by Laura Childs
She stuck her head up through the hole. The roof, or what was left of it, was still slick and wet from the earlier downpour. Light from below glowed faintly through it. Okay, no surprises here, Theodosia decided.
She felt beneath her with her right foot, took a step back down. Now she was eye level with the tangle of glass and metal. She reached out, flicked at a small oval-shaped piece of metal that hung there. It was weathered looking, once silvery, like the rest of the pieces.
“See anything?” Drayton called from below.
“Not really,” she said.
“Then kindly come back down.”
Theodosia began her climb back down.
“Here,” said Drayton, grabbing for her hand once she was in reach, “let’s get you back on terra firma.”
Theodosia stood next to the ladder, looking thoughtful. “Drayton, let me ask you something. What if someone had their eye on Camille’s wedding ring?”
Drayton’s eyes widened as he caught the gist of what she was suggesting. “You think someone might have been up there? That this wasn’t just an accident?”
“I’m not sure,” said Theodosia. “Let’s just suppose for a moment that a thief was prowling about . . .”
“Camille’s ring would make quite a prize,” he said slowly.
Theodosia’s eyes flicked over the head table, where the silver tea set gleamed from the wrecked table top. “And the silver?” she asked.
“That’s lovely, too,” he agreed slowly. “Queen Anne style. Don’t quote me, but I believe it was crafted by Jacob Hurd in the mid-seventeen-hundreds. And of course, it’s been in the Goodwood family for ages. You see that engraved cartouche on the body of the teapot?”
Theodosia nodded.
“That’s the family crest. A heraldic shield on a bed of roses.”
“So besides Camille’s ring, which I believe Delaine told me had been valued at something like seventy grand...”
“Seventy grand!” exclaimed Drayton. “Good gracious.”
“And all this silver would have been worth a good deal of money, too,” ventured Theodosia.
Drayton nodded briskly, far more familiar with appraisals on antiquities than he was with jewelry. “Oh yes. The teapot alone might fetch ten or twenty thousand dollars. To say nothing of the creamer, sugar bowl, and that magnificent tray.”
“Okay, then,” said Theodosia, “follow my line of thinking for a moment, will you?”
Drayton cocked his head to one side in an acquiescing gesture.
“What if someone was scrambling across the top of the roof . . .” she began.
“It would have to be someone very skillful and limber,” he said, gazing upward. “There are only those struts for support, everything else is glass.”
“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But it can be done. A case in point: the man who cleans my air conditioner does it every spring in my attic.”
“Walks across the narrow wooden struts,” said Drayton.
“Yes,” said Theodosia. “But maybe tonight this person, whoever he was, got caught off balance. The storm, the pouring rain, a nearby lightning strike spooked him or unnerved him. Or maybe it was just terribly treacherous up there. Anyway, somewhere along the way, his foot just happened to slip.”
They both gazed up at the gaping hole.
“And he came crashing through into the Garden Room,” said Drayton.
Theodosia pointed to the remains of an elaborate pulley system that hung from the ceiling. “You see that chain and pulley right there? This roof was meant to crank open. It was designed that way back when it was a working greenhouse, before they pulled out the old wooden tables and sprinkler system and turned it into the Garden Room. But I imagine the system still works. You could still open the roof...”
“Someone scampered across the roof,” said Drayton, still trying out the idea. “With the idea of making off with the ring and maybe even the silver. But instead, this person came crashing down on top of poor Captain Buchanan.”
“Yes,” said Theodosia, “that might explain the first crash we heard.”
“And the second crash?” asked Drayton.
Theodosia hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. But if someone crashed through the roof, wouldn’t they have to go back up through it?”
“How?” he sputtered.
“I have no clue.”
“Folks?” called the janitor. “Is one of you a The-odosia?” He pronounced the name slowly and phonetically.
“That’s me,” said Theodosia.
“Phone call,” said the janitor.
Theodosia and Drayton hurried out to the lobby, where Mr. Welborne was talking excitedly with two staff members.
“I have a phone call?” she said.
The woman behind the front desk indicated a small, private phone booth just down the hallway.
Theodosia seated herself on a small round stool that was covered with a needlepoint cushion and picked up the receiver.
It was Cooper Hobcaw calling from the hospital. He spoke clearly but rapidly for a few minutes and Theodosia listened carefully. Afterward, she thanked him, then hung up the phone.
She stood, drew a deep sigh, and turned to Drayton. “He’s dead,” she told him sadly. “Captain Buchanan is dead.”
Chapter 3
Friday morning at 9:00 A.M., the Indigo Tea Shop was packed. Besides their Church Street regulars, a tour group led by Dindy Moore, one of Drayton’s friends from the Heritage Society, had decided to begin their walking tour of the historic district with a breakfast tea. And now the group easily filled four of the dozen or so tables.
Drayton hustled back and forth, a teapot in each hand, pouring steaming cups of Munnar black tea and English breakfast tea. Haley had come in early, even though she’d been deeply upset by the news of Captain Corey Buchanan’s death, and still managed to bake a full complement of pastries. This morning the customers at the Indigo Tea Shop were enjoying steaming apple-ginger muffins, blueberry scones, and cream muffins, which in any other part of the country would rightly be called popovers.
Standing behind the counter, Theodosia busied herself by handling take-out orders, always in big demand first thing in the morning.
After the horror of last night, she felt reassured and armed by the atmosphere of the tea shop. A fire crackled in the tiny stone fireplace as copper teapots chirped and whistled. The scent of orange, cinnamon, and ginger perfumed the air around her.
Teas were like aromatherapy, Theodosia had long since decided. The ripe orchid aroma of Keemun tea from Anhui Province in China was always slightly heady and uplifting, the bright, brisk smell of Indian Nilgiri seemed to calm and stabilize, the scent of jasmine always soothed.
Finally, when the morning rush seemed to settle into a more manageable pace, Theodosia slipped through the dark green velvet curtains and into her office at the back of the shop.
This was her private oasis. Big roll-top desk wedged into a small space, wall filled with framed mementos that included photos, opera programs, and tea labels. A cushy green velvet guest chair faced her desk, a chair that Dray-ton had dubbed “the tuffet.”
Sitting at her desk, Theodosia thought about the hellish events of last night. Did someone actually crash through the roof and steal the antique wedding ring or am I just trying to rationalize a terrible event? When bad things happen to good people, that sort of thing?
She thought about it, tried to dismiss her somewhat strange theory.
But it wouldn’t go away. Stuck in her mind like a burr.
All right, she thought to herself, then I’ve got to tell someone. Who, though? The police? Hmm, seems a little alarmist. No, she decided, Delaine will come by. She always does. I’ll run it by Delaine and then, if it still holds water, Delaine can take it to the police.
She wasn’t about to get pulled into this, was she? No, of course not.
Haley was always kidding her that she liked nothing better than a good mystery to poke her nose into. Well, she was g
oing to leave this incident well enough alone, wasn’t she?
Wasn’t she?
Theodosia sighed. On the other hand... from the moment she’d climbed that ladder last night, she’d felt as if she was being pulled slowly and inexorably into what appeared to be a web of intrigue.
What was this strange fascination she had with murder? Why did she have this dark side?
Enough, she decided as she flipped open her weekly planner and studied her calendar. This weekend looked relatively quiet. Tomorrow, Saturday night, was the members-only party at the Heritage Society to celebrate the opening of next week’s big Treasures Show. And then her calendar was fairly clear until the following Thursday afternoon when they were scheduled to have an open house at the tea shop.
The open house. She had to start thinking seriously about that. The Indigo Tea Shop was about to kick off its new line of tea-inspired bath and beauty products and she had to decide exactly what refreshments they’d be serving, what theme this little launch party should follow.
Theodosia had experienced a brainstorm not too long ago about packaging green teas, dried lavender, chamomile, calendula petals, and other tea and herb mixtures into oversized tea bags for use in the bath. She had commissioned a small batch to be manufactured by a highly reputable cosmetics firm and then tested the feasibility of those products on her web site. Much to her delight, the T-Bath products, as she had named them, had sold remarkably well, so she expanded the line to include lotions and oils as well. This coming Thursday, their open house would serve as the official product launch for the new T-Bath line. She’d already been interviewed by the Charleston Post & Courier and a fairly in-depth article about her new bath products would be running in their
Style Section sometime next week.
“Theodosia?”
Theodosia looked up to find Haley standing in her doorway. She wiggled her fingers, gesturing for Haley to come in.
“Delaine’s here,” Haley told her. “She’d like to talk to you.”
“How is she?” asked Theodosia.
“Sniffly. Subdued,” said Haley. “Same as us.”
“You’re a real trooper for coming in,” Theodosia told her. “Last night was pretty rough.”
“That’s okay,” said Haley. “I feel better now. Sad for poor Camille, of course.” Haley shook her head as if to clear it. “Strangely enough, Delaine is dressed to the nines. Anyone else would have thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I guess Delaine’s brain doesn’t operate that way.”
“She probably just came from her store,” said Theodosia. “So she had to dress up.”
Delaine’s store, Cotton Duck, was just down the block from Theodosia’s tea shop. Over the past ten years, Delaine had built it into one of the premier clothing boutiques in Charleston. Cotton Duck carried casual cotton clothing to take you through the hot, steamy Charleston summers, rich velvets and light wools for the cooler months, and elegant evening fashions for taking in the opera, art gallery openings, or formal parties in the historic district. In just the last year, Delaine had begun carrying several well-known designers and was now featuring trunk shows several times a year.
“Don’t think ill of Delaine,” added Theodosia. “It’s just her way. Whenever there’s a crisis, she dresses up for the part.”
* * *
Delaine was sitting at the table by the fireplace, wearing a camel-colored cashmere sweater and matching wool slacks, sniffling into her cup of Assam tea. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes as Theodosia approached.
“Delaine,” said Theodosia, “how are you?” She sat down across from her and clasped her hands, feeling a bit like a brown wren in her sensible workday gray slacks and turtleneck.
“Holding up,” said Delaine. “Of course, last night was an absolute horror. First we couldn’t find out anything from the doctors, then they informed us that Captain Buchanan had actually died en route to the hospital.” She bit her lip in an attempt to stave back tears. “Apparently, his respiration and spinal cord had been affected.”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Drayton. After taking a quick check of customers, who all seemed to be sipping tea and happily munching Haley’s fresh-baked muffins and scones, he had joined them at the table. “How awful,” he said.
“If Captain Buchanan had lived,” said Delaine in a hoarse whisper, “he would have been a quadriplegic.”
“Oh, my,” said Drayton, shaking his head sadly.
“How’s Camille doing?” asked Theodosia.
“Terrible,” said Delaine. “She just sat next to Captain Buchanan’s poor body and cried and cried all night. She wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t even take a sedative when one of the doctors offered it. Poor lamb, she’s absolutely heartbroken.”
“And Captain Buchanan’s family has been notified?” asked Drayton.
“Yes,” said Delaine. “Cooper Hobcaw called and spoke with them first. He’s not as... close...to this tragedy as we are, so he was able to maintain a certain calm and decorum. Then Camille got on the line, too.” Delaine fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief, unfurled it, blew her nose loudly. “We’re all just so sad. Camille is planning to accompany Captain Buchanan’s body back to Savannah later today. That’s where the funeral will be.” Delaine blew her nose again and glanced about helplessly. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m just so very upset.”
Drayton reached over and patted her shoulder gently. “We know you are, dear.”
“Thank you for staying last night,” said Delaine. “I knew I could count on the two of you.”
Theodosia and Drayton exchanged quick glances.
“Camille is planning to take the wedding ring back with her today and return it to the family,” said Delaine. “Of course it’s the only acceptable thing to do. After all, there won’t be any . . .” Delaine’s voice trailed off and she dissolved into tears once again.
Theodosia threw Drayton a quick what do we do now? glance.
He gave a helpless shrug.
Delaine, sensing the subtle exchange between them, suddenly looked up.
“You did recover the ring, didn’t you?” she asked.
Drayton, usually eloquent, fumbled for a moment. “Actually, Delaine, we ...uh...”
“There was a problem?” she asked. Now there was a distinct edge to her voice.
“The problem was,” said Theodosia, deciding honesty was the best policy, “we never actually found the ring.”
Delaine was incredulous. “But Cooper said you were going to look for it. Surely you . . .”
“We did look,” Drayton assured her. “We searched high and low, practically tore the premises apart. But . . .” He hesitated, steepled his gnarled fingers together, then pulled them apart slowly, as if to indicate a lack of resolution. “Alas, no ring,” he said.
One of Delaine’s French-manicured hands fluttered to her chest. “My goodness, this is quite a shock.”
“It was to us, too,” said Theodosia. “We really did search everywhere.”
“What do you suppose happened to it?” asked Delaine. She frowned, twisted her handkerchief in her hands, stared at the two of them, obviously expecting an answer.
“We think, that is, Theodosia thinks . . .” began Dray-ton.
“Spit it out, Drayton!” said Delaine suddenly. “If something’s gone wrong, I have a perfect right to know!”
Theodosia glanced about the tea shop to make sure her guests hadn’t overheard Delaine’s somewhat indelicate outburst. “Of course you do, Delaine,” Theodosia assured her. “It’s just that all we’re going on right now is a sort of theory.”
“Then kindly explain this theory,” demanded Delaine. She arched her eyebrows, sat back in her chair with an air that was dangerously close to imperious, and waited for an explanation.
“It involves theft,” said Drayton delicately.
“Of the ring?” said Delaine in a high squeak.
“Well... yes,” said Theodosia. Why is it so difficult to just come right out and
say it?
“Oh my goodness,” cried Delaine, sinking back in her chair. “You think the ring has been stolen?” she said in a whisper.
“We’re not positive,” said Drayton, “but it looks that way.”
Delaine’s face crumpled and she was seconds from another outpouring of tears.
“Remember, this is just a wild supposition on our part,” said Theodosia, “but from the looks of things, it’s possible a thief might have had his eye on Camille’s ring. After all, it was rather beautifully displayed on that baroque silver calling card receiver.” Now why did I have to say that? Theodosia thought to herself. Darn, this isn’t going well at all.
“And all that beautiful old silver was sitting right next to it,” said Drayton. Old silver that’d been in the Good-wood family for generations.
“Crafted by Jacob Hurd,” Theodosia added helpfully.
Delaine nodded tightly. “Of course, I remember the silver. It’s all very old, very elegant. I specifically requested it for just that reason.”
“Anyway,” continued Theodosia, “we think someone might have been prowling across the roof top.”
“And taken a misstep,” said Drayton.
“Which caused him to come crashing down through the roof,” added Theodosia.
“On top of poor Captain Buchanan,” said Drayton, grimacing. He knew the two of them sounded like they were doing some kind of tag-team routine.
Delaine peered at Theodosia and Drayton in disbelief. “You’re not serious,” she said in a choked voice.
“And that’s when the ring was stolen,” said Drayton. “Or might have been stolen,” he added. “We’re still not sure.”
Delaine sat stock-still as their words washed across her. She frowned, leaned forward, put a hand to her mouth. “Then Captain Buchanan was murdered,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Drayton hastily. “After all, the roof could just as easily have collapsed on its own.”
“But the ring is gone,” said Delaine slowly. “Nowhere to be found, as you say. Doesn’t that prove your theory?” She leaned back in her chair again. “Oh my,” she murmured to herself, “this is simply awful. We’ll need to contact the police.”
