Ming Tea Murder (5 page)

“Then fire away with your single question, dear lady, so I can get back to work tout de suite.”

“Did you have your technical forensic people tear that photo booth apart?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, they ripped into it like a hungry dog gnawing a lamb shank.”

Theodosia sighed. Dealing with Tidwell could be such a slog.

“You're rolling your eyes,” said Tidwell. “I can hear them clicking inside your sweet little head.”

“Look,” said Theodosia, starting to get a little steamed. “I'm just wondering if the techs who examined that photo booth found anything pertinent?”

“Such as?”

“I don't know. Digital photos, images on the hard drive, old-fashioned negatives,
anything.
Basically anything that might be incriminating. Something that would point to the killer.”

“I understand where you're going with this, Miss Browning. And it would be marvelous to push a button and have a photographic image of the killer pop out at us. Unfortunately, our clever killer chose to stab poor Mr. Webster rather than take time for a photo op.”

“You're saying he's clever? Or she?”

“This one is, yes,” said Tidwell. “Because an up-close, personal attack at a crowded party is always somewhat daring. But in the end, he or she will ultimately be apprehended.”

“You're sure about that?” Theodosia looked up just as Max walked into her office. His cell phone was clenched in one hand, and his usually animated face wore a hard, unblinking stare.

“I'm as certain that we'll catch him as the sun rises each morning,” Tidwell said into Theodosia's ear. There was a faint wheeze and then a loud
clunk
. He'd hung up.

“What's wrong?” Theodosia asked. Max looked like he'd just bitten into a sour pickle. Except they weren't serving sour pickles for lunch.

“You're not going to believe this,” said Max. His jaw seemed to be frozen as he moved woodenly toward her, almost gasping for air.

“What?” She leaned forward. “Max, what's wrong?”

Max lurched toward the plush chair that sat across from Theodosia's desk and eased himself down into it.

“I've just been fired.”

Theodosia was dumbfounded.
“What?” she yelped. Then she caught herself before she hit the red lever and her temper shot all the way up to DEFCON 4. She must not have heard Max correctly. Surely he hadn't just uttered the word
fired?
No, he couldn't have. That would never happen.

“What?” Theodosia said again, straining to hear what surely must be the correct words.

“I've been fired,” Max repeated. He sat staring at her, his lips slightly parted, his brows pinched together. He looked disbelieving and totally in shock. “They told me not to come back to work today.”

“Who told you that?” With a thud in her heart, Theodosia knew Max was absolutely serious. And that someone—his boss?—had just made a very grave mistake.

“Elliot Kern, the director. I just spoke to him. Or rather, he just called me on my cell phone.”

“Wha . . . ?” Now Theodosia was the one who was in shock. “Wait a minute.” She held up a hand. “What exactly did Kern say to you?”

“He said I was on a permanent leave of absence until the Edgar Webster murder had been resolved.”

“That was his explanation? That's ridiculous. There must be something else going on. There has to be an actual
reason
.”
She was starting to get really angry. “There has to be just cause!”

“Kern said that the board of directors had an emergency meeting this morning and decided to suspend me.”

“They were meeting while you were hard at work?”

“Apparently.”

“But why suspend
you?
” Theodosia knew she was sputtering but couldn't help herself. “Do you think it was because of the photo booth? Because it was your idea? Surely they can't hold that against you? It was just a stupid prop—a goofball amusement for wealthy donors. You didn't know someone was going to get
murdered
inside of it!”

Max was still dumbfounded. “Kern mentioned something about publicity, too. Or maybe it was press releases. I know that's what Webster was all fired up about last night.”

“Over press releases?”

Max shook his head. “I don't know. I'm having a lot of trouble processing this whole thing.”

“So am I,” said Theodosia. None of this made a lick of sense to her. She knew, with all her heart, that Max would never willfully do anything to harm the reputation of the museum. And, as far as job performance went, he was an absolute whiz at publicity. He'd planted articles in
Charleston Weekly
and
Art Now.
Why, a couple of his press releases—ones about the contemporary southern art show and the Picasso ceramics show—had even been picked up by the Art & Design section of the
New
York Times
!

“Even though Kern told me not to come back,” said Max, “I'm going to go back there anyway. See if I can sit down with him. Try to get some more . . . information.”

“Good for you,” said Theodosia. She stood up from her desk so fast, her chair almost flipped over backward. “You run over there and try to straighten out this whole ridiculous thing. Really, this firing can't even be legal.” She came around her desk, put a hand on Max's shoulder, and rubbed it gently. “Nothing makes sense here. Maybe . . . it's some kind of Halloween prank?”

“Well, if it is,” said Max, “it's not very funny.”

• • •

“Oh my,” said
Drayton. “I don't mean to pry, Theo, but you look like you just received a nasty piece of news.” He was setting out two dozen tiny blue-green ceramic Chinese cups without handles for a tea tasting that a table of customers had requested.

“I . . . we . . . did just get some terrible news,” said Theodosia. And then, because there was no easy way to say it, she just blurted out, “Max was fired.”

“No!” Drayton reared back. “I can't imagine that's true.”

She swallowed hard. “Well, it is. It just happened. Like, five minutes ago.”

Drayton peered over his half-glasses, looking concerned and slightly owlish. “Do you want me to make a phone call?” Besides being a permanent fixture on the board of directors at the Heritage Society, Drayton
knew
people. People in high places.

“I don't know. Max is on his way back to the museum right now to try to straighten things out with the director.”

“So we should wait and see how this plays out?” said Drayton.

“I think so. For now anyway.”

Drayton reached up and grabbed a tin of Fujian white tea. “I think my ladies are going to enjoy this. Picked by hand for only a few choice days each spring from young, tender leaves. Sweet with a slight apricot fragrance . . .” He offered a reassuring smile. “Please don't worry, Theo. I'm sure this will all get straightened out. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation.”

But Theodosia was clearly flustered throughout the rest of their luncheon service. She delivered a pot of jasmine tea to Mrs. Biatek's table when she'd actually ordered rose tea. And a pot of East Frisian blend was misdirected to another table that had really wanted a Russian country blend.

“This isn't like me,” Theodosia fretted to Drayton once she'd scurried back to the counter.

“Not to worry. This is all easily remedied with fresh pots of tea,” he soothed.

“Still, to make such silly mistakes.” She glanced down and saw that her hands were shaking. She clenched them hard to try to calm herself.

“You're way too hard on yourself,” said Drayton.

“No,” she said. “The board was way too hard on Max.”

• • •

At midafternoon, down
on her hands and knees, replenishing her shelves with DuBose Bees Honey and scone mixes, Theodosia looked up to find Bill Glass hovering over her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him. Bill Glass was the smarmy, nosy publisher of
Shooting Star
, Charleston's very own gossip rag. Glass had founded it right after the tech boom and, like a really hideous reality show, it hadn't gone away. In fact, it had grown more and more popular every year until it had become a kitschy little weekly filled with glossy photos and bits of snide gossip that appealed to the nouveau riche.

“The-o-do-sia,” said Glass, giving her one of his trademark toothy great white shark grins. “I heard you were swanning around last night at that very fancy but oh-so-disastrous museum party.” The cameras strung around his neck clanked and clicked as if to punctuate his words.

Theodosia stumbled to her feet. “Where did you hear that?” She hated Glass for having such a tight little network of informers.

Glass held up a hand and made a fluttering motion. “A little bird told me. A little bird that siiiings.” With his slicked-back hair and shiny suit, he reminded Theodosia of a sleazy used-car salesman. Or maybe somebody who sold advertising.

“Let me guess,” said Theodosia. “You're here looking for inside information.”

Bill Glass shot an index finger at her. “Right-o, sweetheart.”

“I really don't know anything.”

“Perfect. Pour me a cup of tea and tell me all about what you don't
know,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

Theodosia considered him for a moment. Maybe Glass had picked up something that she could use. That's if she could muster the stamina to wheedle it out of him.

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Grab a seat at that table over there. But please, please don't disturb anyone.”

“Gotcha.”

Theodosia hurriedly poured a cup of Darjeeling for Glass. After a moment of deliberation, she also placed a scone and a dab of Devonshire cream on a plate. Carrying everything back to his table, she set the tea and scone down, and then slid into the chair across from him. She'd made up her mind that she would steer the conversation.

“What do you know about Charlotte Webster?” Theodosia asked Glass.

He had his teacup halfway to his mouth, but paused. “Big money,” he said, then managed a noisy slurp. “Boatloads of money.”

“That's what I've heard, too,” said Theodosia.

Bill Glass broke off a piece of scone and popped it in his mouth. “You see, that's what I like about you.” He tapped the side of his head. “You're smart. You're cognizant of the world around you.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “I think.”

“About last night?” said Glass. “If Vegas was making odds, I'd put my money squarely on good old Charlotte.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“For the murder,” Glass said hurriedly. “Here, let me lay it out for you.”

“Please do.”

“Charlotte's got money, status, and chutzpah, okay? But you know what's been dragging her down? That lying, cheating skunk of a husband. So . . .” Glass picked up a butter knife, twiddled it between his fingertips, then made a sharp, jabbing motion. “If there's no more good-time Edgar around, the problem is neatly solved.”

“So you think Charlotte killed her own husband?” Somehow the murder didn't feel quite that cut-and-dried. There had to be more to it than an angry, vengeful wife, didn't there?

Glass shrugged. “She could have done it. Cops don't know for sure yet.” He peered at her. “I was hoping you could help me fill in a few blanks.”

“On what?”

“Sweet cakes, you were there last night. You bum around with all those swells. Your cuddle-bunny boyfriend works at the museum.”

Not anymore
, Theodosia thought to herself.

“Exactly what kind of information are you looking for?” she asked.

“Anything and everything,” said Glass. “What society lady was cozying up with which gent? What businessman was trying to pick his buddy's pocket? What are the latest society rumbles and rumors?” He took a slurp of tea. “And I want to know if Cecily Conrad was there.”

“What do you know about Cecily?” Theodosia asked.

Glass wrinkled his nose. “Ah . . . I hear she's a blue blood wannabe. A cute little piece of fluff who thinks she's God's gift to man and is trying her darnedest to claw her way into Charleston society.”

“I have it from a reliable source that Cecily was there last night,” said Theodosia.

“Aha. I thought as much.”

Theodosia decided they'd come this far, why not keep going? In for a penny, in for a pound. “And you know that Cecily had been carrying on with Edgar Webster?”

Glass nodded. “Yup, heard that a while ago.” He looked at Theodosia over his teacup. “Your mentioning Cecily like that . . . are you a little suspicious of her, too?”

“Not really.”
At least not until I get some evidence on her.

“But when you think about it,” said Glass, “she does stack up as a pretty solid suspect.”

“Maybe.”

“So it's only logical to dig a little deeper,” said Glass. “Since Cecily had been canoodling with Webster and then talked him into bankrolling her so-called design and furniture shop.”

“Does everyone know about that?” said Theodosia.

Glass looked smug. “Cecily's a little girl with a great big mouth. She bragged about her big score all over town. You ask me, I think she even thought she might be the next Mrs. Edgar Webster.”

“Not anymore she won't.”

“Still,” said Glass, getting more and more worked up, “you gotta admit there's a tasty catfight in the making. The widow pointing her finger at the girlfriend, the girlfriend dishing dirt on the widow.”

Theodosia wondered if that might really happen. Then again, with a dead body in the morgue and big money on the line, anything could happen.

“I guess I'm gonna have to nose around some more,” said Glass. “I hear Cecily's got some big shindig going on at her new shop. Maybe I'll get in touch with her and tease her with the possibility of a feature article.”

Theodosia thought about the puddle of dark red blood that had oozed its way out from the photo booth last night. “Maybe you shouldn't do that,” she told Glass.

“Aw”—he waved a hand—“don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

• • •

Theodosia popped into
the kitchen just as Haley pulled a pan of lemon scones from the oven. Besides the lemon scones, the intoxicating aromas of cinnamon, chocolate, and almonds also hung in the air.

“Do we have any scones left?” Theodosia asked.

Haley tilted her tray toward Theodosia. “These. Why?”

“I'm going to run over to Charlotte Webster's house. I'd like to take her some scones and a couple tins of tea.”

“A care package.”

“Something like that.” Theodosia didn't want to admit to Haley, or even to herself, that she wanted to scope out the situation with Charlotte.

“Well, I can put something together easily enough,” said Haley. “Can we spare one of those sweetgrass baskets from your office?”

“Sure. But you know what? I'll put the basket together. I've got time.”