“Were you present at the winery on Sunday night?”
“No, I wasn’t,” said Linda. “But Janet was there.”
“Is it okay if I talk to Janet?” asked Theodosia.
“Sure,” said Linda. “No problem. Come on.” They walked down a short hallway where two offices, really cubicles, were jam-packed with computers, printers, copiers, and all the other equipment a small business can’t live without.
Janet D’Lisio turned out to be the office manager. A red-haired dynamo with a quick smile and an extra twenty pounds on her.
“So you were at Knighthall on Sunday night,” said Theodosia. “You saw the barrel crack open and—”
“And that poor boy come flopping out!” exclaimed Janet. She shook her head and put a hand to her forehead as if reliving the memory, of recalling Drew’s dead body, was just too painful for her. “It was awful! Just a terrible shock to everyone.”
“Especially to his family,” said Theodosia. “Which is why I’m asking questions,” she explained. “I’m looking into things on their behalf.”
“Oh, okay,” said Linda.
“And you had how many people working there that night?” Theodosia asked.
“I can tell you exactly,” said Janet. She hit a few keys on her computer, studied her screen, and said, “Fourteen contract workers. Six bartenders, five servers to handle the hors d’oeuvres, two car park valets, and me to supervise.”
“And everyone was hard at work doing their job?” said Theodosia.
“Pretty much everyone was working their buns off that night,” said Janet. “Except for . . .”
“Who?” said Linda. “What?”
Janet rolled her eyes Linda’s way. “Carl. He was . . . what would you call it? A little off his game that night.”
Linda frowned. “Really? Carl Van Deusen? He’s usually a pretty good worker.”
“What happened?” Theodosia asked.
“For one thing,” said Janet, “he disappeared for a while.” She grimaced, as if she really didn’t want to tell tales out of school. “I think he might have been drinking.”
“That’s certainly against policy,” said Linda.
Janet shrugged. “Well, it was a winery and there were, like, hundreds of open bottles of wine floating around. You know how tempting something like that can be.”
“What’s the background on this Carl person?” Theodosia asked.
“Carl Van Deusen,” Linda repeated. “He normally works as a waiter at Smalley’s Bistro. But he likes to freelance with us every once in a while. I think he’s hoping to make some contacts and score a better job.”
Theodosia pulled a notebook out of her purse. “What’s his number?” she asked. “Where exactly does he work again?”
6
Smalley’s Bistro was a cute storefront restaurant with a shingled overhang and a redbrick façade, tucked between Longitude Books and the Glad Hands Pottery Shop. There was a valet parking stand out front, but no attendant in sight. No problem. Theodosia found a spot at a nearby parking meter and walked back to the restaurant.
The front door was unlocked but nobody was minding the host’s station yet. Theodosia edged her way in and called out, “Hello? Anybody here?” The décor was predominantly red and black and the place smelled of roast chicken, garlic, and tomato sauce. A salsified version of Demi Lovato’s “Heart Attack” played over the speakers.
A tall, skinny busboy carrying a tray of clean glasses came crashing through a swinging door. “We’re not open yet,” he told her. “But if you’d like to make a reservation, I can call the manager.”
“I’m looking for Carl Van Deusen,” Theodosia told him. “One of your waiters. Do you know if he’s here?”
“Um . . . maybe.” The busboy wiggled his shoulders as he shifted his heavy load. “I think Carl’s on tonight, but I’m not completely sure. Do you want me to find out?”
“That would be great.”
The busboy set his tray of glasses down on the bar. “I’ll have to run back to the locker room.”
“Thanks.”
Theodosia waited a good three or four minutes before a slightly chubby, dark-haired man came hustling toward her.
“Carl?” she said.
“No, I’m Philip Rusk, the manager.” Rusk’s voice carried a warning tone and his eyebrows seemed to be permanently raised and frozen into a disapproving arc. “Perhaps I can help you?”
“I was looking for Carl Van Deusen,” said Theodosia.
“May I ask for what reason?”
“For personal reasons.”
“Carl is on the clock right now,” said the manager, obviously trying to brush her aside. “So I’m afraid he’s unable to entertain visitors.”
“Look, I get that you’re busy setting up for dinner. But this won’t take long, I promise.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rusk “But it’s really quite impossible.”
Theodosia held up a hand. “Five minutes, okay? No, not even five minutes. One minute. Please?”
• • •
Carl Van Deusen appeared a few minutes later. He was a tall, redheaded fellow in his late twenties. Big shoulders, a spattering of freckles across a friendly, open face, and muscular arms. Like he probably worked out a fair amount.
“Mr. Rusk said you wanted to see me?”
Something in Theodosia’s memory clicked and she had a fleeting impression of Carl serving her a canapé two nights ago. “That’s right,” she told him. “I wanted to talk to you about Saturday night.”
“What about it?” he asked, instantly on guard.
“For one thing,” said Theodosia, “you were there.”
“So were a lot of people.” Carl frowned. “Who are you?”
“I’m Theodosia Browning, a friend of Jordan Knight’s family. I’m kind of looking into things for him.”
“Well . . . good.” This time Carl sniffled and wiped at his nose.
“Something wrong?”
Carl’s jaw worked nervously and his throat seemed constricted. “That was a bad scene,” Carl said finally.
“I’m wondering if you knew Drew,” said Theodosia.
Carl gave a slow nod. “I knew him.” A loud clatter of dishes caused Carl to flinch and glance over his shoulder.
“You two were friends?”
“We were friendly,” said Carl.
“I’ve also been talking to Linda and Janet over at Virtuoso Staffing,” said Theodosia.
Carl stuffed his hands into the pockets of his white waiter’s jacket. “Okay.”
“They tell me you might have been drinking that night.”
“Me?” Carl took a step back, as if utterly gob-smacked by her accusation. As if the notion of having a drink would’ve never occurred to him. “No way. That’s strictly against policy.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time policy was kicked to the curb,” said Theodosia.
Carl just stared at her.
Theodosia decided to jump right in. “You don’t know anything about Drew’s death, do you?”
Carl looked suddenly uneasy. “I really don’t . . .” he mumbled.
“I think you might.”
Carl shook his head vehemently and said, “Uh-uh,” just as the door from the kitchen swung open and Rusk, looking officious and annoyed, bustled toward them.
“This conversation is over,” Rusk announced in an annoyed bray. “Van Deusen, you’re needed in the back room. And you, Miss Whatever-your-business-is, your time is definitely up!”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, still smarting from practically being physically ejected from Smalley’s Bistro, Theodosia arrived home. She kicked off her shoes, let Earl Grey out into the backyard, and brewed herself a pot of chamomile tea. Then she sat down at her kitchen table and called Drayton.
“I was just doing some much-needed trimming on my bonsai trees,” he told her. “Refining that tamarack forest you like so much.”
Theodosia recalled a lovely
arrangement of miniature tamarack trees in a large, shallow blue dish. Moss covered the floor of the tiny “forest,” and there was a winding path of small stones. “That is a lovely piece,” she told him.
“So tell me, what happened at Knighthall?”
“Do you want the short version or the dreadfully long version?”
“Mmn, that bad?”
“Drayton, those people do not get along with each other at all. They’re a totally dysfunctional family and, I think, dysfunctional business.”
“That’s unfortunate. But I still want to hear about it.”
Over the course of the next ten minutes, Theodosia gave Drayton a slightly abridged version of her afternoon at Knighthall, her stop at Virtuoso Staffing, and her meeting with Carl Van Deusen.
When she’d finished, she said, “You see how weird things are? How broken down communication seems to be?”
“But you seem to have uncovered a valuable cache of information,” said Drayton. “That’s the one saving grace.”
“I have information, yes,” said Theodosia. “Suspects, no.”
“What kind of vibes did you get off this Van Deusen fellow? Is he a possible suspect?”
“Hard to tell,” said Theodosia. “Van Deusen seemed upset over Drew’s death, but who knows? They could have been crocodile tears.”
“And the girlfriend?” said Drayton. “She’s kind of a wild card in all of this.”
“I’m on the fence concerning her,” said Theodosia. “Somehow she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d shoot Drew in the head and stuff his dead body in a barrel of wine.”
“You’re saying that because she’s a woman?”
“I’m saying that because she strikes me as the type who wouldn’t want to get her hands dirty.”
“Still,” said Drayton, “you never know. Even a fashion model can have an irrational, angry side.”
“Probably because they never eat,” said Theodosia.
• • •
Theodosia changed into a T-shirt, leggings, and tennis shoes. Then she busied herself in the kitchen, dicing an onion and a tomato, slicing a ripe avocado, and tossing it all into her Cuisinart along with a splash of chicken stock, cilantro, and a generous dollop of sour cream. She whirred her ingredients for a couple of minutes, then poured her thick, green masterpiece into an aluminum bowl and stuck it in the refrigerator. There. When she came back from her run with Earl Grey, she’d have a nice bowl of chilled avocado soup waiting for her.
“C’mon, big guy,” Theodosia called out to Earl Grey. He was a Dalbrador, part Dalmatian, part Labrador, who was constantly sniffing around the backyard, always on the lookout for marauding raccoons. There’d been problems in the past—fish had been stolen—and Earl Grey, though gentle in nature, seemed to be itching for a rematch with the little masked bandits.
Theodosia snapped a leash onto his collar, gave a final glance back at her yard, and headed off down the narrow back alley.
The back alleys were one of the things Theodosia dearly cherished about her hometown of Charleston. They were cool, quiet, hidden places—narrow little byways that were often only wide enough for one or two people. Some of the best known were Philadelphia Alley, Unity Alley, Lodge Alley, and Longitude Lane. If you were a tourist, you might be lucky to stumble upon one or two. But only if you took a chance and did a little creative exploration.
Nestled between Church Street and State Street was Philadelphia Alley, one of Theodosia’s favorites. Originally named Cow Alley probably because it was a holding pen for livestock, the narrow, walled lane soon picked up the name Duelers Alley. With its high walls and limited access at either end, it became the perfect spot for conflicts to be resolved and chivalry and honor to prevail. Although Theodosia didn’t think there was much honor in bleeding to death on bumpy cobblestones just so you could save face or prove your point.
Still, it was a cozy little romp and very fun. Flora and fauna cascaded down the brick walls that closed in on either side of them, and there was even a cutout in the wall that led straight to the graveyard at St. Philip’s Church!
Fog was beginning to steal in from the churning Atlantic, so the air in the historic district, always highly atmospheric to begin with, was starting to develop a slight haze. The air felt damp and close, and lampposts suddenly appeared a little fuzzy, as if being photographed through a soft focus lens.
A quick jog back across Church Street and Theodosia and her fine companion were suddenly keeping pace down Stoll’s Alley. This narrow crevice of an alley, with its brick pathway and earthy scents, was one of her favorites. It was a teleporter to an earlier, magical time and featured a reward at the end of it—a lovely courtyard filled with moss and ferns.
Theodosia smiled to herself. The alleys weren’t quite as majestic as running through White Point Gardens with the Atlantic surging in to stir up the ions. But if you were looking for peace and quiet, and didn’t mind glancing over your shoulder because you often had the niggling sense there might be a ghost or apparition following in your footsteps, then exploring back alleys was clearly the way to go!
As she jogged back down her block in full-on dusk, her little cottage finally came into sight. And what a cottage it was. The exterior was adorable and semiquirky, a classic Tudor-style cottage that was asymmetrical in design with rough cedar tiles that replicated a thatched roof. The front of the cottage featured arched doors, cross gables, and a small turret. Lush tendrils of ivy curled their way up the walls. A couple of years ago, when she signed the papers to buy it, she even found out it had a name—Hazelhurst.
As focused as she was on getting home, Theodosia was still surprised when she noticed lights blazing in the enormous house that sat next door to hers. It had belonged to Dougan Granville, Delaine’s onetime fiancé who had been murdered a few months ago.
Was someone showing the house to a prospective buyer? Was someone about to buy it? Or had they bought it already?
Theodosia slowed her stride as three figures meandered down the mansion’s front walk. She heard lively chatter and a peal of laughter ring out. And suddenly realized that she recognized one of those voices. It belonged to Maggie Twining, the woman who’d served as her realtor not so long ago. Theodosia waited with Earl Grey on the sidewalk, watching as Maggie bade good night to her clients. Then she stepped forward to greet her.
Maggie was thrilled by their impromptu meeting.
“Theodosia!” she cried. “How fun to see you again!” She shifted her leather briefcase and extended a hand for Earl Grey to sniff. “And your lovely dog, too.” Maggie had a friendly, open face surrounded by a tumble of gray hair and wore a pair of narrow, turquoise glasses on a chain around her neck. Her navy-and-white-striped suit was sturdy but stylish.
“It looks like you just showed the Granville mansion,” said Theodosia. “Tell me, am I about to have new neighbors?” She was more than a little curious. And nervous, too. Who would they turn out to be? “You weren’t showing it to the Rattlings, were you?” Frank and Sarah Rattling were a pair of quasi-strange innkeepers that she’d had a run-in with recently.
Maggie glanced down the street at the couple she’d just bade good-bye to. “No, this was a young couple, Lou and Margaret Blankenship.”
Theodosia followed her gaze. She saw that they were in their early thirties at best and were just climbing into a slightly dented car.
“There’s no way they can afford this place,” Maggie told Theodosia, as if reading her mind. “They’re just lookers, curiosity seekers. A waste of time. I could have stayed home, snarfed a bag of Chips Ahoy, and watched Dancing with the Stars.” She smiled. “Or I suppose I could have dropped by your place and probably enjoyed petit fours and fancy little crab salad tea sandwiches.”
“Anytime you want,” said Theodosia. “So how has business been for you lately?” Earl Grey strained at his leash, already bored with their conversation.
“Slow but steady,” said Maggie. “Nothing earth-shattering, though. No
t like a few years ago when the banks were practically throwing money at buyers.”
“I didn’t realize you even had this listing,” said Theodosia.
“I don’t have an exclusive,” said Maggie. “But this place, the Kingstree Mansion, is listed with Sutter Realty, my brokerage firm. Between you and me, I’d love to sell this white elephant if I could. The commission would keep me in cat food for five years!” Maggie had three beautiful cats, two Manx and one Siamese, that she loved and adored.
“You know,” said Theodosia, “I might have a potential client for you.”
“Be still, my heart,” said Maggie. “Who is it? Do I know him? Or her?”
“Do you know Andrew Turner, the fellow who owns The Turner Gallery over by Church Street and Hopper?”
“Sure,” said Maggie, nodding. She paused and then said, “Well, I don’t know him personally, but I know the place. I’m at least familiar with the gallery.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have his phone number . . .”
Maggie quickly held up a hand. “Not a problem. I can find that easily enough.” She peered at Theodosia. “And you’re sure this Mr. Turner is in the market for a house? A really grand house like this one?” By grand, Maggie meant expensive.
Theodosia nodded. “He just mentioned it to me this morning.”
• • •
Back home again, Theodosia took a quick shower and wrapped herself in a terrycloth robe. She grabbed her laptop and padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen. The chilled avocado soup was delicious. It was nice and creamy and the flavors of all the ingredients had melded together beautifully. As she ate, she tapped along on her computer. Checking the news, the stock market, and her Facebook page. Then, just to satisfy her curiosity, just because it had stuck in her mind and was nagging at her, she Googled the words green alien.
Surprisingly, there were all sorts of weird things with the moniker green alien.
For one thing, there was a sweet mixed drink made with Midori and lime juice. Theodosia wrinkled her nose as she perused the mixology instructions. It didn’t sound all that appealing.
Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Page 6