Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “Tell us what you saw,” Dickerson said.

  “It was awful,” Theodosia said. She could barely comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened.

  “Tell us how you felt when you saw the hot-air balloon catch fire and come crashing down,” Dickerson said.

  Theodosia lifted a hand and pushed the microphone away. This wasn’t right. People had been killed. “No,” she said. “I’m not doing this. I can’t.”

  “The station will want this footage for the five and six o’clock news,” Dickerson said, as if he was offering a huge incentive.

  Theodosia couldn’t care less. “No. Go pester someone else.”

  Dickerson gave a hopeful glance in Drayton’s direction, then caught the look of utter disdain on Drayton’s face.

  “Whatever,” Dickerson said, rushing off.

  Police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks arrived, adding to the mayhem. A young man, his face pale as a ghost, sprinted past them. He skidded to a stop a few feet away, both arms extended, and spun around full tilt on the soggy grass. Then he ran back toward them, clearly in a blind panic.

  “Whoa.” Theodosia reached out and snagged his jacket sleeve. “Slow down. Take it easy.”

  “Did you see it? Did you see Mr. Kingsley’s balloon get hit?” the young man screamed at her.

  “Is that who was in the balloon?” Theodosia asked. “A man named Kingsley?” She knew the police would need to know these names.

  “Who else was with him?” Drayton asked.

  “It was . . . it was . . .” The young man suddenly fell to his knees and dropped his head, as if he were bracing for a plane crash.

  “Take a deep breath,” Theodosia said. She leaned down and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. He was hyperventilating so badly she feared he might give himself a stroke.

  “Yeah, okay,” the young man said as he struggled to his feet. “But who’s . . . who’s going to tell Mrs. Kingsley?” he asked with a sorrowful moan.

  Theodosia grabbed his shoulders and gave him a small shake to try to rouse him from his confused state. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m . . . I’m Charles Townsend.”

  “Do you work for Mr. Kingsley?” Drayton asked.

  Townsend bobbed his head. “I’m Mr. Kingsley’s private secretary.”

  “Oh dear,” Drayton said.

  “You need to pull yourself together and identify yourself to those police officers over there,” Theodosia said. “Tell them who exactly was in the hot-air balloon that crashed.”

  But Townsend seemed rooted in place, his expression a mixture of sorrow and distress. “And what are we going to do about the flag?” he whispered.

  “I don’t think he’s tracking all that well,” Drayton said in a low voice.

  “No, he’s not,” Theodosia said. “I think I’d better . . .” She spoke louder and more forcefully now. “You’d better come with me, Mr. Townsend.” She took him gently by the arm. “We’re going to get you some help.”

  Theodosia led Charles Townsend over to the nearest ambulance and tapped a blue-coated EMT on his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  The EMT, a young African-American man whose name tag read T. RUSSEL, turned around to face her. “Yes?”

  “This young man was a witness to the crash,” Theodosia said. “And he’s right on the fine edge of hysteria. Could you give him some oxygen or even something stronger to help him calm down?”

  “We’ll take care of him,” the EMT promised.

  “Thank you,” Theodosia said.

  An officer standing nearby said, “You witnessed the crash?”

  “My friend and I were up in one of the balloons. We saw the whole thing.”

  “We need to interview you folks then,” the officer said. “Get a statement.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  The officer’s radio crackled with static. “Yeah,” he responded. “We’re working on that now.” Then he turned to Theodosia and said, “Just hold on, will you?”

  Theodosia walked over and joined Drayton, who had somehow scrounged a dilapidated umbrella. They stood there, huddled beneath it, trying to find temporary respite from the pouring rain, but the umbrella wasn’t doing much good. Rain pelted down, then made a nasty side trip and dripped down the backs of their necks. They were cold, miserable, and wet. Worse, they were stunned and trying desperately to process the horrible explosion they’d just witnessed.

  “We have to wait and give a statement,” Theodosia said.

  “At least we don’t have anything to pack up,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia glanced at her ruined tea table and grimaced. Then she turned away and watched as the crime scene van arrived, along with a K-9 officer who had a German shepherd straining against his leash. Theodosia immediately thought of her own dog, Earl Grey, waiting for her at home, and hoped they wouldn’t be held here in limbo for too long.

  Finally, a motorcade came screeching in: three police cruisers, red-and-blue light bars flashing and sirens blaring, followed by a shiny, black Suburban with smoked windows.

  “Who’s that?” Theodosia asked.

  “Must be the mayor or police chief,” Drayton said. “The big cheese.”

  The rear passenger door flew open and Detective Burt Tidwell, head of the Charleston Police Department’s Robbery and Homicide Division, stepped out, albeit a bit ungainly. He was a large man wearing a voluminous dark suit. His eyes, always twin pinpricks of intensity, immediately roved across the entire park, taking in the still-smoldering balloon, the ambulances, the injured, the scrambling first responders, and the basic confusion of people.

  “Looks like he might have a driver now,” Theodosia said.

  They watched as Tidwell spoke with two officers, barked out new orders, and hastily inspected the wreckage. Finally, the officer Theodosia had talked with earlier gestured toward Theodosia and Drayton.

  Tidwell glanced around again, then those beady, insightful eyes landed squarely on Theodosia. He huffed across the grass toward her, a big man moving at a surprisingly fast pace, the two uniformed officers following behind him, straining to keep up.

  “Miss Browning,” Tidwell said, giving a hurried, acknowledging nod. “I understand you’re a somewhat integral part of this situation. This debacle.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m afraid so,” Theodosia said. “We were . . . that is Drayton and myself . . . were up in one of the hot-air balloons when the one next to us exploded. The red-and-white one that’s . . . well, it’s over there.” She swallowed hard. “What’s left of it.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tidwell said, digesting her words and ready to brush past her. “We’ve already alerted the FAA and are bringing in investigators from the NTSB. In cases such as this, error is generally either human, machine, or environment. So we need to determine . . .”

  “No.” Theodosia shook her head. “I can tell you exactly what happened.”

  Tidwell pursed his lips, clearly annoyed by her interruption. Then he seemed to bite back his frustration. “Excuse me, didn’t I just say we had to wait for an NTSB investigator?”

  “It was a drone,” Theodosia said.

  “What?” Tidwell barked, as if he were suddenly hard of hearing. “What did you say?”

  “We saw a drone buzz in and fly among all the hot-air balloons,” Drayton said. “A good-sized, silver drone.”

  Tidwell was glaring at them as if he didn’t believe their story. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me you actually saw a drone and that it was responsible for this crash?”

  “We witnessed the whole sorry mess,” Drayton said.

  “From one of the balloons,” Theodosia said. She glanced over her shoulder, saw that their hot-air balloon was still half-inflated. “We were riding in that blue one right over there when we saw the drone come buzzing in like some
kind of giant, mechanized bird. The drone flew around for a while, kind of checking out all the balloons. Then it zeroed in on the red-and-white balloon and flew directly into it. Caused a huge explosion.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Tidwell said. “The drone flew into the hot-air balloon that crashed?”

  “More like attacked it!” Drayton said.

  “The balloon that crashed, yes!” Theodosia shouted, trying to underscore her words. Was Tidwell not hearing her? Was he not understanding her? But it turned out he was.

  “Oh no,” Tidwell said, his voice suddenly going dull and hoarse. “So you truly did witness the explosion.”

  “Yes,” Theodosia said.

  “As well as the crash.”

  Theodosia just nodded.

  “Officer Anson!” Tidwell shouted out as he threw up a chubby hand.

  Anson came running over to join them. “Sir?”

  “We need to take witness statements from both Miss Browning and Mr. Conneley here,” Tidwell barked. “Immediately. Find a dry spot where you can question them and perhaps get them a cup of coffee.” He peered at Theodosia, who looked shaken and ashen faced, not quite her usual confident self. Then Tidwell’s face gradually softened, as if he were gazing at a fragile Dresden figurine. “Better yet, find them a cup of tea.”

  3

  Clouds of tea-infused steam hung in the air as brass kettles chirped and whistled. Malty Assam, smoky gunpowder green, and fragrant Darjeeling drifted in delightful currents, then merged in an aphrodisiac swirl. It was eight o’clock Monday morning at the Indigo Tea Shop and Theodosia and Drayton were sitting at a rustic wooden table, drinking cups of Assam tea and nibbling on fresh-baked strawberry scones. They were also bringing Haley, their young chef and baker, up to speed on yesterday’s hot-air balloon crash. This of course had sent Haley scrambling to the front door to pick up their rain-soaked morning newspaper.

  “So it says here on the front page of the Charleston Post and Courier that three people were killed,” Haley said as she bounced on the balls of her feet next to the table where Theodosia and Drayton sat. “They’re calling it the hot-air balloon massacre.” She wrinkled her pert nose and shook back her shoulder-length, blond hair. Haley was in her early twenties, deeply sensitive, and took everything to heart. Balloon crashes, homeless kittens, and sad movies all had an equal effect on stirring her emotions.

  “It was dreadful,” Drayton said. “Like riding a zip line into hell.” Along with a tweed jacket and yellow bow tie, he also wore a stoic face. But the crash, the senseless deaths, had affected him just as much as it had Haley.

  “It also says here that the crash was probably deliberate,” Haley said.

  “May I see that article?” Theodosia asked, reaching out a hand.

  Haley passed over the main news section and Theodosia quickly skimmed the article. She thought she’d recovered from the initial shock of the crash, but reading about it today made her feel sad—and a touch anxious—all over again.

  “I mean, what do you guys think?” Haley asked. “You were there, after all. The newspaper even mentions you by name. Because you hosted the tea party thing.”

  “Oh no,” Drayton said. “That kind of PR we don’t need.”

  Theodosia’s eyes searched for her name as one of the witnesses, skimmed a bit more of the article, and slumped back in her chair. “One of the crash victims was Don Kingsley, the CEO of SyncSoft. They seem to think—the reporters, not the police—that Kingsley might have been the prime target.”

  “So we’re talking cold-blooded murder and not just a terrible accident,” Haley said. She sounded interested. And a little scared.

  Drayton set his pink Shelley teacup into his saucer with a tiny clink. “What, pray tell, is SyncSoft?”

  “It’s a local technology company, actually one of over two hundred fifty that now call Charleston home,” Theodosia said. “SyncSoft, as I recall, develops different types of software. One of their products was written up a few weeks ago in the business section, a software for designing algorithms.”

  Drayton held up a hand and made a whooshing motion past his head. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Wait a minute. Doesn’t Angie’s boyfriend work for a software company?” Haley asked. She was referring to their friend, Angie Congdon, who owned the Featherbed House B and B a few blocks away.

  “Does he really?” Drayton asked. “I thought what’s his name—um, Harold—just puttered around the Featherbed House doing odd jobs for Angie and tending the garden.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure that Harold has an actual day job in marketing,” Haley said.

  “He does work for SyncSoft,” Theodosia said. “Harold used to work at Data Metrics, now he’s at SyncSoft. Angie was quite excited when Harold landed the job, it was a big step up for him.”

  Haley jabbed a silver teaspoon in her direction. “What else does that article say?”

  “The reporter probably included a horribly vivid description of the crash,” Drayton said. “Pandering to readers who love to salivate over every macabre detail.”

  “You mean like blood and bones sticking out and stuff?” Haley asked.

  Drayton scowled. “No need to be so graphic.”

  “Actually, this article puts more of a focus on the victims than the actual crash,” Theodosia said. “It says that Roger Bennet, a major client of SyncSoft, was also killed. Along with Curtis Dean, the balloon’s pilot.”

  “Anything else we should know about?” Haley asked. Now she was peering over Theodosia’s shoulder, squinting at the newspaper pages.

  “Let’s see, there’s also a sidebar written by a different reporter, the Post and Courier’s financial reporter. Anyway, his piece is a little murky, but it alludes to missing corporate funds,” Theodosia said.

  “Missing funds from SyncSoft?” Haley asked.

  “That’s what it says,” Theodosia said.

  “Interesting,” Drayton said. “Perhaps now we’re getting to the heart of the matter.”

  Theodosia continued reading the sidebar. “Apparently, Don Kingsley was under fire from his board of directors for misplacing a great deal of money.”

  “Exactly how great is a great deal?” Haley asked.

  “It says here five million dollars,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton’s eyebrows shot up. “So it’s possible the crash was connected to missing money?”

  Theodosia gave a slow nod. “Maybe. Could be.”

  “Jeez, I hope Harold still has a job to go to,” Haley said. “You always hear about companies that lose their key execs in a private plane crash or on some team-building trek in the Himalayas. Once the head guys are out of the picture, the whole company is basically kaput.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s going to happen in this case,” Drayton said. “SyncSoft obviously has a board of directors. Along with vice presidents and such.”

  “That’s good,” Haley said. “I guess.” She twirled a finger in her hair. “I’m just happy you guys were able to land safely.”

  “So am I,” Theodosia said. In her mind she could still feel the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching jounce as their basket slammed into wet earth. Unnerved by the explosion and subsequent fireball, their balloon pilot had brought their craft down at an accelerated rate of speed.

  “To make matters worse, we landed just as the big storm hit,” Drayton said. He glanced out the front window where rain continued to spatter down, practically obliterating any view of traffic going by on Church Street. “The weather people, the meteorologists, are predicting that it’s going to rain all week.” He touched a finger to his bow tie. “That could be disastrous for business.”

  “Let’s not worry about what could happen,” Theodosia said, “and try to focus on the present. After all, we’ve got some lovely tea events planned and have probably sold enough tickets to g
uarantee fairly good-sized crowds.” The hot-air balloon disaster had left her feeling nervous and on edge. Now she knew it was time to try and put it behind her. After all, there was nothing she could do for those three poor souls who’d perished.

  “I’m looking forward to our Nancy Drew Tea this Wednesday and especially to our Beaux Arts Tea on Saturday,” Drayton said. He glanced at Haley. “Are you still working on those surprise centerpieces?”

  “For the Nancy Drew Tea, yeah,” Haley said.

  “And FYI, I’ll be leaving work a little early tomorrow. I’ve been tapped to judge the Floral Teacups Competition,” Theodosia said.

  “What’s that all about anyway?” Haley asked.

  “It’s basically a fund-raiser for the Heartsong Kids Club,” Theodosia said.

  “The rec center that Miss Josette’s nephew runs,” Drayton said. “Of course.” Miss Josette was the African-American artist who’d created the stellar sweetgrass baskets that hung on one wall of the tea shop. Baskets that were always in high demand.

  Theodosia nodded. “Anyway, it’s basically teacup art. I’ll be judging and awarding prizes to the teacups that showcase the best miniature floral displays. You know, flowers, mosses, grasses, vines, perhaps even miniature trees.”

  “Like Drayton’s bonsai,” Haley said.

  “From what I understand, there are supposed to be almost fifty entries,” Theodosia said.

  “Entries from whom?” Haley asked. “Not us.”

  “Garden clubs, floral shops, antiques shops, vintage jewelry shops—even a few companies have seriously gotten into it,” Theodosia said. “Really anyone who aspires to be creative. I believe there are a few corporate sponsors, too.”

  “That’s nice. For the rec center anyway,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia focused her gaze on Drayton and smiled. “It seems our Drayton also has a major event coming up later this week.”