Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  “Let’s try to turn her over, make sure she’s breathing,” Theodosia said. She was keenly aware of the buzz of voices behind her and realized that more party guests had spilled into the hallway.

  “Theo?” a woman’s voice called out. “What happened?”

  Theodosia allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder and saw her friend Delaine Dish, her brows puckered, expression solemn, eyes scared and jittery.

  “I don’t know,” Theodosia said. “She just collapsed. She’s . . .”

  “Slide your hands under her shoulders,” Drayton said. “We’ll try to change her position and see if we can make her more comfortable.”

  “Okay,” Theodosia said. Miss Drucilla was hunched up and still facedown. Not moving a single muscle.

  Drayton was deeply shaken but still gamely hanging in there. “Okay. Ready?”

  Theodosia nodded. She tried to gather Miss Drucilla up gently, like you would a sleeping child, then turn her over carefully.

  “Oh my, I’m not sure about this.” There was a momentary hesitation as panic flared in Drayton’s voice. “We’d best be careful.”

  “Let’s try to shift her very gingerly.” Theodosia knew something had to be done—and fast. But as she started to move Miss Drucilla, the woman’s head lolled heavily onto one shoulder and her eyes remained tightly shut, as if she’d experienced some terrible horror.

  “Okay . . . easy.” Drayton was trying his best but Miss Drucilla’s face was a washed-out pale oval, and there was a terrible finality about her.

  “Drayton!” Theodosia cried as they began to slowly turn Miss Drucilla. “Look at . . .” Theodosia’s heart lurched crazily, and she gasped, words logjamming in her throat. Finally, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed.

  Reacting to the shock on Theodosia’s face, Drayton widened his eyes with worry. Then he saw what she was pointing at.

  “Oh no,” he groaned.

  Someone had plunged a bright orange syringe deep into Miss Drucilla’s throat!

  2

  Screams rose up from the guests who had clustered in close. Then the entire group began to shout en masse!

  “What’s stuck in her throat?” one man demanded.

  “Get back. She needs air!” another man cried.

  “Did she faint?” a woman asked. Standing at the back of the pack, she jumped up and down, desperately trying to get a look.

  “What happened?” another voice trembled.

  Their shrieks and cries rose in an unholy cacophony that was almost as bad as the faulty alarm system.

  Pauline Stauber, Miss Drucilla’s personal assistant, was the first person to batter her way through the wall of stunned onlookers and drop to her knees. “Oh no,” she cried. “What happened? What’s . . . what’s that stuck in her throat?”

  Theodosia was still cradling Miss Drucilla’s head. “Don’t touch her,” she warned. “Don’t touch anything.” Then, “Who are you again?” She’d been introduced to the woman some three hours earlier, but couldn’t remember what part she played in the household.

  “I’m Pauline, Miss Drucilla’s personal assistant,” the woman said. She was in her mid-twenties, dressed in a fuzzy white sweater and a black skirt that revealed a zaftig figure. Her hair was a streaky blond brown and worn shoulder length. Fear shone in amber eyes that, under better circumstances, were probably warm and filled with humor. Theodosia decided that Pauline looked a lot like a concerned kindergarten teacher.

  Screams and cries had alerted the rest of the guests, and now nearly three dozen people—everyone who could cram themselves into the hallway anyway—pressed in around them.

  Drayton looked up, his face ashen. With a mixture of shock and sadness in his voice, he said, “I think Miss Drucilla is gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?” demanded a shrill voice at the back of the pack.

  Drayton’s voice was a hoarse croak as his hand indicated—but didn’t touch—the syringe. “I think . . . I think perhaps she’s been drugged?”

  Pauline immediately burst into tears while everyone else seemed to ratchet up their babbling.

  “Drugs? Who would do this?” a man demanded. He glared at the crowd around him, suspicion evident on his face.

  “Someone killed Miss Drucilla?” a woman asked in a querulous voice.

  “Ohmygosh, look at her hands!” Delaine shouted as she pushed and shoved her way to the front of the group. “All her beautiful rings are gone!” She touched a hand to her neck as if fearing she could be the next victim. “Miss Drucilla’s been murdered and robbed!”

  Theodosia blinked as she took in the scene. Pauline crying, Delaine shouting, stunned faces gaping at her. She tried to make sense of this alien scene. Tried to figure out what could have happened. Someone had attacked Miss Drucilla when the alarm went off the second time and then . . .

  Before she could pull her thoughts together, loud voices erupted in the hallway. Then two EMTs, hauling a clanking metal gurney, broke through the jittery crowd. With barely a wasted motion, they were down on their hands and knees and pulling equipment from their medical packs.

  “Priority one,” the first EMT, a serious-looking African-American woman, said to the second EMT. Her name tag read ludlow; his read slager.

  Theodosia figured priority one must be code for a big bad emergency.

  Both EMTs worked feverishly, following the ABC protocol of checking airway, breathing, and circulation.

  Still, it didn’t look good for Miss Drucilla. She wasn’t responding to anything they tried and her lips had begun to turn blue.

  “Naloxone?” Slager asked.

  Ludlow, the lead EMT, looked up at the crowd. “Anybody know what drug she was hit with?”

  Nobody knew. Or if they did, they were remaining silent to cover up a nasty murder.

  Without hesitating, Ludlow grabbed a preloaded syringe and injected Miss Drucilla. “Come on, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You can do this.”

  But in the end, after all lifesaving measures were attempted, Miss Drucilla really couldn’t.

  And even though the two grim-faced, tight-lipped EMTs continued to work over her, Miss Drucilla was clearly deceased.

  Sobs broke out. Men hung their heads. And finally, four uniformed police officers arrived to try to clear the hallway and push everyone out of the way.

  “You’re not going to transport her?” Theodosia asked Ms. Ludlow.

  Ludlow shook her head. “I’m sorry. She’s gone.”

  “What now?” Drayton asked.

  “That hypo stuck in her neck?” Ludlow said. “Means we have to wait for an investigator.”

  * * *

  * * *

  But they didn’t have to wait long.

  The slam of the front door, heavy tread on the marble tile, the crowd parting like the proverbial Red Sea meant Detective Burt Tidwell had finally put in an appearance.

  Big, burly, and bristly, Burt Tidwell headed the Charleston Police Department’s Robbery and Homicide Division. Not only was he short-tempered and grouchy; he was your basic evil genius. He’d cut his teeth with the FBI, then switched over to police work. His close rate was phenomenal; his staff of detectives was in awe of him and sometimes feared him. Still, they would have tiptoed barefoot across a bed of white-hot coals if he’d asked.

  Tonight Tidwell was dressed in a baggy tweed jacket that barely stretched around his ample girth, voluminous drab slacks the viscous brown color of pluff mud, and clunky thick-soled cop shoes with reinforced steel toes. Presumably for kicking in doors.

  As Tidwell slouched his way toward the dead woman on the floor, his beady eyes roved across the crowd that had inched its way back to the murder scene. Then he nodded at the EMTs, cast a quick glance at Theodosia hovering nearby, and knelt down carefully so as not to disturb the body. He put his face as close to the syringe in Miss Druc
illa’s neck as possible, studied it, then pulled back. His thick lips twisted in a grimace.

  “It looks as if someone injected her with a narcotic,” Theodosia said. She felt comfortable speaking up because she knew Detective Tidwell. Well, sort of knew him. They had a running battle about her getting too involved in a few of his cases.

  Tidwell nodded without looking at her. “Could be a DIH,” was his gruff reply.

  “What is that exactly?” Theodosia asked.

  “Drug-induced homicide,” Tidwell said.

  That dropped a terrible pall of silence over the entire group.

  Tidwell beetled his brows, looked at the gaggle of subdued guests, and said, “We need to take names and interview witnesses.” He turned and gazed at the four officers who were watching him carefully and said, “Get to work, boys.”

  “What else?” Theodosia asked as the entire group started churning and swarming like ants at a picnic.

  “Crime Scene Team,” Tidwell said.

  “And they’re . . .”

  “On their way,” Tidwell said. “So. Besides the syringe lodged in this unfortunate woman’s neck, what else can you tell me?”

  “Someone stole all of Miss Drucilla’s rings,” Drayton said, his voice trembling slightly as he stepped forward. “Pulled them right off her fingers.”

  Tidwell studied her hands. “I see that.”

  “This is an absolute nightmare,” Drayton continued. “Miss Drucilla was so happy and carefree only a short while ago when she showed us her rings. ‘Five gold rings’ was how she phrased it. You know, like from that song ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ But now . . . one can barely comprehend that some monster crept in and killed her! Made off with every one of her diamond rings.” He shook his head, unable to process such senseless cruelty and violence.

  Theodosia, who’d been eyeing the wall directly behind Drayton, suddenly spoke up. “I’m afraid Miss Drucilla’s collection of rings isn’t the only thing missing.” She lifted a hand and pointed to a conspicuous blank space. “So is the painting that was hanging right there.”

  “What!” Drayton cried as he spun around. Others had overheard Theodosia’s words and were staring at the wall as well.

  Tidwell’s mouth worked furiously for a few moments as he digested this new revelation. He took a step forward and said, “A painting?” His eyes swept the gallery of paintings that were clustered like large colorful postage stamps on the wall. He seemed to be confirming the fact that a blank space did exist.

  “I swear!” A man’s voice rose in stunned shock. “I think the painting that hung there . . . it was a Renoir!”

  Tidwell whirled about, a fierce look on his broad face. “A what? Explain please.”

  “Pierre-Auguste Renoir, the French artist who was one of the leaders of the Impressionist style,” the man said. He was red-faced and nervous, and a charcoal suit hung on his spare frame.

  “You’re telling me a valuable painting is missing?” Tidwell asked. “A genuine Renoir?”

  The man nodded solemnly. “I think so. No, I’m sure of it.”

  Tidwell squinted at him. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Harold Linder,” the man said. “I live right down the block.”

  The discovery of a missing Renoir hit Theodosia hard. “How could this happen?” she wondered out loud. She put a hand to her head as if to still the pounding inside her brain. “One minute I was talking to Miss Drucilla—talking about her jewelry as a matter of fact. And the next minute she’s sprawled in the hallway—dead.”

  “Whoever did this worked fast,” Tidwell said.

  “But . . .” Theodosia began.

  “And used a fast-acting drug,” Tidwell said.

  “What do you think it was? Some kind of street drug?” Theodosia knew her questions were macabre, but felt compelled to ask them anyway.

  “Could’ve been a street drug,” Tidwell said. “A baggie of heroin can be had for around twenty bucks. There are other heroin combos even more lethal. What you’d call a hot shot that goes straight to the heart. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the ME takes a look and runs a toxicology screen.” He glanced around. “Who, um . . . Is there someone who works here?”

  Pauline raised a tentative hand and said in a small voice, “That would be me.”

  Tidwell motioned for Pauline to step forward. “Who are you?”

  “Pauline Stauber, Miss Drucilla’s personal assistant.”

  “Was she under a doctor’s care?” Tidwell asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you know if Miss Drucilla was taking any medication?”

  “Some. Yes. I can’t . . . um . . .”

  “No problem. I’ll have one of my officers check the medicine cabinet.”

  Because Pauline looked so devastated, Theodosia sought to distract her.

  “Pauline, how many people were in attendance tonight?” she asked.

  “Um . . . around three dozen?” Pauline said. “Mostly friends and business acquaintances, though a few were executive directors of charities she supported.”

  “Can you recall some of their names?”

  Pauline thought for a moment. “Sawyer Daniels, that’s Miss Drucilla’s finance guy, and Majel, she’s the executive director of . . . um . . .”

  “Better yet, do you have a guest list?” Theodosia asked.

  “I suppose I do.” Looking lost, Pauline touched a hand to her forehead and said, “Somewhere.”

  Tidwell turned his attention back to them. “We’ll need that guest list ASAP.” Then he frowned and said, “Besides the guests, do you know if anybody else was here tonight?”

  “Tonight? Besides the guests and caterers? I don’t think so.” Pauline was still shaken and discombobulated. Then her forehead wrinkled and she said, “Well, maybe just Smokey.”

  “ ‘Just Smokey,’ ” Tidwell said. “Who is ‘just Smokey’?”

  “Smokey Pruitt. He’s a guy who does odd jobs for Miss Drucilla and a few of the other neighbors,” Pauline said.

  “Was he here tonight?” Theodosia asked.

  Tidwell made a face—he didn’t appreciate Theodosia butting in—but he remained silent so Pauline could answer his question.

  “I . . .” Pauline half-closed her eyes, thinking. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, then, where does Smokey live?” Theodosia asked. She hadn’t seen any kind of handyman stumping around in the kitchen or butler’s pantry. But that didn’t mean one hadn’t ghosted through.

  “Smokey lives in my carriage house,” said a large barrel-chested man in an impeccable Armani suit. “For now anyway.” He stepped forward and gave a tentative smile. He had slicked-back brown hair, a broad face, and little pink pouches under his eyes. A large gold Rolex, the size of an old-fashioned alarm clock, circled his wrist. Theodosia figured him for either a banker or a racetrack tout.

  “Who are you and where is this carriage house?” Tidwell asked.

  “I’m Donny Bragg, one of the neighbors. My place is three houses down from here.”

  “The old Caswell Mansion,” Drayton murmured. A history buff and longtime Charleston resident, he was well versed on the provenance of every mansion, townhome, and single house in Charleston’s Historic District.

  Tidwell ignored Drayton’s comment. “And why exactly does this Smokey person reside in your carriage house?”

  “Well, it’s more like a studio apartment above my garage,” Bragg explained.

  “Doesn’t matter. Why does he live there?” Tidwell asked.

  “Smokey’s been making repairs on my back porch. A bunch of pesky termites moved in and started messing with my Carolina pine.” Bragg gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s the problem with these old homes that have been around for a hundred and fifty years. It’s patch, patch, patch, and then a
new problem crops up.”

  “Yes, fine,” Tidwell said. “We’ll be sure to interview this Smokey fellow.”

  “And the three dozen guests,” Theodosia murmured. It sounded like a thankless task, a long, hard slog that might not turn up anything at all. In her mind the killer was long gone. He’d rabbited out the door with the diamonds and Renoir painting in hand. Which might point to an educated, erudite killer.

  When the Crime Scene Team arrived, they hustled everyone out of the hallway and set up a hard perimeter. Theodosia and Drayton lingered in the front hallway, feeling disheartened, wondering what to do next.

  “The food,” Drayton said. “We should pack it up and”—he shrugged—“I don’t know what.”

  “We’ll donate it,” Theodosia said. “Take it to one of the food kitchens. At least it will go to good use.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  Theodosia turned her gaze to Detective Tidwell. Though interviewing guests, he seemed strangely upset. She’d never known Tidwell to be emotionally involved in any of his cases.

  Finally, when he drifted over to give Theodosia and Drayton the okay to leave, he said, “I knew her.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” Theodosia said.

  “Miss Drucilla was a wonderful woman,” Tidwell said. “She single-handedly kept our Police Officers’ Children’s Fund going when there was no money to be had anywhere. For someone to sneak into her home and murder her— Well, he has to be the worst kind of rabid animal.”

  “And you intend to catch him,” Theodosia said.

  Tidwell’s eyes blazed. “I intend to put him down.”

  3

  At eight a.m. on a cool but sunny Monday morning, with a few pink-tinged clouds overhead, Theodosia parked her Jeep in the alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop and let herself in the back door. She dumped her coat and bag in her small, overstuffed office, walked down the hallway that led past the kitchen, and stopped in her tracks. Drayton and Haley were sitting at one of the small tables in the tea room, talking quietly, with steaming cups of tea set in front of them. The aroma that permeated the shop was fragrant and bright. So perhaps they’d brewed a Darjeeling?