Haunted Hibiscus
Titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES
AGONY OF THE LEAVES
SWEET TEA REVENGE
STEEPED IN EVIL
MING TEA MURDER
DEVONSHIRE SCREAM
PEKOE MOST POISON
PLUM TEA CRAZY
BROKEN BONE CHINA
LAVENDER BLUE MURDER
HAUNTED HIBISCUS
Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
GILT TRIP
GOSSAMER GHOST
PARCHMENT AND OLD LACE
CREPE FACTOR
GLITTER BOMB
MUMBO GUMBO MURDER
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS
STAKE & EGGS
EGGS IN A CASKET
SCORCHED EGGS
EGG DROP DEAD
EGGS ON ICE
EGG SHOOTERS
Anthologies
DEATH BY DESIGN
TEA FOR THREE
Afton Tangler Thrillers
writing as Gerry Schmitt
LITTLE GIRL GONE
SHADOW GIRL
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
Excerpt from Twisted Tea Christmas copyright © 2021 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Childs, Laura, author.
Title: Haunted hibiscus / Laura Childs.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. | Series: A tea shop mystery; #22
Identifiers: LCCN 2020036511 (print) | LCCN 2020036512 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451489692 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451489715 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Browning, Theodosia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 H38 2021 (print) | LCC PS3603.H56 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020036511
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020036512
Cover art by Scott Zelazny
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Recipes
Tea Resources
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Twisted Tea Christmas
About the Author
1
Dark clouds bubbled across a purple-black sky, then lifted gently, like a velvet curtain in a darkened theater, to reveal the top two floors of a dilapidated old mansion.
“That’s it,” Theodosia said. “The place they dubbed the Gray Ghost.”
“I can’t say it looks particularly charming,” Drayton said. “In fact, it’s slightly off-putting.”
Theodosia gazed at a corner turret that was bathed in green and purple lights. At one time the home had whispered wealth and taste. Not anymore. Now the exterior, the balustrades and finials, even the third-floor widow’s walk displayed the battering it had received from a century of Atlantic hurricanes, salt-infused sea air, and industrial-strength humidity.
“Haunted houses generally aren’t that attractive,” Theodosia said. “But at least this one’s being put to good use.”
It was the week before Halloween, and tea maven Theodosia Browning and her tea sommelier, Drayton Conneley, were strolling down Tradd Street in Charleston, South Carolina, heading for the old Bouchard Mansion. It was a property that had recently been bequeathed to Drayton’s beloved Heritage Society.
“The Heritage Society wasn’t all that happy about inheriting this old place,” Drayton explained. “But it was donated by one of the last remaining Bouchards. Written into his will. And you know our fearless leader, Timothy, is loath to turn down any sort of gift.”
“Still, I love how your curators and marketing folks figured out how to make the most of it,” Theodosia said. “What an amazing idea to create a literary- and history-inspired haunted house. And then to launch it the week before Halloween?” She gave a little shiver of anticipation. “It’s a fabulous concept. People will be standing in line.” They rounded a tall hedge of crepe myrtle and arrived at the front walk where at least five dozen people were clustered, waiting to get in. “Actually, people are standing in line.”
“Opening night,” Drayton said as they shuffled up the sidewalk with the rest of the visitors. “So I suppose folks a
re curious.”
“I sure am,” Theodosia said as she gazed at the old place. Yellow light spilled out from tall, narrow front windows; inside looked to be a beehive of activity.
“You remember Willow French, Timothy’s grandniece?” Drayton asked.
“Oh sure, I’ve met her a few times.”
“She’s here tonight, signing her new book.”
“Willow’s written a novel? That’s wonderful.”
Drayton pursed his lips. “It’s not exactly a stunning piece of literature. Rather an anthology titled Carolina Crimes and Creepers. Supposed to be a mixture of true crime and some of our low-country legends.”
“You mean, haunted legends,” Theodosia said, feeling another tingle. Even though she didn’t believe-believe in spirits and ghosts, it was fun to pretend that Revolutionary War–era ghosts and headless pirates still stalked Charleston’s narrow cobblestone alleys. Besides, there were plenty of folks who did believe in ghosts. Case in point, there were four different ghost tours that guided visitors to the Old City Jail, Provost Dungeon, and Unitarian Church Cemetery. As well as to a twisted old hanging tree where dozens of pirates had been executed.
Drayton glanced up at the dilapidated mansion where a swirling projection of ghosts and witches moved eerily across an outside wall. “Haunted, yes,” he said.
The low country and Charleston in particular were a hotbed of legends and lore that included ghosts, hauntings, boo hags, spirits, apparitions, and spectral goings-on. Everyone who lived in Charleston knew about the haunted theaters and mansions, Lavinia Fisher, the Headless Torso, and the Weeping Woman of St. Philip’s Church. And there were dozens more creepy tales that had been passed down through generations.
As they walked through antique wrought-iron gates, a ghoul with a green-painted face and a bolt through his neck tapped Drayton on the shoulder. “Tickets?” he rasped.
Drayton fumbled in his jacket pocket. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“This is going to be amazing,” Theodosia said. She was already three steps ahead of Drayton and loved what she was seeing. Edgar Allan Poe lounged on the front portico; Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman lurked in a window. And she was pretty sure she could see Lady Macbeth sweeping past the guests who were already inside.
“You’re liking this, yes?” Drayton said when he caught up with Theodosia.
“Yes!”
Possessing a keen sense of adventure, Theodosia was in her mid-thirties and the owner of the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street. She was also blessed with expressive painterly blue eyes, a fair complexion (it helped to be religious about sunscreen), and a riot of auburn hair that she worried sometimes looked slightly untamed.
Drayton, on the other hand, was sixtyish, dapper, a true Southern gent, and the model of conservatism. He was always appropriately dressed (tweed jacket and bow tie tonight) and had a personality that could veer from genial to slightly stiff. Drayton’s idea of an exciting evening was attending La Traviata or holing up in his private library to read his beloved Dickens.
“I think this place is terrific,” Theodosia said. She was excited and feeling a little bit giddy. “Who doesn’t like Halloween, after all? Who doesn’t enjoy a good haunted house, even if it is all costumes and theatrics?” She reached out, letting her fingertips brush against the rustling full-length satin skirt of a masked woman.
“Ah,” Drayton said, catching up to her. “From the legend of Madame Margot.” Then he took her arm and said, “Come on, let’s go find Willow.”
* * *
* * *
Willow French was young and pretty, with honey-colored hair that framed a smiling face. She was clearly in seventh heaven from all the attention she was receiving tonight. Seated at an antique library table, she smiled brightly as she autographed books and thanked everyone in her immediate vicinity for showing up.
The authoring business must be good, Theodosia decided. Dozens of people waited in line for a signed copy, Willow’s table was stacked with double towers of books, and cardboard cases full of books filled the small parlor where she was seated.
“Willow,” Drayton said, greeting Timothy’s grandniece with a wide smile and a nod of his head. “I see our favorite author is in residence tonight.”
Willow glanced up, recognized Drayton immediately, and grinned from ear to ear. “Uncle Drayton!” she shrieked.
Theodosia gave Drayton a sideways glance. “Uncle Drayton?”
“That’s how Timothy has always introduced me to his grandniece,” Drayton said in a low, soft voice. “As though I’m a member of the family.”
And it was abundantly clear that Willow did consider Drayton part of the family, because now she skittered around to the front of the table, arms flung wide, ready to give him a most exuberant bear hug.
Willow squeezed Drayton, uttered another high-pitched squeal, and, after a few giggles, eventually released him. “I was hoping you’d show up,” she said breathlessly. Standing barely five two, with shining eyes and an impish expression, Willow looked even younger than her twenty-four years.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Drayton said. Then, hurriedly, “You remember Theodosia, don’t you?”
“Of course. You’re the tea lady,” Willow said, immediately reaching out to give Theodosia a quick hug as well. “Hey, thanks bunches for coming.”
“This is a big night for you,” Theodosia said as she returned the hug. “I understand it’s your first major book signing.”
Willow nodded. “I’ve been to a couple bookstores, but am I ever loving this. I wondered how my book would go over here, but it’s been gangbusters so far. Sales are good with lots of friends dropping by to say congrats. One of the bigwigs from the Charleston Library Society even stopped by my table to tell me she’d ordered twenty copies from my publisher, who I hope is wandering around here someplace.”
“I couldn’t be happier for you,” Theodosia said.
“We’re delighted,” Drayton echoed. “And of course we both want signed copies.”
“I’ve got first editions that I can personalize for you.” Willow hurried back around the table, sat down, and grabbed two books from a box on the floor. She flipped them open and grabbed a squishy marker pen. The large moonstone ring on her left hand flashed as she signed both books with a flourish.
“Has Timothy stopped by yet?” Drayton asked.
Willow nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s around somewhere.”
“I don’t think Timothy was all that keen on this haunted house idea,” Drayton said. “But judging from the crowd that’s turned up tonight, I must say it’s . . . Well, speak of the devil!”
Timothy Neville ghosted into the room like a character out of King Lear. He was an octogenarian who was not only the power behind the Heritage Society, but also a board member of the Charleston Opera Society, occasional violinist for the Charleston Symphony, collector of antique pistols, and proud possessor of a stunning mansion on Archdale Street that was furnished with equally stunning paintings, tapestries, and antiques. Interestingly enough, all that knowledge and power were contained within a small man who was barely one hundred forty pounds and had a bony, simian face, yet possessed the grace and poise of an elder statesman.
“Looks like your haunted house is a rousing success,” Drayton declared.
Timothy favored Theodosia and Drayton with a thin smile. “I wouldn’t have dreamed this up in a million years. But my staff . . . all I can say is they’re blessed with vivid imaginations.”
“But in a good way,” Theodosia said.
“Did I hear there was some some sort of property dispute?” Drayton asked.
Timothy gave an offhand wave. “Another of the Bouchard relatives tried to contest the will, but my attorneys assured me it was ironclad. This place, such as it is, remains ours, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“That’s w
onderful,” Theodosia said. She was marveling at the crowds that continued to pour in. And then, as Drayton and Timothy continued in conversation, she managed to slip away. She definitely wanted to get a good look at the various literary characters in their elaborate displays.
And she wasn’t disappointed. The folks at the Heritage Society had done a masterful job.
Edgar Allan Poe had his own writing studio—really, more of a dark garret—complete with quill pens, inkwell, antique desk, threadbare rug, old leather-bound books, and even a stuffed raven sitting on a perch.
Wearing a silver-gray floor-length corseted dress, Lady Macbeth stalked her way through the old mansion carrying a silver candlestick. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had their own laboratory set up as well. And Sherlock Holmes had a wonderful study, complete with books, a messy desk, and a coatrack that held his tweed overcoat and deerstalker hat.
As Theodosia gazed into a mirror that reflected an image of Dorian Gray, she decided that she’d better get a signed book for Haley as well. Haley, her compadre and young chef at the Indigo Tea Shop, was a good friend of Willow’s and would appreciate having one of the first editions.
But when Theodosia eventually wound her way back to the small parlor, Willow was no longer seated at her table.
Stepped out, I suppose, Theodosia thought to herself. Maybe I’ll pop back later in the week. I know Willow plans to do a couple more signings.
“There you are,” Drayton said.
Theodosia whirled around. “Have you seen Willow? Do you know where she ran off to?”
“She’s probably being introduced around by Timothy,” Drayton said. “He’s busting his buttons over her. Or perhaps she’s taking a break.” He smiled. “Could have picked up a touch of writer’s cramp from signing so many books.”
“Tonight’s been a real success for Willow. Really, for the Heritage Society in general,” Theodosia said as they walked through the main parlor, then stepped outside onto the wide porch. A chill wind had sprung up, and she was suddenly cold. As she buttoned her jacket, they continued out into the front yard.
“I’ll be the first to admit that I thought a literary haunted house was a half-baked idea,” Drayton said as they walked past a horde of people anxiously waiting to get in. “But this was rather . . .”