Ming Tea Murder (8 page)

“Inquiring minds want to know, hmm?” said Delaine. “Well, it's funny you should ask, since I'm just off to her open house.”

For the second time that day, Theodosia wasn't sure she'd heard Delaine correctly. “What did you just say?”

“Am I not making myself understood? I said I'm going to Cecily's open house at Pine Nut.” Now Delaine lowered her voice. “And I'm dragging Aunt Acid along in hopes that I can dump the old bat on someone else.”

“Wait a minute, back up,” said Theodosia. “Cecily is actually having her open house the evening after her ex-boyfriend was murdered?”

Delaine made a
tsk
-
tsk
sound in the back of her throat. “Cecily didn't
plan
it that way, for goodness' sake. This open house has been on the schedule for a couple of weeks. Cecily wanted to wedge it in between the Lamplighter Tour and the opening of opera season.”

“And you're really going?”

“Of course I'm going,” said Delaine. “Good heavens, Theo, you don't expect me to stay home on a perfectly good Friday night, do you? There'll be interesting people there. Probably interesting men.” She paused. “Come along if you want.”

Theodosia thought for a moment. “You think that would be okay?”

“It's an
open
house
, Theo. Not crashing a state dinner at the White House.”

When Theodosia hung up the phone, she turned to Max, and said, “Guess where we're going tonight?”

“Ah . . . out to dinner?”

“That's right. We're going over to Drayton's for tuna and Tater Tot casserole.”

“
That
doesn't sound like something Drayton would whip up.”

“Then how about we attend the open house at Pine Nut?”

“Oh gosh,” Max said, looking flustered. “That's Cecily's shop?” Then, “We're really going?”

“This is as good a time as any to sleuth around and try to pick up some more information on Webster's little tootsie.”

“You just love rushing in where angels fear to tread, don't you?” said Max.

Theodosia gave him an easy smile. “But I never professed to be an angel. And we
are
doing this on your account.” She held up a finger. “So give me a couple of minutes to change clothes, feed Earl Grey, and run a comb through my hair. Then we'll stop by your place so you can jump in the shower and get dressed.”

“Okay,” said Max. “But is it going to be fancy?”

“No,” said Theodosia. “But it could be uncomfortable.”

Pine Nut was
located on King Street, right in the heart of Charleston's upscale antique and art gallery district. Cecily's shop occupied the first floor of a redbrick building that was sandwiched between Dufrene's Antiques and the Sandager Gallery. The building, which looked old enough to be on the historic register, was dominated by tall windows accented with traditional white shutters. Palmetto trees, growing in large ceramic pots, flanked the front door, their tendrils waving in the cool evening breeze that swept in from the Cooper River.

“This must be the place,” said Theodosia. She was wearing a crinkly black silk top with tapered black slacks. Max had changed into a camel sweater and gray slacks.

Rather than pull right up to the front door and leave her car with the hired valet, Theodosia had opted to park it further down the street. “The better to make a clean getaway,” she'd joked to Max. Only she'd been half-serious.

“This isn't an open house, it's a mob scene,” said Max. They were standing on the sidewalk, gazing through the front windows. The words
PINE NUT DÉCOR & CUSTOM FURNITU
RE
had been lettered in gold Gothic script. Beneath it were the words
CECILY
CONRAD
,
PRO
PRIETOR
. Along with the reproduction of a Louis XVI settee in the front window, nothing was understated.

“The fact that so many people turned out will make it easy for us to blend in,” said Theodosia. She reached for Max's hand and squeezed it for good luck as they stepped across the threshold.

The shop was jammed wall-to-wall with furniture, lamps, mirrors, folding screens, and various pieces of upscale bric-a-brac. It was also packed tightly with crowds of decorators, designers, gallery owners, friends, and hangers-on who jostled each other like mad, trying to look glamorous while not spilling their drinks on the custom upholstered furniture.

Just to the left of the entrance was a bar where thirsty partygoers were packed in as tight as kippers. To their right, a slick-looking DJ with gelled hair and a black leather jacket worked his computer and mixing board setup. He twiddled a dial and “You're So Vain” by Marilyn Manson suddenly blasted through the shop. Behind him was a blinking red neon sign that said
DJ
MAD
DOG
.

“I'm pretty sure that's the same DJ we hired for the Matisse show,” Max joked.

“Too bad you didn't hire him for last night's party,” Theodosia shot back. “Instead of setting up that photo booth.” When Max's lips pressed together, she said, “Dang, I didn't mean for that to come out so harshly. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” said Max. “I know what you mean. Heck, I feel the same way. I guess it was just my bad luck.”

“No,” said Theodosia. “It was Edgar Webster's bad luck.”

Theodosia and Max pretty much abandoned all hope of getting a drink at the bar, but as they pressed their way toward the interior of shop, they encountered a cadre of white-coated waiters bearing silver trays heaped with appetizers.

“Thank goodness,” said Max. “I haven't had a bite to eat since lunch.”

“Me neither.” Theodosia grabbed a cracker that was topped with a dab of pâte and accepted a paper napkin from a solicitous waiter.

“I wouldn't eat that if I were you,” called out a brash, nasal voice.

Theodosia whirled around to find Bill Glass offering her a strangled grin. He was dressed in a ratty pinstriped suit that made him look like a mafioso or an actor from
Guys and Dolls.
A Nikon camera with a high-powered lens was slung around his neck.

Theodosia held up her cracker. “What's wrong with it?”

“That chicken pâte tastes like pet food,” said Glass.

Theodosia popped the whole thing into her mouth and chewed. “Delicious,” she proclaimed. But Glass was right. The chicken liver, or whatever mystery meat had been ground into submission, did taste like pet food.

“You obviously have a stronger constitution than I do,” said Glass.

“All my tea drinking has build up certain immunities,” said Theodosia, putting a topspin of bravado on her words. “Did you know that ginger tea is great for indigestion and that chamomile tea calms you down?”

“Very informative,” said Glass. “And I hope you've got an emergency thermos of that ginger stuff tucked away somewhere.”

“Afraid not,” said Theodosia.

Glass aimed a perfunctory smile at Max. “Hey there,” he said.

“Hello,” said Max.

“I heard you got fired,” said Glass.

“
Excuse
me,” said Theodosia. She glared at Glass. “That's a rude way to start a conversation.”

“Yeah,” said Glass, “but it's relevant.”

“You think?” Theodosia said coldly. What a pipsqueak Glass was!

Nonplussed, Glass hooked a thumb and jabbed it in Max's direction. “It's relevant because he didn't murder anyone.”

“Of course, he didn't,” said Theodosia.

“Of course, I didn't,” said Max.

“But the swells at the museum aren't so sure about that,” said Glass. “Deep inside their paranoid little minds, they think you might have done the deed.” He made a slashing motion across his throat with his hand. “That's why you've been cast out.”

“It sounds to me like you've done some more snooping around,” said Theodosia. “Tell me, what exactly have you heard?”

“For one thing, your boyfriend here is probably going to be taken in for questioning,” said Glass.

“I seriously doubt that,” said Theodosia.

“I said
questioning
,” said Glass. “Not
arrested
. There's a big difference.”

“I already spoke to the police,” said Max, “last night.” He looked a little panicky.

“But that doesn't mean they got the answers they want,” said Glass, “or picked your brain for possible leads.”

“Do
you
have any leads?” Theodosia asked. Glass was a pain in the butt and an unmitigated snoop. But he was a
relentless
snoop. His blunt, somewhat unorthodox manner gave him an uncanny ability to draw answers out of people. He could interrogate people without them even realizing it.

“Leads?” said Glass. “Naw, I got nothin' concrete yet. But if we put our heads together, I bet we could come up with a few choice theories.”

“You think we should work together?” said Max. “Are you serious?” He looked like he'd rather handle a rattlesnake.

“As serious as a tomb,” said Glass.

“Not gonna happen,” said Max.

“You might whistle a different tune when they haul you into that little room with the shiny bright lights and one-way mirror,” said Glass. He grabbed another appetizer and popped it into his mouth.

“I thought you hated the pâte,” said Theodosia.

Glass shrugged. “What can I say? It's hard to resist free food.”

• • •

Theodosia propelled a
nervous, jittery Max through the horde of people and headed for the relative calm and quiet at the back of the shop.

“The nerve of that guy,” Max sputtered, “to imply that I'm a suspect.” They stopped next to a pine highboy and gazed at each other.

“The thing is . . .” said Theodosia. She peeked at the price tag on the highboy. Twenty-six hundred dollars. Way overpriced for a not-so-great reproduction.

“What?” said Max.

“You
are
a suspect.”

Max's shoulders sagged. “How did I go from being the unlucky PR guy to number one suspect in the course of twenty-four hours? I mean, what kind of loony tunes crap is that?”

“First off, you're not the number one suspect,” said Theodosia, trying to calm him down. “You're one of dozens.”

“Somehow it doesn't feel that way.”

“Listen,” said Theodosia, “you can't keep acting like a nervous cat, okay? You have to relax and project an air of cool and calm—and absolute self-assurance of your innocence.”

Max swiped a hand across his cheek. “Okay.” He didn't look convinced.

“Can you do that?” Theodosia pressed. “Because if you don't stay calm, the sharks will start to circle. They
will
smell blood.”

“Jeez, Theo, you make it sound like I'm fighting for my life.”

“No, Max, you're fighting for your job. You want it back, don't you?”

“Of course, I do. I love working at the museum. It means everything to me.”

“Okay, then just stay frosty.”

“And what are you going to do?” asked Max.

“Me?” Theodosia thought for a few seconds. “I'm going to do whatever it takes.”

“Okay,” said Max. “I'll play it your way. For now.” He gazed earnestly at Theodosia. Then his eyes suddenly flicked past her. “There's Delaine over there. You think we should go talk to her?”

“I definitely think we should,” said Theodosia. “It's one of the reasons we came here tonight.”

Delaine had also spotted them and, like a heat-seeking missile, was scrambling in their direction.

“Goodness, what a ginormous crowd for such a pretentious little furniture store!” Delaine exclaimed. She looked extremely glam in a seafoam green beaded top, matching silk slacks, and silver Manolo Blahnik heels. Trailing in her wake, like a tiny remora fish, was Aunt Acid.

“It's nice to see you, too,” said Theodosia. “We were wondering when you'd show up.”

“Oh, I've been here for some time,” said Delaine, “but I got stuck gabbing with that awful Monica Fontaine. She was bending my ear about Carol Bingham, who is
dying
to have her home on the Lamplighter Tour. Oh . . .” Delaine sniggered, “and did you see the hideous dress Cecily is wearing? It's the color of uncooked salmon. But that's neither here nor there. I'm thrilled to see the both of you, and I promise you my undivided attention. For now.” She suddenly delivered air kisses to both Theodosia and Max, and then grudgingly introduced Aunt Acid to Max.

“Lovely to meet you,” Max said to Aunt Acid.

“Whatever.” Aunt Acid waved a hand, as if he were a buzzing mosquito sent to plague her.

“It's nice to see you again,” Theodosia told Aunt Acid.

“What?” said Aunt Acid, cupping a hand behind her right ear.

“I said it's nice to see you again.”

“Do I know you?” said Aunt Acid.

“You were just in my tea shop this morning,” said Theodosia. She was smiling but found she was starting to clench her teeth. She could see Delaine's point. Dealing with Aunt Acid was a chore.

“You were the one who served those dry, crumbly scones?” said Aunt Acid.

Delaine rolled her eyes.

“I'm sorry you found them dry,” said Theodosia.

“Whatever,” said Aunt Acid. She waggled a glass that was half-filled with amber liquid.

Max, suddenly eager to make a getaway, said, “Can I fetch you ladies a drink? Or freshen one? The crowd around the bar seems to have thinned out some.”

“A glass of champagne would be lovely,” said Delaine.

“Ditto that,” said Theodosia.

“Ma'am?” said Max, smiling at Aunt Acid.

“Thanks, sonny,” said Aunt Acid. “Bourbon neat, skip the rocks.”

“Gotcha,” said Max as he scurried away.

“So,” said Theodosia, once Max was out of earshot. “Have you heard anything new? About the . . . you know.”

“Murrrrder,” said Aunt Acid, obviously relishing the word.

“I talked to Brenda Gardner,” said Delaine, “who heard it from one of the designers at Popple Hill that the police are going to be questioning Roger Greaves.”

“I ran into him today,” said Theodosia, “at Charlotte Webster's home.”

Delaine's brows arched. “Did the two of them seem inordinately cozy?”

“Why do you ask?” said Theodosia. “Are there rumors going around about them?”

“Nothing all that specific,” said Delaine. “But . . . you never know. That Charlotte's a sly one.”

“Do you think Charlotte could have been having an affair with Greaves at the same time her husband was having an affair with Cecily?”

“Who's having an affair?” asked Aunt Acid.

“Nobody, dearie,” said Delaine. But she tilted her head sideways and gave a little shrug that clearly said
maybe
.

“Wow,” said Theodosia.

“It makes sense,” said Delaine. “Charlotte and Greaves both have buckets of money, so at least it would be an equitable relationship.”

“That would be a weird twist,” said Theodosia.

“No kidding,” said Delaine. “Of course, Greaves
is
married.” She paused, glanced around, and said, “Where did Aunt Acid go?”

Theodosia blinked. “She was just here two seconds ago.”

“She's such a little jitterbug,” said Delaine, “always wandering off somewhere. I swear, we were down at the Battery the other day, and she climbed up on a cannon and practically took a nosedive into the water.”