Chapter 7

Ella Mae waited outside with a very agitated Chewy while an officer from the Havenwood PD entered the nail salon.

As she tried to comfort her terrier, Ella Mae focused on the camellia decal she’d just seen. The same decal had been affixed to the rear window of Bea’s car. Bea’s car had also been white. And like Bea’s Cadillac, Ella Mae was quite sure that the car she’d just seen tearing around the corner was also a luxury automobile. The similarities made her uneasy. Did the break-in at the nail salon have something to do with Bea’s death?

Ella Mae had little time to mull over this question for the alarm was silenced and the cop reappeared on the sidewalk.

“Was this a robbery?” she asked the officer.

“It’s looking that way.” The cop glanced down at his notepad. “You saw a white sedan leaving the vicinity, correct?”

Keeping a hand on Chewy’s head, Ella Mae nodded.

The officer fixed a hopeful gaze on her. “And you’re sure that you can’t identify the make or model of the vehicle?”

“I wish I could,” she replied with genuine regret. She was about to tell him about the camellia decal when he abruptly thanked her and headed back inside the salon. Deciding not to pursue him, Ella Mae dialed Officer Hardy’s number. When he didn’t answer, she left him a detailed message.

“I’m sure the responding officer has this well in hand,” she added after explaining her reason for calling. “I just thought, considering the doubts we both felt over Bea Burbank’s death, that you’d want to know about the decal.”

After ending the call, Ella Mae shoved her cell phone back into her pocket. “Good Lord, Chewy! Hugh will think we’ve stood him up. This is no way to treat the second-place winner!”

As it turned out, Ella Mae had missed the entire prize ceremony. And while Hugh was quick to forgive her, Reba was not.

“Who cares about the damned nail salon?” Reba railed. “What’s a thief want from that place anyway? Cuticle clippers and emery boards?”

Pulling her aside, Ella Mae told her about the camellia sticker.

The scowl on Reba’s face vanished. “Why would one of those club ladies be pokin’ around in Loralyn’s salon?”

“My question exactly,” Ella Mae said. “And I’ve been so busy helping Suzy and Madge research variations on Greek myths on apples that I haven’t gotten around to reading the Camellia Club’s directory or the rest of the materials the club secretary mailed me. Tomorrow, after church, I’ll be holed up at my house with that package.”

“Why not start tonight?” Hugh said from behind her. “Right after we grab a bite to eat, I can put your bike in my truck. I’ll be your research assistant.” Hugh took her hand in his. “Back before we knew the truth about each other, you couldn’t ask for my help when someone threatened our town. Loralyn’s gone missing. And now, it looks like a member of the Camellia Club has broken into her salon. That sounds like a threat. Or at least, a mystery. Let me be involved. Let’s work as partners this time.”

“Because we have no more secrets.” Ella Mae smiled at him. “Still, I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate with you around.”

Hugh pointed at his chest. “Is it the Day-Glo shirt?”

“More like what’s under it,” Ella Mae said. “But I can’t say no to the second-place winner.”

Reba put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Jenny and I would have won if it wasn’t for those idiots crashin’ into us at the bitter end.”

“I’m proud of you,” Ella Mae told her friend. “You earned one of the top places without extra help from Jenny. Not only that, but you and Jenny will inspire other women to enter the race. No woman has ever won first place.”

Reba’s mouth curved into a wide grin. “Until today! You missed the award ceremony, so you didn’t see the winnin’ team in person.”

“I know Village Tire and Service,” Ella Mae said. “It’s the closest gas station to The Charmed Pie Shoppe. The owners, Kevin and April Pillsbury, are good people. He always tells me jokes and she always has recipe ideas to share with me.”

“Well, we assumed their rowers were two guys because they were wearin’ red shirts and matchin’ baseball caps featurin’ their logo and a vintage gas pump,” Reba said. “April’s hair is real short, so it wasn’t until she crossed the finish line and took off her hat that everyone realized she was the rower sitting in front. For the first time in Havenwood history, a team with a woman has claimed the top spot. And the story gets even better. Tell her, Hugh.”

Hugh nodded. “The mayor gave a short speech and tried to hand Kevin one of those giant ceremonial checks, but Kevin sidestepped it and whispered something in the mayor’s ear. The mayor had to take a moment to master his emotions before he could speak into the microphone again.”

“Really?” Ella Mae couldn’t imagine what Kevin had said to move Buddy so deeply.

“The crowd went quiet. No one could understand what was happening. April gave her husband a thumbs-up, but the rest of us were totally confused. Finally, the mayor cleared his throat and said, ‘This weekend, we celebrate our nation’s independence. And we all know that freedom comes at a price. Freedom must be protected and defended, and sometimes, the cost is very dear. As a way of thanking our servicemen and women, Kevin and April have decided to donate their entire check to the Wounded Warrior Project. Let’s hear it for our winners!”

Ella Mae felt her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t believe the noise didn’t reach me downtown. That’s amazing!”

“It sure was,” Reba said. “You know what else is amazin’? Barbecued baby back ribs. I could eat an entire rack after all that rowin’. Finn and Jenny are off somewhere sharin’ a picnic blanket, so I need to get some food and then find myself a man for dessert.”

“What about Lou?” Ella Mae asked. “He seemed keen on your stopping by the pub later.”

Reba dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. “Date the owner of the local watering hole? Never. I like Lou well enough, but what would happen if things didn’t work out? I’d never be able to go to The Wicket again.” She waved her arm to incorporate the entire parking lot. “Besides, there are hundreds of men here. Men I’ve never seen before. Strange, exciting men. As different as the fare on the menu boards of these food trucks.” Reba’s eyes gleamed. “You have fun, kids. I sure intend to!”

Ella Mae and Hugh laughed as Reba disappeared into the throng.

Later that night, after a multicultural sampling that included red curry scallops, polenta bites, barbacoa tacos, shiitake mushroom dumplings, fig tarts, and Nutella pizza topped with chopped strawberries and crushed pistachios, Ella Mae and Hugh headed back to her place.

Hugh showered, fed the dogs, and shooed them outside to play in the garden. Meanwhile, Ella Mae had already opened the package from the Camellia Club’s secretary and starting reading about the club’s history.

“What’s my job?” Hugh asked, joining her on the sofa.

Ella Mae handed him the directory and then patted the laptop on the coffee table. “I haven’t looked at the ladies’ pictures yet. I’ll do that next, but could you try to find images of the ones who were absent during the photo shoot? I’d like to be able to match every name and face before these women arrive. I don’t want to be caught off guard by any of them.”

Hugh picked up the book and turned to the first group of photographs. “I’m terrible with names. I could never memorize this many by August.”

Ella Mae pointed at the photograph of Bea Burbank. “If you’d found her floating in the lake, you could. If Bea’s daughter had showed up at your place of work and poured her heart out to you, you’d learn everything you could about these women.”

“Why Havenwood?” Hugh mused aloud. “Why did Bea choose this town for their retreat? Why was she killed here? And why was a Camellia in Loralyn’s nail salon today?”

Ella Mae shook her head. “I don’t know.” She gestured at the directory. “Maybe the answer is hidden between the lines of one of the women’s bios. Or buried in the club’s rich and storied history. There must be a connection.”

“Then let’s find it,” Hugh said and fixed his attention on the directory.

Ella Mae returned to her own reading, which proved to be quite fascinating. The Camellia Club was founded in the 1860s as a sewing circle. At least, that was the pretense. According to a reprinted letter from Mrs. Margaret Woodward, the club’s founder and first president, the purpose of the Camellia Club was threefold: to broaden women’s minds through education; to initiate positive changes in the community; and to perform charitable works.

For the remainder of that century, the Camellia Club was a place women gathered as activists, forward thinkers, and in many ways, rebels. Outwardly, they all played the part of high-society ladies. But behind the closed doors of Margaret Woodward’s Sweet Briar mansion, they plotted to secure child labor laws, voting rights for women, and educational opportunities for both women and minorities. Theirs was a group far ahead of its time.

“You were living the Virginia Slims motto during the nineteenth century,” Ella Mae murmured. The more she read, the more she admired the tenacity, patience, and passion exhibited by the Camellias. “I wonder if your club still has a hidden agenda or if integral parts of the founder’s mission have been forgotten. I don’t think the formidable Mrs. Woodward bequeathed her mansion to the club to merely serve as a site for garden parties and weddings. She wanted to be sure there would always be a safe place, a secret place, for the Camellias to meet.”

“Are you talking to your book?” Hugh asked.

Ella Mae showed him a black-and-white photograph of Margaret Woodward. The image was small and grainy, so it was difficult to see her face clearly, but Ella Mae had an impression of dark, intelligent eyes; high cheekbones; and smooth skin. Margaret Woodward had one of those ageless faces, much like Ella Mae’s own mother, making it difficult to tell whether she was thirty-five or fifty-five. She wore a white day dress with a tight bodice and a full skirt. Her waist was fashionably tiny and her glossy hair had been braided and pinned to the side of her head. A bonnet rested casually against her knee and she stared directly at the camera. Her gaze was challenging and her smile was enigmatic.

“She looks like a woman who could make things happen,” Ella Mae said.

Hugh leaned closer to the image. “I swear I just saw her twin. She must be related to this woman.” He flipped back to the previous page in the directory and pointed at a set of photographs. “All the women are grouped in mother-daughter pairs. It would be confusing to use this book if you didn’t already know them, because most of the moms and daughters have different last names. However, lots of the daughters went with hyphenated surnames after they got married. In this case, you have Cora Edgeworth and Meg Edgeworth-Ryan.”

Ella Mae studied the photographs. Cora Edgeworth looked a bit like Jackie Kennedy, but Meg was a dead ringer for the club’s founder.

“Meg and Margaret Woodward must be related,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “The resemblance is uncanny. Meg even has the same mysterious smile.” Ella Mae examined Meg’s biographical sketch. “She’s a smart cookie. MBA from Duke. Works as a hedge fund manager at her father’s company, Edgeworth Financial. She also has a master’s degree in linguistics. Wow. Look at her volunteer experience. When does this woman sleep?”

Hugh shook his head in wonder. “They’re all like that. Not necessarily the degrees or the jobs, but the list of charitable works. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were trying to compete with one another—to see who spends the most time giving back.”

Curious, Ella Mae looked at Cora’s biography and then turned the page and quickly read the bios of another mother-daughter pair. “I wonder if the daughters have kids of their own. And if so, do they ever see them? These women, Savannah McGovern and Blake McGovern-Reynolds, must have been on the committee for every event the Camellia Club hosted over the past year.”

“Maybe Savannah or Blake hoped to be elected president one day,” Hugh suggested.

“Maybe,” Ella Mae said absently. “If that’s what it takes to be president, Bea’s bio must be really long.”

Hugh tapped the directory. “Go back to the beginning. The officers are listed in order of rank, starting with Bea.”

Ella Mae turned to the first page, which featured a lovely photograph of Bea in an ivory skirt suit. Behind her, a pair of wrought iron gates opened wide to reveal a Greek Revival–style mansion.

“Atalanta House,” Ella Mae read. “This was Margaret Woodward’s home,” she told Hugh. “Margaret was a wealthy widow when she founded the Camellia Club. Her husband died of yellow fever and they had no children, so she inherited his considerable fortune. According to this book, it was Margaret’s idea to build their house in the Greek Revival style. Apparently, she loved all things Greek. The gardens were filled with Grecian art and statuary, and she had a huge collection of urns and other artifacts throughout their home. She sounds like a very interesting lady. I wonder what she would have made of Bea and of this surrogate daughter business. Have you had a chance to look up the names of the women who missed the photo shoot?”

Hugh pointed at a piece of scrap paper on the coffee table. “Helen Lee, Samantha Lee-Singer, and Lyn Croly. I haven’t gone online yet. I’ve been too busy reading these bios and feeling like a poor excuse for a human being.”

Ella Mae poked him. “Excuse me. Don’t you voluntarily enter burning buildings to save people and animals? Dante wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for you. And he’s not alone. You’re a hero, Hugh. You’d never admit it, but I know who you are.”

She leaned over to kiss him. He returned the kiss, and then his lips moved from her mouth to her jawline. When he kissed the soft skin under her ear, she shuddered. Holding her tighter, he whispered, “I’m a small fry compared to you. You saved the whole town.”

Ella Mae pushed him away. “This is what I was worried about. How can I concentrate with you around?”

Hugh held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll move to the far end of the sofa and place a tower of pillows between us.” He hurriedly stacked the pillows until they formed a lopsided wall. “There. Why are you still looking at me?” He pretended to glare at her. “Don’t you have work to do?”

After tossing a pillow at him, Ella Mae finished reading the history of the Camellia Club.

It was clear that the passage of time had diminished the club’s identity as a center for political activism and intrigue. By the middle of the twentieth century, the Camellias were mainly focused on raising money for scholarships and supporting the arts in and around Sweet Briar.

Having finished with the history, Ella Mae turned back to the photograph of Margaret Woodward.

It was your hope that all women would receive a quality education. You also strove for equality for women. All women. Not just the upper classes. And yet your club has always been populated by the crème de la crème of society. In your time, that may have been necessary. You needed the cover of propriety to advance your causes, but these days, there’s no need to hide, so why is the club still so exclusive? There’s no diversity whatsoever. Other than the surrogates, of course.

Ella Mae shuffled through the rest of the papers Julia Eudailey had sent. There was no information about membership guidelines other than a single line stating that membership to the Camellia Club was “granted by invitation only.”

Releasing a sigh of irritation, Ella Mae picked up the directory again. Hugh was busy with the laptop and didn’t glance away from the screen as she once again studied the photograph of Bea and the magnificent house in the background.

“An unusual name. Atalanta House,” Ella Mae said softly, wondering if the title was some sort of play on Georgia’s capital city. But then why not just call it Atlanta House? Why the odd spelling?

Ella Mae’s gaze moved beyond the live oaks flanking the entrance gates, swept over the neat lawn with its ancient magnolia tree, and fell on the ionic portico, which extended across two-thirds of the façade. She followed the rise of the house upward to the frieze. In the center, a sculptor had carved a flower. “A camellia, I suppose,” she whispered, but immediately changed her mind. The flower was the wrong shape and didn’t have enough petals. Unfortunately, Bea’s head partially blocked the flower’s rosette, so Ella Mae couldn’t be certain what she was seeing. She needed another view of the front of the house.

“Hugh? How’s it going?”

Hugh glanced away from the computer. “Pretty good. I found images of both Cora and Meg and bookmarked them. Would you like to see?” He put a hand on the remaining throw pillows. “Or do we need to maintain our distance?”

Ella Mae laughed. “I can keep my hands off you for now. If you move the pillows, I promise to behave.”

Adopting an expression of deep disappointment, Hugh swept the pillows onto the floor. He then opened a new screen and clicked on the page he’d bookmarked earlier. “This is one of the many charity events hosted by the Camellia Club last year. It’s called A Shoe Up. It’s a clothing drive for women who’ve faced homelessness, abuse, or other challenging situations. After receiving job training, they need the right clothes to wear to their new jobs. Cora and Meg were in charge of this event. Here they are in The Sweet Briar Daily News. It’s the online version of the paper, which is great because the photos are in color.”

Ella Mae studied the photograph of Cora and Meg. Both women were very attractive, but there was something especially captivating about Meg. Ella Mae’s eye went straight to Meg’s face. In the photo, Meg handed a young woman a garment bag while Cora looked on wearing an indulgent smile. Meg was completely focused on the young woman. She wasn’t smiling, but her expression was sincere. Ella Mae liked that about her.

“Two dark-haired beauties,” she said to Hugh. “Any luck finding Lyn Croly?”

“Not yet.”

Ella Mae pointed at the laptop. “Mind if I borrow that for a second? I want to see if I can locate other images of the fanciest clubhouse in the South.”

Hugh stood up and stretched. “Go for it. I’m going to call the dogs and get them—and us—something to drink. Any requests?”

“Surprise me,” Ella Mae said, her fingers already reaching for the keyboard.

She was so absorbed in her task that she barely noticed the noise of dog nails scrabbling across the floor or of their thirsty lapping as they drank from their water bowls. The sound of a popping cork almost made her glance away from the computer, but just then, an image toward the bottom right of the screen grabbed her attention.

“Is it time for a break?” Hugh asked from what seemed like a great distance.

When Ella Mae looked up from the computer, her eyes were glassy. “It’s an apple blossom. The flower on the frieze is an apple blossom. Margaret Woodward was fascinated by all things Greek. Apples were often magical in Greek myths. This can’t be a coincidence, Hugh. This is the same flower Henry saw in his vision. This is the flower Loralyn was seeking.”

Hugh carefully put the two glasses he’d been carrying down on the coffee table and touched Ella Mae’s hand.

His cold fingers brought her back to the moment. Her eyes came into focus and she grabbed his hand and squeezed. “There is a connection, Hugh. It’s still not clear, but we’re on to something. This is a clue. It must be. I have to find out how this flower fits in.”

“How will you do that?”

Ella Mae passed her hands over her face. “By figuring out which Greek myth it appears in, for starters. If Margaret Woodward possessed an object of power, Loralyn might have plans to steal it from Margaret’s descendants.”

Hugh put his hands on Ella Mae’s shoulders. “Slow down, okay? We’ll read every myth if we have to. But not now. It’s getting late, and I’m half-asleep. That race wore me out.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. It was a featherlight touch, filled with tenderness. “And you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for weeks. You need to rest. Come to bed.”

Ella Mae couldn’t resist the lure of his touch. She shut down the laptop and pointed at the champagne flutes on the table. “What about those?”

“A grapefruit-elderflower champagne cocktail called the Sweet Dreams Sparkler. I found the recipe online and smuggled the ingredients into the fridge when you weren’t looking.”

Picking up her glass, Ella Mae took a sip. The drink was at once soothing and incredibly refreshing. “I don’t think I’m ready to sleep just yet.” She slid a hand under his T-shirt. “I guess there’s just too much spark in this cocktail.”

Hugh raised his brows. “You don’t say? In that case, I’d better get you upstairs before it wears off.”

And with that, he emptied his glass in three swallows and gestured for her to follow suit. As soon as she was done, he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took her up to the bedroom. There was no more talk of camellias or golden apples that night.

*   *   *

The next evening, Ella Mae gathered the Book Nerds in the library and showed them the carving on the frieze on Atalanta House.

“That’s the apple blossom I saw,” Henry declared softly.

“And the name of the house is reminiscent of a famous female from Greek myth,” Madge said, hurriedly reaching for a book. “A headstrong virgin named Atalanta who was tricked into taking a husband.”

Adelaide, who’d decided to join the ensemble, cocked her head to one side. “I’m not familiar with the story. Would you tell it from the beginning?”

Madge settled deeper into her chair. “When Atalanta was born, her father carried her into the woods and left her there to die. She was a girl. Therefore, he didn’t view her as a worthy heir to his title or lands.”

Suzy growled, causing Chewy to bolt upright in alarm. “Too bad he wasn’t mauled by a bear on his way back to his palace.”

“He wasn’t found by a bear,” Madge said. “But Atalanta was. The bear raised her, and she spent her childhood in the forest, learning the ways of all the animals. When she grew older, she became a skilled huntress and was chosen to be one of Jason’s Argonauts. She was the only female among his crew.”

Lydia looked at Suzy. “I bet her dad would have been impressed if he knew that his daughter helped Jason find the Golden Fleece.”

With a nod, Madge continued. “Atalanta’s prowess as a hunter increased. Her arrow was the first to strike its mark at the famed Calydonian Boar Hunt. Her next triumph occurred when she defeated Peleus, a friend of Hercules, in a wrestling match. It was at this point that her father decided she was worthy of being named his heir and invited her to live with him. She accepted, and he immediately set about finding her a suitable husband.”

“It really is a shame that he wasn’t mauled by a bear,” Suzy said.

Henry grunted in agreement. “The father is not a very likable character.”

“Atalanta didn’t want a husband,” Madge went on as though her friends hadn’t spoken. “She treasured her independence and the freedom she was accustomed to. However, she thought she could avoid marriage by challenging her suitors to a footrace.”

“I remember her now!” Ella Mae exclaimed. “She was really fast. None of the men could beat her. They had to trick her in order to win, right?”

Madge held out her hands, palms up, as though they were scales, and then raised and lowered them. “Tricked or outsmarted, it’s a matter of perspective. Besides, if her competitor lost, Atalanta was allowed to cut his head off with a sword.”

Ella Mae touched her neck. “Ouch.”

“She was the sole heir of a wealthy and powerful man. She was also quite beautiful, so she had no shortage of suitors. Unfortunately, these men were all defeated and killed,” Madge said grimly. “Until a young man named Hippomenes came along. He prayed to Aphrodite for aid and was granted three golden apples. These apples were enchanted, and when Hippomenes dropped them, one by one, during his race against Atalanta, she felt compelled to pick them up. The delays allowed Hippomenes to win and Atalanta was forced to marry him.”

Suzy smirked. “What a way to begin a marriage. I bet that couple had serious trust issues.”

Madge chuckled. “Unlike fairy tales, Greek myths aren’t prone to happily ever afters. There are several variations as to what became of Atalanta following her marriage. Some versions say she bore a son who went on to become a great hero. Some say that Aphrodite turned the newlyweds into lions because Hippomenes forgot to thank the goddess for the gift of the apples. But there is a lesser-known ending, such as the one written in this book.”

The room grew very still.

With extreme care, Madge opened the dusty tome and turned to a brittle yellow page. “Atalanta outlived her husband by many years. She had the three apples Hippomenes used to win her hand woven into a belt, which she wore at all times, even when she slept. She ruled her father’s land with a firm hand, but treated men and women equally. Her people called her the lioness.” Madge looked up from the book. “That’s it.”

“There’s no definitive ending to her story?” Ella Mae asked.

“No,” Madge said. “An important detail is that the apples were never returned to Aphrodite. In every version, they remained with Atalanta. Whatever magic they contained was hers to control. My guess is that these apples originally came from a Grecian grove. A very old, very powerful grove.”

“So we have Atalanta House, the apple blossom, and a connection to Loralyn and the Camellia Club,” Suzy said. “But what do we do with this information?”

Glancing around at the others in turn, Ella Mae answered, “I know what I need to do. I need to take a road trip. On Monday, Reba and I are going to Sweet Briar.”