“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.”