by Laura Childs
“You came!” Tawney cried. “Thank goodness!”
“What’s the problem?” Theodosia asked. She wanted to figure out what Tawney’s problem was and then hand it off to someone who could actually help. One and done and back to her tea. “You said there was some kind of weird delivery?”
“Not just weird, horrible!” Tawney cried. “Cruel, in fact!”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can send it back. Did you call FedEx or . . .”
“No! This box didn’t come from any reputable delivery service,” Tawney shrieked.
“When did it arrive?” Theodosia asked.
Tawney’s teeth chattered as she shook her head frantically. “I don’t know. It just showed up this morning. I’ve gotten so many deliveries lately I can barely keep track of them.”
“Maybe you’d better just show me this mysterious package,” Theodosia said.
Tawney waggled a finger. “In here. In the side parlor. I dragged the cardboard box in here because I thought my Italian towel warmers had arrived. Little did I know.”
Theodosia followed Tawney into the parlor where a large cardboard box sat in the center of the room. Brown tape had been pulled away and the box had been partially ripped open.
Tawney pointed at it. “I didn’t . . . I don’t know what to do,” she said tearfully. “Maybe you can figure something out.”
Theodosia glanced at Tawney as she walked over to the box. Something in that box had made Tawney come completely unhinged. No, she’s not just unhinged, the woman acts like she’s scared to death. So what could it be?
Theodosia took a deep breath and leaned forward. She folded back a top flap and gingerly peeked into the large box as if she were expecting an angry clown with red-rimmed eyes and vicious teeth to leap out at her.
It was worse.
Inside was a pile of shattered metal.
“Is that what I think it is?” Tawney asked in a frightened, little girl voice.
Theodosia was too shocked to answer. Her heart thudded inside her chest as she continued to stare into the box. Tawney’s voice sounded like it was a million miles away as she fought against the sudden pounding in her head and struggled to recover her bearings. Because just from her initial glance, Theodosia was pretty sure she knew what it was. But she couldn’t imagine why it had been delivered here. Or who had delivered it.
“It’s the drone,” Theodosia said. Her throat felt dry and constricted, as if someone had wound a cord around it. “It’s the killer drone.”
29
It took forever for Theodosia to talk her way through the gatekeepers at police headquarters and get Detective Tidwell on the line. But once she was talking to him, once she told him about Tawney’s bizarre delivery, Tidwell was suddenly on full alert.
“Don’t touch anything in that box,” Tidwell roared. “Don’t allow anyone into that house, don’t let anyone leave the premises. Do you hear me, Miss Browning? Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Theodosia told him. “You’re coming over then?”
“Yes, I’m going to . . . I’m on my way.” There was more shouting and then the phone slammed in her ear.
When Tidwell did show up, some ten minutes later, he arrived in a blaze of strobing lights and shrieking sirens.
“Oh dear,” Tawney fretted as they pulled back the curtains and peered out the front window. “What will the neighbors think?”
“That probably shouldn’t be your biggest worry right now,” Theodosia said.
A thunder of footsteps on the veranda sent them scurrying to answer the front door.
“Where is it?” were Tidwell’s first words. His face was bright red, his jowls shook, and his nostrils quivered. He looked like a bluetick hound who’d just scented a passel of opossums.
“Follow me,” Theodosia said, leading Tidwell, his contingent of two uniformed officers, and Archie Banks, his crackerjack crime scene guy, into the parlor. Tawney followed behind, trying her best to run on four-inch stilettos while making urgent little bleats.
Tidwell peered into the cardboard box, hesitated for a moment, and then stepped back. “I need photographs of everything,” he shouted. “Fingerprints as well. Check that delivery label and any trace evidence that might be in the box.”
His team immediately snapped to attention and got busy.
“Do you want me to string crime scene tape across the front of the house?” one of the officers asked.
“No,” Tawney said.
“Do it,” Tidwell said. His beady eyes roved about the room where they finally landed on Theodosia and Tawney. “We need to talk.” It wasn’t simply a declarative sentence, it was a direct order.
“This way,” Theodosia said. She led Tidwell across the center hallway and into a second parlor. It was jammed with more brocade furniture than Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had ever imagined possible, but at least it was a place to sit down.
Once the three of them were perched on four-hundred-dollar silk and velvet pillows, Tidwell licked his lips and said, “Tell me the circumstances. Don’t leave anything out.”
Theodosia gave Tawney an encouraging nod. “Tawney? Go ahead.”
In a halting, hiccupping speech, Tawney told Detective Tidwell about the box showing up on her front step, her dragging it inside, and then opening it to discover the remnants of the dreaded drone.
“I thought it was my heated towel racks,” she said in a quavering voice.
“Towel racks?” Tidwell looked puzzled. “Heated?”
“Sounds nice, doesn’t it?” Theodosia said.
Tidwell ignored her.
“Someone,” he said, “is determined to stir up a ridiculous amount of trouble.” He focused his fierce gaze directly on Tawney. “Am I to believe, Mrs. Kingsley, that you’re telling me the absolute truth about this cardboard box magically appearing on your doorstep?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you!” Tawney squeaked.
“Most suspects lie their fool heads off,” Tidwell muttered. “Why should you be any different?”
“I’m a suspect?” Tawney’s mouth flew open in surprise.
“If you could have heard her,” Theodosia said. “If you could have seen how frantic Tawney was . . .”
“I was kapow out of my mind!” Tawney cried. She tapped a finger against her forehead to underscore her words.
“For all I know you may be an extremely skilled actress,” Tidwell said.
“I’m not,” Tawney said. “I’m terrible. My junior year in high school we did Guys and Dolls and our drama teacher, Mr. Langsweirdt, kicked me out of the play.”
Tidwell leaned back in his chair and stared at her. Somehow, her ditziness had registered with him. “No, I don’t believe you are acting, Mrs. Kingsley. But someone . . . quite probably your husband’s killer . . . is following this investigation closely. And doing his best to toy with us and try to knock us off track.”
“But who?” Theodosia asked. “It can’t be Charles Townsend as we first suspected. I mean, he didn’t orchestrate the drone showing up. He’s probably still in the hospital . . .”
“Townsend is in the hospital?” Tawney looked shocked. “What happened?”
“Somebody shot him,” Theodosia told her.
Tawney’s eyes widened in shock, while her pupils seemed to contract. “They shot him? Someone shot Charles? Dear Lord, what if I’m next? What if the killer tries to shoot me, too?” She put a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a sob. “I don’t want to be a shooting victim,” she cried in what appeared to be genuine anguish.
“It’s highly doubtful that you shall be,” Tidwell said. He rubbed the back of his hand against his bristly cheek. Now he looked anxious and preoccupied. “What I need to do is question Townsend again. On the off chance he may have an accomplice.”
“You don’t think Townsend’s story
holds water?” Theodosia asked. “You did last night.” She glanced at her watch. She had fifteen minutes left before her Beaux Arts Tea got underway and the secret sipper showed up. She had to get moving.
Tidwell shrugged. “I don’t have any cut-and-dried answers just yet. I’m obviously still investigating.”
“Well, hurry it up, will you?” Theodosia said in a slightly acerbic tone. “And would you kindly ask one of the officers to move your Crown Vic? It’s blocking my car.”
* * *
* * *
“What in heaven’s name happened to you?” Drayton asked when Theodosia finally returned to the Portman Mansion. “Where did you disappear to? I thought you’d been kidnapped by a band of roving troubadours. I’ve been tearing my hair out.” He looked frantic and his bow tie was askew.
“I’ll tell you later,” Theodosia promised him. She was breathless from rushing around, feeling frantic about the tea party. “But I guarantee it’s something big.”
Drayton’s eyes drilled into her. “Big as in majorly serious and having to do with the recent murders?”
Theodosia nodded.
Drayton put his hands on his hips. “Then I insist you spill the beans tout de suite.”
“Okay,” Theodosia relented. “Here’s the deal. Somebody boxed up the killer drone and shipped it to Tawney’s B and B.”
Drayton’s mouth opened, but not a single solitary word came out. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in hushed tones, “Theo, you can’t be serious.”
“I am. That’s where I ran off to.” She reached up and straightened his bow tie.
“That’s where . . . I mean . . . you actually saw this drone with your own eyes?” Drayton asked.
“What I saw was a bunch of jumbled metal parts lying inside a box, but there were enough pieces so you could tell what it was—what it had been, anyway—a drone.”
Drayton was suddenly jazzed with excitement. “Do you think it was the actual drone that took down the hot-air balloon? That killed Tawney’s husband and his cohorts? Theo, you can’t be serious.”
“I saw the stupid thing with my own eyes. Lots of shiny metal basically smashed and crumpled. So I’m guessing it probably was the same drone that crashed into Donald Kingsley’s hot-air balloon.”
“That’s astonishing. Why would . . . who would . . . ?” Drayton fumbled to find the right words. “Could this have been Tawney’s clever but obtuse way of confessing to her husband’s murder?”
“I thought about that, I really did. But, Drayton, if you could have seen the look on Tawney’s face. She was rocked to the core. The poor woman was shattered!”
“She could also be a fantastic actress,” Drayton said.
“That’s exactly what Tidwell said.”
“He was there?”
“I had to call him. What choice did I have?” Theodosia said.
“Probably none at that point.” Drayton looked thoughtful. “Sending the drone to Tawney sounds like the kind of nasty prank Earl Bullitt would pull.”
Theodosia cocked a finger at him. “Now that hadn’t occurred to me. But you’re right. It does sound like his kind of rotten, taunting stunt.”
They batted the idea of Tawney masterminding the drone attack back and forth. Of Earl Bullitt doing it. Then asked themselves whether Tod Slawson or Harold Affolter could be responsible. But they never came to any firm conclusion and there wasn’t any more time for speculation, because at twelve o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang—a long series of melodic chimes that pealed like church bells. And by the time Theodosia and Drayton went to answer the door, a half dozen women all dressed in pastel dresses and suits—and wearing elaborate hats and fascinators—were waiting expectantly.
Drayton immediately shifted into genteel host mode. He welcomed all the guests, sprinkling compliments like fairy dust. Then he led the ladies, arm in arm, into the magnificent dining room. Of course, his “tablescapes” were greatly oohed and aahed over and he humbly accepted their excited praise.
Then it was back to the front door to greet the next round of guests. Drayton did more gallant gushing while Theodosia ticked off names from her checklist. She wanted to make sure that Haley and Miss Dimple had an exact head count for the entrées. Yes, she wanted to think about the drone some more, but reality had intruded. Like it usually did.
All the guests were seated at the half dozen large, round tables, and Drayton and Miss Dimple were pouring tea, when Delaine Dish finally showed up. She grabbed Theodosia, administered the requisite air kisses so she wouldn’t smear her makeup, and immediately began exclaiming over the Portman Mansion.
“Isn’t this place splendiferous!” Delaine cried, talking in her usual italics and exclamation marks. “And you’ve attracted a huge crowd for your lovely Beaux Arts Tea today. Oh my, will you take a look at the décor on those tables—what a fabulous array of glitz and glam!”
“Drayton pretty much art directed the whole thing,” Theodosia told her.
“Oh, Theo,” Delaine said, almost as an afterthought. “You remember my dear sister, Nadine, from New York, don’t you?”
“I certainly do,” Theodosia said. She recalled that Nadine had presented a bit of a problem on her last visit. Nadine was, to put it bluntly, a kleptomaniac. Theodosia looked around worriedly. “Did she . . . did you bring Nadine along as well?” Please no.
“Unfortunately, Nadine wasn’t able to make it. She’s tied up with some legal matters at the moment. But as I mentioned to you earlier, I brought her daughter as my guest.” Delaine turned and pulled a young woman to the forefront. “Theo, I want you to meet Bettina, my sweet, darling niece.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” said a relieved Theodosia. At least the candlesticks won’t get clipped. Bettina had luminous brown eyes and curly brown hair. Her angular but interesting face had a sharp nose and she wore a clingy knit dress in a pale peach that showed off her skinny hip bones to perfection.
“Scrumptious dress you’re wearing,” Theodosia said.
Bettina smiled. “Thank you.”
“Bettina will be working right alongside me at Cotton Duck,” Delaine explained. “She recently graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York with a degree in marketing. So I expect big things from her.”
Bettina blushed prettily. “Nice to meet you, Miss Browning. Delaine has told me so much about you, about what dear close friends the two of you are.”
Are we really? Theodosia wondered.
“The thing is, I’m pretty much a neophyte when it comes to retail,” Bettina said. “Most everything I know so far I’ve learned in a classroom, but Aunt Delaine is such an experienced pro.” She gripped Delaine’s arm and gazed fondly at her. “So I’m counting on Aunt Delaine to teach me the critical ins and outs of fashion merchandising and sales.”
“Remember, dear, that I asked you to call me Delaine?” Delaine’s tone was slightly cool. “I prefer to think of us as contemporaries.” She gave a little shudder. “Honestly,” she trilled, “a title like aunt makes a person sound positively ancient.”
* * *
* * *
The Beaux Arts Tea had also been advertised as a champagne tea. So, of course, champagne corks began to pop almost immediately.
Drayton poured bottles of bubbly with great flourish and explained the difference between the champagne flutes they were using versus the traditional coupes, or cup-shaped, glasses.
“Coupes were the choice of champagne drinkers for many years,” Drayton said, “until a few clever glassware manufacturers designed the flute. This tall, narrow glass reduced the surface area to help preserve carbonation.”
“In other words, more bubbles,” one woman offered with a laugh.
“Exactly,” Drayton said. “Coupes enjoyed a fine tradition for many years as did the art of sabering a champagne bottle.” He picked up a bottle to demonstrate. �
��Sabering began when Napoleon’s officers wanted to celebrate a victory. They pulled out their sabers, ran them swiftly along the side of the bottle, and—clink!—popped off the top.”
An excited murmur ran through the crowd.
Drayton continued. “Then you had to drink your bottle very carefully.” He stood smiling, tall and erect, heels together, like a ballet master. “Of course, there’s another champagne I want to tell you about. Darjeeling, often called the champagne of teas.”
At Drayton’s cue, Theodosia and Miss Dimple began rounding the tables and pouring refills.
“This is the tea we served initially when you first sat down. A first-flush Darjeeling, picked in spring, that delivers a light, bright flavor and a floral fragrance.” Drayton gave a small bow. “And now that we’ve got you half-tipsy on tea, champagne, and knowledge, I’d like to introduce our hostess, Miss Theodosia Browning.”
There was more applause as Theodosia walked to the center of the room.
“Welcome, everyone, to our first-ever Beaux Arts Tea,” Theodosia said. “We chose to hold it in this elegant mansion instead of the Indigo Tea Shop in order to give you the full impact of a fancy French-inspired tea.” She smiled at her friend, Helen Winder, who was seated a few feet away from her. “And the Portman Mansion also has a larger kitchen, which means we can serve a greatly expanded menu.”
Now there was excited applause.
“So let’s get to it, shall we?” Theodosia said. “Our first course consists of eggnog scones served with strawberry butter and Devonshire cream. Following that, will be our salade Josephine, a mixture of spring greens topped with toasted pecans, dried cranberries, blue cheese crumbles, and sliced pears. Then, as a sort of mid-luncheon amuse-bouche, we have a small cup of lobster bisque with a surprise crostini. And I hope you’ll still be hungry for our main course of chicken Francoise. These are grilled chicken breasts with tomatoes, basil, and pesto aioli served on a toasted mini baguette. For dessert . . .” Theodosia hesitated, a definite twinkle in her eye. “Well, I think we’ll reveal that a little later.”