Authors: Laura Childs
“So we’re on for tonight,” said Jed.
“When?” asked Theodosia. She felt tingly inside, like her adrenaline had started to pump. And there was a note of apprehension, too, as if she’d just agreed to participate in a bank heist. “What time?”
“After dark,” said Tim. “Let’s say we all meet at Ravencrest Inn at nine o’clock.”
9
“I can’t believe
you’re really going to indulge this ghost-hunting fantasy,” said Drayton. He’d been courteous to the two brothers but visibly relieved once they’d finally left.
“Hard to believe,” said Theodosia, “but Delaine’s all for it.”
“She likes it in theory,” said Drayton. “Your little rendezvous sounds quite spiritual and soothing to her, a last-chance opportunity to say good-bye to her dearly departed. But when you get Delaine back in that dingy little room and something goes bump in the night, she might just have herself a heart attack.”
“Thanks for your upbeat take on things,” said Theodosia.
Drayton smiled. “Always happy to oblige.”
Theodosia skipped into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of Haley’s ploughman’s platters that had been special-ordered. She’d put together a tasty assortment of Gouda, Cheddar, and Stilton cheeses; rare roast beef; chopped pickled pears; dried apricots; and salted pecans. After delivering the platters and receiving oohs and aahs from the recipients, she dashed back into the kitchen. “What else is on the docket for today? Lunchwise, I mean.”
“Some pretty good stuff,” said Haley, as she sculpted a radish into a perfect rose. “We’ve got lobster salad in mini brioche rolls, triangles of Black Forest ham and Swiss cheese on rye, and chilled strawberry soup with cinnamon raisin biscuits.”
“Superb,” said Theodosia. “And what else besides our scone offerings?” She knew Haley had been baking like a fiend. Then again, she always did.
“That would be my zucchini bread and miniature chocolate cappuccino cakes.”
“Drayton’s favorite,” said Theodosia. He’d once polished off six of the little cakes all by himself.
“That’s right,” said Haley, as she deftly carved another radish. “You know I live to please him.”
“Don’t tell him that,” laughed Theodosia.
“Or he might start believing it!” said Haley, cackling.
* * *
The Indigo Tea
Shop was enjoying a packed house this lunch hour. All their reservations had shown up on time, tourists had found their way in, and a few locals were perched at their favorite tables.
“Only one table left,” observed Drayton, as he hastily dumped sugar cubes into a crystal bowl. “Who’s going to be the lucky party?”
“Whoever’s behind door number one,” joked Theodosia, as a shadow played behind the curtains on the front door. She grabbed a pair of tea menus and smiled as the door began to swing open. “Welcome to . . .”
A bright light exploded directly in her face!
Temporarily blinded, Theodosia wondered for a brief moment if a pack of roving aliens hadn’t just crash-landed their flying saucer on Church Street. Then she saw Bill Glass flash his smarmy grin from behind his offending camera.
“You!” she cried. “Why are you always in my face and annoying?”
“Relax, babe,” said Glass. “You know you’re happy to see me.”
“Hardly,” Theodosia said, her voice suddenly as stiff as her posture.
“Got a table?” asked Glass. “We need to talk.”
“I doubt we have much to say to each other,” said Theodosia, but she led him to her last table anyway.
Glass plunked himself down, then said, “Sit. Come on, we need to talk.”
Theodosia sat down. “About what?”
Glass leaned forward. “You pick up any more poop on the Granville murder?”
“No,” she said. “Not much out there. The police are being pretty tight-lipped.” She hesitated. She hated to do it, but then she asked, “Have you?”
That was Glass’s cue. “Have you ever heard of a guy by the name of Bobby St. Cloud?”
“No. Why? Who is he?”
Glass hunched forward. “Far as I can figure, he’s some kind of wholesaler. But an off-the-books wholesaler, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Theodosia.
“Look,” said Glass, “I’ve been asking around here and there. And it looks like this Bobby St. Cloud guy might have been Granville’s Cuban connection.”
“You mean he sold him Cuban cigars?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Glass. “That’s it.”
“Wait a minute,” said Theodosia. “Are you implying that this Bobby St. Cloud killed Granville?”
“I’m not saying that at all.”
“Then what are you blathering about?”
“I’m just wondering if this Bobby St. Cloud knows anything,” said Glass. He poked a finger at her. “You gotta ask Delaine about him. See if he was on the guest list at the wedding.”
“What if he was?”
“Then we try to track him down,” said Glass. “Pump him for information.”
“Shouldn’t the police do that? And what if this Bobby St. Cloud is the killer?”
“Why would he be?” said Glass. “He had a good deal going. He was supplying Granville with his product.”
“If we find Bobby St. Cloud, what’s in this for you?” asked Theodosia. She knew Glass always had an angle.
Glass spread his hands apart. “Probably a story. You know me, always trying to get the latest gossip on these Charleston swells.”
“Even though they all want their picture in your crappy little tabloid,” said Theodosia.
Glass grinned. “I get ’em coming and going. Ain’t it grand?”
* * *
Bill Glass never
did order lunch. Or even tea. So Theodosia eventually eased him out the door and gave the table to a couple that really did want to eat. Theodosia took their order, then ran it back to Haley while Drayton circulated with a pot of tea in each hand. Because the day was getting warmer and warmer, Drayton had also made a pitcher of raspberry iced tea. Basically his red berry blend with a little hibiscus and citrus thrown in.
“Whew,” said Theodosia, brushing back a tangle of hair. As the day had gotten progressively warmer, the humidity had also built. And her auburn hair, always sensitive to changes in the atmosphere (probably the barometric pressure), seemed to be poufing and expanding.
“Your hair looks great today,” Haley told her.
“That’s what you think,” said Theodosia. “For me it’s awful.” She was always a little self-conscious about her mass of curly hair.
“Are you kidding?” said Haley. “How would you like to have stick-straight hair like me? I can layer on gobs of Dippity-do and crunch it in rollers for forty-eight hours straight. But two minutes after I take the rollers out, blech. It goes completely straight. So why bother? But you, on the other hand . . .”
“Have too much hair,” said Theodosia.
“No,” said Haley. “A woman can never have too much hair.”
“Don’t you have something in the oven?” asked Theodosia. Haley was hanging around the front counter, chatting like it was cocktail hour.
“My last batch of biscuits doesn’t come out for twenty minutes yet,” she said, checking her watch. “So I’ve got time.” She glanced around the tea shop, her appraising, slightly closed eyes landing on a man who was sitting at a table in the corner. “Mmm,” said Haley. “Who’s the good-looking dude?”
Theodosia glanced over at the man. “No idea. He just wandered in off the street a few minutes ago. Drayton took his order for a pot of black plum tea.”
“I kind of dig that alert German shepherd look,” said Haley.
Theodosia stole another quick glance at their guest. Haley was right. The man was attractive. Short, almost brush-cut gray hair; aquiline nose; high cheekbones; piercing blue eyes.
“And he’s skinny,” said Haley. “With those ropy muscles that always look so good on skinny guys. Like he works out all the time. Kind of like, mmm . . . that actor, Daniel Craig.”
“Then maybe he wants his tea shaken, not stirred,” said Theodosia.
Haley craned her neck. “Is he wearing a wedding band?”
“No idea.”
“Try to find out if he’s single,” said Haley.
“He’s too old for you,” Theodosia admonished. “That man is forty-five if he’s a day.”
“That’s true,” said Haley, with a sly smile. “But he’s not too old for you.”
“Haley!”
But when Theodosia approached the man’s table with a friendly smile and his pot of tea, the man’s casual demeanor changed immediately. He jumped from his chair and flipped open a small leather wallet that revealed a gold badge.
“Jack Alston,” he told her. “ATF agent.”
“Goodness,” said Theodosia, completely taken aback. She’d figured the man for a tourist who was patiently waiting for his wife while she shopped at the Cabbage Patch.
“Can we talk?” asked Alston.
Theodosia took a step backward. “About what?”
“Please,” Alston said, indicating the chair opposite him. “Sit down. I’m not going to bite.”
“I have customers.”
His cool blue eyes glided around the tea shop. “You’re not that busy.”
“All right,” said Theodosia. “But only for a minute.” She sat down, put her hands flat on the table, and said, “What is it you want?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor,” said Alston. “Dougan Granville.”
“He died,” said Theodosia. “In what looks to be a strange set of circumstances. So perhaps you should contact the Charleston Police Department for complete information. The chief investigator, Detective Burt Tidwell, heads their Robbery-Homicide Division. He can probably answer all of your questions and bring you up to speed.” Theodosia gave a perfunctory smile and started to get up.
Alston held up his hand. “Please, I’ve already done that. Obviously. But I have a few questions for you.”
Theodosia eased back down.
“Do you know how Dougan Granville was obtaining his cigars?”
Oh, crap
, she thought. Instead, she said, “I don’t know. Probably from some tobacco wholesaler?”
“I’m talking about his Cuban cigars,” said Alston.
“No idea,” said Theodosia. “I don’t really know anything about cigars.”
Should I mention the name Bobby St. Cloud? No, Glass could be way off base and I might just muddy the water. Better to keep my mouth shut.
“I thought Cuban cigars were illegal.”
Alston offered a thin smile. “Hence my presence here.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Theodosia. “But wouldn’t you have more luck snooping around Granville’s cigar shop? This is, in case you hadn’t noticed, a tea shop.”
“And a very pleasant one at that,” said Alston. “You were Granville’s neighbor; perhaps you might have seen deliveries that came to his home?”
“What are you getting at?” asked Theodosia. “Are you implying I’m some kind of black market smuggler? Excuse me, but I sell tea. Tea from China, Japan, India, Ceylon, and a dozen other countries. But no tea from Cuba. And I have no knowledge of stinky, smuggled cigars. The fact is, I loathe cigars.”
“You’re a very attractive woman,” said Alston. “Did you know that your face is extremely animated when you get angry?”
“Excuse me?” Now he was flirting with her? The nerve of this man!
Alston held up his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Okay, okay, apologies. I didn’t mean to get fresh. It’s just that, well, you
are
an attractive woman.”
“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “I think.”
“In my line of work I so rarely meet someone like you.”
“You’re very good,” said Theodosia. “When you flatter women like that, do they always cooperate? Do they always answer your questions?”
“Pretty much,” said Alston.
“How lovely for you. You must be one of the most successful ATF agents on record.”
“Did you just insult me?” he asked.
“Not at all,” said Theodosia, with a gracious smile.
“Sure, you did,” said Alston. “And here I was thinking I might want to ask you out for coffee.”
“But not for tea.”
“I figured you might like to change things up.”
“Really,” said Theodosia, “I should get back to my customers.” She stretched out a hand. “Agent Alston, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
Alston accepted her hand but held on. “I never knew a real live Theodosia before.”
Theodosia stared at him, a blip of curiosity rising inside her.
“The only other Theodosia I know of was my great-great-grand aunt,” said Alston.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Theodosia, finally extricating her hand. “You’re talking about Theodosia Alston?”
Alston nodded. “That’s right. You’ve heard of her?”
Theodosia stared at him. “Of course, I have. I was
named
for her.” Theodosia Alston had been the daughter of Aaron Burr and the wife of Joseph Alston, governor of South Carolina, back in the early 1800s. “In fact, my mother used to tell me stories about Theodosia Alston. About how she disappeared at sea aboard the schooner
Patriot
on her way to New York. Simply . . . vanished.”
“Poof,” said Jack Alston, picking up the story. “They never knew if her sailing ship foundered off the Outer Banks in a raging storm or if a roving band of pirates captured her.”
“Poor Theodosia,” said Theodosia.
“Missing out on so much life,” said Jack Alston as he stared at her with obvious interest.
* * *
Theodosia couldn’t wait
to get to a phone and call Tidwell.
“Do you know an ATF agent by the name of Jack Alston?” she asked, as soon as she had him on the line.
“And a good afternoon to you, too,” said Tidwell. “Why? Did Alston drop by to see you?”
“Yes, he did. Did you send him?”
“I might have mentioned your name,” said Tidwell.
“Why. On. Earth?”
“Because he’s trying to hunt down Granville’s supplier,” said Tidwell.
“I gathered that,” said Theodosia. “And you thought that maybe I’ve been importing Cuban cigars in my spare time?”
“Not quite. But I did want the two of you to become acquainted.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m guessing there’s a stash of Cuban cigars floating around somewhere and that Granville’s supplier might be looking to get his merchandise back.”
“You think this supplier hasn’t been paid?”
“Actually, Miss Browning, let’s call it what it really is. Whoever supplied Granville with Cuban cigars is not a supplier at all. He’s a smuggler.”
“Don’t ever sic anybody like that on me again!” said Theodosia. “Alston was completely rude and insensitive.”
And very attractive, though I hate to admit it.
“His type of personality is standard government issue,” said Tidwell.