Haunted Hibiscus Read online

  “So you’re standing there, starting to take it all in . . .” Theodosia stopped, hoping for more information, anticipating that Riley would helpfully fill in the blanks.

  He did.

  “The only clear space I saw was the top of a small white desk. Where I’m now assuming a computer had been parked. Yeah . . .” Riley nodded to himself. “It was only a few seconds, but I remember seeing a printer, but no computer. Just a tangle of wires.”

  “So somebody broke in, ripped the place apart, and stole Willow’s computer.” Theodosia figured this had to be significant. She didn’t know why exactly, but it was something to keep in mind.

  “Yes, but the missing computer didn’t mean anything to me at the time. Because . . .” Riley’s face twisted as if he’d experienced a sudden uncomfortable flashback. “It was dark in there and warm, as if the heat had been jacked way up. Then I felt, more than I actually saw, a quick flash of motion. I guess it was someone’s hand reaching around the corner from the bedroom. And then all I remember is a loud bang and a sudden sharp pain in my arm. Not terrible, more like a quick sting from a wasp. But suddenly I’d lost my balance and was falling. And it felt as if it took forever, like a slow-motion descent into a deep, dark well. Then I remember my head cracking against the floor and feeling this enormous jolt of pain.”

  Dear Lord. Must have been awful. Theodosia practically squirmed in her chair. She felt uncomfortable just hearing about it.

  Riley continued. “I tried to pull myself up. Actually, I kind of sat up halfway. And then I heard the clatter of footsteps.”

  “Whoever shot you was running away,” Theodosia said.

  “They were gone—poof—like the wind,” Riley said. “But they left the door standing wide open, so there was a shaft of light coming in from the hallway. That’s when I looked down and saw a bloom of red on my jacket sleeve.” He closed his eyes, then opened them. “And the pain started coming in waves.”

  “So you called 911.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “And then I called you,” Riley said. He favored her with a crooked, slightly nervous smile, as if the memory of getting shot was still a little too fresh, a little too vivid. “And here we are.”

  “I’m sorry,” Theodosia said. “So sorry I called you about Willow, so sorry you were sent over there and basically walked into a trap.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not . . .”

  Theodosia stood up, leaned over, and kissed him before he could finish his sentence. Off to her left, a monitor beeped loudly.

  * * *

  * * *

  Driving back to the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia thought about Riley’s story. Again and again, she parsed through it, trying to glean some bit of information or clue. The shooter had to be the same person who killed Willow, right? Yes, it made sense, it tracked. So this killer had come to the haunted house and lured Willow upstairs—which meant that Willow possibly knew her assailant. And then she’d fought with him as he looped a noose around her neck and tossed her out the turret window. In front of . . .

  Dear Lord, how awful.

  Theodosia struggled to quiet the terrible images in her head as she drove along. Hands shaking, she tried to stay in her lane, tried not to run any red lights.

  And after killing Willow . . . what then? Obviously, the killer hotfooted it over to Willow’s apartment to steal her computer. But why would he do that? What was on her computer that was so all-fired important?

  The more Theodosia thought about Willow’s murder and Riley getting ambushed, the angrier she got. Until finally, when she drove down the cobblestone alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop, she was buzzing and humming like an angry bee. Pulling up at the back door, she jumped out and ran inside.

  “Ho, you made it back in time for lunch,” Drayton said when he saw Theodosia striding down the hallway. He sounded pleasantly surprised.

  At the same instant, Haley popped her head out of the kitchen. “How’s Riley?” she asked. “Is he doing any better? Feeling okay?”

  “I’d have to say he’s some better. The doctors are still giving him antibiotics via an IV. But he thinks he might be released tomorrow or the day after,” Theodosia said.

  “Good news indeed,” Drayton said. He returned to his command post at the front counter.

  “It is,” Theodosia murmured. She was still thinking about the strange tale Riley had told her. Who was this maniac? she wondered. And how could she begin to get a bead on him?

  Still in a fog, Theodosia stepped into the kitchen and glanced around. A pot of soup bubbled on the stove, and wedges of cheese and loaves of fresh bread sat on the cutting board. It helped pull her back to the here and now of a busy lunchtime.

  “What did you come up with for our lunch offerings?” Theodosia asked, knowing Haley was always highly creative and clever with her menus.

  “I made it easy-peasy for today,” Haley said. “Because I didn’t know when you’d be back. Or if you’d be back. So. Shrimp and corn chowder, cheddar cheese and asparagus quiche, and everybody’s favorite, a ploughman’s lunch.”

  Theodosia nodded. A ploughman’s lunch was traditional English fare. As its name suggested, it was commonly eaten at lunch and was most often associated with English pubs and village inns.

  “What good stuff are you putting on your ploughman’s platter?”

  “Soda bread, a thin slice of meat pâté, small chunk of Stilton cheese, and a Scotch egg. As a lucky strike extra I managed to score a couple jars of Branston Pickle.”

  That finally brought a smile to Theodosia’s face.

  “The perfect accompaniment,” she said. Branston Pickle was a sweet and spicy condiment sauce with a chutney-like consistency.

  Haley nodded. “I know, it’s so gosh darn authentically British.”

  “And for dessert?”

  “Apple pudding.”

  Theodosia stepped out of the kitchen and saw that two tables were already occupied. The rest of the tables were beautifully set up for lunch. Crystal glasses filled with water, fresh teacups and saucers, knives and forks, and bright-yellow napkins tucked into silver napkin rings.

  She glanced over at Drayton. “You did all this?”

  “Along with my other tasks, yes,” Drayton responded. He seemed oddly pleased that Theodosia had noticed his handiwork.

  “Thank you, the tables look wonderful. I didn’t know I’d be gone so long.”

  “It wasn’t a problem.” Drayton drew a deep breath. “I take it you checked with Haley regarding the menu?”

  “I have and it sounds prefect,” Theodosia said. “What teas are you recommending?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Drayton said. “I have this marvelous rooibos that should complement the quiche. Now for the ploughman’s platters, I’m thinking a nice white tea. White teas have the highest level of antioxidants and are often considered the healthiest of teas . . .”

  And Drayton was off and running, entertaining Theodosia with a virtual litany of teas and tea lore until the front door flew open and at least a dozen guests came spilling in. Then they were both caught up in the genteel hubbub of seating guests, pouring tea, taking orders, and running food out from the kitchen.

  Finally, some two hours later, Theodosia was able to take a breather. That’s when she finally pulled off her long black Parisian waiter’s apron, grabbed her jacket, and, her auburn hair flying like streamers in the breeze, dashed down the street to the Heritage Society.

  6

  The Heritage Society was one of Theodosia’s all-time favorite places. Set smack-dab in the middle of the Historic District, it was an enormous gray stone edifice that looked almost like a medieval castle. There were various galleries filled with maps, antique etchings, coin collections, Early American silver, and sculpture. Walls were covered with tapestries as well as paintings by Jeremiah Theus, Anna Heyward Taylor, and Arthur Rose. M
any of the period rooms contained Early American furniture by Sheraton and Hepplewhite. And there was a library that was filled with books and oak tables and chairs, and that smelled of old leather-covered books and possibly just the hint of tobacco and fine whiskey.

  Theodosia didn’t have time for any of that today. She hurried down the long central corridor to Timothy Neville’s office, knocked on the door, then opened it and peered in. It was empty. No Timothy. She paused and gave a lingering gaze into the interior anyway. Timothy’s office was a combination library and mini museum that always fascinated her. His shelves contained antique books and precious antiquities that included rare coins, Greek statues, American pottery, and even a jewel-studded crown that had once belonged to a long-exiled Hungarian prince. It was all quite wonderful.

  Still, Theodosia needed to find Timothy posthaste. Yes, she had her marching orders concerning staff interviews, but she needed him to rally the troops. Which was why she popped next door to check with June Winthrop, Timothy’s longtime administrative assistant.

  June was fifty-something, smart as a whip, and coolly efficient. She could balance the budget (and trim it mercilessly if need be), knew every board member and major donor by first name, and would finish your sentence if you weren’t careful.

  Today June wore a camel-colored cashmere twinset with a string of pearls. Real deal pearls, Theodosia suspected. She also had a photographic memory and a knack for ferreting out any object that might be missing or misplaced from the Heritage Society’s vast collection.

  If Timothy ever became incapacitated, Theodosia figured that June could run the whole enchilada without missing a single step.

  “Timothy’s in a meeting,” June told her in her usual brusque, superefficient manner. “But he said to go ahead and conduct your interviews.” She picked up a sheet of paper, studied it for a moment, then handed it to Theodosia. “This is a list of the staff members who worked on the haunted house.”

  “Great. But who were the ones who were there last night?”

  “I put checkmarks next to their names,” June said.

  “Will people know why I’m . . . ?” Theodosia began.

  June gave a brisk nod. “They’ve been briefed.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Claire Waltho, one of the Heritage Society’s curators and a recent hire, was first on the list. So that’s where Theodosia started. She found Claire in the Palmetto Gallery supervising an installation of black-and-white photographs. Claire was mid-forties with short curly hair, a friendly smile, and warm brown eyes. Theodosia had met Claire twice before and found her to be a smart, knowledgeable curator, especially when it came to antique prints and photographs. Now Claire was studying the position and height of a framed photo her assistant had just hung. When she noticed Theodosia lurking in the doorway, she stopped what she was doing and came over to greet her.

  “Timothy said you’d be dropping by,” Claire said. She didn’t sound nervous, just busy.

  “I’m doing a quick sweep today, talking to everyone who was at the haunted house last night,” Theodosia explained. “Trying to gather any ideas and impressions that people might have.”

  Claire raised an eyebrow. “Impressions of what happened last night?”

  “That or if you saw anything a little out of context . . . or someone acting suspiciously.”

  “It was kind of a madhouse,” Claire said. “Our first night with all the literary and historic characters interacting with visitors. And then, of course, Willow and her book signing . . .”

  “Nothing struck you as strange or unusual?” Theodosia asked.

  “The whole evening was strange. But I know what you’re asking, and I can’t for the life of me think of a single thing that was out of place. I mean, right after Willow was murdered, when the police were questioning everybody, I racked my brain to see if I remembered a discordant note of some kind. And I didn’t.”

  “I understand you were one of the people who helped conceive and design the haunted house.”

  “One of several, yes,” Claire said. “Now I wish . . . well, I wish we’d left that old mansion, the Gray Ghost, well enough alone.” She pursed her lips together as if she wanted to say more. Finally, she did. “It has a reputation, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Theodosia said.

  “It’s supposedly really haunted,” Claire said. “Not just made-up haunted.”

  Theodosia relaxed. This was nothing new to her. “According to the Charleston Visitors Bureau, so are half our hotels and B and Bs.”

  “Ah, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Besides, we don’t need an exorcism, we need an investigation.”

  Claire smiled at that.

  “Will the haunted house attraction be open again tonight?” Theodosia asked.

  Claire looked sad and a little apprehensive. “I’m afraid so. We contracted with a number of professional actors, so we need to honor those agreements. And then there’s the awful truth that the Heritage Society needs the income that’ll be generated.”

  “Because donations and pledges are not as forthcoming as they have been in the past.”

  “Donations are seriously down,” Claire said. “Ask anyone who works here about pinching pennies. The truth is, we’re using everything we can muster to keep the lights on, pay staff, and continue to offer a full complement of speakers and special events.”

  “None of which comes cheap,” Theodosia said. She was enough of a businessperson to know that a place like the Heritage Society carried an enormous overhead.

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Claire said.

  “So how many people were involved in getting the haunted house all spiffed up and visitor ready?” Theodosia asked.

  “All told, maybe a dozen?”

  That jibed with what Theodosia had on her list.

  “Okay, I want to ask you sort of a tricky question. But I can guarantee your answer will be treated with the utmost discretion.”

  “Uh-oh.” Claire furrowed her brow. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Of all the people connected to the haunted house, can you think of anyone who could have been involved in last night’s fiasco? Maybe not a mastermind, but someone who had a bone to pick with either Willow or the Heritage Society?” Theodosia thought it unlikely, but some twisted soul might have wanted to cast a bad light on the organization.

  “Nobody,” Claire answered immediately.

  It wasn’t the answer Theodosia was hoping to hear.

  “I know you don’t want to make any false accusations, and I don’t blame you,” Theodosia said.

  Maybe if I came at this from a different angle?

  “I have to work with these people, you know,” Claire said, a little defensively. “I can’t just throw somebody under the bus because I don’t like them.”

  “I understand. But is there anyone who might have acted a trifle strange or jittery?”

  This time Claire thought the question over for more than a single second.

  “When you put it that way, I can think of one person,” Claire said. “Ellis Bouchard.”

  “Interesting you should say that,” Theodosia said. “Because I had the not-so-great pleasure of meeting Mr. Bouchard this morning at my tea shop. Okay, so why do you think he could have been involved?”

  “I personally don’t think he was. But Bouchard has been stewing over that house like a rabid dog gnawing a bone, telling everyone that it’s his rightful inheritance.”

  “Has anyone been listening to him, taking him seriously?” Taking his side?

  “Not that I know of,” Claire said.

  Theodosia thought for a few moments. “From what I could see, it’s not that great a house.”

  “It’s in terrible disrepair. The roof leaks, the plumbing is shot,
and no matter how many times you air it out, the place still smells musty. But the land it occupies is worth an absolute fortune.” Claire hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure she should reveal more. Finally, she said, “And Ellis Bouchard is apparently flat broke.”

  Here was an interesting sidebar that made Theodosia’s ears perk up.

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “He told me so last night,” Claire said.

  “Bouchard was there last night?” Theodosia hadn’t noticed him. Then again, she’d hadn’t met him yet.

  Claire made a rueful face. “Bouchard was babbling to anyone and everyone who would listen that the three apartment buildings he owns are all in foreclosure. So I think the man is truly desperate.”

  And desperate people do desperate things, Theodosia thought.

  “Okay, Claire, thanks so much for talking to me,” Theodosia said. “If you think of any—”

  “Claire?” a voice called from the hallway.

  They both turned to find a man staring in at them. He had ginger hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a small mustache. A tweedy jacket topped his bagged-out brown corduroy slacks.

  “Do you have a moment?” the man asked.

  “Of course,” Claire said, waving him in. “Theodosia, do you know Allan Barnaby? He’s the senior partner at Barnaby and Boise Publishing. His company published Willow’s book.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Theodosia said. As she shook hands with Barnaby she studied him carefully and decided he carried the earnest, academic look of a middle-aged English professor. Probably being a publisher put you in that same ballpark.

  “Theodosia owns the Indigo Tea Shop over on Church Street,” Claire explained. “She was also at the haunted house last night and witnessed the entire debacle.”

  “You were?” Barnaby looked stunned as he peered at Theodosia. “I understand it was your basic Grand Guignol horror show. People screaming their lungs out and poor Willow just dangling there for everyone to see. They said the lights lent a horrid purplish tinge to her face.”