“Here you go,” said Haley as she hustled out and set a small plate that bore a single muffin in front of Theodosia.
“Enjoy.”
Theodosia took a nibble of strawberry muffin as she continued to glance at the three items she’d grabbed. The plane ticket was for a trip to Nassau in the Bahamas. She didn’t know if it was related to business or pleasure, so she decided she’d better hand the ticket over to Angie. Let her decide.
The invitation was for a fancy art opening last week, so that could just be tossed.
Theodosia studied the final item, the Plantation Ramble brochure. It was a four-color foldout piece that was fairly well produced. Good paper stock, decent printing, lots of color photographs. She’d seen these same flyers all over town and out at Carthage Place Plantation, but had never really looked at one close up until now.
“Have some butter,” said Haley, setting another small plate on the table. “It’s unsalted.”
“Thanks,” said Theodosia. She picked up a tiny silver knife, carved out a small slice of butter, and spread it on her muffin. “Mmm . . . good,” she remarked.
“What’s in the two boxes?” asked Haley. “Junk from Mark’s office?”
Theodosia nodded. “Stuff I was supposed to pack up, but got packed for me.”
“You want me to carry ’em upstairs to your apartment?” asked Haley. “In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have a lot of extra room in that office of yours.” Haley was a neat-nik of the first magnitude and was always fighting to banish clutter.
“I think the boxes are pretty heavy,” replied Theodosia. At least Drayton had made them seem so.
“I’ve been studying martial arts,” bragged Haley. “Tae Kwon Do. So I’m a lot stronger than I look.”
“Well, okay,” said Theodosia. “Just be careful. Don’t hurt your back or anything.”
“Hey,” said Haley, “you want me to get you another muffin? There’s more left.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” said Theodosia as she perused the brochure with its impressive list of gardens at Carthage Place Plantation. Just as Delaine had mentioned, there was a rose garden, an English garden, a hedge maze, and a water bog. But there were more gardens listed here, too. A butterfly garden, an herb garden, and . . .
A small wrinkle insinuated itself between Theodosia’s normally placid brows. Something had just struck her as odd. “Does anybody know about this nightshade garden?” she suddenly asked out loud.
“Hmm?” said a distracted Drayton. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, unpacking his new shipment of Darjeeling, Assam, and Nilgiri teas that had just arrived from India.
“The nightshade garden,” repeated Theodosia. “At Carthage Place Plantation. Haley?”
“Don’t know,” murmured Haley as she moved off to clear the last of the tables.
“Drayton?” asked Theodosia.
“Not sure,” he said, balancing a tin of Singbulli Estate Darjeeling in one hand and a tin of Doomni Assam in the other. “I’d imagine it’s their contemplative garden. Probably very low-key and lovely, filled with lilies and evening primrose and such.”
Nightshade, Theodosia thought to herself. That doesn’t sound all that contemplative. In fact, it sounds a little ominous.
“I’d like to go out there and take a peek,” Theodosia said to Drayton.
At hearing her words, Drayton spun around. She’d finally captured his attention. “Are you serious?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Well, I have to deliver that broken glass . . .”
“And . . . ?” prodded Drayton.
“Chalk the rest up to curiosity,” said Theodosia.
Drayton pulled a single furry eyebrow into a quivering, disapproving arc. “If you recall,” he told her in a somber voice, “curiosity killed the cat.”
And maybe even Mark Congdon, Theodosia thought to herself.
8
Carthage Place Plantation at night seemed a totally alien environment. Sunday afternoon the grounds had been festive and fun, filled with tents, decorated booths, and strolling guests. Now it appeared as though a dark curtain had descended. The sprawling plantation house rose up like a solemn, stone sentinel, the gardens receded to dark tangles, the nearby woods seemed to encroach upon everything.
“You spoke with the owner?” asked Theodosia, as her Jeep crunched across gravel, then rolled to a stop.
“A Miss Maybelle Chase,” replied Drayton as he unfastened his seat belt. “And I must say, she was most hospitable. Said to wander about the grounds to our heart’s content, then ring the bell at the main house if there was anything we needed.”
“Good grief, she lives out here all alone?” asked Theodosia as they climbed out of the Jeep. In the deep, inky darkness, the enormous live oak trees with their gnarled branches dripping long tendrils of Spanish moss seemed almost ominous. Fog stealing in from the Ashley River seemed to gather in ethereal puffs about their feet.
“I didn’t ask,” said Drayton, glancing about. “But I see what you’re getting at. It’s spooky out here.”
“No kidding,” said Theodosia as they set off across damp grass.
Fifteen minutes earlier they had delivered the broken pitcher parts to Sheriff Billing’s office. Now they were wandering about in darkness, trying to figure out exactly where the nightshade garden was located.
“If the hedge maze is over here,” said Drayton, gesturing toward their old nemesis, “then maybe the nightshade garden is over this way.”
“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Sounds like a plan.” She had no idea where the garden was located, but had a fairly healthy trust in Drayton’s ideas and judgment calls.
Five minutes later she wasn’t so sure.
“Drat,” exclaimed a disgusted Drayton. “Stay where you are.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Theodosia, who was a few steps behind him.
Drayton lifted one foot up and Theodosia heard the tell-tale squish and suck of mud.
“I think I just discovered the water bog garden,” Drayton told her in a disgusted tone of voice.
“Okay,” said Theodosia. Feeling seeping moisture encroach on her loafers as well, she promptly wheeled to the left. “What say we try over this way.” The clouds overhead had parted slightly and a small spill of moonlight had appeared.
“Give me a minute,” said Drayton, more than a little cranky now. Pulling a hanky from his jacket, he backtracked, then balanced on one leg like a shaky whooping crane. Wiping a glop of mud from his shoe, he sighed dramatically. “Okay, lead on. Maybe you’ll fare better than I did.”
But this evening Theodosia’s orienteering skills weren’t exactly dead on, either. They wandered through bowers of trees, scrambled up a fairly steep slope, and tiptoed past the dark rose garden where tree frogs croaked out their evening medley.
“Didn’t we just travel in a gigantic circle?” asked Drayton, peering through fog that continued to drift in and lend a fuzzy, soft-focus feel to the landscape. “Isn’t that the main house?”
“Looks too small,” said a slightly puzzled Theodosia. “And the wrong shape, too.”
“You’re right,” said Drayton as they drew closer. “Oh, good heavens, you know what this is? We just stumbled upon what used to be an old rice mill.”
“Now we know we’re really off course,” said Theodosia.
“I’ll say,” agreed Drayton.
“Look,” said Theodosia as they approached the old building. “It’s practically falling down. Pity.” Silvered with age, the ancient rice mill was a small two-storied affair that leaned badly to one side.
“Just think, a hundred years ago these steam-powered threshing and pounding mills were commonplace,” said Drayton. “You see over there, that’s what’s left of the chimney. That’s where the firepower came from. An independent structure connected to the mill by an underground system.”