Scones & Bones, page 5
Drayton shook his head. "No.”
“Anything about the diamond?"
"Again, no," said Drayton.
"So just a rousing good story," said Theodosia. "Which probably helped net the old man a decent tax write-off."
"Something like that," said Drayton.
"But still, not much to go on," said Theodosia. She'd hoped there'd be something in the Heritage Society's papers that would propel her in the right direction, but that didn't seem to be the case.
"Disappointing," said Drayton.
Theodosia thought for a minute. "We've still got the dropped ticket."
"There's that," said Drayton, but he didn't sound hopeful. "What we need-" began Theodosia.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Is for that noise to stop," finished Drayton, a touch of irritation in his voice. "Whoever's out there should respect my CLOSED sign! After all, it's printed quite clearly in the King's English."
Another loud bang followed.
"We're closed," Drayton called.
Then the doorknob turned and the wooden door swung slowly open. And like a burly bear scouting a cave for hibernation, Detective Burt Tidwell stepped gingerly into the tearoom. His strangely shaped head swiveled as he scanned the room, revealing a large white bandage.
"Good heavens!" said Theodosia, jumping up. "I didn't expect to see you! Looks like you got quite a nasty bump last night! I hope you don't have a migraine or anything!"
"According to the doctors," said Tidwell, "I sustained an MTBI, also known as a mild concussion. Nothing to be unduly concerned about."
"Are you sure?" said Theodosia, "because anything with the word concussion attached to it sounds serious." She pulled out a chair for Tidwell and made a welcoming gesture. "Please, Detective Tidwell, sit down. Relax."
Tidwell took her advice and eased his bulk into the captain's chair. But he looked far from relaxed.
"A cup of tea?" Drayton asked, jumping into solicitous mode. Tidwell gave a tacit nod.
"How about a caramel scone?" asked Theodosia. "I know we have a couple left."
Tidwell's nod was a bit more enthusiastic this time.
A few minutes later, as Tidwell slathered gobs of Devonshire cream onto his scone, they chatted about last night's murder.
"This is not a courtesy call," Tidwell informed them. "I'm interviewing everyone who was at the Heritage Society last night."
"Lots of interviews then," said Drayton.
"Let's say I'm talking to those who were in close proximity to the scene of the crime," Tidwell amended.
"Ah," said Drayton.
"We had a visit from Nick Van Buren earlier today," said Theodosia. "He was asking questions as well, though I daresay he appears to be a step ahead of you."
"The press," snorted Tidwell. "I doubt they're breaking any new ground. But, pray tell, what exactly did you tell him?"
"Nothing," said Theodosia. "There's nothing to tell. Neither of us has a shred of information concerning last night.”
“You disappoint me, Miss Browning," said Tidwell. "Usually by now you've ferreted out a clue or two."
"Nope. Sorry," said Theodosia.
"Except . . ." said Drayton, then quickly closed his mouth. Tidwell stopped in midbite and let his beady eyes shift toward Drayton. "Except for what?"
"The ticket?" Drayton said, in a raspy voice. He glanced at Theodosia and added, "You really have to show him that ticket."
Theodosia reached into her pocket, felt around for it, then carefully placed the orange ticket in the center of the table. Tidwell gave it a cursory glance, then went back to slathering more Devonshire cream on his already overloaded scone. A veritable tsunami of Devonshire cream.
"I found it in the gallery last night," Theodosia explained. “After everyone had left. I thought maybe ... the killer had dropped it."
"Possible," said Tidwell, as he took an enormous bite then chewed thoughtfully, looking like an overgrown yet thoughtful chipmunk.
“All it says is COMPLIMENTARY MEMBERS PASS," said Theodosia. "No venue, no date."
"Mmm," said Tidwell, still chewing.
"Do you think you could take it back to your crime lab?" Theodosia asked. "Check for fingerprints or glue-fume it or something?"
Tidwell's enormous head moved from side to side in a gesture of pure exasperation. Then he swallowed hard and said, "You really have to stop watching CSI."
"Oh, please," said Theodosia. "You're just upset that I stumbled upon an actual clue."
Tidwell made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a groan.
"The thing of it is," said Theodosia, "we've made headway in other areas, too. We found out a few details about the missing skull cup."
"The one from the Hector Pruett estate," said Tidwell. Theodosia rocked back in surprise. "You already know about that?"
"I was inconvenienced," said Tidwell, "not incapacitated." He popped the last bite of scone into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
"Well," said Theodosia, "maybe you could do some sort of search on the skull cup, too. Maybe look through police records, see if it was ever reported stolen?"
Tidwell stared at her. "And why would I do that?”
“Because," said Theodosia, "there are apparently other skull cups floating around. Owned by other museums. Maybe ... well, maybe this is one of those."
"Excuse me," said Tidwell, drumming fat fingers on the table. "Who's running this investigation?"
Theodosia let loose a deep sigh. Why did it always have to be like this? Why did Tidwell always stall when it came to giving out the teeniest amount of information?
Tidwell's frown turned to a glower.
"You're running the investigation," said Drayton, stepping into the fray, trying to dispel some of the tension that hung sticky and electric in the air above their heads. "Exactly," said Tidwell.
"You know," said Theodosia, deciding to come at Tidwell from a different angle, "Timothy Neville is awfully upset.”
“Is he," said Tidwell.
"He's scared to death he might lose his directorship," said Drayton.
"Which is why," said Theodosia, "we'd appreciate being kept in the loop on this."
"There is no loop," said Tidwell. "I head the Robbery-Homicide Division, and I decide how each and every investigation is carried out." He wiped his lips delicately, pulled himself to his feet, then seemed to totter slightly.
Theodosia instinctively reached a hand out. “Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.
"Couldn't be better," Tidwell responded. He took a couple of moments to steady himself, then turned and slalomed toward the door.
"Detective Tidwell," Theodosia called after him. Tidwell hesitated, his hand gripping the doorknob.
"I'd love it if you came to my housewarming party on Wednesday night."
Tidwell's head swiveled around. "You don't have enough guests already?"
"Of course I do," said Theodosia, "but the more the merrier."
Tidwell pursed his lips. "Doubtful."
6
"I'm loving this," said Theodosia, as she stacked a pile of tinder in her fireplace, touched a match to it, and watched an orange finger of flame waver, then ignite into dazzling shades of yellow, blue, and orange. "Are you loving this?" She smiled into the soft, expressive brown eyes of Earl Grey, her canine buddy and Dalbrador mix. "Are you happy we finally have our own little home?"
Reclining on a slightly frayed blue-and-gold Oriental rug, Earl Grey cocked his head to one side and gave a speculative gaze.
"I realize," Theodosia continued, "that this is a far cry from our old apartment above the tea shop. But, if you recall, you did cast a yes vote toward our moving. Specifically, you were in favor of the fenced backyard. So you're still okay with everything, right?"
Tilting his muzzle up slightly, Earl Grey replied with a contented "Rwwr." Right.
"Thank you," said Theodosia, "because I think this place is perfect for both of us.” She added a slightly larger chunk of wood to her already blazing fire, then reached over and stroked the dog's right paw. "More room for you plus a very cozy home that's steeped in history. And you know what else?"
Earl Grey gazed at her with doggy seriousness.
"We're going to have a housewarming party here Wednesday night. So if you want to invite any doggy friends, please feel free. As long as they're exceptionally well mannered, that is. As well-mannered as you are."
Theodosia stood up, pulled her yellow cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders, then looked around her living room and smiled.
She was hopelessly in love with her new home. But who wouldn't be? Gazing at it from the street side, it appeared as though a classic English cottage had been magically transported from the Cotswolds and plunked down smack-dab in the middle of Charleston. Rough cedar tiles replicated a thatched roof, the asymmetrical design lent a quirky appearance, and architectural details included a stone chimney, cross gables, arched doors, and a lovely turret. Whatever term you used to describe the little revamped carriage house-Hansel and Gretel cottage, Tudor, or Anne Hathaway style-the place was simply adorable.
Of course, the interior had also captured Theodosia's heart. A brick-floored foyer had walls of hunter green with antique brass sconces. The living room featured a high beamed ceiling, polished wood floor, and brick fireplace set into a wall of beveled cypress panels. And now that she'd arranged her chintz sofa and damask chairs, flopped out the Aubusson carpet, and hung a few paintings, the place had literally sprung to life.
"Remind me," said Theodosia, "to move the highboy in here for the party. We can use it as a kind of serving station for wine and cheese and things."
Earl Grey rose to his feet and stared at her.
"Oh," she said, "time to go?" She looked at her watch. "Wow. It's later than I thought."
Every night around ten, the two of them enjoyed an evening constitutional. Sometimes Theodosia pulled on her leggings and running shoes and they did a fast dogtrot through the tangle of back alleys that wove through the historic district. Sometimes they just strolled along leisurely, peeking into some of the fantastic Charleston courtyard gardens along the way, marveling at pattering fountains, crumbling antique statuary, and lush foliage that had been lovingly cultivated by various owners of the various neighboring mansions for well over a century and a half.
Tonight it was a ramble. Theodosia clipped a red leather leash to Earl Grey's red-and-blue plaid collar, what she called his business-casual collar, and together they headed out the back door. Winding their way through the small backyard that was crowded with dogwood trees and magnolias, they crept past a leafy web of vines that crawled up the back wall. As the piece de resistance, a tiny fountain tumbled and burbled into a tiny oval pond that had been recently stocked with wriggling goldfish.
Stepping out into the alley, Theodosia carefully latched the gate to safeguard against marauding raccoons that might lumber in to stare beady-eyed at the fish and decide to make it their own personal sushi bar.
The night was chilly as Theodosia and Earl Grey set off. During the day, with the sun out in full force, spring was coming on like gangbusters, coaxing the local flora and fauna to bud and blossom like crazy. But evenings were still cool and damp, thanks to the fog that rolled in from the crashing Atlantic. Though this so-called marine layer softened the lights and gave everything a romantic, soft-focus appearance, the dampness could also cut to the bone.
"How was your new dog walker today?" Theodosia asked Earl Grey, as they quickstepped down the alley.
Earl Grey tossed his head, looking spunky.
When they'd lived above the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia could easily steal moments here and there for a quick stroll with Earl Grey. Now that she was a few blocks away, she'd hired a dog walker to drop by afternoons. Mrs. Berry, a retired schoolteacher from down the block, had lamented that she wanted to drop twenty pounds and saw Earl Grey as her ticket to daily enforced exercise.
"Did Mrs. Berry teach you your ABCs?" Theodosia asked him as they cut across Orange Street and headed down Tradd. "Is she secretly homeschooling you?"
Darting left, she cut down a narrow alley that had been built back in the days of the horse and carriage. Then they popped back out on King Street. This was the heart of the historic district, where grande dame homes hunkered shoulder to shoulder in grand and gracious splendor. Lovely Italianate homes with their arches, balustrades, and verandas. Victorian homes with their fanciful gables and gingerbread trim. And austere Gothic Revival homes with their pointed arches, buttresses, and stone tracery.
Amid all this grandeur was a labyrinth of back alleys and brick pathways that wound past carriage houses, service entrances, and gazebos. And there were narrow cobblestone walks that snaked between yards and outbuildings, too, making everything picturesque, contemplative, and a little mysterious.
Theodosia was thoroughly warmed up but breathing easy as they finally turned and headed down their own back alley. But twenty feet in, she suddenly became aware of footsteps.
Footsteps where? Behind me?
Hunching her shoulders forward, she continued walking, noting that Earl Grey, ears perked and crab-stepping slightly, had heard them, too.
Someone following me?
As Theodosia picked up the pace, the person behind her did, too. Though not easily prone to worry or panic, Theodosia lacked it into an even higher gear. And when she arrived at her back gate, she threw it open, ducked into her yard, drew breath, and paused. She glanced around, saw a garden spade glinting in the dark, and rested a hand on its wooden handle.
The footsteps came closer and closer until finally someone was directly across from her. Not wanting to panic, yet still not knowing all the local denizens yet, Theodosia called out a loud "Hello?"
She also tried to inject a note of authority along with a questioning tone. A tone that asked, What exactly are you up to, anyway, out there in the dark?
"Hey," answered a gruff male voice. Then a tall, darkhaired man swam into focus, and Theodosia breathed a small sigh of relief.
It was Dougan Granville, her neighbor, hotshot attorney-at-law, and the man she'd bought her home from. The seller. Granville had a well-deserved reputation as a pit bull in court and a man who was woefully short on any niceties. He was a tough negotiator who threw up tricky barriers and distractions. In other words, slippery when dry.
"How are you?" Theodosia asked Granville, trying to be friendly and feeling slightly guilty that she might have clobbered him by mistake.
Granville's answer was to stick an enormous cigar in his mouth, flip open his gold Cartier lighter, and puff mightily.
Argggh! Awful!
Blue plumes of smoke billowed from the suddenly lit cigar, polluting the night air and canceling out any subtle hints of magnolia that might have drifted across from her back garden. Granville continued to puff, his cheeks sucking in and out like a dying fish. Finally, he deigned to give an answer.
"Thank goodness you've done some planting," said Granville, lobbing an offhand wave in the direction of her backyard.
"Excuse me?" said Theodosia. How rude was this?
"That sure was a mess with your backyard all dug up."
"Not my doing," said Theodosia, who'd had to deal with the State Archaeology Office over a few strange items that had turned up in her garden. “Although the electrical certainly needed doing." Granville, as absentee landlord, had let things go and then been forced to pay for needed repairs. Though, of course, he'd dragged his feet like crazy.
Granville shrugged. "Whatever."
He stood in the darkness, staring at her. But Theodosia was unable to make out his eyes or fathom the expression behind them. All she saw was the glowing red tip of his cigar.
"You're working late," said Theodosia. Somehow she felt the need to fill this awkward conversational void.
"More like having fun," said Granville. "I was just over at DG Stogies, my new cigar store."
"Cigar store?" said Theodosia. "You have a retail business?" Not that she was all that interested.
"Cigar smoking's still huge," commented Granville, puffing some more to underscore his sentence. "We do a brisk business in Cohiba, Carlos Torano, and Kristoff Maduros. Course, it's still tough to get the good stuff from Cuba, but that's bound to change any day now."
"It all sounds very exotic," said Theodosia.
"Eh, not really," said Granville, pluming out another noxious glut of smoke.
"You know," said Theodosia, waving a hand, trying to deflect the smoke as best she could, "that smoke is really awful." Granville let loose a loud, amused snort, then turned and walked away.
"What a bozo," Theodosia muttered, as she tugged Earl Grey across her backyard. "Doesn't he realize he's polluting the entire neighborhood?" She unlocked the back door and shepherded Earl Grey inside.
Then she stopped. And checked herself.
If she had to live next door to Granville, shouldn't she try to remain on decent footing with him? Yeah, maybe.
So no nasty cracks about stinky smoke or air pollution? "Doggone," she muttered, standing in the doorway. "What do I do now that I've completely alienated him?"
Earl Grey turned to look at her and said, "Rrrrmm."
"Are you serious?" said Theodosia. "Invite him to our housewarming?"
Earl Grey gazed stolidly at her.
Theodosia considered this for a few moments. "Okay, you're probably right. It's good PR."
Feeling slightly resigned but resolute, Theodosia pulled her back door shut and marched back across the yard. Okay, she'd make nice with Granville. Knock on his back door, smile graciously, and invite him to her housewarming party. If the planets were properly aligned, he'd say no and she'd be off the hook. But in the end, she'd have scored some "good neighbor points" for extending the invitation.
Worst-case scenario, if Granville did accept her invitation and showed up, she could pawn him off on Tidwell and let the two of them bore each other to death.
Theodosia ducked out into the alley, pulled open Granville's back gate, and walked lightly up his back walk. Unlike her postage stamp-sized yard, Granville's yard was enormous. It was a decorator-done showcase garden that complemented his enormous mansion. A rectangular pool was surrounded by flower beds, shrubbery, and trees while statuary stood everywhere, glowing a faint white in the darkness. Creeping up to Granville's back door, Theodosia searched for a buzzer or knocker. Not finding one, she rapped her knuckles hard against the door. The wood, a sturdy Carolina pine, barely telegraphed her tap.
