by Laura Childs
Well, not quite alone. She did have Earl Grey along as her trusty investigative sidekick. And, luckily, she still had the key Timothy had given her.
Because she was doing this super surreptitiously, Theodosia parked her Jeep a block away from Willow’s apartment. And, at the last minute, she pulled on a black hoodie that she had stashed in the car. Earl Grey went au naturel.
This time in, Willow’s apartment didn’t look any different. Maybe a little dustier, a little sadder and lonelier. Theodosia moved through the place fast, heading for the white desk. She sat down in the chair and clicked on a small desk lamp. Then she pulled open the file drawer and went through it again. This time a lot more carefully.
She found the wedding planner’s information on the second pass through. A square-shaped business card on heavy, expensive-looking stock that was embossed with the name carson croisset. And underneath, in fancy script, croisset & company wedding planners. Very elegant, extremely tasteful. She dropped the card in her pocket, hoping that perhaps this wedding planner might know something she didn’t.
Then Theodosia stood up and did a closer inspection of the apartment. It didn’t look as if the police had been back. A rubber tree was slowly dying of thirst, an empty glass still sat on the kitchen counter, the bathroom had a tube of toothpaste on the sink, Willow’s dry cleaning was still in a plastic bag and hung on the back door of her closet.
Nothing here. Nothing more to go on.
“C’mon, fella.”
Earl Grey stood up from where he’d been resting on his haunches, patiently watching Theodosia do her silent walk-through.
She let her dog out, then turned and locked the door behind her. Together, she and Earl Grey walked along the side of the house, heading for the street.
Just before they emerged from the shadows, Theodosia noticed a van parked across the street. And was there . . . ? Yes, it looked as if someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.
Skulking in the dark and watching me? Or waiting for someone else?
Theodosia paused as she searched her memory. Who did she know who drove a van?
And then it struck her.
Allan Barnaby drove a van.
Could he be . . . ?
She strained to see the driver, but he was too far away. His face was only a pale oval, completely unrecognizable, almost lost in total darkness.
Still, Theodosia felt a blip of anxiety course through her. She stepped off the curb, feeling nervous, but ready to scurry across the street and see who it was. That’s when the van’s engine suddenly fired up, the lights flashed on, and it roared away from the curb.
She stood there with her dog and watched red taillights flare as the van braked slightly at the corner, then disappeared down the street.
And couldn’t help wonder . . .
Barnaby, is that you?
* * *
* * *
Theodosia decided she had one more errand to do tonight. She drove the few blocks to Timothy Neville’s home, parked, and walked up to his front door.
When he peaked out, Theodosia said, “I think I may have figured out a piece of the puzzle.”
Timothy opened the door wider. “Come in.” He squinted at Earl Grey. “Your dog may come in as well. Chairman Meow is already upstairs in bed, so he won’t be bothering us.” Chairman Meow was Timothy’s Manx cat who didn’t much care for creatures of the canine persuasion.
Theodosia and Earl Grey followed Timothy into his dimly lit side parlor. Silk chairs once again beckoned, and glowing portraits stared down at them from the walls.
“So what’s this puzzle piece you claim to have found?” Timothy asked as he settled into a chair. “What’s it all about?”
“I think Allan Barnaby might have stolen your fancy Edgar Allan Poe book.”
Timothy stared at her, blinked in disbelief, and said, “Are you seriously talking about Willow’s publisher?”
Theodosia hastened to explain, told Timothy how she’d learned from Lois at Antiquarian Books that Allan Barnaby had been a rare-book dealer in his previous life.
“He owned a fairly thriving rare-book shop in Savannah,” Theodosia said. “Before he moved up here. Before he decided to go into publishing.”
“Oh my,” Timothy said, one hand stroking his chin. “Allan Barnaby? And here I thought he was . . .” He sighed. “Reputable. Well, that does change things, doesn’t it?”
“Yes and no,” Theodosia said. “Because I’ve got some news that might be even more disheartening.”
“Concerning . . . ?”
“I did some snooping and found out a few details about Robert Vardell.”
Timothy looked almost fearful. “Oh no. Now what?”
Theodosia quickly told Timothy about talking to the receptionist at Metcalf and Solange and learning that Vardell was employed there not as a financial manager, but as an assistant. The second assistant to boot.
Timothy listened to her carefully, then said, “You’re absolutely positive about this? What you’re telling me is that Robert Vardell is a complete and total fraud?”
Theodosia nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“And that he pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes?”
“It looks that way.”
Timothy’s gnarled hands gripped the arms of his chair. “This is absolutely . . . excruciating.”
“I know. I’m sorry to have to break it to you like this.”
Timothy licked his lips, trying to recover. “So do you think he . . . ?”
“Was in it only for the money? That Vardell might have even murdered Willow? That I don’t know,” Theodosia said.
“Do the police know about Vardell? Does Tidwell know?”
“As soon as I found out about Vardell I called the Charleston PD and gave them the whole sad story. Needless to say, they plan to investigate him.”
“But what if Vardell didn’t do it?” Timothy said. “What if the police waste their time shaking down a garden-variety liar while the real killer goes free?”
“There’s always that chance,” Theodosia said.
Timothy touched a hand to his heart. “I don’t know that I can take much more of this.”
Theodosia gazed at him. Poor Timothy, he looked so frail and vulnerable. Her heart went out to him.
“Listen to me, Timothy, I promise you, no, I swear to you . . .” Words, emotions, were suddenly bubbling out of Theodosia. “I swear that I’ll find out exactly who’s to blame and that they’ll be punished.” She leaned forward in her chair to emphasize her point. “I’m going to solve this mystery and find justice for Willow if it’s the last thing I do!”
25
“I stopped by Timothy Neville’s house last night and broke the bad news to him about Robert Vardell’s imaginary career as a financial genius,” Theodosia said to Drayton.
It was Friday morning at the Indigo Tea Shop, and faint sunlight was streaming through the windows that faced busy Church Street. Horse-drawn jitneys were already clip-clopping past, ferrying tourists on sightseeing rounds throughout the Historic District.
“Good for you,” Drayton said. “It was the right thing to do. How did Timothy take it?”
“Stunned surprise.”
Drayton shook his head. “Still, it had to be done.”
“Now it’s going to be a free-for-all on Robert Vardell,” Theodosia said.
Besides Timothy going after Vardell, she knew that Tidwell would be hauling him in for questioning as well. Hacking his way through the man’s colossal web of lies, quizzing him mercilessly on his whereabouts last Sunday night when Willow was murdered. She figured Vardell might even lose his job, such as it was.
Serves him right. If I can’t make Vardell spit out a confession, kicking and screaming all the way, then maybe Tidwell will have better luck.
While Drayton bustled
around behind the counter, Theodosia worked to get the tea shop ready. The sun was back in its rightful place in the sky, and she was feeling cautiously optimistic. Information was being revealed, and, just as she’d told Timothy, a few pieces seemed to be falling into place. Now she needed to keep pushing. With a dose of good luck, Willow’s killer would soon be apprehended.
Theodosia pulled open the doors of one of her highboys and scanned her multiple sets of dishes.
“I’m going to put out the Aynsley Wilton Green today,” she called to Drayton.
“Feeling upbeat, are we?” he said.
“Actually, yes.”
“It must be catching, because I’m thinking about brewing a pot of cranberry-orange and a pot of gunpowder green.”
“The good pinhead gunpowder green from Stash Tea?”
“Please. Is there any other kind?”
Theodosia took down a stack of small plates and studied them. “I do love these bright purple, gold, and green colors.”
“That particular china should go beautifully with the purple thistle mums that were delivered this morning,” Drayton said.
“We got flowers? First I’ve heard.”
“I think Haley must have ordered from Floradora. Anyway, the mums are sitting in a bucket in your office just waiting for a pair of artful hands to arrange them. And I nominate you.”
“Then I guess I’d better get to it. Maybe display the mums in, um . . .” Theodosia thought for a moment. “Ceramic crocks?”
“Definitely autumnal,” Drayton said.
Theodosia covered the tables with cream-colored tablecloths, set out the breakfast plates, teacups, and saucers, and added crystal glassware. She grabbed several small tea lights in brass holders and added those to her table.
“Are we still going to the Goblins and Ghosts Parade tonight?” Drayton asked.
“I don’t know why not? It goes right past here, doesn’t it? Right down Church Street.”
“Yes, but you’ve got Delaine’s Denim and Diamonds Fashion Show at three.”
“But I should be back here by five, five thirty at the latest. What time does the parade start?”
Drayton shrugged. “Six thirty, maybe seven?”
“No problem then.”
On the way to her office to grab the mums, Theodosia stepped into the kitchen to speak with Haley.
“Haley, tell me what we’re . . .” Theodosia stopped abruptly when she saw Haley’s downcast face. “Haley, what’s wrong?”
Haley looked up from where she was arranging nut and raisin scones on a silver tray. “Nothing really. Well, it’s just that I’ve been reading Willow’s book.”
“Okay.”
“And one of her stories got me thinking.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be reading ghost stories right now,” Theodosia said gently. She knew that Haley was young and impressionable. Ghost stories on top of a murder on top of a sad funeral probably weren’t doing much to bolster her spirits.
“I was reading about the legend of Alice Flagg. And the wedding ring that her secret fiancé gave to her.”
“I’ve read the story, yes,” Theodosia said. “What about it?”
“The legend says that if you walk around Alice Flagg’s grave twelve times, her wedding ring will magically appear. Do you think that will work with Willow’s grave?”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“This is reality, huh?” Haley said.
“Haley, I know everything seems awfully unsettled right now. But I promise you things will get better.”
“I hope so. You’re still investigating, right?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then I’m going to pin all my hopes on you,” Haley said.
“Oh, Haley.” Theodosia put her arms around her young chef. “I know you’re feeling sad, but that’s going to change. And pretty fast if I have my way. I promise we’ll find Willow’s killer.”
Haley sniffled. “And if you don’t?”
Theodosia squeezed Haley again. “Failure is not an option,” she said.
* * *
* * *
Back out in the tea room, Theodosia arranged the mums while Drayton ruminated about the stolen Edgar Allan Poe book.
“I’ve been racking my brain,” Drayton said. “And I can’t for the life of me figure out if that book pertains to Willow or any of our other recent disasters.”
Theodosia placed a bouquet on one of the tables and gave a shrug. “Maybe the book doesn’t relate to anything at all. Maybe it’s just a one-off. An odd circumstance. A piece of bad luck for the Heritage Society.”
“So you’re saying Allan Barnaby could be innocent?”
“Of Willow’s death, possibly. Of stealing the book, perhaps not.”
“But we really don’t know, do we?” Drayton said.
“It’s all up in the air at this point,” Theodosia said. She fluffed her last bouquet of mums, then walked to the front door and hung out her open for business sign.
Ten minutes later, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, the tea shop was busy. Guests showed up, and shopkeepers from up and down Church Street popped in for their morning cuppa. Theodosia served strawberry scones, banana nut bread, and pear and brown sugar muffins. Drayton brewed pots of English breakfast tea, vanilla-flavored tea, and, to honor a special request, toasted coconut oolong tea. Midmorning brought UPS and a new shipment of Theodosia’s special T-Bath products. She’d had to reorder her Green Tea Lotion and Green Tea Feet Treat, as well as her Ginger and Chamomile Facial Mist and White Tea Bath Oil.
Theodosia did her tea shop ballet, filling teacups, bobbing to clear tables, rushing back to the front door to greet new guests.
“Do you think you can handle things by yourself for twenty minutes or so?” Theodosia finally asked Drayton. It was almost eleven o’clock, and they were in that leisurely period (others might call it a slump, but not Theodosia) between serving breakfast cream teas and a full-fledged lunch.
“Probably,” Drayton said. “Where are you dashing off to?”
“I want to talk to Willow’s wedding planner, see if he has any information or insight.”
“That sounds like a stretch,” Drayton said. “What information is he going to offer that you don’t already have?”
“Maybe nothing,” Theodosia said. “But, hey, I have to at least give it a shot.”
* * *
* * *
Croisset & Company Wedding Planners was located on Broad Street, the offices situated directly above the Dusty Hen Antique Shop. Theodosia climbed a narrow stairway, walked down a sleek, carpeted hallway, passed a white lacquered door that belonged to Julian Wolf-Knapp Fine Art Consultants (By Appointment Only), and eventually found herself at Croisset & Company.
Theodosia knocked on pebbled French double doors that had the words croisset & company wedding planners stenciled on them in fancy gold script.
“Come in,” a voice called out.
Theodosia walked into an office that could best be described as a riot of alabaster silk fabrics, displays of almond-colored china, dozens of cream-colored pillar candles, and stacks of ecru table linens. Or as Pete Riley probably would describe it in a police report, beige.
“Mr. Croisset?” Theodosia said.
A thirty-something man with bright-blue eyes, a sunlamp-tan complexion, and a swirl of gelled blond hair suddenly looked up expectantly from an enormous desk that was covered with save-the-date postcards, wedding invitations, fabric swatches, and three cartons of champagne flutes. He wore a yellow-and-black Versace shirt, neatly pressed jeans, and bright-white Nike sneakers.
“Come in,” Croisset said. “And welcome. I presume you’re Ms. Newbury, my new bride-to-be?” He half rose in his chair to greet her.
Theodosia shook her head. “Sorry, no. I’m Theodosia Browning.”
&nbs
p; Croisset sat back down and reached for a pen and paper. “That’s a lovely name. Very British-sounding.” He favored her with a puckish grin. “Should look good on the invitations. So you’re recently engaged then? Planning to be married?”
“Not right now, Mr. Croisset.”
“Call me Carson,” Croisset said as he studied her. “And what a pity you’re not, because I’ve just sourced the most amazing shade of golden lilies that would complement your auburn hair perfectly. Have to jet them in from Peru, of course. Not cheap, but what’s a few extra dollars when you’re fashioning the most memorable day of your life!” He tilted his head back, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “I can see it now. Billows of gold-and-russet-colored silk chiffon draped on the church pews, you in a Vera Wang fit and flare with a sage-green sash, and carrying a bouquet of those jaw-dropping golden lilies with perhaps a few white tuberoses thrown in for fun.”
Theodosia was tickled by his vision.
“What about the altar?” she asked.
“Riots of delphiniums,” Croisset said. “Most definitely. And hanging white votive candles as well as pillar candles in glass holders.” Then he shook his head, as if to snap himself back to the here and now. “If you’re not getting married, then how may I help you?”
“You’ve been working with Willow French,” Theodosia said.
Croisset’s face didn’t just fall; it crashed. “Dear sweet Willow,” he said in a mournful tone. “Such a tragedy. Practically Shakespearian.” He touched the tip of an index finger to the side of his face and said, “She was a friend of yours?”
“I have close connections with Willow’s family,” Theodosia said. “And because of that, I’ve been investigating her murder.”
Now Croisset fluttered his hands. “That sounds very mysterious.”
“Not really. It’s more about asking a few questions. Talking to people that Willow had been in contact with lately.”
“Interesting,” Croisset said.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” Theodosia said.