The English Breakfast Murder, page 12
"First Professor Gibbon took a run at the NSF," said Young. "You know, the National Science Foundation."
"I imagine applying for NSF money is highly competitive," said Theodosia.
"You don't know the half of it," said Cooper. "There are about fifty grants awarded every year but five thousand applications."
"Did Professor Gibbon get his grant?" asked Theodosia. Both young men looked glum. "No dice," said Cooper. "But he recently submitted to a different funder where he thinks he'll have a better chance. Too bad the whole process is so darned cutthroat."
Young shook his head philosophically. "It's a shame. Makes really good professors resort to tactics they normally wouldn't want to."
"Like what?" asked Theodosia, intrigued by this comment and suddenly remembering the stack of grant requests at home on her cocktail table that she was supposed to review.
"Oh, you know, rush the research, hype a few facts, stuff like that," said Young. "Not illegal stuff, just a few. . ." He looked around, suddenly worried Professor Gibbon might overhear him. "You know ... gray areas."
Theodosia nodded, wondering exactly what it was Professor Gibbon had done that pushed him into the gray area. And then, because the two young men were still staring politely at her, she said: "I take it you're both photography buffs?"
Cooper shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. "Nah, not really. Professor Gibbon just needed a ride over here. I think he took his car in to be detailed or something. Anyway, we were the ones still working in the lab." He nudged Young with his shoulder, as if to say, We were the unlucky stiffs who got corralled.
Young picked up on his friend's wry humor. "Yeah," laughed Young. "We were handy."
CHAPTER 13
BLUSH NOISETTE ROSES trembled with droplets of dew. Azaleas, camellias, tea olive shrubs, and loquat entwined to create living walls of plant life. Sweet jasmine wrapped its delicate tendrils around ancient, tilting wrought iron fences that bounded Civil War graves of hand-hewn marble.
Wednesday dawned hot and humid in Charleston. And in Magnolia Cemetery, the flowers, shrubs, and magnificent live oaks draped in delicate mourning veils of Spanish moss seemed to be the only living things that were truly appreciative of the sultry summer weather.
Sitting on a flimsy black metal folding chair, Theodosia fanned herself with a program and prayed for a hint of breeze. Any breeze.
Located at the north end of the peninsula just off East Bay Street, Magnolia Cemetery was a charming, highly atmospheric, profoundly historic cemetery. Often called a "political graveyard" because so many South Carolina politicians were buried there, Magnolia Cemetery was also the final resting place for over two thousand Civil War veterans, including five Confederate brigadier generals.
Originally part of the grounds of the old Magnolia Umbria Plantation, Magnolia Cemetery was still a "working" cemetery. Many prominent Charlestonians had family plots there. Drayton's family still had a plot; so did Timothy Neville, patriarch of the Heritage Society.
Slipping out of her shoes, Theodosia wiggled her bare toes and gave a silent sigh of relief as she gazed at the backs of the mourners who occupied chairs in the two rows ahead of her. She recognized several antique dealers from the King Street area as well as a number of people from the Heritage Society.
And then there was the English Breakfast Club.
Strange thing about that. All the members of the English Breakfast Club had shown up this morning save one. Lawrence March was a no-show.
"How terribly odd," Drayton had remarked in a low whisper. "Summer Sullivan, Buddy Clark, and Professor Gibbon are all here. But no Larry March."
"Maybe he couldn't find anyone to mind his store?" Theodosia offered by way of explanation as she continued to fan herself.
Drayton raised one quivering eyebrow. "It's possible," he replied. But from the disapproving tone of his voice, Drayton wasn't allowing much leeway. In Drayton's mind, Lawrence March's absence from Harper Fisk's funeral was clearly a major social faux pas.
Strangely enough, Lawrence March's absence had shot holes in Theodosia's still-shaky theory. Still going on the supposition that Harper Fisk's death had been no accident, she had turned her scrutiny to the three remaining members of the English Breakfast Club who were present.
First and foremost in her mind was Lieutenant Benjamin "Buddy" Clark. He had popped up at the marina last Sunday I~ right after Harper Fisk's boat, the Mary Lynn, had been found. He had asked a few questions, acting despondent yet nervous. Then, surprise, surprise, someone had fired a shot at Clark the following night. Could Buddy Clark have staged the shooting incident to deflect suspicion from himself and throw it on someone else? Maybe. Did Buddy Clark even own a gun? That remained to be seen.
Then there was Professor Archibald Gibbon. He was a strange duck. Professor of nautical archaeology. That was certainly a strong tie-in with Harper Fisk. And from last night's conversation with the two grad students, Cooper and Young, it sounded like Professor Gibbon was feeling a trifle desperate in his attempts to obtain funding. In fact, Theodosia knew that professors were expected to bring in money for their colleges and universities. Their tenure and salaries were often tied to their grant-getting track record.
No dough, no show.
If Harper Fisk had stumbled upon some critical information concerning an underwater shipwreck, it was possible Professor Gibbon had tried to wrest it from him. If Harper Fisk hadn't been forthcoming, Professor Gibbon could have crossed the boundaries. After all, desperate men often committed desperate acts.
And then there was Summer Sullivan. She was a bit of a wild card. Summer had been Harper Fisk's business partner for the past two years. Their working relationship sounded like it was on the up-and-up. But then again, you never know. The amazing disappearing computer hard drive could be a convenient ruse to deflect suspicion. Or cover up valuable information.
As for Lawrence March, proprietor of March Forth, Theodosia had no idea. She didn't really know enough about the man to venture a guess. Now, the fact that he'd been a no-show today seemed slightly suspicious. Of course, there could be any number of reasons why Lawrence March hadn't come. Illness, family emergency, busy schedule, guilty conscience.
Who knows?
As the officiating minister solemnly uttered his parting words to the mourners who were gathered there, Theodosia glanced down at her program. She'd been so busy fanning herself, she hadn't really read it.
A poem printed on the back of the folded sheet caught her eye. It was a poem titled "Ode At Magnolia Cemetery" which had been written by Henry Timrod.
Sleep sweetly in your humbled graves,
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.
These were the first four lines of the poem Timrod had written at the end of the Civil War. Written at the end of Timrod's life, too. Haunting and sad, the sentiment was universal in appeal.
The ashes of poor Harper Fisk would soon be interred in this hallowed soil, thought Theodosia. He was also one of the fallen.
Theodosia nudged Drayton with her elbow. Drayton frowned, tilted his head down to her. He'd been focused intently on the minister's sad eulogy.
"Do we have time to stop at Lawrence March's shop?" she asked.
Drayton's gray eyes gazed out over the small grass plot where a tiny hole, barely ten inches in diameter, had been dug to accommodate Harper Fisk's brass urn. Raw black earth was mounded behind it, bouquets of pink musk roses and white lilies stood on either side. He nodded. "We'll make time," he whispered back.
March Forth was located on King Street, a bustling palm tree-studded street where whitewashed buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with classic redbrick buildings. Theodosia pulled her Jeep into an empty parking spot a few doors down from Lawrence Marsh's shop, then waited while a brightly colored horse-drawn jitney rumbled by, filled with tourists. Pushing open the car door, she thought she finally detected a hint of breeze coming off the distant sea.
Lawrence March was seated at a large wooden European trestle table located in the epicenter of his shop. Around him was a maze of tables, sideboards, and antique secretaries, all crammed with antique leather-bound books, porcelain statues, miniature portraits, sterling silver bowls, children's alphabet plates, dolls in period costumes with painted bisque faces, colorful glassware, and Indian baskets. Antique quilts, Chinese screens, and oil paintings covered the walls. Hung from the ceiling were dozens of antique chandeliers. The ones with dangling antique crystals tinkled faintly as Theodosia and Drayton pushed through the double doors and stirred the air inside the shop.
Lawrence March glanced up casually from polishing a porcelain figure of a noble-looking tan and white spaniel. "Hello, Drayton," he said, his voice registering not a hint of surprise.
Drayton favored March with a curt nod.
"Oh, don't do that," said Lawrence March, annoyed now. "I know why you're here and I don't give a hoot. Fact of the matter is, I simply can't abide funerals."
"Your presence was greatly missed," said Drayton.
"My presence wouldn't have amounted to a hill of beans," said Lawrence March somewhat petulantly. He shifted his gaze to Theodosia. "Hello, Miss Browning. Nice to see you again. Have you stopped by in a futile attempt to shame and chastise me as well?"
"Actually," said Theodosia, "I'm pretty crazy about that spaniel you're holding."
Lawrence March glanced down at the ceramic dog cradled in his hands. "English Staffordshire, circa eighteen fifty. Care to make an offer?"
"Care to offer an explanation?" said Drayton, not about to let Marsh's absence go unchallenged.
Lawrence March rose to his feet and walked a few paces to a polished wooden secretary that held an entire collection of porcelain dogs.
"If you favor dogs, Miss Browning, take a gander at this canine collection."
Theodosia moved past Drayton to where Lawrence March stood and let her eyes rove across one of the tastiest collections of ceramic dogs she'd ever seen. Most were tan and white spaniels, but there were also a few whippets, hounds, and Pekinese mixed in.
"Don't they have sweet faces?" asked Lawrence March. He plucked a smaller Stafordshire terrier from the shelf and placed it in Theodosia's eager hands. "Wouldn't you like to give this pooch a home?"
Theodosia turned over the ceramic dog and glanced at the price. It was marked nine hundred dollars.
"I can let you have it for six," Lawrence March told her. He leveled his gaze at Drayton, who was still glowering. "When my dear wife, Lucinda, died of pancreatic cancer ten years ago, I swore I'd never attend another funeral again. And I haven't." Lawrence March's old eyes snapped with defiance.
Drayton relented. "All right, Larry. Point well taken." Theodosia, meanwhile, was wandering around March Forth, trying to get a feel for its owner. Lawrence March seemed like a straight-ahead type of fellow, she decided. She couldn't imagine that he'd had a bone to pick with Harper Fisk. According to Drayton, Lawrence March had been a regular at Harper Fisk's store for a number of years. And she'd heard no rumors of a rivalry or even a falling-out between the two men.
On the other hand, familiarity can breed contempt, Theodosia decided as her eyes scanned a lovely Sheraton table that displayed at least two-dozen teacups and matching saucers atop its glowing surface.
"Miss Browning," said Lawrence March, smiling at her. "I just realized I'm hosting the absolute plum-perfect seminar for someone like you."
Theodosia looked over at him. "Pardon?"
"You like old fabrics?" Lawrence March asked her, a twinkle dancing in his eyes.
"Love them," she said. In fact, she had amassed quite a collection of tea towels, linen tablecloths, and paisley shawls.
"And it stands to reason you love tea," continued Lawrence March.
Theodosia peered at him with curiosity. Where is this leading?
"It so happens I'm sponsoring a tea-dyeing class this Friday," said Lawrence March. "My friend, Hillary Retton, from Popple Hill Interior Design, is coming in as instructor. It's what we call a fabric and finish class." He smiled shyly at her. "Would you care to attend?"
Tea dyeing? With old fabrics?
"Are you kidding?" Theodosia enthused. "I'd love to come."
And why not? she decided. It sounds marvelous. Plus, it'll give me a chance to take a closer look at Lawrence March and maybe even get him to open up about Harper Fisk See if he knew about any problems Harper might have had with the other members of the English Breakfast Club.
"I see I have to twist her arm," Lawrence March said to Drayton, who was still looking somewhat puckery. "Oh buck up, Drayton," March continued. "You look like you swallowed a lemon."
CHAPTER 14
TEA KETTLES WHISTLED and chirped, customers had been dropping in every few minutes for takeout or a sitdown cuppa, but Haley had held down the fort with very little effort.
"How was the memorial service?" she asked Theodosia and Drayton as she sped by them carrying an ornate silver tray bearing small plates of shortbread squares topped with homemade lemon curd.
"Awfully sad," said Drayton. "Although I must say, Magnolia Cemetery was as beautiful and soothing as ever." Haley was back in a wink to grab a newly filled teapot of Gielle Garden Darjeeling.
"That Darjeeling's second flush, you know," Drayton was quick to point out. He'd already removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and donned a long white apron.
"I know, I know," said Haley.
"Means your water temperature better be a trifle hotter and your steeping time a minute or two longer."
"I've got it," said Haley. "But thanks anyway, Drayton." She never failed to marvel at how Drayton so deftly kept track of the various steeping times and water temperatures for all the different teas. Then again, brewing and blending was what he did. Tea was Drayton's passion.
"Your grilled sirloin smells heavenly," said Theodosia as she emerged from the back. "What magic have you been working with spices?"
"Not all that much," Haley replied. "Just slathered the meat with my special tea-bone sauce. Once the steak chills, I'll slice it extra thin and serve it on tiny baguettes with a garnish of watercress. For a side salad I'm doing bibb lettuce with fresh tomatoes and buttermilk dressing. Simple but tasty."
"Though the dressing's sinfully rich," said Theodosia.
"I should say so," agreed Drayton. He glanced at the sweating, half-filled pitchers of iced tea that sat on the counter. Obviously the Indigo Tea Shop had already done a land office business in take-out iced tea. "Do we need more of this?" he asked, hefting one of the pitchers.
"Yes!" exclaimed Theodosia and Haley in unison.
By the time Burt Tidwell dropped in around one-thirty, lunch was pretty much history. Theodosia, Drayton, and Tidwell took the table nearest the kitchen so they could chat undisturbed, while Haley patrolled the tea room with a pitcher of iced tea in one hand, a pot of hot Assam tea in the other.
"Detective Tidwell," said Drayton. "We have enough sirloin tidbits for the makings of perhaps one more sandwich. Are you interested?"
Tidwell's beady eyes fairly gleamed. "Kind of you, Drayton. It's always difficult to postulate on an empty stomach."
Theodosia didn't imagine that Burt Tidwell ever did much postulating on an empty stomach, but she was willing to indulge him today. Especially if he'd come bearing information.
Theodosia and Drayton sipped their iced tea while Tidwell made short work of his sandwich.
"This is no ordinary sauce," he remarked with great appreciation.
"Haley whips green tea with lemon juice, soy sauce, and honey," said Drayton. "And I think some ginger and chili pepper."
"Tasty," said Tidwell, licking a finger. "It imparts an extra zing."
"Detective Tidwell," said Theodosia. "Could I also offer you a cup of tea?"
Tidwell leaned back in his chair with what appeared to be a good deal of satisfaction. "What was it Dickens said?" Tidwell rolled his eyes skyward as though trying to recall. "Oh yes, it was, `My dear, if you could give me a cup of tea to clear my muddle of a head, I should better understand your affairs."'
"Very good," said Drayton, impressed.
Theodosia returned with a small blue and white teapot and poured Tidwell a cup of Chun Mee, a pale yellow tea that yielded a smooth plum-like flavor. Grown in northern China, Chun Mee was also known as "Precious Eyebrows."
"I know what's occupying your mind," said Tidwell, gazing placidly at her as she took her seat at the table.
"What's that?" asked Theodosia as the sides of her mouth twitched faintly. Tidwell certainly had keen powers of observation, she decided.
"You're no doubt wondering if I took a good, hard look at Lieutenant Benjamin Clark." Tidwell paused and took a sip of tea. "Or any of the other members of the so-called English Breakfast Club."
"Well," said Drayton, leaning forth anxiously. "Have you?"
"Not really," said Tidwell.
"Well, at least give us your thoughts on Buddy Clark," said Theodosia. ".Do you think someone actually took a shot at him?"
Tidwell favored her with a mild gaze. "Probably. The most likely scenario is that it was indeed accidental."
"Is that so?" said Drayton. "I thought perhaps someone fired a shot directly at the poor devil."
Tidwell took another sip of tea. "Doubtful. The slug entered the house some two feet above Clark's head. If someone had been aiming at him, they were a pretty poor shot.”
“ Could he have staged it himself?" asked Theodosia.
Tidwell shrugged. "Don't know. No one ever checked to see if Lieutenant Clark owned a rifle. Or any other guns, for that matter."
"Why not?" asked Theodosia. "No reason to," said Tidwell.
Drayton furrowed his eyebrows and the words he delivered were short and clipped. "But you're still of a mind that Harper Fisk might have been the victim of foul play.”
