“This is spectacular,” said Theodosia. She and Max were strolling along, arm in arm, drinking in the booths and the music and the festive atmosphere. She’d showered off the pesticide and changed into a pink sundress and matching low-heeled sandals.
“So much better than last year,” agreed Max.
“There must be almost a hundred artists showcased here in addition to all the galleries that have opened their doors. And a couple thousand people in attendance.”
“You see how it pays to advertise?” said Max.
“You know you’re preaching to the choir,” said Theodosia. She’d spent several years working as an account executive in one of Charleston’s major marketing firms. She knew the importance of advertising, PR, media relations, and social media. She knew it could make or break a business or an event. These folks, the Art Crawl committee and their volunteers, had obviously recognized that and pulled out all the stops.
“So how did your Downton Abbey tea go today?” asked Max.
“Wonderful,” said Theodosia. “A full house.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Ah,” said Theodosia. She stopped in a photographer’s booth for a moment to glance at a lovely color photo of the Angel Oak, a lowcountry landmark and treasure. “People do enjoy a good themed tea. Whenever we host a chocolate tea, Victorian tea, Valentine’s Day tea, or Queen’s tea, we get a huge turnout.”
Max pulled her closer. “But it’s not just the food and tea that pulls them in, is it? Do you think it has something to do with your vision? That you seem to weave some sort of magical spell that combines food and tea with a soothing atmosphere?”
“Well . . . maybe.”
“You’re reluctant to take credit, aren’t you?” said Max. “You’re always a little shy about that.”
“Really, can we change the subject, please?”
“Sure,” said Max. “Would you like to look at some sidewalk art?”
“Yes. Of course,” said Theodosia. She smiled up at him as they walked along.
“I mean literally on the sidewalk,” said Max. He stopped short and pointed. A young bearded artist was down on his hands and knees, scribbling furiously with colored chalk, creating a painting on the sidewalk.
“That’s so neat,” said Theodosia, charmed by the artist’s talent as well as his enthusiasm. “Look, he’s re-created Rainbow Row!” Rainbow Row was a series of colorful historic homes on East Bay Street that had been painted pastel pink, blue, green, and yellow.
“But here’s something even better,” said Max. He steered her into a jeweler’s booth where gold and silver necklaces shimmered and gleamed under pinpoint spotlights.
“Such beautiful pieces,” she breathed. Her heart was starting to beat a little faster.
“Look at this one.” Max hooked a finger under a necklace and gently lifted it off a black velvet display rack.
Theodosia smiled. It was a tiny little teapot of fourteen-karat gold. Very charming and round and shiny.
“I think this was meant for you.”
“Oh no!” Theodosia protested. “You don’t have to do that!”
“Sweetheart, I want to,” said Max. He undid the clasp and deftly hung it around her neck.
“Wow,” said Theodosia. “Thank you so much!” The little necklace felt slithery and tickly and wonderful. And the little teapot came to rest right in the little hollow in her throat. Perfect.
Max had a whispered exchange with the jeweler, and then they were on their way again, bumping through the crowds, taking their time, enjoying the atmosphere as well as their precious time together.
“Look at that,” said Theodosia. “There’s a whole covey of food trucks parked over there.”
“Is that the right word?” asked Max. “Covey? I thought it was covey of quail.”
“And exaltation of larks.”
“A conspiracy of ravens,” said Max, enjoying their game.
“Good one,” said Theodosia. “But seriously, I think the term should be a rodeo of food trucks. Since they’re a very different species.”
“In that case, what can I tempt you with? I assume you haven’t eaten yet. At least I hope you haven’t.”
“Mmn.” Theodosia studied the posters and signs that were displayed on the sides of the various food trucks. There was Creole Kitchen, Jasper’s BBQ, Huevos on Earth, and Mr. Mollusk’s Fried Oysters. As she was trying to decide, she saw someone out of the corner of her eye that caught her attention.
Was it? Could it have been?
Theodosia took a step forward and looked around, eyes narrowed, head swiveling.
“What?” said Max when he saw her glancing around.
“I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“A friend?”
“Well, sort of.” Then, because he continued to give her a quizzical look, Theodosia said, “I thought I saw Pandora Knight.”
“Oh.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. The way he’d said it . . . in that flat, slightly disapproving tone . . . told her he wasn’t exactly happy.
“I thought that, after the funeral this morning, you were finished with all that nonsense,” said Max.
She bit her lip. “It’s not exactly nonsense.”
“I know Drayton asked for your help,” said Max, “but really. Shouldn’t you let the police or sheriff, or whatever authority has jurisdiction out there, handle it?”
“Yes, we probably should.”
Max stared at her. “But you’re not.” Now he looked worried and uncomfortable. “Please tell me you’re not in over your head.”
“I’m not in over my head,” said Theodosia. And I’m sure as heck not going to tell you what happened today with the sprayer, she decided. Or what I thought happened last night. Because if I do, you’ll probably drag me home and handcuff me to my refrigerator or some equally immovable object.
“So you just wanted to speak to Pandora?”
Theodosia smiled at Max but felt awful inside. “Yes, something like that.” She glanced around. “But . . . I don’t see her. So maybe I could have been mistaken.”
Max let it drop then, thankfully, and they bought his and hers baskets of deep-fried oysters.
“Good,” said Max as tartar sauce dripped down his chin. It came out “Guh” because his mouth was full.
Theodosia took a napkin and dabbed at his face as he gave her a lopsided grin.
Okay, that grin was definitely hard for Theodosia to resist. She wanted to tell him more about what was going on, but hesitated. After all, maybe nothing was going on. Maybe it would all play out and Sheriff Anson would figure it all out and get his man. Sure. And pigs were going to sprout wings and fly away.
Two blocks down, their food cravings satisfied, Theodosia and Max turned into The Turner Gallery.
Andrew Turner, dressed casually in white slacks and a pale peach shirt with a white collar and cuffs, was standing front and center, warmly greeting each person who strolled into his gallery. Behind him was a long table with a striking Japanese ikebana flower arrangement, along with a delicious array of sushi appetizers and a pot of Japanese tea.
When he caught sight of Theodosia, he beamed and said, “We’re serving tea in your honor.”
“So I see,” said Theodosia.
“And I called your friend Delaine.”
Theodosia smiled back at him. “I heard.” Boy, did I ever.
“She’s pretty cute,” said Turner. “And so lively, too.”
“You have no idea,” said Max. He not quite rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” said Turner, “I’m looking forward to getting to know her better at the Art Crawl Ball on Saturday night.”
“Ditto,” said Theo.
“Excuse me?” said Turner.
“I know Delaine’s looking forward to becoming better acquainted with you,” said Theodosia. Was she ever.
“I’m guessing you put in a good word for me?” said Turner.
“I really didn’t have to,” The
odosia responded. “You made a very favorable first impression on her all by yourself.”
“Nice to know,” said Turner. He glanced around at the crowd of people that had wandered into his gallery. “Now if only a few of these fine folks would be favorably impressed as well,” he said in a stage whisper.
“Have sales been slow for you so far?” asked Max.
Turner looked thoughtful. “Business was practically glacial at first. Then the crowds started to build and bump along the streets and finally overflow into the shops and galleries. And now I’ve managed to sell two prints and a painting in just the last hour. Oh, and I’ve got an art-collecting couple who placed another painting on hold.” He looked pleased. “I’m pretty sure they’ll be back for it.”
“Then it sounds like you’re off to a great start,” said Theodosia.
“I think so,” said Turner. “And this is just the first night. We’ve got three more nights to go. Frankly, the economy being what it is, I’m thrilled that I’ve been able to keep the gallery open and actually rack up some fairly decent sales.”
“It’s been a tough couple of years for a lot of people,” said Theodosia.
“Well,” said Turner, “I know this Art Crawl is going to be a godsend for a lot of the small businesses up and down the street.”
Theodosia glanced out the front window and saw the crowds surging by. “It’s brought out a lot of people so that’s fantastic.”
“You know,” said Turner, “I’ve still got that Richard James painting you liked so much.”
“I know you do,” said Theodosia. “I’m just . . . well, I guess I haven’t thought about it lately.”
“Doesn’t hurt to take another look,” said Turner. “In fact, usually a second look helps you make up your mind. Yay or nay. Whatever. No pressure from me, seriously.”
“Okay,” said Theodosia. “I would like to take another look.” Max had wandered off and was chatting with some people he knew.
“Cynthia?” Turner raised a hand and waved to a tall, efficient-looking blonde who was dressed all in black and carrying a clipboard. “Can you watch the front door for a couple of minutes?”
“Certainly,” Cynthia said, nodding. With her hair twisted into a topknot and her lips a bright red against her pale complexion, she had the regal look and bearing of a Nordic princess.
“My assistant,” said Turner.
Theodosia hoped that Delaine didn’t suddenly drop by and catch sight of Cynthia. Because she knew Delaine wouldn’t be happy. Delaine was awfully touchy when it came to women who were younger, prettier, and thinner than she was.
“Has Cynthia worked for you long?” Theodosia asked.
“A couple of months, off and on,” said Turner. “She and her husband moved here recently after the medical products company he works for transferred him.”
So Cynthia was married. Good.
“Over here,” said Turner. They made their way through a fairly large back room that was literally stuffed with artwork. Sculpture and ceramic pots were crowded on shelves and desks. Paintings were hung on the walls, dozens were leaning up against walls, and another hundred more were jammed in two-feet-by-eight-feet-high wooden cubes that rose all the way to the ceiling.
“You have an amazing inventory,” Theodosia marveled.
“A polite way of saying I’ve got way too much,” said Turner. He sighed. “But there are a tremendous number of good artists doing wonderful work, and I am a pushover for a well-painted canvas.” He tilted a large seascape forward that was leaning against the wall and reached a hand behind it. “Here it is.” He pulled the painting out and propped it up on a wooden crate.
It was maybe three by three-and-a-half feet in dimension, an abstract impressionist painting with subtle blocks of red, gold, and persimmon that hinted at ocean, waves, and sky.
Theodosia studied it and felt something stir within her. She liked it. Correction, she liked it very much.
Turner was smiling at her, studying her face and body language. “So what do you think? What’s the verdict?”
“It’s got a red dot stuck down in the corner,” said Theodosia, suddenly worried. “Does that mean this painting’s already been sold? Or spoken for?”
“Not in this case. I was holding it for you, just in case you changed your mind.”
“I am changing my mind,” said Theodosia. “In fact, I’m loving this more and more.”
“Wonderful,” said Turner. “And I’m sorry the light’s so bad in here. Maybe we should—”
Cynthia was suddenly hovering in the doorway. “Andrew? Can you . . . That couple who was so interested in the Jackson Nestor painting just came back and made an offer on it.” She gave him a questioning look.
“One moment,” Turner said to her.
Theodosia waved a hand. “Go ahead,” she urged him. “Business always comes first. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you,” Turner breathed as he dashed back out into the gallery.
Which left Theodosia face-to-face with her oil painting. Then she stretched her arms wide and picked it up. She turned it this way and that, wondering how it would look over her fireplace or in her dining room.
Probably pretty good, she decided. Correction, probably pretty great.
She carried the painting over to a nearby desk, rested it against a stack of books, and turned on a tensor lamp.
Even better. Now the colors fairly glowed, as if they had been infused from within.
“I see you found some better light,” said Turner’s voice right behind her.
“I want it,” said Theodosia, suddenly making up her mind.
“I thought it had your name written on it,” said Turner. “I mean besides the artist’s signature.”
“But could I . . . I have to move a little money around.”
“No problem,” said Turner. “I’ll keep it in storage if you want and you can pay me whenever. Or you can take it now and pay me over time. I know you’re good for it.” He grinned. “Better yet, I know where you live.”
“It’s no problem,” said Theodosia. “I have the money.” She was a cash-and-carry girl and prided herself on it. She liked to pay bills promptly and didn’t believe in maxing out her Visa card. In fact, she hardly ever used it. Some people believed in building a nest egg; others blithely put their lattes on a credit card. She was firmly in the nest egg camp.
Turner took the painting from her. “I’m glad this one’s going to a good home.” He carried it over to a cubbyhole that was labeled SOLD and stuck it in there. “There. All safe and sound.”
“I was wondering,” said Theodosia, “do you have any of Drew Knight’s work on display? Or is there something back here that I could look at?”
Turner’s face lit up. “Yes, I should have something.” He opened the drawer in a large metal flat file and absently shuffled through a stack of prints and serigraphs. “Hmm . . . not here.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe back in my office?” he said, half to himself.
He turned and disappeared into a small, crowded office. Theodosia followed on his heels.
“I’m sorry things are so messy in here,” said Turner as he continued to hunt for the prints.
“You should see my office,” said Theodosia. “This looks good by comparison.”
“Here they are.” He pulled out a small landscape sketch and handed it to her. “This is one of Drew’s more recent pieces.”
Theodosia studied the sketch. It had been done in pen and ink and depicted the familiar hip-roofed barn at Knighthall Vineyard. In the background were undulating rows of grapevines. The sketch felt as if it had been lovingly rendered by the artist’s keen eye. “This is very good.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I think Drew might have had a future as an illustrator,” said Theodosia. She’d certainly worked with graphic artists and illustrators who were less talented.
“I’ve got another half-dozen landscape sketches that are similar to this,” said Turner. “And a coup
le of his watercolors, too.” He took the sketch back from Theodosia, made a motion to slide it back in the drawer, and moved a couple of other prints out of the way.
As Turner rearranged his drawer of matted sketches and prints, Theodosia’s eyes roved his office and landed on two bottles of wine that were displayed prominently on his desk. A bottle of Château Margaux and a bottle of Château Latour. She pointed to them. “I had no idea you were such a wine connoisseur. Those are very fine wines.” She knew each bottle sold for well over one hundred dollars. And that was for a recent vintage. Add on a few years and the decimal point slid dramatically sideways.
Turner glanced up, looking a little confused. “What?” Then he saw what she was referring to. “Oh those.” He chuckled slightly. “I must confess, I really do adore a fine wine. Though my pocketbook groans at the thought of buying them.”
“But you shelled out a fair amount of money for those two bottles,” Theodosia said, grinning.
“Unfortunately,” said Turner, “I won’t get a chance to indulge. I purchased those two bottles with the express intent of donating them to the Art Crawl Ball’s silent auction.” He wiggled his eyebrows comically and said in a slightly theatrical voice, “Donated by the very upscale Turner Art Gallery. Have to keep up appearances, don’t you know?”
“Which is terrific for the Art Crawl,” said Theodosia. “But too bad for you.”
• • •
A few minutes later, back on the crowded street, Theodosia was talking enthusiastically to Max about her painting.
“I think you’re smart,” said Max. “A good piece of art always appreciates. The stock market goes up and down, real estate can get sliced and diced, but art always holds its value.”
“Always?” said Theodosia.
“Well . . . okay. I suppose a few things have gone sideways in recent years—maybe Japanese prints and English porcelains—but for the most part, art is usually a savvy investment.”
Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Page 14