Читать книгу Killer Investigation - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

Arden finished unpacking and then took a quick shower, dressing in linen pants and a sleeveless top before going back downstairs to decide about dinner. There was no food in the house, of course. No one had been living in Berdeaux Place since her grandmother’s passing. She would need to make a trip to the market, but for now she could walk over to East Bay and have a solitary meal at her favorite seafood place. Or she could unlock the liquor cabinet and skip dinner altogether. She was in no hurry to venture out now that twilight had fallen.

At loose ends and trying to avoid dwelling on Reid’s visit, she wandered through the hallways, trailing her fingers along dusty tabletops and peering up into the faces of forgotten ancestors. Eventually she returned to the front parlor, where her grandmother had once held court. Arden had a vision of her now, sitting ramrod straight in her favorite chair, teacup in one hand and an ornate fan in the other as she surveyed her province with quiet satisfaction. No matter the season or temperature, Evelyn Mayfair always dressed in sophisticated black. Maybe that was the reason Arden’s mother had been drawn to vivid hues, in particular the color red. Arden supposed there was irony—or was it symmetry?—in the killer’s final act of placing a crimson petal upon her lips.

Enough reminiscing.

If she wasn’t careful, she could drown in all those old memories.

Crossing over to the French doors, she took a peek out into the gardens. The subtle glow from the landscape lighting shimmered off the alabaster faces of the statues. She could hear the faint splash of the fountain and the lonely trill of a night bird high up in one of magnolia trees. Summer sounds that took her back to her early childhood days before tragedy and loss had cast a perpetual shroud over Berdeaux Place.

Checking the lock on the door, she turned away and then swung back. Another sound intruded. Rhythmic and distant.

The pound of a heartbeat was her first thought as her own pulse beat an uneasy tattoo against her throat.

No, not a heartbeat, she realized. Something far less sinister, but invasive nonetheless. A loose shutter thumping in the breeze most likely. Nothing to worry about. No reason to panic.

She took another glance into the garden as she reminded herself that her mother had been murdered more than twenty-five years ago. It was unreasonable and perhaps paranoid to think that the real killer had waited all these years to strike again. Reid was right. The magnolia blossom found at the murder scene couldn’t be anything more than a coincidence.

Arden stood there for the longest time recounting his argument as she tried to reassure herself that everything was fine. A jury of Finch’s peers had found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He would never again be a free man. And even if another killer did prowl the streets, Arden was as safe here as she was anywhere. The property was sequestered behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates. The house had good locks and, ever since the murder, a state-of-the-art security system that had been periodically updated for as long as she could remember. She was safe.

As if to prove to herself that she had nothing to fear, she turned the dead bolt and pushed open the French doors. The evening breeze swept in, fluttering the curtains and scenting the air with the perfume of the garden—jasmine, rose and magnolia from the tree that shaded the summerhouse. She’d smelled those same fragrances the night she’d found her mother’s body.

She wouldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t spoil her homecoming with old nightmares and lingering fears. If she played her cards right, this could be a new beginning for her. A bolder and more exciting chapter if she didn’t let the past hold her back.

Bolstering her resolve, she walked down the flagstone path toward the summerhouse. The garden had been neglected since her grandmother was no longer around to browbeat the yard crew. In six months of Charleston heat and humidity the beds and hedges had exploded. Through the untrimmed canopy of the magnolias, the summerhouse dome rose majestically, and to the left Arden could see the slanted glass roof of the greenhouse.

The rhythmic thud was coming from that direction. The greenhouse door had undoubtedly been left unsecured and was bumping in the breeze.

Before Arden lost her nerve, she changed course, veering away from the summerhouse and heading straight into the heart of the jungle. It was a warm, lovely night and the garden lights guided her along the pathway. She detected a hint of brine in the breeze. The scent took her back to all those nights when she’d shimmied down the trellis outside her bedroom window to meet Reid. Back to the innocent kisses in the summerhouse and to those not so innocent nights spent together at the beach. Then hurrying home before sunup. Lying in bed and smiling to herself as the light turned golden on her ceiling.

Despite the dark shadow that had loomed over the house since her mother’s murder, Arden had been happy at Berdeaux Place, thanks mostly to Reid. He’d given her a way out of the gloom, an escape from the despair that her grandmother had sunk more deeply into year after year. Evelyn Berdeaux Mayfair had never gotten over the death of her only daughter and sometimes Arden had wondered if her presence had been more of a curse than a blessing, a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

Her grandmother’s desolation had worn on Arden, but Reid had always been there to lift her up. He’d been her best friend, her confidant, and for a time she’d thought him the love her life. Everything had changed that last summer.

Too soon, Arden. Don’t go there.

There would be time enough later to reflect on what might have been.

But already wistfulness tugged. She paused on the flagstones and inhaled sharply, letting the perfume of the night lull her. A moth flitted past her cheek as loneliness descended. It had been a long time since she’d felt so unmoored. She blamed her longing on Reid’s unexpected visit. Seeing him again had stirred powerful memories.

Something darted through the trees and she whirled toward the movement. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t kept track of her surroundings, of the danger that had entered the garden.

She stood frozen, her senses on full alert as she tried to pinpoint the source of her unease. The thumping had stopped, and now it wasn’t so much a sound or a smell that alarmed her but a dreaded certainty that she was no longer alone.

Her heart started to pound in fear as she peered through the darkness. The reflection of the rising moon in the glass ceiling of the greenhouse cast a strange glow directly over the path where someone stood watching her.

In that moment of terror, Arden wanted nothing so much as to turn and run from the garden, to lock herself away in Berdeaux Place as her grandmother had done for decades. She could grow old in that house, withering away with each passing year, lonely and desolate yet safe from the outside world. Safe from the monster who had murdered her mother and would someday return for her.

She didn’t run, though. She braced her shoulders and clenched her fists even as she conjured an image of her own prone body on the walkway, with blood on the flagstones and a crimson magnolia petal adorning her cold lips.

“Arden?”

The voice was at once familiar and strangely unsettling, the accent unmistakably Charleston. A thrill rippled along her backbone. She had lots of videos from her childhood. Her mother had pronounced her name in that same dreamy drawl. Ah-den.

He moved out of the shadows and started down the path toward her. Arden stood her ground even as her heart continued to flail. The man was almost upon her before recognition finally clicked. “Uncle Calvin?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said in his elegant drawl.

“No, it’s okay. I just... I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here.”

“Nor was I. You gave me quite the start, too, seeing you there in the moonlight. You look so much like your mother I thought for a moment I was seeing her ghost.”

For some reason, his observation sent another shiver down Arden’s spine.

As he continued toward her, she could pick out the familiar Mayfair features—the dimpled chin and piercing blue eyes melding seamlessly with the Berdeaux cheekbones and nose. Arden had the cheekbones and nose, but her hair wasn’t quite so golden and her complexion was far from porcelain. Her hazel eyes had come from her father, she’d long ago decided. A frivolous charmer who’d skipped town the moment he’d learned she was on the way, according to her grandmother. Still, the resemblance was undeniable.

“Ambrose told me a few days ago that you were coming, but somehow it slipped my mind,” her uncle said. “I’m so used to letting myself in through the garden gate I never even thought to stop by the house first.” He came to a halt on the path, keeping distance between them as if he were worried he might startle her away. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too badly.”

“It’s not you.” She let out a breath as she cast a glance into the shadows. “It’s this place. After all these years, the garden still unnerves me.”

“I’m not surprised.” His hair looked nearly white in the fragile light as he thrust it back from his forehead. He was tall, slender and somehow stylish even in his casual attire. In her younger years, Arden had thought her uncle quite dashing with his sophisticated demeanor and mysterious ways. She had always wanted to know him better, but his remoteness had helped foster his mystique. “Even after all these years, the ghosts linger,” he murmured.

“You feel it, too,” Arden said with a shudder.

“No matter the time of day or year.” He paused with a wan smile. “You were so young when it happened. I’m surprised you still feel it so strongly.”

“It’s not something you ever get over.”

“No, I suppose not. I was away at the time. Father and I had had a falling out so I didn’t find out until after the funeral. Maybe that’s why the impact only hit me later. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to at least offer some comfort.”

“I had Grandmother.”

“Yes. I remember hearing how she clung to you at the funeral. You were her strength.”

“And she, mine, although I don’t remember much about that day. It passed in a haze.”

“Probably for the best.” He gave her another sad smile. “So here you are. Back after all these years.”

“Yes.”

“It’s been a long time. Everyone had begun to think that we’d lost you for good.”

Arden wondered whom he included in that “everyone.” Not her grandfather, surely. Clement Mayfair had never shown anything but a cursory concern for her welfare. “I’ve returned periodically for visits. I spent almost every Christmas with Grandmother.”

“And now you’ve come home to any empty house and me looking like something the cat dragged in. I apologize for my appearance,” he said as he held up his gloved hands. “I’ve been working in the greenhouse.”

He looked nothing short of pristine. “At this hour?” Arden asked in surprise.

“Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve been up to. That is, if you don’t mind the general disrepair. The greenhouse is in rather a dismal state so mind your step.”

“What have you been working on?”

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’ll see.”

He turned and she fell into step behind him on the flagstone pathway, following his graceful gait through borders of silvery artemisia and pale pink dianthus. She felt safe enough in the company of her uncle. She didn’t know him well, but he’d always been kind. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother had been murdered on an evening such as this.

The greenhouse door opened with a squeal.

“The hinges have rusted and the latch doesn’t catch like it should,” he said. “Not that there’s anything of value inside. The tools, what’s left of them, are secured in the shed around back. The lock needs to be replaced, regardless. No one needs to be traipsing about inside. Could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Ambrose should have had that taken care of,” Arden said. “At any rate, I’ll have someone come out as soon as possible.”

Her uncle glanced over his shoulder. “You’re here to stay then.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans yet.”

He looked as if he were on the verge of saying something else, but he shrugged. “You’ve plenty of time. There’s no need to rush any decisions.”

She stepped through the door and glanced around. The tables and racks were nearly empty except for a few chipped pots.

“Straight ahead,” he said as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them aside.

“I’d nearly forgotten about this place.” Arden glanced up in wonder through the glass panels where a few stars had begun to twinkle. “Grandmother never talked about it anymore and we didn’t come out here on any of my visits. She gave up her orchids long ago. I’m surprised she didn’t have the structure torn down.”

“It served a purpose,” Calvin said.

“You’re being very mysterious,” Arden observed.

“Just you wait.”

Arden hugged her arms around her middle. “When I was little, Grandmother used to let me come in here with her while she mixed her potions and boosters. Her orchids were the showstoppers at every exhibit, but secretly I always thought they were the strangest flowers with the spookiest names. Ghost orchid, fairy slipper, Dracula benedictii. They were too fussy for my taste. Required too much time and effort. I adored Mother’s cacti and succulents. So hardy and yet so exotic. When they bloomed, the greenhouse was like a desert oasis.”

“I can imagine.”

Arden sighed. “The three of us spent hours in here together, but Grandmother lost interest after the—after Mother was gone. She hired someone to take care of the plants for a while... Eventually everything died.”

“Not everything.” Her uncle’s blue eyes glinted in reflected moonlight. He stepped aside, leaning an arm on one of the tables as he waved her forward. “Take a look.”

Arden moved around him and then glanced back. “Is that...it can’t be Mother’s cereus? It’s nearly to the ceiling!” She trailed her gaze up the exotic cactus. “You kept it all this time?”

“Evelyn kept it,” he said, referring to his mother and Arden’s grandmother by her given name. “After you moved away, it was the only thing of Camille’s she had left. She spent most of her time out here, trimming and propagating. As you said, mixing her potions and boosters. She may have lost interest in the orchids, but she never lost her touch.”

Arden felt a twinge of guilt. She could too easily picture her grandmother bent to her work, a slight figure, wizened and withered in her solitude and grief. “I see lots of buds. How long until they open?”

“Another few nights. You’re lucky. It’s promising to be quite a show this year.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Arden said. “You’ve been coming by to take care of the cereus.”

“I couldn’t let it die. Not after Evelyn had nurtured it all those years. A Queen of the Night this size is rare in these parts and much too large to move. Besides, this is its home.”

He spoke in a reverent tone as if concerned for the plant’s sensibilities. That was nonsense, of course, nothing but Arden’s overstimulated imagination; yet she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at her uncle, marveling that she could look so much like him and know so little about him.

Arden’s grandparents had divorced when their children were still young. Calvin had remained in the grand old mansion on East Bay Street with Clement Mayfair while his older sister, Camille—Arden’s mother—had gone to live with Evelyn at Berdeaux Place. Outwardly, the divorce had been amicable; in reality, a simmering bitterness had kept the siblings apart.

Growing up, Arden could remember only a handful of visits from her uncle and she knew even less about her grandfather, a cold, taciturn man who disapproved of little girls with dirty fingernails and a sense of adventure. On the rare occasions when she’d been summoned to Mayfair House, she’d been expected to dress appropriately and mind her manners, which meant no fidgeting at the dinner table, no speaking unless spoken to.

Clement Mayfair was a tall, swarthy man who had inherited a fortune and doubled it by the time he was thirty. He was in shipping, although to this day, Arden had only a vague idea of what his enterprises entailed. His children had taken after their mother. In her heyday, Evelyn Berdeaux had been a blonde bombshell. Capricious and flirtatious, she must have driven a reclusive man like Clement mad at times. No wonder the marriage had ended so acrimoniously. Opposites might attract, but that didn’t make for an easy relationship. On the other hand, Arden and Reid had been so much alike there’d been no one to restrain their impulses.

Her uncle watched her in the moonlight. He had the strangest expression on his face. “Is something wrong?” Arden asked.

Her voice seemed to startle him out of a deep reverie. “No, of course not. I just can’t get over how much you look like your mother. Sometimes when you turn your head a certain way...” He trailed off on a note of wonder. “And it’s not just your appearance. Your mannerisms, the way you pronounce certain words. It’s really remarkable considering Camille died when you were so young.”

“That’s interesting to know.”

He seemed not to hear her. “My sister was full of sunshine and life. She considered each day a new adventure. I was in awe of her when we were children. I sense that quality in you, too, although I think you view each day as something to be conquered,” he said with a smile. “Evelyn always said you were a handful.”

Arden trailed her finger across one of the scalloped leaves of the cereus. “I suppose I did give her a few gray hairs, although I’m sure she had her moments, too. She became almost a shut-in after Mother died, but I remember a time when she loved to entertain. She kept the house filled with fascinating people who’d traveled to all sorts of glamorous places. It was a bit like living in a fairy tale.”

Her uncle remained silent, gazing down at her in the moonlight as if he were hanging on her every word.

“Did you know that she used to organize blooming socials for Mother’s cereus? The buds would never open until well past my bedtime, but I was allowed to stay up on the first night to watch the first blossom. The unfurling was magical. And that heavenly scent.” Arden closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I remember it so well. Not too sweet or cloying, more like a dark, lush jungle.”

“I have cuttings at my place and I still do the same,” Calvin said. “My friends and I sit out on the balcony with cameras and mint juleps. There’s something to be said for Southern traditions. You should join us this year.” His voice sounded strained and yet oddly excited.

“At Mayfair House?” Somehow Arden couldn’t imagine her prim and proper grandfather being a party to such a frivolous gathering.

“I haven’t lived at Mayfair House in years. I have a place near my studio.”

“Your studio?”

His smile turned deprecating. “I paint and sculpt. I dabble a bit in pottery. I even manage to sell a piece now and then.”

She put a hand to her forehead. “Of course. You’re an artist. I don’t know how I let that slip my mind. I’m afraid I haven’t been very good at keeping in touch.”

“None of us has. We’re a very strange family in that regard. I suppose we all like our secrets too much.”

Arden couldn’t help wondering about his secrets. He was a handsome man, still young at forty-six and ever so charming in manner and speech. Yet now that she was older, the drawl seemed a little too affected and his elegance had a hint of decadence that hadn’t aged well. Maybe she was being too critical. Looking for flaws to assuage her conscience. No one on either side of the family had been more distant or secretive than she. Her grandmother had given her a home and every advantage, and Arden had repaid that kindness with bimonthly phone calls and Christmas visits.

As unsatisfied as she’d been with her professional life in Atlanta, she was even more discontent with her personal growth. She’d been selfish and entitled for as long as she could remember. Maybe that assessment was also too critical, but Arden had reached the stage of her life, a turning point, where hard truths needed to be faced. Maybe that was the real reason she’d come back to Charleston. Not to put old ghosts to rest, but to take stock and regroup.

Her uncle picked up a pair of clippers and busied himself cleaning the blades with a tattered rag and some rubbing alcohol. “You know the story of your grandparents’ divorce,” he said. “I stayed with Father and Camille came here with Evelyn. We lived only blocks apart, yet we became strangers. She blamed Father for the estrangement, but Evelyn could be just as contentious. She had her secrets, too,” he added slyly as he tested the clippers by running his finger along the curved blades. Then he hung them on the wall and put away the alcohol.

Arden watched him work. His hands were graceful, his fingers long and tapered, but his movements were crisp and efficient. She marveled at the dichotomy. “No matter who was at fault, it was wrong to keep you and my mother apart. To force you to choose sides. She never wanted that. She used to tell me stories of how close the two of you were when you were little. I know she missed you.”

“And yet she never reached out.”

“Did you?”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “That’s a fair point. Fear of rejection is a powerful deterrent. After the divorce, I’d sneak away from my father’s house and come here every chance I got. Sometimes I would just sit in the garden and watch my mother and sister through the windows. Or I’d lie in the summerhouse and stare up at the clouds. Berdeaux Place was like a haven to me back then. A secret sanctuary. Even though Mayfair House has a multitude of sunlit piazzas with breathtaking views of the sea, it seemed a gloomy place after the divorce. It was like all the joy had been stolen and brought here to this house.”

“You must have been lonely after they left.” Arden knew loneliness, the kind of killing emptiness that was like a physical ache. She’d felt it often in this house and even more so in Atlanta. She felt it now thinking about Reid Sutton.

She brushed back her hair as she glanced up at the sky, trailing her gaze along the same twinkling stars that she and Reid had once counted together as children.

You see that falling star, Arden? You have to make a wish. It’s a rule.

I already made a wish. But if I tell you, it won’t come true.

That’s dumb. Of course, it’ll come true.

All right, then. I wish that you and I could be together forever.

That’s a stupid thing to wish for because we will be.

Promise?

Promise. Now hurry up and make another wish. Something important this time. Like a new bike or a pair of Rollerblades.

“Arden?”

She closed her eyes and drew another breath. “Yes?”

“Where did you go just now? You seemed a million miles away.”

“Just lost in thought. This place takes me back.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Memories are how we keep those we’ve lost with us always. I made my peace with Evelyn before she passed. I’m thankful for that. And I’m thankful that you’re back home where you belong. Perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds, but I can’t help wondering...” He trailed away on a note of uncertainty.

“What is it?”

“You said you haven’t made any definitive plans, but Ambrose tells me you’re thinking of selling the house.”

“When did he tell you that?” Arden asked with a frown. She didn’t like the idea of her grandmother’s attorney repeating a conversation that Arden had considered private.

“Don’t blame Ambrose. He let it slip in passing. It’s none of my business, of course, but I would hate to see you sell. This house has been in the Berdeaux family for generations.”

Was that a hint of bitterness in her uncle’s voice? He would have every right to resent her inheritance. He was Evelyn’s only living offspring. Why she hadn’t left the property to him, Arden could only guess. In the not-too-distant future, her uncle would be the soul beneficiary of Clement Mayfair’s estate, which would dwarf the worth of Berdeaux Place.

She rested her hand on one of the wooden tables. “It’s not like I want to sell. Though I can’t see myself living here. The upkeep on a place like this is financially and emotionally draining. I don’t want to be tied to a house for the rest of my life.”

“I understand. Still, it would be nice to keep it in the family. Perhaps I could have a word with Father. He’s always had an interest in historic properties and a keen eye for real estate. And I imagine the idea of Evelyn rolling over in her grave would have some appeal.”

Hardly a convincing argument, Arden thought in distaste.

“A word of warning, though. Keep everything close to the vest. Father is a master at sniffing out weakness.”

Arden detested the idea of her grandmother’s beloved Berdeaux Place being used as a final weapon against her. She’d have Ambrose Foucault put out feelers in other directions, although she was no longer certain she could trust his discretion. Maybe it was time to look for a new attorney.

She glanced at her uncle. “Please don’t say anything to anyone just yet. As I said, my plans are still up in the air.”

“Mum’s the word, then. I should get going. I’m sure you’d like to get settled.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said.

“Don’t forget about the blooming party. And do stop by the studio when you get a chance. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

“You should probably also know that the Mayor’s Ball is coming up. It’s being held at Mayfair House this year, all proceeds to go to the construction of a new arboretum. You know how political those things are. Everything revolves around optics. If Father gets wind that you’re home, he’ll expect an appearance.”

“Balls are not really my thing,” Arden said with a shrug. She could hardly imagine Clement Mayfair hosting an intimate dinner, much less a grand ball, but as her uncle said, those things were political. She doubted her grandfather had agreed to throw open his doors and his wallet without getting something very valuable in return.

“He can be relentless when he wants something,” her uncle cautioned. “It’s never a good idea to cross him.”

Arden lifted her chin. “I’m pretty stubborn, too. I guess that’s the Mayfair gene.”

Calvin’s expression froze for an instant before a smile flitted. “Yes, we are a hardheaded lot. Maybe Father will have finally met his match in you. At any rate, your presence at the ball would certainly make things more interesting.”

They stepped out of the steamy greenhouse into the cool evening air. He turned to her on the shadowy pathway. “Whether you come to the ball or not, Arden, I’m glad you’re home. It’s good to have someone in the house again.”

“It’s good to be here.” For now.

“Good night, Niece.”

“Good night, Uncle.”

He strode down the flagstones toward the gate, pausing at the entrance to pluck a magnolia petal from a branch that draped over the wall. Lifting the blossom to his nose, he tilted his head to the moon as he closed his eyes and savored the fragrance.

Then he dropped the flower to the ground and walked through the gate without a backward glance.