Haunted Hibiscus

by Laura Childs

  “Certainly. Have a seat, ask away.”

  Theodosia sat down in a white faux fur–covered club chair that faced his desk. It was comfy but tickly.

  “There’s a distinct possibility that Willow might have been changing her plans,” Theodosia said.

  “You mean her wedding plans?” Croisset’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t believe so. I mean, not that I was aware of.”

  “You two hadn’t talked for a while?”

  “We hadn’t. I know Willow was busy with her book launch, so I didn’t want to bug her too much. I left a couple messages on her answering machine, but she never got back to me. Now you’re telling me the wedding might have been off?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Croisset slumped in his chair. “Gracious.”

  “Did Willow ever say anything to you—or did you pick up any subtle hints that Willow wasn’t completely happy with her fiancé?”

  “With Robert?” Croisset shook his head. “She never said a peep about him.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No. Which I thought was a trifle strange. But, then again, all brides are different. Some are more, shall we say, hands on and singular in their focus.”

  “Self-absorbed,” Theodosia said.

  “There is that.”

  “So you never detected anything in Willow’s demeanor that might have hinted at her being upset in any way?” Theodosia asked.

  “No, but I hadn’t spoken to her in the week before she . . .” Croisset looked pained.

  “The week before she died,” Theodosia said.

  “Right. But from my experience, all brides are nervous as cats,” Croisset said. “That’s the nature of planning your own wedding, of putting yourself front and center and being the star.”

  “So Willow had been nervous?”

  “Just the usual prewedding jitters, but I certainly wouldn’t characterize her as having cold feet.” Croisset sat forward and grabbed a crisp white folder from a stack of crisp white folders. “Look at this. Look what I’ve had to do.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and tossed them in the air. “Canceled. All canceled,” he cried. “The church, the minister, the six-tier wedding cake, the reception dinner, the string quartet, the flowers and bridal bouquet, the DJ for the after-party, even the snow-white Bentley that was supposed to carry Willow and her beloved off on their honeymoon.”

  Croisset looked so upset that Theodosia said, “You realize, Willow didn’t do this to you on purpose.”

  “I understand that,” Croisset said. “And I don’t mean to bemoan the point. It’s just that Willow’s wedding was on track to be flawless . . . to be absolute perfection.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Willow was a dream bride, as clever and detail oriented as any I’ve ever seen. She stood in my florist’s cooler for over an hour, deciding on the exact flowers for her archway. She actually hand selected every single beeswax candle for her reception tables.”

  “That’s really . . . wonderful,” Theodosia said.

  “You know,” Croisset said. “I’ve dealt with nervous brides, angry brides, demanding brides, and brides so hungover I’ve had to shove a bouquet in their hot little hands and practically push them down the aisle. But I’ve never had a murdered bride.”

  “There you go,” Theodosia said. “It’s definitely a first.”

  26

  “Well?” Drayton smiled at Theodosia from his post behind the front counter. “Did you talk to the wedding planner? Did you learn anything new?”

  “Yes to your first question and no to your second,” Theodosia said.

  “Pity.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Drayton snuck a glance at his watch and said, “FYI, we’re about to get busy. Or, in Haley’s vernacular, slammed. Besides our regular reservations, we have a rather large party coming in at twelve fifteen. A group of ten guests from the Dove Cote Bed and Breakfast.”

  “Hmm, that is new.”

  “They only called fifteen minutes ago.”

  Theodosia reached for one of the black aprons that hung on a nearby hook. “Then I guess I’d better get cracking.”

  “And I’d better get brewing,” Drayton said.

  As Theodosia stepped into the kitchen to check on lunch, Haley looked up from a steaming pot of soup and said, “Did Drayton tell you the news?”

  “That we’ve got a party of ten coming in?”

  “Yup, a late addition. So what I’m going to do is add carrot and ginger soup to our menu. Today’s offerings will also include chicken salad on sweet Hawaiian rolls, cream cheese and crushed pineapple on nut bread, Monterey Jack cheese and zucchini quiche, and smoked trout on pumpernickel. Along with what’s left of our scones and muffins, I have some peach crisp baking in the oven.”

  “Sounds like a great menu,” Theodosia said. “The full monty. You’re sure this won’t interfere with your making tea sandwiches for Delaine’s shindig today? I can certainly pitch in and help if you want.”

  “Naw, I’m just going to whip up some Brie and sliced apple sandwiches and some tarragon chicken salad sandwiches. It’s not a problem.”

  Theodosia studied Haley as she spun about her kitchen and wondered if her state of mind had improved. “Are you feeling some better?”

  “Actually, I am,” Haley said. “I started thinking about how you and Drayton have been asking all the right questions—and then I thought about how you guys went creeping through the basement of that haunted house, looking for answers—and it gave me hope. You know what Maya Angelou said about hope?”

  Theodosia thought she might have an inkling about what the wise woman had said, but instead she said to Haley, “No, tell me.”

  “She said, ‘Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space. Invite one to stay.’”

  “Sage words. And you invited hope?”

  Haley nodded. “Sure did.”

  “Bless you, Haley.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When the clock struck twelve, the lunch rush was on. Guests with reservations made their way in, visitors who’d wandered in off Church Street looking for a tasty lunch showed up, and eventually so did the Dove Cote’s gang of ten.

  Theodosia seated guests, poured tea, took orders, and served lunch. Because they were so busy, Drayton was also at the ready to grab entrées from the kitchen and hustle them out to their guests.

  Until, that is, one of the Dove Cote guests ordered a pot of Margaret’s Hope Estate Darjeeling. Drayton, always delighted to brew one of his highly prized teas, readily complied. And then, when he presented the tea in a glazed yellow teapot from India, he immediately offered to do one of his infamous recitations.

  “Yes!” they agreed en masse. “We’d love to hear it.”

  Drayton cleared his throat and began:

  At four o’clock the day becomes liquid

  casting a Darjeeling shadow on itself.

  This is the time between,

  an hour without destiny.

  I must be careful

  not to disturb the scent of oranges

  that rests on the mist,

  not to veer off the steamy path

  as I raise the china lip

  to meet my own.

  Applause rose from the Dove Cote table, then the other guests joined in.

  “Goodness,” Drayton said, looking a little embarrassed at all the fuss, “I guess I went off in a poetic reverie.”

  But the guests thought otherwise and there were cries of . . .

  “We loved it.”

  “You were wonderful.”

  “Highly entertaining.”

  Theodosia just smiled and maintained her calm demeanor. If her tea sommelier sometimes quoted snatches of poetry or recited Japanese haiku, it was just part and pa
rcel of the ambiance of the Indigo Tea Shop. And more likely than not, guests would be back for more. She knew there was a dearth of charm and whimsy in today’s world, so in her eyes, Drayton was simply doing his small part to help restore it.

  At one o’clock, with the guests enjoying banana nut bread and peach crisp with their tea, Angie Congdon walked in.

  “Bet you know why I’m here, don’t you?” Angie said to Theodosia, who was grabbing a couple of take-out bags from behind the counter.

  “To firm up plans for the Enchanted Garden Party tomorrow?” Theodosia said.

  “Yes. Teddy and I love the menu you sent over . . .”

  “Actually, Haley put it together,” Theodosia said.

  Angie grinned. “Well, whoever is responsible, it’s wonderful.”

  “So no last-minute changes or additions?”

  “I wouldn’t touch a thing. It’s perfect as is,” Angie said. “But I did want to give you a heads-up about this fun showbiz thing we’ve got planned. It’s an old-fashioned magician’s trick that was popular during the late eighteen hundreds called Pepper’s Ghost.”

  “Sounds like fun. Do I have to do anything?”

  “Maybe agree to disappear?”

  “That sounds . . . a little weird,” Theodosia said.

  Angie shook a finger at her. “Wait and see how well the illusion works. You’ll be surprised!”

  “You think I’ll want to jump in and go poof?” Theodosia snapped her fingers as an accompaniment.

  “I hope so,” Angie said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Just when Theodosia thought they were finished for the day, that the coast was finally clear and she could start bracing herself for Delaine’s event, Detective Burt Tidwell sauntered (as much as a fat man could saunter) into her tea shop. And he was accompanied by, surprise, surprise, Pete Riley.

  “What are you doing here?” Theodosia asked Tidwell. And then, practically shouting at Riley, “And you’re supposed to be on medical leave, which means you should be home in bed recuperating!”

  “Recuperating is boring,” Riley said. He managed an offhand grin, but Theodosia thought it looked forced. That his face still looked drawn and tight.

  “Recuperating is absolutely necessary,” Theodosia shot back. Then she turned to glower at Tidwell and said, “Why on earth did you drag him along when you know he needs his rest?”

  Tidwell took a delicate step backward, a look of feigned innocence lighting his broad face.

  “Don’t blame me,” Tidwell said. “Detective Riley called and asked, rather, he practically demanded, to be let back into the investigation.”

  “That’s so not a good idea,” Theodosia said.

  “You know what’s not a good idea?” Tidwell said. “You shoehorning yourself into my investigation.”

  Theodosia wasn’t about to back down. It simply wasn’t in her nature.

  “Why are you two even here?” she asked.

  “We actually have an update,” Riley said.

  “Then you may as well come sit down,” Theodosia said. She glanced over at Drayton and said, “Do you have any of that fancy Darjeeling left?”

  “Should be enough for two or three cups,” Drayton said. He started grabbing for teacups and his teapot.

  “Okay then, let’s do it,” Theodosia said.

  They all sat down at a table while Drayton poured cups of tea.

  “You mentioned you had an update,” Theodosia said. “What is it?”

  “We’re now able to eliminate one of our key suspects,” Tidwell said. He curled his hands around his teacup, lifted it, and took a sip.

  “Which one?” Theodosia asked. Here was the kind of news she’d been hoping for. That they’d all been praying for.

  “Allan Barnaby has now been cleared of any possible wrongdoing,” Tidwell said. “He has an ironclad alibi concerning his whereabouts on the night of Willow French’s murder.”

  “What?” This was startling news to Theodosia. “I thought Barnaby was pussyfooting around the haunted house that night.”

  “No,” Tidwell said. “He was not.”

  Theodosia looked from Tidwell to Riley. “Are you sure?” Her gut instinct told her to be cautious.

  Riley nodded. “We’re sure.”

  “So what’s Barnaby’s alibi? Where was he that night?” Theodosia asked. This better be good.

  “Barnaby was delivering a lecture at Charleston Southern University on the state of publishing today,” Tidwell said.

  “You’re one hundred percent sure about this?” Theodosia asked. “You checked this out carefully.”

  “I personally spoke to Professor Donneley, who invited Mr. Barnaby to address his Media Today class. The good professor, along with two dozen students, attended Barnaby’s lecture,” Tidwell said. The detective seemed to relish his assuredness.

  “Okay,” Theodosia said. “If you say so.” She knew she had to seriously adjust her perspective on Barnaby, so her brain zonked into overtime. She raised a finger in an aha gesture and said, “But Barnaby could still be the one who stole the book.”

  Tidwell and Riley exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Book?” Riley stuttered out. “What book?”

  “From the Heritage Society,” Theodosia said with an insistent tone. “Didn’t Timothy call you people about the stolen Edgar Allan Poe book? It’s been missing since they had the symposium this past Wednesday? The book’s a very rare edition of Poe’s work and worth a small fortune.”

  Tidwell pursed his lips. “We don’t know anything about a stolen book.”

  “Well, you should,” Theodosia said. Then, “Do you want to know?”

  “Not particularly,” Tidwell said.

  Theodosia wanted to grind her teeth together but didn’t. Instead she said, “Okay then, what happened when you questioned Ellis Bouchard yesterday?”

  Tidwell managed a small grin. “Once I started questioning Bouchard, he folded like a cheap card table. Bouchard is under the impression he can reclaim the mansion and flip it to some fool who’ll turn it into a fancy bed and breakfast. He told me a suite at the nearby Montrose Inn goes for upwards of six hundred dollars a night.”

  “Hmph.” This from Drayton behind the counter.

  “I doubt Bouchard’s ever going to get his hands on that mansion,” Theodosia said. “Timothy’s lawyers will have him wrapped up in court for years.”

  Tidwell shrugged. “Maybe so. But Bouchard is still a person of interest.”

  “I would think you’d be more interested in Robert Vardell,” Theodosia said. “Now that he’s been exposed as a world-class liar.”

  “We interviewed Vardell this morning,” Tidwell said. “Myself and Detective Humphries.”

  “And?” Theodosia said. She was growing increasingly frustrated. Extracting a meaningful answer from Tidwell was like doing the backstroke in a vat of molasses.

  “And we released him,” Tidwell said with a slight flourish.

  Theodosia sat back in her chair, surprised. “You let Vardell go free? Just like that? After he told all those outrageous lies?” She couldn’t quite believe it. He had to be guilty of something, right?

  “In dealing with criminals we consistently see this pattern of behavior,” Riley said. “But lying doesn’t necessarily equate to committing a capital crime. Vardell may not be the killer at all.”

  “But you don’t know that,” Theodosia said.

  “Not yet we don’t,” Tidwell said. “But we’re still pursuing several angles. Pulling threads together, coming up with what we feel is actionable information.”

  “If you guys are so smart, if you’ve already amassed so much information, then what are you doing here?” Theodosia asked.

  Tidwell ducked his head, looking a trifle sheepish. “Actually, we came by to pick up a
dozen scones.”

  Theodosia gave him a stony look. “Scones?”

  “For our late-afternoon meeting,” Riley said. “With members of our task force.”

  “You’ve got a task force working on Willow’s murder?” Theodosia asked. She suddenly felt heartened by this news. “That’s great. In fact it’s wonderful. Tell you what, why don’t I deliver the scones in person? That way I can sit in on the meeting.” Theodosia was making fast mental calculations. She’d have Haley or Drayton drop the tea sandwiches at Cotton Duck so she could attend the task force meeting. Delaine wouldn’t mind; she’d be frazzled anyway and just relieved that her refreshments had shown up.

  “Thank you, but no,” Tidwell said. “We really only need the scones.”

  27

  Champagne glasses clinked, loud music blasted from the DJ’s mixer and oversize speakers, and Delaine Dish was dripping in ice. The sparkling diamond kind, that is.

  It was the afternoon of Delaine’s Denim and Diamonds Fashion Show, and at least a hundred women were crammed into Cotton Duck Boutique. They helped themselves to glass after glass of champagne, snatched up pieces of designer denim, and gaped at the amazing displays of diamonds.

  Theodosia had arranged her tea sandwiches on three-tiered stands and placed them on a table. Then, realizing it was a serve-yourself situation, she decided to do a little shopping and mingling of her own.

  “The shop looks fabulous today,” Theodosia said to Janine, Delaine’s perpetually overworked assistant.

  “Thank you,” Janine said. She was mid-forties and slightly stooped, as if she spent her days lifting heavy boxes. Today her face glowed red from exertion and her blouse was already untucked from her skirt. “We were working here until midnight last night.”

  “You and Delaine?”

  Janine shook her head. “No, Bettina and I did all this. The unpacking and the merchandising. Delaine was . . . I don’t know where Delaine was. Maybe making last-minute calls to clients, getting final RSVPs.”

  “Sure,” Theodosia said. Knowing Delaine, she figured the woman had probably relaxed with a glass of wine, slapped on a beauty mask, and then turned in early.