Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  “Dark out here,” Drayton observed.

  That was okay with Theodosia. She figured coming in under cover of darkness was a good thing, a lucky thing, because all she really wanted was to get a feel for Julian Wolf-Knapp’s place. Could he be hiding out there? Or had he already lit out for parts unknown? Or maybe the Renoir was stashed at the plantation house while he was . . . what? Busy buying airline tickets? Negotiating another sale? It was all up in the air of course. And truth be known, terribly exciting.

  “How close are we?” Drayton asked. He’d been silent for the last couple of miles.

  “Real close,” Theodosia said. “Like we’re almost . . . there.”

  Her headlights picked out the beginnings of a rustic ranch fence just up ahead, the wood bare and silvered. She flipped off her lights, lifted her foot off the gas, and coasted in, silent as a stealth helicopter on final approach.

  “I think this is it,” Theodosia whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.” Crunching gravel now, she drifted over to a battered metal mailbox that was perched on a pole. “What’s the name on the mailbox?”

  “Wolf-Knapp. Oh dear.”

  “Cheer up, Drayton. This is going to be fun.”

  “If you say so.”

  Theodosia parked the car by the side of the road and they got out. Took the dogs with them and crept silently down the dirt drive that led to Wolf-Knapp’s plantation house. At first the place appeared as a dim, murky shadow set against a forest of shaggy willow oaks. Then, as they drew closer and could make out the actual residence, Theodosia recognized the place. It looked exactly like the pen-and-ink drawing that Annie at the Dusty Hen had showed her. Quaint, slightly sagging, and with a brick chimney set at one end. Your basic genteel Southern decay with a hint of neglect thrown in for good measure.

  “This is it,” Theodosia said, her heart starting to blip a little faster. It was dark as a tomb without even a glow from a single yard light or porch lamp.

  “One of the old rice plantations,” Drayton whispered. “Fairly typical design, though smaller than most. And not in great shape.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t appear that anyone’s home.”

  Drayton was right. Even with the approach of their footsteps, which might have roused someone’s interest, the place remained pitch-black.

  “Maybe it’s good that nobody’s around,” Theodosia said. “Makes it easier to snoop.”

  “Or maybe Wolf-Knapp is sitting inside in the dark with a shotgun balanced in his lap. And the darkness makes it easier for him to see us creeping toward his house,” Drayton said.

  “I love how you always see the upside of things,” Theodosia whispered.

  Still, neither of them backed down. They crept closer, moving from tree to tree, trying to stay in the shadows, always keeping something in front of them. A magnolia bush. A scrawny tree. A skeletal grape arbor, the grapes picked clean by birds, the vines bare twisted ropes.

  When they were ten feet from the front porch, they both stopped.

  “Now what?” Drayton whispered.

  “I’m going to sneak up onto that wraparound porch and peek in the window,” Theodosia said.

  “I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, but . . . okay.”

  Theodosia handed Earl Grey’s leash to Drayton, drew a deep breath, and started moving forward. She was stealthy as a cat, even when she tiptoed up the three wooden steps that led to the sagging porch, praying that the weathered old boards didn’t creak.

  They didn’t.

  Now Theodosia moved swiftly to a front window and pressed her face against the glass. It was dark inside, but she could see enough to satisfy her curiosity. The interior of the home looked semifurnished. Just the bare requisite of furniture—a sofa and a small dining table and chairs. A brick fireplace was set against the far wall. She padded to another window and peered in that one, too. Same thing. Sparsely furnished, wide plank floors, nobody home.

  Wind shivered through bare trees, making branches clack together like old bones. Theodosia shivered, too. This not only felt dangerous; it felt creepy. She moved to another window, peered in again, saw only darkness. Must be a bedroom. Finally, she held up a hand and waved for Drayton to come forward.

  Nervous, hunching his shoulders, he advanced slowly, bringing the dogs along with him. Just as he was about to step up onto the porch, Theodosia said, “I’m pretty sure Wolf-Knapp isn’t here. And there’s hardly any furniture inside. You ask me, the place looks practically empty. Maybe he’s more of an aesthete than we realized.”

  “Good for him,” Drayton said. “He’s a less-is-more kind of guy. Now can we please leave?” He was fidgeting and anxious as the dogs strained at their leashes.

  “I’d like to look around for a few more minutes.”

  “I doubt there’s anything to see. Besides, this place has a nasty brooding feeling about it.”

  Theodosia jerked her head. “There are two small buildings over there I’d like to check out.”

  “What? You think they might be secret art repositories, that all the stolen works of the Western world are contained within?”

  “You never know,” Theodosia said. “And Drayton . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I think you’re being overly dramatic.”

  Theodosia took hold of Earl Grey’s collar, unclipped his leash, and let him run free. Drayton shrugged and did the same thing with Honey Bee.

  * * *

  * * *

  The two buildings backed up to woods and were locked up tight with new Schlage padlocks securing both doors. Short of a crowbar or blowtorch, there was no way they were getting inside.

  “A man who likes his privacy,” Drayton said. “But Wolf-Knapp’s not here. Maybe he was never here.” He fluttered his fingers. “He’s a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  Then where is he? Theodosia wondered. Winging his way to South America with a Renoir tucked in his flight bag?

  “Come on, time to go,” Drayton said. He bent forward, slapped his hands against his knees to get his dog’s attention. “Come on, Honey Bee.”

  Theodosia made a grudging decision that Drayton was probably right. Tonight was a no-go. Another wild-goose chase. Maybe they were smart to simply pack it in.

  “Earl Grey,” she called. “You, too. Let’s go.”

  But all their calls, whistles, and entreaties did no earthly good at all, because the dogs, enraptured by their environs, completely ignored them. Earl Grey and Honey Bee continued to chase around wildly, sniffing out field mice, kicking up their heels, snuffling through weeds.

  “These old plantations are basically doggy nirvana,” Drayton said, after Honey Bee zipped by him for a fourth time. “This entire area is no doubt honeycombed with dikes and sluiceways from back when South Carolina planters grew extensive crops of rice—genuine Carolina gold.”

  “You can just imagine all the old levees, canals, and floodgates. Like at Aunt Libby’s place,” Theodosia said. Her aunt Libby lived on a similar type of plantation out on Rutledge Road. Only Aunt Libby’s place was larger and in much better condition.

  “Look at these little hellions,” Drayton said, “running around and digging like mad.” He sighed. “I’m afraid we’re going to be scrubbing muddy paws tonight.”

  Theodosia and Drayton slogged through thigh-high weeds, marsh grass, and a few muddy patches to where the dogs had converged to snuffle about intently. Both had their heads down, following a scent that was clearly intriguing.

  “Earl Grey. Now,” Theodosia said, using her serious voice.

  Strangely enough, Earl Grey didn’t pay one whit of attention to her. His head remained down as he continued to sniff along a low rise that was choked with a tangle of vines and tall weeds.

  “What’s got you so interested, fella?” Theodosia asked. She snu
ck up behind him, grabbed his collar, and pulled him back. Firmly.

  Theodosia was so intent at clipping Earl Grey’s leash to his collar that she almost didn’t see the dirty hand sticking up out of the soil.

  When she finally did notice, her mouth turned dry as the Gobi Desert and her brain bonked out an imperative, screechy warning that yelped: No. This can’t be happening. Totally impossible!

  But seeing was believing, so Theodosia stole a second look at the horror. She blinked, registered the waxy-looking appendage with dirty curled fingers, and let out a strangled cry.

  “Drayton!”

  “What?” He was busy stumbling after Honey Bee, frustration evident in his voice.

  “Get over here. Please.”

  “What is it?” he asked again, then threw up his hands and abandoned his chase. He turned and began to pick his way toward her. “What’s wrong now?”

  Her heart stuck firmly in her throat, Theodosia pointed to the solitary hand that seemed to sprout from the dank earth like some kind of unholy mushroom.

  “There’s a hand sticking out of the dirt.”

  “A what?” Drayton was shaking his head and mumbling to himself about muddying his Ferragamo loafers.

  Theodosia continued to stand her ground and point, even though her nerves were firing like rockets, warning her to get out of there. To back off because this amateur semi-investigation stuff had suddenly taken a very deadly turn.

  “Wait a minute. Did you say ‘hand’? As in human hand?” Drayton scoffed. “Now who’s being overly dramatic?” He honestly thought she was making a bad joke. Trying to frighten him.

  “No, really. I think there’s a body buried here. A dead body!”

  Reluctantly, Drayton took a step closer. He stared down and let out a loud gasp. Then he slapped a hand against his chest and cried, “Hail and have mercy, I think I need a defibrillator!”

  22

  “Why are you disturbing me at this time of night?” Tidwell asked in a crabby, unhappy voice. Theodosia had called 911, badgered the dispatcher, sputtered out a hasty explanation, and basically moved heaven and earth to be put through to him at home. And now he was giving her attitude? Well, that was just tough.

  “Because I didn’t disturb you last night,” Theodosia responded, “when my shop was broken into.”

  Tidwell let out a deep sigh. “Now what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Julian Wolf-Knapp,” Theodosia said. She could hear what sounded like the Thursday Night Football game playing loudly in the background. Maybe the Carolina Panthers taking on . . . whoever.

  “Yes, yes,” Tidwell said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I had the department put out a BOLO on the man. Happy now?”

  “Not exactly. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Watch out!” Tidwell yelped. “Don’t drop . . . See, now you’ve sacrificed precious yardage.” Then he was back on the phone to Theodosia. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m calling about Wolf-Knapp.”

  “Don’t tell me you found him!” Tidwell blurted out. He sounded excited and strangely curious. Suddenly, the TV noise was muted. No more football game.

  “You might have found him too if you hadn’t gone ping-ponging out of my tea shop like a madman this afternoon.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, Miss Browning? I need a straight answer. And by the way, where are you? Where exactly are you calling from?”

  “I’m at Julian Wolf-Knapp’s plantation house,” Theodosia said. “And I need you to come, like . . . immediately. I’ll text you the address.”

  “You’ve actually uncovered something?” Tidwell asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Um . . . literally.”

  He sucked in a breath, then said, “Don’t tell me you found the Renoir. The missing painting.”

  “More like the missing art dealer.”

  There was a long pause and then Tidwell said, “Could you be more specific?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Theodosia said. “It would help if you brought along a cadaver dog and the county coroner.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Twenty-five minutes later, Tidwell arrived like a rampaging rhino. He slalomed his old Crown Victoria to a skidding stop in the plantation’s front yard, kicking up a tidal wave of dust.

  “Cue the music,” Drayton said. “The cavalry has arrived.”

  Along with his assistant, Glen Humphries, Tidwell had also brought an entire contingent of law enforcement. Two uniformed officers from Charleston, Deputy Sheriff Tom Manning of Dorchester County, two other young deputies who Theodosia thought might be twins, as well as a shiny black Crime Scene van manned by two bored-looking techs.

  “Where is he?” Tidwell asked as he sprang from his car and hurried over to where Theodosia and Drayton were standing. There was no Hi. How are you? Thanks for helping out. Just his typical gruff bark.

  “Over there,” Theodosia said, pointing at the grassy hillock that had once been part of a rice dam.

  “Lead the way,” Tidwell said. Tonight he’d traded his usual unstylish suit and rumpled tie for digging-up-dead-guy casual. In other words, baggy khaki slacks, a faded blue FBI T-shirt, and an oversized barn jacket.

  “The dogs actually found Wolf-Knapp’s body,” Theodosia explained. “Earl Grey and Honey Bee. They were running around like crazy, digging up hunks of dirt and eventually exposed a hand.”

  “If it’s really him,” Tidwell said.

  But some twenty minutes later, with the two sheriff’s deputies poking and prodding at the shallow grave, shoveling clods of dirt with shiny new spades, Tidwell gave a knowing nod and said, “It’s him.”

  Then it was Crime Scene’s turn to move in. They set up light stanchions that gave off an amazing force field of brightness and strung yellow crime scene tape that was probably unnecessary.

  Theodosia was almost afraid to ask but did anyway. “Can you tell how he was killed? Was it a drug? A hot shot in a syringe?”

  “Gunshot,” Tidwell said without hesitation. “Bullet to the back of his head. Clean. Execution style. There’s stippling around the entry wound that indicates Wolf-Knapp was shot at extremely close range.” He yelled to the techs, “Don’t forget to do plaster casts of any footprints and search for shell casings.” One of them nodded back.

  Drayton tiptoed up behind the group, not because he wanted to look at Wolf-Knapp’s body, but because he had a question.

  “Why would someone want to kill Julian Wolf-Knapp?” he asked.

  “Because he sold Miss Drucilla a stolen Renoir,” Theodosia said. “And then—like we theorized before—he stole it back?”

  “And now someone’s stolen it from him?” Drayton said. “Your theory still sounds convoluted.”

  “More like a crazy, unfounded supposition,” Tidwell said. “Leaving the Renoir out of the equation for now, the question remains, who killed Wolf-Knapp?”

  Theodosia thought for a moment. “What if Wolf-Knapp killed Miss Drucilla for the Renoir, then someone else killed Wolf-Knapp?”

  “You’re saying there could be two separate crimes? Murders?” Drayton said.

  “Right,” Theodosia said. “Separate but related.”

  Tidwell looked at Humphries, noted his skeptical reaction, then shook his head. “It feels like you’re reaching.”

  “Maybe.” Theodosia edged closer to the makeshift grave. “How long has he been in the ground?”

  One of the techs turned to her and wrinkled his nose. “There’s lividity and the beginnings of decomp. So forty-eight hours? Maybe more?”

  “Explains why Wolf-Knapp missed the funeral this morning,” Drayton said.

  “Because he was otherwise occupied,” Theodosia said.

  “You two are being awfully blasé about this,” Tidwell observed.

  “Take my word for it, we were defini
tely not calm and collected when we discovered his body,” Theodosia told him.

  Tidwell tasked Humphries and one of the officers to go into the plantation house and look around for the painting.

  “What’s the painting look like?” Humphries asked.

  “Here,” Theodosia said. She pulled out her phone, swiped through until she found the image of the stolen Renoir, and held it up so they could see it. “This is probably it right here. Stolen from an auction house in Vienna.”

  “Okay,” Humphries said. “So a small landscape.”

  “How did you come by this information?” Tidwell asked Theodosia.

  “One of the curators from the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia called me earlier this evening,” Theodosia told him. “Clued me in about a stolen Renoir.” When Tidwell just stared at her, she added, “They have a collection of more than one hundred and eighty Renoirs.”

  “So you’d obviously been in touch with them,” Tidwell said.

  “I figured they’d be a good resource.”

  “And so they have.” Tidwell gazed at her; then his eyes shifted to a point over her shoulder. “Oh no.”

  Theodosia turned and saw that the TV crew from Channel Eight had just pulled in.

  “Damn those TV people and their police scanners,” Tidwell said. “They ought to be outlawed.”

  “The scanners?” Theodosia asked.

  “No,” Tidwell snapped. “The TV people. They’re jackals!”

  Monica Garber and her crew buzzed around Tidwell and the Crime Scene guys like unwelcome flies, Tidwell constantly shooing them away, the TV people always sneaking back to grab a few more shots.

  If the situation wasn’t so macabre, it would almost have been comical.

  * * *

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Humphries and the officer came back out of the plantation house.

  “Back door’s been broken in,” said the officer.