by Laura Childs
“That’s wonderful to hear,” Theodosia said. “I take it the water and smoke damage wasn’t as extensive as your mother first thought?”
Alex closed one eye. “Oh, it’s bad. But the good news is that everything can be dealt with. Remedied. Gonna cost some serious money, though.”
“It always does.” Theodosia paused and gently touched Alex’s arm. “I know I said this last night, but I’m so very sorry about your father. You have my deepest sympathies.”
Alex bobbed his head. “Thank you, that’s kind of you. We’re all still sort of . . . what would you call it . . . processing everything that’s happened.”
“I spoke with your mother this morning.”
“Mom.” Alex grimaced. “She’s completely devastated.”
“Yes, she is.”
“But she’ll deal with it. She’s as tough as they come.”
Maybe she is. I certainly hope she is.
“And how is Fawn doing?” Theodosia asked.
“Oh, Fawn.” Alex gave an offhand wave. “She’s around here somewhere.”
“I hope she’s feeling better. She seemed awfully upset last night.”
“She gets that way. Nerves, I guess. But she’ll be fine.”
“Have you spoken with Sheriff Burney today?” Theodosia asked.
“He dropped by, yeah.”
“Is there any news? Has he developed any kind of suspect list?”
Alex glowered. “On the contrary. Burney showed up here and asked a lot more questions. It’s frustrating beyond belief, because I’ve already told him everything I know!”
“I’m sure you have,” Theodosia said.
But Alex wasn’t finished. “It feels like some strange, menacing phantom wafted onto our property, killed Pop, started the fire, and then . . . poof . . . stole away into the night.”
But murder and arson are committed by real people, Theodosia thought to herself. Not a mysterious phantom that disappears in a sulfurous cloud.
It was gradually dawning on Theodosia that she and Alex were having a slightly strange, disjointed conversation. But maybe that was just Alex. Maybe he was still terribly shaken up by the murder and the fire.
Theodosia planned to ask Alex about Reginald’s will. It had been on the tip of her tongue, but now she decided it might be too much for him. So, instead, she just said, “I’m so very sorry all this happened, Alex.”
Alex nodded and mumbled, “Thank you. Please . . . will you keep in touch with Mom?”
“I will.”
“She needs all the moral support she can get.”
It was only after Theodosia had driven a few miles down Rutledge Road that she began to wonder . . . If Alex and Meredith knew that Creekmore Plantation had been willed to the Heritage Society, would they bother rebuilding?
Perhaps Timothy’s question had been answered after all.
7
Trollope’s Restaurant looked like it had been airlifted, lock, stock, and barrel, directly out of High Street in Windsor, England, and plunked down right in the middle of Charleston.
The place was Olde English and charming in the way that theme restaurants often are. There were brocade tapestries, wooden ceiling beams, brass plaques, pewter tankards, Toby mugs, numerous coats of arms complete with eagles and lions, and crackle-glazed oil paintings of three-masted schooners struggling through raging seas. Hanging above the de rigueur oversize stone fireplace was a pair of antique pistols. Interesting.
“Have you eaten here before?” Theodosia asked Drayton as they wove their way through a maze of very large and heavy dining room tables, headed for Meredith’s reserved table.
“Only once. I ordered a steak, and when it arrived, it was the size of a cow.”
Meredith saw them coming and jumped up to greet them. Tonight she wore a black pantsuit made of some sort of slithery material and a pair of diamond earrings that Theodosia figured had to be four, maybe even five, carats all told. And stunning.
“Drayton, Theodosia, do come here!” Meredith chirped. She reached out, clutched their hands, and fluttered in close to administer hasty air-kisses.
“This is a lovely restaurant,” Theodosia said as she settled into a chair that, with its bright purple brocade cushion and gilded arms, slightly resembled an English throne.
“Very elegant,” Drayton said.
Theodosia smiled to herself. She knew that faux Henry VIII was not exactly Drayton’s idea of elegance. He was more of a Chippendale and Hepplewhite sort of fellow.
But Meredith seemed pleased by his remark. “As you know, Reginald was a confirmed Anglophile. We were forever taking trips to merry old England to purchase furniture and antiques for this restaurant and for our home.” She pointed at the tabletop. “You see these pewter chargers?”
“They’re beautiful,” Theodosia said, even though they resembled enormous metal Frisbees.
“Handmade by craftsmen in Sheffield,” Meredith said. “And the glassware is genuine handblown Cumbria Crystal, which is the exact same lead crystal that was showcased on Downton Abbey.”
Meredith stopped suddenly, her demeanor downshifting from slightly manic to suddenly sober.
“Oh dear, I suppose I shouldn’t rattle on about such inconsequential things when my poor Reginald is lying on a metal table at Doake and Wilson Funeral Home.”
“Nonsense,” Drayton said. “You’ve just experienced a terrible series of shocks to your system. You’re entitled to act however you want.”
“You’re very kind,” Meredith said. She gazed at Theodosia and smiled. “You, too.”
“I paid a visit to two of your neighbors today,” Theodosia said. Might as well jump right in.
Meredith managed a hopeful smile. “So you are investigating?”
“At this point, it’s more like asking questions,” Theodosia said.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Meredith said. “So, what . . . ?” It was obvious she was anxious for any and all information that Theodosia might have gleaned.
“I spoke first with Susan Monday at her lavender farm and then to Mr. Clewis’s handyman, Willis,” Theodosia said.
Meredith picked up her menu. “Carl Clewis himself wasn’t available?”
“If he was, I didn’t see him,” Theodosia said.
Meredith unfolded a pair of half-glasses and put them on. They were sparkly and shaped like cat eyes.
“We should probably order.”
Meredith gave a nod to a waitress who wore a dress, laced corset, and frilled cap that made her look like a scullery maid character straight out of the local Renaissance fair.
“Just so you know, the beef Wellington here is superb,” Meredith said.
“Then that’s what I shall have,” Drayton said.
Meredith and Drayton both opted for the beef Wellington, while Theodosia ordered the grilled salmon.
“And we’ll need a bottle of wine. Where’s Guy?” Meredith twisted around in her chair. “Oh, there he is.” She lifted a hand and waved excitedly. “Guy. Oh, Guy!”
Guy Thorne was standing two tables away when he heard Meredith calling his name. He turned, flashed a cheesy smile, and held up an index finger. A minute later he arrived brandishing a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.
“I generally let my sommelier attend to this task,” Thorne said, looking the part of a bon vivant restaurateur in his sparkling-white shirt and sharp black tuxedo. “But because this is a bottle of Château Margaux, I intend to do the honors myself.”
He inserted the wine opener, extracted the cork, and set it in front of Meredith for inspection.
Meredith picked up the cork and gave a perfunctory sniff. “Guy, you remember Theodosia and Drayton, don’t you?”
“We met informally yesterday,” Thorne said, “but were never properly introduced.”
“I’m sorry,” Meredith said, as she made hasty introductions.
Theodosia, of course, had recognized Guy Thorne immediately. He was the red-haired fellow who’d been so insisten
t about carrying Doyle’s body away from the murder site. She wondered if Thorne had something to hide or if he was just a type A personality. Or both.
“I’m very sorry about your partner’s death,” Theodosia said to Thorne.
“Thank you, it’s been a tough blow to deal with,” Thorne said as he moved around the table, pouring wine into their stemmed glasses. “Everyone here is completely heartbroken—waitstaff, chefs, kitchen people. We’re like one big family.” He straightened up and snapped his fingers imperiously to signal the busboy for a wine bucket.
“We really are,” Meredith said while Thorne played the genial host.
“You know Trollope’s is named after a British fellow named Anthony Trollope,” Thorne said.
“An English novelist of the Victorian era,” Drayton said. “Yes, I know.”
Dinner was good, not great. Maybe because Guy Thorne had joined them and talked incessantly, maybe because the food was heavy as well as being heavily sauced.
“Theodosia and Drayton have agreed to look into Reginald’s murder,” Meredith said as she slathered butter on her popover.
A dark shadow passed over Thorne’s face and then it was gone. “And why is that?” he asked.
“Because I trust them,” Meredith said. “And because Theodosia has a history of poking around and discovering little clues and inconsistencies. She’s even solved a couple of murders.”
Thorne turned a flat-eyed gaze on Theodosia. “Isn’t that an interesting talent to have cultivated. So, what are you looking for in this particular case? Or should I ask, who are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure yet. So far I’ve only had brief conversations with Susan Monday at the neighboring lavender farm and with Carl Clewis’s handyman,” Theodosia said.
“Clewis. Now there’s a slimy devil if you can ever get to see him,” Thorne said with some relish. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit a rat.”
“Guy, please,” Meredith said, putting a hand on his arm.
But Thorne was not to be deterred. “No, really. You know as well as I do that Clewis isn’t only mean-spirited, he’s a liar and a cheat. Look at all the friction he caused by damming up that creek.”
“Somehow I don’t think Mr. Doyle was murdered over a dammed-up creek,” Theodosia said.
“No?” Thorne said.
“Do you see?” Meredith said. “Do you see how insightful Theodosia is?”
“Indeed,” Thorne said. “We must keep a careful eye on her.” He swallowed a final bite of steak, set his fork down, and gazed around the table. “Dessert, anyone? It’s a well-known fact that Trollope’s serves the absolute best chess pie in all of Charleston.”
“No, thank you,” Theodosia said, thinking that Thorne might do well by serving himself a slice of humble pie.
* * *
* * *
After dessert, coffee, proffered cordials, and brandy, Theodosia was more than ready to leave the restaurant. Unfortunately, rather than noodling ideas around, Guy Thorne had pretty much steered the conversation in the direction he seemed most comfortable with. That is, his theory that Reginald Doyle had been accidentally shot with a stray bullet and that the subsequent fire was probably the result of faulty wiring.
Thorne was pitching his heart out, trying hard to sell his story, but Theodosia wasn’t buying it. Neither was Drayton.
Now they stood in Trollope’s foyer with its dark wood paneling and checkerboard floor of black-and-white tiles, saying good night, thanking Meredith for the lovely dinner and Guy for the excellent Bordeaux.
A moment later, as Guy draped Meredith’s coat around her shoulders, Drayton pulled Theodosia aside and said, “Do you believe any of Thorne’s theories?”
“Not a one,” Theodosia said.
“I thought not.” Drayton sighed and said, “Listen, I’m going to escort Meredith back to her suite at the Lady Goodwood Inn. See if I can pull something more out of her.”
“Shall I give you two a lift?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton shook his head. “No, you go on home. We’ll walk. It’s only a block or so, and I suspect the fresh air will do Meredith good.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. “And help you digest that whopping dinner?”
Drayton curled a lip. “Only time will tell.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.”
When Theodosia turned to the coat check desk, the young woman who’d been managing it had stepped away. Giving a small shrug, not really worrying about protocol, she ducked in and grabbed her jacket. It was then that her eyes fell upon a small painting that was hung on the wood-paneled wall. Two men engaged in a pistol duel. Theodosia leaned forward and read the notation at the bottom of the frame. The 7th Earl of Cardigan firing his pistol at one of his former officers.
Dueling pistols.
An idea suddenly ignited in Theodosia’s brain.
Pulling on her jacket, she ran back into the restaurant. The main dining room was dark and almost deserted. Candles flickered; none of the waitstaff were in sight. Just two tables of people with their heads together, engaged in quiet conversation.
Perfect.
Theodosia moved swiftly toward the fireplace. Then, without hesitation, she stepped up onto the stone hearth, reached up, and ran a hand over the tops of both pistols.
Dusty. They hadn’t been used in ages.
Feeling slightly foolish and a little bit disappointed, Theodosia hopped down and silently clapped her hands together. So much for that idea.
“Theodosia,” a low voice called to her.
Startled, Theodosia turned to find Guy Thorne staring at her with a look of strange intensity.
“Come join me for a drink in the bar,” he said. “A nightcap. We have some forty-year-old tawny port that we reserve for special guests.”
“No, thank you,” Theodosia demurred. “It’s late and I really need to get home.”
And I have a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend who is a detective first grade in the Charleston Police Department’s Robbery and Homicide Division.
Thorne moved closer and put a hand on Theodosia’s arm.
“Excuse me?” she said, pulling away.
“Relax. This isn’t about drinking or making a pass or anything like that.”
Theodosia’s brows knit together. “I’m sorry, what exactly are you driving at?”
Thorne balanced on the balls of his feet, and his expression remained fairly intense, as if he was working up to something important. Then he said, “You know about Meredith, don’t you?”
Theodosia was instantly on alert.
“What about Meredith?”
A low buzzing started up inside Theodosia’s head. It was the kind of electrical pulse you felt right before a severe storm. A sort of crackling energy flooding the universe.
“About her prowess with a gun,” Thorne said.
Oh no. Please, no.
“Meredith happens to be a crack shot,” Thorne said in a rush. “She won the South Carolina Women’s Game Shooting Competition three years in a row.”
Theodosia gave a slow reptilian blink. Was Thorne making this up? Was this some crazy ploy to curry favor with her? She stared into his intense, hooded eyes. No, she didn’t think so. For one thing, Guy Thorne looked drop-dead serious.
Okay, I’ll bite.
“Handguns or long guns?” Theodosia asked.
“Both.”
“Did you tell Sheriff Burney about this?”
Thorne’s head bobbed. “I absolutely did, because I figured it might be relevant.”
Theodosia shifted nervously as she continued to stare at Thorne. “So why are you telling me?”
“Because you’re supposedly”—he crooked his fingers into air quotes—“looking into things.”
“Mr. Thorne, you seem to be implying that Meredith shot her own husband.”
Thorne reared back. “No, no,” he hastened to say. “All I’m saying is she could have shot him. That it’s a possibility.” When he saw the look
of consternation on Theodosia’s face, he said, “Listen, I happen to like Meredith. I like her a lot. I suppose she’s become my de facto business partner now that Reginald’s dead. But the facts are the facts, and there’s no getting around the truth that Meredith is extremely adept at handling weapons.”
Theodosia’s immediate impulse was to be suspicious of Thorne’s sly accusation. Was it possible that Thorne was trying to deflect blame from himself? Maybe. Still, this new revelation about Meredith was both unnerving and intriguing.
Okay, I’ll go along with this for the time being. Play a little liar’s poker.
“Would Meredith have had a reason to kill Reginald?” Theodosia asked.
Thorne gave an offhand shrug. “I don’t know. Money? Inheritance?”
Theodosia digested this. She knew that money—namely, greed—was the critical motivating factor that drove most criminal acts.
Thorne dropped his voice to a low growl. “Plus, they weren’t getting along all that well.”
This last bit of information sounded preposterous to Theodosia. When she’d seen Reginald and Meredith together—right before Reginald was killed—they’d appeared to be an extremely loving couple.
Theodosia decided to toss out one of her cards.
“I heard a rumor that Reginald was going to leave Creekmore Plantation to the Heritage Society.”
Thorne wasn’t a bit surprised by Theodosia’s statement.
“That might have been the original plan,” Thorne said. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then added, “But I know for an absolute fact that Reginald never got around to putting it in his will.”
8
Earl Grey was restless tonight. Theodosia’s dog paced about the kitchen in her small cottage, walking back and forth, back and forth.
Click. Click. Click.
His toenails scritched and scratched against the tile floor.
“I’m sorry about the way the kitchen looks,” Theodosia told her dog. “But if we’re ever going to have new cabinets and counters, we’re going to have to put up with this mess.”