Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  His blue eyes drilled into her. “Smokey. The painter.”

  Puzzled, Theodosia stared back at Daniels. “Why would you call Smokey a painter? Because he paints houses?”

  Daniels shook his head. “No, no, I’m talking about actual paintings on canvas. The guy is . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know what you’d call it. . . . ‘Idiot savant’ seems kind of harsh, because Smokey’s not stupid. He’s just untrained. But from what I’ve seen, that guy has more talent in his little finger than a lot of artists who are hanging in major galleries on King Street.”

  Theodosia was completely gobsmacked by Daniels’s words. “You are referring to Smokey Pruitt? The handyman guy who lives above Donny Bragg’s garage?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And he paints?”

  “Yeah, he paints. What did I just say? Weren’t you listening?” Daniels asked. He was just this side of snippy.

  “Yes, I . . . I was. Thank you,” Theodosia said. She felt totally flummoxed as Daniels turned and walked away.

  Smokey is a painter. So maybe he . . .

  Theodosia’s cell phone chimed in her jacket pocket. She scrambled to dig it out and said . . .

  14

  “Hello?”

  “Was my Holiday Blend popular? Did it completely sell out?” Drayton asked.

  “Almost. I think there’re maybe two tins left.”

  “Wonderful. We’re stocked to the gills back here, so I’ll send another couple dozen tea tins along with Haley.”

  “Great,” Theodosia said. “How’d things go at the church?”

  “Everything’s been worked out—the music, the readings, the whole shebang. So tomorrow’s funeral is a go.” Drayton hesitated, then added, “But a slight problem came up.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Wade Holland called here a few minutes ago.”

  “More Pauline problems?” Theodosia asked.

  “Not Pauline, but it seems another semicrisis is brewing. Wade received a call from the manager at Miss Drucilla’s condo complex down in Hilton Head and was told something fishy was going on.”

  “Fishy at the condo? Like what?”

  “Like maybe someone is living there?”

  “Are you asking or telling?”

  “Telling,” Drayton said.

  “What are we supposed to do about it?” Theodosia asked, though she figured she had a pretty good idea.

  “Wade wanted to know if we could drive down to Hilton Head and check it out.”

  “Uh-huh.” Theodosia had so many things going on, she was ready to pull her hair out. “Wade wants us to drive down there? That’s wacky. Why can’t he handle it?”

  “Something about a major conflict . . . Wade called it a perfect storm between finalizing Miss Drucilla’s funeral, supporting Pauline, and holding down his job at the gift shop. I know. It’s an imposition and a terrible disruption, but I feel bad for him. And for Pauline, too. She was in such a sad state when she left. And we did promise to investigate. . . .”

  For the first time Theodosia felt a pang of regret. Yes, they were investigating, but they didn’t seem to be making a whole lot of forward progress.

  “I was thinking, if we left around five we’d probably be down there by six thirty,” Drayton said.

  “Oh, I don’t . . .” Theodosia wasn’t all that eager to bomb on down to Hilton Head and check on somebody’s condo. But then she paused and gave the idea a second thought. Let it rumble through her brain. Someone might be living in the condo? Or, rather, they could be . . . hiding out? A passing beach bum? A drifter?

  Or could it be Miss Drucilla’s killer? This foray could prove to be dangerous. But still . . . if we’re careful, it could mean breaking the case wide open.

  Yes, Theodosia was suddenly frothing with curiosity. And even though she knew that curiosity had killed the proverbial cat, her suspicions had been roused and she felt sorely tempted.

  “You know what?” Theodosia said. “I changed my mind.”

  “So you are willing to go?”

  “I’ll come back and pick you up just as soon as Haley shows up here.”

  “Shouldn’t be long. She left ten minutes ago.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once Theodosia handed over the booth to Haley, she headed back to her car, dodging and weaving through a warren of booths selling candied pecans, silver jewelry, Christmas stockings, jars of jam, embroidered hand towels, sweetgrass baskets, Benne wafers, and a million other things. With Christmas carolers dressed in long plaid skirts and matching bonnets and singing their little hearts out, could the arrival of Santa be far away?

  “Theo! Theo!” a frantic voice called after her.

  Shoot. She was a stone’s throw away from her car. Had almost managed to make a clean getaway.

  Hesitating, looking back over her shoulder, Theodosia saw Delaine running after her. Or trying to run anyway. Delaine was stumbling along, looking intense and taking teensy-weensy baby steps in four-inch heels. Heels that were backless, no less. Lord knew how she kept them from flying off her feet. Maybe she curled her toes as she ran. Or there was some magical fashion shoe glue that Theodosia didn’t know about.

  “Delaine,” Theodosia said, pausing long enough for Delaine to finally catch up.

  Delaine put a hand on Theodosia’s arm and leaned forward. “I’m so glad I was able to catch you,” she said, her face pink, her breath coming in short gasps. “Because I—puff, puff—have a tiny favor to ask.”

  I have to do another favor? My eyeballs are starting to hurt from all this goodwill.

  “What’s the favor, Delaine?”

  “I just got a . . . Eek, my poor toes . . . I got a call from Doreen Palmer, the executive director at the Loving Paws Animal Shelter. You know that I serve on their board of directors.”

  “Yes, I know.” Because you’ve hit me up for donations many times.

  “Loving Paws is such a great outfit,” Delaine said, moving seamlessly into her impassioned pitch. “Think of all the wonderful dogs we’ve rescued. And do you remember that fabulous black-tie fund-raiser we had last year, Dinner with Your Dog?”

  Theodosia remembered because she and Earl Grey had attended. The dinner had been held in the courtyard of the St. Charlotte Inn, and once the steaks (for people’s consumption) and kibble (for dogs’ consumption) had been served, Loving Paws had staged a silent-auction fund-raiser that raised almost eleven thousand dollars.

  “Unfortunately, Loving Paws has run into kind of a sticky problem,” Delaine said.

  “What’s that?”

  “In our zeal to rescue three dozen dogs from a puppy mill down in Jasper County, it looks as if our shelter is far too crowded to house them all!”

  “Then you’re going to have to get aggressive with adoptions,” Theodosia said.

  “I’m not sure that’s possible this close to Christmas.”

  “I suppose that does present a problem,” Theodosia said. After all, how many people wanted to adopt a stray dog on Christmas Eve? Probably not that many.

  “I’m going to try to persuade one of our fine hotels to give us a couple of rooms at a reduced rate,” Delaine said.

  “Wait. You mean, book hotel rooms for the dogs?”

  “Of course for the dogs. We can’t turn them away!” Delaine’s voice rose to almost a shriek. She seemed to have caught her breath just fine. “There’s no way we can rescue those poor, unfortunate little creatures out of grubby cages and then turn around and tell them there’s no room at the inn! For goodness’ sake, Theo, it’s Christmas! Have a heart!”

  “I do have a heart, but . . . well, what about trying to find temporary foster homes for them, just until your shelter catches up with adoptions?”

  Delaine scrunched her brows together and touched a finger to her cheek, as if
she was contemplating Theodosia’s suggestion. “Like you, I’ve been thinking along those same lines. Would you ever consider . . . ?”

  Ah, so this is where she’s going.

  “I could probably take one dog,” Theodosia said. She held up an index finger to reinforce her point. “That’s singular, solitary, uno. Just one dog.”

  “Uh-huh.” Delaine was nodding her head now, her long silver earrings swishing against her cheeks. “That’d be good.”

  “When do you expect to get them?”

  “The dogs are in a temporary shelter in Aiken right now and our vans are picking them up Friday.”

  “Mmn, tricky. So close to Christmas. Well, okay. Earl Grey and I will just have to make room.”

  Delaine did a genteel fist pump. “Theo, you’re a lifesaver!”

  * * *

  * * *

  As Theodosia drove down Broad Street, she thought about her various suspects. Smokey’s and Donny Bragg’s names were melded together in a sort of slipstream that wafted through her mind. They seemed to be at the front of the pack for now. Then again, she was highly suspicious of Sawyer Daniels and Julian Wolf-Knapp.

  Just as Wolf-Knapp’s name popped into her brain like a cartoon thought bubble, Theodosia realized she was driving past his studio! On a whim, she pulled over—there was an open parking space after all—and decided to run upstairs. Okay, and do what? She had to have a reason to ask more questions. After all, Wolf-Knapp was no pushover. Could she quiz him about Smokey? That might be an angle she could work. After all, if Smokey was as good a painter as Daniels said he was, maybe Wolf-Knapp knew about him or was even representing him. Theodosia wasn’t sure what that would prove, but if there was a connection, it could lead to some answers.

  Theodosia parked and quickly ran upstairs. But when she got to Wolf-Knapp’s studio, nobody was home. She banged on the door, called his name, but nada. He must have left for the day.

  Back downstairs and about to give up, Theodosia decided at the last minute to step inside the Dusty Hen Antique Shop. Maybe they knew where he was?

  The shop, of course, proved to be adorable: small, tidy, and absolutely stuffed with antiques, old mirrors, silver teapots, and brass table lamps. Here was an old farmhouse table topped with an array of colorful ginger jars; over there was an antique wardrobe. And everywhere were picture frames, antique china, vintage linens, gilded birdcages, and quirky side tables. As a lucky-strike extra, all sorts of new items were interspersed among the antiques: fragrant soaps, tea towels, handmade jewelry, reproductions of Paris street signs, aprons, boxes of truffles, jars of French mustard, perfumes, and wicker furniture. It was as if the Old South had staged a friendly invasion of a French marché.

  “This is a fabulous shop,” Theodosia said to a woman—the owner?—who came forward to greet her. “I love your mix of old and new.”

  “We try to have a little something that appeals to everyone who walks through our doors,” the woman said.

  “Well, you’ve succeeded beautifully, because I already see a market basket that I have to have.”

  “For your tea shop?” the woman asked. Then she smiled. “We sort of know each other. I’m Annie Dawson and I’ve been to the Indigo Tea Shop a few times.”

  “Of course you have. Annie, it’s lovely to see you again,” Theodosia said. Yes, she did remember Annie, now that her memory had been jogged.

  Annie smiled, pleased.

  “Oh, and I want that box of truffles as well. You know, I came in to see if you knew how I could get hold of Julian Wolf-Knapp, one of the upstairs tenants, but now I’m completely besotted with shopping.” Theodosia picked up a blue floral tote bag and said, “Do these also come in pink?”

  “They do, but we’re completely sold out because of the holidays,” Annie said. “But we’ll be getting more in. I can let you know when they’re back in stock.”

  “That’d be great,” Theodosia said.

  “So. Julian,” Annie said. “I know he often retreats to his place in the country. It’s a cute little plantation house with a small barn that he uses for storage.”

  “Do you know where it’s located?” Theodosia was mostly curious.

  “I think . . .” Annie walked back to her desk, picked up a spiral-bound book, and paged through it. She frowned. “I have it here somewhere.” She thought for a few moments. “Oh, I know.” She pulled out a drawer, picked up a green leather book, scanned it, and said, “Here it is. Julian’s place is on Larkin Lane.”

  Theodosia thought for a moment. “That would be out in . . .”

  “Dorchester County. Off Highway Sixty-one.”

  “Thanks so much,” Theodosia said as she handed over her credit card.

  “I understand Julian’s place is really quite charming,” Annie said once she’d rung up Theodosia’s purchases. “Here . . .” She moved to a table filled with knickknacks and picked up a small drawing in a nubby gold frame. “This is a pen-and-ink drawing of his place that Kaitlin Carnes, a local artist, did. She does drawings of many of Charleston’s landmark homes: Magnolia Plantation, Middleton Place, the Aiken-Rhett House. Anyway, she did this one of Julian’s place.”

  “It’s lovely,” Theodosia said. “Both the drawing and his plantation home.”

  With her purchases tucked in the back of her Jeep, Theodosia wondered if the truffles might make a good Christmas present for Haley. She’d already bought her a pale blue cashmere scarf, but the truffles might make a nice stocking stuffer.

  Theodosia’s mind was now firmly on Christmas as she drove down King Street, then hung a left on Ladson. As she made her turn, mindful of some kids on the corner, she glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed that the car following her, a nondescript tan car, had also made the turn.

  Huh.

  At Meeting, she hooked right. As if on cue, the tan car followed her.

  This is kind of weird.

  Theodosia sped up and shot through the next intersection, entering as the light turned yellow, almost clipping the red.

  The tan car slipped through as well.

  Am I being followed? And by who?

  A thought bubbled up that it could be Smokey, since he was the one with the most fingers pointed at him. So he could be feeling some unease. But it could also be Julian Wolf-Knapp. Maybe he’d been sitting in his office the whole time, listening to her shout his name and pound on the door. Then he’d—what? Decided to follow her to see what she was up to?

  Without signaling, Theodosia made a fast left turn. The tan car shot past her. Didn’t seem to register that she’d turned off.

  How interesting. Now Theodosia wasn’t sure if she’d actually been followed.

  Or maybe . . . I hate to say this, but . . .

  “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

  15

  The minute Theodosia pulled into the alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop, Drayton ran out the back door, locked it behind him, jumped into the passenger seat, and said, “I apologize for this strange excursion that I flimflammed you into. I really do. I see now I shouldn’t have been so insistent about our helping Wade.”

  Theodosia waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Now I’m kind of curious.”

  Drayton pulled his seat belt across himself. “About . . .”

  “What we might find at that condo. Who we might find there,” Theodosia said as she took off down the alley and hooked a left.

  Drayton nodded. “Ah.”

  “How are we supposed to get into the unit?” Theodosia asked. “Check with the manager or . . . ?”

  “I have a key. Wade sent over a key.”

  “Then we’re all set.”

  Theodosia drove back down Broad Street, followed it south through a fair amount of traffic, then turned onto Highway 17 and accelerated. Not so much traffic on the main highway. That was lucky; it meant they’d make good time.
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  “I have major news to tell you,” Theodosia said.

  “What’s that?” Drayton asked.

  “I ran into Sawyer Daniels at the Holiday Market—you know, the Doing the Good charity guy—and by the by, he told me that Smokey Pruitt was an artist.”

  “You mean a con artist?”

  “No, a fine artist. As in painting and drawing.”

  “Daniels said this?”

  “Uh-huh,” Theodosia said. “He told me that Smokey has beaucoup talent.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Drayton sounded completely skeptical.

  “Of course, this is the gospel according to Sawyer Daniels. For all I know, Smokey might be painting stick figures or doing graffiti art with cans of spray paint.”

  “I wouldn’t classify graffiti as fine art,” Drayton said.

  “These days, if you can get a dealer to represent you, anything qualifies as art,” Theodosia said.

  “Well.” Drayton looked thoughtful. “Then I suppose we need to take a second look at Smokey, a more measured look.”

  “I just had a weird thought,” Theodosia said. “Could Smokey be doing Donny Bragg’s bidding? Could he be Bragg’s henchman?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Drayton asked.

  “Okay, if Bragg said, ‘Go steal a painting,’ would Smokey actually do it?”

  “I have no idea,” Drayton said. “But if what you say is true, that also implies that Bragg could have said, ‘And while you’re at it, go kill Miss Drucilla.’ ”

  “And that suggests mind control,” Theodosia said, “which is downright terrifying.”

  Drayton gave a shudder. “If you ask me, this whole thing is terrifying.”

  Theodosia watched for the tan car that had followed her earlier, but didn’t see it.

  Good.

  They hooked up with I-95 for forty miles, then turned east onto Highway 278. This was a narrow, twisty road that took them past small country churches known as praise houses and roadside markets with names like Blessing Acres and Trickling Creek Farm. Apples, pecans, sweet potatoes and muscadine grapes were all still in season. Seafood markets advertised fresh-caught shrimp, oysters, grouper, and blue crabs.