Ming Tea Murder

by Laura Childs

  Drayton, meanwhile, had been speed-reading Charlotte’s binder. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “There are the home tours, the Bloody Mary Crawl, and then there’s the Haunted Hayride.”

  “And a few walking tours down Gateway Walk,” said Charlotte. Gateway Walk was the three-block walking path that meandered from Archdale Street, crossed King Street, wound past the Charleston Library Society and the Gibbes Museum of Art, and ended up in the ancient graveyards behind St. Philip’s Church.

  “That’s right,” said Charlotte. “As you can see, the entire area will be a kind of Halloween epicenter.”

  “And there are guides lined up for the Gateway Walk tours?” said Theodosia.

  “Yes. In fact, there’s a complete list of names in the binder. Volunteers for all the venues.”

  Drayton let loose a little snort. “Gateway Walk. Always purported to be haunted.”

  “But it is!” Charlotte cried. “People have seen all sorts of strange things there at night. Ghosts and spooky vapors and glowing orbs, and . . .”

  CRASH!

  Out of nowhere, a flaming bottle suddenly slammed through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back garden. Glass shards exploded everywhere, creating a dangerous hailstorm of sparks and needlelike splinters. Then the flaming bottle hit the tile floor with a loud thwack, whirled wildly like some unholy game of spin the bottle, and exploded. Flaming bits of Molotov cocktail blew out everywhere into the room!

  “Holy croakers!” Charlotte screamed. She jumped up from her seat and went bug-eyed as sparks burned instant holes in draperies, scatter rugs, and a slipcovered chair. Within an instant, orange and yellow flames flickered brightly and began licking their way up the side of a linen cloth that hung down from a small table.

  “Whoa!” said Theodosia. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out her phone. Hurriedly poked out 911 with trembling fingers.

  While Theodosia was jabbering into the phone to the dispatcher, Charlotte’s single contribution to the growing conflagration was to jump up and down, wave her arms wildly, and continue to shriek at the top of her lungs.

  “You hear that?” Theodosia said into her phone. “That’s why we need the fire department!”

  Much to Drayton’s credit, he leapt toward the bar area, pawed around under the sink, and came up with a small fire extinguisher. He fiddled with it for a few moments, then pointed the nozzle at the worst of the flames, and pushed a red tab. A shot of white foam spewed out.

  “Watch the curtains!” Charlotte screamed. “That fabric is Brunschwig and Fils. Ninety dollars a yard!”

  Drayton ignored Charlotte’s warning and doused the curtains where tiny burn holes smoldered.

  Once Theodosia had been assured that the fire department was on its way, she rushed to the back door, flung it open, and dashed out into the backyard.

  Because maybe, just maybe, she could catch the jerk who was responsible for this firebombing. Or see him running down the alley. Or leaping into his car.

  Or maybe not.

  The backyard was quiet and dark. Palm fronds rustled in the night wind, a tiny fountain pattered away in the corner of the patio. No sign of the jackhole who’d pitched the flaming bottle through the window.

  And why a flaming bottle? Theodosia wondered. Had it been directed at Charlotte? Because . . . Well, she didn’t know what the reason might be.

  Maybe to scare her? Or to warn her? Or was this just unrelated mischief?

  Now Theodosia could hear the distinct shrill of sirens as they headed their way. She walked back into the house, feeling unsettled.

  Mischief? No, she didn’t think so. Somehow this was all connected. She just couldn’t figure out how.

  • • •

  The firefighters were wonderful. They charged in like knights on white horses, calmed everyone down, and put out the last of the firestorm. Then they checked everywhere for any sign of burning embers.

  “An improvised incendiary weapon,” said the company officer, a man with a handlebar mustache, kind brown eyes, and a nametag that read CAPT. WILL SCHAFER. “You don’t see that too often. You think it was neighborhood kids?”

  “No,” said Theodosia. “I think it was someone intent on scaring the homeowner to death.”

  “Well, they certainly managed to do exactly that,” Charlotte cried. She put a hanky to her face and collapsed limply into a chair, coughing out sobs.

  One of the other firefighters had opened a black case and was gathering up little burned and charred bits, samples for analysis. “Probably gasoline or turpentine,” he said. “We’ll know for sure in a couple of days.”

  Somewhere along the line, Drayton had sustained a small burn on his right hand, so one of the firefighters hauled out a first-aid kit and smeared cortisone cream on the burn area. Then he covered it with a soft bandage.

  Captain Schafer tried to question Charlotte, but she was no help at all. She vacillated between tears, gasps, and stiff warnings to the firefighters about damaging any of her precious Limoges figurines.

  Theodosia pulled Schafer aside, and said, “This particular home owner has been embroiled in a bit of controversy lately. Her husband was murdered at the museum last Thursday night . . .”

  His brows knit together. “Okay. Interesting.”

  “Do you know Detective Burt Tidwell?”

  “I do.”

  “I think he should be informed about this.”

  Schafer nodded at her. “We’re the AHJ here—authority having jurisdiction—but I’ll make sure Tidwell’s in the loop. File my incident report and fire it off to him right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  • • •

  It was all over except for a few more tears. The firefighters left, Charlotte wept as she fixed herself a bourbon and water, and Theodosia tucked the white notebook under her arm.

  “What a terrible night,” moaned Charlotte. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, and then took a longer sip.

  Theodosia had a feeling Charlotte’s night wasn’t going to get much better. And if she continued drinking, her morning would be even worse.

  “Take care,” said Drayton as they headed for the door. He never looked back; he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  Charlotte offered an apathetic wave. “I think I’m just going to remain sequestered for a while,” she called after them.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” said Theodosia.

  She and Drayton walked down the sidewalk. The air felt clean and fresh, with a nip of salt blowing in from the Atlantic. Dry leaves scuttled about in the street. Streetlamps glowed orange in the darkness.

  “Whew,” said Drayton as they climbed into the Jeep. “What a night.”

  “How’s your poor hand?” Theodosia asked. “Are you feeling okay, or should we stop at one of those doc-in-the-box places and get it looked at?” She pulled her seatbelt across, ready to hustle Drayton off to the nearest burn ward.

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing,” said Drayton. He seemed to have shaken off the incident, though he was cradling his injured hand. He turned to gaze at Theodosia. “You don’t believe that Molotov cocktail was any kind of accident, do you? That it was random kids or neighborhood crazies?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then what?”

  Theodosia shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe someone feels strongly about not wanting Charlotte on the board of directors at the museum?”

  “Call me dubious,” said Drayton, “but I have a hard time envisioning sixty- or seventy-year-old men running down a back alley carrying flaming bottles aloft.” Clearly, he wasn’t buying it.

  “Maybe her husband’s killer came back to try to finish her off?”

  “That’s a fairly grisly notion.”

  “Or maybe the killer was just trying to throw her off the scent,” said Theodosia.<
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  “I’d say it’s more likely he was trying to throw you off the scent,” said Drayton.

  Theodosia’s heart did an impromptu flip-flop. “Uh . . . what did you say?”

  “Think about it,” Drayton continued. “You’re the one who’s been doing a fair amount of poking around. Maybe that flaming bottle was meant to scare you.”

  Theodosia cranked the key hard in the ignition and her Jeep roared to life.

  “You’re going to have to be a lot more careful,” said Drayton.

  “If the killer was after me,” Theodosia snarled, “this isn’t going to be the end of it. I’ll track him down like a rented mule!”

  • • •

  Theodosia dropped off Drayton and drove back to her house. Max was waiting for her, standing in the front yard, doing leg swings and walking lunges, stretching his muscles in anticipation of their run.

  He broke into a smile when he saw her. “Hey.” Then he saw the look of deep consternation on her face. “Hoo boy, what’s wrong now?”

  Theodosia told him about the flaming bottle crashing through Charlotte’s window, the shards flying everywhere, and Drayton getting a nasty burn.

  “You’re the one who risks getting burned,” said Max, “hanging around with crazy old Charlotte.”

  “I think you might be right.”

  “Which means you’ve got to seriously bug out of this thing,” said Max. “Let the police handle it.”

  “They’re already all over it. And they’re not doing a very good job.”

  “You don’t know that. They might have somebody in custody right now.”

  “Doubtful,” said Theodosia. She didn’t think the police were any closer to solving Webster’s murder, apprehending Cecily’s attacker, or figuring out Charlotte’s firebombing than she was. In fact, they were probably treating them as three separate incidents. Whereas she was linking them . . .

  “Jeez, Theo.” Max broke into her thoughts. “You can’t solve every crime that comes along.”

  “I don’t try to, I really don’t,” she said. “But the things that have happened lately are starting to feel . . . very personal.”

  Max stared at her. “Wait a minute. Are you saying . . . Do you think the killer might have his eye trained on you?”

  “That’s what Drayton thinks.”

  “Drayton’s a smart guy,” said Max. “In fact, he’s downright brilliant. So if he thinks you’re in danger, then you’ve got to step away from this immediately.”

  “Maybe so,” said Theodosia. But deep in her heart she was thinking, Never. Now I’m never going to let this go.

  20

  The Harlan Duke Gallery was located on King Street, right in the very heart of Charleston’s antique district. It was housed in a ubiquitous redbrick building, narrow but three stories tall, with slender, arched windows framed by elegant white shutters.

  It was bright and early Tuesday morning, and Theodosia peered in the front window, trying to gauge exactly what kind of merchandise Duke’s gallery carried. She saw a Japanese tea set, an antique Japanese sword, a bronze Chinese vessel, a set of antique calligraphy brushes, and an array of carved Chinese jade statues. They all looked like exquisite pieces.

  Pushing open the front door, Theodosia figured she was probably the first customer of the day.

  An older woman, her silver-gray hair the precise color of her silk blouse, smiled from behind a mahogany counter that had probably been around since the eighteen hundreds.

  “Good morning,” said the clerk. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Harlan Duke,” said Theodosia. “Is he here?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not,” said the woman. “Did you have an appointment? Please don’t tell me he forgot.” A sly smile crept across her face. “I’ve only worked for Mr. Duke for a few weeks, but in that time I’ve discovered that he’s much more of a big-picture person. Buying, selling, wheeling, dealing.

  “But”—she gave a little shrug—“details do seem to elude him.”

  “Actually,” said Theodosia, “I don’t have an appointment. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” She hesitated. “Mr. Duke had mentioned something to me about an antique Chinese teapot?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the woman, quickly threading her way past an altar table that held a pair of blue-and-white vases, and around a coromandel screen. “We have several, but I think the one you’re referring to is right over here. An absolute beauty.”

  The Chinese teapot had been accorded its own black lacquered stand. And it was a beauty. Plump and rounded—a real teapot’s teapot—it was done in oxblood enamel with gold edging around the lid and bottom rim. In the center of the teapot’s body was a white seal that held a scramble of calligraphy. It was, quite simply, a gorgeous piece.

  Sensing Theodosia’s interest, the clerk carried the teapot to the counter and gingerly set it down on a square of black velvet fabric. “Are you a collector of teapots?”

  “I have my fair share,” said Theodosia. Actually, she was edging toward owning almost fifty different teapots. Nowhere near Drayton’s collection, but getting there.

  “This one’s got some age on it,” said the woman.

  “It’s lovely,” said Theodosia. “Chien-lung?”

  “Ah.” The clerk smiled. “I see you know your Chinese antiques.”

  “I know a little bit about ceramics. Obviously there’s a lot to learn.”

  “Tell me about it,” said the woman. “I’m always discovering some new little nugget of information.”

  Theodosia moved her hands toward the teapot. “May I?”

  “Please,” said the woman as Theodosia picked it up and turned it over.

  When Theodosia saw the faint maker’s mark on the bottom, she said, “It’s from one of the imperial kilns?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “And what is the price?”

  The woman fingered a small white tag. “We have it marked at twenty-two hundred, but I know Mr. Duke’s prices are always negotiable.”

  “Mmn.”

  “You know,” the clerk said, in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m not allowed to negotiate prices. But if you want to speak with Mr. Duke, I happen to know he had an errand at a friend’s house, and then he was going to be at the Equinox Equestrian Center. Just over in Mount Pleasant. I’m sure he’s there now and that he’d be pleased if you dropped by.”

  Theodosia wondered if the friend Duke had gone to see was Charlotte Webster.

  “I take it Mr. Duke is a horse lover, too?”

  “Brought his two thoroughbreds all the way up from Texas. Drove the truck himself.”

  “There’s dedication for you,” said Theodosia.

  • • •

  Back out in her car, Theodosia called the Indigo Tea Shop. Drayton picked up on the first ring.

  “Indigo Tea Shop,” he said in finely modulated tones.

  “Drayton, it’s me. How’s your hand feeling today?”

  “Fine. No problem,” Drayton responded. “I’ve been burned worse fixing tea. Scalding water and all that.”

  “Still,” said Theodosia. “I feel bad. I feel like your getting burned last night was my fault. If I hadn’t pressured you to come along . . .”

  “If you want to feel guilty,” said Drayton, “then be my guest. But there’s really no need.” He paused. “Are you on your way in?”

  “That’s why I called. I just stopped in at Harlan Duke’s gallery, but he wasn’t there. His assistant tells me he’s out at the Equinox Equestrian Center.”

  “So I’m guessing that’s where you’re off to?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Haley’s been bugging me about our Tower of London Tea. Trying to finalize tomorrow’s menu and all.”

  “I’m sure she has,” said Theodosia.


  “Oh, and I have all your English Hedgerow tea packaged up for Delaine’s Hunt and Gather Market.”

  “How can I ever thank you?” said Theodosia. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “I’ll tell you how you can thank me,” said Drayton. “You can be careful.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Please,” said Drayton. “Exercise some caution. There have been too many strange goings-on lately. Which means I’m in a constant state of worry.”

  “You know I’ll be careful,” said Theodosia.

  Drayton sighed. “Actually, I don’t know that at all.”

  • • •

  Theodosia didn’t have any particular reason to talk to Harlan Duke, other than that she was still curious about him. Bill Glass might have been right—Duke had insinuated himself into Charlotte’s life awfully fast. Then again, if the woman’s husband had been having a torrid affair, maybe she simply needed a shoulder to cry on.

  Maybe.

  Theodosia couldn’t help but smile as she drove onto the grounds of the Equinox Equestrian Center. Horses peeked over white fences from where they grazed in a dozen different paddocks. Yearlings played in a pasture. Over in a riding ring, a jumping lesson was taking place. Riders in velvet caps—elegant hardhats, really—their arms outstretched, reins draped loosely around their horses’ necks, were sailing blithely over a one-foot-high jump. Learning the basics.

  A rider all her life, Theodosia loved the sounds and smells that surrounded horses. She loved the rich, robust scent of saddle leather. The vegetal scent of fresh hay, almost like a cup of Japanese green tea. And she loved the musical jingle of bridles and the soft stomping and gentle nickering of the horses themselves.

  Theodosia found Harlan Duke working away in a large, white, hip-roofed barn. He was standing in the aisle between two rows of box stalls, running a metal currycomb down the flanks of a large chestnut horse. Dressed in a plaid shirt, khaki slacks, and English riding boots, he had a brown leather apron tied around his waist, the kind a farrier might favor to protect his clothing and hold his tools.