Lavender Blue Murder

by Laura Childs

  “I had no idea.”

  “Most people don’t, and it makes me crazy that nobody cares about God’s tiny creatures,” Susan said.

  “I hear you,” Theodosia said. “I’m forever rescuing turtles when they crawl across a roadway.”

  Susan gave a faint smile. “Blessings on your head for that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Susan Monday seems like a lovely woman,” Drayton said to Theodosia. She’d introduced him to Susan on her way out.

  “Susan is being questioned by Sheriff Burney,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton’s eyes flicked up to her and he did a double take. “I can’t imagine why. For goodness’ sake, the woman grows lavender for a living. She’s probably the calmest, most serene person in the county.”

  “Susan also comes across as a slightly radical environmentalist.”

  “That’s a good thing, is it not? To be concerned about polar bears and bee populations and whatnot?”

  “Susan Monday alluded to one of her neighbors using pesticides and not caring about the environment. I’m wondering now if she was referring to Reginald Doyle.”

  “Theodosia, what are you getting at?” Drayton asked.

  “What if Susan Monday shot Reginald because she considered him an environmental disaster?”

  Drayton poured hot water into a Wedgwood teapot, swished it around, and then dumped it out.

  “I thought you told me we had nothing to worry about with Susan Monday,” he said.

  “That’s before she went all radical tree-frog-hugger on me,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton gazed at her. “And now she’s coming to our tea party on Saturday.”

  “Look at it this way,” Theodosia said. “At least we can keep an eye on her.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miss Dimple was handling early-afternoon tea with such care and skill that Theodosia took the opportunity to sit down at one of the tables, enjoy a cup of soup, and read the newspaper. She was halfway through Section A of the Charleston Post and Courier when Detective Tidwell ghosted into the tea shop.

  Not only was Burt Tidwell big and burly like a Kodiak bear, he had the grouchy disposition of one that had been awakened mid-hibernation, one who hadn’t enjoyed his full complement of z’s.

  “Imagine my surprise this morning when a report from the Coast Guard came across my desk,” Tidwell said in an almost accusatory voice. He was wearing a bagged-out tweed jacket that barely stretched around him and voluminous slacks. His feet, however, were neat and small, like a dancer’s.

  Theodosia looked up from her newspaper to find his dark beady eyes staring at her as he slouched his way to her table.

  “It concerned a recovered sailboat and a possible drowning,” Tidwell continued. “And now I find that you were a guest of this particular woman’s family when her father-in-law was murdered.” He drew a deep breath. “And when their plantation home caught fire shortly thereafter.”

  “How do you know about this?” Theodosia asked as she folded her paper.

  “Informants, police reports, and”—Tidwell tapped one chubby finger against the side of his head—“my own singularly unique radar.”

  “Plus you’ve been talking to Sheriff Burney.”

  “There is that. May I sit down?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Tidwell dropped his bulk into the chair directly across from Theodosia.

  “Am I to believe you are meddling?” he asked.

  “No, but I have been asked by the family to look into things,” Theodosia said.

  “And a fine job you’ve done. Now Fawn Doyle is missing, presumed drowned.” Tidwell looked almost gleeful as he said it.

  “Excuse me, I did not have anything to do with that.”

  “But you’re involved,” Tidwell pressed.

  “So far, more as a peripheral witness to these various disasters.”

  “Talk to me. Bring me up to speed.”

  So Theodosia gave Tidwell a sort of CliffsNotes version of her take on the shooting of Reginald Doyle, the flash fire at Creekmore Plantation that same night, and Fawn’s confession to her yesterday afternoon that Alex was an abusive husband.

  “It’s only been three days, and you’re intricately entwined in any number of serious situations,” Tidwell marveled. “All of which might result in assault, felony, or murder charges.”

  “I’ve actually been at this awhile longer than that. And I don’t know anything about possible charges,” Theodosia said. “I’m only trying to help the family.”

  “Help, she says,” Tidwell muttered.

  Theodosia was about to fire back at Tidwell, but she managed to stop herself and peer at him. “Are you hungry? Can I offer you a scone and a pot of tea?” She knew that sugar was the magic ingredient that would soften him up and calm him down. Maybe even pry loose a few details she wasn’t privy to yet.

  “Might you have any of those delightful flowering teas?” Tidwell asked.

  “I’m sure we have some stashed away on Drayton’s magic shelves. And would you prefer a cream scone or a strawberry scone?”

  “Hmm . . . such a difficult choice.”

  Theodosia stood up from her chair. “I’ll bring you one of each.”

  “Perfect.”

  Five minutes later, Theodosia delivered Tidwell’s tea tray to the table and then plopped back down across from him. She poured hot water into the clear glass teapot that held the Chinese flowering tea, and together they watched as the buds unfurled.

  “Lovely,” Tidwell said. He gave a perfunctory smile, sliced his scone lengthwise with his butter knife, and delicately slathered on an enormous dollop of Devonshire cream. It was done with such precise skill and care, it was like watching a doctor perform microsurgery.

  “What is . . . ?” Tidwell pointed to the small glass compote jar on his tray.

  “Cranberry-orange marmalade. It’s something new we’re trying,” Theodosia said.

  “Ah.” Tidwell seemed pleased by the tasty addition.

  Theodosia reached across the table, grabbed his teapot, and poured an amber stream of tea into his teacup. “I think this has steeped long enough.”

  “Thank you.”

  Theodosia smiled sweetly. “And by the way, was there a bullet recovered from Reginald Doyle’s body?”

  Tidwell sipped his tea slowly, then said, “I understand the medical examiner did remove a 9mm bullet.”

  “So the shooter used a pistol.” Theodosia thought about Doyle’s body lying on a stainless steel table, the ME going about his business as if it were just another day at the office, just another routine shooting, which it probably was. Probing the wound with a toothed forceps, pulling out a slug, and then dropping it into a metal tray with a hard clank. A shiver oozed up her spine. Sometimes her imagination could be a little too vivid.

  “What mystifies me,” said Tidwell, “is the report on the unmanned sailboat that just came across my desk. I’m guessing I need to ask Alex Doyle any number of questions.”

  “Good. And while you’re at it, could you please beat him silly with a rubber hose for me?” Because I really worry that Alex might be the guilty party.

  Tidwell took a bite of scone, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “We really don’t do things like that.”

  Theodosia sighed. “Right.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once Tidwell had finished his scones (with great relish) and left (grumpy as usual), Theodosia strolled into the kitchen, where Haley was putting away the last of the luncheon leftovers.

  “Got some leftover soup here if you’d like to take it home with you,” Haley said.

  “No, that’s okay. What I actually came in here to talk to you about is tomorrow’s funeral luncheon. The catering part.”

  “Yup. I’m on top of it.”

  “And you’re sure you can handle everything okay? I know I’m putting a lot on your plate.”

  “Actually, I just have to make the scones
and sandwiches. You’re the one who has to put them on plates.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m concerned because you’ve got the Sugar Arts Show tomorrow afternoon. And I know you’re counting on entering one of your fondant sculptures. So I guess what I’m asking is, are you sure you have time? I don’t want this funeral luncheon to compromise you in any way. I mean, Miss Dimple will be here to help out again, but . . .”

  “I’m chill. I can handle everything just fine,” Haley said. “I’m planning to finish my piece tonight at home and then add a few last-minute touches, like, an hour before the contest starts. So, yeah, I’m pretty sure I can manage everything. Hey, I always do, don’t I?”

  Theodosia slipped her arms around Haley’s shoulders and gave her a warm hug. “Haley, you always manage with class and grace.”

  “I do?” Haley looked pleased by Theodosia’s praise.

  “You’re our shining treasure,” Theodosia said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back out in the tea room, Drayton was fussing with his teapots and Miss Dimple was serving afternoon tea to two tables of customers. Theodosia looked around and smiled. With a few rays of afternoon sun prisming in through the wavy glass windows, the tea room looked positively enchanting. And, once again, she thanked her lucky stars that she’d somehow ended up in just this perfect spot.

  After college, Theodosia had worked as an account executive at a midsize marketing firm. During her time there, she realized she had a knack for understanding how to market and promote products. She’d worked with software companies, banks, even some retail accounts. But, eventually, her best efforts had been for herself. After six years, she’d taken stock of her career and decided she needed something that was a little more tangible, a little more . . . nourishing to the soul. She hit upon a tea shop because tea was just beginning to come out of the closet. Tea shops were sprouting up around the country like mushrooms, women were eyeing Granny’s antique china in a whole new light and bringing it out of the cupboard, hats and white gloves suddenly had renewed cachet.

  So. A tea shop.

  Theodosia had set about finding a small building, renovating it—but not too much—and imbuing it with the cozy, elegant touches she thought a proper tea shop should have. After that it was all PR, word of mouth, a few lucky TV appearances, and a lot of hard work. The tea shop had grown in popularity along with their burgeoning catering business, and her website was doing a bang-up job in retailing all of Drayton’s special house blends.

  Theodosia had even been offered the opportunity to write a weekly tea column but had turned it down because she didn’t think she could devote the proper amount of time to getting it perfect. To Theodosia, perfect was everything.

  “What are you thinking about?” Drayton asked, causing her reverie to suddenly burst like an errant soap bubble.

  “I think . . .” Theodosia said. “I think I’m going to duck out and take a look at that sailboat.”

  Drayton looked askance. “The J/22? The one the Coast Guard found floating in the harbor? What could you possibly discover by looking at that?”

  “That’s the thing, Drayton. You just never know.”

  16

  Theodosia drove over to the Charleston Yacht Club, checked in at the clubhouse office, and discovered that Alex Doyle’s J/22 not only had been towed back here, but was now moored in its regular slip. She quizzed the harbormaster about what condition the boat was in when it was returned, then went outside, crossed a sandy patch of grass, and walked out onto Dock 3.

  Where she immediately felt at home.

  Theodosia had been a sailor all her life and reveled in the excitement of skimming across silver waves with the wind whipping your hair and sea spray hitting your face. To her it spelled heaven. Freedom. And here she was, back at one of her favorite haunts, waves lapping, boats bobbing all around her, halyards clanking noisily but reassuringly against their masts.

  Walking down the dock, she saw this was where most of the smaller sailboats were docked. Here was a Marblehead 22 tugging at its moorings, over there a BayRaider, and farther down a CW Hood 32 with its huge open cockpit.

  When Theodosia arrived at Berth 24, she stopped and took a careful look at Alex’s sailboat. She knew the J/22 was a popular, fixed-keel racing sailboat—a boat that was easy to sail because it was amazingly stable. It was also excellent for poking around the harbor and nearby inlets on weekends. Because the boat looked to be in excellent condition, she figured it had to be on the newer side. Maybe only a year or two old.

  Bought before Alex’s marriage to Fawn? Probably.

  Theodosia glanced around, saw no one watching, and stepped onto the boat. It dipped slightly then leveled out. Everything seemed to be in order. Lines stowed, cabin locked, mast rigid. She wondered how Fawn had managed to rig the boat all by herself late at night. If Fawn was frightened of boats, terrified of the water, how had she been able to run a twenty-four-pound sail up a twenty-foot mast, cast off, and then carefully navigate her way out of the marina and into Charleston Harbor proper. All under cover of darkness.

  The answer was . . . she couldn’t. There had to be an accomplice. Or a better explanation.

  Theodosia studied the boat with a discerning sailor’s eye, trying to figure out what might have taken place here. She glanced fore and aft and saw a small trolling motor attached.

  Okay, maybe this explains it.

  Theodosia touched a hand to the stern and leaned forward to get a better look at the motor. And as the sun popped out from behind a puffy cirrus cloud, she saw a glistening streak on the shiny red top side of the motor.

  Streak of what?

  Reaching out, Theodosia swiped two fingers across the spot. And felt . . . something slippery and viscous. Like a smear of gasoline.

  Someone had fired up this motor recently. Yes, the Coast Guard had brought this boat back in, but they would have towed it back in.

  So who had motored this boat out into the harbor? Fawn? Alex? Or someone else?

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia pondered this new mystery as she drove down Queen Street. She’d planned to go on home from there. But, at the last minute, she decided to take a detour. She crossed over Legare and turned down King Street. Her heart beat a little faster as she realized she was taking on another investigation today . . . that of paying a visit to Mr. Toad’s Restaurant.

  Carl Clewis had been a mysterious phantom who’d been flitting through the backwaters of the investigation for the last four days. Now it was time to try and corner the man, to actually meet him. Theodosia had looked for Clewis at his farm and been brusquely turned away. But maybe, just maybe, Clewis was spending all his time right here, at his new restaurant.

  Theodosia parked in the adjacent parking lot and slipped in the front door. The restaurant was dark and moody, a mash-up of a fig and fern bar and a bistro that favored brass and stained glass. And she could hear the sounds of jubilant voices coming from the bar just off to her left. Must be early happy hour.

  A young woman with pink curly hair and a green sheath dress slipped behind the hostess stand and smiled at her.

  “Are you here for Double Bubble?” the woman asked.

  “Am I . . . ?”

  “Happy hour,” the hostess said. “Two-for-one priced-well drinks as well as raw oysters for a dollar each.”

  “I’m tempted,” Theodosia said. “But I really dropped by to say hi to Carl Clewis.”

  “In that case, his office is just down the hall on the left,” the hostess said with a smile.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Theodosia sped down the hallway before the hostess could ask if she had an appointment. Or if she even knew Carl Clewis.

  An engraved brass plaque on the door said MANAGER.

  Okay, here goes nothing.

  Theodosia drew a deep breath and knocked.

  “What?” boomed a voice from inside.

  “Mr. Clewis?” Theodosia said
.

  “Enter if you must,” came the voice again. Cranky sounding.

  Theodosia pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was surprised to find herself in a small, cramped office with no windows and a buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Carl Clewis himself was seated behind a metal desk pawing through a mountain of paperwork.

  “Mr. Clewis?” Theodosia said.

  “Where is that plumbing permit?” Clewis muttered to himself. “I just had that puppy in my hand.”

  Clewis was short and stocky, like an ex-wrestler, with fingers that never stopped moving, like insect legs. He wore his hair in an old-fashioned high fade and had a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose. Finally, after examining another stack of papers, he looked up at Theodosia.

  “Are you the city health inspector?” Light bounced off his glasses, giving him an odd, slightly manic look.

  Theodosia shook her head. “Afraid not.”

  “Poore’s Liquor rep? Because we’ve been going through that Vladivostok Vodka like tap water.”

  “Again, no.”

  Clewis pursed his lips. “Then who are you and what do you want?” He was obviously impatient and unhappy about being disturbed.

  “I’m a friend of Meredith Doyle’s.”

  “Not interested,” Clewis said in a flat tone, turning his attention back to his mound of paper.

  “Please,” Theodosia said. “If you could just spare two minutes of your time?”

  “What for?”

  “To answer a couple of questions?”

  Clewis breathed out an audible sigh. “Concerning what?”

  “May I sit down?”

  Clewis flapped a hand. “Sit. Stand. Whatever.”

  Theodosia sat down on an uncomfortable metal folding chair and found there was so little room in Clewis’s office that her knees rubbed against the back of his desk.

  “I wanted to ask about the land dispute that’s been going on between you and Reginald Doyle,” Theodosia said.