Shades of Earl Grey

by Laura Childs

  “Hey, guys,” said Theodosia to Haley and Drayton. “Can you unpack those boxes without me? I’ve got to make a phone call, then step out for a bit.”

  Drayton glanced about the tea shop. Besides Miss Dimple, only one other table was occupied at the moment. “I don’t know why not,” he said.

  “So . . . just stick the T-Bath products on shelves and stuff a few baskets?” asked Haley.

  “Haley,” said Drayton, “you make it sound so artless.”

  “In that case, my dear Drayton,” said Haley, laying on her best boarding school accent, “we shall artfully stack products on shelves and artfully stuff baskets. How does that sound?”

  “Much better, Haley, much better.”

  Theodosia looked up the number for St. Anne’s Hospital, dialed the phone.

  “St. Anne’s, how may I direct your call?” came the receptionist’s voice.

  “I’m trying to get ahold of Cecile Randolph, one of the nurses who works on your second floor,” said Theodosia.

  “One minute,” said the voice. There was a click and a buzz and Theodosia was on hold.

  “This is Cecile,” said a pleasant voice.

  “Cecile? This is Theodosia Browning. We met the other night when my dog and I chased the intruder from Mr. Wilson’s room?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Cecile, recognition dawning in her voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” said Theodosia, “but I’m more concerned about Mr. Wilson.”

  “He’s been released,” said Cecile.

  “That’s very good news,” said Theodosia. “So he’s at home now?”

  There was a pause. “I think he’s staying with a relative for now,” said Cecile. “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to say, but since you were directly involved in the incident of the other night, I think it’s okay to tell you that the police suggested Mr. Wilson not go home for a while.”

  “But he’s feeling better?” asked Theodosia. This is interesting. Now Harlan Wilson is in hiding. Well, maybe not in hiding, but certainly incognito.

  “He was fine when he walked out,” said Cecile. “Just fine.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE LADY GOODWOOD Inn was operating at about half-capacity. The hotel staff was at the ready, with desk clerks and concierge ready to check guests in, bell hops and chamber maids all available to tend to their needs. And in the kitchen, cooks, sous-chefs, prep workers, and waiters were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The two women who handled bookings for parties and event catering were waiting for the phone to ring. But it didn’t. Business had slowed considerably since that fateful evening when the glass ceiling of the Lady Goodwood’s Garden Room had collapsed atop Captain Corey Buchanan.

  Frederick Welborne, the man who’d proudly served as general manager at the Lady Goodwood Inn for the better part of two decades, gazed about the empty lobby and sighed. This was not the venerable old inn’s finest hour.

  Tall and angular, balding and long of face, Frederick Welborne, a man who already appeared slightly burdened, now bore a look of perpetual sadness. The Lady Goodwood Inn was in a state of disrepair. And when the good lady was ailing, he was ailing, too.

  In the past few days, yards of wet carpeting had been hauled from the ruined Garden Room. And despite the scented candles that had been burned, air fresheners that had been sprayed, windows left open, and contract cleaners who’d been brought in to work their magic with potions and sprays and ion machines, there still remained the unmistakable trace of mildewy odor.

  Guests had grimaced at the sight of the wreckage. Two large dumpsters were hunkered down in the parking lot, the repository for all that ruined carpet and glass.

  And the question still remained: what would be done about the old greenhouse, the Garden Room? The owners, descendants of the original Goodwoods who didn’t even live in the area anymore, wanted it repaired. The inn was, after all, a continuing source of revenue for them, what with the many wedding receptions, business meetings, club functions, and private parties that were booked there, to say nothing of the tourists who stayed in the guest rooms.

  One of the contractors who’d been brought in to survey the damage had just shaken his head and recommended the Garden Room be torn down completely.

  Now a second contractor had been brought in at the specific request of the absentee owners.

  Frederick Welborne wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that contractor recommended patching it up.

  “Mr. Welborne, do you have a moment?”

  Frederick Welborne turned with a slow smile to greet Theodosia and shake her outstretched hand.

  “Miss Browning,” he said, “nice to see you under slightly better circumstances.” After that fateful night, Frederick Welborne had instructed his staff to continue searching for the missing wedding ring and had felt badly that no one had been able to recover it.

  “I’m afraid I still don’t have hopeful news regarding your friend’s wedding ring,” he told her. “We’ve been looking, we’ve all been looking. But alas, no luck.”

  Theodosia saw the sadness behind his smile, noted the empty corridors of the Lady Goodwood, and knew all was not well. But then again, how could it be?

  “You’ve got quite a cleanup operation going on here,” she told him. “I saw dumpsters out in the parking lot.”

  “The sooner those are gone, the better,” Frederick said. “Just a sad reminder.”

  “Any plans to rebuild the Garden Room?” she asked.

  “Still up in the air.” Frederick Welborne sighed. “That decision, I’m afraid, is being left to our attorneys, insurance agents, building contractors, and owners.” He smiled sadly. “I am, when all is said and done, simply a humble manager, charged with running this establishment.” He gazed around. “Such as it is.”

  “And a fine job you’ve done,” said Theodosia with as much warmth as she could muster, for she and Drayton had catered several engagement teas, a New Year’s Eve party, and even a children’s teddy bear tea at the Lady Goodwood Inn over the last couple years. And on each occasion, arrangements at the inn had been impeccable.

  “May I go in and take a look?” she asked.

  Frederick Welborne held up a finger. “Yes, but give me a moment.” He retreated quickly to his office, returned with two yellow hard hats.

  “You’ll have to wear one of these,” he told her. “Regulations.”

  “No problem,” said Theodosia as she slipped the hard hat on her head.

  Frederick Welborne smiled faintly at the sight of all that auburn hair spilling out from beneath the yellow work hat. “It looks good on you, you’re a natural,” he told her as he led her into the Magnolia Room, where Camille and Captain Buchanan’s cocktail party had been held, then through the doorway into the Garden Room.

  “The room looks a bit different, doesn’t it,” said Frederick Welborne.

  Theodosia gazed about. The Garden Room had looked awful the night the roof collapsed, but now it was barely recognizable. Carpet had been torn up and metal scaffolding crowded the room. The ceiling, which had formerly been a glass arch, had been rebuilt as a temporary flat ceiling of plywood.

  “What’s going to happen to this room?” asked Theodosia. She gave a little shudder. Now that she’d returned to the scene of Captain Buchanan’s death, she was struck by the full magnitude of what had really happened here. Or is it the scene of a crime? she wondered.

  “Mr. Welborne? Telephone.” A bell hop in a burgundy uniform with matching cap stood at Frederick Welborne’s elbow. They turned and followed the bell hop out into the hall.

  “Joey here went through all the carpeting after it was torn up,” Frederick told her. “Looking for the ring. But he didn’t find anything.”

  “No, sir,” said Joey with what seemed like genuine regret. “And I really did look.”

  “I believe you,” said Theodosia. “Thank you, thank you both,” she said, smiling at the two of them.

  “We’ll stay in touch,” said Fre
derick as he scurried off down the hall to take his phone call.

  “I take it business has been slow?” Theodosia said to Joey, noting that despite his youthful name, Joey wasn’t exactly a kid. In fact, Joey looked like he might be in his early sixties.

  “Glacial. I’ve been here twenty-six years and never seen anything like it. We had two big wedding parties cancel out on us. And then, yesterday, a ladies luncheon group just turned on their pointy little heels and left. Guess they got spooked because the workers were taking the roof down.”

  “The roof came off yesterday?” asked Theodosia.

  Joey nodded. “What was left of it. That’s what that second dumpster’s for. The metal struts and such. Got to separate stuff these days. Even landfills are getting particular. Or maybe it’s because they recycle it, I don’t know.”

  “Joey,” said Theodosia, “is there a way for people to know about the events that go on here?”

  Joey cocked an eye at her. “What do you mean?”

  “When the Lady Goodwood has receptions and parties and such, is that information published? Or posted somewhere?”

  Joey scratched his chin, thinking. “We have a newsletter,” he told her.

  “A newsletter,” repeated Theodosia. “And your mailing list would be . . . how large?”

  Joey shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe a couple thousand.” He stared at her intently, then his lined face seemed to light up as another idea dawned. He snapped his fingers. “We have a web site, too,” he told her proudly. “That probably reaches a whole lot more folks.”

  I’m sure it does, thought Theodosia with grim determination. Maybe even the person who came here that night and left with a diamond ring in his pocket instead.

  “Thanks, Joey,” Theodosia told him.

  Joey touched his hand to the short brim of his cap. “No problem.”

  Walking across the parking lot to her Jeep, Theodosia found that her gaze was once again drawn to the two large brown metal dumpsters. Jingling her car keys in her hand, she walked across the parking lot to the side of the building where the dumpsters sat. One was piled high with glass and remnants of old carpet. The other, for all practical purposes, looked empty.

  Intrigued, she walked up to that dumpster, stood on tiptoes, and peered in. It wasn’t empty at all. Joey had been right. This dumpster was half-filled with metal struts and rails. The bones of the greenhouse roof, she thought to herself. The skeleton.

  As she gazed at the twisted metal, Theodosia recalled the strange oval-shaped metal ring she’d seen attached to one of the ceiling struts. She hadn’t given the metal ring a lot of thought. After all, she’d been balancing precariously on a monumentally tall ladder just moments after Captain Buchanan had been buried in rubble. More than a few things had been occupying her mind.

  But as she stood with her hand on the rough edge of this heavy metal dumpster, something prickled at Theodosia’s thoughts.

  If someone had crashed through the roof, had actually descended inside the Garden Room, then how did they get back up again?

  How exactly did one manage an acrobatic feat like that?

  She supposed you could use a pulley of some kind. Or something akin to the high-tech “spider” apparatus that filmmakers loved to feature in spy films like Mission Impossible.

  Could the ordinary person just buy that type of equipment right off the shelf? Better yet, could an ordinary person even negotiate that type of equipment?

  Did Cooper Hobcaw have the strength and flexibility to manipulate a spiderman rig like that? she wondered. Maybe. He was a runner. Or at least he claimed to be a runner.

  Could Claire Kitridge? She looked fairly lithe and limber.

  And what of this Graham Carmody? Was he agile, too? Or didn’t he have to be. Did he just show up as a waiter and then work his angle?

  The questions burned in her mind like wildfire.

  CHAPTER 15

  GRAHAM CARMODY SAT at his Dell computer scanning the Internet auction site. This was the best part, he told himself. This was what made it all worthwhile.

  Oh, finding the objects was exciting, he couldn’t deny that. There was the thrill of the hunt, which always set his pulse to racing. But once the object was digitally photographed and put up on the web site, then things really got interesting. Because that’s when he started making money.

  Graham loved checking and rechecking the bids, especially when one of his choice items was reaching its final days. It was exciting to note when his reserve price had been met, even better when bidding heated up and competitors from all over the world began to play a cat-and-mouse game with each other, sneaking in new bids at three in the morning!

  What a marvel the Internet was. And what a brilliant way to move merchandise. So fast, so inexpensive, and so highly anonymous. Whoever had really invented the Internet (and he was quite sure it hadn’t been Al Gore, more likely a bunch of brainy military tech weinies) should be awarded a gold medal. Because the Internet had become the repository for all of civilization’s accumulated knowledge. And an international marketplace for all of civilization’s goods.

  Graham Carmody stretched his long legs, scratched at the scruff of ginger-colored beard that sprouted on his face. He’d have to can it in a little while, get his shit ready for tomorrow. Starting tomorrow noon he’d be working non-stop for the next couple days. A docents’ luncheon at the art museum, then the gig at Symphony Hall. Friday and Saturday evenings were booked solid, too. Working as a temp for Butler’s Express didn’t leave a lot of room for extracurricular activities, but it certainly got him into lots of interesting places. Oh well, hit it hard now, retire early . . .

  Reaching for a cigarette, Graham Carmody stood up suddenly, letting his computer chair snap back. He glanced at the walls of his study, at the tasty antiques and oddities that occupied the wooden shelves. He didn’t even remember where he’d picked up that pre-Columbian statue. Or that silver tray. Oh well. Didn’t matter.

  Overcome by fatigue now from too many hours spent staring at the computer screen, he paced the length of the room, glancing out the window into the back garden of the small single house he rented. What luck he’d had in finding this place. Mrs. Gerritsen, an older lady and recent widow, had been looking for a young man to rent the downstairs from her. Give her a sense of security, she’d told him. He gazed at his rumpled reflection in the window. Security. Him. Sure. You bet, Mrs. Gerritsen. Anything you say, babe.

  A sudden movement outside caught his eye. He stepped closer to the window, cupped his hands to the glass, and tried to peer outside.

  Is someone out there? Moving around in the alley?

  He darted through the doorway into the kitchen and threw open the back door.

  Hey! he called, leaping down the back steps, intent on throwing a good scare into whoever was sneaking around out back.

  But all he saw were shadows. All he heard was the whisper of the wind through Mrs. Gerritsen’s dead flower stalks.

  Graham Carmody stood on the sidewalk in his bare feet. Nothing, he finally told himself. Probably just a stray cat trying to paw its way into the garbage bag I set out earlier. He’d seen the damn things around before, thought maybe Mrs. Gerritsen secretly put out food for them.

  You’re just feeling jumpy, kid. Time to log some serious sack time.

  Graham Carmody turned and went back inside his house.

  Graham Carmody, Graham Carmody. The name had played like a litany in Theodosia’s head. He’d been one of the waiters at Delaine’s party; he’d also worked at the Heritage Society the night the Blue Kashmir necklace disappeared. Coincidence or convenience?

  And so it wasn’t any surprise that at nine o’clock that night Theodosia pulled out the Charleston phone directory, paged through the C’s, and ran her finger down the index of names until she actually found the name, Graham Carmody.

  Over on Bogard Street. Not all that far from here.

  She’d stood in her hallway, gazing at her reflection in the mirror,
debating how she could pull this off. Go for a jog and take Earl Grey along in case she needed a convincing ruse? Or just drive there and snoop?

  In the end she jumped in her Jeep and drove there. Parked a block or so away. Flipped the switch that killed the dome light, then slipped quietly out the door.

  Theodosia had scouted the house from the street first. It was your typical Charleston single house. Long and narrow, one room wide, butted up against the street. Charleston folklore held that residences had once been taxed according to how much street frontage they occupied. Hence the evolution of the conservatively narrow Charleston single house.

  This one was clapboard, though many single houses were far grander and built of brick or stucco. Graham Carmody’s house looked fairly well kept for its age, Theodosia decided. It had probably been built just before the turn of the century. The previous century.

  And look, next to the front door. Two mailboxes. The house had obviously been turned into a duplex of sorts. Is Graham Carmody the landlord or the renter? she wondered.

  Going around to the back of the house, walking down the alley, she’d seen him through the window, working on his computer.

  Graham Carmody was surprisingly pleasant looking. Young, probably late twenties. A trifle scruffy, but still the kind of guy Haley would find attractive. Would call hunky.

  Theodosia had been staring in at him from outside, drawn unconsciously forward, when the tip of her shoe had struck something.

  A black vinyl garbage bag.

  Was it his? she’d wondered. Should she look inside? Better yet, should she take it?

  Feeling a trifle foolish, but still curious, she’d snatched up the black bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  That’s when the man in the window had reacted. Had bolted out of the room in a flash.

  Theodosia had known he was coming after her. He’d seen something, her movement or shadow when she grabbed the bag, and was rushing out to check!

  But she was down the alley and around the corner before Graham Carmody ever hit the flower beds. Then she crouched behind a huge clump of magnolias, trying to control her breathing, knowing Graham Carmody hadn’t been wearing shoes, but praying he wouldn’t run down the alley after her anyway.