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Carly turned and shrugged. “I was a soap star, big deal. Now most of the soaps have been canceled due to lack of interest and I’m back where I started, auditioning for jobs again. Only now I’m five years older and eight pounds heavier.”
“TV…the movie industry…must be a very tough business,” Theodosia said.
Carly nodded. “I’m up for a part in something called Finders Creepers, which is supposed to be a limited series on the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries channel.”
“I can’t believe you won’t get it.”
Carly gave a rueful smile. “I can.”
* * *
“Did you get a load of her jewelry?” Drayton asked once Carly had left. “Her crucifix, prayer beads, and evil eye amulet? It looks like she’s on some random spiritual quest. As if she’s trying to cover all the bases.”
“On the other hand,” Theodosia said, “she is a Hollywood actress.”
“Point taken.”
“You know,” Theodosia said, “I’m still mildly curious about Brittlebank Manor. The legends, the woman who was held prisoner, the fact that a murder was committed there.”
“And we don’t even know if Morro’s murder was the first murder,” Drayton said. “There could have been others.”
“Do you think a place like that could, um…”
“You think Brittlebank Manor might be haunted?” Drayton asked.
“Not in the sense of actual ghosts and goblins. But I wonder if a place can hold on to a kind of psychic memory or energy? Of bad things that happened there?”
“If you’re so curious, maybe you should head over to the Heritage Society and do a little research in their library,” Drayton said.
Theodosia smiled. “I just might do that.”
* * *
The Heritage Society, a venerable granite building set smack-dab in the middle of the Historic District, was one of Theodosia’s absolute favorite places. And not just because Drayton served on its board of directors. For Theodosia, the place stirred up feelings of history and romance. With its high ceilings and castle-like interior, the Heritage Society offered period rooms furnished with English and French furniture, priceless silver, and faded (but still marvelous) oil paintings. There were also amazing collections of historical paintings, books, objects, drawings, antique linens, important documents, and even antique weapons and firearms.
And then, of course, there was the library. Theodosia was on her way there now, hurrying down a hallway where antique tapestries dampened sounds, where a photo display titled carolina gold, the rice boom years had been hung on the walls. But when she opened the door to the library to peek in, to make sure there weren’t any study groups using it, she had a pleasant surprise. Timothy Neville, the Heritage Society’s octogenarian executive director, was standing at one of the tables looking over a scatter of papers.
“Timothy!” Theodosia exclaimed.
“Miss Browning.” Timothy gave a respectful nod as a wry smile crinkled his face and stretched his skin taut over his cheekbones. Timothy was small, wiry, and impeccably dressed. His suits and vests were always hand-tailored and his shoes were British-made, probably at some marvelous Knightsbridge workshop that had been around for two hundred years.
“I’m not intruding, am I?” Theodosia asked. She looked around the library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound books, leather and hobnail chairs, and massive oak tables holding brass lamps with emerald green shades. Something light and classical was playing over the sound system. Maybe Debussy?
“You’re not intruding at all,” Timothy said. “I was nosing about, amusing myself with a few old maps of the Dill wildlife refuge on James Island. We have an archaeological project going on there that seeks to uncover a few more Civil War earthworks. But I digress. What brings you here? Some type of research project of your own?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Theodosia said. “I was hoping to find some information on Brittlebank Manor.”
“Brittlebank?” Timothy looked suddenly interested. “Are you by any chance working with those movie people?”
“I’m handling their craft services table. You know, the food and snacks. But the thing is, Drayton and I were both on set when that poor director got electrocuted.”
Timothy cocked an eye at her. “I read about that. The newspaper said it was murder. That the police are investigating.”
“It was and they are,” Theodosia said. “But I’ve heard that the place has a strange history.”
Timothy rocked back on his heels. “I’ve heard that as well.”
Theodosia looked around at the packed bookshelves. “So I thought I’d try to unearth a little more information.”
