Aha, Mr. Butterbaugh had been the witness who’d come forward. “You heard an argument?”
“They were fighting all quietlike, but I was right around the corner waiting for Ms. Eulalie to finish up in the powder room. Miz Idella was there, too, but she was standing quietly off to the side looking like she’d rather be anywhere else in the whole world.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“Something about that pretty woman Miz Patricia had been yellin’ at earlier. She accused Mr. Haywood of sending a bunch of letters.”
Another mention of a letter. No, letters. Plural.
“Did he say anything in response to that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I heard someone coming and skedaddled before I was caught eavesdropping.”
If only Haywood would show up again, I could ask him about the letters, but he was still off doing his own thing.
Mr. Butterbaugh said, “To me it seemed like a whole lot of angry over nothing.”
It did. But under the fuss of Avery’s supposed party crashing, there was something bigger going on. Much bigger. I had to find out what. “Would you mind if I take a look at that basement, Mr. Butterbaugh?”
He cracked a smile. “Are you one of those ghost hunters, Miss Carly?”
I glanced over my shoulder at my spectral friends. “Something like that.”
Shrugging, he said, “I can’t see it doing no harm. When do you want to take a look?”
“How about just after I fix that potion for you? Do you have time?”
“Miss Carly, I have all the time in the world for you and your magic potions.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Mr. Butterbaugh and I made it to the Ezekiel mansion, the clouds had departed and I was grateful for my sunglasses as bright sunshine warmed the day.
Wet leaves plastered the sidewalk as we walked the lane toward the mansion, and I couldn’t help but admire the house in the light of day. Under the rays of the sun, it didn’t look creepy at all but rather warm and welcoming, as if wanting to tell its history to those happening by.
I tried to imagine the stories it could tell. Not only about the various eras it had seen, but also the people who’d lived here.
My gaze shot to the cemetery at the edge of the property as Mr. Butterbaugh led the way up the front walk. I fully expected to see a ghost or two floating near the iron fence, but there weren’t any to be seen.
I thanked my lucky stars for that. I had enough ghosts to deal with.
Mr. Butterbaugh was already looking a hair better since drinking the potion I’d made for him. A tincture of hawthorn berries and Leilara was just what he’d needed.
My daddy hadn’t been at all happy to see me and had lectured a good five minutes about taking some much-needed time off.
He said nothing about my nosing into Haywood’s case, but it was an unspoken elephant in the room. Seemed to me that he really wanted Patricia to sit in jail for a while.
I loved that about him.
I’d left my bike and cupcakes in his care while I went off with Mr. Butterbaugh to figure out why he kept hearing things go bump in the night.
Raindrops sparkled on the petals of colorful mums as Mr. Butterbaugh and I dodged puddles along the mansion’s front walkway. There wasn’t any crime tape strung across the front door, but as soon as we went inside, I spotted the yellow tape draped across the stairs.
“Sheriff says it’ll come down in a day or two,” Mr. Butterbaugh said, following my gaze. “The basement’s this way.” He motioned for me to follow him down a hallway and into the bright kitchen at the back of the house.
For a moment, I stopped to soak up the space. It looked like something out of a magazine, the perfect mix between rustic and modern. The hand-carved mahogany wainscoting was a work of art, and I couldn’t help myself from running a finger along the polished panels. A soaring floor-to-ceiling fireplace surround with detailed inlays complete with a large cast-iron pot hanging over a pile of stacked wood anchored the far end of the kitchen near the back door. Crystal kerosene lamps in differing shapes, sizes, and colors were displayed on the mantel.
Three tall windows flooded the kitchen with light, highlighting the dark pine floor, white cabinets with black metal pulls, stone countertops, and beautiful stained-glass pendant lights above a long center island. The decorating touches ranged from fresh fruit and empty vintage milk bottles, to a rusted rooster and a copper pot rack. The scent of something garlicky hung in the air, no doubt a remnant left behind by last night’s caterers.
It was beautiful.
And had to have cost a small fortune. Probably more than my whole house was worth.
“Nice, eh?” Mr. Butterbaugh said, looking around. “I don’t think Mr. Rupert ever could have imagined it looking this good.”