Ming Tea Murder (20 page)

His brows knit together. “Okay. Interesting.”

“Do you know Detective Burt Tidwell?”

“I do.”

“I think he should be informed about this.”

Schafer nodded at her. “We're the AHJ here—authority having jurisdiction—but I'll make sure Tidwell's in the loop. File my incident report and fire it off to him right away.”

“Thank you.”

• • •

It was all
over except for a few more tears. The firefighters left, Charlotte wept as she fixed herself a bourbon and water, and Theodosia tucked the white notebook under her arm.

“What a terrible night,” moaned Charlotte. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, and then took a longer sip.

Theodosia had a feeling Charlotte's night wasn't going to get much better. And if she continued drinking, her morning would be even worse.

“Take care,” said Drayton as they headed for the door. He never looked back; he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Charlotte offered an apathetic wave. “I think I'm just going to remain sequestered for a while,” she called after them.

“That's probably a good idea,” said Theodosia.

She and Drayton walked down the sidewalk. The air felt clean and fresh, with a nip of salt blowing in from the Atlantic. Dry leaves scuttled about in the street. Streetlamps glowed orange in the darkness.

“Whew,” said Drayton as they climbed into the Jeep. “What a night.”

“How's your poor hand?” Theodosia asked. “Are you feeling okay, or should we stop at one of those doc-in-the-box places and get it looked at?” She pulled her seatbelt across, ready to hustle Drayton off to the nearest burn ward.

“I'm fine. It's nothing,” said Drayton. He seemed to have shaken off the incident, though he was cradling his injured hand. He turned to gaze at Theodosia. “You don't believe that Molotov cocktail was any kind of accident, do you? That it was random kids or neighborhood crazies?”

“I do not.”

“Then what?”

Theodosia shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe someone feels strongly about not wanting Charlotte on the board of directors at the museum?”

“Call me dubious,” said Drayton, “but I have a hard time envisioning sixty- or seventy-year-old men running down a back alley carrying flaming bottles aloft.” Clearly, he wasn't buying it.

“Maybe her husband's killer came back to try to finish her off?”

“That's a fairly grisly notion.”

“Or maybe the killer was just trying to throw her off the scent,” said Theodosia.

“I'd say it's more likely he was trying to throw
you
off the scent,” said Drayton.

Theodosia's heart did an impromptu flip-flop. “Uh . . . what did you say?”

“Think about it,” Drayton continued. “You're the one who's been doing a fair amount of poking around. Maybe that flaming bottle was meant to scare you.”

Theodosia cranked the key hard in the ignition and her Jeep roared to life.

“You're going to have to be a lot more careful,” said Drayton.

“If the killer
was
after me,” Theodosia snarled, “this isn't going to be the end of it. I'll track him down like a rented mule!”

• • •

Theodosia dropped off
Drayton and drove back to her house. Max was waiting for her, standing in the front yard, doing leg swings and walking lunges, stretching his muscles in anticipation of their run.

He broke into a smile when he saw her. “Hey.” Then he saw the look of deep consternation on her face. “Hoo boy, what's wrong now?”

Theodosia told him about the flaming bottle crashing through Charlotte's window, the shards flying everywhere, and Drayton getting a nasty burn.

“You're the one who risks getting burned,” said Max, “hanging around with crazy old Charlotte.”

“I think you might be right.”

“Which means you've got to seriously bug out of this thing,” said Max. “Let the police handle it.”

“They're already all over it. And they're not doing a very good job.”

“You don't know that. They might have somebody in custody right now.”

“Doubtful,” said Theodosia. She didn't think the police were any closer to solving Webster's murder, apprehending Cecily's attacker, or figuring out Charlotte's firebombing than she was. In fact, they were probably treating them as three separate incidents. Whereas she was linking them . . .

“Jeez, Theo.” Max broke into her thoughts. “You can't solve
every
crime that comes along.”

“I don't try to, I really don't,” she said. “But the things that have happened lately are starting to feel . . . very personal.”

Max stared at her. “Wait a minute. Are you saying . . . Do you think the killer might have his eye trained on
you?
”

“That's what Drayton thinks.”

“Drayton's a smart guy,” said Max. “In fact, he's downright brilliant. So if he thinks you're in danger, then you've got to step away from this immediately.”

“Maybe so,” said Theodosia. But deep in her heart she was thinking,
Never. Now I'm never going to let this go.

The Harlan Duke
Gallery was located on King Street, right in the very heart of Charleston's antique district. It was housed in a ubiquitous redbrick building, narrow but three stories tall, with slender, arched windows framed by elegant white shutters.

It was bright and early Tuesday morning, and Theodosia peered in the front window, trying to gauge exactly what kind of merchandise Duke's gallery carried. She saw a Japanese tea set, an antique Japanese sword, a bronze Chinese vessel, a set of antique calligraphy brushes, and an array of carved Chinese jade statues. They all looked like exquisite pieces.

Pushing open the front door, Theodosia figured she was probably the first customer of the day.

An older woman, her silver-gray hair the precise color of her silk blouse, smiled from behind a mahogany counter that had probably been around since the eighteen hundreds.

“Good morning,” said the clerk. “How may I help you?”

“I'm looking for Harlan Duke,” said Theodosia. “Is he here?”

“I'm sorry, he's not,” said the woman. “Did you have an appointment? Please don't tell me he forgot.” A sly smile crept across her face. “I've only worked for Mr. Duke for a few weeks, but in that time I've discovered that he's much more of a big-picture person. Buying, selling, wheeling, dealing.

“But”—she gave a little shrug—“details do seem to elude him.”

“Actually,” said Theodosia, “I don't have an appointment. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by.” She hesitated. “Mr. Duke had mentioned something to me about an antique Chinese teapot?”

“Oh, yes,” said the woman, quickly threading her way past an altar table that held a pair of blue-and-white vases, and around a coromandel screen. “We have several, but I think the one you're referring to is right over here. An absolute beauty.”

The Chinese teapot had been accorded its own black lacquered stand. And it was a beauty. Plump and rounded—a real teapot's teapot—it was done in oxblood enamel with gold edging around the lid and bottom rim. In the center of the teapot's body was a white seal that held a scramble of calligraphy. It was, quite simply, a gorgeous piece.

Sensing Theodosia's interest, the clerk carried the teapot to the counter and gingerly set it down on a square of black velvet fabric. “Are you a collector of teapots?”

“I have my fair share,” said Theodosia. Actually, she was edging toward owning almost fifty different teapots. Nowhere near Drayton's collection, but getting there.

“This one's got some age on it,” said the woman.

“It's lovely,” said Theodosia. “Chien-lung?”

“Ah.” The clerk smiled. “I see you know your Chinese antiques.”

“I know a
little
bit about ceramics. Obviously there's a lot to learn.”

“Tell me about it,” said the woman. “I'm always discovering some new little nugget of information.”

Theodosia moved her hands toward the teapot. “May I?”

“Please,” said the woman as Theodosia picked it up and turned it over.

When Theodosia saw the faint maker's mark on the bottom, she said, “It's from one of the imperial kilns?”

“Why, yes.”

“And what is the price?”

The woman fingered a small white tag. “We have it marked at twenty-two hundred, but I know Mr. Duke's prices are always negotiable.”

“Mmn.”

“You know,” the clerk said, in a conspiratorial tone, “I'm not allowed to negotiate prices. But if you want to speak with Mr. Duke, I happen to know he had an errand at a friend's house, and then he was going to be at the Equinox Equestrian Center. Just over in Mount Pleasant. I'm sure he's there now and that he'd be pleased if you dropped by.”

Theodosia wondered if the friend Duke had gone to see was Charlotte Webster.

“I take it Mr. Duke is a horse lover, too?”

“Brought his two thoroughbreds all the way up from Texas. Drove the truck himself.”

“There's dedication for you,” said Theodosia.

• • •

Back out in
her car, Theodosia called the Indigo Tea Shop. Drayton picked up on the first ring.

“Indigo Tea Shop,” he said in finely modulated tones.

“Drayton, it's me. How's your hand feeling today?”

“Fine. No problem,” Drayton responded. “I've been burned worse fixing tea. Scalding water and all that.”

“Still,” said Theodosia. “I feel bad. I feel like your getting burned last night was my fault. If I hadn't pressured you to come along . . .”

“If you want to feel guilty,” said Drayton, “then be my guest. But there's really no need.” He paused. “Are you on your way in?”

“That's why I called. I just stopped in at Harlan Duke's gallery, but he wasn't there. His assistant tells me he's out at the Equinox Equestrian Center.”

“So I'm guessing that's where you're off to?”

“That's right.”

“Haley's been bugging me about our Tower of London Tea. Trying to finalize tomorrow's menu and all.”

“I'm sure she has,” said Theodosia.

“Oh, and I have all your English Hedgerow tea packaged up for Delaine's Hunt and Gather Market.”

“How can I ever thank you?” said Theodosia. “You're a lifesaver.”

“I'll tell you how you can thank me,” said Drayton. “You can be careful.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Please,” said Drayton. “Exercise some caution. There have been too many strange goings-on lately. Which means I'm in a constant state of worry.”

“You know I'll be careful,” said Theodosia.

Drayton sighed. “Actually, I don't know that at all.”

• • •

Theodosia didn't have
any particular reason to talk to Harlan Duke, other than that she was still curious about him. Bill Glass might have been right—Duke had insinuated himself into Charlotte's life awfully fast. Then again, if the woman's husband had been having a torrid affair, maybe she simply needed a shoulder to cry on.

Maybe.

Theodosia couldn't help but smile as she drove onto the grounds of the Equinox Equestrian Center. Horses peeked over white fences from where they grazed in a dozen different paddocks. Yearlings played in a pasture. Over in a riding ring, a jumping lesson was taking place. Riders in velvet caps—elegant hardhats, really—their arms outstretched, reins draped loosely around their horses' necks, were sailing blithely over a one-foot-high jump. Learning the basics.

A rider all her life, Theodosia loved the sounds and smells that surrounded horses. She loved the rich, robust scent of saddle leather. The vegetal scent of fresh hay, almost like a cup of Japanese green tea. And she loved the musical jingle of bridles and the soft stomping and gentle nickering of the horses themselves.

Theodosia found Harlan Duke working away in a large, white, hip-roofed barn. He was standing in the aisle between two rows of box stalls, running a metal currycomb down the flanks of a large chestnut horse. Dressed in a plaid shirt, khaki slacks, and English riding boots, he had a brown leather apron tied around his waist, the kind a farrier might favor to protect his clothing and hold his tools.

“The lady at your gallery told me I'd find you here,” said Theodosia.

Duke whirled around at the sound of her voice, and his face lit up with delight when he recognized her. “Hey, there. How are you doing? I hope you brought along a picnic lunch for us to enjoy.” He chuckled heartily. “I guess you can tell I've been dreaming about your wonderful food. Particularly those honey scones.”

Theodosia walked slowly toward Duke and his horse. “I'm afraid I arrived empty-handed,” she said. “But you can drop by the tea shop any time you like.” She ran a hand down the horse's fine nose, across its velvet muzzle, and under its stubbly chin. “This is a beautiful horse you have here.”

“This is Lady Veronique Begonia. But I just call her Begonia.”

“Nice to meet you, Begonia,” said Theodosia.

“Do you ride?” Duke asked.

“I do.”

“Jump?”

“I've been known to tackle my share of poles and gates,” said Theodosia. “Though not all that well.” She gave Begonia a final pat and focused all her attention on Duke. “I take it you heard about the firebombing at Charlotte's house last night?”

Duke turned suddenly serious. “Oh my, did I ever! Charlotte called me right after you left. Right after the firefighters left. She was in hysterics, poor woman. She seemed completely unhinged.”

“It's good you were able to comfort her,” said Theodosia, watching Duke closely.

“Yes, it's been a tough week for her.” Duke shook his head. “Really miserable. Anyone with less strength would have completely fallen to pieces.”

She did fall to pieces
,
Theodosia thought to herself.
Or was it a masterful bit of play acting? Is Charlotte a candidate for
Inside the Actors Studio
?

“Charlotte tells me you're going to be stepping in for her as chairman of the Bloody Mary Crawl.”

“And the Haunted Hayride. That's right.”

“They're bringing in horses from right here, you know. Four nice Percherons from over in the next barn.”

“Great,” said Theodosia. Then she added, “Have you spoken to Charlotte today? Do you know if she's heard anything back from the fire department? Or from the police?”

“I dropped by for all of five minutes early this morning,” said Duke. “She was subdued, as one might expect. She said she was still waiting for a call from that police detective. Tidlow.”

“Tidwell.”

“Ah yes, that's it.”

“Good,” said Theodosia. “I'm glad he's on it.” She was watching Duke's hands. He'd just set down his brush and was digging in the pockets of his leather apron.

“I'm hoping,” said Duke as a piece of metal flashed in his hand, “that Charlotte will feel well enough to attend her first museum board meeting.”

Theodosia heard his words as if off in the distance. Because her eyes were fixed on the metal tool that Duke wielded in his hands. He switched it back and forth, from one hand to the other, then leaned forward and, with practiced efficiency, picked up Begonia's right front leg.

Theodosia watched, fascinated, as the sharp metal hoof pick dug into Begonia's hoofs. And she wondered—could a stainless steel hoof pick like that have killed Edgar Webster? Was that tool long enough, sharp enough, to slide into someone's ear and turn off his lights for good?

She took a step backward.

She was pretty sure it was.

Her smile merely pasted on her face now, Theodosia listened but didn't really hear Duke as he chattered away.

All she could think was,
Is Harlan Duke the killer
? And, if he had killed Webster, what had been his motive?

“I . . . I have to take off now,” said Theodosia.

Duke looked up, surprised. “Okay, then. Nice to see you.” He pointed the pick directly at her and smiled. “I'll probably be dropping by your tea shop real soon.”

“Do that,” said Theodosia, though the words tasted dry and dusty in her mouth.

• • •

Driving back toward
the Indigo Tea Shop, the chill that Theodosia felt in her stomach had crawled all the way up to her heart.

Was it possible that Harlan Duke was the killer? He could be. And might he have also attacked Cecily? Possibly. But . . . what could have motivated him to do such terrible deeds?

Was Duke really and truly trying to worm himself into Charlotte's good graces? And eventually win her love as husband number two? Or at least be the one who catered to her incessant neediness?

Theodosia flew across the Cooper River Bridge. Normally, the dizzying height and awesome span of the cable bridge caught her attention and gave her a little thrill. Not today. Today she was too caught up in the Edgar Webster murder mystery and all the strange permutations that seemed to surround it.

As she spun down Bay Street, an idea tickled at Theodosia's brain. All the bizarre events that had taken place in the last few days had been set in motion since Edgar Webster's murder the night of the Chinese tea house gala.

So . . . did the tea house somehow figure into this? After all, Harlan Duke was the art dealer who'd located the tea house in Shanghai and arranged for it to be shipped to Charleston. And Edgar Webster had been its biggest booster.

Theodosia puzzled over this notion for a few minutes. Was it possible that the tea house was a fake? Had Edgar Webster, who knew a fair amount about Chinese antiques, suspected as much and then confronted Duke?

And then, had Harlan Duke, fearing that he'd be exposed as a fraud, boldly and cold-bloodedly murdered Webster?

The whole thing sounded awfully far-fetched. In fact, it was pure conjecture, like a made-for-TV movie. Still, the more Theodosia thought through her scenario, the more she felt a tingle of excitement building, a vibe that told her she could be onto something.