The English Breakfast Murder, page 5
Watching her bustle about the kitchen from his alert "sit" position, Earl Grey's long tail beat a rhythm on the wooden floor.
"Good boy," Theodosia told him. "Time to go visit our old friends. Let me make a couple calls."
When Theodosia and Earl Grey climbed the back stairs to their apartment, it was exactly 8:00 P.M. Too early to go to bed, too late to really do anything. So Theodosia decided to flake out for the rest of the evening. Maybe pour herself a glass of wine, play a relaxing CD, and for sure put her feet up. And of course, have a little nosh.
Haley had been considerate enough to leave behind a "care package" for Theodosia. Leftovers from the day's two tea parties, but still very tasty. A dab of fruit salad, three small tea sandwiches, and a slice of quiche. So, as she pulled the cork from a chilled bottle of Pouilly Fousse, Theodosia also popped the quiche into the microwave and heated it up.
Woof.
Theodosia turned on her heels to find the inquisitive eyes of Earl Grey focused intently upon her.
"I suppose you're pretty hungry, too," she said to him. Scooping a cup of kibbles from the Scooby Doo cookie jar that held Earl Grey's food, she dropped the dry morsels into his dish.
But the dog just sat and stared at her, daring her to do better.
"I take it my culinary creation isn't quite up to snuff?" she asked him.
Come on, his shiny brown eyes pleaded.
Theodosia dug in her refrigerator for a carton of plain yogurt, then scooped a giant dollop onto the dry kibbles. "There you go, buddy. Topping."
Topping was one of the magic words in Earl Grey's lexicon. For the dog suddenly dove at his silver dog dish with all the enthusiasm of a major league ball player who'd just whacked out a strong line drive and was headed for first base.
Theodosia slid her warmed-up quiche onto a pretty Limoges plate, added the tiny sandwiches and daub of fruit salad, then grabbed her glass of white wine and headed for the couch.
Life was pretty perfect, she decided as she munched her food and sipped her wine. The Indigo Tea Shop had netted a very tidy profit today-more than sixteen hundred dollars when you totaled up receipts for all the lunches and the addon purchases that included tins of tea, teapots, and some of the T-Bath products. Pretty terrific results for a single day's work.
Gazing about her apartment as she enjoyed her dinnertime leftovers, Theodosia was pleased at how well her renovations were going. A couple years ago, she'd been a shabby chic kind of girl, enamored with all the delights of flaking white paint, antique wicker, and Country French decor.
But over the last year or so her tastes had begun to change. While she still adored the subtleties of the French palette-the ivories, pale pinks, and pastel blues-the colors and decor in her apartment had now taken on more of an old world patina.
Pale peach walls had been replaced with a rich Chinese red done in a marbleized technique. Chairs and a sofa that had once been upholstered in chintz and prints were recovered in elegant mauve damask. Accent pillows were velvet and fringed. The tone, the entire attitude, of her apartment was so much richer now.
Two seascape paintings that had always looked a little too moody for her living room suddenly looked right at home with this new subdued, elegant interior. Two more Aubusson rugs were acquired at auction, and Drayton had located an antique mirror with an over-the-top wildly rococo frame. Now it hung over the fireplace, a perfect accent piece.
Dabbling a toe in the realm of decorating, Theodosia found that she absolutely adored this look that was so distinctly Old Charleston.
Would you believe it? Now she was seriously considering eggplant walls and a Chinese screen for her dining room!
Wow, she thought, pretty soon my little apartment is going to take on the patina of one of Timothy Neville's fancy drawing rooms. Timothy Neville, the curmudgeon president of the Heritage Society, was famous for his tortoiseshell-look high-gloss walls, Louis XVI furniture, and over-the-top finery.
Well, Theodosia decided as the telephone shrilled at her elbow, I could find myself in worse company.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Theodosia!" came a warm greeting. It was Jory Davis, the young attorney who was, as Charlestonian ladies of a certain age would say, currently squiring her about town. "How did your teas go?" he asked.
"Fabulous," she told him. "We even had to turn people away."
Jory let out a low whistle. "I'm impressed. I know that tea is wildly popular, but I had no idea ladies were so infatuated with attending formal teas."
"Listen, my friend," she told him, "sometimes attending a tea is the only shred of sanity left in a woman's life. Between kids and jobs and husbands and boyfriends, or ex-husbands or-"
"I get the idea." Jory laughed. "It's the perfect opportunity for women to really talk, isn't it?"
Recalling some of the snatches of conversation she'd heard earlier today, Theodosia had to agree. Whispered secrets about boyfriends and husbands, quirky bosses, strange friends, and problem children had flown fast and furious today. However, she wasn't about to spill any of those confidences. At the Indigo Tea Shop, teatime was also sacred time.
"I was wondering if you'd like to go for a sail tomorrow?" said Jory. "I figured you could use a little R and R after the last couple days."
Jory was well aware of her grizzly discovery in the water last night and had been more than sympathetic.
"Perfect," said Theodosia. She made a quick mental inventory of what Haley had stashed in the refrigerator downstairs, figured she could rustle up a fairly decent picnic lunch. "Want me to bring along some food?"
"I was hoping you'd volunteer," said Jory.
"Okay then," said Theodosia. "I should meet you ... when?"
"How about the Charleston Yacht Club at around ten o'clock. I'll get there early and rig the sails. Then all m'lady has to do is step aboard. How does that sound?"
"Works for me," said Theodosia. "See you then."
"Pleasant dreams, kiddo," said Jory Davis.
As Theodosia hung up the phone, her eyes fell on the stack of grant applications that sat on the coffee table in front of her sofa. Naomi Morison, a friend of hers at the Charleston Arts & Science Foundation, had asked if she would read a dozen or so of the grant requests that had been submitted to the CASF and make a preliminary recommendation.
The CASF was a philanthropic foundation that awarded grant money to worthy arts and science projects. From the cover sheet that Naomi had sent along with her packet, Theodosia knew that the CASF had funded such diverse projects as the Charleston Children's Puppeteer Club, an archaeological dig at the old Haislet plantation out near Mount Pleasant, and the restoration and preservation of a turn-of-the-century blacksmith shop. In past years, the CASF has also given funding to the Charleston Sea Turtle Protection League as well as the Heritage Society.
Theodosia sighed. She was not unused to this kind of work. She sat on the board of directors of Big Paw, Charleston's service dog organization, and had also done a good deal of pro bono publicity work for Spoleto, Charleston's major arts festival. Of course, this was the first time she'd actually been asked to read grant requests and make specific dollar amount recommendations. It seemed like a fairly daunting task. There were so many worthwhile projects and organizations and just a finite amount of funding available. Oh well ... perhaps one of the grant requests would pop out at her ... stand head and shoulders above the rest.
Yawning, she cast a sleepy eye toward the stack. At least she hoped one would.
CHAPTER 5
SOMETHING WAS INTERRUPTING Theodosia’s dream of a perfect journey through Tuscany. Rolling yellow hills and purple fields were fading fast as a piercing sound invaded what had been a lovely, contemplative landscape, slightly along the lines of an Impressionist painting. The piercing sound of ... what?
Telephone! Wake up, lazy. It's morning.
"Hello?" Theodosia fumbled for the old-fashioned French-style telephone that sat on her night table.
"Theodosia? Sorry to wake you, but it's very-"
"Drayton?" she said.
"Yes, it's me. Sorry to be in such a tizzy, but they found the boat."
Boat? What boat? Was Drayton talking about Jory's boat? No, he couldn't be.
She yawned. "Slow down, Drayton. Tell me what's going on."
"It was just on the early-morning news. A small boat washed up near the old lighthouse on Sullivan's Island." Drayton paused. "They think it might be Harper Fisk's boat.
"Who thinks that?" asked Theodosia. She sat up, swung both feet out of bed, slid them across the small rug by her bed. When they touched the cool floorboards of her bedroom, it seemed to have a stabilizing effect on her.
"Believe me, I never would have jumped to that conclusion myself," said Drayton. "But it's what the Channel Sixteen reporter said. One of those eager beaver direct-from-the-scene fellows, you know the type."
So Harper Fisk fell out of a boat after all, thought Theodosia.
"Listen," said Drayton, obviously very worked up about this new development. "We've got to get over there! Maybe try to get a look inside that boat." He paused. "Theo?"
"I'm thinking, Drayton."
What can I do? She peered at the numerals on her antique clock. It read seven-thirty.
"Theodosia?" said Drayton. Now he seemed on the verge of hysteria.
"Tell you what," she said to Drayton. "I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes, okay? Be on the curb outside your house." Fastest, most direct way to Sullivan's Island is straight across the harbor. Take off from the Yacht Club, cut around Patriots Point, head toward that lighthouse.
Relief was apparent in Drayton's voice. "Thank you, Theo. I knew I could count on you. You know this means a lot to me."
"I know that, Drayton."
"Theo," he said, urgency coloring his voice. "You can get a boat?"
"Yes, Drayton, I can get a boat."
"Jory," began Theodosia as he picked up his phone. "Slight change of plans. Can you borrow a speedboat?" Jory Davis was still a little sleepy. "Uh ... yeah. Sure." In the background was the whoosh of running water and the clatter of a pan: He must be must be stumbling around his bachelor's kitchen, making coffee. The image may have caused her to smile, but she didn't let up on her sense of urgency.
"Right away? Now?" asked Theodosia.
There was a slight hesitation then Jory said, "Shouldn't be a problem. I've got a set of keys for Paulie Foster's boat. It's a big Sea Ray Amberjack. Say, you want to tell me what this is all about?" Jory was starting to wake up fast. Theodosia paused.
"Holy smokes," said Jory, suddenly catching on. "This is about the other night, isn't it? The Harper Fisk thing?"
"Absolutely it is," said Theodosia.
"Okaaay," said Jory. "So we'll still meet at the Yacht Club...”
"But we'll have to condense our timetable considerably," said Theodosia. "See you on the dock in fifteen minutes?"
"Fifteen ... ?" came Jory's surprised voice. But he was talking to dead air.
Slap, slap, slap.
The twenty-seven-foot Sea Ray Amberjack carrying Theodosia, Jory, and Drayton barreled across Charleston Harbor, its 240-horsepower Mercury outboard emitting a powerful whine and arcing out a giant spray of foam. Buzzing along at a brisk sixteen knots, they could see Shutes Folly Island just off to their left. Beyond that was the much larger Garden Island, where the World War II aircraft carrier Yorktown was permanently moored at Patriots Point. Though morning haze still hung over the harbor, it would burn off by ten o'clock, and Sunday in greater Charleston would prove hot and steamy. A typical July day conducive to lazing in a hammock, sipping iced tea in the back garden, or heading for the low-country to seek out a fish fry or shop at one of the farmers' markets, abundant with fresh produce. But on Sullivan's Island, one of Mount Pleasant's three barrier islands, and the course that Jory Davis had set for their speeding boat, the ever-present sea breezes would provide cooling relief.
Not that thousands of Charleston area natives wouldn't take to the waters anyway, since Charleston was the unofficial boating capital of the South. Fishing boats, sailboats, charter boats, tour boats, and personal watercraft plied the harbors, the Cooper and Ashley Rivers, the Intercoastal Waterway, and the little rivers and inlets that led to the low-country. South Carolina was a state that ranked third in the United States for number of registered watercraft per capita.
"Where do you think that boat washed up again?" Jory asked Drayton as they began to close in on Sullivan's Island. "Just down from the lighthouse," responded Drayton. Obviously not thrilled to be a passenger in the speeding Sea Ray, Drayton had white-knuckled the trip all the way across. Theodosia squinted into the distant haze. She could barely make out the old lighthouse on the far end of the island, but Jory, old salt that he was, had immediately spotted it and set a direct course toward it.
Five minutes later, they were closing in. Jory cut the engines and the Sea Ray puttered slowly toward shore. Theodosia peered at the expanse of white sand beach.
There sat an abandoned boat all right. A Boston Whaler with a V -hull that had obviously washed in, then been hauled up a few feet onto the narrow strip of beach. Just beyond, parked on the access road, Theodosia could see two panel trucks with TV microwave equipment on top. Three cars were parked in a blacktop parking lot that fronted the beach. A squad car with lazily flashing red and blue lights, a white Toyota truck, and a burgundy Crown Victoria.
That Crown Vic belongs to Tidwell, thought Theodosia. For the old boy to be up and out so early on a Sunday, something must be going on.
Jory cut the engine completely and let the Sea Ray drift its way in to shore. A uniformed police officer walked down toward them and stopped just shy of the lapping waves. Holding one hand up, palm facing them in a gesture of authority, he barked: "That's close enough. Please restart your engine and back off."
Theodosia lifted an arm and waved to a blob down the beach that she figured had to be Burt Tidwell. Since she hadn't put her contact lenses in yet, she really couldn't be sure.
"Detective Tidwell, hello!" she called. The blob raised an arm in return. Bingo, thought Theodosia.
The uniformed officer, on seeing that their group seemed to be fairly well acquainted with Detective Tidwell, suddenly lost interest and decided to focus his efforts some twenty yards down the beach where an inquisitive posse of preteen boys on banana bikes continued to edge forward.
Drayton was the first to jump from the Sea Ray and slog through the breaking surf to the shore. It was the first time Theodosia had ever seen him totally unconcerned about getting his linen slacks damp or ruining his leather loafers.
"Is this the boat?" he called to Tidwell. "Did this belong to Harper Fisk?"
A man wearing mirrored sunglasses, a yellow polo shirt, and khaki slacks walked across the sand from the parking lot to confront him. The man put hands on hips, obviously not pleased. "Who the heck are you?" he asked Drayton as Theodosia watched from the Sea Ray.
Drayton extended a hand, which the man in mirrored sunglasses was slow in shaking. "Drayton Conneley. My friend, Theodosia Browning, and I found Mr. Fisk's body two nights ago down on Halliehurst Beach. We heard that his boat might have washed up here." Drayton's gaze shifted to the small boat some twenty yards down from them.
"Guess you heard right." The man in the mirrored sunglasses stared at Drayton. Drayton stared back, keeping his cool.
A standoff, thought Theodosia, immediately deciding she'd put her money on the indomitable Drayton.
Luckily, Detective Tidwell came sauntering over. Dressed in a flapping black shirt that looked more like the spinnaker for a sailboat and nondescript gray slacks, he clutched a red-and-white-striped paper bag in his hands. Every few minutes Tidwell would dip a chubby paw into the bag and pop something into his mouth. Theodosia couldn't tell if Burt Tidwell was chowing down on fried clams or popcorn shrimp. Whatever salty, fried treat it was, it suddenly appealed to her. With a light supper last night and no breakfast this morning, she was starving.
"Ah, Mr. Conneley," said Tidwell in a maddeningly bright voice, "I see you've met our Detective Hudson.”
“Yes, hello there," said Drayton, favoring Hudson with a perfunctory smile.
Detective Hudson ignored Drayton and turned to address Tidwell. "Tell your friends to back off. This is my case, my investigation."
Theodosia watched in amusement as Burt Tidwell rocked back on his heels and flipped a fried clam or popcorn shrimp or whatever it was into his mouth. Catching it expertly, like a trained seal, he seemed to take great relish in savoring the tasty morsel.
"Five minutes, Hudson," Tidwell told the other detective. "Five minutes."
Without waiting for an answer, Detective Tidwell turned and ambled down the beach toward the washed-up boat. Deciding she'd better make hay while the sun was still shining, Theodosia jumped from the speedboat and splashed through the water to intercept Tidwell.
"Shrimp?" he asked her as her bare feet dug into the sand and she climbed up the sand dune to meet him. He held out his striped paper bag enticingly.
"Thanks." Theodosia dug in, found a tiny, still-warm fried glob, and popped it in her mouth. Crunchy batter, still steamy inside, yielded a fried shrimp seasoned with cayenne pepper and lemon salt.
"Do you think it's Harper Fisk's boat?" Theodosia asked Tidwell.
The detective merely shrugged. "Let's have a look." Theodosia and Drayton followed Tidwell some twenty feet down to where the Boston Whaler was pulled up some six feet above the surf line. The faded registration numbers read 273809 and the name, Mary Lynn, was stenciled to the side of its bow.
