Sweat Tea Revenge

by Laura Childs

  “Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick?” said Theodosia. “Please.”

  “The point is,” said Tidwell, “you’re jumping to conclusions. Correction, you’re leaping to them. So kindly stop.”

  “Okay, how about this little tidbit? Have you heard of a guy named Bobby St. Cloud? He’s supposed to be Granville’s cigar supplier.”

  “And where did you pick up that rumor?”

  “From Bill Glass.”

  “Bill Glass dines out on rumors,” said Tidwell.

  “I realize that,” said Theodosia. “But somebody should check it out.”

  “That someone being me?”

  “Well . . . yes. I suppose so,” said Theodosia. “And then if you could just . . .”

  But Tidwell had already hung up.

  “Get back to me,” Theodosia said into dead air. She balanced the phone in her hand, thinking, then hung it back on the wall.

  “Problems?” asked Drayton.

  “Maybe,” said Theodosia. “But nothing I can’t handle.” She untied her apron and hung it on a peg.

  Drayton cocked an eye at her. “Good heavens, you’re going out again?”

  “Apologies,” said Theodosia. “But I have to. I made a promise to Delaine.”

  “I imagine you’re going to the funeral home?”

  “I wish,” said Theodosia. “Since it would probably be a lot more hospitable.” When Drayton looked confused, she explained. “We’re going to pay a visit to Granville and Grumley.”

  “Ah,” said Drayton. “The law firm. Well, try to keep your wits about you, especially since you’ll have Delaine in tow. Those lawyer fellows can be awfully cunning.”

  “That’s what worries me,” said Theodosia.

  10

  The offices of Granville and Grumley were located in a huge brick mansion just two blocks from Meeting and Broad Street, what was commonly known in Charleston as the Four Corners of Law.

  As they approached the double doors, thick glass faced with curlicue wrought iron, Delaine reached out and squeezed Theodosia’s hand.

  “Thank you for doing this,” said Delaine. “Thank you for coming along as moral support.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Theodosia.

  “And by the way, you look very nice,” said Delaine.

  Theodosia had tossed a navy blue blazer over her khakis and white T-shirt. And, at the last minute, she had tied on a printed scarf to add a little dash. Delaine, of course, looked very glamorous and adult in her tomato-red skirt suit and sky-high white Manolos.

  “Thank you, I . . .”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Simone?” Delaine interrupted.

  “I stopped by her shop this morning.”

  “And?”

  “Not much to tell,” said Theodosia. “She claims to be very upset about Granville’s passing.”

  “Huh,” snorted Delaine. “What did you think of her shop? Of the vintage clothing? Pretty ratty stuff, right?” Delaine had recently added a few racks of vintage clothing in her Cotton Duck boutique, so she was understandably nervous.

  “Actually, her shop looked very nice,” said Theodosia. “But there was one thing . . .” She wondered if she should reveal her discovery of the paperweights to Delaine. Well, why not?

  “Oh?” said Delaine. “What was that?”

  “Simone had a couple of glass paperweights.”

  Delaine’s eyes went huge. “Are you serious? You mean like the one that cracked poor Dougan’s skull? Like that?”

  “Similar to the one that might have dealt the fatal blow,” said Theodosia.

  “I hope you told Detective Tidwell about this!”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Is he going to arrest her?”

  “I doubt it,” said Theodosia. “In fact, he didn’t seem particularly concerned.”

  Delaine was aghast. “Well, I never . . . !”

  “Please don’t be disheartened,” said Theodosia. “We’ll get to the bottom of Dougan’s death yet.”

  Delaine worried her front teeth against her bottom lip. “What about the drugs? Did you ask Simone about the drugs?”

  “She swore she had no knowledge of drug use.”

  “His or hers?” asked Delaine.

  “Either.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “I really don’t know what to think,” said Theodosia. And she didn’t. The evidence in Granville’s room had been fairly damning. And as far as Granville using drugs with Simone . . . well, that was in the past. So who knew?

  “She’s a druggie,” Delaine said, and there was harsh conviction in her voice. “I mean, how else does the woman stay so gosh-darn skinny?”

  “I can think of a few ways,” said Theodosia.

  * * *

  Millie Grant greeted them with a nervous smile. “They’re expecting you,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Who is?” asked Theodosia. She wanted to know exactly what she was in for.

  “Mr. Grumley and Mr. Horton,” said Millie.

  “Both of them?” said Theodosia.

  Millie’s head bobbed. “It looks that way.”

  “I was under the impression I was meeting only with Allan Grumley,” said Delaine. She’d walked in under full steam; now her confidence seemed to be eroding.

  Millie looked apologetic as she led them to a conference room. “It seems strange to me, too,” she whispered.

  “Millie,” said Theodosia, “I know this question is way out of left field, but do you know anything about a shipment of cigars?”

  Millie’s brows knit together. “I know that Mr. Granville owned a cigar shop, but . . . why, is something missing?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Theodosia.

  Millie shook her head. “I don’t really know much about the shop. He kept his different businesses fairly compartmentalized.”

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. “But if you hear anything . . .”

  “If I do, I’ll be sure to let you know,” Millie whispered. Then, in a louder voice, she said, “You can wait in here.”

  Theodosia glanced around the conference room. It basically screamed law office. The walls were burnished wood, the conference table an acre of polished mahogany. A dozen red leather chairs with hobnail studs were clustered around the table. Law books populated the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at both ends of the room.

  “Tailor made for billy goats,” Theodosia remarked.

  “Excuse me?” said Delaine.

  “Billy goats,” said Theodosia. “Men who posture and prance and try to intimidate.”

  Delaine smiled faintly. “Which describes this law firm to a T.”

  “That’s right,” said Theodosia. “So don’t let these trappings fool you.”

  “Ladies!” Allan Grumley exclaimed loudly as he bustled in to greet them. Grumley was balding and portly and possessed the flat eyes of a rattlesnake. His suit was hand-tailored, his fingernails were buffed to a high gloss, and his watch was a vintage Cartier. He looked like old money with a side of trouble.

  “Good day, Mr. Grumley,” Delaine said demurely as she offered a hand. “I think you know my friend Theodosia Browning . . .”

  “Indeed I do,” said Grumley, smiling and showing a wide expanse of teeth.

  Theodosia had met Allan Grumley for the briefest moment last Saturday at Ravencrest Inn, and he’d hardly been warm or even cordial to her. Really, not even tepid. But today Grumley was smiling, chattering away like crazy, and pulling out chairs for them. She figured he must be up to something.

  “I understand Charles Horton wants to join us, too?” said Theodosia.

  “Indeed, he does,” said Grumley.

  “Why would that be?” asked Theodosia.

  Grumley was taken aback. “W
hy . . . because he’s a relative.”

  “Not really,” said Delaine.

  “As I understand the situation,” said Theodosia, “Miss Dish is here because she was named beneficiary in Mr. Granville’s life insurance policy. Is that not so?”

  “You’re quite correct,” said Grumley, steepling his fingers together and staring at her from across the table.

  “Which makes this a private matter,” said Theodosia.

  Grumley looked momentarily stunned. “Fine,” he said. “If you wish this meeting to remain completely private, Miss Dish, then that’s what we shall do.”

  “Please,” said Delaine. Delaine was a social gadabout, a world-class gossip, and a demon when it came to twisting people’s arms and raising money for charitable causes, but right now she seemed more than a little shaken.

  “So the life insurance,” said Theodosia, trying to hasten things along.

  “It’s all fairly straightforward,” said Grumley. “Miss Dish was the sole beneficiary and will receive the sum of half a million dollars.”

  “Goodness!” said Delaine. “I had no idea it was so much!”

  “My partner was generous to a fault,” said Grumley. “And, as you can see, he firmly believed in estate planning.”

  “About the estate,” said Theodosia. Her confident smile let Allan Grumley know he wasn’t the only friendly barracuda in the room.

  Grumley raised his brows as if making a polite inquiry. “Yes?”

  “Delaine was under the impression that she’d been named in Mr. Granville’s will,” said Theodosia.

  Now Grumley drummed his fingers on the table. “Uh-huh.”

  “Since you are Mr. Granville’s former law partner,” said Theodosia, “I’m going to assume that you were the one who drew up his will.”

  More drumming of fingers. “Uh-huh,” Grumley said again.

  “Did you?” Theodosia pressed. Honestly, this was like pulling teeth.

  Grumley’s chuckle was harsh and forced. “I did indeed. But I’m afraid we’re not able to move ahead with that piece of business.”

  “Why on earth not?” asked Delaine.

  “Please explain,” said Theodosia. And this time she wasn’t smiling.

  “Since there is a murder investigation under way,” said Grumley, “the police have requested that the deceased’s last will and testament not be released.”

  “That seems like an unusual request,” said Theodosia. She decided she’d better check with Tidwell to verify that.

  “These are unusual circumstances,” said Grumley.

  “And once the circumstances are resolved?” said Theodosia.

  “Then the contents of the will shall be made known and will proceed through probate,” said Grumley.

  “And on to the heirs,” said Delaine.

  “Unless . . .” said Grumley. He held up an index finger. “Unless someone challenges the will or elects to make a claim.”

  “Who would do that?” asked Delaine.

  “Family,” said Grumley.

  “Or extended family?” said Theodosia.

  “Possibly,” said Grumley.

  “Like Charles Horton?” Delaine spat out.

  Grumley just lifted a hand.

  * * *

  Two minutes later, out on the front sidewalk, Delaine turned to Theodosia and said, “That turned out to be a big nothing.”

  “On the contrary,” said Theodosia.

  Delaine’s brows pinched together. “Did I miss something?”

  Theodosia smiled. “We found out that you’re getting Granville’s life insurance, that you’re undoubtedly mentioned in his will, and that Charles Horton is probably going to launch a claim against Granville’s estate.”

  Delaine pressed her clutch purse close against her chest. “I did miss something.”

  “Don’t worry about it. In your defense, you’re probably still in shock.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” said Delaine, looking a little dazed. “That probably explains it.”

  “Which is why you really don’t have to go back to Ravencrest Inn tonight.”

  “But I want to go,” said Delaine. “If there’s a chance . . .” She snapped her mouth shut and said, “If there’s a chance.”

  “I understand,” said Theodosia, patting Delaine on the shoulder. “Just don’t peg your expectations too high, okay?”

  Delaine nodded, as they walked down the sidewalk.

  Theodosia gestured at her Jeep, which was parked on the street at a meter. “I have to get back to the tea shop. But . . . well, let me ask you something that’s kind of out there in left field. Do you know anything about Granville’s cigar suppliers?”

  Delaine shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Because an ATF agent stopped by the tea shop this morning and . . . oh, never mind. It’s nothing you have to concern yourself with.”

  “Thank you,” said Delaine. “I appreciate that.”

  Theodosia turned and headed for her car. Then she stopped and called back to Delaine, “Do you . . . have you ever heard of someone named Bobby St. Cloud?”

  Delaine looked puzzled. “I think I might have.”

  “Was he at the wedding?”

  Delaine shrugged. “No idea, really. But the name rings a bell. Maybe he’s from Miami?” Then she waved a hand. “He could have been one of Dougan’s cigar suppliers, but who knows. I never really got involved in his business.”

  * * *

  Only four tables were occupied when Theodosia returned to the Indigo Tea Shop. Then again, the day was winding down and the kitchen was probably low on baked goods. Theodosia made a mental note to tell Haley to please go ahead and bake extra. For some reason, they were doing a land office business in take-out scones, tarts, bars, and slices of cake. So why not have a little extra on hand? Besides, she could always bring the leftovers home and give her backyard birds a treat.

  Drayton had just brewed a pot of oolong tea and was standing at the front counter sipping a cup.

  “Can I pour you a cuppa?” he asked. “This is the oolong from the Wuyi Mountains in Fujian that I told you about.”

  “I’d love some,” said Theodosia.

  “I can’t believe you’re going on a ghost hunt tonight,” said Drayton, as he poured the tea.

  “Believe it,” said Theodosia. She glanced about the tea shop and saw that one of her handmade grapevine wreaths had sold while she was gone. Which meant it was time to whip up a couple more.

  “I just hope Delaine can hold up to the stress of it,” said Drayton.

  “If she doesn’t, we’ll send her home.” Theodosia took a sip of tea. “Mmm. Good.”

  “A toasty flavor, but also a little sweet,” said Drayton. “I ordered two pounds of it.”

  Theodosia sipped her tea and let her mind ramble. The act of sipping a cup of tea always felt calming to her, and inhaling the lovely aroma (really a sort of aromatherapy!) always helped her sort things out in her mind.

  “You know that ATF agent who was in here earlier today?” she asked.

  “The one who found you so highly attractive?” said Drayton.

  “I don’t know about that. But I think I might know who he’s looking for.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “This sort of shadowy guy by the name of Bobby St. Cloud. Bill Glass mentioned him to me, and Delaine thinks she might have heard of him, too.”

  “What, pray tell, is a Bobby St. Cloud?” said Drayton.

  “Delaine thought he might be one of Granville’s suppliers. From Miami. And that he was possibly here for the wedding.”

  “So an out-of-towner here for the wedding,” said Drayton. “Interesting. Do you know where he is now?”

  “No,” said Theodosia. “But I keep thinking, what if Bobby St. Cloud was the mysterious guy i
n room three-fourteen?”

  “What if he was?”

  “Maybe Granville and this St. Cloud fellow had a falling out?” proposed Theodosia.

  “A falling out with a cigar supplier?” said Drayton. He sounded skeptical.

  “Maybe they were also coke buddies who got into some sort of dispute?” said Theodosia. “Could have happened.”

  “If you really believe that,” said Drayton, “then you have to tell Tidwell. Because your information might actually be a serious lead.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Maybe you should inform your ATF friend as well.”

  Theodosia grimaced. “He’s not my friend.” Then, “You think so?” She didn’t care if there were ramifications for Glass, but she hated to drag Delaine in any more.

  “Absolutely,” said Drayton. “Besides, it’ll give you another chance to flirt with Alston.”

  11

  It was a perfect night for ghost hunting. Wisps of gray clouds scudded across a thin sliver of moon, revealing an occasional tangle of constellations in the blue-black sky. Wind sang softly through the leaves of live oak and crepe myrtle. And Ravencrest Inn, ground zero for the ghost hunt, was steeped in dark shadows and seemed practically deserted.

  “It’s the awful publicity,” Frank Rattling told them with the mournful face of a funeral director.

  “And the murder,” said Sarah Rattling. “That murder is keeping guests away in droves.”

  Frank Rattling gave a miserable nod.

  “Five cancellations,” said his wife Sarah, shaking her fist. “And this is supposed to be our busy time!” She had her hair slicked back in a ponytail and wore not a speck of makeup. She couldn’t have done less to make herself look plain.

  They were all gathered in the lobby: Theodosia, Delaine, Jed and Tim Beckman, and the very angry Frank and Sarah Rattling.

  But even if the Rattlings hadn’t been there to vent their wrath, the lobby still wouldn’t have been any cheerier than the rest of the place. It was small and bare-bones. A large, scarred wooden registration desk dominated the room. Over by a bay window, four faded upholstered chairs of an undetermined peach or rose color were clustered around a round coffee table. Two torchieres cast light onto the dingy ceiling but left the corners of the lobby lost in shadows. The de rigueur postal box was stuffed full of brochures for low-country day trips, sport fishing, antiquing, sailing, and, yes, even literature on Charleston ghost tours.