Beyond the Garden: Magnolia, #2

By Ashley Farley

Just when Ellie thought she had it all—a loving husband, a promising future, and a beautiful home in Charleston's esteemed Battery neighborhood—her world spirals into chaos. News erupts that her brother-in-law has been brutally murdered in Key West, and her elusive sister, Lia, is the prime suspect. Lia, missing for seven months, has left her twin daughters in Ellie and Julian's loving care, but her disappearance now takes on a chilling new dimension.

 

Compelled by a blend of love, concern, and lingering questions, Ellie and Julian embark on a high-stakes journey to Key West. The questions mount at every turn: Where has Lia gone? Is she involved in her husband's murder? And what will become of her abandoned children? But the quest for answers proves to be a twisted maze of shocking family secrets and devastating betrayals.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Farley
• Release date: Apr 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781956684346

Ashley Farley

Ashley Farley is the bestselling author of the Sweeney Sisters series as well as the stand-alone novels Sweet Tea Tuesdays, Magnolia Nights, Beyond the Garden, and other books about women for women. Her characters are mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives facing real-life situations, and her goal is to keep readers turning pages with stories that resonate long after the last word. In addition to writing, she is an amateur photographer, an exercise junkie, and a wife and mother. While she has lived in Richmond, Virginia, for more than two decades, part of her heart remains in the salty marshes of the South Carolina Lowcountry where she grew up. Through the eyes of her characters, she captures the moss-draped trees, delectable cuisine, and kindhearted folks with lazy drawls that make the area so unique. For more information on the author and her work, visit www.ashleyfarley.com.

Book preview

ONE

LIA

Lightning cracked the night sky as Lia slipped unnoticed out the back door of the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying in Key West. Steam rose from the pavement, and the air hung thick with moisture—an indication of more storms to come. She draped a navy silk scarf over her head and tied it under her chin to hide the oval-shaped scar that crept its way up the side of her neck to the edge of her jawbone. The sidewalks were empty. Foul weather had driven the throngs of tourists indoors. Gay laughter and loud music drifted from the nightclubs as she hurried down Duval Street toward her estranged husband’s hotel.

With valet parking, a swim-up pool bar, and a private marina, the Buena Vista Resort was in a different league than her homey bed-and-breakfast with its country decor and clowder of cats lounging on the furniture and in windowsills.

How can Ricky afford even one night here, let alone an extended stay in the honeymoon suite? That tacky woman currently occupying his bed must be wealthy.

Last time Lia had seen him, nine months ago, her husband was broke and on the run from vicious brutes willing to torture him if necessary to extract the money he owed them.

Entering the building through the main entrance, she lowered her head and stared at the floor, avoiding eye contact with the night clerk as she strolled past the check-in desk. Making her way to the bank of elevators, she ascended to the fifth floor. She emerged from the elevator into a dimly lit hallway with peeling wallpaper and worn carpet. Management clearly invested more effort and money maintaining the more visible areas of the hotel. She followed the arrows directing her to room 550. His door was ajar, and when she knocked, no one answered. She nudged the door open, crossed the threshold into the darkness, and groped for the light switch. Her fingers felt a sticky substance on the wall—this startled her. She took a step back, grabbing hold of the doorknob for support. She regained her balance and stared down at her hand. The sticky substance on her fingers was blood.

Heart pounding against her rib cage and sweat trickling down her back, she ventured farther into the room to the foot of the heart-shaped bed. She gasped and stifled a scream at the sight of her husband’s mutilated body. A black-handled carving knife protruded from his chest, and there was blood everywhere—spattering the walls, saturating his khaki pants and striped golf shirt, and soaking the white bed linens beneath him. Backing slowly out of the room, she turned and fled in the opposite direction of the elevator, down the five flights of the emergency staircase. She burst through the exit door into the humid night and scurried up the gravel pathway toward the front entrance of the hotel.

TWO

ELLIE

The incessant pounding of hammer against nail set Ellie’s nerves on edge. She couldn’t escape the sounds of construction at home, where her building contractor was finishing up her kitchen renovation, or at work, where a separate crew labored to convert the old brick warehouse she’d recently purchased into an art gallery and studio. The only place Ellie found peace was at the elementary school where she volunteered two days a week—as much peace as any teacher could have among a group of eight spirited fourth graders. Popping two Tylenol for the headache brewing at the base of her skull, she communicated final instructions to her foreman before departing the building. She navigated the sidewalks of downtown Charleston, weaving her way through the crowds of women shopping the boutiques and lunching at the many artisan restaurants, on her way from Broad Street to the school.

Seven months ago, when she’d decided to make Charleston her permanent home, she’d convinced the principal at Peninsula Elementary to let her pilot an art program for underprivileged kids who expressed an interest in improving their drawing and painting skills. Her group consisted of six girls and two boys whose personalities differed greatly even though they were from the same socioeconomic background.

She arrived five minutes late for class to discover her students dancing around the room and singing into their fists to the sound of rap music blaring from one of the boys’ iPhones. Their shoes bore holes and their clothes were worn, but they all carried a smartphone of some variety. When Terrell saw her watching them from the doorway, he snatched up his phone from the art table and clicked off the music.

It’s okay, Terrell. You may leave the music on as long as you keep it clean and turn the volume down. She entered the room and placed her bag on the chair behind the desk. Music provides inspiration for our work. I listen to classical music when I paint, but every artist has their preference. Now—Ellie clasped her hands together—if we work really hard, I bet we can finish up our selfies today.

The children donned their smocks—men’s button-down shirts Ellie had purchased at Goodwill—and spread themselves out at the two rectangular tables positioned in the center of the room. They’d devoted the last two classes to working on their self-portraits. In addition to handheld mirrors, she’d taken their photographs and printed copies for them to use as inspiration. The children had drawn their likenesses in pencil first and then gone over the lines with Sharpie markers.

Today is the fun part. We’re going to add color to our portraits. She set out trays of oil pastels on the tables. I want you to give careful consideration to the colors you choose before you begin.

She circled the room, spending a few minutes with each child in turn. The critical eye with which they’d drawn their self-portraits both surprised and amused her. One boy’s flat nose overpowered his face. A curtain of black hair shielded another girl’s eyes and cheeks, leaving only her small mouth and pointy chin in view.

Come now, Terrell, she said when she saw the oversize buckteeth in his drawing. Your teeth aren’t that big.

Yes, they are. Look! He curled his upper lip back to show her his teeth.

I like your teeth, she said, elbow-bumping him. She doubted his parents had budgeted for orthodontia. They make your face interesting. You take good care of those pearly whites and keep them brushed.

She approached the next child and peered over her shoulder at her selfie. Ruby, too, had exaggerated her most prominent facial feature. Instead of trying to re-create the trail of freckles that crossed the bridge of her nose, Ruby had covered her face in black dots the size of chicken pox.

Someone got a little carried away with the marker. Ellie picked up a mirror on the table and held it in front of Ruby’s face. You have a fraction of the number of freckles that you’ve drawn.

When she placed a hand on Ruby’s shoulder, the child flinched and drew away. I’m sorry, honey. Did I hurt you?

This talented fourth grader reminded Ellie of herself at that age, with an eagerness to learn and a pensive expression full of wisdom despite her youth. Most days her clear green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, but today they glistened with unshed tears when she looked up at Ellie.

I fell off my bike.

Oh, you poor dear, Ellie said, tucking a strand of frizzy orange hair behind her ear. I hope you didn’t break anything. Do you need to see the nurse?

I’m fine. When Ruby tugged at the collar of her smock, Ellie saw angry bruise marks on her neck, which were far from fine in Ellie’s mind.

She noticed the other children watching them and decided it best, for the child’s sake, not to make a big deal about it in front of the others. She waited until after class to pull Ruby aside.

Is everything okay at home, honey? You can trust me not to tell anyone if you have anything you want to talk about.

No, ma’am, Ruby said, casting an anxious glance at the door. Everything’s fine.

Ellie handed the child one of her business cards. Put this somewhere safe. All my numbers are on there. You can call me anytime you need to talk.

Thank you. Ruby stuffed the card in the back pocket of her tattered jeans and hurried out of the room.

Ellie stood in the doorway, watching Ruby follow her classmates down the hall. Her shoulders were slumped, and her head hung low as though bearing the weight of the world. Ellie felt it in her gut: one of the other students was bullying her at school, or someone was mistreating her at home.

She tidied up the room, turned out the lights, and exited the building through the main entrance. The clean spring air cleared her head and pleased her senses with the fragrance of freshly cut grass and flowers in bloom as she strolled the half mile toward home. With Ruby at the forefront of her mind, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to the past, after her mother passed away and she’d gone to live with her father in California. She’d been a traumatized child of six, and the only way he’d been able to reach her was through art. He’d invited her into the private sanctum of his darkroom and supplied her with watercolors and a sketchbook. Perched on a stool in the corner, using one of his photographs as inspiration, she’d painted her first masterpiece.

Is Ruby using her art to escape a traumatic situation in her home?

She was two blocks from her house when Maddie, her housekeeper, pulled up beside her in her old-model Cutlass Supreme. She rolled the passenger window down. Miss Ellie, I hope you don’t mind me leaving early. The dentist gone see me ‘bout that tooth that’s been bothering me. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.

Maddie had worked for the Pringle family for more than forty years. She’d helped Ellie through some difficult times when she was a child. Aside from a stepmother who was not the nurturing type, Maddie was the closest thing to a real mother she’d ever known.

I hope all goes well with your tooth, Ellie said as she waved her on.

Ellie heard the whine of a circular saw as she rounded the corner from King Street onto South Battery Street. Making her way up the short driveway to the antebellum mansion she’d recently inherited from her grandmother, she nodded a greeting at the workman feeding a length of baseboard trim into the saw.

Ellie’s architect husband, Julian, had researched the history of the house. Circa 1820, when the Georgian was built, the original kitchen had been housed in a separate building. When Ellie’s great-great-grandparents bought the house in the early 1900s, they built a tiny kitchen off the dining room just big enough for their cook to prepare their meals. Judging from the antiquated appliances and worn-out flooring, subsequent Pringle family occupants had done little to modernize the kitchen in the hundred-plus years since then.

Julian was in the kitchen overseeing the installation of the crown molding when she entered through the back door. He’d done a commendable job of designing and managing the project.

This looks nice, she said, staring up at the crown molding. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, how long will it be before we finish?

Her husband leaned over and kissed her cheek. The painters will paint the trim and do touch-ups tomorrow. I received confirmation that the technicians are coming to install the countertops on Tuesday and the sinks Wednesday morning. If all goes as planned, we’ll be eating our first home-cooked meal in three months on Wednesday night.

This brought a smile to her face. Let’s make it a party and invite Dad over.

Invite the whole neighborhood, Julian said. We have reason to celebrate.

She stepped back, admiring the coral-colored geometric wallpaper. I spoke to Jackie this morning. She’s having the table delivered on Monday.

Ellie had sold all her grandmother’s belongings to an antiques dealer and junk collector. The heavy furniture, dark oriental rugs, and gloomy oil paintings were not her style. At Julian’s insistence, she’d hired Jackie Hart of JSH Designs to decorate the rest of the house. The formal rooms now sported an eclectic mix of contemporary furnishings and Julian’s handsome priceless antiques. The overall feel was stylishly elegant yet comfortable for a family with young children.

Pixie, her cocoa-colored Maltese, trotted into the kitchen, followed closely by Mills, Julian’s golden retriever. She scooped Pixie up and gave Mills’s head a rub.

Where are the twins?

Upstairs. Julian pointed at the ceiling. Finger painting with Becca.

After months of interviewing candidates, she’d finally found the ideal sitter to help take care of her three-year-old nieces. Much to her dismay, however, Ellie discovered she wouldn’t be able to keep her for long. Having graduated from the College of Charleston the previous May, Becca had recently taken the LSAT and was applying to law schools for the fall. She was a temporary sitter for Ellie’s temporary children. Nothing in Ellie’s life at the moment felt permanent.

Finger painting is my kind of fun. Here. She handed her dog to Julian. I’ll go see if I can offer some guidance.

Don’t ruin it for them, Ellie, Julian warned. Let them express themselves without forcing your stylistic opinions on them.

Ellie and her father, Abbott, a retired wildlife photographer, were constantly on the lookout for signs of special hidden talents in the twins. It stood to reason that either Bella or Mya—or both—would have inherited the creative gene.

She was mounting the staircase when she heard the clanging of the front door knocker. Julian! she called back down the wide center hallway to her husband. Will you please add fixing the doorbell to the punch list for the workmen?

Julian’s muffled voice responded, but she couldn’t make out his words.

Opening the heavy front door, she was alarmed to see two uniformed police officers, a male and a female, standing with hats in hands on her piazza. Her heart beat in her throat as her mind raced through the whereabouts of her various family members. Had one of her loved ones been involved in an accident?

The girls and Julian are home. Has Maddie wrecked her car on the way to the dentist? What about Dad? What were his plans for the day?

And there was Katie, Julian’s eight-year-old daughter who lived upstate with her mother in Spartanburg, South Carolina. She gripped the doorknob as she braced herself for bad news.

Can I help you?

From the looks of their youthful faces, Ellie doubted either officer was older than thirty.

Are you Eleanor Pringle? the female asked. Officer Grant, according to her name tag.

I recently married. I’m Eleanor Hagood now. What can I do for you?

The male officer, Officer Cain, took a step forward. If we could have a moment of your time? We’d like to talk to you about your sister.

Ellie exhaled the breath she’d been holding at the mention of her sister. She felt relieved and then guilty for feeling relieved.

Has something bad happened to Lia?

Of course. Come in. She stepped out of their way as they entered the house. She noticed Bella and Mya watching them from the top of the stairs and called up to the sitter, Becca, will you please get the girls a snack and ask Julian to join me in his study?

Yes, ma’am. The babysitter took hold of the twins’ hands as they started down the stairs.

Let’s go where we can talk in private, she said to the officers as she ushered them down the hall to the wood-paneled room that had once served as her grandmother’s library. Please, make yourselves comfortable. She gestured to the seating area in the center of the room. My husband will be here in a minute.

Cain and Grant sat side by side in the center of the leather sofa, and Ellie took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs opposite them. Her decorator had brightened the room by using neutral tones in the patterned wool rug and in the fabrics on the furniture and drapes. The lamps, decorative pillows, and contemporary painting over the mantel added splashes of color in hues of blues and reds. Shortly after he moved in with her, Julian had claimed this space for his own. His drafting table now occupied one of two bright corners of the room, near the window.

The sound of Julian’s hard-soled loafers on the oak floors in the hallway announced his arrival. Officers, he said, shaking each of their hands before pulling up a chair close to Ellie.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Ellie said, Tell me what’s going on with my sister. Is she in some kind of trouble? I hope she hasn’t been hurt in any way.

Not your sister, Cain said. Her husband. Ricky Bertram’s body was discovered in the honeymoon suite at the Buena Vista Resort in Key West. He’d been stabbed multiple times with a boning knife, the kind fishermen use for cleaning fish.

A cold dread settled over Ellie’s body as this information sunk in. Last she knew, her sister and her husband were estranged. What does this have to do with my sister?

Grant consulted her iPad. Based on my conversation with the detective handling the case, your sister is wanted for questioning in his murder investigation. According to the hotel staff, your sister was staying at the hotel with him. She’s disappeared, along with all her things.

Do you know for certain it was my sister? The last time I saw her, Lia and her husband were having marital problems.

They were registered as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Bertram.’ And the woman staying with Ricky matches your sister’s description. Once again, Grant looked down at her iPad. Tall and thin, with dark hair and eyes.

When is the last time either of you heard from Lia Bertram? Officer Cain asked.

Seven months ago, Julian answered.

My sister and I aren’t close, Ellie said. I can tell you what I know about her in three minutes or less.

We’d like to hear it, if you think it’ll help the case, Grant said.

Okay then. Ellie sat up straighter in her chair. We were separated when we were young, too young to remember, in fact. Lia and I are twins, but I never knew she existed until I inherited this house from my grandmother and moved to Charleston in September of last year. I found out about my sister by reading old journals of my mother’s that I came across in the attic. She saw the confused expression on Cain’s face and added, I know what you’re thinking, officer. How can a woman with fair skin, green eyes, and auburn hair like me be twins with a woman with such dark features. We’re fraternal twins. We look nothing alike.

Thanks for the clarification, he said, and nodded. Please continue.

After our discovery, as you can imagine, my father and I immediately went to Georgia looking for her. Little did we—

Wait a minute, Grant said. Are you saying your father didn’t know about your twin sister, either?

Ellie shook her head. "For personal reasons, my mother and grandmother chose to keep her existence a secret.