by Laura Childs
Timothy tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair as he mulled over Theodosia’s words. “Those files I gave you?” he said finally.
“Yes?”
“I’d appreciate it if you went through them again. As carefully as you possibly can.”
* * *
* * *
And that’s exactly what Theodosia did once she’d dropped Drayton off at his home and arrived back at her own place.
But first she took Earl Grey out for a short walk and then a romp in their backyard. As Theodosia savored the cool, refreshing autumn air, she wished she could linger. There seemed to be the promise of a storm somewhere out over the Atlantic, and the tossing trees, dark skies, and stirred-up ions made Theodosia feel alive. As much as she loved sunny days, she was also comfortable with the night. Loved the idea of silky darkness wrapped around her like a comforting blanket.
But, just as she’d promised Timothy, she dutifully returned to her kitchen, fixed herself a fortifying cup of Ceylonese green tea, and headed upstairs to study the files.
As Theodosia sat in her armchair and paged through the various personnel records, she thought about how much of a person’s life was contained within them. Their education, background, employment history, even their skills, abilities, and ambitions. Really, here in her hot little hands, were the entire time lines of three dozen individuals who held current positions at the Heritage Society.
Trying to be as diligent as possible, Theodosia read through each of the files. When something interesting struck her, she marked a page with a yellow Post-it note. For example, Charles Dreyfus, the curator of drawings, had once worked at an auction house that specialized in fine paintings and precious jewelry. The information wasn’t damning; more like a fact that should be examined more carefully.
She looked at Elisha Summers’s file, then the personnel files for Harold Roman and Donovan Street, but nothing struck her as odd or unusual. She started through the final dozen files, her head beginning to swim as she parsed through page after page of information. It was getting late and she was tired. The clock was crawling toward midnight, so it was almost time to hang it up for the night.
Thank goodness Claire Waltho’s file was fairly straightforward. She’d gotten her MA in art history at Northwestern, then her PhD at the University of Iowa. Her job history included a three-year stint as a curator at the Shelby Museum in South Dakota.
Hmm.
Theodosia shuffled through the various pages. For some reason, she remembered a mention of Claire working at the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, not the Shelby. On the other hand, Claire could have worked at both places. It was a slight discrepancy, maybe a paper misplaced, but something Theodosia would probably want to double-check nonetheless.
Finally, Theodosia opened Henry Curtis’s file. There wasn’t much there. He was just a lowly intern after all.
Henry had graduated from the Palmetto Academy, a private school for grades nine through twelve, and was currently enrolled as a junior at the College of Charleston. He was working on a double major in art history and American studies. Henry’s employment history was negligible. He’d worked part-time at a Books-A-Million as well as a local antiques store.
And now Henry’s an intern at the Heritage Society where he rubbed shoulders—and corresponded with, I might might add—Willow French.
Theodosia decided that she needed to question Henry again. And question him fairly hard.
Then, on an impulse, Theodosia reached over and grabbed her laptop. She opened it up and clicked along to Willow’s Facebook page.
What she saw was heartbreaking. Pictures of Willow smiling out at her, looking happy and expectant. As if she was beyond thrilled with her promising career as an author and was looking forward to a long and productive life.
Tears sparkled in Theodosia’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Willow,” she whispered. “I’m hunting for your killer, really I am. I’ll try not to let you down.”
20
With one hundred and thirty acres of graves, tombs, chapels, and mausoleums, Magnolia Cemetery stood as a prime example of Victorian cemetery design. And today it was being doused with rain. The storm cell that Theodosia had sensed hovering out over the Atlantic had charged its way into Charleston overnight, chilling down the air a good twenty degrees and unleashing a light spatter of rain.
“It would have to rain today,” Drayton said. He was hunched in the front seat of Theodosia’s Jeep, fussing with the heater. Haley sat in back looking glum. Rain pattered down as they drove through the cemetery’s stately gates.
“Perfect weather for a funeral,” Theodosia said. She was still frustrated with herself for not being more proactive, for not being able to figure things out. All her life she’d possessed a keep-moving-forward, get-it-done attitude, but now she was starting to worry. She had suspects, strange discoveries, and multiple theories, but still no concrete answers. Nothing seemed to jell.
“Now we’ll have to stand in a downpour and get soaked,” Haley said. She’d been grumpy since the minute Theodosia had swung by the tea shop and picked her up.
“It’s a drizzle, not a downpour. Besides, I’ve got umbrellas tucked in back,” Theodosia said. After her discovery of the casket door last night, her mind was in too much turmoil to be bothered by a little bad weather.
“Thank goodness for that,” Drayton said as he peered through the rain-spattered windshield. “Now we just have to figure out where the grave site is and which road to take.”
Magnolia Cemetery was a warren of dirt and blacktopped single-lane roads that snaked through the extensive grounds. Besides all the graveyards and additions, there were two small lagoons and dozens of ornate sculptures, many dating back to the eighteen fifties. Thick stands of live oak dripping with Spanish moss, magnolia bushes, weeping willows, and cypress trees served to curtain off entire areas.
“There. Go left,” Drayton said.
“You sure?” Theodosia asked as she cranked her steering wheel.
“Pretty sure. Well, at least it’s a start.”
“More like a commitment,” Theodosia said. “Once we’re on one of these one-way roads it’s practically impossible to circle back to point A.”
But they were in luck. Past the chapel, around bird circle, then a half mile on, near a series of mausoleums and pyramid-shaped tombs that held a who’s who of former senators, governors, and Confederate generals, they came upon a scatter of cars. And beyond the cars, they saw a dark-green canopy that had been erected to shield a cluster of mourners who were milling about, hoping to claim a seat on one of a dozen black folding chairs.
“Here we are,” Drayton said, as Theodosia swerved to the side of the road and rolled to a stop. “We’ve arrived.”
After unfurling umbrellas, the three of them tromped across soggy, spongy grass to the grave site where the mourners had taken refuge from the rain and battering wind beneath the green canopy.
Sybil Spalding saw them coming and came out to greet them, hunching in the rain, handing each of them a printed program.
“Thank you,” Theodosia said as she accepted her program. “By the way, is Henry Curtis here?”
Sybil shook her head. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Do you think he’ll show up?”
Sybil gave a shrug. “Who knows?”
But certain other parties were there.
Allan Barnaby was there with Delaine—big surprise—though Theodosia figured Delaine was probably leading him around by the nose.
Robert Vardell, the fiancé, was seated in the first row of chairs along with Willow’s parents and Timothy Neville. Behind them were people she recognized from the Heritage Society, both employees and board members.
Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley found seats in the last row of chairs. And after Sybil handed out her last program, she came and sat next to Theodosia.
�
��Cold,” Sybil said. “Not as many people showed up as we thought.”
Theodosia took a look around, then her brows pinched together.
“Claire’s not here. Claire Waltho,” she said.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Sybil said. “Claire’s mother is seriously ill.”
“Oh no.”
“Claire’s been walking a kind of tightrope these last few weeks, trying to take care of her mother and still carry on her duties at the Heritage Society.”
“What a shame,” Theodosia said as she watched the minister step up to the podium. “About her mother, I mean. I had no idea.”
The minister was a friend of Timothy Neville’s, an associate pastor at the French Huguenot Church. He led the small group in a number of prayers, then gave a wonderful talk about Willow, highlighting her accomplishments for someone so young, and ruing the fact that her life, though filled with great promise, had been cut woefully short. The minister did not mention that Willow had been murdered, or that her killer was still at large.
Always a little jittery at funerals and memorial services, Theodosia glanced around the crowd. She noted that Willow’s parents were huddled together in stunned silence, while, standing at the back of the pack, was Detective Burt Tidwell. He seemed to be assessing the mourners rather than following along with the service.
Must be a trick of the trade, Theodosia thought. Hang out at the funeral, see who shows up and who doesn’t.
When the final prayer had been concluded, when the mourners had done their very best at singing an a capella rendition of “Amazing Grace,” the minister thanked everyone for coming, then announced that all were invited to attend a funeral brunch at the Lady Goodwood Inn.
That seemed to be Tidwell’s cue to sidle over and catch Theodosia, just as she was about to head back to her car.
“You were right about Ellis Bouchard,” Tidwell said out of the corner of his mouth. “I did some checking, and the man is slowly going broke. It’s no wonder he’s contesting the will and trying to regain control of that mansion.”
“You talked to him?” Theodosia was surprised he’d actually listened to her.
Tidwell pulled his lips into a semi-sneer. “No, but we plan to.”
“Soon, I hope.” Theodosia hesitated. Should she tell Tidwell about finding the casket door last night? She mulled it over for a few moments and decided she almost had to. It was a critical piece of information.
“There’s something else you should know,” Theodosia said.
“There usually is.”
“No, this is something that figures directly into the investigation.”
Tidwell lifted a single bushy eyebrow. “Yours or mine?”
She ignored Tidwell’s sarcasm and quickly told him about the mansion’s bizarre past as a funeral home and then recounted her and Drayton’s adventure in the basement last night.
Much to Theodosia’s surprise, Tidwell listened thoughtfully.
“No one’s ever mentioned the funeral home angle to me,” Tidwell said. “And you say there’s an actual casket door? How very nineteenth-century macabre. No wonder it’s been turned into a haunted house.” He pursed his lips. “Tell me, does anyone else know about this strange exit door?”
“Only me, Drayton, Timothy Neville, and, I’d guess, the killer.”
“Then let’s keep it that way, shall we?” Tidwell said as he turned and walked away.
* * *
* * *
Timothy Neville looked frazzled beyond belief as he crossed the wet grass to bid goodbye to Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley.
“Thank you all for coming,” he rasped.
“A sad day,” Drayton said, clasping Timothy’s hands in a solemn handshake.
“Probably the worst day of my life,” Timothy said. The shoulders of his trench coat were damp, and he looked absolutely bereft. “To top it off, one of the Edgar Allan Poe books we had on display at our symposium yesterday has gone missing.”
“What do you mean missing?” Drayton asked.
“As in vanished from sight, probably never to be seen again,” Timothy said.
“It’s a valuable book?” Theodosia asked.
“A volume of the same imprint and vintage sold for more than three thousand dollars at Christie’s last year,” Timothy said.
“Then it’s more than just missing,” Theodosia said. “That sort of theft is considered a felony offense and carries jail time. You need to report this to the police immediately, let them investigate.”
Timothy’s face went slack. “If I do, they might pull someone off Willow’s case. And that would break my heart.”
“So what are you going to do?” Drayton asked.
Timothy shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He looked, Theodosia thought, as sad and despondent as anyone she’d ever seen.
As the three of them walked back to her Jeep, Theodosia watched Allan Barnaby help Delaine into the passenger seat of a small brown van. And she wondered about him. Just how well was Barnaby’s publishing firm doing? Theodosia knew that signing authors to contracts, publishing books, and getting good distribution was a tough, grinding, competitive business. Besides the large New York publishers, there were thousands of small, independent presses that were jockeying for position. To say nothing of self-published authors.
Could Barnaby have murdered Willow and then broken into her apartment and stolen her computer? Theodosia wondered. Maybe stealing the diamonds was just a last-second whim when what he really wanted was to get his hands on her new novel.
Maybe, but it was a long shot maybe.
On the ride back into town, Theodosia probed Haley gently about Willow.
“I take it you two were pretty good friends?” Theodosia glanced at Haley in the rearview mirror.
“I guess,” Haley said.
“Did she share much information about Robert Vardell?”
“Not really. Willow was funny that way. It was like they existed in their own little bubble. Apparently, Robert is some kind of financial hotshot. He’s always frantically busy following the stock market and wooing important new clients. Taking them out for drinks, or golfing at the Country Club of Charleston.”
“So Robert Vardell is quite successful?” Drayton asked. He knew that particular country club was not only private, but had a waiting list to join.
“To hear Willow talk about Vardell, he was a financial genius who’d probably end up heading his own hedge fund within the year,” Haley said.
“Do you know anything about their engagement or wedding plans?” Theodosia asked.
“A little,” Haley said. “I know Willow was planning to have a small wedding with family and a few close friends. And then later that night, there’d be a reception for a larger group of people at the Avalon Hotel. Kind of like a cocktail party. You know, very tasteful. Martinis and cosmopolitans, a jazz quartet, that sort of thing.
Drayton turned in his seat to gaze at Haley. “And you were invited to attend?”
Haley sniffled loudly. “That was the plan, yeah.”
They had reached Broad Street when Drayton looked at his watch, an antique Patek Philippe, and said, “We have enough time to drop by the funeral brunch.”
“That’s what I thought,” Theodosia said.
“Not me,” Haley said. “I don’t want to go.”
“Whyever not?” Drayton asked.
“I’m not in the mood,” Haley said. “I’d rather go back to the tea shop, shove some blueberry scones in the oven, and get things ready for lunch. In fact, you can drop me off right here. Pull over, Theo, will you? I’ll walk the rest of the way; it’ll help clear my head.”
“Come have a quick bite with us,” Drayton urged. “It’ll cheer you up.”
“You know what would cheer me up?” Haley said.
“What?” T
heodosia asked as she slowed her car and pulled to the curb. She had a pretty good idea of what Haley was going to say.
Haley set her jaw in a hard line. “I’d be happy if Willow’s killer was caught and put in prison to rot for all eternity.”
21
As Theodosia and Drayton walked into the Rose Room at the Lady Goodwood Inn, Drayton took one look at the swarm of people queuing up for the buffet and said, “There are significantly more people here than attended this morning’s graveside service.”
“I’m sure people were fearful about the weather,” Theodosia said.
“But delighted to partake of free food,” he said in a droll, disapproving voice.
“Looks that way. Care to get in line then?”
“After you,” Drayton said.
“How’s my hair?” Theodosia was worried the high humidity had caused it to expand to gigantic proportions. “Has it gone bouffant?”
“Maybe a little.”
She patted it self-consciously. “Oh dear.”
“You’re fine,” Drayton said.
The food that the Lady Goodwood’s executive chef was serving in large silver chafing dishes was absolutely splendid.
There was golden-brown French toast stuffed with cream cheese and strawberries. Zucchini blossoms oozing with cheese. Crab cakes with rémoulade sauce. And several more elegant dishes.
“Be still my heart,” Drayton said as they moved down the line, helping themselves. “They’re serving their special roast chicken perloo.”
“And baked monkfish with mustard and herb crust,” Theodosia said.
“Mmn, and is that dessert I see?” Drayton asked expectantly, even though his plate was practically filled to overflowing.
“Looks like raspberry tartlets and lemon cheesecake squares.”
“This is my idea of a classy brunch. Now what we need”—Drayton scanned the room—“is to find ourselves a table.”
“There are a couple of empty seats over there.” Theodosia nodded. “Where Delaine and Allan Barnaby are sitting.”