by Laura Childs
She’d started out with a kind of Venn diagram—scribbling Beau Briggs’s name in the center of the page and then adding the names of possible suspects around him like spokes in a wheel. Doreen, Reggie Huston, Starla Crane, Honey and Michael Whitley. As a kind of outer rim, she’d added the names of the various characters that had played a walk-on role in last Saturday’s drama.
A murder chart. I’m making a murder chart.
The notion both tickled and unnerved her.
She picked up her marker again and added Marcus Covey’s name. Drawing a circle around it, she connected it with an arrow to Beau’s name. As an afterthought she added the name of Robert Steele, the guy who headed Angel Oak Venture Capital, to the outer ring.
“Rrowr?”
Theodosia looked up to find Earl Grey staring intently at her. “What?” she said.
“Oowr?”
“Yes, of course we’re still going out. You didn’t think we were going to miss our evening run, did you?”
She pushed back from the table and stood up.
“Besides, I’m fresh out of theories.”
Walking into the living room, she pulled a purple fleece hoodie over her head. She bent forward and did a quick toe touch, looked around, and smiled.
Theodosia loved her home, loved everything about it. From the living room with its brick fireplace set into a wall of beveled cypress panels, to the oil paintings she’d handpicked at Gilbert’s Antiques. The place was hands down gorgeous and homey, and it was all hers. No, it didn’t come close to the grandeur of Doreen Brigg’s mansion, but owning an expensive showpiece didn’t matter to her as long as she was happy and comfortable. And when she was tucked beneath a blanket on her chintz sofa, her dog sprawled out on the Oriental carpet, and a fire crackling away, it felt like heaven. Like all was right with the world.
“Rrowr?”
“Yes, now,” Theodosia said, pulling herself out of her reverie. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
• • •
The route Theodosia took tonight bordered on being slightly illegal. In other words, as she and Earl Grey dashed down East Bay Street, she veered down a private driveway and then ducked into Stoll’s Alley. Just seventeen bricks wide at its entrance, the alley was a relic, a time traveler’s leap into Charleston’s historic past. Stately homes were basically jammed up one against the other, sheltered by a curtain of overhanging trees, hidden by tall brick walls that dated back to the Revolutionary War. Stoll’s Alley was also kind of a Peeping Tom’s delight. Many of the window shades weren’t always drawn as carefully as they should be, so you could catch slivers of life inside the magnificent old homes. Here was an elegant masculine-looking library filled with leather-bound volumes. A few yards on was a window that offered a peek into a cozy kitchen complete with repurposed wooden planks for counters and shelves holding a to-die-for collection of sterling silver tankards.
Theodosia and Earl Grey popped out at Church Street, waited for a sleek-looking car to go by, and then ran across the street. Seconds later, they were once again cloaked in darkness, save for a few old-fashioned lamps that cast dribbles of light against the cobblestones. Pounding down another back alley, they zipped along a narrow lane that snaked between two enormous mansions, both with spectacular walled gardens complete with white marble statuary and pattering fountains. They turned down Meeting Street to Price’s Alley where more town houses—expensive town houses—were clustered in a tight row with an eight-foot-high brick wall snugged up on the right.
Theodosia was always amazed at the high density of the area. Yet each cottage, townhome, and mansion felt like its own fiercely independent principality, surrounded as they were by green gardens, statuary, small reflecting pools, and wrought-iron gates. Shut off from the world, yet still very much there.
Feeling like she’d blown off the dust of the day, Theodosia tugged gently at Earl Grey’s leash and turned for home.
And that’s when it all went a little bit crazy.
Just as they were crossing Tradd, a car came hurtling out of nowhere. Engine roaring full bore, headlights blazing, the car headed straight for them. Caught in the middle of the street, Theodosia froze for a split second, uncertain of which way to jump.
Surely he’s going to swerve! That driver has to see us!
But no, the driver stayed his course. Crouched over his steering wheel, this shadowy ghost driver put the pedal to the metal and roared at them like an Indy car screaming down the straightaway.
With not much time to think, Theodosia gave Earl Grey a hard shove that sent him flying, and then she lurched after him. There was a sudden high-pitched squeal of brakes as the car swerved, made a slight course correction, and kept coming at them!
Theodosia screamed as she made a second awkward, panicked leap out of the way. She felt the hot, swift slipstream of air and rush of metal as the car shot by, missing her by mere inches.
Flying through the air, she and Earl Grey were a tumbling mass of legs, arms, paws, and tail. Shocked grunts and oofs escaped their lips. Then they hit the ground in a crazy humpty-bumpty sprawl, rolling and bouncing up and over a low curb, finally coming to rest in a patch of French hydrangeas.
Alive? was Theodosia’s first dazed thought. Are we still alive?
Earl Grey was the first to recover. He pulled himself up, shook himself vigorously from his nose to his tail, and gazed around in surprise. The startled look on his face clearly said, Good heavens, how did we end up here?
When Theodosia saw her dog standing upright, panting, but not in any obvious distress, her heart relaxed.
Thank goodness my boy is okay!
She rolled over slowly and lifted a fist. “Who would do that?” she shouted, loud and angry, railing at the night sky. She felt bumped and bruised and battered. “Who would try to intentionally hit us with their car?”
Her own words suddenly registered inside her brain and brought her up short.
Intentionally? Somebody tried to hit me intentionally? Who?
But deep in her brain’s frontal lobe, the rational, problem-solving part of her brain, she was slowly spinning out an answer.
“The murderer,” Theodosia said, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “He thinks I know more than I do. Or else this person, this cold-blooded killer, thinks I’m getting way too close to finding out the truth.”
She was kneeling in the flower bed on mud-streaked hands and knees, dumbfounded by her own revelation.
Until Earl Grey nudged her gently with his nose. Time to go.
Gingerly, Theodosia pulled herself to her feet and stared down the street at . . . darkness. The car that had menaced them was long gone.
• • •
Theodosia’s trip home was slow and thoughtful. She and Earl Grey, still shaking out the kinks and quieting their pounding hearts, ambled down Tradd Street. Earl Grey seemed okay, none the worse for wear, but Theodosia’s left knee was sore and achy. She’d pay for this tomorrow.
As she walked past Doreen Briggs’s home, she gazed across the gardens toward the tall, arched windows that defined the front of the house. The velvet drapes were pulled tight, but slivers of light seeped out at the sides.
Was Doreen in there? Had she just come ghosting in her back door with a smirk on her face? Was she hanging up her keys in the hallway thinking about a job well done? Was her car’s engine slowly ticking down in her garage out back?
Maybe. Possibly.
Theodosia limped along, finally turning down her own block, thankfully, mercifully, almost home now. And was startled to see lights blazing from every window of the enormous mansion that sat next to her little cottage.
The Granville Mansion had sat empty for almost two years now, ever since its owner had been murdered. She wondered who might be looking at the old place now? People with money, no doubt. The last she’d heard, the home was on the market for someth
ing like two-point-nine million dollars. She’d have to sell scones and tea from here to eternity to garner a fortune like that. And then, if she owned the place, she probably wouldn’t be able to afford drapes.
A sour note rose up in Theodosia’s mind. What if Honey and Michael Whitley were the people who were inspecting the place? With a keen eye to extending their reach and opening another B and B?
Theodosia knew that if the Whitleys bought the old mansion, there would be only one thing for her to do. Move.
She pulled back gently on Earl Grey’s leash and they both hesitated at the mansion’s front gate. She was tired and couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and crawl into bed, but she was profoundly curious, too. And she could see shadows flitting back and forth inside the foyer. Maybe the potential buyers had finished their inspection and were just about ready to leave?
Yes, they were. At least somebody was. A small figure was making its way slowly down the front walk. Then that small figure suddenly materialized into a woman that Theodosia had more than a nodding acquaintance with.
“Maggie?” Theodosia said. She thought her voice sounded rusty and hoarse. Maybe from screaming at that horrible driver?
Maggie Twining gave a sort of start and then peered at Theodosia through the darkness.
“Theodosia?” Maggie said. She’d been startled but recovered quickly. “How are you?” she asked, her voice immediately warming. Maggie Twining was an agent with Sutter Realty. In fact, she was the one who’d helped Theodosia find and purchase her cottage.
“Not too bad,” Theodosia said. She didn’t feel like explaining her hit-and-run experience of fifteen minutes ago.
“It’s nice to see you,” Maggie said. “And Earl Grey, too.” She stretched a hand out and patted Earl Grey on the head. “You’re such a fine-looking gent.”
“You just showed the Granville house?” Theodosia asked.
“Not just showed. Sold.” Maggie looked pleased. “In fact . . .” She hesitated as a tall man in an expensive-looking charcoal suit hurried down the front walk. He was talking on his cell phone, sounding upbeat and jocular. Then he signed off, stuck his phone in his jacket pocket, and joined them.
“Hello,” he said to Theodosia. He turned his attention to Earl Grey. “Hey, nice dog.”
Earl Grey wagged his tail.
“There’s no time like the present to meet your new neighbor,” Maggie said. “Theodosia, meet . . .”
“I know who you are,” Theodosia said, staring at the man who stood in front of her, offering a friendly smile. “You’re Robert Steele. I was at your presentation this past Tuesday night.”
Steele focused on Theodosia and immediately clicked into his salesman’s patter. “Glad to hear it,” he enthused. “I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I was also a guest at the rat tea this past Saturday. And the funeral this morning,” she added.
Steele never missed a beat. He shook his head and looked sorrowful. “Heck of a thing, wasn’t it? Beau was such a great guy. Have you heard anything new? Are the police any closer to catching who did it?”
“I think they’re very close,” Theodosia said, not because they actually were, but because she was curious to see Steele’s reaction.
“Let’s hope so,” Steele said. “Better times ahead, huh?”
“Maybe,” Theodosia said.
Steele made a motion to leave. “Thank you,” he said to Maggie. And to Theodosia, “I hope we were able to convince you to invest with Angel Oak.”
“I’m certainly considering it,” Theodosia lied. “But I might have a few more questions.”
“Contact me anytime,” Steele said. “Ask away.”
“I might just do that,” Theodosia said. “Contact you, that is.”
“Well, now you know where to find me,” Steele said. He flapped a hand to indicate the house he’d just committed to purchase and flashed a megawatt grin at Maggie. “As long as all the paperwork sails through.”
“I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t,” Maggie said.
I can think of a few reasons, Theodosia thought to herself.
21
“You’ll never guess who’s buying the property next door to me,” Theodosia said. It was Friday morning and she and Drayton were scurrying around the tea shop, setting up tables, lighting candles, and getting the place shipshape for their morning rush.
“Who might that be?” Drayton asked. He paused, giving a thoughtful look as he considered whether to set out the Royal Albert Old Country Roses or the Coalport Pink Flamingo plates and teacups.
“It’s that Angel Oak VC guy we saw the other night. Robert Steele.”
“My goodness,” Drayton said. “The same Robert Steele who sat across from Doreen at the rat tea?”
“That’s the one.”
“What a strange coincidence. And I have to say, business must be booming for Angel Oak. That mansion is enormous, which means the mortgage must be astronomical.”
“Business might be good because Robert Steele is probably a crook,” Theodosia said.
Drayton looked startled. “Theodosia, you don’t know that for sure.”
“I did some more research on Angel Oak last night. Right after Maggie Twining told me that Steele wanted to buy that place.”
Drayton pulled a tin of Lady London Ceylon tea off the shelf. “What did you find out?”
“Besides the state attorney general, the SEC has had a watchful eye on Robert Steele.”
“Because of his venture capital fund?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated,” Theodosia said. “An article I found online in Charleston Business Daily hinted that the SEC was looking at Steele’s personal investments. Apparently they want to know if he has a financial interest in the companies that are included in his venture capital portfolio.”
Drayton put up a hand and zoomed it across the top of his head. “You just lost me.”
“Here’s the thing,” Theodosia said. “If Steele owns stock in the companies he’s recommending to buyers, then he would stand to profit personally. And that would be a no-no.”
“Ah, now I understand. That does sound like double-dealing.”
Bang bang bang. A cascade of loud knocks sounded at the front door.
“Now what?” Theodosia said. She was right in the middle of explaining her theory on Robert Steele to Drayton and the tea shop didn’t open for another fifteen minutes.
Drayton eased his way toward the door. “I’ll see who our overanxious guest is. Tell them to hold their horses.”
“Be nice about it,” Theodosia said.
“I’m always nice.”
But when Drayton pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window, he let out a disdainful snort.
“Obviously it’s not a women’s tea club come to call,” Theodosia observed dryly. “Or your reaction wouldn’t be quite so snide.”
Drayton’s mouth pulled tight. “It’s that awful Bill Glass again. Should I shoo him away or do you want me to let him in?”
“Let him in,” Theodosia said, sounding resigned. “If we don’t he’ll just stand there banging away and drive us all bonkers.”
Drayton pulled open the door. “Theodosia says you can come in, but you have to be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Glass said as he strode briskly into the tea shop. He made a big show of sliding to a stop, then flashed a grin at Theodosia and said, “Howdy.”
“What?” Theodosia asked. “What do you want?”
“A cup of tea would be great for openers,” Glass said.
Theodosia wasn’t buying it. “What else is on your evil little mind?”
“I have some information to share with you,” Glass said.
“Oh?”
“Concerning a certain rat who is no longer among the living.”
“You know something more abou
t that?” Theodosia asked. Glass was obviously referring to Marcus Covey.
“In case you haven’t guessed, I have friends in high places. As in the Charleston Police Department.”
“They’re probably paid informants,” Drayton said from behind the counter.
“What if they are?” Glass said. “Who cares how I get the poop as long as I get the poop?”
“You mean get the gossip,” Drayton said.
“What exactly is this new information?” Theodosia asked. She was curious but repulsed by Glass. Kind of like dealing with a snake you’d found slithering through your garden. That snake might keep the rodent population in check, but you still had yourself a snake.
Glass tapped the counter and curled a finger at a steaming pot of tea. “Do you think . . . ?”
“Yes. Whatever.” Theodosia poured a splash of black currant tea into an indigo-blue paper cup and handed it to him.
“How about a scone, too?” Glass asked. He patted his stomach. “Gotta keep the old tank filled.”
“They’re still baking in the oven,” Theodosia said.
Glass pointed to a lone scone sitting in a glass cake saver. “What about that one?”
“It’s from yesterday,” Drayton said.
“No problem,” Glass said.
So Theodosia placed the day-old scone on a plate and shoved it toward him.
There were a few moments of noisy slurping and chewing, and then Glass said, “The police discovered something very interesting in the trunk of Covey’s car.”
“What was it?” Theodosia asked. She narrowed her eyes, recalling the banged-up black Saab that had been parked in Covey’s backyard.
Glass was chewing loudly. “A twist of guy wire. You know, the kind of metal cord you use for pegging tents to the ground? It’s what was used to hang Covey with.”
“A kind of wire? And some of it was actually in the trunk of his car?” Theodosia asked.