Killer Investigation. Amanda Stevens

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