Chamomile Mourning, page 6
"But we're ab fab because Theodosia keeps fussing," argued Haley.
"Yes, but-" began Drayton.
"Why don't you pop a chill pill, Drayton," laughed Haley. "Theo and I are planning to decorate the wreaths and garlands with teacups. We've been saving all the chipped cups and saucers and are going to tie them into the grape vines with pink and green gossamer ribbons. We're just trying to add a festive touch for the big teacup exchange this Saturday."
"Oh," said Drayton, suddenly taken aback. "That's this Saturday. Oh my." He put a hand to his cheek, crossed an arm across his chest, Jack Benny-style.
Sensing Drayton's vulnerability, Haley rushed in for the kill. "Did someone forget about the teacup exchange?" she challenged. "Even though a certain master tea blender and events manager scheduled it a full three months ago?"
Drayton straightened up and tugged unhappily at his vest. "Ah, therein lies the problem," he began by way of explanation. "That particular event was scheduled so far in advance it completely slipped my mind." He raised a hand and zoomed it past his head. "Pffft."
"Drayton's been tapped to honcho the art auction this Saturday evening," Theodosia explained to Haley and Miss Dimple. "He has a very full plate right now, so you'll have to give him a little latitude."
"Isn't it a good thing the kitchen staff didn't forget," said Haley, a rising note of triumph in her voice and a wide Cheshire Cat grin across her face. "Good thing the menu's already been thought out and planned."
"Thank you, Miss Parker," said Drayton contritely.
But Haley wasn't finished. "I also happen to know that Theodosia ordered place cards and such. So all we really need to do is finish the garlands and wreaths. Which you seem to think are extraneous to our shop."
"Extraneous was not the word I used," said Drayton. "I was merely curious as to their exact usage."
"You three," spoke up Miss Dimple suddenly, "are an absolute riot. No wonder I adore coming here." She chuckled and her stocky five-foot-tall, pleasingly plump frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O. "I declare, I'd probably do the bookkeeping for free just because of the laughs I get."
Drayton peered at her, a look of speculation on his face. "Speaking of bookkeeping, are you busy later this morning?" Miss Dimple was the bookkeeper for several shops up and down Church Street, so she was forever dashing off to the Chowder House or Pinckney's Gift Shop or Antiquarian Booksellers.
"Not really," said Miss Dimple. "Why? Do you want me to stay and help?" she asked, anticipating Drayton's question. Miss Dimple always loved to stay and help.
"Yes!" all three of them answered in unison.
"Would you please?" begged Haley. "As you can clearly see, our poor Drayton is slightly addled today."
"Honey," said Miss Dimple, "I would think you're all a little upset considering what happened the other night with poor Mr. Crispin. Let me tell you, that story's been splashed all over the TV and newspapers!"
"You're right," said Theodosia. "We're still not over that one." Not by a long shot, she thought to herself, still wondering what to do about the strange feather she'd found stuck in the stairwell. Keep quiet about it? Keep investigating? Tell Burt Tidwell? Mulling over her options, Theodosia decided the latter two were probably her smartest move.
"You know," said Drayton, "I think I'm going to drag the outdoor tables around to the front. The temperature's supposed to be in the high seventies, so it's definitely nice enough for an outdoor seating."
"And good for revenue," said Miss Dimple.
"Lucky I happened to make gallons of she-crab soup," declared Haley.
"What else are we serving, Haley?" asked Theodosia. "Chilled poached trout on a bed of field greens garnished with blue cheese and toasted almonds and jaynbon et fromage," said Haley. "Which you all know is a fancy French way of saying ham and cheese."
"Indeed it is," replied Theodosia, "but served on mini French baguettes with a dash of Dijon mustard your little sandwiches are really quite special."
"It's the poached trout that whets my appetite," declared Drayton. "With a menu this creative I'm definitely going to put our little French tables out."
Theodosia nodded. Their half-dozen little gueridon tables were authentic, marble-topped cafe tables that she and Drayton had purchased at an auction down in Savannah. A French restaurant by the name of Mon Petit had gone out of business and they'd picked up the little tables at a very good price. When clustered on the sidewalk outside the tea shop, the tables always looked very European, and customers were instantly drawn to them.
Glancing up as the door flew open, Theodosia noted that their usual morning customers were already beginning to trickle in. Better get cracking, she decided. Deal with morning teatime, an always-busy lunch crowd, and then Drayton and I have to pay a visit to Simone Crispin this afternoon. Can we get it all done? That remains to be seen!
Delaine Dish wiggled a little finger and flashed a broad pussycat smile at Drayton. She'd dropped in for lunch and brought along a friend. Dressed in a crisp suit of sea-foam green, Delaine gestured and waved like mad. Obviously, she was aching to introduce Drayton and Theodosia to her luncheon companion.
Theodosia was finally able to scuttle over to Delaine's table and slip into an empty chair beside her. "Drayton's awfully busy right now," she explained. "But I promise he'll stop by in a few moments."
Grabbing one of Theodosia's hands, Delaine beamed at Theodosia. "Honey," she said, "I just wanted you to meet Maribo Pratt."
Hello," said Theodosia, smiling at an exotic-looking woman with long dark hair, high cheekbones, and luminous brown eyes that seemed to tilt slightly. She was in her late thirties, but except for a little crinkling under the eyes could have passed for a decade younger.
"Maribo is one of my newest and dearest friends," cooed Delaine. "She owns the Segrova Gallery over on Unity Alley." The proverbial lightbulb suddenly popped on in Theodosia's head as she recalled exactly who Maribo Pratt was.
An up-and-coming gallery owner who'd garnered a fair amount of outstanding press.
"Of course!" exclaimed Theodosia. "Nice to meet you. I read about the Segrova Gallery in that terrific write-up you got in Charleston Art Scene last year. You spoke so passionately about Russian art it made me want to rush right out and start building a collection."
Maribo nodded eagerly and waved a manicured hand. "Russian art is still one of my passions. Especially the Russian Impressionists of the fifties and sixties, as well as the artists known as the Soviet Nonconformists. But right now, at this very moment, Baltic art has become the new, big thing."
"Can you believe it?" exclaimed Delaine, positively oozing enthusiasm. "Baltic art is what Russian art used to be. Hot, hot, hot. Isn't that absolutely amazing?"
Theodosia wasn't sure whether Delaine thought it was amazing art or amazing that Baltic art was suddenly so all-fired popular. Didn't matter. Delaine found a lot of things amazing. For a while anyway.
"All right, ladies," said Drayton, materializing at their table with a pot of tea: "Try a cup of this oolong.”
“Drayton!" exclaimed Delaine, who immediately launched into a gushing introduction of Maribo as well as a glowing description of the Segrova Gallery.
"Your gallery sounds marvelous," Drayton told Maribo as Delaine continued to prattle happily on. "I'd love to drop by some time. I took a connoiseurship course at the Gibbes Museum last winter and really got intrigued by Russian and Eastern European painters."
"There's absolutely no time like the present!" Delaine announced in a loud voice. "What about dropping by Segrova after lunch? I'm sure you two can steal away for a little while. Let the minions carry on with business."
"Therein lies the problem," chuckled Drayton. "We are the minions. No, I'm afraid Theodosia and I already have plans to duck out this afternoon." He turned his gaze on Maribo. "We're going to visit Simone Crispin. Formally convey the sympathies of the Heritage Society."
Maribo's lovely face crumpled. "Oh, my goodness," she said. "I've been following that story in the news! The poor man!"
"You knew Roger Crispin?" Theodosia asked her. Maribo nodded sadly. "Roger and I served on the Charleston Art and Antique Council together. He was a wonderful fellow, so knowledgeable. And I know he's done so much for the community."
"Drayton, dear," interjected Delaine, "let's not spoil what's been a lovely luncheon so far by dredging up that sordid little episode."
"No, of course not," murmured Drayton. He smiled at Maribo. "Are you enjoying the poached trout?"
"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "Only time I had better was when it was fresh caught in Montana."
"And I just adore this she-crab soup," said Delaine, not wanting to be left out.
"Where are my manners!" cried Maribo, suddenly digging into her straw handbag. She pulled out two embossed squares of vellum and handed one to Theodosia, another to Drayton. "Please, I'd love it if you both came to my gallery opening tomorrow evening. I'm premiering a new painter, Draco Vidak. This is the first time his paintings have ever been viewed by an American audience, so it's quite a coup."
"Thank you," said Drayton, squinting at his invitation and looking extremely pleased. "This sounds like a marvelous show. Draco Vidak. This artist is Russian?"
"Baltic," announced Delaine. She gave Theodosia a gentle nudge. "I'm bringing a date," she announced with a smile that bordered on smug. "Care to guess who it is?"
Somehow Theodosia just knew it had to be Jester Moody. "It's Jester Moody," chortled Delaine, savoring her big announcement. She batted her eyelashes and grinned. "He's going to be my escort, isn't that fun?"
"I'm sure you'll have a lovely time," murmured Theodosia. Amazing, she thought to herself. Delaine said she was going to date him and now she is. Score major points for the power of positive thinking. Or for Delaine's predatory skills.
"This tea is absolutely luscious," said Maribo, a twinkle lighting her eyes. Obviously, Delaine had been crowing about Jester Moody to her, too.
"If you're a tea lover, you simply must come back here this Saturday," Drayton urged her. "We're having a teacup exchange and tea tasting. I'll be brewing some first flush Singbulli Estate and some Royal Golden Yunnan," he said, leaning in toward Maribo. "The Yunnan is like drinking velvet."
"I'd love to come," enthused Maribo. "I've even got some Russian teacups I could bring." She looked around the table. "You did say it was a teacup exchange, didn't you?"
"Quite right," said Drayton. "Sounds like they'd be perfect," he added, smiling at Maribo.
"You know, Drayton," said Delaine, sensing, or perhaps hoping for, a faint spark between them. "Maribo lived in Europe for a while. And she drives a Rolls Royce."
"Hold everything," laughed Maribo. "Before anyone gets too impressed, please realize my car's an '84 Corniche. I test drove the thing on a whim two years ago down in Savannah and fell utterly in love. Of course a Rolls is an absolute bear when it comes to repairs. Hard to find Rolls Royce-certified mechanics and always tricky to find parts."
"But a beautiful auto, just the same," responded Drayton. "And where did you live in Europe?"
"Paris," said Maribo.
"The City of Light," enthused Drayton.
"I had a lovely little walk-up just off the Rue de Rivoli," said Maribo. "Not that far from the Louvre."
"No wonder you were inspired to open your own gallery," said Drayton. "Living so close to all that fantastic art."
Theodosia was clearing dishes when Burt Tidwell walked in. She'd called his office an hour ago and left a voicemail. He hadn't been at his office and she guessed he was probably out for lunch somewhere. She knew for a fact that Burt Tidwell always made time for lunch.
Tossing her a heavy-lidded glance, Tidwell shuffled to a table and sat down heavily. Drayton was beside him thirty seconds later, armed with fresh linens, flatware, a hibiscus-design footed teacup and saucer by Ucago, and a small pot of tea. Noting the setup at Tidwell's table, Theodosia bad to smile. She wasn't sure whether it was done on purpose or not, but Drayton inevitably seemed to give Tidwell the most delicate of teacups.
"Detective Tidwell," she said, hurrying over to his table. "Could I interest you in a light lunch?"
Tidwell shook his great head and his jowls sloshed slightly. "Thank you much, Miss Browning, but I've already eaten. A lovely bowl of okra gumbo at Poogan's Porch. With a side order of their rather peppery country sausage."
"Perhaps a dessert then," she said. "I happen to know Haley just pulled a pan of her special green tea-infused brownies from the oven."
The corners of Tidwell's mouth suddenly turned upward. "Green tea brownies sound like a delightful sweet treat," he told her.
"With a dollop of crème fraîche?" Theodosia asked, knowing full well he'd reply in the affirmative.
"Dollop away," Tidwell instructed her.
Tidwell was scraping up the final few crumbs when Theodosia pulled the little plastic baggy from her apron pocket and tossed it onto his table. She'd deliberated about withholding it, but decided she probably needed Tidwell's help after all. She also knew the consequences for withholding evidence could be severe. After all, her father had been an attorney.
"Pray tell, what is this?" Tidwell asked, his eyes darting between the final scraping of crumbs and a quick assessment of the baggy.
Tidwell’s version of multitasking, Theodosia decided.
"Something I found at the Heritage Society last night," said Theodosia. "It was stuck on one of the steps in the back stairwell that leads to the loft."
"You've been investigating," Tidwell said in a reproachful tone. His beady eyes drilled into her. "Or, rather, removing potential evidence from a crime scene."
"I know that-" she began.
"And now it's potentially tainted," he went on.
"Hey," Theodosia said, her tone sharpening. "I was merely looking around. Can I help it if I happened to glance down and notice this little item? Which, I might add, your crime scene team failed to discover."
Tidwell poked at the baggy with one of his big fingers. "Offhand, I'd have to say it looks like some sort of feather."
"That's what I thought, too," said Theodosia, grimacing inwardly. She knew that feathers were one of the staple items Gracie Venable used in her millinery business. Which, of course, made her feel horribly disloyal. After all, Gracie had asked for help and she'd promised to give it. And Haley had pretty much begged her to look into things, too. Now here she was, turning over what could be a key piece of evidence to Burt Tidwell.
Theodosia sighed. But what choice did she have? She wasn't a forensic investigator, she didn't have access to a crime lab.
Since Drayton and Miss Dimple seemed to have everything in the tea shop under control, Theodosia sat down next to Tidwell.
Sensing her nervousness, he picked up the plastic bag, stared at her with beady eyes. "I don't know how much you know about forensics," he murmured.
"Not much," she admitted.
"The French investigator Edmond Locard is often credited with being the father of forensics," Tidwell told her. "Locard theorized that for any two points of contact there is always a cross-transference of material from one to the other."
"So this could lead to something," she said to Tidwell. "If, in fact, there was this cross-transference. From murderer to victim. Or the area the victim was in," she stammered.
Tidwell continued to stare at her. "It's possible." Theodosia drummed her fingers nervously on the table. If she was lucky, the feather would serve to eliminate Gracie as a suspect. The feather could be from a duck or a grouse for all she knew and might incriminate the real killer.
"Talk to me," said Theodosia, fully expecting some quid pro quo for handing over what might be a useful piece of evidence. "What can you tell me about the gun that was used?"
Tidwell reached for his teacup, took a delicate sip, set it down with a clink. For such a huge man he didn't seem to have any trouble handling the tiny china teacup. "It would appear the perpetrator used some type of silencer," he finally told her.
"Do you know the type and caliber of bullet?" Theodosia asked.
Tidwell fixed her with a baleful stare. "Yes, of course." They continued their impromptu standoff, but his eyes broke away first. "I don't have to tell you we're looking hard at Gracie Venable."
These were the exact words Theodosia didn't want to hear. "So now Gracie's been upgraded from witness to suspect," she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. "If you can call that an upgrade." Theodosia decided Tidwell's pronouncement might also be a rush to judgment.
"Miss Browning," said Tidwell, "we are public servants performing our assigned tasks as best we can. And this, this homicide investigation, is a decidedly serious matter. One of Charleston's most prominent citizens was rather rudely dispatched with, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Oh, I noticed, Detective Tidwell," said Theodosia, scrambling to her feet. "How could I not notice when a dead body comes slamming down on top of my tea table!"
7
Crispin and Weller Auction House was located in a three-story Civil War-era red brick building on Beaufain Street, just a stone's throw from the King Street antiques district. In this most charming part of Charleston, visitors are always pleasantly surprised to discover the mother lode of English antiques. Much of the British-made furniture, silver, glassware, and paintings were brought over in the eighteenth century to furnish the homes of well-heeled, well-bred Charlestonians. More recently, the goods needed to stock these thriving antique stores have been acquired by savvy dealers who scour flea markets and auction houses all across the British Isles as well as up and down the Eastern Seaboard.
Theodosia and Drayton were greeted in the lobby by an acerbic-looking little man in his seventies who turned out to be Russell Weller, Roger Crispin's erstwhile partner. Weller wore wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a hard, glinty-eyed look, and he seemed to project a disapproving, somewhat sour air. His blue and white pinstripe suit was a distinct contrast to the rather staid and "tweedy" atmosphere of the auction house.
