by Laura Childs
Her stomach a bundle of nerves, Theodosia drew breath sharply. And that was when she smelled a hint of cigar smoke wafting in the night air.
Then she heard Nadine’s high-pitched giggle, sounding so much like Delaine’s.
Theodosia turned and scanned the garden behind her.
There they were! They were standing close together next to a pattering fountain, talking and whispering in a lovey-dovey conspiratorial way.
But how could she get Nadine away from him? Because—and this was a big what if—what if he was the killer?
At that moment Nadine’s boyfriend put his hand up to Nadine’s face and gently caressed her cheek.
All set to run up to them and pull Nadine away, Theodosia checked herself. Hold everything. What was the plan here? What exactly was she going to do? Rush up to Nadine and start screaming like a madwoman? Or whisper to Nadine that she might be in danger?
If the guy turned out to be harmless, she’d look like an idiot in front of a few hundred of Charleston’s finest citizens. In fact, she’d never live it down.
Spinning about, Theodosia was ready to beat a hasty retreat. She needed a better plan. She needed a moment to think. She needed something a little more definitive to go on.
Her hand reached out and touched a stalk of jessamine that vined around a lamppost. The aroma from the yellow flowers was fragrant and calming. Almost the way chamomile tea worked to soothe jangled nerves.
Tea. That was what she needed. Theodosia decided she’d get a cup of tea and let her thoughts about Nadine’s boyfriend percolate in her brain. Because maybe he was perfectly harmless. Maybe he was just . . . intuitive.
Making her way to the tea table, she grabbed a teacup and held it under a spigot. And just as she lifted the handle, just as hot, fragrant liquid cascaded into her teacup, there was a ripple of voices raised in surprise at the back of the crowd. And then, like a seismic wave, a murmur of surprise and outrage came crashing toward her.
What on earth? Theodosia wondered. Holding her teacup steady with both hands, she turned and saw a line of blue uniforms filing out onto the patio.
And then a loud voice called out, “Police! Don’t anybody move!”
* * *
Jack Alston, the ATF agent Theodosia had encountered earlier, charged onto the patio, looking like some kind of gung-ho cop in a Bruce Willis movie. He was followed by a flying wedge of police officers with Detective Burt Tidwell bringing up the rear. The officers spread out around the edges of the patio, slowly pushing guests toward the center as if they were herding longhorn cattle.
“What’s the meaning of this?” shouted Delaine. She was nipping at their heels like a rabid Schnauzer, screaming and launching a barrage of angry protests.
Of course, the police paid no attention to her.
Delaine continued to shove and shoulder her way through the crowd until she came face-to-face with Theodosia. “Please, Theo!” she implored. “Talk to that detective friend of yours! Find out what on earth is going on!”
Sizzling with curiosity herself, Theodosia wormed her way through the crowd until she was within a few feet of Tidwell.
“What are you people doing here?” she demanded. She, too, was dismayed that they’d come storming into a social event and caused such a blatant disruption.
“Please don’t interfere,” said Tidwell, holding up a chubby hand.
Now Delaine was at Theodosia’s elbow. “Stop it!” she yapped at Tidwell. “You’re ruining my event!”
Tidwell waved a hand again. “Shush,” he told them. Then pointed toward Jack Alston, who’d loped into the far garden and planted himself directly in front of Nadine’s date.
“You’re arresting him?” said Theodosia. She was as shocked as Delaine. But, truth be told, a little relieved, too. She grabbed Tidwell’s sleeve and said, “What for? What’s he done?” Had the murder just been solved? Had she been on the right track after all?
“Remember the elusive Bobby St. Cloud?” said Tidwell.
“I do,” said Theodosia. But what did that have to do with this bizarre scene?
Tidwell hooked a thumb and aimed it at Nadine’s date. “That’s Bobby St. Cloud,” he said.
27
“What?” said Theodosia. “Are you serious?” She turned to Delaine. “Did you know who he was?” she asked.
“Um . . . what?” said Delaine, suddenly looking flustered.
“You did know!” said Theodosia. “Oh, no, Delaine, are you kidding me? You knew the police were looking for Bobby St. Cloud and you didn’t say anything? What’s wrong with you!”
Delaine’s voice dripped ice. “Bobby didn’t do anything,” she said. “He was Dougan’s vendor.”
“A vendor that an ATF agent has been hunting for,” said Theodosia, lashing out with cold fury. “As well as the entire Charleston Police Department.”
“Oh, please,” said Delaine.
“They’re probably going to arrest him,” said Theodosia. And maybe even charge him with murder.
“But Bobby didn’t do anything!” Delaine said through clenched teeth. “Except cheer up my sister.” Seething with anger, she stormed off.
* * *
Theodosia turned to Tidwell. “Bobby St. Cloud is under arrest for Granville’s murder?”
Tidwell did a double take that might have been comical in any other situation. “Well . . . no. Not for murder. We’re looking at him for smuggling. And we don’t exactly have a stockpile of conclusive evidence on that, so what we really want to do is question him.”
“You mean make him sweat bullets,” said Theodosia. “Hence, this overwhelming show of force.”
“Something like that,” said Tidwell.
“But you don’t think he murdered Granville?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Tidwell, tap-dancing now. “St. Cloud certainly could have. The two of them could have had some sort of falling out.”
“But there’s no hard evidence,” said Theodosia.
“And no apparent motive,” said Tidwell. He pursed his lips and said, “In actuality, Granville was a good customer. You don’t generally bump off a good customer.”
Theodosia contemplated Tidwell’s logic for a few moments then said, “But if Granville’s conveniently out of the way, you might just break into his home and try to get your goods back.”
Tidwell nodded. “There is a distinct possibility that St. Cloud was the Thursday-night burglar.”
Theodosia felt a jolt of pride that she and Tidwell had been on the same suspicious wavelength.
“And you believe the cigars are still here?” asked Theodosia. “Hidden somewhere in this house?”
Tidwell shook his head. “There’s no way they can be. Yesterday morning we tore through this place from top to bottom. We even brought along a sniffer dog but came up with squat.”
“So where are the missing Cuban cigars?” Theodosia wondered. Not that she cared all that much. She was much more interested in finding the killer.
Tidwell glanced across the yard at Jack Alston, who was waving his hands at St. Cloud, who was gesturing back just as wildly. “We don’t know.”
“But St. Cloud could be the killer.”
“We have to assume that possibility exists,” said Tidwell.
“What about Simone Asher?” said Theodosia. “Did you take a thread from the jacket upstairs and test it against the one I found?”
“Of course,” said Tidwell.
“And?”
“They don’t match.”
“Oh.” Feeling a little disappointed, Theodosia watched the heated argument that continued to rage between Jack Alston and Bobby St. Cloud. Nadine stayed mostly on the periphery but darted in once in a while to get her digs in.
“Cigars,” said Tidwell. He sounded disgusted.
“Call me crazy,” Theodosia said,
“but I don’t think Granville was murdered over cigars. There’s just not that much money involved.”
“People have committed murder for less than five dollars,” Tidwell reminded her.
“But not in Granville’s universe,” said Theodosia. “If he was dealing cocaine, okay. But the small amount of drugs he had seemed more recreational.”
They stood there for a while, watching the guests get bored and leave, all the while keeping an eye on the heated conversation between Alston and St. Cloud.
Finally, Jack Alston pulled himself away from St. Cloud and came over to talk to Tidwell.
“He’s giving up nothing,” said Alston.
“Can you arrest him?” Theodosia asked the two of them.
“It would be tenuous,” said Tidwell.
“Can you take him in for questioning?” said Theodosia.
“We’re going to do that,” said Alston. “But we can’t hold him for very long.”
“Obviously not for Granville’s murder,” said Theodosia. “Since there isn’t any real evidence. But what about for the break-in? I mean . . . it seems almost certain that he was the burglar.”
“The one you chased down the alley,” said Tidwell.
Alston’s mouth pulled into a grin. “Wait a minute. You chased him down an alley?”
“Technically my dog did,” said Theodosia.
Alston’s flashing blue eyes met hers. “You’re a pistol, you know that?”
“Please,” said Tidwell. “Could we get back to the issue at hand?”
“We’ll take St. Cloud in,” said Alston. “Pepper him with questions, try to shake him up.”
“I don’t think he scares all that easily,” said Theodosia.
From across the garden, St. Cloud flapped his arms and called to them, “Seriously, folks, I don’t have any Cuban cigars!” He pulled one jacket sleeve up in a display of bravado. “See? Nothin’ up my sleeve.”
“We’ll see about that,” Alston called back.
“If you can’t find your stupid Cuban cigars, then maybe they don’t exist!” St. Cloud shouted.
“Oh, they exist, all right,” said Alston.
Theodosia was impressed by St. Cloud’s audacity. He certainly wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Work on him, will you?” said Theodosia. “If for some reason he really did kill Granville, maybe he’ll let something slip.”
“We’ll work on it,” said Tidwell. “Trust me.”
“At least you have him on smuggling charges,” said Theodosia.
“Weak as those charges are,” said Tidwell.
Theodosia gazed at Alston. “You’re sure he’s a smuggler?”
“Ninety-nine percent sure,” said Alston.
“Ninety percent,” said Tidwell.
Across the garden, St. Cloud made an elaborate show of pulling out his cell phone. “Excuse me while I call my lawyer.”
Tidwell jerked away angrily. “Probably has him on speed dial.”
* * *
An hour later, Granville’s house had emptied out. The guests had departed, the police had finally gone, and Delaine and Nadine had stalked out in cold silence.
“Well, this is nice,” said Haley. “The Keystone Cops have left, the Twisted Sisters have taken their leave, and so has everyone else. We can clean up amid relative peace and quiet.”
“What a night,” said Theodosia. Leaning against a kitchen cupboard, she felt drained. She was tired, her feet hurt, and the beginning of a headache poked at the outer fringes of her frontal cortex.
“You can say that again,” said Haley. “Imagine my surprise when a flying wedge of cops swooped through the kitchen.” She glanced around. “Don’t quote me on this, but I think a couple of those boys in blue helped themselves to some cake pops.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Theodosia, rubbing her temple gingerly. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“And you say that Delaine knew all along that her sister was dating Bobby St. Cloud?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Haley considered this. “Then Delaine can’t possibly think that St. Cloud had anything to do with Granville’s murder. If she even had an inkling, Delaine would have crooked her little finger and had him arrested.”
“This whole thing is a hot mess,” said Theodosia. “One that I no longer have any interest in sorting out.”
“You’re saying this is one for the professionals?” said Haley.
Theodosia gathered up a tea towel and folded it. “Exactly.” She longed to go home. To experience soothing music or a relaxing bubble bath. She wanted to put her arms around Earl Grey and tell him what a sweet boy he was.
“Probably best that you leave it to Tidwell, then.” Haley turned on the water, tested it, and used the spray attachment to rinse a plastic tray filled with teacups. “This is the last of the china. Soon as I dry these off, I’m gonna pack ’em up nice and careful-like. Then I’ll load all the boxes into the back of your Jeep, okay?”
“Sure,” said Theodosia.
“You won’t forget, will you, and drive down some bumpy road and bust everything to smithereens?”
“If it’ll make you feel any better,” said Theodosia, “I’ll run everything over to the tea shop first thing tomorrow morning.”
“That would make me feel better,” said Haley. “Because I feel like some of these teacups are priceless.”
“Not priceless,” said Theodosia. “But certainly collectible.”
While Haley finished up, Theodosia walked into the living room. The plastic runner was still stretched down the center of the Aubusson carpet; the silver stanchions that held the velvet ropes were still in place. The room had the air of a movie premiere or fancy party that had hosted throngs of people but was now deserted. Even the potted palms that Delaine had rented looked worn out. Hopefully they’d receive a little TLC once they were picked up. Hopefully they wouldn’t be ferried off to yet another event.
“Okay,” said Haley, sauntering into the living room. “Everything’s loaded.” She looked around, sighed, and dusted her hands together. “This puppy’s over and done with, so I’m gonna take off.”
“Thank you so much for all your hard work,” said Theodosia. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
Haley glanced around the living room. “This house is really something, isn’t it? All the artwork and antique furniture give it that old Charleston, turn-of-the-century feel. As if ladies in long gowns and carriages drawn by matching teams of horses could magically appear.” She paused. “Those Rattling people aren’t really gonna buy this place, are they?”
“I sure hope not,” said Theodosia. Maybe she could have a little chat with Allan Grumley. Suggest, and none too subtly, either, that the Rattlings would not be a great addition to the neighborhood. “Don’t mind me.” She waved a hand. “I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . jumpy and tired.”
“Then you’d better go home and jump into bed,” said Haley.
“I guess.”
“Okay, this time I really am taking off. Hey, I left a thermos of sweet tea on the kitchen counter for you. Just in case you’re in need of something cool and refreshing.”
“Thanks,” said Theodosia. “Lock the back door behind you?”
“Yup. But don’t stay too long, okay? I worry about you, Theo.”
“I’ll be out of here in two minutes.”
* * *
But she wasn’t. Two minutes came and went and still Theodosia remained in the house. Now, with just her padding around, the place felt deserted and dreary. Almost as bad as . . . Ravencrest Inn.
She was still unnerved by the notion of the Rattlings and Allan Grumley partnering up. But that would never happen, would it? She didn’t think so. Grumley was a hotshot attorney who fancied himself in the inner circle of Cha
rleston society, while the Rattlings were failed innkeepers. The Rattlings might hope that Grumley would jump on board as a willing investor, but, pardon the pun, it was close but no cigar.
Cigars. Where did they end up? And was Granville’s death really related to them?
Even though Theodosia had told Haley she was going to leave the investigating to the professionals, she couldn’t help but contemplate all the players, all the clues, all the loose ends.
Which made her think of threads. Like the thread Tidwell had taken from the jacket upstairs. The thread that didn’t match the one she’d found stuck to the window frame at Ravencrest Inn.
But what if the thread had been snipped from the wrong part of the jacket? What if the jacket was a blend of cotton and linen, or silk and wool? And the snipped sample was an incorrect random thread?
Could happen. Sure it could.
Without really meaning to, Theodosia found herself venturing upstairs again. She flipped on the hall light and sauntered down the hallway into Granville’s bedroom with more bravado than she really felt.
I’m just going to take another look, she told herself. Or maybe another sample.
Snapping the closet light on, Theodosia went inside. This time the space smelled musty and unused, as if old discarded clothes had been hanging there for a while.
She supposed all these fine jackets, slacks, suits, and bespoke shirts would be donated to charity. And wasn’t that a strange twist of fate? That a man who’d seemingly had it all . . . a palatial home, a collection of fine art, elegant silver, antique furnishings, an eager fiancée . . . would have his clothes passed on to men who might even be homeless.
Theodosia thought this might even be an object lesson of sorts. The lesson being . . . what? Don’t get too attached to your possessions? Even the mighty can fall? Life is a crapshoot?
She shook her head, located the small cache of women’s clothing, and pulled the jacket off the hanger. She decided she was just going to take the whole thing. After all, Granville’s murder was far from being solved. And if a stash of cigars could disappear, so could a jacket. You never know.