Lavender Blue Murder

by Laura Childs

  “There is no land dispute,” Clewis barked. “Our argument is about a creek. About water rights.” He lifted his head and peered closely at Theodosia. “So what’s this about really? Oh, wait, I bet you think that maybe I was the one who shot that old buzzard?”

  “Did you?”

  “Doyle wasn’t worth the expenditure of ammunition.”

  “But the two of you were involved in a lawsuit,” Theodosia said. “Several lawsuits. Because you dammed up Axson Creek.”

  Clewis leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Please. It’s nothing people haven’t done in the low country for the last hundred years. So what if I dammed up part of the creek? Now it’s a gorgeous little pond that I plan to stock with bluegills and rainbow trout. And the current in Axson Creek is still flowing nice and strong, by the way. I saw some canoers paddle by my place just this morning. When you think of all the fishing, swimming, and recreational use that little creek affords—it’s a win-win situation all the way around.”

  “I’m afraid the Doyle family doesn’t quite see it that way,” Theodosia said.

  “And you’re . . . Who are you?”

  “Theodosia Browning. I own the Indigo Tea Shop over on Church Street.”

  “My, my, isn’t that lovely. In between pouring cups of tea you’re looking into poor old Reginald’s murder?”

  Theodosia gave an abbreviated nod. “Something like that.” She realized that Clewis might look mild mannered, but he had the personality of a wolverine.

  “Maybe you should redirect your focus and take a good hard look at Reginald’s restaurant buddy, Guy Thorne.”

  “Why is that?” Theodosia asked. She harbored her own suspicions about Thorne and was interested in hearing what Clewis had to say.

  “It’s possible that Reginald finally uncovered the real dirt on Thorne. And then ended up paying the price.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m saying that maybe Reginald caught Thorne with his hand in the cookie jar.” Clewis chuckled. “Wait, you didn’t know that Thorne’s a notorious gambler? He’s been gambling away the restaurant’s profits for months. Maybe years.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Clewis cocked his head and pulled his face into an unbecoming smirk. “Bartenders, cooks, and servers are the biggest gossips of all, sweetheart. They hop from job to job, turning the food service industry into a veritable game of musical chairs. Sometimes servers and busboys even work a couple of different jobs at once. Do you see where I’m going with this? Food service folks are privy to all the latest dirt and hot rumors about their coworkers and employers.”

  Okay, Theodosia decided. So Clewis is telling me the same thing Haley did. Interesting. Where there’s smoke there’s fire?

  Theodosia stood up, almost banging her knees. She’d seen and heard enough. Carl Clewis might be correct about Guy Thorne. Then again, Clewis might be a darned good poker player, able to bluff and lie his way through anything.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Clewis.”

  But Clewis was once again focused on his paperwork. “Bye-bye. Let’s not do this again anytime soon.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Just as Theodosia climbed into her Jeep, she got a call from Drayton.

  “Meredith just phoned me and she’s completely distraught,” Drayton said. “Unhinged, you might say.”

  “Uh-huh. And where are you?”

  “Still at the tea shop. Just finishing up.”

  “What’s the crisis this time?” Theodosia asked as she blew out a glut of air.

  “Meredith and Alex were supposed to pick out a coffin for Reginald this morning, but with the developing Fawn situation, they never got around to it.”

  “I thought Meredith was planning a simple memorial service. Tasteful and dignified,” Theodosia said. “I assumed they’d have Reginald cremated.”

  “Well, it’s still going to be tasteful and dignified, but now there’s going to be a coffin,” Drayton said in a droll voice.

  “And let me guess. Meredith needs our help.” Theodosia was beginning to wish she hadn’t gotten so tangled up in Meredith’s problems. One, because Meredith was taking up an awful lot of her time. And two, because she really wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “Meredith asked if we could pretty please—her words, not mine—meet her at the Doake and Wilson Funeral Home.” Drayton paused. “Might you have time for that?”

  “I suppose I could make time.”

  Right after I call Pete Riley and cancel our dinner.

  Theodosia didn’t need a crystal ball to tell her what was on the docket. “I’m guessing Meredith wants our help in selecting a coffin?”

  “Is that too odious a task?” Drayton asked.

  “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” Theodosia said. “And to answer your question—yes, it is.”

  17

  Doake and Wilson Funeral Home was located in a redbrick building on Montagu Street. It was basically an old mansion that had been built in the nineteen twenties. Over time, gaudy pillars had been added to the front and a large white stucco building had been tacked onto the back part of it.

  Theodosia pulled into the funeral home’s small parking lot and decided she really didn’t want to know what went on in that white stucco building with the narrow, frosted windows. But as soon as she and Drayton stepped into the funeral home, via a side entrance, the chilled scent of carnations and chemicals pretty much screamed, Funeral Parlor—Bodies Embalmed Here.

  A thick dark-blue carpet whispered underfoot as they approached an old-fashioned reception desk that held baskets of flowers and a gold gooseneck lamp.

  “We’re here with the Doyle party,” Drayton said in a decorous tone to the gray-haired receptionist who was sorting through a stack of papers. Death certificates?

  Theodosia was happy that Drayton was able to handle funereal issues with dignity and grace. She pretty much had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into a funeral home, whether it be to select a casket or attend a viewing.

  The fifty-something receptionist looked up with a sad, practiced smile. “Some of your party is already here. I’ll take you downstairs so you can join them in our showroom.”

  “Showroom,” Drayton stage-whispered as they followed the woman down a flight of beige carpeted stairs to the basement. “As if picking out a casket is like buying a car.”

  But Theodosia thought it might actually be similar to buying a car, since make, model, and price were all important factors.

  The showroom, at the end of a narrow hallway, was brightly lit (some would say garish) and filled with caskets in various models, finishes, and sizes.

  “You came,” Meredith said, as soon as she spotted Theodosia and Drayton. “I knew you would. I told Alex that you would never desert me in my hour of need.”

  “Don’t forget, we’re here for you, too,” Alex said as he and Bill Jacoby rose from where they’d been sitting on an ugly green sofa. They’d obviously postponed THE BIG DECISION until Theodosia and Drayton arrived to cast their vote.

  Picking out a casket? To what do we owe this honor? was the thought that screamed through Theodosia’s brain. Drayton had other things on his mind.

  “Is there any word on Fawn?” was Drayton’s first question.

  Meredith toddled up to him and practically collapsed in his arms. “Nothing at all,” she sobbed.

  Theodosia looked past a weeping Meredith to Alex. She wondered what his state of mind was at the moment. Although the look on his face didn’t surprise her. Calm? Check. Looking slightly bored? Check that box, too.

  “Thank you both for coming,” Bill Jacoby said. He looked keenly embarrassed by Meredith’s theatrics and Alex’s indifference.

  “You’re quite welcome,” Theodosia said. She glanced around at all the coffins on display. Some were propped up against the wall; others rested on raised metal biers. “Have you made any decisions yet?”

  Looking a little disheartened, Jacoby pursed hi
s lips and shook his head. “Nope.”

  * * *

  * * *

  But before they got down to the business of selecting a casket, Theodosia had a couple of questions she wanted to get out of the way.

  “Alex,” Theodosia said, “I didn’t know Fawn very well—I barely had a chance to speak with her—but in the short time I did, she told me she was quite unhappy. That she wanted a divorce.”

  Alex looked shocked. Or maybe pretend-shocked?

  “I thought we settled this the other day. Fawn never told me she was unhappy,” Alex blurted. “Never, ever. You have to believe me!”

  “They loved each other very much,” Meredith said. “Fawn was a happy-go-lucky girl.”

  “And another thing,” Theodosia said, pressing on. “You mentioned that Fawn wasn’t a particularly skillful sailor.”

  “She wasn’t,” Alex said. “She was pretty much terrified of boats.”

  “Yet she managed to start up the motor, maneuver your sailboat out of the marina and into busy Charleston Harbor, and then put up a sail,” Theodosia said. “At night. Which is rather interesting.”

  “It is?” Meredith asked. “Why?”

  “Because it makes me think that perhaps Fawn wasn’t alone in that sailboat,” Theodosia said.

  “What exactly are you getting at?” Alex asked.

  “Maybe Fawn sailed out there with someone’s help. The harbormaster at the yacht club told me the sail was still up when the Coast Guard towed it back to the dock.”

  “She could have managed it,” Alex said.

  “Maybe she read a book about sailing, boned up on it,” Meredith said.

  “Or maybe Fawn managed to sail out on her own and was then picked up by another boat,” Theodosia said.

  Meredith looked shocked. “You mean Fawn might have been running away from home?” She blinked at Alex. “She wouldn’t do that, would she? Tell me she wouldn’t do that.”

  “Of course not,” Alex said. But he didn’t sound convincing.

  “You loved her. We all loved her,” Meredith blubbered.

  “If Fawn was so dearly loved, then where is she?” Theodosia asked.

  “Where is she indeed?” Jacoby asked, rocking back on his heels. He suddenly looked suspicious of his two charges.

  Conversation broke off then, devolving into muffled sniffles and a few whispers between Meredith and Alex. In fact, it was blessed relief when the funeral director finally showed up.

  “Bob Doake,” he said, shaking hands with everyone. “I do apologize for keeping you folks waiting.”

  Doake was tall, thin, and slightly ethereal-looking. He wore a three-piece pin-striped suit that was a little too sharp. Like maybe he’d been auditioning for the road company of Guys and Dolls.

  “Have you had sufficient time to look around?” Doake asked. He steepled his fingers together and arranged his features in a faint, decorous smile. “Have you made any decisions yet?”

  “We’re still looking,” Meredith said.

  “Take your time,” Doake said smoothly. Then, when everyone just stood there, uneasy about making the first move, he said, “Our Granada model is extremely popular for our male clientele.” He walked a few steps toward a casket and rested his hand on a pouf of pale-blue lining. “This one has a walnut veneer with satin-covered memory foam and silver handles and fixtures.”

  Meredith’s nose twitched. “It looks a little cheap.”

  “Then perhaps an upgrade to our Argosy model,” Doake said smoothly. He was eager to upsell her for an undoubtedly steeper markup.

  Meredith lifted a shoulder. “Eh.” She wasn’t impressed.

  “Let’s try to figure out what you do want,” Theodosia suggested. “The, uh, features that are most important to you.”

  “A capital idea,” Drayton said. He stepped over to a large copper-colored casket. “How about this one?” He looked down, fingered a tag, and read it out loud. “The Bradford model. Stainless steel, continuous weld construction . . .” His mouth twitched. “An adjustable bed.”

  Meredith shook her head. “No.”

  “Okay,” Theodosia said, feeling like a hostess on The Price Is Right. “What about this silver-blue one? It looks kind of spiffy.” She thought it looked like an airbrushed Harley-Davidson, but maybe Meredith would think it contemporary and stylish?

  “I think I need something a touch more elegant,” Meredith said.

  “She means more better,” Alex said. He was in a bad mood, and it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “That one looks nice,” Meredith said, pointing to a stainless steel casket. “I like the silk lining with French folds.” She turned to Doake. “Do you know, is the lining made of Indian muga silk or mulberry silk?”

  “I believe it’s mulberry silk,” he said.

  Meredith wrinkled her nose. “Oh.”

  “Does it make a difference?” Bill Jacoby asked her. “Is the casket going to be open or closed?”

  “Closed,” Alex said.

  “Open,” Meredith said.

  Doake looked down at his spit-polished shoes, wisely staying out of the discussion.

  Drayton stepped in gallantly to fill the void.

  “What would you think about this Luxor model?” he asked, touching the edge of a nearby casket. “The mahogany with brass fittings does lend a subdued but elegant note.”

  “I don’t know,” Meredith said. She tapped an index finger against her upper lip, thinking. “It’s difficult to choose. My brain isn’t working like it should.” She spun around and gazed at Alex. “Which casket do you think Reginald would’ve preferred?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex snapped. “Probably that big, honkin’ El Presidente model over there. It would appeal to Reginald’s sense of power and grandiosity.”

  “That’s so cruel,” Meredith said.

  Alex pulled his mouth into a sneer. “But it’s the truth.”

  18

  “Alex hated his stepfather,” Theodosia said to Drayton as she drove down Queen Street. When Drayton didn’t reply, she glanced sideways at him and said, “You did pick up on his negative vibes, didn’t you?”

  “Hard not to. But it pains me greatly to see their family so fractured.”

  “Well, they are.”

  They rode along in silence for a few blocks, then Drayton said, “So you took a look at the sailboat, did you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Find anything unusual?”

  “I think somebody fired up the auxiliary engine and motored that J/22 out into the harbor.”

  “So Fawn didn’t suddenly turn into a crackerjack sailor?”

  “Doubtful,” Theodosia said.

  “You think Fawn had an accomplice?” Drayton sounded surprised.

  “It’s possible.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Drayton said.

  “What is?”

  “All of this started with a day of hunting, and now you’re still hunting.”

  “Trying to, anyway.”

  Drayton smiled. “A bird in the hand?”

  “If only,” Theodosia said.

  “Are you . . .” Drayton started.

  “What?” Theodosia said.

  “Do you have plans for the evening?”

  “I was supposed to go out to dinner with Riley tonight, but that got kicked to the curb in favor of our coffin-hunting expedition.”

  “Oh dear.” Drayton looked upset. “I’m so sorry for intruding.”

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. What did you have in mind?”

  “I was wondering if we could swing by the Heritage Society.”

  “Now?”

  “There’s a meeting I’m supposed to attend. Well, I technically don’t have to attend it; I can simply drop by and cast my ballot.”

  “What are you voting on?” Theodosia asked.

  “Budget. What else?”

  “Sure, we can stop there. I don’t mind,” Theodosia said. “As long as it doesn’t
take too long.”

  “Then you come in with me,” Drayton suggested. “Tap your foot, glance at your watch. They’ll get the message.”

  “You’re making me out to be the bad guy, huh?”

  Drayton smiled as he gazed straight ahead. “I could try, but they’d never believe it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Heritage Society, that venerable granite building that sat like its own small principality in the middle of Charleston’s Historic District, was busy tonight. Lights shone from the windows, cars were parked on both sides of the street in front of it, a small group of people was gathered on the steps.

  “The joint’s jumping,” Theodosia said as she drove by slowly, looking for a parking spot.

  “Because there’s so much going on. Besides hiring new curators, Timothy is rallying the membership to go out and beat the bushes, try to turn up more big-buck donors.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” Theodosia knew that many nonprofit organizations were hurting. She served on the board of Big Paws, a service dog organization that was continually desperate for funding.

  “Why don’t you pull around to the alley?” Drayton said. “We’ll sneak in the back way.”

  “You have a key?”

  “Yes, but don’t tell anyone.”

  They parked and went in the back door—click, clack, unlock—which led them right through one of the storage rooms.

  “I love it in here,” Theodosia said as they walked through the temperature-controlled semidarkness. “Look at all these wonderful pieces. It must be heaven to work here as a curator.” Her eyes danced across an old map table, some ladder-back chairs with woven wicker seats, and a few faded oil paintings that were probably waiting to go to the conservation department. Theodosia was a woman who appreciated art—paintings, sculpture, photography, pottery, almost anything that had been lovingly created by human hands. Her tastes also ran to outsider art, as well as the marvelous, handwoven sweetgrass baskets that were so ubiquitous to South Carolina.