Authors: Laura Childs
“Were you looking for something in particular?” Theodosia asked. Did Simone, like Delaine, want something of Granville’s to remember him by? Some sort of touchstone or link to him?
“Really, Theodosia,” said Simone. “You’re just brimming with curiosity, aren’t you?”
“Not as much as you are,” said Theodosia. She wondered if Simone had wandered up to see if her clothes were still safely tucked away in Granville’s closet. “Did you come to retrieve your clothes?”
Simone gave a surprised look. “I don’t have any clothes here.”
“Those aren’t your clothes hanging in the closet?” asked Theodosia.
“Really,” said Simone. She let loose a haughty sniff and brushed past her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And then she was out the door and gone.
Still not convinced, Theodosia ducked into the walk-in closet to take another look at the small assortment of women’s clothing. There were maybe ten things on hangers, all crushed together at the back of the closet. Did they belong to Simone, even though she denied it? Or were they the property of some other lady friend?
Ready to chalk up Simone’s visit to pure curiosity, Theodosia turned to leave. As she did, her eyes caught sight of a linen jacket. A beige linen jacket with nubby, almost fringed edges on the collar and sleeves.
She paused, stared at it, and thought,
Could the thread I found at Ravencrest Inn have come from this jacket?
She pulled her iPhone from her pocket and scrolled to the picture she’d snapped of the thread in the window frame. Then she held her phone next to the jacket. Could the thread have come from this same jacket? Stranger yet, was this the jacket Simone had worn to the wedding? Maybe. Possibly.
But if it was the same jacket, what on earth was it doing back here?
23
“Where did you
disappear to?” Haley asked when Theodosia returned to the kitchen.
“Just checking on a few things,” said Theodosia.
“Drayton’s here,” said Haley. “Looking all spiffy and debonair in his seersucker suit. In fact, he was just looking for you.”
“Where is he now? Out back in the garden?”
Haley nodded. “Taking tea, I presume. Gosh, I hope he likes what we did.”
“Haley,” said Theodosia. “You know he will.”
Theodosia pushed her way through the butler’s pantry, past cans of soup and sacks of flour and sugar that, with Granville’s passing, would probably be donated to a local food shelf now, and exited the side door. Then she walked around the house, following a bumpy cobblestone path. With the yard lights on; the lawn trimmed so short it looked like a putting green; beds of coneflowers, candytufts, and roses in full bloom; and dogwoods perfectly pruned, the garden looked absolutely amazing. At the last minute, Delaine had placed small candles along all the paths and around the pool, so the effect was pure magic. It was just too bad Granville wasn’t here to enjoy the admiring gazes and soak up all the compliments.
Just before she got to the tea table, Theodosia ran into Delaine and Millie Grant.
“Is she gone?” Delaine hissed. “I ran into Millie here and was just telling her about Simone Asher. What colossal nerve that woman has!”
Millie nodded. “I can see it made for an aggravating situation.”
“Simone’s gone,” said Theodosia. “She’s out of our hair.”
“Really?” said Delaine. “There were no problems? No major confrontation?”
“None whatsoever,” Theodosia said in a reassuring tone, smiling inwardly at her little white lie. “In fact, she left rather quietly.”
“Okay, then,” said Delaine. She sounded a little disappointed. “That’s good. A happy ending, I suppose.”
Theodosia smiled at Millie. “It’s nice to see you again.” The harpist had just begun a rendition of “Bridge over Troubled Water.”
“I wanted to come and show my support for Delaine,” said Millie. “She was very game to take on this project at the very last minute. Plus, she’s got her big meeting tomorrow.” She smiled at Delaine and touched her hand shyly. “The office was all abuzz today.”
“I’m sure everything will work out just fine,” said Theodosia.
“I’ve got my fingers crossed,” said Millie. And to Delaine, “You know I’m here for you.”
“That’s more than I can say about Nadine,” said Delaine. “My sister didn’t even bother to show up tonight.”
“Maybe she’ll come tomorrow night,” said Millie.
“Huh,” said Delaine. “Maybe.”
They all grabbed a cup of tea and a couple of cake pops, then looked around for a place to sit. That was when Theodosia spotted Drayton, already seated at one of the black wrought-iron tables. And, lo and behold, who was sitting with him but the Beckman boys, Charleston’s resident ghost hunters! Or at least they were for the rest of the week.
“Here we go,” said Theodosia, leading the way. “We can sit with Drayton and the boys.” They all clustered around the table, then dropped into chairs while Drayton hastily introduced Millie to Jed and Tim Beckman.
“Ghost hunting,” said Millie, giving Jed a look of mingled amusement and awe. “I’ve watched some of those TV shows where they creep through old houses, but I’ve never met any real-life ghost hunters before.” She gave a mock shiver. “It’s kind of fun.”
“Drayton was just telling us about some of the ghosts that reside in Charleston,” said Jed.
Delaine’s brows pinched together, and she shot Drayton a quick look. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t, really,” said Drayton. “But the legends and lore are highly entertaining.”
“Such as?” said Millie.
“Well,” said Drayton, leaning back in his chair, “you all know about Gateway Walk, don’t you? About the orbs and the poor woman who’s been heard singing lullabies to her dead baby?”
Heads nodded slowly.
“Awful,” muttered Delaine.
“And then there are the boo hags,” said Drayton. “Flaxen-haired vampires that have been mythologized all over the low country. Of course, those creatures only come out at night.”
“Sure they do,” said Theodosia.
“Where have people reported seeing the most manifestations?” asked Jed.
“Probably the Battery Carriage House,” said Drayton. “Dozens of guests have been frightened out of their wits there. Apparently a headless torso roams the halls at night.”
“What about the Provost Dungeon?” said Theodosia. “People who tour that old place often report feeling an intense burning sensation. Because of the awful fire that took place.”
“And they’ve heard chains rattling, too,” said Delaine. She seemed to be slowly getting into the spirit of their discussion, too.
“I think one of the neatest things about Charleston and pretty much the whole South,” put in Tim, “are the old legends.”
“Like Blackbeard,” said Theodosia.
“And the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe,” said Drayton. “Walking the lonely beaches.”
“What about the legend of Madame Margot?” said Millie. “That’s a strange one.”
“But what’s the most frightening tale of all?” asked Jed, really enjoying himself now. “What’s the one story that scares the poop out of you and really raises your hackles?”
“Oh,” said Drayton, giving his question careful consideration. “No doubt about it, it has to be the legend of the Screaming Lula.”
“What’s
that
?” asked Delaine. “I’ve lived here all my life and never heard that one.”
“The Screaming Lula dates back to just after the War between the States,” said Drayton. “A poor woman by the name of Lula Marsden lost everything to the war—her husband, her two sons, even her home. In fact, she was so destitute, she had to find work as a scullery maid at a boardinghouse over on Calhoun Street. One night, poor Lula was so down and desperate that she set fire to the building. As dozens of occupants fled the blaze, Lula stayed behind, ranting wildly and dashing from room to room. When her long skirts finally caught fire, she ran screaming from the building!”
“No!” said Millie.
Drayton nodded and continued his story. “Down Calhoun Street she tore, her skirt blazing and her burning hair streaming out behind her. Lula was in such a crazed state that she careened directly onto the railroad tracks, right in front of an oncoming train.” He paused. “It’s said the cowcatcher on the front of the train lifted her up and carried her along for several blocks, and that she screamed and cackled the entire way.”
“Wow,” said Tim. “Cool.”
Delaine heaved a sigh and said, “Goodness, Drayton. That’s an
awful
story!”
“Terrifying,” said Millie. “Absolutely terrifying.” But she still looked intrigued. “Tell me, how on earth did you come to learn all these strange tales?”
Drayton gave a mousy smile. “Let’s just say I’m a true connoisseur of Southern legends.”
* * *
An hour later,
it was all over. Theodosia and Haley washed and stacked teacups, packaged up the leftover cake pops—only a dozen or so remained—and wiped the counters.
“Just think,” said Haley, “tomorrow night we get to do this all over again.”
“Just like at the Indigo Tea Shop,” said Theodosia.
“I guess so,” said Haley. She twirled a chocolate cake pop that she was nibbling on.
“Go home,” said Theodosia. “I’ll finish up here.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”
“Okay then,” said Haley. She gulped the last bite of her cake pop and gave a wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Theodosia fussed around the kitchen, grabbing tea towels and packing them into a wicker basket. She decided that, rather than firing up Granville’s washing machine and dryer, it would be easier to take the towels home with her. Toss a load into her own washing machine tonight.
She was rinsing off the last of the three-tiered serving trays when she spotted the note on the counter. It was half tucked behind a stack of blue-and-white gingham napkins.
What on earth? Something Haley left behind?
She picked it up and saw loopy handwriting scrawled across a square of thick parchment.
A note.
And even more strange, the note was addressed to her. It said,
Theodosia. Kindly meet me behind the Gibbes Museum at ten o’clock tonight
. It wasn’t signed.
Theodosia whirled about suddenly, a little nervous, a lot perplexed. Who on earth could have written that note?
Had Max dropped by while she was sitting in the garden with Drayton and company? Had he left the note?
Could Haley be a co-conspirator in this? Was there some sort of surprise waiting for her? Wait a minute, was that even Max’s handwriting?
Theodosia studied the note again but wasn’t completely sure. Tapping her toe for a few seconds, she realized that the sound echoed hollowly in the empty house. And that made her jittery, too. Figuring she had to do something, had to sleuth this out somehow, Theodosia grabbed her phone and dialed Max’s number. She knew he was supposed to be at a museum event tonight, but maybe he’d gotten out early. Or skipped out early.
To see me? That would be nice.
But, no, Max wasn’t picking up. She was flipped over to his voice mail where she heard his voice, sounding friendly and familiar, encouraging her to leave a message.
“Max,” she said. “Did you slip in here and leave me a note? Are you the person I’m supposed to meet behind the Gibbes Museum tonight? Um, is this your idea of romance? Because I find it a little spooky. Call me, okay?”
She hung up and thought,
Now what do I do?
Should she go there? Or just go home? She touched the piece of parchment again with the tips of her fingers, as if she could intuit who had written it and what their intentions could be.
In the end she swallowed her nerves and went.
* * *
Gateway Walk was
a hidden, four-block walk that rambled through lush gardens, an ancient cemetery, and a famous pair of wrought-iron gates. It stretched from the sixteenth-century graveyard that stood behind St. Phillip’s Episcopal Church, past the Circular Congregational Church, the Gibbes Museum, and the Charleston Library Association, ending at Archdale Street. This historic walkway was quiet, contemplative, and abundant with flora and fauna. It was also reputed to be haunted.
Drayton had made mention of it tonight, and old legends spoke of hair that had turned to Spanish moss and now beckoned spookily to unsuspecting visitors. Countless folks had claimed to see the headless torso of a Confederate solider wandering aimlessly through Gateway Walk’s serene gardens and secret cul-de-sacs. Glowing blue orbs had been photographed but never explained.
All of that spun through Theodosia’s brain right now as she walked hastily down the path next to the Gibbes Museum. She’d parked her car on Meeting Street and found the museum, an elegant Greek revival building with four heroic columns, to be totally dark. No concert had just let out; there were no patrons in formal dress still milling around.
All that greeted her were a few tendrils of fog that had crept in from the Atlantic and, with it, the nip of sea air.
Reaching the back courtyard, the place where she and Max usually met, Theodosia hesitated. The place was dark and deserted.
Now what?
She crossed the patio, her footsteps echoing on the polished slate, and crept past looming statuary that, in the dim light, looked like strange, hunched figures. Maybe Max was still inside? But, no, the entire museum was shrouded in darkness.
So what am I supposed to do? Wait for him?
What else was there to do?
She found it hard to believe that this was Max’s idea of a romantic rendezvous. On the other hand, he might be setting up something very special. Perhaps she’d slip around a feathery hedge into a dark, leafy corner where she’d find Max grinning with a proffered bottle of champagne and a big bouquet of roses.
If so, that would be extremely cool. And quite romantic. If not, this whole thing was getting just a little too spooky for words.
“So which is it?” she asked aloud. “What’s it going to be?”
As if in answer, a sound, like the scrape of a footstep on gravel, sounded farther down the pathway.
Huh? Somebody there?
“Max?” she called out.
There was no answer save the sigh of wind in the trees.
Theodosia decided that two could play at this game. Slowly, quietly, she tiptoed down the narrow pathway. Flowering dogwoods brushed her shoulders; a nearby fountain pattered softly while a dove cooed mournfully from its hidden nest.
When she reached the wrought-iron Governor Aiken gates, she hesitated. A faint sliver of moon illuminated a metal plaque that read:
Through hand wrought gates, alluring paths
Lead on to pleasant places
Where ghosts of long forgotten things
Have left elusive traces.
“Ghosts,” said Theodosia. “Maybe they’re all that’s here tonight. Just the sad, lingering souls of people who’ve been buried here. Maybe Max isn’t going to show up. Maybe someone’s playing a trick on me and enjoying a nasty chuckle.”
She wondered if Simone Asher’s fine hand had orchestrated this little no-show? It was possible. Maybe Simone had been so angry and distraught at being asked to leave Granville’s home tonight that she’d concocted what was an elaborate hoax.
Of course, Theodosia reasoned, it could just as easily be Charles Horton or Allan Grumley. Neither of them had been particularly pleasant to her ever since she’d started looking into the murder of Dougan Granville. But would they take petty pleasure in sending her on a wild-goose chase? Hmm. Yes, they probably would.
Theodosia took a few more tentative steps and was suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of jasmine. Letting her guard down just a bit, she breathed in the intoxicating scent. There were so many flowers and shrubs here that you were basically ensconced in a cornucopia of aromatherapy.
Theodosia stared into the darkness and sniffed again. There was something else here, too. Something besides the sea breezes and the heavy floral essences that hung in the warm, humid air.