Ming Tea Murder

by Laura Childs

  Theodosia frowned. She didn’t really like the sound of that. But if Max needed to walk and think or smoke and think, that certainly was his prerogative. “Whatever you do, be careful, okay?”

  “Always,” said Max. But to Theodosia’s ears, his words sounded a little hollow.

  • • •

  Theodosia puttered around her house. She cleaned up in the kitchen, washed her wineglasses by hand, and let Earl Grey out into the backyard. When she was finished with her chores, she slipped outside to join him.

  Earl Grey was snuffling about in the azalea bushes, hoping to rout out a ground squirrel or two. When that didn’t work out, he trotted over to check the small fishpond. Marauding raccoons had dipped their paws in there on occasion, and he was determined it wouldn’t happen again. Not on his watch anyway.

  Theodosia reclined in a woven twig chair that sat at the edge of her free-form flagstone patio. The night air felt silky and smooth as it rustled the ivy on the back fence and swept her hair away from her face. Overhead, a handful of stars twinkled dully, looking like rough-cut diamonds that had been tossed carelessly into the blue-black sky.

  She was letting her mind free-associate, thinking about Webster’s murder and all the various connections, Max, and her crazy foray into the museum tonight. Other subjects floated into and out of her thoughts, too. Their Titanic Tea tomorrow, the Halloween week, all the little nits and nats of everyday business that needed to be taken care of.

  As Earl Grey turned his attention to a clump of columbine that was making a heroic last stand, Theodosia was thinking about how she might stop at City Market first thing tomorrow and pick up a bushel basket of colorful gourds. With Halloween only four days away, plus the need for some general autumnal decorating in the tea shop, the gourds would be perfect. If all else failed, Haley could do something creative with them. Make them into soup? Or bread? Or cookies?

  Theodosia smiled as she shook her head. No, gourd cookies didn’t sound at all appetizing. They certainly wouldn’t be in the same league with Haley’s peanut butter cookies or her lemon marmalade cookies.

  Suddenly feeling the stresses of the day weighing heavy upon her, Theodosia decided it was time to turn in. She whistled for Earl Grey, and together they padded inside, checked and locked all the doors, and retreated to their upstairs lair. Theodosia had basically turned her entire second floor into a bedroom, walk-in closet, and retreat room. And then there was her cozy turret room, where she enjoyed snuggling up in an easy chair with a good book.

  Kicking off her shoes, she remembered how she’d carried them, just an hour or so ago, during her whacked-out ramble through the museum. Interestingly, the recollection brought a faint smile to her face. Perhaps she was getting good at this business of surreptitious activity? Or at least getting used to it?

  She doubted Detective Tidwell would agree.

  Yawning, she snapped on her small TV. Maybe she could catch the late headlines, see what else was going on in the world today. Surely, there had to be some good news somewhere. A rescued puppy? Returning soldiers enjoying a heartwarming reunion?

  Just as she tossed a red-and-blue chintz throw pillow onto a matching chair, a familiar face suddenly loomed large on her TV screen.

  What?

  The image looked surprisingly like Detective Tidwell!

  Wait a minute, that is Detective Tidwell. The question is: What’s he doing on TV?

  Well, for one thing, she could see that he was looking seriously annoyed while trying to escape the clutches of a television news reporter. The pretty blond lady from Channel Eight. Stephanie something.

  Theodosia grabbed her remote control and beefed up the sound.

  Stephanie Hayward, the reporter, faced the camera directly, and said, “For those of you just tuning in, a brutal assault took place just moments ago near the Lady Goodwood Inn.”

  A brutal assault? Moments ago? Theodosia wondered exactly what had brought Detective Tidwell out on a Saturday night. Hopefully, assault wasn’t code for another murder.

  “As chance would have it,” Stephanie continued, “our WCTV van was cruising just blocks from where this attack took place. Which put us squarely on the scene to bring you this exclusive.”

  “An attack?” Theodosia said as Tidwell continued to look uncomfortable. “An attack on who?”

  Stephanie smiled her dazzling smile and stuck her microphone back in Tidwell’s face. “What can you tell us about the victim?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Tidwell muttered. “Since this incident is currently under investigation, I’m unable to release any details.”

  Tidwell’s words did little to deter the intrepid Stephanie. She adjusted her expression until she looked almost fearful, then continued. “But my sources are telling me that a woman by the name of Cecily Conrad was attacked after attending an event at the Lady Goodwood Inn.”

  “Cecily Conrad was attacked?” Theodosia cried out. Feeling like one of those rabid sports fans who screamed at the TV, she moved closer so she could get the full story.

  On-screen, Tidwell looked supremely unhappy. “That is all we know so far.”

  “And Miss Conrad was attacked while walking to her car?”

  “I do wish you’d stop using the word attacked,” Tidwell said peevishly.

  Startled by this bizarre turn of events, Theodosia hastily dialed Max’s number. She wanted to bring him up to speed on what was going on. Could this assault—or whatever it was—on Cecily be intricately related to Webster’s murder? Or was it just a strange coincidence?

  Theodosia waited impatiently as she listened to the ringing of his cell phone.

  Pick up, Max. Come on, pick up.

  But there was no answer. She hung up and dialed his home phone. Did that three more times. Finally, just as she was kicked over to voice mail, Theodosia hung up. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t going to be there.

  She turned and looked out her upstairs window. Saw only her reflection looking back at her. Saw worry in her face.

  There’s no way Max could be part of this, is there?

  No, she told herself. No way. Max hadn’t been that rattled by Cecily the other night. Had he? He wouldn’t threaten her or . . .

  Theodosia wandered over to her closet.

  No, he wouldn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

  She decided to lay out her clothes for tomorrow in an effort to calm her nerves. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

  Cecily attacked? Why? And by whom?

  Against her better judgment, Theodosia decided she needed to find out a little more about this.

  Okay, all cards on the table, I want to know a lot more.

  Which meant that, five minutes later, Theodosia was in her Jeep, bumping down Tradd Street. When she got closer to the Lady Goodwood Inn, she could see flashing red and blue lights from three police cruisers and an ambulance. Plus it looked as if there were uniformed officers in orange vests blocking the street in an effort to keep gawkers away from the scene.

  Theodosia circled around a block, then flipped a left on East Bay. She drove another half block or so, spotted a parking space, and pulled to the curb. From her nighttime jogs with Earl Grey, she knew this neighborhood like the back of her hand. She had complete familiarity with all the narrow alleys and lanes where palmetto fronds whispered in the night and where the right shortcut could sneak you in close, right to the scene of the crime.

  Theodosia ducked down a small stone walkway that was tucked between two enormous Victorian homes. Brushing past a stand of dogwood, she dodged around a gently pattering three-tiered fountain and found herself on Longitude Lane. This was basically a grassy and broken rock path, an unimproved seventeenth-century country lane that passed behind several large and elegant homes. With its brick walls and overhanging shrubbery, Longitude Lane was practically hidden from view. Visitors rarely stumbled upon it unless
they’d signed up for one of the special “hidden Charleston” walking tours.

  Quietly, carefully, Theodosia emerged from the alley and into a circle of lights and frenetic activity. Acting as if she belonged there—or better yet, lived there—she passed groups of neighbors who buzzed with excitement as they spoke to uniformed police officers. They were giving accounts of their stories—what they’d seen or heard.

  Glancing around, trying to scope out the scene, Theodosia was startled when she spotted Cecily sitting in the back of an ambulance, being attended to by a youthful-looking African American woman. In her blue jumpsuit with red-and-white patches on her shoulders, the woman was clearly an EMT.

  Theodosia walked slowly up to the ambulance. “Cecily,” she said in what she hoped was a friendly, calming tone. “It’s Theodosia. Remember me?”

  Cecily lifted her head and stared at Theodosia. Her hair was disheveled, and her white blouse was ripped underneath one arm. There was a bruise on the right side of her face that would surely be the color of an eggplant by morning, and her knees were badly scuffed.

  “I heard what happened,” said Theodosia. She offered a sympathetic smile. “Are you okay?”

  Cecily stared back for a few moments, then a hint of recognition flickered in her eyes. “Theodosia? The lady from the tea shop?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” said Theodosia, moving a few steps closer. “Cecily, I just heard about your, um, attack, on TV.” She glanced around. “We all did.”

  “Somebody leapt out at me in the dark!” Cecily howled. “It’s a good thing I screamed and fought him off.” She hiccupped loudly. “And that some nearby people helped scare him off.”

  Theodosia touched a hand to the shoulder of the lady EMT. Her nametag read CAROLINE BOWIE. “Miss Bowie,” said Theodosia, “how is Cecily doing? What are the extent of her injuries?”

  “He grabbed me and threw me to the sidewalk,” Cecily whimpered. “Smacked me in the face!”

  Caroline Bowie’s almond-shaped eyes took in Theodosia. “Are you a friend?”

  “Yes, I am. Please, does she need to be hospitalized?”

  Caroline’s Bowie’s brown eyes crinkled warmly. “Call me Caroline. And there probably won’t be any trip to the hospital tonight for Cecily. I’d say she’s going to be just fine. She’s sustained a few cuts and scrapes, and naturally she’s a little shaken up.”

  “I’m a lot shaken up,” Cecily sputtered. She was wearing an oxygen mask and kept trying to remove it so she could keep up her running commentary on how awful she felt. “I’m so angry, I’m about ready to jump out of my skin!”

  “We can give you some meds for that,” said Caroline.

  “I’d rather have a drink,” Cecily snapped.

  “How did this happen?” Theodosia asked. She was a little surprised that Cecily was even talking to her. After all, they barely knew each other. Maybe Cecily was badly shaken up and her brain wasn’t pumping out synaptic connections in the proper way. Maybe she’d forgotten that Theodosia was linked romantically with Max.

  “I was . . . I was . . .” Cecily blubbered.

  “Take your time,” said Theodosia.

  “I was coming from the Lady Goodwood Inn,” said Cecily. Now tears coursed down her cheeks. “I had dinner and a . . . few drinks.” She fanned her arms expressively. “On the way to my car . . .”

  “Keep that oxygen on,” Caroline advised.

  “And somebody jumped you?” Theodosia prompted.

  “A maniac!” said Cecily. “It was horrible. He came leaping out of the bushes and I . . . I had to fight for my life.”

  Theodosia patted Cecily’s shoulder. “You poor thing.”

  “How could this happen?” Cecily screeched. “This is genteel Charleston. People call it the Holy City because of all the churches!”

  “I’m guessing your attacker doesn’t regularly attend church,” said Theodosia. She glanced sideways and saw Detective Tidwell issuing orders to two uniformed officers. Then, without looking over toward the ambulance, he cocked a thumb in its direction. She decided that if he was about to interview Cecily, this was probably her cue to get out of there.

  “Take care, Cecily,” said Theodosia. She gave a little wave. “Feel better.”

  “I . . . I just wanna . . .” said Cecily. Then she dissolved into loud, choking sobs.

  Theodosia slipped back through the darkness of Longitude Lane. In all the time she’d jogged through this neighborhood, or walked home from parties, she’d never felt unsafe. She wondered if this assault on Cecily might change things for her.

  But as she climbed into her Jeep and started the engine, other thoughts began to lodge in her head. Thoughts about Max. About his angry standoff with Cecily. Thoughts that could easily be construed as . . . doubts.

  But as she drove down the street, she told herself, No way. No, he couldn’t have.

  13

  “Where were you last night?” Theodosia asked. It was barely seven AM and still dark. She’d just woken up, and the first thing she’d done was grab the phone and dial Max’s number.

  “Um . . . what?” Max said, sounding sleepy.

  “Do you know what happened last night?”

  “Uh . . . no. Why?” There was a soft rustling on his end of the line, as if he were struggling with the bed covers, trying to throw them off and sit upright. Then he said in a grumpy voice, “Jeez, Theo, do you know what the heck time it is?”

  “Do you know what happened last night?”

  “Didn’t I just answer your question? No, I have no idea what happened.”

  Theodosia swallowed hard. Max sounded so . . . angry.

  “I . . .” Max cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come across quite so obnoxious. What exactly happened that you’re so upset about?”

  “I’m not upset, I’m concerned.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Cecily Conrad was attacked last night.”

  “What!”

  “I said Cecily . . .”

  “I got that, I got that,” said Max. “But what . . . ? Where . . . ? Maybe you better tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t have all the details,” said Theodosia. “But apparently she was attacked as she was leaving the Lady Goodwood Inn. I guess she’d met up with some friends there for dinner and drinks. Anyway, someone just . . . jumped out at her.”

  “Is she hurt badly?”

  “She was bruised and extremely shaken up. The police called for an ambulance, but she wasn’t seriously injured enough to warrant a trip to the hospital.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Max. “It sounds as if you were there.”

  “I heard about it on the late news,” said Theodosia. “So, yes, I went over there.”

  “And you talked to her?”

  “Yup.”

  “She mention anything about our dustup on Saturday night?”

  “Nope.”

  Max was quiet for a few seconds, and then he said, “It sounds as if someone was stalking her. Who would do something like that?”

  “Um . . . maybe the same person who stabbed Edgar Webster?”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I think it’s certainly possible,” said Theodosia.

  “But why? Why go after Cecily?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” said Theodosia. She was suddenly annoyed that Max didn’t seem to be taking this very seriously. “Maybe because Charlotte hates her. Maybe because Cecily’s privy to some sort of secret. Maybe because Cecily killed Edgar Webster and somebody was trying to get back at her. There are more than a few permutations that could explain this.”

  Max yawned loudly. “Or maybe it was completely random.”

  “Somehow,” said Theodosia, “it doesn’t feel that way to me.”

  • • •

  Theodosia for
got all about stopping at City Market. Instead, she was anxious to get to the Indigo Tea Shop and talk to Drayton and Haley about this new twist of events. If Max didn’t have any ideas—or didn’t want to have any ideas—maybe they did.

  But when she arrived, shortly before noon, Drayton and Haley had already heard the news about Cecily and were chattering about it, exchanging theories about the attack. And when Theodosia told them that she’d actually gone to the scene of the crime, that revelation ignited a whole new round of talk.

  “I think last night’s attack means that Cecily isn’t the killer,” said Drayton. “That she’s definitely not the one who took an ice pick to Edgar Webster’s ear.”

  “So she’s free and clear?” said Haley. She brushed her stick-straight hair back from her face and stared confrontationally at Drayton.

  “Not necessarily clear,” said Drayton.

  “So you’re saying the killer is now targeting Cecily?” said Haley.

  “If it was the killer,” said Theodosia, jumping in, “then he almost got her. It’s a good thing Cecily has a strong pair of lungs. She screamed for help, and people came running right away.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Haley. She was always a stickler for nailing down details. “Have you guys crossed Cecily off your list as the possible killer?”

  “Yes,” said Drayton.

  “No,” said Theodosia.

  “Ooh,” said Haley, peering at Theodosia. “Aren’t you the suspicious one?”

  “The thing is,” said Theodosia. “Cecily wasn’t hurt all that badly. She could have . . . I don’t know . . . staged the whole thing?” The idea had been percolating in her brain, but this was the first time she’d actually let herself vocalize it.

  “You mean she faked being attacked?” said Haley. “To kick the investigation in a different direction? To have the police searching for some random guy? Hmm . . . that would mean she’s a very clever girl.”

  “Not so clever at all,” said Drayton. “Because if the police are the least bit suspicious about Cecily’s cry-wolf scheme, they’re going to be watching her even more carefully.”