by Laura Childs
Unfortunately, Meredith was stuck on the idea like slick on a politician. “Then let’s do it!” she squealed. Her skinny frame shook like a Chihuahua caught in an ice storm.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” Delaine said. “I’ll call Madame Emilia and arrange the whole thing. We’ll do it immediately—tomorrow afternoon.” She glanced around, immensely pleased with herself. “In fact, we’ll do it right here.”
“Here?” Theodosia echoed, her voice rising in an almost-squawk.
“This is the absolute perfect place,” Delaine said.
“Um . . . why would that be?” Theodosia asked.
Delaine raised her hands as if to bestow a blessing, and her face took on a beatific expression. “Because Fawn was recently a guest here, and you can still literally feel the vibrations.”
“I think that’s Haley running the vacuum in the back room,” Drayton muttered.
21
When Theodosia walked into the Grand Ballroom of the Commodore Hotel at two fifteen in the afternoon, she was hit with an aromatic tidal wave of sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and chocolate (with an exquisite layer of butterscotch thrown in for good measure).
As far as the eye could see, tables were laden with every type of rich, sinful dessert one could imagine. And even though ribbons hadn’t yet been awarded, a few hundred guests, gawkers, bakers, chocolatiers, chocoholics, and sugar artists (their white chef’s hats bobbing in the crowd) walked the aisles, oohing and aahing over the incredible display of goodies.
Haley spotted Theodosia and rushed to greet her.
“You came!” Haley was bubbling over with enthusiasm.
“How could I not?” Theodosia said. “When I’m almost positive you’re going to take home a ribbon.”
“I’m not sure about that. From what I’ve seen, there’s some awfully stiff competition here.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
They strolled from table to table, thoroughly enchanted by the amazingly creative entries.
“The theme this year is Southern Grace,” Haley explained. “Which is why even the ballroom is decked out with flowing pink draperies, baskets of flowers, and floral garlands strung on the chandeliers.”
“And what are the four categories again?” Theodosia asked.
Haley ticked them off on her fingers. “Wedding Cakes, of course. Then there’s a Sculpted Cakes category, Southern Party Treats—those are the cookies, bars, and pies. And then there’s my category, Sculpted Confections.”
“I still don’t know what you came up with,” Theodosia said. “After you decided not to enter your sweet tea pie.”
Haley grinned. “Then you’d better come and have a look.”
They walked past tables with wedding cakes in the shape of castles, flower beds, hearts, pirate ships, and even bottles of champagne. At the Southern Party Treats display they saw cupcakes with swirls of fondant flowers, cookies decorated with sprinkles and twinkles, and all manner of bourbon, pecan, and chess pies.
The display of sculpted cakes gave them pause.
“These are fabulous,” Theodosia said.
And they were. Cakes were skillfully made in the shape of hatboxes, guitars, Bibles, angels, circus tents, mystery books, and teapots, as well as Mad Hatter cakes and tipsy cakes with multiple layers that looked like they might become unbalanced at any second.
“But over here’s the best,” Haley said.
“Must be Sculpted Confections,” Theodosia said as her eyes fell upon a garden of tiny mushrooms—all made from fondant and painted with food coloring. There were also fondant hummingbirds in jewel colors, a huge orange tropical fish, a tiger with gleaming green eyes, a shiny red high heel, a bouquet of pink roses, and many more.
“Haley, which one is your entry?”
Haley grinned. “Don’t you recognize him?”
Theodosia’s eyes roved across the table. She saw a pink elephant, a blue dolphin, a ballerina, and a . . .
Wait, is that really what I think it is?
Theodosia was stunned. Haley had created the most incredible and realistic fondant sculpture of Earl Grey that she could ever imagine.
“Is that really . . . ?” She was almost choked up. No, not almost. She was choked up.
“Do you like it?”
“Haley, I absolutely love it. It looks exactly like him. Sweet, friendly, alert, and a little bit mischievous. And his coat . . . all those subtle colors . . . How did you manage his coat?”
“I used Satin Ice rolled fondant and mixed the right colors together, just like they recommended. Five parts orange, one part green, and one part red.”
“To get . . .”
“That lovely brownish-beige color.” Haley’s eyes danced with glee. “You really like it?”
“I love it. And I’m positive the judges will, too.”
“The judges!” Haley said. “Omigosh, here they come!”
As if arriving on cue, four white-coated, clipboard-yielding judges strolled toward the table. One of the volunteers—they knew this because the woman wore a pink sash that said VOLUNTEER—walked ahead of them to shoo people out of the way.
“Please, everyone, move back at least ten feet,” the volunteer urged. “Kindly give the judges an unobstructed view of the tables so they can score all these wonderful entries.”
Haley clapped a hand to her chest. “This is so exciting.”
Theodosia was about to respond to Haley when a voice in her right ear whispered, “Don’t tell me you entered this contest, too.”
Theodosia whipped her head around, only to find Guy Thorne standing next to her, a slightly bemused expression on his face.
“My chef, Haley, is one of the contestants,” Theodosia said. She quickly introduced Thorne to Haley and added, “She’s the one responsible for the scones and tea sandwiches at this morning’s memorial service.”
Thorne gave a curt nod. “Good stuff.”
Haley flipped a hank of hair and moved away from them, her eyes completely fixated on the judges.
“I take it Trollope’s has entered something as well?” Theodosia asked, mostly out of politeness.
“My pastry chef created a wedding cake,” Thorne said. “A spectacular thing—eight layers decorated with fondant clams and strings of genuine pearls.”
“It sounds lovely.” Theodosia wondered if she should mention something about the ugly scene between Thorne and Carl Clewis that had occurred at the funeral luncheon. Should she? Or not? Perhaps it wasn’t polite to bring that up right now.
“That was some crazy scene today, huh?” said Thorne.
Theodosia’s lips twisted into a quirky smile. On the other hand . . .
“I’m afraid Meredith was quite upset by your ill-timed argument with Carl Clewis.”
“Wasn’t me who started it.” Thorne waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, she’ll get over it.”
“Still, your dispute was quite disruptive.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” Thorne asked. “Isn’t it important to shake up the status quo?”
“In this particular case, probably not.”
Thorne rolled back on his heels and stared at her. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“I don’t really know you, Mr. Thorne.”
Thorne studied her. “You have a clever way about you, Miss Browning. You’re polite and respectful, even gracious, one might say. But behind all those fine Southern manners, you’re cautious and cagey. Your perceptive little mind is always running fancy computations. No wonder Meredith asked you, and I quote, ‘to look into things.’”
“To help ease her mind. To make sure all possible suspects are nailed down and properly investigated,” Theodosia said.
Thorne gave a wry smile. “I hope you don’t put me in that category.”
Theodosia fixed him with a level gaze. It wasn’t exactly accusing, but it wasn’t warm and fuzzy, either. “Gambling?” she said. Theodosia wanted Thorne to know that she knew about the missing profits.
Thorne looked shocked. “Me? Hey, you got some bad information there.”
“Did I?”
Thorne practically bared his teeth at her. “When exactly did I become a suspect?”
Theodosia continued to stare at him. “I guess you must have blinked and missed it.”
* * *
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the judging was complete. Now it was time for all the entrants and their guests to move to the ballroom’s stage, where the winners would soon be announced.
“I feel like I’m going to break out in hives.” Haley laughed.
“Don’t do that,” Theodosia said. “Just shake off your nervousness.”
Haley bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “But there were so many great entries.”
“Including yours. So please don’t—” Theodosia cut her words short as Bill Glass, the photographer, spotted her and headed in her direction.
“Glass,” Theodosia muttered.
“I’m outa here,” Haley said. And she was. Like a shot.
Glass looked moderately better this afternoon. Photojournalist jacket, three cameras slung around his neck, khaki pants. He was almost but not quite presentable.
“Tea lady,” he called out. “Imagine meeting you here.”
“You went home and changed,” Theodosia said.
“Yeah, some guy spilled tea all over me at that funeral luncheon. Carl somebody. He was in a fight with another guy.” Glass made a rude sound. “What a couple of jerks. Hey, wait until you catch next week’s dynamite issue of Shooting Star.”
“Do I have to?”
“I’m gonna put a photo of that Meredith babe right on the front cover.”
“Why would you do that?”
Glass cocked his head. “To sell papers?”
“Wrong answer,” Theodosia said.
“Hey, she was sobbing into her hankie like a B movie actress with that crazy horse-drawn funeral coach sitting right in the background.” Glass gave a mock shudder. “Man, that thing was creepy. Like something out of a Dracula movie.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came a voice over the PA system.
“Oops, that’s my cue,” Glass said. “I think they’re about to announce the winners.” He lifted one of his cameras. “Gotta get some snaps.”
Everyone crowded to the stage, where a podium and microphone sat on a raised dais. The judges were all lined up there as well as all the volunteers with sashes. Theodosia decided to stay exactly where she was.
Then the microphone crackled to life. Third, second, and first places were announced in the Wedding Cakes category, the Sculpted Cakes category, the Southern Party Treats category, and the Sculpted Confections category.
Amid all the shrieks, shouts, and bursts of applause, Theodosia hadn’t heard Haley’s name called out one single time.
Oh no, she’s going to be so disappointed.
Theodosia thought about the fondant Earl Grey. Absolutely adorable and perfectly sculpted, from his fine-boned muzzle to the slight curl in his tail. She decided the judges must be blind. Their taste and understanding for true art completely stunted.
And then she heard the microphone crackle to life again. They were announcing two more awards. Best of Show and Judge’s Favorite.
Theodosia crossed her fingers and listened as Best of Show was awarded to Betsy Bedini for her cathedral cake. And then she couldn’t believe her ears when Judge’s Favorite was awarded to Haley Parker for her sugar sculpture.
Haley did win!
Two minutes later, Haley was running toward her. Pounding her way through the crowd, eyes shining, hair streaming out behind her. And she was waving a great big gold rosette ribbon.
“Did you hear?” Haley cried. “I won.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Theodosia said. “I never doubted you would.”
Haley’s smile slipped a notch. “But not in my category.”
“Your award is better. Judge’s Favorite.” Theodosia wrapped her arms around her. “That award singles you out as being very special.”
“Still.”
“How many entries were there?” Theodosia asked.
Haley thought for a moment. “I guess maybe fifteen in my category?”
“And in the whole show?”
“I don’t know. Something like a hundred and fifty?”
“So you beat out a hundred and forty-nine other people.”
“Huh, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty good.”
Theodosia smiled. “Yes, it does, Haley. It surely does.”
22
Theodosia didn’t have any great desire to attend the candlelight vigil in White Point Garden. But she was curious. Super curious. About who would show up and what exactly would be said. And would the bombastic Alex be in attendance?
Even with Carl Clewis and Guy Thorne running neck and neck as suspects, with Meredith, Jack Grimes, and Susan Monday a few lengths behind, Alex was still Theodosia’s front-runner. Her favorite. Alex was the one who made her spider sense tingle. He was also the one who seemed the guiltiest.
As Theodosia crossed the damp grass, heading for a tight circle of folks who were all holding tiny pink candles, she saw that Alex was indeed here tonight. He was standing (fidgeting, actually) next to Meredith, while Bill Jacoby and Guy Thorne stood a few steps away. They were watching a group of women who were all wearing pink T-shirts with the words COME HOME FAWN emblazoned on the front. Arms linked, the women were doing a kind of dance as they sang a slow chorus of “Stand by Me,” the song made famous by Ben E. King.
Theodosia stood and listened as the women’s voices rang out clear and true.
When the night has come and the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we’ll see . . .
She imagined their notes floating out into Charleston Harbor, skimming the choppy surface, and then rising up in a shimmer of gentle prayers.
Maybe all these prayers and good wishes will work. I sure hope they do, anyway.
Pulling her jacket around her, for it was chilly tonight, Theodosia’s eyes drifted from the gathering to a shadowy line of Civil War cannons. Then she scanned the inky dark sky overhead and looked out across Charleston Harbor at the shimmer of lights. These were lights and lanterns from sailboats and fishing boats, the red and green running lights of Coast Guard cutters and commercial vessels.
And somewhere out there was Fawn?
Theodosia still wasn’t convinced the girl had been lost at sea. It seemed too convenient, too staged. Maybe even too tragically perfect.
Ah well.
As the singing drew to a close, the women hugged one another and broke into groups of two and three. Theodosia decided she’d better go over and greet Meredith.
Meredith saw Theodosia coming, touched a hand to her chest, and squealed, “You came. I knew you would.”
“Thank you so much,” said Bill Jacoby, ever the gentleman. “Your presence means so much to us.”
Guy Thorne just glared at her while Alex looked perturbed and a little lost.
Theodosia hugged Meredith and whispered a few words of encouragement to her. Told her to stay strong and to keep the faith.
“Thank you,” Meredith said. “And many thanks for letting us use your tea room tomorrow for the séance. I’m expecting great things.”
“We can only hope,” Theodosia said.
Then she turned her full attention to Alex.
“How are you holding up?” Theodosia asked him. “I apologize that I didn’t get a chance to speak to you earlier today.”
Alex shook his head as if he was experiencing the worst migraine in the world. “A terrible day,” he moaned. “The memorial service with all that pomp and circumstance . . .” He glanced angrily in Meredith’s direction, but she was busy whispering with Jacoby.
“I think the whole thing made your mom feel better,” Theodosia said. “Like she was giving Reginald a final, heartfelt send-off.”
“Downright embarrass
ing is what it was,” Alex said.
“Have the police or sheriff been in touch with you?” Theodosia asked. She’d changed the subject abruptly to see how Alex would react. He didn’t disappoint.
Alex scowled. “In touch with me about what?”
“Let’s see,” Theodosia said. “It could be regarding any new suspects that may have come to light, or possible forensic details found on your sailboat, or any messages or crank calls that you may have received.”
“Nothing,” Alex said. “I’ve heard nothing. From anyone.”
“But you must have some ongoing contact with law enforcement, right? You must have shared some of your own thoughts and suspicions.”
“I’ve tried, yes. But even they don’t take me seriously when I tell them that Jack Grimes murdered Reginald.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d be pointing your finger at the neighbor, Carl Clewis.”
Alex stared sullenly at her.
“And what about your wife’s disappearance?” Theodosia continued. “Do you believe that Grimes killed Reginald, then went on to kidnap your wife? The funny thing is, Grimes never struck me as the kidnapping sort.”
“Well somebody is!” Alex shouted. “Fawn didn’t just disappear into thin air!”
“You’re very angry.”
“Actually, I’m furious that you’re grilling me like a piece of raw tenderloin! Can’t you see that I’m the one who’s been wronged here? I’m the one whose wife is missing, possibly even dead!”
“I don’t believe she’s dead,” Theodosia said softly. But Alex had already spun away from her and lurched his way into the crowd.
Five minutes later, with candles guttering in their holders and the songs and prayers all done, Delaine Dish showed up. She was clinging to the arm of Tod Slawson, an antiques dealer she’d taken to calling her paramour du jour. Delaine looked elegant and stylish in a long black coat that was belted about her tiny waist. She was also sniffling like crazy and fluttering a fancy linen hankie that seemed to serve as a fine prop.
Theodosia decided that, along with every other suspect on her list, Delaine’s acting skills were honed razor-sharp.