Amanda Stevens - Killer Investigation

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.”