Plum Tea Crazy

by Laura Childs

  “Well, I don’t,” Theodosia said somewhat stiffly.

  “Then, how can I help you, ma’am? What exactly are you looking for?”

  “You’re the owner?” Theodosia asked.

  The man bobbed his head. “Murrell Chasen, proprietor. My father started the business in the late forties, I took over when he passed a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Chasen said. “The old man lived to be ninety-two. Landed at Anzio with the First Ranger Battalion during the big one.”

  “Impressive.” Theodosia tried to let a hint of admiration creep into her voice. After all, flattery will get you everywhere.

  “Me, I was in the Marines.” Chasen managed a quick fist pump. “Semper fi.”

  “Do you carry antique bows and arrows?” Theodosia asked.

  “Sure do. We have a good selection in the cases at the back of the store. What exactly are you looking for?” Chasen turned and headed that way, and Theodosia followed.

  “Maybe some information right now,” Theodosia said. “I’m looking for the kind of crossbow that shoots shorter arrows. I think they’re called quarrels?”

  “That’s exactly right,” Chasen said. He slid open a glass door, reached in, and lifted out a strange-looking apparatus. “This is a pistol crossbow,” he said. “Swiss made, probably from the thirties or forties. Takes that shorter-type arrow.”

  Theodosia studied the weapon. It looked much like an old-style pistol but had a small crossbow apparatus on top. “You put the quarrel on top and then fire by pulling the trigger?” she asked.

  “Well, you have to load and engage it first, but that’s how it works.” He handed the weapon to her. “Here, you can hold it. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  Theodosia accepted the pistol crossbow. It was heavy but felt balanced at the same time. As if the maker had been keenly aware that this weapon would be held in the hand much the same way any pistol would, yet had the added objective of firing an arrow.

  “What was this used for?” Theodosia asked.

  “The usual,” Chasen said. “Hunting or target practice.”

  “Hunting.” Theodosia lifted the weapon and sighted it. “It’s easy to fire?”

  “Fairly basic. You load your arrow here.” He tapped the top apparatus with his finger. “Then pick your target and pull the trigger. Not very complicated if your aim is true.”

  “This is from an old design?”

  “Ah,” Chasen said. “There’s been some debate on that. But my guess is the pistol crossbow was adapted around about the turn of the century—the last century, not this century—from medieval and Chinese crossbows.”

  “And the advantage of this weapon is . . . ?”

  “It’s silent and deadly,” Chasen said.

  Theodosia hefted the weapon again. It felt deadly, and the mechanism was simple but ingenious. She could just imagine loading a quarrel into the crossbow apparatus, choosing your target, and then squeezing the trigger. A gentle whoosh would be all that your victim would hear. If he heard anything at all.

  “I can offer you a good deal on this piece,” Chasen said. He took the weapon back from Theodosia and looked at the price tag. “I’ve got it marked at seventeen hundred, but I’d be willing to let you have it for fourteen.”

  “Have you sold many of these?”

  Chasen shook his head. “Not for a long time. This one’s been in my inventory for a good five years.”

  “How did you come across it?” Theodosia asked.

  “A military relics show.”

  “That’s a real thing?”

  “Oh yeah,” Chasen said. “There are military relics shows all over the country. Minneapolis, Huntsville, Louisville, one really big one south of Chicago. You go to these shows, there’s always a few dealers who have something tasty they’re willing to trade.”

  “I have another question.”

  “Shoot,” Chasen said, then chuckled.

  “Do you know a man named Bob Garver?”

  “Garver? Sure, I know Bob. He’s a customer of mine. In fact, he belongs to my shooting club.”

  “Shooting?” Theodosia said, trying hard to contain her excitement. “What kind of shooting?”

  “Guns and bows.”

  “And you say Garver’s a member of your club?”

  “Brittlebush Gun and Bow Club over on Johns Island.” Chasen smiled. “Women are encouraged to join, too, you know. They even have ladies’ day at the range.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Theodosia said. Her brain was trying to quickly form her next question.

  “I could come down to twelve hundred on the pistol crossbow,” Chasen said. “I think you’d like this piece. Get yourself a membership at Brittlebush, plunk away at some targets. Eventually move up to birds. Lots of quail and duck hunting around here.”

  “Thank you, I’ll think about it.” Theodosia hesitated. “Will you be going to the Rare Weapons Show at the Heritage Society?”

  “Oh, sure,” Chasen said. “That should be fun. Lots of my customers are planning to attend as well.”

  “You know that the show has encountered a few problems?”

  Chasen gazed at her, a questioning look on his face.

  “Some guy named Jud Harker was . . .”

  “That troublemaker!” Chasen burst out. He pursed his lips and shook his head with anger.

  “You’ve had issues with him, too?” Theodosia asked.

  “Harker comes around here preaching his anti-gun crap, trying to scare away all my customers. Even the ones who are just collectors.”

  “Do you think Harker is harmless?” Theodosia asked.

  Chasen set the pistol crossbow back in the case and slid the door closed. “If Harker isn’t, then he’d better watch out. A lot of us are very well armed.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in her car, Theodosia dialed Pete Riley’s number. Once again, she was routed to voice mail. Frustrated, she hung up without leaving him a message.

  Okay, be that way.

  Theodosia glanced at her watch. It was just slightly past four. She had time, if she wanted to, to head out to that gun and bow club. Did she want to?

  Yes. I think I do.

  She punched in Brittlebush Gun and Bow Club on her phone and found the address. Even though she figured nothing would come of it, she wound her way past the medical center, cut over to the James Island Expressway, and then took the Maybank Highway out to Johns Island.

  When Theodosia arrived at the club, she was a little surprised. The notion of a sporting club to her conjured up images of a clubhouse, patio, adjacent restaurant, and wide-open spaces where all manner of shooting took place.

  Instead, she found a brown wooden building, about the size of a three-bedroom ranch home, and a dusty parking lot filled with pickup trucks and a few late-model cars. A sign that said BRITTLEBUSH GUN AND BOW CLUB hung over the front door of the modest clubhouse.

  But when she got out of her car, there was no mistaking the sound of gunfire. Members were out in full force, all right, and they were firing away like crazy.

  The interior of the Brittlebush clubhouse looked like the lobby of a mom-and-pop motel in South Dakota. Knotty pine walls, weapons displayed in glass cases, photos of guys holding guns, a few trophies sitting on shelves, a scatter of brown Naugahyde chairs for relaxing, an old-fashioned Coke machine.

  Theodosia stepped up to a counter where a young man leaned forward to greet her. He had red hair that stuck up slightly and one eye that seemed to gaze off sideways.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking about joining your club,” Theodosia said. “Would it be possible to have a look around?”

  “Not a problem,” said the young man. “As long as you stay in the vie
wing area and don’t venture out on any of the ranges.” He turned around, plucked a brochure out of a holder, and slid it across the counter. “Here’s some membership information along with our rules. You need to know that we don’t allow any alcoholic beverages here and that everyone is required to attend a safety class. Now. What kind of shooting are you interested in?”

  Theodosia picked up the brochure. “What do you offer?”

  The man ticked off the various venues on his fingertips. “Sporting clays, trap and skeet, rifle and pistol range, bow and arrow.” He stared directly at her, though one eye wandered slightly left.

  Theodosia cocked a finger at him. “Bow and arrow.” She wondered how good his aim was.

  “Got five lanes for that,” the man said. He reached under the counter and retrieved an ear protector. “Put this on, head straight through that door, and stay in the viewing area. If you don’t, the range safety officer will be all over you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Theodosia slipped on the ear protection and stepped outside. Even wearing the protection, there was an overwhelming cacophony of sounds. Pop. Bap. Whap. Still, the grounds looked fairly safe. A white wooden fence divided the viewing area from the various gun ranges, and a man dressed head-to-toe in khaki and wearing mirrored sunglasses seemed to be monitoring all activity. The range safety officer, she decided.

  Strolling along the fence, not venturing through the gates that led to the ranges, Theodosia watched as a dozen men and two women plunked away at targets. Some of them were pretty good, hitting the targets at center or in the adjacent rings and then letting out whoops of triumph. Other shooters were just plain abysmal.

  Theodosia wondered how she’d do. She hadn’t fired a weapon since her dad had set up a small shooting range out at Cane Ridge Plantation, where he’d grown up. And that had just been target practice with a varmint gun.

  She watched the shooters for a few more minutes, started to get bored, and decided this place was probably a dead end. The man inside had mentioned an archery range, but she had no idea where to find it and didn’t relish doing any kind of exploring that might put her in the line of fire.

  Ambling along the fence, Theodosia headed off to the right-hand side of the viewing area, still not seeing any archery lanes. She decided to abandon her mission. There was nothing here. Following a gravel path that circled around the far end of the clubhouse, she figured she could pop in the front door and return her ear protection.

  That’s when she heard a telltale twang and a thunk.

  Theodosia stopped in her tracks and listened.

  Twang. Thunk.

  There it was again.

  A gravel path veered off from the one Theodosia was on and wandered toward a copse of trees. Slowly, quietly, she followed it. Tree branches brushed her shoulders, gravel crunched underfoot, as she continued on. Fifteen steps later, she emerged at the archery range.

  Three people were shooting. Two men and one woman. They were all geared up with leather armguards and gloves. And they were good. Very good. Two were using a traditional bow, while the man shooting in the farthest lane had a crossbow fitted with a scope. The crossbow shooter wore a chest protector, cap, and yellow sport glasses. His bow was a tricked-out black metal contraption, and his arrows were long and thin with green, spiky feathers.

  Theodosia watched the crossbow shooter for a few minutes. He would bring up his bow fast, take a quick peek through his scope, and then fire. It looked like he was in the middle of an imagined battle scenario. Perhaps a horde of Visigoths was descending upon an English castle that he had been tasked with defending.

  He hit the bull’s-eye every time.

  The crossbow shooter was firing even more rapidly now. Thwack, thwack, thwack, still hitting the target as if his muscle memory was helping him do half the work.

  Then he stopped and nodded, as if giving himself tacit acknowledgement of his rather fine performance. He turned away from the range, slid off his cap, and glanced around.

  That’s when Theodosia did a double take.

  Garver? Is that Bob Garver?

  She was pretty sure it was. Or at least he bore a faint resemblance to the man in the grainy picture she’d found on the Internet.

  As Garver gathered up his gear, preparing to head for the parking lot, Theodosia intercepted him.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Bob Garver?”

  The man stopped in his tracks and gazed at her. “Who wants to know?” He sounded disinterested.

  “I’m sorry,” Theodosia said. She mustered a friendly smile as she touched a finger to her chest. “I’m Theodosia Browning. I was a friend of Carson Lanier.”

  This was a whopper of a white lie, but Theodosia figured that Garver probably wouldn’t question her convenient ruse.

  But talking to Theodosia was the last thing on Garver’s mind. “I have nothing to say to you,” he said as he turned his back and hurried away.

  Theodosia headed down the path after him. “Excuse me. Just one quick question?”

  Garver kept on walking. Correction—he picked up the pace.

  “Hey!” Theodosia called to his retreating back. But Garver had already put considerable distance between the two of them and was stalking across the parking lot now.

  “How rude is that?” Theodosia muttered to herself. She shrugged in dismay, then walked into the clubhouse, where she tossed the ear protectors on the counter, thanked the counter man, and came back out.

  Now what? she wondered. Then answered her own question. Now . . . nothing.

  Theodosia climbed into her Jeep, still grumbling, and pulled out onto the highway. Okay, so Bob Garver was a member at the Brittlebush Gun and Bow Club. And he was a man who favored crossbows. What did that prove? Absolutely nothing. There were probably several hundred archers—maybe even a thousand—in the Charleston area who enjoyed shooting with a crossbow.

  Theodosia headed back toward Charleston, sailing across a narrow wooden bridge, the boards rumbling under her tires, and then around a sharp curve. Yes, Garver had a business connection with Lanier. And yes, Betty Bates had accused Garver of murdering Lanier, while Sissy had called him a pirate. But did that mean the man was a murderer?

  No, it only meant Garver was unpopular with the ladies.

  Theodosia sighed as she drove along, focusing on the road ahead. It was pretty out here. Not very developed yet, lots of stands of fine Carolina pine, scrub oak, and a few cherry laurel trees. There was the occasional farm field, too, as well as some swampy areas. In these places the standing water shimmered brilliantly, reflecting bits of sunlight like jewels. The swamps could have been old rice fields or possibly even tidal creeks that flowed in to create wetlands teeming with woodcocks and cedar waxwings.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind her. Probably wanted to pass, which was always difficult on these narrow country roads.

  Theodosia lifted her foot off the gas pedal and slowed down. At the same time, she veered toward the right shoulder, trying to give the speed demon a bit more room to go around her.

  He came up fast behind her, a big silver SUV, and then, as if he’d changed his mind, didn’t pass. Just hung right there on her back bumper. Theodosia glanced into the oncoming lane, saw nothing coming, and gave a quick wave. A signal that said it was safe to go.

  The SUV stuck right on her tail.

  What?

  She slowed down some more.

  Come on, pass me.

  The SUV crept closer. The entire front end of the vehicle seemed to fill her rearview mirror. And then, in a shocking, dangerous twist, it bumped hard into her back end.

  Holy crap!

  This jerk in the SUV—Theodosia couldn’t tell if it was a Toyota or a Range Rover—was smack-dab on her tail. Bumping her, kind of goosing her along.

  Theodosia tromped d
own hard on the gas and took off. If this was a game of chicken, she didn’t want any part of it. She hit sixty, then sixty-five miles per hour. The SUV was still behind her.

  Like a bubble slowly oozing its way up from a tar pit, a thought occurred to Theodosia. Is that Garver? Is that him right behind me?

  This was not the ideal time to find out. She glanced sideways at her hobo bag sitting on the passenger seat, then snicked a hand over and pulled out her cell phone. Her eyes darted back to the road, and she saw a large truck rumbling toward her. She dropped the phone in her lap and put both hands on the steering wheel. When the truck had passed, she grabbed her phone again and dialed 911. But just as she was about to press ENTER, she glanced in her rearview mirror.

  The SUV was gone.

  Theodosia’s heart thudded inside her chest and her back felt hot against the car seat. She lowered her window, letting the fresh air wash over her. Theodosia hit the number for Drayton’s home phone. It rang and rang, but there was no answer. No answering machine, either, thank you very much.

  On a hunch she dialed the Indigo Tea Shop. And was surprised when Drayton picked up.

  “You’re still there,” Theodosia said.

  “Where else would I be?” Drayton said.

  “Home?”

  “Yes, well, the man from Sheeby’s Hardware who came to fix our window just left a few minutes ago. And then I had a few other things to take care of.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “What’s wrong?” Drayton asked.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Theodosia said. “Tell you then.”

  16

  The minute Theodosia walked into the dimly lit tea shop, Drayton pounced on her. “What happened? You sounded so strange and tense on the phone.”

  “That’s because I was,” Theodosia said.

  They sat down at a table and she gave him a quick two-minute recap of her visit to Chasen’s gun shop as well as her stop at the Brittlebush Gun and Bow Club. Then she told him about running into Bob Garver and her experience with the jerk in the SUV who’d taken tailgating to a dangerous extreme.