Chamomile Mourning, page 7
"So sorry about Roger," Drayton told him as the two solemnly shook hands. "He was such a tremendous asset to the Heritage Society. Roger never hesitated to give us both time and energy. As you can imagine, we're absolutely heartsick over the circumstances."
"Thank you," rasped Weller, who looked as though he'd just been interrupted and couldn't wait to get back to what he'd been working on. "I'll tell Simone you're here."
Russell Weller disappeared through a swinging door, leaving Theodosia and Drayton to wander the rather large and grandiose gallery. Sparkling chandeliers hung overhead, spilling their light on antique French buffets and writing desks. Gleaming oil paintings hung on the walls and glass cases filled with old porcelains seemed to be sandwiched everywhere. Scattered throughout the enormous room were dozens of enormous, colorful vases that could only be termed jardins.
"Weller's a little like Timothy Neville, isn't he?" whispered Theodosia, peering at a lovely collection of antique tartan ware enameled boxes. "But without the money and manners."
"Good lord," exclaimed Drayton. "Don't ever let Timothy hear you say a thing like that! Weller's always been a bit standoffish and antisocial. I understand that he and Roger barely exchanged more than fifty words a year." He paused. "Did you happen to notice that awful suit?"
"If I didn't know better," said Theodosia, "I'd say Russell Weller was trying out for a part in Guys and Dolls." Indeed, the navy pinstripe suit did have a certain racy, gangster patina to it.
"Sometimes you can be a very wicked woman," said Drayton, trying hard to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upwards.
Peering into another of the lighted glass cases, Theodosia remarked, "They really do have some nice pieces here, don't they?"
"Crispin and Weller handles only the crème de la crème,” responded Drayton, stepping up to a tall, antique case. "Come, look at this."
Theodosia ducked around a bronze statue of a garden nymph to stand next to Drayton.
The elegant old case displayed a half dozen very tasty objects. A Chinese Yi-Shing teapot in the shape of the Buddha's hand, a silver urn, two Greek marble heads in almost perfect condition, and a cloisonné vase. And on the top shelf, a gleaming fanciful marble egg, rimmed in gold and encrusted with rubies, pearls, and sapphires.
"Tell me that isn't a real Faberge egg," said Theodosia, awestruck.
"I assure you it's quite authentic," said Drayton. "Rather marvelous, wouldn't you say?"
Theodosia gazed at the Faberge egg. Until now, she'd only seen photos of the famous eggs that had been created for the Tsars of Russia by Carl Faberge and his skilled team of artisans, jewelers, and goldsmiths. But as her eyes drank in the splendor of this Faberge egg, she realized the photographs she'd seen didn't do them justice. Here was impeccable craftsmanship merged with elegance like she'd never seen before. A splendid little sculpture fit for a king. Indeed, fit for a Tsar!
"Most of the Faberge eggs that made it into this country were eventually incorporated into the Forbes collection," said Drayton. "But a year or so ago, that entire collection was purchased by a wealthy Russian industrialist and taken back to Moscow."
"I hope the collection was put on display in a museum," said Theodosia. "So everyone can enjoy it."
"We can only hope," said Drayton.
Twenty minutes later they were still waiting for Simone Crispin.
Drayton paced, glanced at his watch, snorted loudly, and stewed inwardly. "This is awful! Waiting for Simone is like Waiting for Godot," he said, referencing Samuel Beckett's existential play where the title character never does show up. "Where on earth could she be?" he huffed.
"Simone is such a pretty name," said Theodosia, trying to deflect Drayton's attention from what was fast becoming a tedious wait. "Do you know, is she French?"
"Not one whit," sniffed Drayton, "although she pretends to be."
Finally Simone Crispin swept into the gallery to greet them.
Tall, with a regal bearing, she looked almost like an older version of Delaine. Mid fifties, heart-shaped face, arched eyebrows, hair pulled into a swirl atop her head. But whereas Delaine had a softness and vibrancy about her, Simone Crispin seemed cool and brittle.
Theodosia peered closely at Simone. Was her skin really that nice and tight or had she had some work done? she wondered.
"My dear Mrs. Crispin," began Drayton, after he'd made polite introductions. "All of us at the Heritage Society are so terribly sorry about your tragic loss." Drayton was conducting himself as a proper gentleman again. A far cry from the fidgeting, stewing visitor he'd been a few moments earlier.
Simone Crispin gave an imperceptible nod. A sign for Drayton to continue.
"We are also heartsick that such a terrible tragedy would take place at the Heritage Society." Drayton's clasped hands spread open in a supreme gesture of appeal.
Simone nodded again. "We do not choose our place of death," she murmured, a sad smile lighting her face.
The words drama queen suddenly popped into Theodosia's head as she watched Simone closely. Could she be enjoying this little bit of theatrics? wondered Theodosia. Just a teensy bit? Could it be that Simone isn't all that heartbroken?
"You are so right," said Drayton. "The choice is never ours. Which is why the Heritage Society wishes to carry on with our auction this Saturday evening." He paused for several beats. "That is ... provided you do not harbor any serious reservations." It was more a question than a statement.
"I have no problem whatsoever with the auction proceeding as planned," purred Simone. "In fact, I'm sure Roger would have wanted everyone to carry on."
"That was our thought, too," murmured Drayton. "But you are a kind and generous woman to give the Heritage Society your blessing on this event."
"Thank you for stopping by," said Simone, beginning to edge away.
"Do you know ... ?" began Theodosia, deciding to take a quick shot in the dark. After all, she was here and this might be the only chance she had at talking with Simone. "Do you know if the police have any suspects in mind?"
Drayton telegraphed a warning glance to Theodosia, which Simone seemed not to notice.
"Yes; they do," said Simone, who didn't seem to object to Theodosia raising the subject. "At first they suspected his death was somehow related to a business deal gone awry, but . . ." Simone put a hand to her heart and her eyes drilled into Theodosia's. "My husband was also guilty of, shall we say, certain infidelities." Her voice sounded bitter, but she looked completely unruffled.
She's a cool character, thought Theodosia. On the other band, so is Russell Weller. That antisocial act can cover up a lot.
At Simone's mention of infidelities, Drayton blanched. For him the conversation had clearly veered off in the wrong direction, way outside his comfort zone.
"I'm sure you've spoken to the police about Roger's ... ah ... relationships," said Theodosia, trying her best to look sympathetic. "Of course, that's usually the first thing the police ask about. Possible enemies, current or past, as well as personal involvements."
Simone nodded and a fierce light shone in her eyes. "You're quite correct. And you might be interested to know that I've advised them to take a very careful look at a young woman who recently became a tenant in one of Roger's commercial properties."
"Again," said Drayton, interrupting suddenly. "Thank you very much, and please know you have our absolute deepest sympathies." Nervously, he grasped for Simone's hand and pumped it heartily. "All of us at the Heritage Society are so very grateful for your understanding."
"You're very welcome," said Simone, favoring him with a dazzling smile. "Perhaps we'll speak again on Thursday. Roger's funeral, you know. St. Stephens."
"Of course," said Drayton, plucking at Theodosia's sleeve. "Sorry, but we really must be going!"
"Gracie!" exclaimed Theodosia once Drayton had managed to pull her outside. "Simone was talking about Gracie Venable! She's trying to steer the police toward Gracie when she has absolutely no reason to."
Drayton mopped his brow with a hanky. "Did you have to be so all-fired direct?" he asked sharply. "My goodness, the entire conversation took a horribly uncomfortable turn due to your probing questions!"
"Probing to you, maybe," said Theodosia. "I'd say Simone relished the whole thing. Made her feel important and painted her in a sympathetic light. You know, the poor wronged widow."
They climbed into Theodosia's Jeep and she started the engine.
"You don't suppose Simone really does have evidence of some sort of"-Drayton searched for the right phrase"hanky-panky, do you?" he asked. He'd settled for that rather tame descriptor rather than call it an out-and-out affair. He, too, had gotten to know Gracie Venable and had grown to admire her gumption and feisty spirit. He didn't want to think about the possibility that Gracie might have enjoyed a liaison with Roger Crispin.
Theodosia shook her head. "If you ask me, Simone's accusations sound like sour grapes." She turned the wheel sharply, pulled her vehicle into the street, and accelerated into traffic. "The possibility exists, you know, that Simone is trying to deflect attention off herself and onto Gracie."
"Good heavens, you can't believe the woman had a hand in doing away with her own husband!" said Drayton. Theodosia stared straight ahead. She knew that spouses and family members were the first ones to come under police scrutiny these days. Probably because spouses and family members were also responsible for a high percentage of murders.
"Of course, I don't know that Roger and Simone had the happiest of marriages," commented Drayton.
"That was my impression, too," said Theodosia. "Otherwise she wouldn't have been quite so eager to bring up the infidelities part. So ... Roger and Simone live ... lived ... where?" she asked.
Drayton thought for a moment. "Charming brick Georgian-style home over on Tradd Street. The one with the spectacular wrought-iron gate on the side. Although, I think Simone spends a fair amount of time in the country. They also own a farm, Hilloway I think it's called, somewhere off Rutledge Road. You know, not too far from the Wildwood Horse and Hunt Club. Seems to me I heard she was into organic gardening or something like that. Doesn't believe in poisoning the earth with chemicals."
"Sounds like Simone doesn't live all that far from Aunt Libby's," said Theodosia. Her Aunt Libby Browning lived at Cane Ridge Plantation just off Rutledge Road, too. It was a former rice plantation where her father had also grown up. Now he was buried out there alongside her mother. In the small family plot surrounded by a crumbling stone fence and sheltered by an enormous live oak. A place shrouded in memories and tradition.
"Thanks goodness Simone gave us her blessing to proceed with the auction," sighed Drayton. "If she'd objected I don't know what I would have done. As it is I still need to follow up with a dozen or so galleries, contact Sheldon Tibbets about a quick story, make sure the great hall is set up again; and finalize the menu with the caterer."
"I met your caterer," said Theodosia, thinking back to her quick meeting with Parker Scully. "He seemed responsible enough. I don't think you'll have to worry."
"I always worry," said Drayton as they bumped along. His mind had obviously leapt ahead to finalizing the details for Saturday night, whereas Theodosia was still pondering their meeting with Simone Crispin and the murder of her husband Roger.
"Do we have time to make another stop?" Theodosia asked suddenly.
Drayton glanced at his watch, an ancient Patek-Phillipe that perpetually seemed to run a few minutes slow, and pursed his lips. "It's three," he said. Drayton got fidgety whenever he was away from the tea shop during business hours.
"Which means afternoon teatime is well under way," reasoned Theodosia. "So even if we head straight back they'll still be closing things up in a little while."
"I suppose Haley and Miss Dimple are covering things adequately," fretted Drayton. "What did you have in mind?"
"Oh good heavens," exclaimed Drayton as they rocked to a stop in front of Passports, Jester Moody's elegant shop on King Street. "What's this about?"
"Chalk it up to curiosity," said Theodosia as she pushed the driver's side door open.
"That's exactly what you said about Simone," said Drayton, easing himself out of the Jeep, looking nonplussed. "And look what an unpleasant conversation that turned out to be."
"I seriously doubt this visit will be any friendlier," remarked Theodosia as they crossed the sidewalk and stepped into Jester Moody's rather intriguing little shop. "Come on Drayton, buck up!" she whispered.
Stepping inside Passports was like stepping inside Beijing's Forbidden City, Theodosia decided. Right into the imperial storeroom of the Last Emperor. Han figures, Tang horses and warriors, and exquisite oxblood and celadon vases sat majestically on Chinese rosewood tables and elegant lacquer shelves. An enormous terra-cotta statue that looked suspiciously like one of the ancient warriors excavated at Xian loomed against a back wall covered in gold brocade and highlighted by pinpoint spotlights. The faint scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air.
"Oh my," exclaimed Drayton. "Jester's certainly changed things around. Stepped up his caliber of merchandise, I'd say."
Jester Moody glanced up from where he sat at an ornately carved rosewood desk. An array of small jade figures were spread out before him and a customer, a gray-haired gentleman in a cream-colored suit, sat across from him, handling the various jade pieces.
"Hello there," called Drayton, taking the initiative, putting a friendly note in his voice.
Jester glanced quickly at the customer across from him. When he seemed satisfied that the man was busily engrossed in examining a small jade horse with a jeweler's loupe, he rose to greet Theodosia and Drayton.
Theodosia noted Jester's almost noiseless approach as he glided across an elegant expanse of Chinese rug. Silk, she decided. That rug has to be loomed of pure hand-spun silk. Handmade and hand knotted. How much would something like that cost? Fifty? Sixty thousand dollars?
"Drayton," said Jester, a scowl across his darkly handsome face, "I wasn't expecting you."
Drayton tried to keep it light and snappy. "Jester, this is Theodosia Browning ... you remember Theodosia, don't you?" he asked and Jester nodded slowly. "We were just passing by and decided to pop in and take a gander at your shop. You know, Theo's absolutely passionate about Chinese art."
Jester raised an eyebrow and favored her with a remote look. "You're a collector?"
"Of sorts," said Theodosia. "I have a few Chen Lung celadon tea bowls and a lovely Chinese landscape painting that I think might have been done by Zhou Lung."
"You should bring it by sometime," said Jester, mildly interested now. "Let me authenticate it. Those monochromatic pieces are fetching big prices these days, especially from wealthy Taiwanese collectors."
"I'm delighted you've elected to donate one of your Chinese swords to the auction," said Drayton.
"It certainly took long enough to get my notice of acceptance," growled Jester.
"You were afraid your piece had been turned down?" asked Theodosia.
Jester narrowed his eyes and gazed at her in stony silence. "Because, as I recall," she went on, "you were quite upset the night of the Poet's Tea. Worried your piece hadn't made the cut."
Jester suddenly shrugged. "I'm a passionate man, what can I say? It's the nature of the beast." He pivoted a half-turn and focused his attention on Drayton. "Now you're the man in charge of the auction."
"That's right," said Drayton.
"Then your dropping by is rather serendipitous. I haven't had a chance to deliver my piece to the Heritage Society since my notification was so late in coming. Any chance you could take it with you now?"
"It would be our pleasure," responded Drayton.
"If you'll follow me," said Jester, starting toward the back room where his office and storeroom were located. "I have it all wrapped and ready to go."
"Wonderful!" said Drayton as he followed Jester into the back.
While Theodosia waited for Drayton, she wandered about Passports, admiring the collection of Chinese art objects. She noted that Jester seemed particularly fond of Chinese bronzes, elaborate ritual vessels that had been placed in ancestor graves some four thousand years ago. Most bronze vessels had been created to hold wine or grain and were decorated in archaic script and fanciful animal motifs. One in particular, a tripod-style vessel that sat high atop a cabinet of inlaid wood, caught Theodosia's eye. Embellished with rows of flanges and patinated a rich green, it was spectacular to behold. Wanting to read the particulars about it, Theodosia reached up to grab the descriptor card that had tipped over. As she did so, her hand brushed against something soft. Startled, she drew back, then found herself gazing at a dozen Chinese calligraphy brushes hanging on a teak brush rack. From large to small, they hung, brush side down, in a neat and orderly row.
Beautiful, she thought as she stared at the Chinese brushes. And perfect for Drayton's calligraphy. I wonder how much they cost?
Turning over the little tag, Theodosia flinched. Four hundred dollars! Yipes. Even though his birthday was coming up in a few months, that was still a pretty stiff price to pay.
Turning her attention back to the shop, Theodosia continued to poke about, looking at Chinese art objects. She'd come here to take an up close and personal look at Jester Moody, but now that she was here, she really didn't view him as a likely suspect. If Jester had intended to kill Roger, he certainly would have been more subtle about it. Wouldn't he? She thought about that for a moment.
What would Jester's motive have been? Anger over some imagined slight concerning the auction? Or was there some other agenda? Had Crispin and Weller been tapped to handle some of Jester Moody's pieces and the deal had gone sour?
Hmm.
"Jester's certainly a prickly fellow," Theodosia said, once they slid the bubble-wrapped Chinese sword into the back of her Jeep and bolstered it in place with rolls of bubble wrap and a couple cardboard boxes. Their visit had pretty much confirmed Theodosia's suspicion that Jester Moody wasn't the sweetest pickle in the jar.
