The Body in the Wardrobe (22 page)

The Aikens' names and dates were in the middle of the bench. On one side
GIVE MY LOVE TO THE WORLD
was inscribed and on the other:
COSMOS MARINER DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

Francis took a Thermos and two crystal tumblers from the cooler. The tea tasted cool and delicious. Not too sweet—or maybe, Sophie thought, she had finally developed the right taste buds.

“What perfect epitaphs,” she said.

“Yes—and especially when you know his story. He was born in Savannah, the oldest of four. His father was a doctor, and in his thirties he began to have fits of violence and other behavior that was out of character. No one has ever been sure why. When
Conrad was eleven, he heard shots and discovered the bodies of his parents. His father had killed his wife, and then committed suicide. Their graves are over there. He was thirty-seven; she the same. Conrad was raised by an aunt in Massachusetts. You know what he accomplished, but because of the trauma he always feared for his own sanity. Coming back here made it all right. He was home, and boy did he enjoy it. He and his wife loved to entertain—and lived in the house next door to his boyhood one over on Oglethorpe.”

It was an amazing story, Sophie thought, and as a tribute to Aiken's ultimate resilience of spirit, the bench was perfect. But the mention of suicide made her think of Ruth. Sophie wished she could have been buried in this lovely place. Maybe the family plot in Illinois was a nice one. But would she be permitted burial there? Ruth was Catholic, and suicide was considered to be a sin. Ruth had spoken of going to Mass again and becoming observant. One more thing that made her act so inexplicable, so hard to believe.

“Now, I hope I haven't depressed you. That's a very serious look.”

Sophie smiled. “No, the opposite. I admire him all the more. I was just thinking about a friend of mine who died recently. A suicide.”

Now his face grew serious. “I am sorry for your loss. The poor girl. I met her at your family's open house. So vibrant, so young. We never know.”

He pulled Sophie to her feet. “Let's head over to Johnny's bench and have our lunch. Johnny Mercer, that is.”

When they got there, he said, “Most people don't know that the caricature engraved on the bench is one Johnny drew as a self-portrait. That's his signature, too. Make yourself comfortable. Feel free to hum—or sing.”

The names of some of Mercer's famous, and very singable, songs were engraved around the bench, and indeed Sophie did find herself humming “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.”

“Had to have Clary's shrimp salad once more before I take off, hope that's all right.”

“Better than all right,” Sophie said, taking a bite of the delicious overstuffed sandwich.

They ate in companionable silence. When they were done, Francis said, “Last stop. The Maxwells. Aurora and Amanda.”

Sophie nodded. She very much wanted to visit the two women who had been so beloved by her husband—and so many others.

The headstones gleamed white in the afternoon sun, and there was a stone bench here, too, a simple slab mounted on upright scrolls with an inscription that read: “Cut them into stars and they will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night.”

“
Romeo and Juliet,
” Sophie said, stroking the slightly altered words from the play.

“I'm going to put this cooler in the car. Would you like to sit here for a while?”

“Very much. Thank you. Thank you for everything, Francis.”

He kissed her cheek. “You take your time, hear?”

Sophie watched him leave. There had been only a few other people in the cemetery today and none were near her now. She thought about the two women and wished for some images other than the portrait and photographs she had seen. She needed to ask Francis more of what he remembered and Will when the time felt right. Anson too. Gloria and her husband had been close friends, so she would help add to what Sophie so dearly wanted to know.

She looked about. A strong fragrance she had never smelled before was filling the air, but she hadn't seen any flowering shrubs on the plot. But there had to be. Such a powerful scent and it was making her eyelids heavy. She pictured a white trumpet-like flower. It was getting larger and larger. There were voices.

“The doctor's on his way. More water? You've had so much, Gran!
”

“More!”

“Mother, just tell us. What did you take? What was in the pillbox?”

“Dad, don't upset her. The doctor will be here. We should have called him last night. No, please stop crying! She'll be fine. I thought it was flu, too.”

“Moonflowers.”

“Did she say moonflowers or Moon River? Oh dear God, where is the doctor? I'll go wait in the street for him.”

“I knew she was taking Amanda's passing hard, but not this hard. I can never forgive myself.”

“Don
't! She'll be fine! Look, she's saying something again. She's awake.”

“The seeds. Find the seeds. I'm coming. You find the seeds for me, Will. Anson can't.”

The white flower grew larger and larger. Sophie felt as if she were burning up. The petals exploded and she heard a voice. A voice she knew.

“Sophie! Sophie! What's happening? Are you all right, child? Open your eyes!” She felt someone shake her gently and looked up into Francis's anxious face. For a moment she could not remember where she was, and then it all rushed back. She jumped up. “The smell. It was the smell of the flowers. I must have fainted.”

“Flowers?”

She looked around.

There were no flowers.

That night Will called to say good night and all sorts of other lovely things, promising to call again in the morning. But he must have had to be someplace very early, because there was no call, or even a text. On Wednesday morning, still not hearing from him, she assumed he must be having difficulty wrapping up the case. She reminded herself that she knew his job would mean an unpredictable schedule—and times when he'd be out of touch. She started to get concerned.

When she hadn't heard from him by early Friday morning, concern leaped to major worry. He had not answered any of
her e-mails or texts and his phone went straight to voice mail. She didn't have any other way to reach him except through his secretary, Coralee Jones.

Will's office on Drayton Street was located near the studio apartment he'd been renting before his marriage, and Sophie had been in the apartment, but not the office. Coralee was part-time and Sophie hoped this was a day she was working.

Luck was with her, and Coralee answered the phone, “Tarkington Agency.” Will had used his middle name to avoid confusion with the law firm.

“Hi, Coralee. It's Sophie. I'm wondering if you've heard from Will. I haven't been able to reach him this week.”

There was a long pause. “When he's on a job, this happens sometimes; but I haven't been able to reach him, either, and he hasn't called in or gotten in touch any other way.” Sophie was sure Coralee wanted to add that this was unusual, but she was a professional and Will's employee, not his wife's.

“Well, if you do hear, could you let me know?” Sophie gave her the landline at the house and her cell, besides the office phone. She hung up and her cell rang almost immediately. She grabbed it. Silly to worry!

Except it wasn't Will. “Hi, Sophie,” Patrick Smith said. “I'm coming to Savannah in two weeks and wanted to go over some things with you. I'd also like to take you and your husband to dinner, although I must say he isn't very reliable in that department.”

Ignoring the rest, Sophie asked quickly, “What do you mean?”

“Only that he stood me up Wednesday night. I had a delicious but lonely dinner at Miller Union, Steven Satterfield's great restaurant. Kind of surprised me that Will didn't call. And I wasn't able to reach him to see if he wanted to make it another time.”

Sophie quickly scheduled a meeting and assured Patrick that both she and Will would have dinner with him—their treat—then hung up and called Anson. She didn't want to alarm anyone, but this wasn't the Will she knew.

Gloria answered.

“Hi, Gloria. It's Sophie. How are you?”

“Just fine, thank you. Crazy busy, but I guess that must be how I like things, since it's like this all the time. Anson keeps telling me to slow down! And you? Will back from Atlanta?”

It was the opening Sophie needed. “No—and it's why I called. He was due back Wednesday, yesterday at the latest he said. I haven't heard from him. It's not like him. I wondered if maybe he's been in touch with you?”

“Oh, honey, it may not be like the Will you think you know, but it's exactly like the one we all do. He goes walkabout. Get used to it, darlin', and welcome to married life. You take care now.”

Sophie hung up and tried to think whom else to call. Patty Sue would tell her the same thing, but snarkier. Sophie didn't want to give her the satisfaction. And she couldn't disturb Randy and Carlene's vacation. Should she call Laura? Miss Laura? She shuddered, thinking that she might know where Will was when Sophie didn't. But she'd known other things, like Will's having to go back to Atlanta. No, Sophie told herself firmly. There was no way Will would have been in touch with the woman who
aspired
to be his wife and not Sophie, his wife.

She tried to get some work done. Randy had advertised for a replacement for Ruth before he left and there were several applications to look at. Randy had also told Sophie that they all had to change their passwords. He was pretty sure they had been hacked. “You know about cyber security, but we had to educate Anson. He was using his birthday as a password.” Sophie had been through a professional development course on the issue at her old firm and had immediately changed hers. She hadn't seen any evidence of hacking on her current account, but Randy was positive someone had been “roaming around in our business.”

An hour later, after accomplishing nothing, she called Patrick Smith and asked him to get in touch if he heard from Will or saw him. He picked up on her distress immediately. “I'll ask around.
From the questions he was putting to me earlier, I'm pretty sure he was investigating some kind of smuggling. He mentioned arms. But, Sophie, if anything has happened to Will—and he's a careful guy, so it hasn't—you would have heard.”

Sophie thanked him and then made another call.

“Faith? Will has disappeared.”

Faith sat down hard, unnerved by the sheer panic in Sophie's voice.

“When did you last see or hear from him?” she asked, working to keep her voice steady and calm.

Sophie's wasn't, her words rushing into one another. “He left Monday morning, saying he would finally tie up the case and be back as soon as possible. A day or two with luck. He called Monday night and said things were looking good. I haven't heard from him since and neither has his secretary.”

“Did he say anything about being hard to reach while he was finishing? No, of course he didn't, or you wouldn't be worrying.”

“Just the opposite, in fact. He said we'd talk in the morning. I've called and texted him over and over. The calls go right to his voice mail, and the texts go nowhere. They don't say ‘delivered' or ‘read.' No reply to my e-mails, either.”

“Is he good about keeping his phone charged? Wait, he must. He's a detective. I was thinking of Tom.” Her husband still viewed his cell as a gadget he'd rather not have to use. Besides not keeping it charged, he often misplaced it. Last week Faith had found it in the refrigerator on a shelf by some leftover risotto, somewhat diminished.

“Will loves his phone, upgrades every time there's a new feature.” Sophie gave a little sob. “Something's happened to him. I know it has. Gloria said—I called to see if they had heard from him—that this is what he does. Goes ‘walkabout.' But I
know
my own husband, and if he says he'll call he will. When he left he made a point of it. He knew how upset I was about Ruth. Oh, and he didn't keep a dinner appointment with a contact who is also a new client of mine.”

“When was that?”

“Wednesday night. Patrick is based in Atlanta. He's a reporter and Will had been in touch with him before about a story Patrick did on various kinds of smuggling. Arms in particular.”

Faith took a deep breath. She'd thought Will dealt with cooking-the-books-type crime, not this sort.

“So the timeline is that Will set out for Atlanta Monday and we know he reached it, since he called you that night. He also set up a dinner date with this Patrick for Wednesday, so he was in touch with him Monday or Tuesday. Maybe give him a call to find out which day?”

“I will, and Patrick was also going to ask around.”

“And how about calling the hotel, or wherever he was staying?” Faith suggested. She heard a very audible sigh.

“I never know ahead where Will is staying. It's been someplace different every time he goes to Atlanta, usually one of those chain residence-type places. He doesn't book ahead. Oh why did he have to be a PI? Why didn't he go into the firm with his father?”

“How about
your
week? Anything unusual? Anything that could be tied to Will?” When she didn't get a response, Faith said, “Sophie, what happened? Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Sophie said slowly. “Something did happen, but it's hard to describe, and while it has to do with Will, it doesn't have anything to do with him now. Or maybe it does. I don't know, Faith. Don't know a thing. . . .”

“Ben's still in France. Amy has gone back to school, not where
her old friends are—her decision—and is fast becoming Miss Popular. Jet Blue flies nonstop to Savannah. I'll text you my flight.”

“Really? You're coming?”

“Really. I'm very good at finding things.”

Sophie hung up and immediately called Patrick, who did not have any news but confirmed that Will had called him on Tuesday to meet for dinner the following night.

“He wanted to eat early, darlin'. Should have remembered before. He said he was hoping to head back to Savannah after the meal or the next morning at the latest. He was just tying up some loose ends was how he put it.”

Sophie thanked him and texted the information to Faith. The timeline was more complete now. Or less. No one had heard from Will or seen him since Tuesday. No one Sophie knew.

After speaking to Patrick, Sophie knew she couldn't stay in the office. Randy was still away, and Anson was out at Bells Mills. He had kept only a few of his longtime clients—those who had been with him since he joined the firm fresh out of law school—and he came in only when he was meeting with one of them, or happened to be walking by when he was in town. There was a temp at reception, and Sophie knew some of the associates were in their offices, but the place felt very empty. She looked out the window at the magnolia that Will had climbed as a boy. The wave of fear that washed over her was so strong she thought she might be sick.

Faith would be here soon. She'd called to say she was going to be able to make an early flight. As Sophie gathered her things together, she concentrated on a to-do list. Get groceries. Make up one of the bedrooms for Faith. Find her husband.

Walking past Oglethorpe's statue as she cut across Chippewa
Square, Sophie tried to think how to tell Faith what had happened this week. Out in Bonaventure Cemetery. She sat down on a bench under one of the oaks and went back over the experience. She almost felt herself slipping into a similar trance when she closed her eyes in order to recall it precisely. If she could get it right, her friend would come to the only conclusion that made sense. The conclusion Sophie had reached.

Aurora McAllister Maxwell hadn't committed suicide. She'd been poisoned.

The crew was back after the holidays at Gloria's spec house. They were still concentrating on the back garden space and hadn't been working on the house's interior—thoughtfully suspended so as not to interfere with the Maxwells' holiday. But Sophie knew there was still one bath to complete, and some of the bedrooms hadn't been painted.

She left to pick Faith up, locking the front door behind her, and saw that Lydia Scriven was walking Charlie in the square. Lydia! The woman had seen Will at times when Sophie had assumed he was still in Atlanta. Maybe she had seen him again. Sophie dashed over.

“Hi, a belated Happy New Year to you,” Sophie called out, crossing the street.

“And to you, too. I hope the whole holiday was a good one for your first here in Savannah.”

“It was, and Will surprised me with the house I'd fallen in love with over on Habersham. We can move in sometime in March.”

Lydia gave her a hug. “I'm so glad—and glad for me. You won't be far away.” She took a step back and looked at Sophie. “Is everything all right? You look a little peaked.”

“Yes, or maybe no,” Sophie blurted out. “Have you seen Will this week? Here in town? He left Monday to finish up his case in Atlanta and was supposed to be back by Wednesday. I haven't
heard from him or been able to get in touch with him since Monday night.”

“No,” Lydia said slowly. “I haven't seen your husband since before Christmas.”

Sophie felt her eyes fill with tears. “I'm sure it's all right. I'm just being silly. New bride syndrome or something.”

“It isn't all right, and you're not being silly. Now, what are we going to do about it? Let me think.”

“A friend is flying in from Massachusetts. I'm on my way to pick her up at the airport now.”

“Good. I know you must have asked everyone you could think of—his family?”

“Yes, but they say he does this and I'll just have to get used to it.”

“But he doesn't do this, does he? Not stay in touch.”

Sophie shook her head, and Lydia added, “I'm a good Christian and don't believe in the supernatural, but I do believe in strong feelings. I have a strong feeling that Will is alive and well. We just have to find him. Now, you go get your friend and I'll ask around. What's your friend's name?”

“Faith.”

“Well then, there you go.”

Sophie was standing at the top of the corridor leading from the gates into the main part of the airport, which was a large town square with facades of old tyme buildings and rocking chairs as well as more conventional seating. A young man was playing show tunes on a piano in the center. Faith waved to her friend and was soon by her side. One look told her that Sophie hadn't heard from Will, or anything about him. “What a great airport,” she enthused. “Are those real palms?”

“Yes, and wait until you see the outside. More palms and a big fountain. Did you check a bag?”

“Nope,” said Faith. She had almost mastered packing light, and today in her haste to make the plane had managed with just a carry-on. The ultimate at this was Pix. Faith was helping her pack for a trip to Europe some years ago and only just managed to convince her friend that a spare set of shoes, not just the ones she was wearing, might be a good idea. And a few more changes of underwear. “But I can rinse things out,” Pix had protested before giving in a little.

The warm air that greeted Faith as they headed for the car felt heavenly. She wasn't going to need the winter jacket she'd put on before leaving.

“Now, I want to get some food, preferably Southern. Someplace where we can talk and you can tell me what you didn't tell me on the phone.”

“Was it that obvious?” Sophie asked.

“It was that obvious,” Faith replied.

“We can drop your things at the house and walk over to a nice place that has a rooftop area. Very scenic—and very private.”

Faith listened intently as Sophie described what she had experienced in the Bonaventure Cemetery. The container ships many city blocks long and as tall as many NYC buildings were making their way slowly down the Savannah River behind her, a curious backdrop for her tale. Sophie repeated the conversation she had “heard”—and then, at Faith's request, recited it again.

“The one voice sounded like Will's, a younger Will, and the other voice was definitely Anson.”

“Moonflowers. I've heard of Moon Pennies, but not Moonflowers. Since she mentioned seeds, she must have been talking about a plant, however incoherently, rather than anything to do with the river.”

“I thought so, too, and I looked the name up. It's
Datura
stramonium,
also familiarly called jimsomweed. Faith, the photographs of the flower were
exactly
what I saw, and the description also mentioned the strong narcotic odor. The seeds and other parts of the plant are highly toxic. The symptoms include high fever, excessive thirst, amnesia, and hallucinations.” She shuddered. “It would have been a horrific death. I now know why Will was so upset seeing me in Aurora's wedding dress.”

As a preacher's wife, Faith might have been supposed to treat Sophie's experience with skepticism, but she had heard other tales over the years that left her more than open-minded. She absolutely believed that Sophie had had some sort of vision, just as she believed the young woman had also found a body in the wardrobe weeks earlier.

A server came over. “May I start you on some drinks? And have you had a chance to look at our menu? Today's specials are listed on the back.”

Faith suggested a sauvignon blanc. “Breakfast was a very, very long time ago,” she said. “I'm hungry. Let's order a bunch of things.” She scanned the menu. “The deconstructed shrimp salad, as well as crab spring rolls will go well with the wine. And the smoked salmon flat bread to continue the seafood theme?” She
was
hungry, but she was also pretty sure Sophie hadn't been eating.

When the wine arrived, Faith raised her glass. “To good fortune. After all, Bonaventure has given us the first solid clue.”

As if in reply, Sophie's cell rang. She had set it down next to her and grabbed it. Her face immediately registered disappointment. It clearly wasn't Will.

“Hello?”

Hearing the voice, she put it on speaker and mouthed “Patrick Smith.”

“Hi, Sophie. I haven't seen Will and don't have anything definite to tell you about his whereabouts, but I did get in touch
with a source of mine who told me that Will had been in touch with him a few times, most recently Monday.”

“What kind of a source? I mean, what was Will contacting him about?”

“It's as I suspected. Illegal arms smuggling. But he also added that Will had become involved in investigating it through tracing a money-laundering scheme. The guy said Will had told him the trail was leading him in a direction he was having trouble believing.”

“What could that mean?”

“Possibly a legitimate business he wouldn't have predicted would be criminally connected. But, of course, that's the secret to a successful operation. Maybe a charity or something similar.”

“Thank you, Patrick. This is a big help.”

“I hope so, Sophie. And again, my gut tells me Will is all right. You take care now and call me any time, day or night.”

They ate and went over the implications of what Sophie had experienced in the cemetery—what it could mean for Will, too. By the time they left the restaurant, dusk was falling. As they walked back to the house, Faith was charmed by the architecture, and the feel of the city—a slower paced way of life.

Crossing the square to the house, Faith realized she hadn't asked Sophie an important question surrounding the death of Will's grandmother. “Given that we now believe Aurora Maxwell's death wasn't suicide or a natural one, why would anyone have wanted her out of the way? What possible motive could there have been? From what Ursula said she was much loved.”

“I know. It's been bothering me, too.”

“Well, there's always the cui bono aspect. Who benefits? Was she a wealthy woman?”

“Judging from the jewelry in the safe-deposit box at the bank and the house—the furnishings alone must be worth a fortune—I'm sure Aurora left a substantial estate.”

“And to whom?”

“Will. It all went to Will.”

Back at the house they settled in front of Sophie's computer and began a search for more about
Datura stramonium.
There were further confirmations of what Sophie had already turned up. After that, Faith suggested they start investigating recent cases involving arms smuggling and/or money laundering in Georgia and South Carolina. Charleston was a huge container port as well, the tenth busiest in the United States. Savannah was the fourth.