoped Willow would do a follow-up book.”

  “You mean more low-country legends and lore?” Theodosia asked.

  “Willow barely scratched the surface with this current book, and the market is certainly ripe for more tales,” Barnaby said. “Willow was an extremely gifted writer who could bring words to life. We’d even noodled around the idea of having her write a history of the Heritage Society and maybe include some of the essays that the curators have written for the various catalogs.”

  “You can imagine how excited we were about that,” Claire said.

  “That would be wonderful,” Theodosia said. “Had you talked seriously about that type of book? Maybe drawn up a contract with Willow?” She was thinking about the stolen computer. Had there been a manuscript sitting inside it?

  “No, no, we had nothing in writing,” Barnaby said. “Willow was still processing the idea. I don’t believe she was even at the research stage. Of course now . . .” His voice trailed off. “Perhaps we’ll find another writer?” He shook his head. “Such a sad state of affairs.”

  7

  Theodosia found her next employee, actually an intern, sitting in the library, her nose buried in a half dozen books as she scribbled out copious notes. Sybil Spalding was young—Theodosia guessed around twenty-two or twenty-three—with long dark hair, a smile that revealed a rather charming chipped front tooth, and an inquisitive demeanor.

  “So you’re looking into Willow’s murder?” Sybil asked. She was definitely more enthusiastic than nervous.

  “I’m making a few minor inquiries as a favor to Timothy Neville,” Theodosia said as she sat down at a large oak library table across from Sybil.

  “Oh wow,” Sybil said. She seemed impressed.

  “And because the detective that got shot at Willow’s apartment is a close friend of mine,” Theodosia added.

  “Wow again,” Sybil said. “Is the detective guy okay? Is he going to recover?”

  “We think he’ll be fine,” Theodosia said.

  After minor surgery, recuperation, and several months of physical therapy.

  “Claire tells me you were instrumental in helping put the haunted house together,” Theodosia said.

  “Working on it was a blast,” Sybil said with great enthusiasm. Then her smile slowly crumpled. “Until last night, that is.”

  “Tell me about your role in the haunted house.”

  “My task was to research all the clothing worn by the various literary figures. We wanted to put together costumes that were historically accurate yet still had kind of a wow factor, an element of showmanship. You know, so the visitors would be entertained as well as impressed.”

  “Is that what your internship here at the Heritage Society is about?” Theodosia asked. “You’re working in the clothing and costume department?”

  “I am right now, but my particular interest lies in antique linens and fabrics.”

  “There’s a good collection here, yes?” Theodosia remembered a show from a few years ago where the Heritage Society had featured antique linens and fabrics. She remembered being impressed by a three-dimensional gros point style from Italy and a delicate rose point lace from Belgium.

  “Oh my, is there ever a great collection,” Sybil said. “Just working with the French and Italian lace here is like taking a giant step into the past. It’s even springboarded me into my new hobby—collecting antique lace handkerchiefs.”

  “There are a lot of them still available?”

  “There are if you know where to look.”

  “What do you do when you’re not interning here?” Theodosia asked. She was curious about this smart, talkative young woman.

  Sybil gave a wry smile. “Right now I’m employed part-time at a dry cleaner’s, working with delicate fabrics. Interning here is fun, but I also need to pay the bills, if you know how that goes.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “So you say you’re asking questions about the haunted house? About that awful murder last night?” Sybil said.

  Theodosia repeated her spiel about looking into things for Timothy, then asked a few questions about her duties last night.

  “Oh, I was pretty much stuck in the back room,” Sybil said. “Fitting costumes onto the performers, making any necessary tucks or repairs, then acting as a kind of gopher for the various curators.”

  “Just out of curiosity, did you detect any false notes last night?” Theodosia asked.

  Sybil frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Someone who seemed nervous or agitated?”

  “Oh, you mean somebody I’d point a finger at?” Sybil asked.

  “When you put it that way . . . yes.”

  “Nobody,” Sybil said. Her upper teeth nibbled at her lower lip. “Not a single soul.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia’s third interview was with Elisha Summers. She was also a newly hired staff member who worked in the conservation department.

  Theodosia found Elisha in the cavernous basement of the Heritage Society working over an oil painting of a small fishing boat struggling through high seas. She was daubing paint over a spot that had been patched and then re-gessoed.

  When Theodosia asked her about possible suspects, Elisha said, “Nobody I can think of. But let me noodle it around.”

  Theodosia sighed. “If you would that’d be great.” And she thought, Strike three.

  Theodosia continued to pick her way through the Heritage Society and talked with four more curators, all people she was well acquainted with and who were near and dear to Timothy. She didn’t suspect any of them, and, unfortunately, they didn’t offer any insights, either.

  Feeling as if she’d seriously struck out, Theodosia walked back to Timothy’s office and knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” Timothy cal
led out.

  “It’s me,” Theodosia said. As she entered his office, she noted that Timothy sounded slightly more chipper than he had this morning.

  Timothy was seated behind his enormous rosewood desk with a sad-looking man sitting across from him in a plum-red leather chair with hobnail trim.

  “Theodosia Browning,” Timothy said, getting right down to business, “I’d like you to meet Robert Vardell, Willow’s fiancé.”

  Theodosia’s heart immediately went out to the young man. “Oh, Mr. Vardell, you have my sincere sympathy.” She crossed the Aubusson carpet and quickly shook his hand.

  “You were a friend of Willow’s?” he asked.

  “A friend of a friend,” Theodosia said, settling into the chair next to him. “And of course I’ve known Timothy for ages.”

  Timothy managed a small smile. “Though our ages do differ.” Then he cleared his throat. “Robert has come up with, what we believe, may be the prime motive for Willow’s murder.”

  “Seriously?” Theodosia said.

  She’d been interviewing people like crazy, trying to extract answers—hunches, really—and not getting much in return. It had been painful for everyone involved, like pulling teeth. And just like that Timothy and Robert Vardell had come up with an actual motive? She couldn’t wait to hear it.

  “What?” Theodosia asked. “What is it?”

  “Willow owned a stunning pair of yellow diamond earrings that she inherited from her great-grandmother,” Vardell said.

  Theodosia was already nodding, could see where this was leading. “Let me guess, Willow was wearing them last night and now those yellow diamonds are missing?”

  “They are according to the coroner’s inventory we just received,” Vardell said. He glanced at Timothy. “We’re quite positive Willow was wearing the diamond earrings last night.”

  “Our general theory is she was murdered because of them,” Timothy said. “The earrings are extremely valuable.”

  “Five carats total weight and quite rare,” Vardell said. “The yellow diamonds were . . .” He stopped and glanced at Timothy again.

  “Go on,” Timothy urged.

  “The thing is, the diamonds have a unique provenance,” Vardell said.

  Theodosia slid forward in her chair. This was grisly, but it was also slightly fascinating. She knew that provenance was kind of a fancy term for the history and ownership of an object, generally a rather expensive object. “Tell me,” she said.

  “They were part of the Tereshchenko diamond collection,” Vardell said.

  Theodosia shook her head. “I’ve never heard of that.” She’d heard of the Hope Diamond, the Krupp Diamond, even the Cullinan Diamond. But never anything about Tereshchenko diamonds.

  Vardell cleared his throat and began. “Back in the early nineteen hundreds, Mikhail Tereshchenko was a member of the wealthy Russian aristocracy and also served as foreign minister of Russia. Unfortunately, when the Russian Revolution swept the hearts and minds of many of his countrymen, he found himself on the wrong side of history.”

  “What happened to him?” Theodosia asked.

  “In 1917, just before the czar and his family were executed, Tereshchenko was arrested at the Winter Palace, stripped of his title, and hauled off to prison,” Vardell said.

  “Leon Trotsky took over as his successor,” Timothy added.

  “I see,” Theodosia said. “And Tereshchenko’s diamonds? What became of them?”

  “They ended up being his ticket out of prison,” Vardell said. “Out of Russia.”

  Theodosia nodded, thinking, He was one of the lucky aristocrats that got away.

  “The largest and most famous diamond in his collection, the Tereshchenko Blue Diamond, was later cut by Cartier. But there was also the Hibiscus Diamond, a forty-nine-carat yellow diamond,” Vardell said.

  “Holy cats,” Theodosia said under her breath. Then, “Hibiscus like the tea?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, Tereshchenko escaped to Norway in 1918 with most of the diamonds sewn into the lining of his sealskin coat,” Vardell said.

  “And then?” Theodosia asked. She was fascinated by this bizarre tale.

  “Most of the diamonds didn’t surface again for several decades,” Vardell said.

  Theodosia gazed at the two men. “But you both believe Willow’s diamond earrings were part of that collection?”

  “I’m certain they were,” Timothy said. “Right before the outbreak of World War II, the Hibiscus Diamond surfaced and was purchased by a Parisian jeweler named Guillard who cut it into smaller stones. My sister, Adelle, lived in Paris at the time and acquired several of those smaller diamonds.” He nodded at Theodosia. “She would have been Willow’s grandmother.”

  “And the diamonds were passed down to Willow,” Theodosia said.

  “Quite so,” Timothy said.

  “What a remarkable story,” Theodosia said.

  “There’s more,” Vardell said. “Willow also inherited a matching pendant.”

  “Where’s this diamond pendant now?” Theodosia asked.

  Vardell shrugged and made a Who knows? gesture with his hands. “We think it’s probably gone. Stolen from her apartment last night.”

  “Which accounts for the shooting,” Theodosia said. She thought for a few moments. “Does Tidwell know about this?”

  “We just spoke with him some twenty minutes ago,” Timothy said. “After Robert received the inventory list from the”—Timothy’s lip curled—“the coroner. That’s when we realized the diamonds were missing.”

  “That’s quite a story,” Theodosia said. She glanced sideways at Robert Vardell. He looked haggard and drawn, as if he’d spent the last six months chained in a dungeon.

  “It’s a story we don’t want leaked,” Vardell said.

  “Theodosia here is looking into things for me,” Timothy said.

  Vardell cranked his head sideways and peered at Theodosia as if he were slightly nearsighted. “You are?”

  “Theodosia’s had experience with this type of situation before,” Timothy said.

  “Well . . .” Vardell seemed at a loss for words. “That’s good, I suppose. The more help we get the better. I must confess, in speaking with Detective Tidwell I wasn’t entirely impressed by his abilities.”

  “Tidwell plays it close to the vest,” Theodosia said. “But please don’t discount him for a single moment. He’s smart, lucky, and tenacious. Give him one tiny sliver of a clue, one bit of grist, and he’ll chew on it for hours. Probably come up with something, too. He’s broken many difficult cases.”

  Vardell still looked doubtful. “But how bizarre is this case? A murder in front of—what?—four or five dozen people? At a haunted house the week before Halloween? It sounds almost . . . ritualistic.” He paused. “And then the shooting of the police detective at Willow’s apartment.”

  Theodosia was trying to examine all the different angles as she gazed at Vardell. “I have to ask . . . have you been threatened in any way, Mr. Vardell?”

  Vardell practically jumped out of his skin. “Me? No! Who would threaten me?”

  “Perhaps the same person who murdered your fiancée?” Theodosia said.

  “Listen to Theodosia,” Timothy insisted. “Don’t discount her questions. Or her ideas.”

  “Okay,” Vardell said. He touched a hand to the side of his head and said, “Okay,” again.

  “Please think carefully,” Theodosia said. “Have you encountered any problems in business lately? By the way, what is your business?”

  “I’m in finance,” Vardell said. “I work with Metcalf and Solange, a private equity fund.”

  “Interesting,” Theodosia said. “Have you had any unhappy clients?”

  “The market goes up, it goes down. Sometimes our clients’ moods mirror that fluctuation,” Vardell said.
/>   “Money or loss of money can make people behave quite irrationally,” Theodosia said.

  “But not in this particular case,” Vardell said with conviction. “I’m positive the diamonds were clearly the reason behind Willow’s murder. She was the target.” He gave an emphatic nod that indicated he wanted to close off any more questions concerning his business.

  “I hate to ask,” Theodosia said. “Are plans underway for a funeral?”

  “Still pending,” Timothy said. “But if hard-pressed, I’d probably guess it will happen this Thursday morning.”

  “Will you hold the service here? At the Heritage Society?” Theodosia asked.

  Vardell shook his head. “I’ve been in touch with Willow’s family, and we’re of like mind that the service should be simple and dignified. A small evening visitation and then, the following morning, a graveside service at Magnolia Cemetery.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” Timothy said. His eyes were suddenly red and watery; he looked like he was about to cry.

  Vardell stood up so quickly his knees popped. “And I need to take care of a few things.” He turned to Theodosia, who had also stood up. “It was good meeting you.”

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again,” Theodosia said.

  Vardell turned to Timothy. “Timothy, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Of course,” Timothy said.

  Once Vardell had left, Theodosia sat back down.

  “I have a slightly impertinent request,” she said to Timothy.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to take a look inside Willow’s apartment.”

  “I’m afraid the police have it sealed off.”

  “That’s fairly standard. But if I go in I promise not to disturb anything.”

  Timothy sat for a moment, gazing at her. “From what I’ve been told, the place has already been ripped apart. So I don’t believe one more look-see would hurt anything.” He reached down, slid open the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a small blue suede clutch purse. Digging into it, he found a ring of keys and handed it over to Theodosia.