Dark Corner Page 10

  “Beatrice, that would be wonderful. Your help is always appreciated around the estate.” Mr. Pickering gave her a big smile.

  “If you don’t mind, Justin, I’d like to take an inventory of the artifacts in the storage room so we can think about staging.” Mrs. Twiggs stood up.

  “Of course, please let us know if you need any help.” Mr. Pickering walked her to the door.

  Mrs. Twiggs thanked him. We headed down the long corridor to the back stairs down to the basement. This time I didn’t feel the cold rush of air. Maybe because it was still daylight, or maybe I had been mistaken. We entered the storage room. Mrs. Twiggs took notes on her reporter’s pad while she opened the boxes labeled for the exhibit. The mannequin that had embraced Mrs. Lund was standing upright at attention, next to the other two uniformed soldiers. The sword was missing from his outstretched hand. I noticed for the first time he wore a lieutenant’s uniform. Though his wax face did not look familiar, his uniform did. I had seen it before. I walked around, sniffing the wool. I rubbed my scent against it. Pixel sat, not knowing what to make of my actions, so he copied me.

  “Copycat,” I whispered.

  He smiled at me, not understanding the reference. This couldn’t be the same uniform. There were many Confederate lieutenants in the Carolinas. I sniffed again, and though it was in excellent condition and well-kept, I could still smell the scent of the lieutenant who had come for Agatha Hollows at her cabin.

  “Mrs. Twiggs, who donated these uniforms?”

  She reached into her purse and retrieved a piece of paper. She ran her finger along the itemized list and then examined the uniform. “Most of the uniforms were donated by June. They’re boxes of them.”

  “What about these three?”

  She checked the list again. “Yes, these three were donated by June. She even has the provenance listed of all the uniforms. Their names and regiments.”

  “Mrs. Twiggs, what’s the name of the lieutenant?”

  Mrs. Twiggs ran her finger down the list, stopped, and then said, “There’s no name listed.”

  As she spoke, I felt the cold draft. Pixel felt it too. Mrs. Twiggs would have felt it if she wasn’t so fixated on the matter at hand. Cats and even some dogs, only the smartest mind you, can sense ghosts. Ghosts, they disturb the air, leaving a vacuum behind them. That vacuum causes the temperature to drop. Whoever this ghost was, it was not making itself known to us. Pixel followed behind Mrs. Twiggs as she continued her inventory. He did not seem upset or scared but instead bore a quiet confidence. It was something different about him.

  “Mrs. Twiggs, I have to go,” I said.

  “Terra, do we need to leave?”

  “Finish what you’re doing. Pixel, stay here. We’ll meet up at the Leaf & Page.” I ran out of the room, down the hall and out of the Biltmore, past the crowds of tourists lined up by the front entrance waiting for the next tour. I ran until I reached the Fillmore Hotel. The only way to find a ghost is to ask another ghost. The only ghost who would talk to me stood on guard at the entrance of the refurbished hotel. I waited for the patrons as they came and went, garbed in their finest. Bradley stood at attention like a beefeater. He gave me a sly wink. I had not seen him since early fall. As the last patron entered, he stooped down to be closer to me.

  “Young miss, so good to see you. Isn’t she beautiful? What a fine job they did shining her up.”

  “Bradley, she looks wonderful. I wondered if I could speak with you.”

  “Young miss, I’m afraid it’s a while before dinner.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. May we talk?” I had to be careful on how to approach the subject. Bradley didn’t know he was a ghost, and now that the Fillmore was reopened so many years since the fire, a lot of the ghosts that had haunted it had left. Bradley was one of the few remaining. The night of the fire Bradley had rescued many of the guests, only to succumb to the smoke himself.

  “I do have time, young miss, I’m due for a break.”

  We walked around to the alley. “Oh, before I forget. Lionel sends his greetings,” Bradley said, striking me dumbfounded. “He stopped by looking for you.”

  “Bradley, has anyone else been looking for me?”

  “Now that you mention it, a young man no more than a boy who had a very heavy Southern accent. He did not give his name. He said that if I were to see you I should tell you that you can find him at the Dark Corner. Of course, I have no idea what he meant. He seemed very nervous but pleasant. He seemed awfully young to be a soldier.”

  “Thank you, Bradley.”

  “Of course, young miss. I’ll give your regards to Lionel if we cross ways again.”

  “Please do. Tell him how much I love and miss him.”

  “He knows, young miss,” Bradley said as he stroked his pencil-thin mustache and winked.

  Chapter 19

  June Loblolly

  The newest of the ladies’ homes, the Loblolly house was Mrs. Loblolly’s own version of San Simeon, built by her preserve empire. Reminiscent of her Viking ancestors, the brick fortress was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. At the top of the four-story home was a tower with a 360-degree viewing room designed to watch the sunset over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Mrs. Loblolly greeted us at the door, painted blue with yellow accents, a nod to her Swedish heritage. We walked in, wafting in the fragrance of the peonies, gardenias, and orchids that she had scattered around in her collection of crystal vases.

  She was dressed simply in jeans and a cotton T-shirt. Around her neck, her gold necklace, a gift from her distant relative the Norse goddess Freya. We came for guidance. Freya guided Vikings to Valhalla; Mrs. Loblolly would guide us in a different direction.

  “June, thank you for having us over,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  Abigail, Charlotte, Pixel, and Tracker all settled in the great room. As of late, Abigail and Charlotte were attached at the hip as the humans say. Whatever mischief they had gotten into on the motorcycle had bound them as fast friends. Pixel left the circle to smell the flowers. I could hear him sneezing from across the vast room. Mrs. Twiggs and I spoke in private with Mrs. Loblolly.

  “June, I’ll get right to the point. Why did you recommend Mrs. Lund to the Biltmore?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  “She contacted me a month or so ago about my great-great-grandfather, the colonel. She knew a lot about my family history and the Civil War. She told me she was a professor at the university and that she could help with the upcoming exhibit.” Mrs. Loblolly settled onto her white leather couch, crossing one leg over another.

  “And she told you that she would prominently display your family heirlooms in the exhibit?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  “Yes, she did. She had heard about the exhibit, and that’s what prompted her to call me. Obviously with my family being prominent Ashevillians. Beatrice, she had me fooled.”

  I knew that feeling well. We all believe what we want to believe. I had believed that my dear Prudence was my friend, but she betrayed my sisters and me.

  “I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Loblolly stepped out of the room and came back carrying the cinnamon buns we had been smelling since we walked in the door and placed them on the coffee table. From another room, we heard a vase smash, shattering onto the hardwood floor. Pixel scampered back into the room, jumping onto the table and toward the cinnamon buns.

  “Me sorry,” Pixel said.

  Abigail and Charlotte joined us. We ate in silence until the silence was broken.

  “Charlotte, have you decided what you’re going to do with Emma’s estate?” Mrs. Loblolly asked.

  “It’s not my decision,” Charlotte said.

  “Have you consulted with the family’s attorney?” Mrs. Loblolly asked.

  “Yes, all of my aunt’s estate except for a few personal items is being donated to the Biltmore Foundation.”

  “What about you?”

  “When she tracked me down, Miss Hartwell told me Aunt Emma left me a small inheritance. She also told me that my aunt had be
en looking for me for years ever since my folks died,” Charlotte said.

  “Bless her heart,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “What a shame that you didn’t find each other.”

  “How much longer will you be in town?” Mrs. Loblolly asked.

  Charlotte glanced at Abigail, who smiled. “I don’t know. I like it here. I think I’ll stay for a while and see what happens. This place is pretty awesome.”

  “Where are my manners? I should give you a tour.” Mrs. Loblolly stood up again.

  Abigail jumped up. “I can show you around.”

  I knew where Abigail would lead her, up to the viewing tower that was her favorite place when we visited Mrs. Loblolly. A tower made of glass with its 360-degree view. To the east were the Blue Ridge Mountains, then downtown Asheville, the Biltmore Estate, and the French Broad River. I was concerned that Abigail would tell our secret. I followed them up the spiral wood-and-steel staircase and listened in.

  “You should definitely stay, Char. I think you’ll really like this place. People are cool, the music, the food,” Abigail said.

  “Yeah, Abigail. I don’t have much to go back to. What about your folks? You never said,” Char said leaning against the window.

  Abigail was silent. “They’re dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, Mrs. Twiggs, Beatrice, has taken me in, and really all the ladies have become family to me,” Abigail said.

  “What’s the deal with the Ladies of the Biltmore Society? They look ancient, but they act like teenagers.”

  “Their clubs keep them young. They stay busy reading books, planning events, and gardening.”

  “When I was staying with Mrs. Twiggs, I happened to notice her stocking some books on the top shelf. She carried with one arm this heavy box up the ladder to the very top. I mean, I would have trouble carrying it, and she climbed a ladder holding it? Something is off, you know?”

  “I…”

  I meowed as loud as I could, interrupting Abigail’s next sentence. Both girls turned.

  “I think your cat missed you, Abigail.” Charlotte picked me up by my scruff. I did not take kindly to her familiarity, so I unleashed my claws and dug into her arm. She dropped me. “What the?” She raised her hand to strike me. Abigail stopped her.

  “Sorry, Char, she’s temperamental.”

  “Where do you go when you’re not at Mrs. Twiggs’s? I’ve stopped by a couple of times, and you weren’t there,” Charlotte said.

  Abigail glanced at me. I was busy cleaning my fur, getting Char’s scent off me. “Mrs. Twiggs has a cabin on Black Mountain. She lets me crash there as long as I take care of her garden,” Abigail said.

  “Mrs. Twiggs is great. I appreciate her letting me stay there. I don’t feel comfortable at my aunt’s house. It’s too big and kind of creepy. I’d love to see the cabin, get out of town a while, you know?”

  Abigail smiled. “We better go back downstairs.”

  Mrs. Loblolly was clearing the plates when we came back downstairs. Pixel was cleaning his whiskers, purring loudly. “Me full.” He rolled over so his white fluffy belly was facing up and ready for a good rub.

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “Abigail, why don’t you show Charlotte the garden? I want to speak to Mrs. Loblolly in private.”

  After they had left, I spoke first. “Mrs. Loblolly, we need your help to find out who Mrs. Lund really was and who killed her.”

  “I thought it was an accident. The mannequin fell over.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think I do. I think I feel responsible for her coming here, so I also feel responsible for her death. How can I help?”

  “We need you to use your powers to guide us down a path to answers.”

  “How do I do that, Terra?”

  “The spells you’ve been working on. The TM spells.”

  Mrs. Twiggs looked at me.

  “Transcendental meditation.” I turned back to Mrs. Loblolly. “I want you to think about Mrs. Lund while you hold your necklace.”

  As Mrs. Loblolly closed her eyes, all the lights in the estate went out. The large fireplace blazed to life. She clasped the gold chain with its drops of amber. The floor shook. Mrs. Loblolly opened her sapphire-blue eyes. For a moment she was not Mrs. Loblolly, she was the goddess Freya. She hunched over. I heard bones cracking as the black Valkyrie wings burst out of her back. She levitated off the ground, her wings flapping slowly. Pixel ran behind the couch. She reached out her hand and pointed. We all turned to stare in the direction she pointed.

  Mrs. Twiggs said, “She is pointing south.”

  Chapter 20

  In a Jam

  A knock on the door brought Mrs. Loblolly crashing onto the hardwood floor. She dusted herself off and rushed to answer it. We heard her greeting Detective Willows and they came into the living room.

  “Would you like something to drink, Detective?” Mrs. Loblolly asked as he sat in the flowered, overstuffed chair.

  He sank deep into the cushion as he smiled and nodded at Mrs. Twiggs. He took out a little notepad from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “No, thank you. I’m not interrupting something, am I?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” Mrs. Loblolly said, sitting uncomfortably across from the detective, her leg shaking. I couldn’t help noticing how nervous she was—not her usual calm self.

  “I’ve spoken with Mr. Pickering at the Biltmore Estate. He told me you recommended Mrs. Lund to curate the exhibit,” Detective Willows said.

  “Well, yes of sorts.” Mrs. Loblolly hesitated. “She actually contacted me.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She said she had an extensive collection of letters and journals of the Carolina battles and specifically those belonging to my great-great-grandfather, the colonel’s regiment.”

  “Did she have those papers?” Detective Willows asked.

  “I never really got to meet with her. I was supposed to meet her at the Leaf & Page, and that’s when Beatrice told me she was dead,” Mrs. Loblolly said.

  “You hadn’t spoken to her before then?”

  “Only the night before to confirm our meeting the next day and a few times when we arranged for her to come here.”

  “The night before. What time was that?” Detective Willows scribbled in his little notebook with his stubby fingers.

  “I don’t know. Ten o’clock maybe?” Mrs. Loblolly reached for her iPhone on the coffee table. “Do you want me to check for the exact time?”

  “Detective, what are you insinuating?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  “Nothing, just doing my job.” Detective Willows paused. “Tell me about your relative. What was it about him that interested Mrs. Lund?”

  “The Colonel Odysseus Loblolly,” Mrs. Loblolly started.

  Detective Willows interrupted her, stopped writing, and held his hand up. “You go by your maiden name?”

  “Yes, I reverted after my husband passed. Because of my business I use my maiden name as the recipes have been in our family for generations.”

  He continued writing.

  “The colonel was sent to White Hall to lead a militia against General Foster and the Union troops in December 1862,” Mrs. Loblolly started, her voice soothing with its lilt.

  I knew it well. The battle was also known as the battle of White Hall Ferry, held on the banks of the Neuse River. I closed my eyes and heard the clashing of blades, felt the dust stirring and the ground trembling.

  “The Federals were trying to hold the Confederates in position while their main column continued toward the railroad; however, that was a decoy. According to the colonel’s journals, the Union was after an ironclad ramming boat that was under construction on the north bank of the river. The boat, the CSS Neuse, was one of several boats being built throughout the south to break the Union naval blockade,” Mrs. Loblolly said.

  “And Mrs. Lund was interested in that? The contribution to the history books?” Detective Willows asked.

/>   “She was aware of the stories about the ramming boat, but she told me that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about. She was curious about when the colonel returned to Asheville.” She paused. “You see, when he was wounded at White Hall, he came back to recuperate. He was shot in the leg, never quite healed right. He had a limp and had a hard time getting around. That’s when he was assigned to the home guard. She told me she was researching stories about the Asheville home guard.”

  I could tell her some stories. I had encountered members of the Asheville home guard both by the cabin and in town.

  Mrs. Twiggs interrupted. “You never mentioned that he was part of the home guard?”

  Mrs. Loblolly cleared her throat, sipping her tea. “It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s not something I want Jean to know. She’s proud of her Union relatives, heroes of Gettysburg and Bull Run.”

  “I see.” Detective Willows adjusted his weight in the chair, sinking lower.

  “The colonel spent the last part of the war hunting down deserters. He was killed by a deserter in South Carolina.”

  The detective closed his notebook. “You have no idea of Mrs. Lund’s real name or who she was?”

  Mrs. Loblolly shook her head. “No.”

  He kept his eye on the bottles of jam stacked on the buffet server until he couldn’t hold back any longer. “I’m a big fan of the jam,” he said.

  “Please take some.” She got up and handed him a few jars.

  “Thank you.” He placed them in his suit jacket, smiled at Mrs. Twiggs, and left.

  When Mrs. Loblolly came back, I asked her, “Where was the colonel killed?”

  “Right across the border near Traveler’s Rest.”

  Abigail and Charlotte ran into the room with a crash, laughing.

  “What’s gotten into you two?”

  “We’ve been talking and decided that I’m going to move in with Char at the Tangledwood Estate,” Abigail said.

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.