Plum Tea Crazy

by Laura Childs

  “Do you think it was Bob Garver who was following you?” Drayton asked.

  Theodosia shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “I mean, if Garver was outright hostile to you at the gun club, then he could have waited for you to leave and driven after you. Gotten it in his fool head that he was going to scare you—teach you a lesson, so to speak.”

  “It could have been Garver,” Theodosia said. “Or some other random, crazy driver. It’s possible that Garver didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Why not?” Drayton asked.

  “Maybe Garver’s in enough trouble over the three point nine million dollars in low-interest loans. Maybe the city had second thoughts about his rehab project and asked for the money to be returned. Maybe Bob Garver is a sham and a charlatan and is trying to bilk the city.”

  “That seems like a difficult proposition,” Drayton said. “Wouldn’t the city have an oversight committee? Or a cadre of bean counters who watch the money like hawks?”

  “Unless one of the bean counters is a part of Garver’s con game,” Theodosia said.

  “Mmn, you have a very facile mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Was there any damage to your bumper?” Drayton asked.

  “Just the tiniest of scratches. You can barely see it.”

  “Well, that’s a break.” Drayton stood up. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I just brewed a pot of black jasmine. Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

  “A quick cup,” Theodosia said. “Because I’m scheduled to meet Linda Pickerel from the bank in twenty minutes.”

  Drayton scurried behind the counter and busied himself with cups and saucers. “That’s right. You’re supposed to get the lowdown on Betty Bates.”

  “If Linda will be honest with me, yes.”

  “What possible reason would she have to deceive you?”

  “People give very selective responses when they’re worried about keeping their jobs.”

  Drayton carried two cups of tea out into the tea shop and set them on the table. “At the very least, we can enjoy—”

  BAM, BAM, BAM!

  They both stopped midsip and turned to stare at the front door. Whoever was out there had knocked so hard they’d rattled the windowpanes. And the last thing Theodosia and Drayton needed today was another broken window.

  “Now what?” Drayton said. He sounded tired.

  “Theodosia!” came a muffled cry from outside. “Drayton?” Now the voice was more insistent. “Are you in there?”

  “That’s Delaine,” Theodosia said, rising hastily from her chair. “Something’s wrong. She sounds practically hysterical.”

  “What could have happened?” Drayton asked as he jumped up and followed Theodosia to the front door. “Some other silly thing with her fashion show?”

  But when Theodosia unlatched the door and tugged it open, two very unhappy faces stared in at her. One belonged to Delaine, the other to Sissy Lanier. Only, Sissy was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Delaine?” Theodosia said, a little stunned at seeing the two of them together, as if the fight in Delaine’s shop had never happened. “And . . . Sissy?”

  “May we come in?” Delaine asked. But before Theodosia could respond, Delaine barged in, dragging the whimpering Sissy along with her.

  “What’s wrong?” Drayton asked.

  Delaine shoved Sissy down into a nearby captain’s chair. “She’s just had the most awful shock,” Delaine said as Sissy began to moan and rock back and forth in her chair.

  “Maybe you should explain,” Theodosia said, fixing Delaine with a questioning gaze. That the two of them should suddenly show up together, after the big fight this morning, was beyond strange. It was veering into Area 51 territory.

  Sissy lifted her head as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. Her once-ballooned hair had de-poufed into a messy, unflattering helmet. Her exotic eye makeup had melted into dark, greasy blobs that made her look like a panda in mourning. “My esh lesh tesh,” Sissy blubbered. She made no sense whatever and seemed to have a loose tooth that produced a small, sharp whistle whenever she opened her mouth. Theodosia imagined that one of Betty’s well-placed uppercuts had knocked it loose.

  Delaine patted Sissy on the shoulder. “Don’t try to talk, dear.”

  “Delaine,” Theodosia said in an authoritative voice. “What happened?”

  Delaine bit her lip. “Sissy just received her statement from Fidelity, and it looks as if the better part of three million dollars is missing from her account.”

  “Half of that wush mine!” Sissy managed in a high-pitched squeak. “Carson must have shpent all the money before the divorce wush finalized! Before he died!” She put a hand to her mouth and let loose a pitiful wail.

  “Now, now,” Delaine said. “Perhaps there was a clerical error.”

  “Or maybe Carsen gish the fundsh to her,” Sissy bawled.

  “Wait a minute,” Theodosia said to Delaine. “Besides Sissy’s rambling, something isn’t tracking here. Five hours ago she was acting like a deranged banshee and we had to oust her from your shop. Now she’s crying on your shoulder.”

  “I know, I know,” Delaine said. “But the poor dear turned up on my doorstep whimpering and wailing, completely distraught. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Deposit her on our doorstep, I guess,” Drayton said.

  Delaine stuck her nose in the air and sniffed loudly. “Well, pardon me for trying to be a friend to poor Sissy.” She threw up her hands in a helpless, indignant gesture. “I don’t have a clue how to unravel this sort of mess. I’m not the big pooh-bah investigator that Theodosia is.”

  Theodosia cocked her head at Delaine. “Why do you make that sound like an insult?”

  Delaine was immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to, Theo. I really didn’t. And besides, money really is missing from Sissy’s account. If you’d been wiped out financially, wouldn’t you be completely unhinged? Wouldn’t you want to wail and scream?”

  “I suppose,” Theodosia said. Though she knew she’d never allow something like that to happen to her. Never in a million trillion years.

  “It looks as if Sissy’s estranged husband stole all the money and then hid it somewhere,” Delaine said. “Now he’s dead.” She managed an ominous look as she held up an index finger. “And dead men tell no tales.”

  “But maybe dead men having hiding places,” Drayton said. “Or secret accounts. Because three million dollars is an awful lot of money to make disappear in a matter of weeks. Or spend in a mad rush.”

  “What if Lanier really did give the money to Betty Bates?” Delaine asked in a harsh whisper.

  Theodosia considered that possibility. Maybe Carson Lanier had given the money to Betty Bates. Maybe she’d flirted with him, encouraged him in a little workplace hanky-panky, and then bilked him out of his money and killed him. Shot him with an arrow and was now living in the lap of luxury in a plantation out on Ashley River Road.

  Theodosia knew there was another possibility. What if Bob Garver had gotten his sticky hands on Lanier’s money? He and Carson Lanier had been real estate partners at one time. Perhaps Garver had convinced Lanier to cash out his Fidelity account in hopes of investing the money and reaping a big fat payoff.

  Sissy was still crying, making sounds somewhere between pitiful moans and shoulder-shaking hiccups. Drayton was attempting to soothe Sissy and hand her a cup of hot tea, but every time Sissy tried to grasp the cup and saucer, the cup chattered and shook.

  Theodosia knew there was another possible scenario to explain the missing money. Maybe the money wasn’t really missing at all, and Sissy was lying about the whole thing. Maybe she was putting on a fabulous Academy Award–worthy, drama queen performance. Sissy could have murdered her husband, absconded with the money, and set up this rather brilli
ant defense to make herself look like the poor, bereft woman.

  Narrowing her eyes, Theodosia studied Sissy. And wondered if her theatrics were genuine. Are you crying because you truly lost all your money, or are those just crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks?

  “I’ll tell you what we should do,” Theodosia said slowly.

  Delaine pinched her brows together. “What’s that?” she asked. “Give the poor girl a makeover?” Delaine was starting to look bored, as if she was sick to death of ministering to Sissy.

  Sissy wiped at her eyes, looking sadly inquisitive. “Whush?” she said.

  “Sissy needs to take a meeting with my uncle,” Theodosia said.

  “The lawyer,” Drayton said. “Jeremy Alston. What a splendid idea. Best to let a professional get involved. Have him ferret out what’s happened to all that money. I’m sure Theodosia’s uncle can get to the bottom of things.”

  Delaine was nodding along, looking like a well-groomed bobblehead. “That sounds like a fine solution.” She pulled a hanky out of her bag and handed it to Sissy. “How about you, dear, does that sounds like something you could manage?”

  Sissy grabbed the hanky, wiped at her nose, and nodded. “Yeth.”

  “Good,” Theodosia said. “Then it’s settled. I’ll call my uncle first thing tomorrow and set up an appointment.”

  Sissy stared at Theodosia with red-rimmed eyes. “Thank you,” she said. But between the crying, whistling tooth, and plugged nose, it sounded more like thang shu.

  “See?” Delaine said. “I knew things would work out if we just talked to Theodosia. She’s the lady with all the answers.”

  “I wish,” Theodosia said.

  “As for me,” Delaine said, “I have to run off to a final meeting with my planning committee. Can you believe the Carolina Cat Show starts this Friday? Goodness!”

  “I’m sure it’s shaping up to be a wonderful event,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia placed a hand on Sissy’s shoulder and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sissy, will you be attending your husband’s memorial service tomorrow?” Theodosia knew that people from both Capital Bank and the Heritage Society had planned a service at the rather elegant Charleston Library Society.

  Sissy swiped at her nose again and snorted, mustering up her indignation. “Ish you kidding? If Carson washn’t going to be cremated, I’d wear a red dresh and dansh on hish grave!”

  * * *

  • • •

  Theodosia ran the three blocks to Screamin’ Beanies Coffee Shop, barely managing to be on time for her meeting with Linda Pickerel.

  Linda Pickerel was skinny and tall, had frizzy reddish-blond hair and gorgeous green eyes. She was wearing a filmy pink top and a long paisley skirt. Very bohemian, like she’d just stepped off the pages of Mother Earth News. The first thing Linda said to Theodosia was, “I could lose my job for this.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to spill any trade secrets,” Theodosia said. “Or divulge any banking confidentialities that the FDIC holds dear.”

  Linda twitched her nose like a nervous rabbit and took a sip from her coffee cup. “Then what do you want? Haley said that you wanted to ask me some questions?”

  “Not so much questions as I’d just like to get your general impression on a few things at the bank,” Theodosia said. She wanted to tread lightly and not frighten Linda off.

  “I don’t understand,” Linda said. “My impression of what?”

  “You’re aware of the situation with Carson Lanier?”

  Linda stared at her. “Mr. Lanier got killed. Murdered.”

  “And you’re acquainted with Betty Bates?”

  “Sure,” Linda said. “But what . . . ?”

  “It’s my understanding there was a relationship between Betty Bates and Carson Lanier.”

  Linda frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Theodosia drew a deep breath. Perhaps she’d have to spell out their indiscretion a little more clearly. “It’s been rumored that the two of them were close, that they were carrying on an affair together.”

  “Wait. What?” Linda looked surprised. “Betty and Mr. Lanier? I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Theodosia decided to pursue a slightly different angle. “Okay then, do you know anything about Betty vying for the same job that Carson Lanier held?”

  Linda shrugged. “Well . . . yeah. I mean, a few months ago they were both up for executive VP and wanted it pretty badly. And a lot of us women at the bank wanted Betty to get it. We thought she deserved it. You know how it is. Women start out in this training program they have at the bank, bottom of the totem pole, but they hope they might eventually be headed for the top.”

  Theodosia gave a commiserating nod to keep Linda talking.

  “The sad reality is they end up working in clerical positions and training the men who actually do make it to the better jobs,” Linda said.

  “That doesn’t sound very fair,” Theodosia said. She could understand the women’s frustration. And Betty Bates’s probable anger.

  “It isn’t fair,” Linda said. “I remember when they called this huge meeting at the bank, everybody was there in the conference room, all excited. And then the bank president, Mr. Grimley, announced that Carson Lanier was going to be the new executive vice president.”

  “Do you think Betty was disappointed?”

  Linda took a quick sip of coffee. “Duh. You should have seen the look on Betty’s face when they announced Lanier’s name. Everybody started clapping politely, but she had this stone-faced, bitter look.” Linda paused. “Disappointment, I suppose. Or anger. Like maybe she wanted to kill him.”

  It was the perfect opening for Theodosia to ask another question.

  “What does everyone at Capital Bank think about Carson Lanier’s murder?”

  “Nobody knows what to think.” Linda stuck a stir stick in her coffee and moved it about slowly. “It’s kind of a mystery, huh? I know the police came to the bank and interviewed a few people, mostly the higher-ups who worked with Mr. Lanier. But we haven’t heard anything since. And when you read the stories in the newspaper, it seems like the police don’t have any suspects.”

  “Do you think there are suspects at the bank?”

  Linda stared at her. “I know what you’re asking. You’re asking me if I think Betty could have done it.”

  “Could she?”

  Linda shook her head. “Nah. Betty was one of us. A woman who was trying hard to make it in what’s essentially a male-dominated arena.”

  “Couldn’t that be all the more reason for Betty to have it in for Lanier?”

  “I don’t know,” Linda said. “For her sake, I hope not.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Theodosia was just pulling up in front of her cottage when her cell phone rang. It turned out to be a panicked call from Drayton.

  “I need you,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Timothy just called. There’s some sort of dire emergency at his home.”

  “Where are you? At your house? You want me to drive over there and pick you up?”

  “No, no, I’m leaving for Timothy’s place immediately. It’s only a couple of blocks. You just meet me there, okay?”

  “Sure, but what’s the big . . .” But Theodosia was suddenly talking to dead air. Drayton had hung up.

  17

  Theodosia came in hot like a fighter pilot, screeching to a halt in front of Timothy’s home, tires scraping hard against the curb. No matter. She jumped out of her vehicle and ran up the front steps, thundered across the wide porch, and banged on the enormous double doors.

  Two seconds later, Drayton was there to let her in.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re here.” His fac
e betrayed nothing of Timothy’s situation.

  “What’s wrong?” Theodosia asked. “Is Timothy okay? It’s not his heart, is it?” Timothy had experienced heart palpitations in the past, and there was always a concern about his advanced age.

  “It’s not that; Timothy’s heart is fine. In fact, he’ll probably outlive us all. But there’s something rather strange that you need to see.” Drayton crooked a finger and said, “Follow me, please.”

  Theodosia followed Drayton down a long hallway, glancing up at the portraits of Neville ancestors that had hung there for almost a century. Then Drayton turned and led her into an enormous Victorian parlor, what Theodosia had always thought of as the red room because of the dark red wallpaper and cherrywood paneling.

  Timothy was sitting in a red brocade wing chair in front of an enormous carved white marble fireplace. A few embers glowed as if he’d been sitting there in quiet contemplation while the fire burned low. Perhaps pondering whether to crack open the last, dusty bottle of a Montrachet ’62 that resided in his wine cellar.

  Or was something else going on? Drayton had sounded like it was an emergency.

  “You’re here,” Timothy said. “Good.” His body was set in a fairly relaxed pose, one leg crossed over the other, but his facial muscles looked twitchy.

  Theodosia pushed a hank of hair off her face. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Timothy lifted a hand, like an emperor bestowing a blessing. “Show her,” he said to Drayton.

  “Over here,” Drayton said. He was standing next to an antique gaming table that was set against a large bay window. The table was a walnut Queen Anne style, flanked by two intricately carved chairs. “Timothy received a rather cryptic note today, and we wanted you to look at it.”

  Theodosia moved toward the table, a feeling of dread suddenly lodging in her chest. What was going on?

  A sheet of paper sat in the middle of the table atop a red leather insert. The paper was smaller than the regular eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper you’d use in a standard printer or copy machine. This sheet was maybe six by nine inches in size, white, not particularly fine paper stock, with a message hand-printed dead center.