Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  Dying rays of sun danced across shallow ponds and cypress swamps. In some places low-lying puffs of fog made the wetlands look dark and slightly ethereal.

  “Early settlers called these swamps dismals,” Drayton said.

  “I think they’re beautiful,” Theodosia said. “They’re peaceful and have a real primordial feel. And think of the wildlife that abounds in these swamps—foxes, deer, mink, cormorants, bald eagles, coyotes, and canvasback ducks.”

  “Osprey, too,” Drayton said as they crossed a wide bridge that took them to Hilton Head Island. “Okay now, in two miles we turn onto Greenwood Drive.”

  “What are we looking for?” Theodosia asked as marshes and swamps slowly turned into developed land.

  “A development called Shadow Dunes. There’s supposed to be a gatehouse out front. But I think we’ve got a ways to go yet.”

  Theodosia made her turn, then drove another four miles or so.

  “Maybe this is it right here. I see a gate with a guard and a sign that says . . . Nope, that’s Montgomery Manor.”

  They drove on.

  “Okay, we have to be getting close now,” Drayton said. He was clutching his scribbled directions and searching for Shadow Dunes. “I’m guessing it’s going to be fairly upscale. . . .”

  “This looks upscale,” Theodosia said. She slowed as they came to a small pond with a spouting fountain in the middle.

  “What’s the sign say?”

  “Shadow Dunes. This is it,” Theodosia said as she turned into a driveway that had a gatehouse but no guard at his post. Only an enormous Christmas wreath hanging on the side of the small gatehouse.

  “Pretty,” Drayton said as they passed stands of tupelo gum trees, small ponds, and clusters of villa homes, “though I’m surprised there wasn’t any guard.”

  “Lack of security is probably why there’s an uninvited guest staying in Miss Drucilla’s condo. What number are we looking for?”

  “Three twenty-seven,” Drayton said.

  The condos themselves were quite nice-looking. Clustered in groups of three, all plantation style with peaked roofs, second-floor balconies, two-car garages, and abundant groves of palm trees nestled close.

  “Here we are,” Theodosia said as they pulled into the driveway of 327 and rolled to a stop.

  “Looks deserted. Curtains are closed. I doubt anyone’s there, much less creeping around and making trouble.”

  “Still, we promised to check it out.”

  “This is going to be a snooze,” Drayton said as he climbed out of the Jeep, stretched, and walked slowly to the front door. Theodosia followed him closely.

  Standing on an oversized sisal welcome mat, Drayton handed Theodosia the key. “Here, you can do the honors.” He shook his head. “What a waste of time.”

  But the minute Theodosia stuck the key in the lock and pushed the door open a couple of inches, she knew someone was inside. The air felt warm and had that alive, slightly disturbed quality.

  But exactly who had taken up temporary residence here? Some deadbeat who’d found himself a fancy deserted condo to hunker down in for a while? Or, heaven forbid, could it be Miss Drucilla’s killer?

  “Drayton,” Theodosia whispered. “I’m going to need you to back me up here because someone’s definitely inside.” Theodosia nudged the door again, causing it to swing wider. Now she could see the living room, dining room, and a small sliver of kitchen.

  “Wha-what?” Drayton jabbered. He took a hasty step backward, blinking hard, nerves tightening in his face. “Hold on a minute. I need to . . .”

  Drayton spun on his heels and vanished, leaving Theodosia alone and feeling vulnerable. But a few moments later he was back, looking considerably more confident and brandishing a large silver flashlight.

  “If whoever’s in here makes any sort of dodgy move, I’ll clobber them with this flashlight!” Drayton hefted the makeshift weapon high above his head.

  “Good thinking,” Theodosia said, even though it was doubtful Drayton would ever venture a move. When push came to shove, Drayton wasn’t a hot reactor like she was. He was more about the gentle art of persuasion.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia pushed the door all the way open, just as a young man shuffled out from the kitchen. He saw them and halted midstride, an expression of utter shock on his handsome face and a can of Gullah Cream Ale clutched tightly in his right hand.

  “Who are you?” he shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” Theodosia yelled back.

  “A better question might be, who are you?” Drayton asked. He thrust his shoulders back and pulled himself to his full height. He’d dropped the flashlight to his side, probably figuring there was strength in numbers. Two against one, if it came to that.

  “I’m Coy Cooper,” the young man said. Then he glanced at the open door and frowned. “Wait a minute. That was locked. You’ve got a key? Where’d you get a key?”

  “Pauline Stauber gave it to us,” Theodosia said.

  It took a moment for the name to click in. Then Cooper said, “Ah, my aunt’s personal assistant. Of course. Isn’t Pauline just the perfect little indentured servant?”

  Theodosia’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re the nephew?”

  Cooper executed a mock bow. “At your service.”

  “Goodness,” Drayton said.

  Cooper was tall and angular, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. He had a long face and dark hair pulled into a low ponytail; he was dressed casually but expensively in a purple cashmere sweater and faded blue jeans. His feet were stuffed into well-worn driving shoes and, with his rich-boy blasé attitude, he looked as if he’d just stepped off the pages of an Orvis catalog.

  “Mind if we come in?” Theodosia asked. She was already studying the interior of the condo. Nice and tasteful with lots of bleached wood and ivory fabrics that she supposed a decorator would have called “beachy” or “coastal style.” There were also several oil paintings hung on the walls and a coffee table held a bronze sculpture that looked like an aardvark in agony. Or maybe it was a hunk of petrified driftwood.

  “You’re already in,” Cooper said. But he retreated a few steps so they could come all the way in and close the door.

  “Why are you here?” Theodosia asked him.

  Cooper looked nonchalant. “I’m staying here because the funeral service is tomorrow. I was going to flake out for the night and then drive up first thing.”

  “You’re going to attend the service tomorrow,” Drayton said. He sounded like he didn’t believe Cooper.

  “You got a problem with that?” Cooper asked. He said it laughingly, then took a sip of beer.

  “I’m fine with it unless you plan to stop at Miss Drucilla’s lawyer’s office and do something rash. Like contest her will,” Drayton said. “Try to gain control of her estate.”

  “Furthest thing from my mind,” Cooper said.

  Theodosia wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. But for the time being, she decided to give Cooper a pass.

  “We received a call from the property manager here,” Theodosia said. “They were worried someone was squatting in this unit.”

  “Yup, that’s me,” Cooper said happily.

  “So you have a key as well,” Drayton said.

  “No, I kicked in a window last night,” Cooper said. Then, “Of course I have a key. My aunt gave me one a few years ago.”

  “And you stay here regularly?” Theodosia said.

  “Nope, this is my first time,” Cooper said. He pointed to the flashlight in Drayton’s hand. “Hey, buddy, you going camping or something? Planning to lead a snipe hunt?”

  “Just . . . being careful,” Drayton said.

  “You have some lovely art on the walls,” Theodosia said as she looked around
. She studied the paintings, but didn’t see anything that looked like a Renoir.

  “My aunt was a collector. So . . . she collected,” Cooper said. “Now, if there’s nothing else on your mind, I guess I’ll say goodbye and see you guys tomorrow.”

  Drayton ticked the flashlight in Cooper’s direction. “Count on it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Well that was a big nothing,” Drayton grumped as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  “I don’t know,” Theodosia said as she started her Jeep, bumped down the private road, and exited onto the highway. “It’s still possible that Cooper murdered his aunt, grabbed the painting off the wall, and then hightailed it down here to hide out.”

  “Sounds far-fetched, though I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility.”

  “Maybe the missing Renoir was sitting in the condo’s back bedroom. Or maybe it’s already disappeared into the underground art market,” Theodosia said.

  “I read recently that today’s art market is a sixty-billion-dollar business.”

  Theodosia glanced over at him. “That much?”

  “Worldwide anyway. Lots of artists, dealers, and wealthy collectors.”

  “Lots of scams as well,” she said.

  “Probably.”

  They drove along in silence for a few miles. Then Theodosia said, “Drayton, I’ve been discounting Pauline all along. I mean as a suspect. But what if she’s the one who murdered Miss Drucilla?”

  “And then stole the painting?” Drayton said. “Rushed it upstairs and stashed it in some hidden nook and cranny in that great big mansion?”

  “Until it was safe to move. I don’t think the police went through Miss Drucilla’s home all that carefully. I think they were fairly convinced that whoever killed her had escaped through the back door and disappeared into the night.”

  “If Pauline’s the guilty party, why on earth would she ask you to look into things?” Drayton asked. “She practically begged you, right?”

  “She did, and I don’t know the answer to that. Maybe to keep herself in the loop? To pick up any bits of information that Tidwell might spill to me? To send us spinning in the wrong direction? Maybe . . . some kind of emotional manipulation?”

  “Like tonight,” Drayton said. “This ridiculous trip.”

  “Exactly. I’m wondering if Pauline intended to send us on a wild-goose chase.”

  “Well, actually, it was her boyfriend who called with the request.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Pauline managed to convince Wade to convince you that something was terribly wrong at the Hilton Head condo.”

  “And we dutifully drove down here. Yes, I see what you mean,” Drayton said. “Pauline does seem to be . . . pulling the strings.”

  16

  A pale moon shone down as Theodosia dropped off Drayton, then drove the few blocks to her home. Naturally, Earl Grey was waiting at the back door.

  “Sorry, big guy,” she said. “It’s kind of late so . . .”

  “Rrwr?”

  Earl Grey’s tail thumped the floor as limpid brown eyes implored her.

  “You still want to take a run?”

  Now wagging instead of thumping.

  “Okay, kiddo, you’re on.”

  Theodosia did a fast presto chango into her running gear and then they were out the door and loping down the dark alley. They took it slow the first couple of blocks, warming up, getting into their rhythm, then picked up the pace. It was a good night for running, cool and crisp, nobody around. They bounded down Ladson, running under streetlamps that delivered little puddles of warm yellow light. Light traffic noises sounded from over on Church Street; the mournful toot of a tugboat carried from Charleston Harbor a few blocks away.

  When Theodosia hit Legare Street, she slowed to a trot. Then, a few paces on, she stopped altogether and doubled back in the direction she’d just come.

  Theodosia wasn’t sure what she had in mind—some random thought was nibbling at her brain. Something she had to do? Something she should check out?

  Yeah, maybe.

  Under cover of darkness, she ran down the narrow brick alley that was directly behind Donny Bragg’s house.

  If I want to do a little more snooping . . . there’s no time like the present. But do I dare?

  Running lightly, then slowing to a walk, Theodosia and Earl Grey came to a halt directly behind Bragg’s carriage house. Theodosia stood there for a few moments, let her breathing quiet, and tried to decide what to do. Was she brave enough to undertake what she called a hot prowl? That is, sneak in and look around. And just whose place did she want to sneak into? Smokey’s apartment or Donny Bragg’s home?

  As she stood there, the decision was made for her. Faint voices floated toward her, not a conversation she could actually listen in on—because it was hard to make out actual words—more like a faulty radio signal that faded in and out.

  Creeping a little closer, hiding behind the spread of a giant magnolia tree, Theodosia peered through a tangle of foliage into Donny Bragg’s backyard.

  Smokey was lounging against a narrow pillar, talking to Bragg. Their voices were low rumbles, so she still couldn’t hear what was being said. But they were both enjoying a leisurely smoke, Smokey flicking ashes from a cigarette, Bragg puffing on one of his contraband cigars.

  And from her vantage point, they also looked relaxed. Occupied. At least for a few minutes.

  Do I dare?

  Theodosia looked back over her shoulder at the rectangle of light that shone from Smokey’s open door. And her decision was made in an instant. Yes, she was going to take full advantage of this opportunity. Looping Earl Grey’s leash around the bottom railing and moving as quietly as possible, she bounded up the stairs to Smokey’s apartment.

  Rrowr?

  Oops. Theodosia stopped dead in her tracks and turned around to gaze at Earl Grey. He stared up at her with questioning eyes.

  Would he growl or bark and give her away? Derail her little sneak and peek? Possibly. And she surely didn’t want that to happen.

  Theodosia ran back down, unhooked his leash, and gave a quick tug. Earl Grey followed her up the stairs, his toenails clicking softly against the wooden steps. Reaching the top, she hesitated. So far, so good? Okay, now for the tricky part. She drew a deep breath, pushed open the screen door, and stepped inside with her dog.

  Smokey’s place didn’t look all that different from the way it had two nights ago. Same lumpy brown sofa, large-screen TV with a tangle of wires hanging down, low lighting, and dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink. But this time Theodosia paid closer attention to the two paintings that hung on the wall.

  She didn’t have a trained eye, but now that she had a chance to study them, she could see they were quite good. One was a seascape of Charleston Harbor, capturing a flotilla of sailboats with a cargo ship and Fort Sumter in the background. The other was a pastoral scene of two palomino horses. The colors, shading, and brushstrokes on both paintings conveyed a vibrant, lifelike quality. The artist—Smokey, in this case—had some talent after all.

  Okay, Smokey can paint. So what?

  Stepping lightly through the living area, Theodosia padded down a short hallway and ducked into the bedroom. Earl Grey followed along quietly. There was a nondescript blue quilt stretched across a double bed, a battered wooden dresser, and a ratty brown carpet partially covering a wooden floor. There were also a messy side table that held paints and brushes, and a paint-spattered easel with a half-finished painting sitting on it.

  Smokey as art forger?

  Theodosia tiptoed closer. No, it was a half-finished garden scene. Nothing particularly incriminating.

  She crossed the bedroom floor and peeked around a doorway into the bathroom, ready to take a quick look and then get the heck out of Dodge.

  Smokey’s bathroom wasn’t
exactly a biohazard but it was close.

  A narrow shelf was cluttered with shampoo, deodorant, a bottle of aspirin, some antacid tablets, and a grubby washcloth. A solitary toothbrush sat in a plastic cup. A broken wicker basket held combs, brushes, and odds and ends.

  Theodosia was about to turn, when a flash of color among all the dullness caught her eye.

  What? Something red? A logo on a tube of toothpaste?

  No. Not quite.

  An alarm pinged deep in her brain. She took a step closer.

  No, it’s orange. Just like . . .

  Her heart thump-bumped inside her chest, then skittered wildly. It couldn’t be, could it? Theodosia willed herself to calm down, to take a careful look and be absolutely sure what she was looking at. Eyes could play tricks after all.

  No tricks. There were three orange syringes sitting in the bottom of that wicker basket.

  Oh, dear Lord!

  Theodosia ran blindly out of the bathroom, caught her toe on the edge of the carpet, bumped into a surprised Earl Grey, and almost fell down. As she flailed her arms to catch herself, she struck the painting and knocked it off its easel.

  CRASH!

  Theodosia froze in her tracks.

  Oh, my stars, did anyone hear that?

  Her heart hammered heavily inside her chest as she listened for raised voices and footsteps pounding up the outside staircase. Waited for the inevitable—the shouts, the anger, and the accusations!

  When nothing happened, when no angry red-faced men appeared, Theodosia decided maybe she could breathe again. She bent down, scooped up the painting that had landed jelly-side down, and set it back on the easel. Hopefully the paint was dry enough that it hadn’t picked up any nasty fuzz from the carpet.

  She allowed herself a quick look around.

  Did I disturb anything else?

  Theodosia didn’t think so. But Earl Grey was looking at her strangely, almost guiltily, as if he knew they’d been trespassing big-time. And of course they had.