Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  “Take a wild guess,” Theodosia said.

  “She wants you to look into Miss Drucilla’s murder?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But you don’t even know this Pauline person. First time you’d ever really talked to her was last night.”

  “I know, but Delaine had the good grace to sic her on me,” Theodosia said.

  “Because you were there. As a witness. How convenient.”

  Theodosia gave Drayton a quick tap on the shoulder. “You were there, too, my friend.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t born with that nagging-curiosity gene like you were.” He picked up a tin of tea, squinted at the label, and set it down. “I don’t plan to get involved.”

  “How can you say that, Drayton, when you’re already involved? In fact, you’re somewhat acquainted with Donny Bragg. Am I right?”

  “I spoke to him last night, but only for a few minutes.”

  “That’s close enough for jazz. In fact, what I’d like you to do is call Bragg and set up a casual meeting for tonight.”

  “A meeting about . . . ?”

  “Tell him we’d like an introduction to Smokey, since Smokey lives in his carriage house.”

  Drayton looked hesitant. “I’d feel awkward doing that.”

  “Of course, because it’s an awkward situation, a horrible situation. A woman was murdered.”

  Drayton fingered his plaid bow tie nervously. “But you still want me to call?”

  “If you would, please.”

  While Theodosia waited on tables, serving her afternoon customers, she thought about Pauline’s request. And decided, Why not look into things? After all, wasn’t she more than a little curious? Hadn’t Miss Drucilla’s murder taken place practically under her nose? And really, the killer could have been anyone who was at the party last night. A woman with a syringe concealed inside her beaded bag, a man with a syringe secreted in his jacket pocket. Someone clever and disciplined who’d waited, watched, and then made their move.

  But wait. Where had the painting disappeared to? Had it been stashed somewhere? Or had the killer escaped with it? Did that mean there’d been one less guest at the end of the evening? All good questions.

  “Hello, hello!” a cheery voice called out.

  Theodosia glanced up to find Delaine Dish steaming toward her. Today Delaine was dressed in a tight-fitting wine-colored velvet jacket with braid trim on the sleeves and a jeweled stickpin in the lapel. It topped a high-necked white blouse and slim black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a tiny ponytail and she wore a jaunty hat with a feather. She was dressed, Theodosia decided, as if she were auditioning for a part in The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “Delaine,” Theodosia said.

  Delaine’s eyes went suddenly round as she conjured up faux excitement. “Wasn’t that horrible last night?” she asked. “Wasn’t it the absolute worst thing you’ve ever seen? Didn’t you just have terrible nightmares!” Delaine loved superlatives and exclamation points. Whether she was talking about a vicious murder or a newborn puppy, her delivery was generally laced with the same over-the-top enthusiasm.

  Theodosia squinted at Delaine. “You told Pauline to come and see me.”

  “And did she?” Delaine asked, her excitement suddenly replaced by a crooked knowing grin.

  “Not only did Pauline stop by. She practically begged me to investigate Miss Drucilla’s murder. You apparently told her that I was the second coming of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I never said that exactly. But I might have called you Charleston’s very own Miss Marple.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Poor Pauline, I hope she was able to rope you in,” Delaine said as she walked to the closest table and plopped herself down in a chair.

  Theodosia followed suit. “Well, she did. Sort of. I agreed to look into things, talk to a few people, but nothing else. The police are the ones who need to lead the charge on this since it’s so high profile.” She stared at Delaine. “And, Delaine, you do know this is my busy week—heck, it’s probably everybody’s busy week. So why point Pauline in my direction?”

  Looking flustered, Delaine tapped her burgundy polished nails on the table and said, “Because I’m still so upset about last night. There I was, having a lovely conversation with Majel Mercer—she’s executive director of the Justice Initiative, you know—and suddenly, we heard all that awful screaming.”

  “Well, it was pretty horrible. People were terrified when they saw Miss Drucilla just lying there.”

  Delaine touched a hand to her heart. “When I saw what had happened, I almost fainted dead away. I have very delicate sensibilities, you know.”

  Theodosia turned her head to hide a wry smile. Delaine had the sensibilities of a storm trooper. She was the most overbearing, controlling, gossipy person Theodosia had ever met. But perhaps this was not the best time to throw those particular character flaws back in Delaine’s face.

  Instead, Theodosia said, “You were Miss Drucilla’s guest last night. I wouldn’t have figured you were in her circle.” After all, Delaine wasn’t exactly a dear friend or a needy charity. And then there was Delaine’s ditzy quotient.

  “Miss Drucilla was one of my very best customers at Cotton Duck!” Delaine exclaimed, then added a bit coyly, “It’s always good to have a socialite client.”

  Theodosia regarded Delaine with slightly lowered eyelids. “So that explains the coral caftan?”

  “A designer piece from my boutique, yes. Beaded mulberry silk, don’t you know?” Delaine glanced at her dinging phone, muttered, “Pest.” Then, “That one I can deal with later.”

  Theodosia didn’t know much about mulberry silk, but that didn’t stop her from asking Delaine a few more questions.

  “So you weren’t there on behalf of one of your favorite charities,” Theodosia said.

  “I wasn’t fishing around for some of Miss Drucilla’s money, if that’s what you’re getting at. Though one of my fave charities, the Loving Paws Animal Shelter, is probably in line for some of her grant money. Now I doubt that we’ll ever—”

  WHAP! WHUMP!

  The front door suddenly blew open; then a dazzling bright light flashed on and flooded the interior of the tea shop. A woman’s voice shouted, “Ready? Let’s do it!”

  “Oh no,” Theodosia groaned. She registered what was happening as her mind bonked into hyperdrive. Then a TV camera crew rushed toward her like a herd of stampeding buffalo. The cameraman had a sleek silver camera balanced on his right shoulder with the red light blazing, signaling that the camera was live and recording. A flunky in a khaki vest kept pace beside him, carrying a boom microphone. And leading the charge was Monica Garber, an on-air personality who specialized in sensational stories and exposés for Channel Eight’s six o’clock news.

  Theodosia turned to warn Drayton just as she saw him turn tail and run for her office. Haley peeped out of the kitchen, then ducked back in. Delaine, on the other hand, looked utterly delighted.

  “Ooh!” Delaine cried in a breathy voice. “It’s the TV people.” She foraged inside her Chanel handbag for lipstick, applied it hastily, and flashed her best camera-ready smile.

  Monica Garber lunged toward them, looking pin thin in a hot pink skirt suit and four-inch black stiletto heels. Garber had predatory dark eyes, a pointed chin, and black hair that was scraped back mercilessly into a tight chignon. Theodosia figured the supertight hairdo must have pulled up every muscle in her face and saved her a fortune on Botox. In fact, Theodosia was vaguely amused by the whole spectacle until Garber completely crashed into her personal space and stuck a microphone a quarter inch from her lips.

  With breathy, TV-manufactured excitement, Garber said, “Tell us what it was like to witness a murder victim draw her very last breath.”

  Theodosia recoiled instantly. “Excuse me?” Did she really just ask me that impe
rtinent question?

  “I want to know . . . our viewers want to know . . . what it felt like to stare a dying woman in the face?” Garber asked.

  “Please leave,” Theodosia said. She said it quietly, without any undue anger or ferocity.

  Garber frowned at first, then reared back as if she’d been slapped. “What’d you say?”

  Delaine raised a hand. “Excuse me, but I was there last night. I saw what happened.”

  Garber ignored Delaine, focusing all her collective energy on Theodosia. “What did you say?” she asked again.

  Theodosia smiled mildly. “I asked you to leave.”

  “Wha . . . buh . . . I don’t understand.” Garber was suddenly a study in abject confusion. Her eyes bulged and her mouth pulled into an unhappy tight line. Apparently she wasn’t used to being denied an interview.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Theodosia said. She remained polite but firm.

  “But this is an important story. And . . . and . . . everybody wants to be on TV!” Garber shrilled. She threw a fierce look at her cameraman. “Don’t they?”

  The cameraman, a shaggy-haired twentysomething in a brown leather jacket, just shrugged. He was getting paid either way, interview or not.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in speaking on camera,” Theodosia said. She continued to keep her voice at an even level, even though she wanted to scream and boot the woman all the way down Church Street. “Thank you for your interest, but I’m afraid you do need to leave.”

  “What if it’s just you and me?” Garber pressed. “A closed interview. One on one?”

  Theodosia shook her head. “Not happening.”

  “You’re not thinking this through,” Garber spit out. “Don’t you realize that media attention can highlight a tough case and often help break it wide open!”

  But Theodosia had already gotten up and walked away.

  “C’mon,” the cameraman said to Garber, dropping his camera from his shoulder. “There’s nothin’ here.”

  Theodosia watched as the film crew retreated outside, with Delaine trailing after them, hopping up and down, still hoping to be interviewed. Then she drew the blue toile curtains closed and locked the front door.

  It was only when the coast was clear that Drayton crept out of hiding.

  “Are they gone?” Drayton ducked his head, adjusting his bow tie and looking a trifle sheepish.

  “Ding-dong, the witch is dead,” Theodosia said. “I doubt Ms. Garber will be coming back anytime soon.”

  “What did they want?” Haley asked as she edged her way out of the kitchen. She’d kept a low profile, too. Really, a no profile.

  Theodosia sighed. “What do TV people ever want? They want you to cry, threaten, and lose your cool right on camera. They want you to emote and make for exciting television so the station can get better ratings and charge advertisers a premium rate for commercial time. And then, when it’s all said and done and the footage is on the air, the TV people want you to buy the drinks.”

  “Huh,” Haley said. “You know this from experience?”

  “I worked in advertising, remember? I used to produce TV commercials, write press releases, and buy media time.”

  “Oh yeah,” Haley said.

  “But you kicked her out,” Drayton said. He seemed awed by Theodosia’s aloof, take-charge manner.

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Theodosia said. “It would have ended badly.”

  “It did end badly for Monica Garber,” Haley chuckled.

  “Which is why I’m impressed,” Drayton said. “It’s difficult to manhandle the media.”

  “Please,” Theodosia said as she waved a hand. “It was nothing.”

  “No, it was something,” Drayton said. “And by the way, I made that call to Donny Bragg”—he cocked a thumb and pointed back toward Theodosia’s office—“while I was hiding out.”

  “Thank you,” Theodosia said. “So we’re set for tonight?”

  “Eight o’clock,” Drayton said. Then he gazed at Theodosia again and said, “I really have to hand it to you. You kept your cool and never lost your temper.”

  “Oh no,” Theodosia said. “I lost my temper all right. I just didn’t show it.”

  6

  Some of Theodosia’s friends ribbed her about driving a Jeep Compass. But Theodosia loved her four-wheel-drive, perched-high-above-the-crowd mode of transportation. In fact, this was her second Jeep, after owning a couple of white-bread sedans. A Jeep was the perfect vehicle for taking her off road and into the fields of the low country so she could pick lemongrass, passionflower, and red clover for homemade tea. To say nothing about four-wheeling through overgrown fields where she pulled tangles of grapevines down from trees and twisted them into decorative wreaths for sale in her tea shop. And then there was the issue of transporting all her sailing gear over to the marina.

  Right now Theodosia was parked at the curb outside Drayton’s house, watching him exit his side door and pick his way down a narrow cobblestone walk.

  “Perfect timing,” Drayton said as he clambered in. “I just finished taking Honey Bee out for our nightly stroll.” Honey Bee was Drayton’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and, in Theodosia’s opinion, a dog that had basically struck gold and won the lottery. After all, how many rescue dogs lived in a historic home surrounded by antiques, handcrafted furniture, and a carefully curated library? No others that she could think of.

  Theodosia drove down Tradd Street, then turned on Legare. There were lots of big mansions here in these rarefied few blocks, where old money mingled uneasily with Charleston’s nouveau riche.

  “So the plan tonight is to interview this Smokey character?” Drayton asked.

  “First we’re going to talk to Donny Bragg,” Theodosia said.

  “You view him as a suspect, too?”

  “I think everybody’s a suspect at this point.”

  * * *

  * * *

  In Charleston, if you’d acquired a fine veneer of success, it meant you were either a banker, a lawyer, or a politician. Donny Bragg was a lawyer, a senior partner at Deutsch, Hamilton, and Bragg. To go along with his vaunted status, he’d acquired a three-story Georgian-style redbrick mansion on Legare Street. It boasted graceful columns, a hipped roof, and squared-off chimneys at either end. Tonight, lights blazed from almost every window.

  Bragg met Theodosia and Drayton at the front door and welcomed them into an expansive parlor that had a sexy silver-gray S-curved sofa and four matching club chairs done in shantung silk. Oil paintings crowded the walls and Theodosia could see into the wood-paneled dining room, where more paintings were hung.

  He’s an art collector, she thought. How interesting.

  Two minutes into their conversation, Theodosia also decided that Bragg was well named, just as Tidwell had insinuated. Bragg expounded on his law firm and his recent trip to a five-star resort in Thailand, and he even bragged about his golfing at Turtle Point on Kiawah Island. All things considered, Bragg’s name was practically occuponymous (if that was an actual word).

  “And you’re also an art collector,” Theodosia said, the artwork being the proverbial elephant in the room.

  “I dabble some. Don’t really know enough about art to be serious,” Bragg said.

  Drayton stepped toward a painting and studied it carefully. “This landscape by Alfred Hutty looks fairly serious to me.”

  Bragg gazed at the painting as if he’d never noticed it before. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Wait a minute.” Drayton turned back and stared at Bragg. From his expression, the wheels were turning, cranking out some vital bits of information. “Now I remember you. Timothy Neville introduced us at a Vivaldi concert last September.” Timothy was the executive director of the Heritage Society and one of Drayton’s dear friends.

  “Oh?” Bragg said with very
little enthusiasm.

  Drayton snapped his fingers. “Of course. You sit on the board of directors at the Gibbes Museum!”

  This was a major news flash for Theodosia. “He does?” she said to Drayton. Then her head spun to look at Bragg. “You do?” The Gibbes Museum was Charleston’s major repository of fine art. A Beaux Arts building on Meeting Street that offered numerous galleries as well as artist’s studios, lecture spaces, and a lovely little café that served terrific French onion soup.

  “I’m mostly there as a lark,” Bragg said, obviously trying to downplay his involvement.

  But if Bragg was on the board, maybe even involved in okaying the acquisition of major pieces of art, Theodosia wasn’t about to let him off the hook quite so easily.

  “I’m well acquainted with several curators at the Gibbes Museum, and according to them, it’s a serious undertaking,” she said. “I understand their annual operating budget hovers around two-and-a-half-million dollars.”

  “I suppose,” Bragg muttered.

  Theodosia gazed at Bragg, her curiosity growing. Could he have stolen the Renoir? Could he have seen it, coveted it, and simply taken it? And, in the process, murdered Miss Drucilla? From his snobby, snotty viewpoint, could he have seen her only as collateral damage? She supposed it could have happened that way.

  “Why are you peppering me with all these questions?” Bragg asked, his feathers clearly ruffled.

  “I’m just sniffing around,” Theodosia said, trying to sound casual. “Mostly because Pauline asked me to look into things.”

  “Oh, that woman,” Bragg said. His tone was gruff, dripping with condescension.

  “What’s the problem?” Theodosia asked. “You two don’t get along?” Did Donny Bragg have a bone to pick with Pauline Stauber?

  “I’m not usually a guy who tells tales out of school, but Pauline has a gambling addiction like you wouldn’t believe,” Bragg said.

  “You’re serious?” Drayton said. “Pauline seems so sweet and mild mannered and, well, normal.”

  “Hah. Get her in a game of five-card stud and she’ll pick you clean,” Bragg said. “That’s if she doesn’t bet the house and lose it all.” He rolled back on his heels and favored them with a wolfish grin.