by Laura Childs
Earl Grey just stared at her. With his limpid brown eyes, fine-boned muzzle, and expressive ear flicks, he could pretty much communicate anything he wanted. And tonight he wanted an explanation.
“It’s the reclaimed wood,” Theodosia explained. “We’re waiting for the cabinetmaker to strip it out of a barn that’s being torn down. There’s some problem.” She reached over to Earl Grey’s treat jar, pulled out a jerky strip, and gave it to him. “I don’t know the exact problem, but it should be resolved within the next few days. I hope.” Fact was, she was tired of dealing with this mess, too.
Earl Grey chewed, swallowed, and stared at her again.
“That’s it, that’s all I know,” Theodosia said as the phone rang. She picked it up, expecting it to be Drayton, calling to complain about a severe case of heartburn.
It wasn’t Drayton.
“I understand you were a guest at Creekmore Plantation yesterday,” came a warm, familiar male voice.
“Where did you hear that?” Theodosia asked. It was Pete Riley, detective with the Charleston Police Department, barbecue aficionado, occasional sailor, and boyfriend extraordinaire.
Was this man privy to every nit and nat of information in the county?
“Please. I’m a detective first grade.”
“Speaking as a professional, then, do you have any advice for me?”
“Yes. Stay out of it.”
“How do you know I’m even in it?”
There was a warm, rumbling laugh, and then Riley said, “Because I know you, my dear.”
“Well, yesterday’s shooting party did turn into a bit of a catastrophe,” Theodosia said.
“I can just imagine.” Riley paused. “Here I run off to Hilton Head for one lousy weekend of golf with my buddies, and when I get back I find you up to your ears in another murder investigation.”
“I’m not up to my ears,” Theodosia said lightly. Yet.
“Then you’ve waded in hip deep. The point being, I’d prefer you keep your distance. From what I’ve heard so far, this is going to be a nasty, complicated case.”
“What have you heard?” Theodosia asked.
“See? There you go.”
“I’m just curious.”
“I know you are,” Riley said. “But just . . . no.”
“Come on,” she joked. “I’m not trying to interrupt the space-time continuum; I’m just looking for a little information.”
Theodosia thought back to when she’d first met Pete Riley. He’d showed up to interview some witnesses after a particularly nasty incident—actually, it was a poisoning—at a fancy tea party. He’d been polite, diligent, and circumspect even when he questioned a particularly skeevy waiter who was a possible suspect. Then, at the end, when he’d finally spoken with Theodosia, there had been a tiny spark. Not Fourth of July rockets, not yet, but a tingle, a hint of interest. Then, when Riley had asked all his questions, he’d closed his notebook, smiled at her, and said, “Is Browning your married name?” That’s when she knew she’d be seeing him again. And again and again. And calling him Riley. Not Pete, not detective, just Riley. Because it just worked for them.
“Let’s go out for dinner one evening this week,” Riley said, abruptly changing the subject. “Grab a table in a dark corner, order up a little wine and candlelight. Do it up right. The full Monty.”
“I’d love that.”
“Okay, I’ll make reservations.”
* * *
* * *
When Theodosia got off the phone with Riley, she straightened up the kitchen as best she could, ran upstairs, and changed into leggings and a hoodie. When she came back down, she brewed a pot of chamomile tea, poured out a cup, and carried it into her living room. She was eager to relax in her cozy cottage with its stone fireplace, exposed beams, mishmash of French and English furniture, and Aubusson rugs. She settled into a chintz-covered chair, sipped her tea, but still found herself at sixes and sevens.
Earl Grey had shadowed her every step of the way and was now staring at her intently.
“What?” Theodosia asked.
Earl Grey sat down and continued to stare at her. He was part dalmatian, part Labrador. In other words, a very clever-at-getting-his-way Dalbrador.
“You want to go for a walk.”
At hearing the word walk, Earl Grey’s tail thunked eagerly against the floorboards.
“Mrs. Barry didn’t run you around the block enough times today?” Mrs. Barry was Earl Grey’s dog walker and doggy day care person.
Earl Grey stared at the back door as if he were Uri Geller and the intensity of his gaze could cause the door to magically fly open.
“I know, I’ve been gone for the past two days, and for that I apologize. But just a quick walk, okay? It’s getting late, and I’ve got to be at the tea shop early tomorrow.” She was already reaching for Earl Grey’s leash.
Two minutes later, they were out the back door and hurrying through the lush foliage of Theodosia’s small backyard. A month ago, Drayton had come over and trimmed one of her juniper trees into the shape of a bonsai. A cloud bonsai he’d called it, pruned to reveal bits of trunk with fat clusters of needles fashioned into large, poufy, cloud-like shapes. Then he’d brought over something called a Taihu rock. It was a light-gray humpy-bumpy rock with unusual squiggles and holes that resembled a miniature mountain and looked spectacularly good sitting next to her small fishpond.
“You guys okay in there?” Theodosia asked as she bent over to gaze into the pond, where a half-dozen goldfish swam around slowly. “Never can be too careful.”
Raccoons had swooped in more than once to make this their own personal sushi bar, so Theodosia and Earl Grey had to remain ever vigilant.
Seconds later, they were out the back gate and jogging down a dark alley, Theodosia’s footfalls echoing in the night, Earl Grey’s collar jingling an accompaniment. They ran down Tradd Street, crossed over to Legare, and kept going.
As Theodosia passed one of dozens of churches that gave Charleston the moniker of the “Holy City,” she glanced up at the lighted clock tower. Just then, the hands struck ten o’clock, and ten melodic chimes bonged out.
They continued their run down King Street past the Charleston Library Society. Tendrils of fog were beginning to drift in from Charleston Harbor, creating a halo effect around the streetlamps and softening the outlines of houses, wrought-iron fences, and the occasional marble statue. Charleston, a city that was already highly atmospheric, looked positively magical when blessed with this softer, less distinct outline.
As Theodosia sprinted along, her legs and shoulders began to warm up and she felt the first blip of feel-good endorphins kicking in. She decided to keep going, and it wasn’t long before she found herself running past Trollope’s and then the Lady Goodwood Inn. She wondered if Drayton was still inside the inn, being his most solicitous and trying to ease Meredith’s troubled mind with soothing words. Then Theodosia decided it was way too late for all of that. Drayton was probably puttering around at home by now, listening to an opera, or sitting in an easy chair reading his beloved Dickens.
Running past the front entrance to the Lady Goodwood Inn, Theodosia was struck by how lovely the place was. A circular drive led to an entrance fronted with white Doric columns and a green canvas awning. Each side of the entrance was flanked by a half-dozen palmetto trees.
Theodosia hadn’t visited the inn for some time and wondered if they’d repaired the solarium after flying debris from a disastrous summer storm had punched holes in several of the windows. She cut through the parking lot and circled round the building, enchanted by this lovely brick edifice with its elegant white shutters and tangles of green ivy that curled halfway up the sides of the structure.
Then she spotted the solarium. Yes, it had definitely been repaired. Several new octagonal-shaped frosted windows had been put in place, and now they glowed warmly from the inside lights. Faint outlines of large potted palms and hanging plants were also visible, making the sol
arium look like some kind of human terrarium. In fact, Theodosia could even see faint outlines of two people moving about inside.
How lovely, Theodosia thought as she slowed down to enjoy the moody, almost otherworldly, glow of the place.
And that’s when a pair of raised voices suddenly started up and caught her attention. Snatches of conversation from the two people—she thought it was a man and a woman—made it sound as if they were arguing rather vehemently. Then the woman’s voice rose to a shrill octave that startled Theodosia beyond belief, because the voice sounded exactly like Meredith Doyle—a very upset, freaked-out Meredith Doyle!
Could it really be Meredith in there?
Theodosia stepped onto the brick patio, Earl Grey padding along beside her. She didn’t exactly want to eavesdrop, knowing it was wrong, but she was drawn in by her curiosity.
Curiosity killed the cat, a voice in Theodosia’s head warned.
Yes, and someone killed Meredith’s husband.
Could it have been Meredith herself who fired the deadly shot? Had Meredith actually been desperate to rid herself of Reginald? Guy Thorne had certainly implied such a thing.
Theodosia tiptoed closer, weaving her way past outdoor tables with collapsed Cinzano umbrellas that were folded flat like bat wings.
Standing just inches from the frosted glass now, Theodosia could make out a ghostly outline of spider plants hanging inside.
And the outlines of two people.
For a moment she worried it might be Drayton arguing with Meredith. But no, that couldn’t be. He was surely home by now.
The pair continued to argue, but now they’d lowered their voices, almost as if they were suddenly nervous that someone might be eavesdropping.
Like me.
The two figures moved closer to the frosted windows, their shadows wavering and lengthening, as if they were leaning forward and attempting to peer outside.
Theodosia held her breath. Didn’t move a muscle. She waited ten, twenty, thirty seconds, eyes closed, not daring to move. Finally, she leaned forward and put an ear to the glass.
But by then the people inside had disappeared.
9
Tuesday morning tea service had barely gotten started when Theodosia leaned across the counter to Drayton and said, “I think I might have a definitive answer for Timothy.”
“You mean about Reginald’s will?” Drayton asked. He popped a miniature wicker basket inside a red teapot, added a scoop of gunpowder green tea leaves, and stared at her expectantly.
“According to Guy Thorne, Reginald never got around to signing his will.”
“You spoke to Guy Thorne about this last night? After we left?” Drayton asked.
“Um, he pulled me aside, yes.”
Drayton put a hand up and gently touched his cheek, as if deep in thought. “So Creekmore Plantation has not been bequeathed to the Heritage Society.”
“Not according to Thorne.”
“And you believed him?” Drayton asked. “It’s hard to take seriously a man who dresses like a Fleet Street tout.”
Theodosia suppressed a smile and said, “I gotta tell you, Thorne seemed fairly certain about the state of Doyle’s will.”
“Then our dear Timothy is going to be extremely disappointed.”
“There’s more,” Theodosia said. “I haven’t even gotten to the severely weird part yet.”
“What are you talking about?” Now Drayton’s curiosity was beginning to amp up.
Theodosia dropped her bombshell.
“Guy Thorne thinks Meredith could have shot her own husband.”
Drayton’s entire body jerked spasmodically and then went ramrod stiff, as if he’d been poked hard with an electric wire then tossed into a bathtub full of ice. “No!” he cried.
“Well, yes. The thing is, Thorne claims that Meredith is a crack shot. That she took first place in something called the South Carolina Women’s Game Shooting Competition. And she did it several years in a row.”
“That sounds suspiciously like the demented ravings of a guilty man.”
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Theodosia said. “That Thorne was trying to throw up some kind of smoke screen. Then I looked up the shooting competition on the Internet last night. Thorne was right. Meredith was the big winner three years in a row.”
“I had no idea Meredith enjoyed that sort of prowess with a gun. What you say is beyond chilling.”
“So,” Theodosia said. “My question to you is—would Meredith shoot her own husband? Could she shoot him? And if so, why?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Drayton looked stunned. “I’m still trying to digest all these different bits of information.”
“Along with last night’s dinner?”
Drayton gave a subtle eye roll. “With apologies to Lord Wellington, remind me never to order his beef again.”
“Okay, break it up, break it up,” Haley said. “I got a delivery coming through.” She elbowed her way to the counter, balancing a large silver tray that was piled sky-high with blueberry muffins, banana bread, and lemon scones.
“Looks as if someone’s been busy,” Theodosia said.
“Yes, obviously, but these baked goods have to last us all day,” Haley warned. “Because . . . because now I have to rush back into the kitchen and focus every drop of energy, every molecule I have, on whipping up a fabulous luncheon for our Gone with the Wind Tea.”
Theodosia held up a finger. “About that menu . . .”
“Drayton has it,” Haley called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen like a wisp of smoke.
Theodosia shifted her focus to Drayton. “It’s a good menu?”
Drayton put his thumb and index finger together. “Perfection. Rather amusing, too.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d rather you tell me more about Meredith and her modern-day Annie Oakley antics.”
“That’s it. That’s the extent of what I know based on Guy Thorne’s say-so and a few stats on the Internet,” Theodosia said. She paused as the front door flew open and Miss Dimple rushed in. Just barely over five feet tall, she was round, plump, and had a halo of silver-white hair. If you called central casting and asked for the perfect sweet-faced grandma, they’d send over Miss Dimple.
“Am I late?” Miss Dimple asked with wide-eyed eagerness as she toddled up to the counter.
“Your timing is perfect,” Drayton said.
“We’re just happy you could help out today,” Theodosia told her.
Miss Dimple waved a hand. “Pish-posh. You know I adore being part of the Indigo Tea Shop gang. And today—this Gone with the Wind Tea that you’re hosting—is an absolute thrill.” Her face puckered into an adorable grin. “If I remember correctly, we’re all going to assume the role of a character from the book?” Then, without pausing to take a breath, she said, “Can I please, please, be Aunt Pittypat?”
“Who else could fill such a critical and demanding role?” Drayton asked.
Miss Dimple turned to Theodosia. “And I’ll just bet that Drayton’s going to be Rhett Butler.”
Theodosia’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Who else could you see playing such a rogue?”
“Not another soul!” Miss Dimple declared. “Although Drayton does seem to be the perfect gent.” She grabbed a long black Parisian waiter’s apron and slipped it over her head.
“You see,” Theodosia said to Drayton, “she doesn’t know you like I do.”
Drayton managed a crooked smile. “So I’m not a perfect gent?”
“You’re a gent,” Theodosia allowed. “Just not always a perfect one.”
They all got busy then as more customers arrived for morning tea. Scones, muffins, and banana bread were served along with traditional jams, jellies, and Haley’s homemade Devonshire cream.
“The Devonshire cream goes best with these lemon scones?” Miss Dimple asked, pointing to Haley’s tray.
“Yes, and I’ve been serving the banana bread with pea
r butter,” Theodosia said.
“I have a pot of Rum Raisin Biscotti tea ready for table four,” Drayton said.
“Sounds delicious. Is that one of your special blends?” Miss Dimple asked.
“No, you can thank Tea Forte for that one.”
At eleven o’clock, just as Theodosia had delivered a pot of toasted coconut oolong to table two, Bill Glass sauntered into the tea shop. Glass was the writer, photographer, and publisher of his own local tabloid, Shooting Star. The paper was glitzy, dishy, and weirdly popular with that segment of the populace who delighted in having their garden parties, cocktail events, and fancy soirees splashed across his front pages in colorful but slightly off-register photos.
Theodosia elbowed her way past Glass to get to the counter. “What are you doing here?” she asked him. Between handling a roomful of customers, checking on Haley’s progress in the kitchen, and fretting over their upcoming luncheon, she had her hands full. Everything had to be perfect, right?
Glass flashed a lopsided smile at her. Dressed in a khaki photojournalist’s vest and combat fatigues, with two Nikons and a shabby scarf draped around his neck, he had continued expectations that he’d be taken for a war correspondent.
“What’s going on?” Theodosia asked, looking at his quasi-military outfit. “Are you sneaking into Kabul? Expecting to be dropped out of a Black Hawk helicopter?”
Glass ignored her sarcasm and said, “I was hoping you’d spill the beans about the cold-blooded murder that took place this past Sunday at Happy Farm.”
“Not on your life,” Theodosia replied. She grabbed two teapots and carried them to tables five and six.
When she circled back to the counter, Glass tried again.
“Come on, tea lady, you were right there for the grand bloodbath, weren’t you? And if I recall correctly, you’re the snoopy one who likes to plop herself right in the middle of a good mystery—right?”
“Not at all,” Theodosia said.
Glass leaned closer. “I’ll bet you’ve picked up all sorts of juicy information that my readers would love to drool over.”