Sweat Tea Revenge

by Laura Childs

  There was no sound, save the monotonous drumming of rain on the roof and the gurgling of water as it rushed through the downspouts.

  Theodosia pushed the door all the way open and stepped across the threshold.

  “Dougan?”

  The room was completely dark and ominously quiet. Straight ahead, she could just make out a faint outline of heavy velvet draperies pulled across a bay window.

  Did Granville fall asleep? He must have. Wow, this is one relaxed guy on his wedding day.

  Shadows capered on the walls as she stepped past a looming wardrobe and pieces of furniture. The room had a strange electrical smell, as if an outside transformer had exploded. Theodosia tiptoed across the carpet, her silk mules whispering softly. When she reached the foot of the bed, she stared. A tiny bedside lamp shone a small circle of warmth on a battered bedside table, but there was no one lying on the bed. Nothing had creased the dusty pink coverlet.

  What on earth?

  Flustered, nervous now that they might have a runaway groom on their hands, Theodosia fumbled with the curtains and ripped them open. Lightning flashed outside, a sharp blade cutting through a wall of purple-black clouds.

  Still, this is better. A little more light.

  Just as Theodosia turned, something caught her eye. A fleeting image that she couldn’t quite process but one that unnerved her anyway. She slowly retraced her footsteps. Back to the sitting room area that had been in total darkness, as thunder boomed like kettle drums in some unholy symphony.

  That was when she saw him.

  Dougan Granville was sprawled on a brocade fainting couch. His eyes were squeezed shut; his head had fallen forward until his chin rested heavily on his chest. On the small glass table in front of him was an empty glassine envelope and a scatter of white powder.

  Theodosia tiptoed closer, her heart hammering in her chest, her brain shouting screams of protest. An unwanted shot of adrenaline sparked by surprise and fear had sent her blood pressure zooming. Still, she was mesmerized, hypnotized, at what she was seeing.

  Was Granville just stoned? Or . . . something worse?

  Theodosia moved closer and stretched out a tentative hand. The very tips of her fingers brushed the pulse point of his neck. Granville felt ice cold and lifeless. There was no pulse, no respiration.

  Revulsion and fear rose up inside her like sulfurous magma from a roiling volcano. Theodosia understood, logically and viscerally, that Granville hadn’t just fainted on this fainting couch like genteel ladies of old.

  This man was seriously, catastrophically, dead.

  2

  Brilliant light strobed over Theodosia’s right shoulder. Startled, she whirled around. Bill Glass, the sneaky, greasy publisher of the Shooting Star gossip tabloid, was standing there, hunched forward as he eagerly snapped photos!

  Theodosia threw up an arm in startled protest. “Stop that! Stop it immediately!”

  Glass, as local paparazzi, couldn’t care less. “Relax, baby,” he snarled. “This is pure gold. This is the kind of shot a guy like me dreams about.”

  Angered at his insensitivity, Theodosia got physical with him. She thrust out both hands and shoved Glass so hard he lost his balance and bounced against the door frame.

  “Take it easy,” cautioned Glass. “You’re gonna break my camera!”

  “Are you not hearing me?” Theodosia hissed. “Get out of here immediately!”

  Glass retreated one step but raised his camera. “Don’t you get it? I’m supposed to be here. I was hired to take pictures. I was promised an exclusive!”

  “Maybe on the wedding,” said Theodosia. “But certainly not on someone’s death!”

  Bill Glass scrunched his face into a look of keen interest. “Is he dead? Are you sure about that?” He was a brusque-looking man with slicked-back hair and olive skin. Today, instead of his de rigueur khaki photo journalist vest he wore a wrinkled sharkskin suit, his one concession to the occasion.

  Startled, Theodosia turned to stare at Dougan Granville again. “I think he’s dead.”

  Glass pulled out his cell phone and waggled it at her. “Then maybe I should call 911?”

  “Do that,” said Theodosia, finally facing the fact they had a genuine emergency on their hands. “While I . . .” She didn’t want to finish her sentence. She didn’t want to finish her thought. Because she knew it was going to be up to her to deal with Delaine.

  I’m going to tell Delaine what? That her husband tooted up on cocaine and overdosed?

  Bad idea. Because as damning as the evidence looked, maybe that wasn’t what had really happened.

  Maybe.

  As soon as Glass finished his call, Theodosia grabbed him by the lapels and shook him with all her strength. “Don’t you dare take one more photo,” she ordered. “Stay right here, close the door, and do not let a single living soul inside this room until the police and paramedics arrive.” She shot him a warning gaze. “Do you hear me? Can you do that?”

  “Bet your life, sweetheart,” said Glass. He seemed almost amused by her anger and fury.

  “And don’t you dare take another photo.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand at her.

  “I’m going to go talk to the bride,” said Theodosia, steeling herself, wishing this odious task hadn’t landed on her shoulders.

  “Are you gonna tell her the groom OD’d?” asked Glass.

  “I . . . I’m going to tell her the wedding’s off,” said Theodosia.

  “Then you’d better tell all those swells that are sitting downstairs to go on home.”

  “No,” said Theodosia, sighing deeply. “I can’t do that. They might be witnesses.” She took another deep breath. “Or, worse yet, suspects.”

  * * *

  Delaine was disbelieving, verging on hysterical. She stared wide-eyed at Theodosia. “It must be one of the groomsmen you saw!”

  Theodosia shook her head. This was the second time she’d gone through her story. Delaine was having a horrible time processing the grisly news. Theodosia stood in the doorway, conveniently blocking Delaine’s exit, while Delaine sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands worked furiously, twisting her four-carat yellow diamond engagement ring until her finger was red and raw.

  “I simply don’t believe you,” said Delaine, as her sister continued to tip-tap at the closed door like an annoying woodpecker and the rest of the bridesmaids buzzed around outside. “I have to go see for myself!”

  “No, you don’t want to do that,” said Theodosia. “Not until the police and paramedics arrive.”

  Delaine leaned forward and grasped Theodosia’s hands. “Are you telling me there’s hope? Oh, please say there is!”

  “No, there are just, um, extenuating circumstances.”

  Delaine rolled her eyes. “You keep talking in circles, Theo, but what are you really saying?”

  “You have to trust me,” said Theodosia. “We have to wait until the police and paramedics arrive. Let them minister to him. Then you can go see him.”

  “You keep saying that!” complained Delaine. “And it’s really quite maddening!” She fought to rip her veil off, but it was clipped in securely. “In fact, you’re driving me crazy!”

  Theodosia grabbed a bottle of mineral water that was sitting on a side table, twisted off the cap, and handed it to Delaine. “Here. Have a sip of water. Try to calm down.”

  “I’m trying,” said Delaine. “Believe me, I’m trying.” She jiggled the bottle back and forth and said, in a little-girl voice, “Are there any cold ones?”

  “Maybe,” said Theodosia, moving toward the mini bar.

  That was Delaine’s cue to bound to her feet and rush for the door. Flinging it wide open, she pushed her way through the cluster of anxious bridesmaids that hovered like gnats. Then, wedding gown and silk veil billowing out behind her, one high heel fly
ing off her foot, she flew down the hallway.

  “Delaine!” Theodosia shouted, sprinting after her. “Wait! Please don’t go in there!”

  Delaine was fast, but Theodosia was faster. Her years of jogging in White Point Gardens with her dog, Earl Grey, had paid off. She managed to grab the tail end of Delaine’s veil just as she was ten feet from Granville’s room. Grasping yards of imported French tulle, Theodosia reeled Delaine in like a prize marlin.

  “Stop it! You’re hurting me!” cried Delaine, clapping a hand to the back of her head.

  “You stop!” Theodosia ordered. Then she carefully adjusted her tone. After all, this was a decorous moment. “Please, honey, you don’t want to see him right now.”

  “But I have to see him!” shrilled Delaine.

  At which point Bill Glass casually opened the door to see what all the commotion was about, and Delaine slipped into the room.

  “Now you’ve done it!” said Theodosia, flapping a hand at Glass. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “What?” said Glass, feigning innocence.

  “Aiyeeee!” came Delaine’s tortured, high-pitched scream.

  “How was I supposed to know she was gonna rush in there like that?” said Glass. He had two cameras slung around his neck and was about to light a cigarette.

  Theodosia grabbed the cigarette from his mouth. “Don’t do that. Show a little respect, will you?” She slammed around the corner and into Granville’s room.

  Delaine had found her fiancé, all right. In fact, she’d managed to collapse on the fainting couch right next to Granville. Her entire body was slumped against his lifeless one as she buried her face in her hands and wept uncontrollably.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, the room became a veritable rugby scrum. Two uniformed officers arrived along with a pair of paramedics, a clattering metal gurney, and all manner of lifesaving equipment. Frank and Sarah Rattling, the owners of Ravencrest Inn, had also rushed upstairs and now hovered nearby.

  But as much as the paramedics shocked Granville’s heart with their portable defibrillator and pumped in liters of oxygen, as much as Delaine prayed and begged, it was simply no use. Granville was beyond the pale.

  Relegated now to standing in the hallway, peeking in at the commotion, Theodosia fretted. With drugs so obviously involved, quite possibly cocaine, she knew it was only a matter of time before a police detective would be called to the scene.

  A sudden tap on her shoulder startled Theodosia and caused her to flinch and whirl about nervously.

  But it was Drayton who stared down at her with sad, gray eyes. He was accompanied by Charles Horton, Granville’s stepson, a chunky fellow in his early thirties with a pink scrubbed face, brush-cut blond hair, and a flash of gold Rolex.

  “How is he?” Drayton asked.

  “Has there been any response?” asked Horton. A few minutes earlier, Theodosia had cued both Drayton and Horton in on all the trouble.

  Theodosia shook her head. “Nothing at all.” She jerked her chin toward the paramedics. “And they’ve been working on him nonstop. Pretty much tried everything. Chest compressions, shocking him, giving him a syringe of some kind of thrombolytic drug.”

  “Then he’s a goner,” said Drayton, while Horton just stared in horror.

  “I’m afraid he was from the moment I found him,” said Theodosia. She glanced into the room again where the paramedics were still working, then murmured, “Awful. Just awful.”

  “If you ask me,” Drayton said in a low voice, as Horton slipped into the room, “this wedding, this marriage, was snake-bit from the very beginning.”

  “I don’t know,” said Theodosia, because she really didn’t. “They seemed very sincere.”

  “Perhaps,” said Drayton. “Perhaps I shouldn’t judge.”

  “What’s going on downstairs?” asked Theodosia. “None of the guests have left yet, have they?”

  “No,” said Drayton. “They’re all milling about, looking unhappy and slightly uncomfortable. Fact is, they haven’t been told about Granville yet. I merely explained to them that there’d been an extraordinary delay due to ill health.”

  “That’s not going to hold them for very long,” said Theodosia. There were dozens of bigwigs downstairs. True to form, Delaine had invited as many politicos, society people, and nouveau riche as she could possibly cram into a single room. Which made for a fairly lethal and paranoid gathering.

  Drayton edged toward the doorway to peer in. “Was it really cocaine?” he asked. “Is that what killed him?”

  “Apparently,” said Theodosia. “At least I think so.” The paramedics had transferred Granville to a gurney now and were about to roll him out head first. Delaine clutched pathetically at the arms of their blue jumpsuits, imploring the paramedics to keep working, begging them to try just one more lifesaving measure.

  “We’ve tried everything humanly possible,” said one of the paramedics. The name tag on his jacket read J. Evans. His youthful face was grim as he rolled the gurney forward.

  “There must be something!” begged Delaine.

  Theodosia stared down at Granville as they humped the front wheels of the gurney across the threshold and out into the hallway. His head bobbled loosely from the jolt, and the skin on his face looked dry and flaky, like ancient parchment. There was a faint scatter of white dust under one nostril. Granville was utterly lifeless and ghostly pale. Except . . . Theodosia bent forward, then did a sort of double take. Except for a pinprick smear of something dark on the flat white pillow they’d slipped under his head.

  Blood?

  Inhaling softly, Theodosia considered this and quickly deliberated. Then she held up a hand and said in a voice that was eerily calm, “There’s one more thing you need to do.”

  Evans looked up at her sharply, a question on his face, and said, “What’s that?”

  “An autopsy,” said Theodosia. “Take a look at this man’s head. He may have been snorting coke, but I think somebody also hit him on the back of his head.”

  “They what?” said Delaine. She released her grasp on the paramedic and stared at Theodosia. Her lips puckered in amazement, her eyes were the size of saucers.

  “There’s blood,” said Theodosia, pointing. “On the back of his head. Like somebody might have clobbered him with something.”

  Evans quickly slid the gurney back into the room. “Let me take a look at that,” he said. He didn’t doubt her, but he did want to see for himself. His latex-gloved hands lifted Granville’s head and rotated it slowly. “Hmm, there is a little nick.” He paused. “Actually, not that small. Just difficult to see through all his hair.”

  “Easy to miss,” said Theodosia. They’d been so busy working on his heart and respiration, they hadn’t had time for a full examination.

  “Wait a minute,” Delaine said in a hushed tone. “Are you saying that Dougan was murdered? That someone hit him on the head?”

  “This could change everything,” said Evans.

  Now Drayton got into the act. “But what could have struck him so hard that he was mortally injured?”

  Theodosia gazed at the glass table with the glassine envelope and the white powder. She raised her eyes and looked at the love seat. Not much love there. Then she studied the built-in wooden shelves directly behind the love seat. Her eyes flicked across a row of heavy, globe-shaped glass paperweights. There was dark red glass, clear glass with purple swirls, and milky white glass with spatters of red, like confetti. All were softball-sized and potentially deadly, especially if brought down hard on someone’s skull in a swift, deadly arc and wielded by a person intent on murder.

  Suddenly, her mind still clicking in analytic mode, Theodosia realized that, in this line of perfectly arranged paperweights, one was decidedly missing.

  “The paperweight,” said Theodosia. “Find the missing paperweight and maybe you’
ll find the murder weapon.”

  “Murder weapon?” a gruff voice thundered from behind her. “Who said anything about murder?”

  3

  Detective Burt Tidwell loomed in the doorway like an enormous incarnation of Tweedledee (or Tweedledum). To say the man was overweight would be polite. His jowls sloshed; the vest of his suit strained across the bulk of his weather balloon–sized belly. The pop of a single button could be lethal to anyone in its way. His suit was sloppy and his cop shoes lacked polish. Yet his dark eyes shone with intensity. Tidwell headed the Robbery-Homicide Division of the Charleston Police Department and had a reputation for being taciturn, brilliant, and fearless. The officers who worked for him were either cowed or enormously respectful. Truth be known, the ones who worked directly under him would probably trek across hot coals if he barked the order.

  “Detective Tidwell,” said Theodosia. “Imagine seeing you here.” She thought it unusual that a departmental head would answer a routine call like this. Then again, maybe he was here because it was Saturday. Or because he’d been specifically requested. Or maybe because Tidwell had no life at all.

  Tidwell stepped into the room, his keen eyes probing and absorbing the crime scene in about five seconds flat. Then he leaned down and peered thoughtfully at Dougan Granville, who lay stiffening on his gurney. “Wrongful death,” were Tidwell’s only muttered words.

  “Well, we know that!” said Delaine, staring at him with anger and concern. “What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Why don’t we begin by having everyone exit the room,” said Tidwell.

  “Are you serious?” said Delaine. “But I’m . . . I’m the bride!”

  “And I’m in charge,” said Tidwell. He made a shooing gesture. “Out. Everyone.” When one of the EMTs put his hand on the rail of the gurney to push that out, too, he said, “No, leave him. He’s fine just as he is.”

  Everyone shuffled through the doorway, heads turned and glancing back, leaving Tidwell in their wake.