by Laura Childs
“I have to admit, I was nervous about the idea at first,” said Theodosia. “But now that we’re completely sold out, I take my hat off to you. It’s a grand idea.”
“Wait until you see the décor I’ve got planned,” said Drayton. “It’s going to blow your socks off.”
“I even did research on some of the menus that the White Star Lines featured,” said Haley. “So we’ll be serving some of those actual dishes.”
“You two,” said Theodosia, shaking her head. When Drayton and Haley sunk their teeth into a new themed tea, it was like dealing with a couple of rabid jackals.
“But we’re gonna decorate with a few ghoulies later on,” said Haley. “After all, it is Halloween.” She gave a little shiver. “One of my very favorite holidays.”
“Why is that?” said Drayton. “Why do women go into an absolute swoon over Halloween?”
“I think it’s because we get to wear a costume,” said Theodosia. “For one crazy night, we can let ourselves be anybody or anything we want.”
“Absolutely,” said Haley. “Wicked witch costumes, fairy princesses, crazy ladies with ripped bodices . . .”
“So I suppose you two plan to be appropriately attired for our Tower of London Tea, as well?” said Drayton. This particular tea had been Theodosia’s idea. A semi-spooky, British-themed tea to be held at lunch on Halloween day.
“Are you kidding?” said Haley. “I’ve got my Anne Boleyn costume ready and rarin’ to go.” She grinned at Drayton. “Who are you going to be?” she asked. “King Henry VIII?”
“Good heavens, no,” said Drayton.
“Then who?” said Theodosia.
One of Drayton’s brows lifted into an arch. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
• • •
Just as Theodosia was serving plates of cupcakes and making a final round with a teapot filled with Keemun, Max came sauntering in. He stood by the front door, waiting patiently until she noticed him.
“Hey,” she said, swinging by him. “Are you here for a late lunch?”
“I am if you’ve got any food left.”
“I think we could scrape something up.” Theodosia pointed to a small table wedged next to a highboy stacked with colorful tea tins. “You’re lucky we even have one table left,” she told him somewhat breathlessly. She was juggling desserts, trying to deliver checks to the guests who were finished, and still hadn’t had a chance to run back to her office and call Tidwell. “I hope you don’t mind perching at that smaller table?”
“Not a problem.” Max gave her a sly wink. “Makes it easier to keep an eye on you.”
She led him to the table, hastily laid out silverware, and poured him a glass of ice water. “So how are things at the museum today?”
“They’re in turmoil, just as you might expect. Elliot Kern, our director, is pretty much yanking his hair out. What’s left of it anyway.”
“Have you heard anything specific? I mean . . . the police . . . Tidwell . . . have they been nosing around?”
“I was stuck in my office all morning, taking calls and fending off our local press, so I really couldn’t say.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Well, there was constant chatter and lots of urgent footsteps shuffling up and down the hallway. So, yes, the investigators were there all right. Probably wearing their little Sherlock Holmes caps while they tried to sniff out clues.”
“I picked up a couple of interesting bits of information this morning,” said Theodosia.
Max raised his eyebrows. “Concerning . . . ?”
Theodosia waved a hand. “They’re just rumors really.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Theodosia quickly filled him in on the Charlotte-Edgar-Cecily love triangle.
Max tapped a finger against his water glass. “That’s fairly weird. So what are you really saying?”
“Just that, I don’t know . . .” She was a little nervous about sharing the gossip now. “That it was a strange situation, with no love lost between any of them?”
Max’s eyes went suddenly huge. “Oh, jeez, Theo. But I do get your inference. You’re saying that either of those two women could be a prime suspect in Webster’s murder!”
“Well, that would be the general idea, yes.”
“Holy crap,” said Max. “Now there’s a can of worms.” He paused, studying Theodosia carefully as if she were a science project. “So . . . do you think you’re going to kick that can wide open?”
“I’m planning to call Detective Tidwell, yes.”
Max gazed at her. “To spill the beans about Charlotte and Cecily. Huh. You’re really getting involved in this, aren’t you?”
Theodosia lifted a shoulder. “I picked up some critical information that the police should probably know about.”
Max made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh of resignation and a protest. “Okay, I’m sure you’re going to relay all of this information to Tidwell. But that doesn’t mean there’s going to be any quid pro quo involved. I seriously doubt that he’s going to open up to you about what he’s already discovered.”
“Probably not,” said Theodosia. “But with this kind of information, I can at least prime the pump.”
• • •
Theodosia took advantage of a lull in business a few minutes later. She whipped into her office, plunked herself down behind her desk, and dialed Tidwell’s number. She didn’t have the good detective on speed dial, but wondered if maybe she should.
It took a few minutes for Theodosia to bluff her way through Tidwell’s gatekeepers, but finally she had him on the phone. Then she spent a fast three minutes bringing him up to speed on what she knew about Edgar and Charlotte Webster and Cecily Conrad. She laid her information out as smoothly as she could, hoping that this new information—well, some of it was hearsay—would spur him into action.
But when she was finished, there was dead silence.
“Detective Tidwell?” she said. “Have you heard any of this before?”
There were a few more moments of silence, then he said, “Miss Browning, this is all hearsay and conjecture on your part, correct?”
“It’s information,” said Theodosia. “A few basic facts that I think you should be aware of.”
Tidwell sighed. “Please tell me you’re not calling to horn in on my investigation.”
“Of course I’m not.” She grimaced. She kind of was. “I’m really just being a concerned citizen, trying to share some pertinent information.”
“I see,” said Tidwell.
“So did you know?” asked Theodosia. “About the . . . affair?”
“Yes, I did.”
That brought her down a peg or two. “Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not really. Oh, but I did want to ask you a question.”
“Just one question?”
“Um . . . that’s right.”
“Then fire away with your single question, dear lady, so I can get back to work tout de suite.”
“Did you have your technical forensic people tear that photo booth apart?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, they ripped into it like a hungry dog gnawing a lamb shank.”
Theodosia sighed. Dealing with Tidwell could be such a slog.
“You’re rolling your eyes,” said Tidwell. “I can hear them clicking inside your sweet little head.”
“Look,” said Theodosia, starting to get a little steamed. “I’m just wondering if the techs who examined that photo booth found anything pertinent?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Digital photos, images on the hard drive, old-fashioned negatives, anything. Basically anything that might be incriminating. Something that would point to the killer.”
“I understand where you’re going with this, Miss Browning. And it would be marvelous to push a button and have a photographic image of the killer pop out at us. Unfortunately, our clever killer chose to stab poor Mr. Webster rather than take time for a photo op.”
“You’re saying he’s clever? Or she?”
“This one is, yes,” said Tidwell. “Because an up-close, personal attack at a crowded party is always somewhat daring. But in the end, he or she will ultimately be apprehended.”
“You’re sure about that?” Theodosia looked up just as Max walked into her office. His cell phone was clenched in one hand, and his usually animated face wore a hard, unblinking stare.
“I’m as certain that we’ll catch him as the sun rises each morning,” Tidwell said into Theodosia’s ear. There was a faint wheeze and then a loud clunk. He’d hung up.
“What’s wrong?” Theodosia asked. Max looked like he’d just bitten into a sour pickle. Except they weren’t serving sour pickles for lunch.
“You’re not going to believe this,” said Max. His jaw seemed to be frozen as he moved woodenly toward her, almost gasping for air.
“What?” She leaned forward. “Max, what’s wrong?”
Max lurched toward the plush chair that sat across from Theodosia’s desk and eased himself down into it.
“I’ve just been fired.”
5
Theodosia was dumbfounded. “What?” she yelped. Then she caught herself before she hit the red lever and her temper shot all the way up to DEFCON 4. She must not have heard Max correctly. Surely he hadn’t just uttered the word fired? No, he couldn’t have. That would never happen.
“What?” Theodosia said again, straining to hear what surely must be the correct words.
“I’ve been fired,” Max repeated. He sat staring at her, his lips slightly parted, his brows pinched together. He looked disbelieving and totally in shock. “They told me not to come back to work today.”
“Who told you that?” With a thud in her heart, Theodosia knew Max was absolutely serious. And that someone—his boss?—had just made a very grave mistake.
“Elliot Kern, the director. I just spoke to him. Or rather, he just called me on my cell phone.”
“Wha . . . ?” Now Theodosia was the one who was in shock. “Wait a minute.” She held up a hand. “What exactly did Kern say to you?”
“He said I was on a permanent leave of absence until the Edgar Webster murder had been resolved.”
“That was his explanation? That’s ridiculous. There must be something else going on. There has to be an actual reason.” She was starting to get really angry. “There has to be just cause!”
“Kern said that the board of directors had an emergency meeting this morning and decided to suspend me.”
“They were meeting while you were hard at work?”
“Apparently.”
“But why suspend you?” Theodosia knew she was sputtering but couldn’t help herself. “Do you think it was because of the photo booth? Because it was your idea? Surely they can’t hold that against you? It was just a stupid prop—a goofball amusement for wealthy donors. You didn’t know someone was going to get murdered inside of it!”
Max was still dumbfounded. “Kern mentioned something about publicity, too. Or maybe it was press releases. I know that’s what Webster was all fired up about last night.”
“Over press releases?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m having a lot of trouble processing this whole thing.”
“So am I,” said Theodosia. None of this made a lick of sense to her. She knew, with all her heart, that Max would never willfully do anything to harm the reputation of the museum. And, as far as job performance went, he was an absolute whiz at publicity. He’d planted articles in Charleston Weekly and Art Now. Why, a couple of his press releases—ones about the contemporary southern art show and the Picasso ceramics show—had even been picked up by the Art & Design section of the New York Times!
“Even though Kern told me not to come back,” said Max, “I’m going to go back there anyway. See if I can sit down with him. Try to get some more . . . information.”
“Good for you,” said Theodosia. She stood up from her desk so fast, her chair almost flipped over backward. “You run over there and try to straighten out this whole ridiculous thing. Really, this firing can’t even be legal.” She came around her desk, put a hand on Max’s shoulder, and rubbed it gently. “Nothing makes sense here. Maybe . . . it’s some kind of Halloween prank?”
“Well, if it is,” said Max, “it’s not very funny.”
• • •
“Oh my,” said Drayton. “I don’t mean to pry, Theo, but you look like you just received a nasty piece of news.” He was setting out two dozen tiny blue-green ceramic Chinese cups without handles for a tea tasting that a table of customers had requested.
“I . . . we . . . did just get some terrible news,” said Theodosia. And then, because there was no easy way to say it, she just blurted out, “Max was fired.”
“No!” Drayton reared back. “I can’t imagine that’s true.”
She swallowed hard. “Well, it is. It just happened. Like, five minutes ago.”
Drayton peered over his half-glasses, looking concerned and slightly owlish. “Do you want me to make a phone call?” Besides being a permanent fixture on the board of directors at the Heritage Society, Drayton knew people. People in high places.
“I don’t know. Max is on his way back to the museum right now to try to straighten things out with the director.”
“So we should wait and see how this plays out?” said Drayton.
“I think so. For now anyway.”
Drayton reached up and grabbed a tin of Fujian white tea. “I think my ladies are going to enjoy this. Picked by hand for only a few choice days each spring from young, tender leaves. Sweet with a slight apricot fragrance . . .” He offered a reassuring smile. “Please don’t worry, Theo. I’m sure this will all get straightened out. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
But Theodosia was clearly flustered throughout the rest of their luncheon service. She delivered a pot of jasmine tea to Mrs. Biatek’s table when she’d actually ordered rose tea. And a pot of East Frisian blend was misdirected to another table that had really wanted a Russian country blend.
“This isn’t like me,” Theodosia fretted to Drayton once she’d scurried back to the counter.
“Not to worry. This is all easily remedied with fresh pots of tea,” he soothed.
“Still, to make such silly mistakes.” She glanced down and saw that her hands were shaking. She clenched them hard to try to calm herself.
“You’re way too hard on yourself,” said Drayton.
“No,” she said. “The board was way too hard on Max.”
• • •
At midafternoon, down on her hands and knees, replenishing her shelves with DuBose Bees Honey and scone mixes, Theodosia looked up to find Bill Glass hovering over her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him. Bill Glass was the smarmy, nosy publisher of Shooting Star, Charleston’s very own gossip rag. Glass had founded it right after the tech boom and, like a really hideous reality show, it hadn’t gone away. In fact, it had grown more and more popular every year until it had become a kitschy little weekly filled with glossy photos and bits of snide gossip that appealed to the nouveau riche.
“The-o-do-sia,” said Glass, giving her one of his trademark toothy great white shark grins. “I heard you were swanning around last night at that very fancy but oh-so-disastrous museum party.” The cameras strung around his neck clanked and clicked as if to punctuate his words.
Theodosia stumbled to her feet. “Where did you hear that?” She hated Glass for having such a tight little network of informers.
Glass held up a hand and made a flutterin
g motion. “A little bird told me. A little bird that siiiings.” With his slicked-back hair and shiny suit, he reminded Theodosia of a sleazy used-car salesman. Or maybe somebody who sold advertising.
“Let me guess,” said Theodosia. “You’re here looking for inside information.”
Bill Glass shot an index finger at her. “Right-o, sweetheart.”
“I really don’t know anything.”
“Perfect. Pour me a cup of tea and tell me all about what you don’t know,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
Theodosia considered him for a moment. Maybe Glass had picked up something that she could use. That’s if she could muster the stamina to wheedle it out of him.
“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Grab a seat at that table over there. But please, please don’t disturb anyone.”
“Gotcha.”
Theodosia hurriedly poured a cup of Darjeeling for Glass. After a moment of deliberation, she also placed a scone and a dab of Devonshire cream on a plate. Carrying everything back to his table, she set the tea and scone down, and then slid into the chair across from him. She’d made up her mind that she would steer the conversation.
“What do you know about Charlotte Webster?” Theodosia asked Glass.
He had his teacup halfway to his mouth, but paused. “Big money,” he said, then managed a noisy slurp. “Boatloads of money.”
“That’s what I’ve heard, too,” said Theodosia.
Bill Glass broke off a piece of scone and popped it in his mouth. “You see, that’s what I like about you.” He tapped the side of his head. “You’re smart. You’re cognizant of the world around you.”
“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “I think.”
“About last night?” said Glass. “If Vegas was making odds, I’d put my money squarely on good old Charlotte.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“For the murder,” Glass said hurriedly. “Here, let me lay it out for you.”
“Please do.”
“Charlotte’s got money, status, and chutzpah, okay? But you know what’s been dragging her down? That lying, cheating skunk of a husband. So . . .” Glass picked up a butter knife, twiddled it between his fingertips, then made a sharp, jabbing motion. “If there’s no more good-time Edgar around, the problem is neatly solved.”