Ming Tea Murder (19 page)

“Isn't that what the police are doing?”

“Absolutely,” said Theodosia. “Which is why I'm doing it from a civilian's point of view.”

“Interesting,” said Greaves. “But I don't see what you can learn from me. I mean, Charlotte and I have spoken fairly regularly since her husband's murder. I've done my best to keep her in the loop.”

“And she's still okay about the IPO going through?”

“We talked about it at lunch. It's practically a done deal.”

Theodosia glanced at a photo that sat on Greaves's desk. It showed a number of executives standing in a semicircle. Edgar Webster was in the middle.

She indicated the photo. “I take it Edgar Webster was the senior partner?”

“Yes, but only because he provided most of the initial financing,” said Greaves. “But you have to understand, Edgar wasn't exactly a tech guy per se. That was my bailiwick. I worked in Silicon Valley during the nineties and kind of cut my teeth on databases and data mining.”

“That's how the DOD contract came about?”

Greaves nodded. “They purchased our Versus product. We have a full suite of products, but that one's become our bread and butter. Our real claim to fame.”

“And this Versus,” said Theodosia. “This is the one that will drive your IPO? Will make investors excited about you?”

“Hopefully,” he said. He balled a fist and rapped it softly against his desk. “Knock on wood. It's what we should have done two years ago.”

“Will the IPO make you all rich?” said Theodosia.

“Comfortable anyway.” Greaves pressed his hands against his desk and pushed himself up. “Which means I should get to work.” He forced a hearty smile. “It's nice we had this time to chat.”

Short as it was
, Theodosia thought. She stood as well and glanced about his office. He was giving her the bum's rush and she knew it. Resented it.

“You have some lovely artwork here,” she said. She edged her way toward an oil painting of Charleston Harbor. It was sketchy and spattery, not her taste at all. “This one's gorgeous, just look at all those colors.”

“It's an original by Easley Harper. You know his work?”

“Some,” said Theodosia, though she'd never heard of him before. She shifted her gaze to the shadow box that hung next to it. It had a dozen small nooks and crannies of various sizes, kind of like an old-fashioned type box, and was about two inches deep with a glass cover. Each cubbyhole held a small medal or patch.

“This is interesting,” she said. “Are you a collector of military memorabilia?” She knew that Charleston was filled with memorabilia collectors, most of them Civil War buffs. But she didn't recognize these patches, and they didn't look particularly old.

“Oh, those,” said Greaves, looking a little sheepish. “They're personal. From a long time ago.”

“Yes?” Theodosia gave him the kind of bright, anticipatory smile that begs for more information.

“I earned them.”

“You were in the military,” said Theodosia. Now they were getting somewhere.

“Yes.”

Her smiled widened. “Which branch?”

“Special Forces.”

“How very interesting,” said Theodosia. “And I imagine challenging, too.” She turned to face Greaves. Now that she looked at him, really studied him, she saw that, beneath that conservative three-piece suit, he was trim and fairly well muscled. Still in very good shape.

“In which parts of the world did you serve?” Her smile beamed even brighter, but her words were clipped and to the point.

“All over, really,” said Greaves. “Angola, Mogadishu . . .” His voice faded out, as if he'd rather not rekindle old memories. Or not reveal those rougher, more lawless parts of the world where his missions had taken him.

“In other words,” said Theodosia, “you know how to kill a person with your bare hands.”

Greaves offered her a thin smile. “Not exactly.”

But from the way he said it, Theodosia knew that he could probably snap someone's neck like a matchstick. Or, without even breaking a sweat, whip an ice pick into someone's ear.

Drayton lived just
a few blocks from Theodosia in the heart of Charleston's Historic District. His quaint, 160-year-old home was a single-story cottage with a gabled roof and a narrow brick front set with elegant dark blue shutters. Now on the historic register, it had once been owned by a prominent Civil War doctor.

With the last vestiges of light fading, Theodosia hurried along the bumpy cobblestone walk toward the screened side piazza. She stepped inside and knocked on the kitchen door.

“Entre!”
Drayton called out, and Theodosia went in.

She was immediately enveloped in not just a steamy warmth, but also a mixture of tantalizing aromas. Her nose picked up bay leaves, coriander, and . . .
Good heavens, is that curry?

“What are you cooking?” Theodosia asked. “Indian food?”

Drayton shrugged into a brown tweed jacket and slid his wallet into his inside pocket. “I'm making a huge pot of country captain.”

“Oh, of course.” Country captain was a low-country tradition. Basically a chicken curry stew with lots of freshly ground and roasted spices.

“I hope the aroma isn't too overwhelming.”

“It's very nice,” said Theodosia. “Particularly this time of year, when you start craving heartier dishes and stews.” She glanced around Drayton's kitchen. It was a neat and tidy bachelor's kitchen with fine Carolina pine cupboards that he'd accented with dozens of tasty little eye catchers. A sterling silver cream and sugar set sat on the counter, several teapots from his extensive collection peered down from the shelves, and a small box of gleaming cutlery rested on a small kitchen table, which looked spindly and tippy but was really genuine Hepplewhite. She pointed at the cutlery, and said, “Are those new?” Then, “What are they exactly? Forks?”

Drayton grinned. “I finally lucked out and located that set of kipper forks I wanted.”

“Kipper forks,” she said. Trust Drayton to ferret out something as strange and obscure as kipper forks.

“You see”—he picked up one of the forks and made a jabbing motion—“you simply ease these two long prongs under the back of your kipper's head once it's fully roasted.”

Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “No, that's what you do when
your
kipper is fully roasted,” she said. She wasn't a big fish eater and wasn't thrilled with the idea of being served fish with the head still on. She didn't like food that looked back at her.

“Then you pop the spine up,” Drayton continued, “and zip it all the way out, working from head to tail.”

Drayton was still rhapsodizing about his kipper forks when they climbed into Theodosia's Jeep. She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“Are you sure you want me to come along?” Drayton asked suddenly.

“It's a little late to be worrying about that now. But, yes, I absolutely do.”

“Tell me why again.”

“For moral support, of course.”

“And because you think Charlotte might be dangerous?”

Theodosia gripped the steering wheel harder. “There's that. And something else I need to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“When I visited Roger Greaves this afternoon . . .”

“At his office, yes,” said Drayton.

“Turns out he had a nice little display of patches and emblems from his days spent with Special Forces.”

“Are those the soldiers that . . . ?”

“Yes,” said Theodosia, as they shot through an intersection. “They most certainly do.”

“Which means he could have easily . . .”

“Yes,” Theodosia said again. “He certainly could have.”

• • •

Charlotte welcomed them
into her home like she hadn't seen them in two years.

“Theodosia,” Charlotte cooed. “And Drayton. Come right in and make yourselves at home.” Wearing a fluttering pink-and-purple caftan, she led them down her hallway, past her gallery of paintings, and into her jumble of a solarium. With it full-on dark now, the glass-walled room didn't have quite the presence or punch it had with bright sunlight streaming through.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Charlotte. “Can I get you anything? A refreshing beverage perhaps?” She looked hopeful. “Glass of wine? Something stronger?”

“Nothing,” said Theodosia.

“No, thank you,” said Drayton.

“I suppose you just want to get to it, then,” said Charlotte.

“You said you'd put together a notebook?” said Theodosia. She didn't meant to be brusque, but this wasn't exactly a social call. Besides, she had a date to go running later tonight.

“Yes, of course,” said Charlotte. She toddled over to a table, grabbed a white plastic binder, and carried it back to Theodosia. “It's all in here. The various events and plans.”

Theodosia thumbed through the binder. Much to Charlotte's credit, the Bloody Mary Crawl and Haunted Hayride did seem to be fairly well-thought-out. Either Charlotte wasn't as frenetic as she appeared to be, or there were some fairly savvy volunteers with good organizational skills. Theodosia suspected the latter.

“As you can see,” said Charlotte, “there are three aspects to the event. The open houses . . .”

“How many homes will be open for visitors to tour?” Theodosia asked.

“Four lovely homes,” said Charlotte. “Three of them located right along Meeting Street, one just around the corner. You see, there are even photos of the homes.” She tapped a finger against a plasticized page.

“Very impressive,” said Drayton. Two of them were private homes that were opening their doors to the public, and two of them were bed-and-breakfasts.

“And they're all going to be decorated for Halloween?” said Theodosia. “And serving Bloody Marys?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte. “The décor is completely up to the home owner, of course. It can be as elaborate as they choose. But the really great thing is that all of the homes have good-size backyards and patios, so tables and chairs can be easily accommodated.” She smiled. “As well as the Bloody Mary bars.”

“Will nonalcoholic drinks be available, too?” Theodosia asked. She assumed this was something children might enjoy, too. After all, it was Halloween. What kid didn't love Halloween?

Charlotte nodded. “We'll provide hot cocoa and cider.”

“And will appetizers be served?” asked Drayton.

“Yes, it's all being catered by Vicks and Von Catering,” said Charlotte. “This may be a Halloween event, but it's an
upscale
event. I mean, tickets weren't cheap. Forty dollars each.”

“And they've all been sold?” said Drayton.

“Sold out as of yesterday,” said Charlotte. The phone rang suddenly, and she jumped up to answer it. “Excuse me,” and then: “Hello?”

Theodosia and Drayton could hear a loud voice booming through the phone, though they couldn't make out the exact words.

But Charlotte certainly could. “No,” she told her caller, “you're not interrupting me at all.” She turned and winked at Theodosia and Drayton. “Oh, you did?” Now she turned her back to them, hunched her shoulders, and lowered her voice. “Yes, that sounds lovely. I think I'd like that very much.”

“Get a load of her,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia. “She sounds like she's flirting. Hmm . . . the grieving widow.”

They waited patiently while Charlotte talked for another three or four minutes. Finally she hung up.

“Apologies,” said Charlotte. She sat down across from them. “That was Harlan Duke. He is such a
dear
man. He's been an absolute rock for me these past few days.”

“I'm sure he has,” said Theodosia, suddenly recalling Bill Glass's crack about Duke being next in line.

Drayton, meanwhile, had been speed-reading Charlotte's binder. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “There are the home tours, the Bloody Mary Crawl, and then there's the Haunted Hayride.”

“And a few walking tours down Gateway Walk,” said Charlotte. Gateway Walk was the three-block walking path that meandered from Archdale Street, crossed King Street, wound past the Charleston Library Society and the Gibbes Museum of Art, and ended up in the ancient graveyards behind St. Philip's Church.

“That's right,” said Charlotte. “As you can see, the entire area will be a kind of Halloween epicenter.”

“And there are guides lined up for the Gateway Walk tours?” said Theodosia.

“Yes. In fact, there's a complete list of names in the binder. Volunteers for all the venues.”

Drayton let loose a little snort. “Gateway Walk. Always purported to be haunted.”

“But it is!” Charlotte cried. “People have seen all sorts of strange things there at night. Ghosts and spooky vapors and glowing orbs, and . . .”

CRASH!

Out of nowhere, a flaming bottle suddenly slammed through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back garden. Glass shards exploded everywhere, creating a dangerous hailstorm of sparks and needlelike splinters. Then the flaming bottle hit the tile floor with a loud
thwack
, whirled wildly like some unholy game of spin the bottle, and exploded. Flaming bits of Molotov cocktail blew out everywhere into the room!

“Holy croakers!” Charlotte screamed. She jumped up from her seat and went bug-eyed as sparks burned instant holes in draperies, scatter rugs, and a slipcovered chair. Within an instant, orange and yellow flames flickered brightly and began licking their way up the side of a linen cloth that hung down from a small table.

“Whoa!” said Theodosia. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out her phone. Hurriedly poked out 911 with trembling fingers.

While Theodosia was jabbering into the phone to the dispatcher, Charlotte's single contribution to the growing conflagration was to jump up and down, wave her arms wildly, and continue to shriek at the top of her lungs.

“You hear that?” Theodosia said into her phone. “
That's
why we need the fire department!”

Much to Drayton's credit, he leapt toward the bar area, pawed around under the sink, and came up with a small fire extinguisher. He fiddled with it for a few moments, then pointed the nozzle at the worst of the flames, and pushed a red tab. A shot of white foam spewed out.

“Watch the curtains!” Charlotte screamed. “That fabric is Brunschwig and Fils. Ninety dollars a yard!”

Drayton ignored Charlotte's warning and doused the curtains where tiny burn holes smoldered.

Once Theodosia had been assured that the fire department was on its way, she rushed to the back door, flung it open, and dashed out into the backyard.

Because maybe, just maybe, she could catch the jerk who was responsible for this firebombing. Or see him running down the alley. Or leaping into his car.

Or maybe not.

The backyard was quiet and dark. Palm fronds rustled in the night wind, a tiny fountain pattered away in the corner of the patio. No sign of the jackhole who'd pitched the flaming bottle through the window.

And why a flaming bottle?
Theodosia wondered. Had it been directed at Charlotte? Because . . . Well, she didn't know what the reason might be.

Maybe to scare her? Or to warn her? Or was this just unrelated mischief?

Now Theodosia could hear the distinct shrill of sirens as they headed their way. She walked back into the house, feeling unsettled.

Mischief? No, she didn't think so. Somehow this was all connected. She just couldn't figure out how.

• • •

The firefighters were
wonderful. They charged in like knights on white horses, calmed everyone down, and put out the last of the firestorm. Then they checked everywhere for any sign of burning embers.

“An improvised incendiary weapon,” said the company officer, a man with a handlebar mustache, kind brown eyes, and a nametag that read
CAPT. WILL SCHAFER
. “You don't see that too often. You think it was neighborhood kids?”

“No,” said Theodosia. “I think it was someone intent on scaring the homeowner to death.”

“Well, they certainly managed to do exactly that,” Charlotte cried. She put a hanky to her face and collapsed limply into a chair, coughing out sobs.

One of the other firefighters had opened a black case and was gathering up little burned and charred bits, samples for analysis. “Probably gasoline or turpentine,” he said. “We'll know for sure in a couple of days.”

Somewhere along the line, Drayton had sustained a small burn on his right hand, so one of the firefighters hauled out a first-aid kit and smeared cortisone cream on the burn area. Then he covered it with a soft bandage.

Captain Schafer tried to question Charlotte, but she was no help at all. She vacillated between tears, gasps, and stiff warnings to the firefighters about damaging any of her precious Limoges figurines.

Theodosia pulled Schafer aside, and said, “This particular home owner has been embroiled in a bit of controversy lately. Her husband was murdered at the museum last Thursday night . . .”