by Laura Childs
Perry shook his head. “I don’t have Marcus’s home address per se, but I can give you directions to his place. He asked me to pick him up once when we were both working a freelance gig at the Campbell Club.”
“Good,” Theodosia said. “Appreciate it.”
• • •
“The kid’s name is Marcus Covey,” Theodosia said as she drove. “And he lives over near the College of Charleston. Here.” She handed the hastily scribbled directions to Drayton. “You can navigate.”
“You think talking to this Marcus guy is going to help?” Drayton asked.
“I have no idea. All I know is, it couldn’t hurt. And looking back, it just feels like this kid might have been holding back. Or been worried about something.”
“Hopefully he didn’t see Doreen administer the fatal dose.”
“You know,” Theodosia said, “more and more I’m thinking that she’s a little too schizo to kill her own husband in cold blood.” She moved around a slow car and into the left lane. “Then again, you never know.”
They cruised down Meeting, past a number of small retail shops, and turned left on Wentworth.
“We’re getting close,” Theodosia said. “Just be on the lookout for Pitt.”
“There it is!” Drayton yelped. “Turn. Right here. This block.”
Theodosia cranked the wheel hard and skidded into a turn.
Drayton’s feet practically lifted up from the floor. “Whoa!”
“You okay?” she asked.
“Fine, just fine,” Drayton said as they coasted to a stop. “Give me a minute to get my adrenaline under control and my systolic pressure back to normal.” He put a hand to his chest. “There. Better. But this errand won’t take long, will it? I have to get home and feed Honey Bee.”
“Five minutes,” Theodosia said, holding up five fingers. “And then we’re out of here. I promise.”
They walked up to Covey’s house, a classic Charleston single house, long and narrow, made of modest clapboard. But it was completely dark, not a single light burning inside.
“Maybe less than five minutes,” Theodosia said. “Because it doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”
“Good. I didn’t think this side trip was going to pan out.”
“Well, let’s at least go knock on the door.”
They both stepped up onto a sagging porch and Theodosia knocked on the front door. Then they waited. Ten seconds went by, then a full minute.
“Nobody home,” Drayton said. “Let’s go.”
“You still owe me three more minutes,” Theodosia said.
“To do what?”
“Look around?”
“No. Oh no.”
“Maybe Marcus went in the back door and he’s . . . I don’t know, flaked out on the couch in the dark, eating Doritos and watching TMZ or something.” Theodosia stepped off the front porch, spotted an overgrown path spelled out in cracked flagstones, and started around the back.
“Seriously?” Drayton called after her.
“Come on, where’s your sense of play?”
“Uh . . . back home with my chess set?” But Drayton followed her anyway. Reluctantly.
A car—a ten-year-old Saab, dusty black, with a dented right-front fender—sat on a patch of hardpan in the backyard.
“His car’s here,” Theodosia said.
“A car is here,” Drayton said.
“Like I said, maybe he’s watching the tube? Or snoozing?” Theodosia climbed two low steps and pulled open a rickety screen door. She was about to knock on the inside door when she saw that it was open a few inches. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Door’s open,” Theodosia said.
“Your boy probably came home, then ducked out again. Dashed over to the neighbor’s house or something.”
“Or something,” Theodosia murmured. But it didn’t feel right to her. She nudged the back door open another few inches with her foot. “Marcus?” she called out. “Are you in there?”
“He’s not home,” Drayton said.
“But what if he is? What if something’s wrong?” Theodosia couldn’t shake the feeling that this scenario seemed a little bit off. Was she just projecting her own fear—or could something have happened to Marcus Covey? She didn’t know. But she was reluctant to just spin on her heels and leave. She took a deep breath. “I’m going in.”
“Don’t,” Drayton hissed. But it was too late. Theodosia had already slipped through the door and stepped inside. Worried now for her safety, Drayton doggedly followed her in, the screen door banging loudly behind him. “This is a terrible idea,” he fumed, finally catching up to where she was standing in the middle of a dark kitchen.
“I know it is,” she said. The house felt warm and oppressive. As if the stove had been turned on for a while. Small orange lights and a green digital readout glowed from a toaster on the counter.
Drayton touched her arm gently. “Let’s go.”
“One more minute.” There were two wineglasses turned upside down in the sink. From last night or . . . ? Theodosia stuck out a finger and touched one of the glasses. Still damp, as if it had just been washed.
“Theodosia, you are courting danger . . .”
“Thirty seconds,” she said, ducking through a doorway and easing her way down a long hallway. “And then we’ll . . .” Her words suddenly died on her lips.
Drayton frowned as he nervously fingered his bow tie. “Theo?” he called out. He was pretty sure he could hear her soft breathing, just fifteen feet away from him in the dark. “It’s time to . . .”
“Drayton,” came Theodosia’s anguished voice.
Terrified now, Drayton tiptoed out of the kitchen and slid down the hallway, his back against a wall. “You’re scaring me,” he said. “I don’t like this one bit.” His voice was cross and accusing and he could barely make her out in the darkness. She was a slight figure just standing there, looking up at something.
“You’re certainly not thinking of . . .” Drayton’s brain suddenly shut down. As if the batteries had suddenly been pulled or the master switch had been thrown to OFF. He couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. Instead, he stood there and, ever so slowly, tilted his gaze upward in the same direction Theodosia was staring. Or, rather, where she was being held spellbound.
It was a body, of course. Hanging down from the second-floor landing. Suspended from a thin rope. Or maybe from a wire. It was hard to tell in the dark. The only thing that was for sure was that the body was twirling slowly, rotating, almost like an oversized ham hung up to dry.
Theodosia was the first to recover. She pulled out her phone, took two giant steps toward Drayton, and gave him a hard shove. “Outside!” she yelped. She was dialing 911 even as they scrambled back through the kitchen—it didn’t matter how much noise they made now—and into the backyard. And then the dispatcher came on the line and she was babbling for help.
• • •
It felt like they’d been waiting forever, but it was really only a few minutes before they heard the first siren. It rose up, high-pitched and sharp, like a mechanical coyote. Then a second and third whoop joined in the cacophony.
The first two officers who arrived ran into the house, guns drawn. And came out a few minutes later with grim faces.
They immediately separated Theodosia and Drayton and demanded to hear their stories. When both stories seemed to jibe, and Theodosia and Drayton explained about the rat tea, things calmed down a bit.
“Did you call Detective Pete Riley?” Theodosia asked the officer who’d questioned her. His name tag read GROVER. “He’s going to want to see this for himself. And hear our stories, too.”
“Called him and he’s on his way,” Grover said as two more patrol cars pulled up. “Crime scene unit’s coming, too.”
“
Thank you.”
There were six officers milling around now, two inside the house and four outside. When the four outside officers decided to go in, Theodosia followed them. Then Drayton worked up the gumption to go in, too.
The police had turned on the lights and were studying the hanging body.
“Suicide,” one of the cops spat out, shaking his head. “Crazy, stupid kid.”
“Drugs,” another one said. “See it all the time.”
Theodosia made a low noise in the back of her throat.
Drayton looked sideways at her. “You don’t think it was suicide, do you?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Theodosia shook her head. “No, I don’t. I think somebody killed him.”
“But who? And why?”
“Maybe because this poor kid knew something. Or because someone thought he knew something.”
“You think Marcus Covey might have figured out who the killer was?”
“Maybe he didn’t know for sure,” Theodosia said. “But he could have suspected someone.”
“Who knew that we were looking for Covey?” Drayton asked.
“Pretty much everybody,” Theodosia said. She felt sick to her stomach over what had just happened. “We pretty much broadcast it to everyone we talked to that we were trying to get in touch with him. That we wanted to question him.” Her voice cracked. “We should have just painted a big red arrow to his door.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
Theodosia shook her head, holding back tears. “No, I’m not.”
• • •
Detective Pete Riley showed up at the same moment the shiny black crime scene van pulled in.
“Grand Central,” Drayton observed. They were back outside, standing next to Covey’s Saab. The police had set up three floodlights that cast an eerie, icy glow over everything. Two next-door neighbors peered out of their second-story window, silhouetted in a rectangle of light, as they watched the hubbub in the yard.
“Now we’ve got a crowd,” Theodosia said. “Where was all this manpower when Marcus Covey was being murdered?”
“Maybe the poor boy really did commit suicide.”
“No, he didn’t.” Theodosia’s face was a dark mask of despair.
Detective Riley was hurrying toward them. “You were the one who found him?” he asked, looking directly at Theodosia.
“We both did,” Theodosia said.
Riley posed with his hands on his hips. “And what exactly were you doing here?”
Theodosia swallowed hard, trying to push her emotions down. She couldn’t afford to cry now or act upset, otherwise Riley wouldn’t take her seriously.
“We wanted to talk to him,” Theodosia said.
“‘Him’ being Marcus Covey,” Riley said. “What did you want to talk to him about?”
“Drayton and I wanted to get Covey’s general impression of what happened last Saturday,” Theodosia said.
“Because you’re investigating?” Riley asked.
“Not really,” Theodosia said, but she could tell from the look on Riley’s face that he wasn’t buying it.
Riley gazed off in the distance for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then glanced back at her. “Did you think Marcus Covey was the killer? Did you think you could apprehend him by yourselves?”
“Not exactly,” Drayton said.
“Of course not,” Theodosia said. “Like I told you, we only wanted to talk to him.”
“Wait right here,” Riley said. “And by that I mean Do not move.” He turned and headed for the back door.
“Are we in the glue?” Drayton asked once Riley had gone inside.
Theodosia shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Then she reconsidered. “Well, maybe a little.”
“He didn’t look happy.”
“It’s a murder scene,” Theodosia said.
“No,” Drayton said. “I meant he didn’t look happy to see you.”
“Oh.”
• • •
Five minutes later, Detective Riley was back outside to question them again.
“Two of the officers inside are calling it a suicide,” he said. “Their theory is that Covey might have killed Briggs, couldn’t handle it, and then hung himself because of a guilty conscience.”
“Wait a minute,” Drayton said. “If that’s what really happened, then the case is solved.”
Riley lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
“It’s not solved,” Theodosia said. “Not even close. In fact, now it’s even more confusing.” She fixed her gaze on Riley. “What’s your take on Covey’s death?”
“If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck,” Riley said.
“It could still be a guinea hen with a loud, squeaky voice,” Theodosia said.
Riley took a step backward and put a hand to his mouth. Theodosia was pretty sure he was trying to cover his laughter. “I’m . . . not convinced either way,” he said finally.
“Then let me try to convince you,” Theodosia said. She paused as one of the crime scene guys humped a metal gurney up the two back steps and into the kitchen. “This guy Marcus Covey, I can’t imagine that he fits the profile of a homicidal maniac or even as a suicide. I sincerely doubt that he nursed a grudge against Beau Briggs, schemed to murder him, and then experienced terrible, soul-searching remorse. Fact is, Covey’s only apparent contact with Briggs was at Saturday’s rat tea where he was a server.”
“Do we know that for sure?” Drayton asked
Theodosia gazed at Riley. “You interviewed Covey that day. Did you think he came across as a potential killer or even a suicide risk?”
Riley shrugged. “Not really, he seemed like a typical guy. Fact is, we talked to all the rat tea servers, quizzed them pretty good. Every one of them seemed fairly normal and their backgrounds were relatively clean.”
“So why is Marcus Covey hanging inside, dead as a doornail?” Theodosia asked.
“Good question,” Riley said. “But I have to say . . .” He looked around, surveying the high level of activity that was unfolding in the backyard. “It would be easier if this guy Covey was the killer.”
“Easier for who?” Theodosia asked. “For you? For Beau Briggs? Look, I just don’t think there should be a rush to judgment here. There are a number of perfectly good suspects that still need to be checked out.”
“And we’re going to do exactly that,” Riley said. “I’m not going to drop this investigation,” he assured her. “One way or another, this case will be solved.”
“Promise?” Theodosia asked.
“Yes,” Riley said. “I promise.”
“Okay, then,” Theodosia said. “Thank you.” It wasn’t the definitive answer she was looking for—that would come when this case was finally solved—but it would have to do for now.
17
After the death of Marcus Covey last night, this morning’s funeral for Beau Briggs seemed anticlimactic. Theodosia and Drayton arrived at St. Stephen’s Church some fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, both feeling a little out of sorts. Neither of them had slept very well and they were uneasy over this second murder.
As they walked up the steps to the church’s double doors, cameras snapped, TV lights popped on, and video cameras whirred softly.
“Media,” Drayton said, a derogatory note coloring his voice. “What are they doing here?”
“You can thank your good pal Starla Crane for drumming up this media circus,” Theodosia said. “She’s the one who wanted to make Beau’s funeral a public spectacle.”
“Lovely,” Drayton said as he pulled open the heavy door and they stepped inside.
The interior of St. Stephen’s Church was cool and dark. Soft organ music filled the air, while up on the altar, at the front of the church, a dozen candles burned. Just to
the left of where they’d come in, over near a white marble baptismal font, Beau Briggs’s open casket sat on a wooden dais surrounded by a bed of flowers.
Drayton wrinkled his nose. “I suppose we have to subject ourselves to the so-called viewing?”
“We don’t have to,” Theodosia said. “But it might be nice.”
“Nice for whom?”
“For Doreen and Opal Anne and Charles.”
Drayton’s shoulders slumped visibly. “I suppose. Although looking at a dead person in a casket always reminds me of going to one of those dreadful all-you-can-eat buffet restaurants.”
“What a bizarre thing to say.”
“But it’s true.”
“Because of all those pink heat lamps shining down?”
Drayton nodded. “That’s right.”
Squished into the rear of the church, the casket arrangement did look a little like a bad buffet. Or maybe an overgrown salad bar. Salmon-pink lights shone down upon Beau Briggs’s embalmed body, bathing his chubby little countenance in a halo of luminosity, making his expensive Brioni suit look like a warehouse special. Doreen was firmly positioned next to her dead husband, sobbing loudly into a lace hankie.
Surrounding his hotly contested Exeter casket was a jungle of orchids, roses, and lilies. An enormous wreath of magnolia blossoms sat to the right of his casket on a metal three-pronged stand. Curling across the wreath was a gold ribbon that said REST IN PEACE FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT GILDED MAGNOLIA SPA.
“That floral arrangement is tasteless and gaudy,” Drayton said, gesturing at the wreath. “It looks more appropriate for the winner of the Kentucky Derby.”
“Shh,” Theodosia said. “The wreath is awful, but please don’t let Doreen hear you.”
They stood in the line of mourners and edged their way toward Doreen. When they were finally standing in front of her and able to express their condolences, Doreen grabbed Drayton’s arm and blubbered, “Beau looks so peaceful lying there. Doesn’t he look peaceful?”
“As if he’s fast asleep,” Drayton said, trying not to look at the casket as he attempted to pull away from her.