by Laura Childs
“Miss Browning,” said Tidwell. A grin stretched across his wide face. “It looks as if we almost missed you. Are you dashing off somewhere?”
“Just running errands,” said Theodosia. No way was she going to tell him that she was headed for a meeting with Roger Greaves.
“I have a few questions,” said Tidwell. He glanced at Samuels. “Actually, we have a few questions. Could you spare a moment of your time?”
“A moment,” said Theodosia. She turned to Drayton. “Drayton, could you . . . ?”
“My pleasure,” said Drayton.
Theodosia led the men to a table, and said, “Won’t you sit down? Drayton is going to bring you some tea and scones. Unfortunately, I can’t join you. My schedule . . .”
“Wonderful,” said Samuels. He’d been sniffing the air like an overeager bird dog, obviously entranced by the aroma of tea and muffins and scones.
“Detective Samuels means it’s wonderful that you’re offering us some refreshments,” said Tidwell. “Don’t you, Detective?”
Samuels nodded. “That’s right.”
“And I believe you had some questions for Miss Browning?” said Tidwell.
“I thought you had the questions,” Theodosia said to Tidwell. What was this, anyway? A rehashed version of good cop, bad cop?
“Kindly bear with us,” said Tidwell as Samuels dug a spiral notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.
Samuels cleared his throat. “How long have you known Max Scofield?” he asked.
“Why are you asking?” said Theodosia.
“We’re trying to clear him,” Samuels said matter-of-factly.
Theodosia focused a level gaze at Tidwell. “I thought Max was already cleared.”
“The board of directors at the museum has asked us to take a more careful look at everyone involved,” said Tidwell.
“Everyone?” said Theodosia. “Does that mean everyone who was at the grand opening party for the Chinese tea house?”
“Almost everyone,” said Samuels.
“You care to tell me who else you’re talking to?” said Theodosia.
“No,” said Tidwell.
“That’s not how it’s done,” said Samuels just as Drayton showed up with a pot of tea and a plate of scones.
“Now, we also have some blueberry muffins if you’d prefer,” said Drayton.
“No,” said Theodosia. “This is just fine. This is all these gentlemen have time for.” When she saw disappointment register on Tidwell’s face, she added, “They’re extremely busy. They have a lot more people to question.”
• • •
Theodosia was still miffed as she drove down Calhoun Street heading for Datrex.
The nerve of Tidwell. Didn’t he know her better than that? Did he really think she’d have anything to do with Max if she’d caught even a whiff that he’d been involved in Webster’s murder?
As if to reinforce her indignation, Theodosia pulled out her cell phone and called Max. He answered right away.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she said. “Me. What are you doing?”
“Working on my résumé,” said Max.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. It feels like I’m going to be persona non grata around here for quite some time.”
“So you’re really going to look at other jobs?” She felt unsettled by the news. “Um . . . where?”
“Well,” said Max. “I did have that offer from Savannah a couple of months ago. At the College of Art and Design.”
Theodosia’s heart caught in her throat. “So what does that mean?” she asked. What she really meant was, What does that mean for us? Living almost one hundred miles apart?
“It means I’m actively looking,” said Max. He fell silent for a few moments, and then said, “How did your luncheon go?”
“It was fine.” It really hadn’t been fine at all, but she didn’t feel like rehashing the Cecily-Charlotte grudge match with him. “Okay, I just wanted to check in and say hi.”
“You still want to go for that jog? Get one last good workout in before you run the five-K tomorrow night?”
“Sure, but it’s going to have to be later tonight. Maybe nine-ish?”
“I’ll see you then.”
• • •
The corporate headquarters for Datrex looked like it had been conceived by an architecture student who was torn between the Bauhaus and Buck Rogers. A three-story trapezoid of shimmering blue glass, Theodosia thought the building stuck out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood that offered Ivy League–style buildings as well as cute little Charleston single houses. But there was guest parking, a friendly receptionist, and a respectable-looking Aubusson carpet on the floor of the lobby.
Theodosia had barely cracked the pages of the new Fortune magazine when she was greeted and led to Roger Greaves’s rather comfortable office.
“We meet again,” said Greaves. He came around the side of his large desk to shake hands with her.
“Thanks for taking time out of your busy day,” she told him. “Although, with the funeral this morning, I doubt you got much work done today.”
Greaves indicated a leather chair embellished with old-fashioned hobnails, and she sat down in it. Greaves settled in behind his desk. While the Datrex headquarters may have looked ultramodern, Greaves’ office was furnished fairly traditionally. Touches of wood, some large green plants, and a few paintings and what appeared to be several shadow boxes hung on the walls.
“You seemed so anxious to talk to me before,” said Greaves. He offered a pleasant smile. “What’s so important that it warrants a special visit?”
“As I mentioned before,” said Theodosia, “Charlotte asked me to look into things.”
“Isn’t that what the police are doing?”
“Absolutely,” said Theodosia. “Which is why I’m doing it from a civilian’s point of view.”
“Interesting,” said Greaves. “But I don’t see what you can learn from me. I mean, Charlotte and I have spoken fairly regularly since her husband’s murder. I’ve done my best to keep her in the loop.”
“And she’s still okay about the IPO going through?”
“We talked about it at lunch. It’s practically a done deal.”
Theodosia glanced at a photo that sat on Greaves’s desk. It showed a number of executives standing in a semicircle. Edgar Webster was in the middle.
She indicated the photo. “I take it Edgar Webster was the senior partner?”
“Yes, but only because he provided most of the initial financing,” said Greaves. “But you have to understand, Edgar wasn’t exactly a tech guy per se. That was my bailiwick. I worked in Silicon Valley during the nineties and kind of cut my teeth on databases and data mining.”
“That’s how the DOD contract came about?”
Greaves nodded. “They purchased our Versus product. We have a full suite of products, but that one’s become our bread and butter. Our real claim to fame.”
“And this Versus,” said Theodosia. “This is the one that will drive your IPO? Will make investors excited about you?”
“Hopefully,” he said. He balled a fist and rapped it softly against his desk. “Knock on wood. It’s what we should have done two years ago.”
“Will the IPO make you all rich?” said Theodosia.
“Comfortable anyway.” Greaves pressed his hands against his desk and pushed himself up. “Which means I should get to work.” He forced a hearty smile. “It’s nice we had this time to chat.”
Short as it was, Theodosia thought. She stood as well and glanced about his office. He was giving her the bum’s rush and she knew it. Resented it.
“You have some lovely artwork here,” she said. She edged her way toward an oil painting of Charleston Harbor. It was sketchy and spattery, not her taste at all. “
This one’s gorgeous, just look at all those colors.”
“It’s an original by Easley Harper. You know his work?”
“Some,” said Theodosia, though she’d never heard of him before. She shifted her gaze to the shadow box that hung next to it. It had a dozen small nooks and crannies of various sizes, kind of like an old-fashioned type box, and was about two inches deep with a glass cover. Each cubbyhole held a small medal or patch.
“This is interesting,” she said. “Are you a collector of military memorabilia?” She knew that Charleston was filled with memorabilia collectors, most of them Civil War buffs. But she didn’t recognize these patches, and they didn’t look particularly old.
“Oh, those,” said Greaves, looking a little sheepish. “They’re personal. From a long time ago.”
“Yes?” Theodosia gave him the kind of bright, anticipatory smile that begs for more information.
“I earned them.”
“You were in the military,” said Theodosia. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Yes.”
Her smiled widened. “Which branch?”
“Special Forces.”
“How very interesting,” said Theodosia. “And I imagine challenging, too.” She turned to face Greaves. Now that she looked at him, really studied him, she saw that, beneath that conservative three-piece suit, he was trim and fairly well muscled. Still in very good shape.
“In which parts of the world did you serve?” Her smile beamed even brighter, but her words were clipped and to the point.
“All over, really,” said Greaves. “Angola, Mogadishu . . .” His voice faded out, as if he’d rather not rekindle old memories. Or not reveal those rougher, more lawless parts of the world where his missions had taken him.
“In other words,” said Theodosia, “you know how to kill a person with your bare hands.”
Greaves offered her a thin smile. “Not exactly.”
But from the way he said it, Theodosia knew that he could probably snap someone’s neck like a matchstick. Or, without even breaking a sweat, whip an ice pick into someone’s ear.
19
Drayton lived just a few blocks from Theodosia in the heart of Charleston’s Historic District. His quaint, 160-year-old home was a single-story cottage with a gabled roof and a narrow brick front set with elegant dark blue shutters. Now on the historic register, it had once been owned by a prominent Civil War doctor.
With the last vestiges of light fading, Theodosia hurried along the bumpy cobblestone walk toward the screened side piazza. She stepped inside and knocked on the kitchen door.
“Entre!” Drayton called out, and Theodosia went in.
She was immediately enveloped in not just a steamy warmth, but also a mixture of tantalizing aromas. Her nose picked up bay leaves, coriander, and . . . Good heavens, is that curry?
“What are you cooking?” Theodosia asked. “Indian food?”
Drayton shrugged into a brown tweed jacket and slid his wallet into his inside pocket. “I’m making a huge pot of country captain.”
“Oh, of course.” Country captain was a low-country tradition. Basically a chicken curry stew with lots of freshly ground and roasted spices.
“I hope the aroma isn’t too overwhelming.”
“It’s very nice,” said Theodosia. “Particularly this time of year, when you start craving heartier dishes and stews.” She glanced around Drayton’s kitchen. It was a neat and tidy bachelor’s kitchen with fine Carolina pine cupboards that he’d accented with dozens of tasty little eye catchers. A sterling silver cream and sugar set sat on the counter, several teapots from his extensive collection peered down from the shelves, and a small box of gleaming cutlery rested on a small kitchen table, which looked spindly and tippy but was really genuine Hepplewhite. She pointed at the cutlery, and said, “Are those new?” Then, “What are they exactly? Forks?”
Drayton grinned. “I finally lucked out and located that set of kipper forks I wanted.”
“Kipper forks,” she said. Trust Drayton to ferret out something as strange and obscure as kipper forks.
“You see”—he picked up one of the forks and made a jabbing motion—“you simply ease these two long prongs under the back of your kipper’s head once it’s fully roasted.”
Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “No, that’s what you do when your kipper is fully roasted,” she said. She wasn’t a big fish eater and wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being served fish with the head still on. She didn’t like food that looked back at her.
“Then you pop the spine up,” Drayton continued, “and zip it all the way out, working from head to tail.”
Drayton was still rhapsodizing about his kipper forks when they climbed into Theodosia’s Jeep. She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“Are you sure you want me to come along?” Drayton asked suddenly.
“It’s a little late to be worrying about that now. But, yes, I absolutely do.”
“Tell me why again.”
“For moral support, of course.”
“And because you think Charlotte might be dangerous?”
Theodosia gripped the steering wheel harder. “There’s that. And something else I need to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“When I visited Roger Greaves this afternoon . . .”
“At his office, yes,” said Drayton.
“Turns out he had a nice little display of patches and emblems from his days spent with Special Forces.”
“Are those the soldiers that . . . ?”
“Yes,” said Theodosia, as they shot through an intersection. “They most certainly do.”
“Which means he could have easily . . .”
“Yes,” Theodosia said again. “He certainly could have.”
• • •
Charlotte welcomed them into her home like she hadn’t seen them in two years.
“Theodosia,” Charlotte cooed. “And Drayton. Come right in and make yourselves at home.” Wearing a fluttering pink-and-purple caftan, she led them down her hallway, past her gallery of paintings, and into her jumble of a solarium. With it full-on dark now, the glass-walled room didn’t have quite the presence or punch it had with bright sunlight streaming through.
“Sit down, sit down,” said Charlotte. “Can I get you anything? A refreshing beverage perhaps?” She looked hopeful. “Glass of wine? Something stronger?”
“Nothing,” said Theodosia.
“No, thank you,” said Drayton.
“I suppose you just want to get to it, then,” said Charlotte.
“You said you’d put together a notebook?” said Theodosia. She didn’t meant to be brusque, but this wasn’t exactly a social call. Besides, she had a date to go running later tonight.
“Yes, of course,” said Charlotte. She toddled over to a table, grabbed a white plastic binder, and carried it back to Theodosia. “It’s all in here. The various events and plans.”
Theodosia thumbed through the binder. Much to Charlotte’s credit, the Bloody Mary Crawl and Haunted Hayride did seem to be fairly well-thought-out. Either Charlotte wasn’t as frenetic as she appeared to be, or there were some fairly savvy volunteers with good organizational skills. Theodosia suspected the latter.
“As you can see,” said Charlotte, “there are three aspects to the event. The open houses . . .”
“How many homes will be open for visitors to tour?” Theodosia asked.
“Four lovely homes,” said Charlotte. “Three of them located right along Meeting Street, one just around the corner. You see, there are even photos of the homes.” She tapped a finger against a plasticized page.
“Very impressive,” said Drayton. Two of them were private homes that were opening their doors to the public, and two of them were bed-and-breakfasts.
“And they’re al
l going to be decorated for Halloween?” said Theodosia. “And serving Bloody Marys?”
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “The décor is completely up to the home owner, of course. It can be as elaborate as they choose. But the really great thing is that all of the homes have good-size backyards and patios, so tables and chairs can be easily accommodated.” She smiled. “As well as the Bloody Mary bars.”
“Will nonalcoholic drinks be available, too?” Theodosia asked. She assumed this was something children might enjoy, too. After all, it was Halloween. What kid didn’t love Halloween?
Charlotte nodded. “We’ll provide hot cocoa and cider.”
“And will appetizers be served?” asked Drayton.
“Yes, it’s all being catered by Vicks and Von Catering,” said Charlotte. “This may be a Halloween event, but it’s an upscale event. I mean, tickets weren’t cheap. Forty dollars each.”
“And they’ve all been sold?” said Drayton.
“Sold out as of yesterday,” said Charlotte. The phone rang suddenly, and she jumped up to answer it. “Excuse me,” and then: “Hello?”
Theodosia and Drayton could hear a loud voice booming through the phone, though they couldn’t make out the exact words.
But Charlotte certainly could. “No,” she told her caller, “you’re not interrupting me at all.” She turned and winked at Theodosia and Drayton. “Oh, you did?” Now she turned her back to them, hunched her shoulders, and lowered her voice. “Yes, that sounds lovely. I think I’d like that very much.”
“Get a load of her,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia. “She sounds like she’s flirting. Hmm . . . the grieving widow.”
They waited patiently while Charlotte talked for another three or four minutes. Finally she hung up.
“Apologies,” said Charlotte. She sat down across from them. “That was Harlan Duke. He is such a dear man. He’s been an absolute rock for me these past few days.”
“I’m sure he has,” said Theodosia, suddenly recalling Bill Glass’s crack about Duke being next in line.