by Laura Childs
It read, YOU’RE NEXT.
“Where did this come from?” Theodosia asked. “Did you find it in today’s mail?”
“No,” Timothy said. “Someone must have slipped it through the brass mail slot at the front door. It was lying in the entry when I arrived home.”
“The note must have been hand delivered,” Drayton said.
“Was anyone here today?” Theodosia asked. “Cleaning lady, housekeeper, gardener? Maybe someone saw who left it.”
“Nobody was scheduled to be here today,” Timothy said. “Hence, no one was here.”
“What about Henry?” Timothy had a trusted butler who’d been with him for decades.
“Henry is semiretired now. Mostly he just drops by on Fridays and we go over household details together.”
Theodosia leaned forward to study the note. The printing was basic and slightly childish-looking, but then again, most people’s printing looked a little childish. She lifted a hand to touch it, then pulled back. She let the note sit there, like some kind of strange, pulsing evil. Like Poe’s tell-tale heart.
“What do you think?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia knew the question was aimed at her. “This has to be about the weapons show, right? Someone is determined that you call off the show. Or else . . .” She decided not to finish her sentence.
“Do you think this note could have been written by Jud Harker?” Drayton asked.
“Maybe,” Theodosia said. “Maybe not.” She turned toward Timothy. “Do you have any enemies that we should know about?”
“I don’t believe I have any enemies at all,” Timothy said. “Perhaps I’ve ruffled a few feathers here and there, but nothing to warrant a threat of this magnitude.”
“This most definitely is a threat,” Theodosia said. “And considering what happened on your rooftop this past Sunday evening, this note has to be taken seriously. Which means we need to contact the police.”
Timothy’s brows pinched together. “I hate to bother them with something as inconsequential as a childishly scrawled note.”
“It’s not inconsequential,” Drayton said. “And Theodosia’s quite correct. We must alert the police immediately.”
“I’m going to make that call right now,” Theodosia said. She was going to do it before Timothy had a chance to disagree or put up an argument.
But Timothy simply dropped his head forward and said, “Very well.”
* * *
• • •
Much to Theodosia’s relief, Detective Pete Riley showed up some thirty minutes later. And, lo and behold, he was shadowed by his boss, Detective Burt Tidwell.
“My goodness,” Timothy said, once everyone had shaken hands and made polite, slightly strained introductions. “I didn’t expect an entire police contingent.”
Riley gave a friendly nod. “Taking into consideration the homicide the other night . . .”
“Show us the note,” Tidwell said, interrupting him in solemn tones. “Where is the note?”
“Here,” Drayton said. He led the detectives across the plush Aubusson carpet to the gaming table. “It’s right here.”
Tidwell stopped in front of the table and bent his bulk forward. He read the note, his mouth moving slightly as if he were testing the veracity of the words. Then he blinked and straightened up again. “Who touched this, please?”
“Only me,” Timothy said.
“No one else was in the house?” Tidwell asked.
“Not today,” Timothy said.
“And where were you most of the day?”
“At the Heritage Society,” Timothy said. “We’re putting the finishing touches on our new . . .”
“Yes, I’m well aware of your Rare Weapons Show,” Tidwell said. “You’re showcasing a wealth of weapons similar to the one that eviscerated Mr. Lanier’s liver and spleen the other evening.”
Theodosia blanched at Tidwell’s frank description, but was determined to press him for ideas. “Do you think there’s a link?” she asked. She’d remained quiet thus far; now she stepped forward to confront Tidwell. “Do you think it’s the same person?”
Tidwell stared at her. “Do you believe in coincidences?”
“Truthfully, this doesn’t strike me as a coincidence,” Theodosia said.
“Precisely my point,” Tidwell said. He made a quick hand gesture and Detective Riley stepped forward. He pulled on a pair of purple nitrile gloves and then carefully picked up the note. He handled it gingerly, as if it were a dead, infested rat, and slid it into a large evidence bag.
Tidwell turned his attention on Timothy. “Perhaps you should cancel your weapons show.”
Timothy gave a disdainful look and shook his head. “Impossible. This is an important show for the Heritage Society. Prominent collectors will be attending. Important donors as well.”
“Your life is important, too,” Tidwell said. “I urge you to consider canceling your event.”
“Never,” Timothy said.
Tidwell rocked back on his heels. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.
“Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia said. “Jud Harker is still a suspect in Carson Lanier’s murder, is he not?”
Tidwell gave a terse nod of his large, slightly egg-shaped head.
“And he’s been a very vocal opponent to Timothy’s show.”
“Are we going somewhere with this?” Tidwell asked.
“Yes,” Theodosia said. “Why wouldn’t Harker be the prime suspect in this note incident as well?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” Tidwell said.
“Good,” Drayton said. “Then the man should be questioned.”
“I say we confront the man right now,” Riley said. “Strike while the iron is hot.”
“No,” Tidwell said. “Detective Riley, you’ll shepherd the note back to the crime lab while I pay a visit to Harker.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Theodosia asked.
“Despite our best efforts, his domicile remains elusive to us,” Tidwell said. “Therefore, you are going to accompany me to the Stagwood Inn, where Harker is a sometime worker. Then we shall question management until we get the proper answer we need.” He pulled himself up to his full height and looked around with half-hooded eyes. “Does anyone have a better idea?”
No one did.
* * *
• • •
Theodosia felt a tiny thrill as they stepped up to the front desk in the lobby of the Stagwood Inn. Never in her wildest dreams had she believed that Tidwell would allow her to accompany him on an actual police interview. Or maybe he was just humoring her, playing a game of cat and mouse? She’d find out soon enough.
An older man in a tweed jacket with a brass name tag that said D. J. BURTON was manning the front desk tonight. He smiled at them and said, “Did you folks have a reservation?”
“There was none needed, since we are not guests,” Tidwell said.
“Oh,” Burton said, slightly taken aback. “Then . . . what can I do for you?”
Tidwell pulled out a worn leather case and flipped it open. A gold shield shone brightly under the lights. “We need to speak to your manager,” he said.
“Is Mr. Cooper in his office tonight?” Theodosia asked.
“No,” Burton said. “He went home. Well, not exactly home—he’s in his apartment across the way.” Now the man seemed flustered.
“Do you know where that is?” Tidwell asked Theodosia.
“I can probably find it,” she said. She glanced at Burton. “What’s the room number?”
“Twenty-seven,” the desk clerk said. “Across the back patio and then behind the trellis with the jessamine.”
“Thank you,” Theodosia said.
“Just before you get to the Dumpster.”
Tidwell rolled his eyes. “
Lovely.”
* * *
• • •
Mitchel Cooper wasn’t thrilled about being disturbed. He’d been watching TV and, because it was turned up full volume, Theodosia has a sneaking suspicion it might have been The Bachelor.
No matter, Cooper quickly clicked off his guilty pleasure with the remote control as he met them at the door.
Tidwell gave a gruff explanation about needing Jud Harker’s address, but made no mention of Timothy’s threatening note.
“Didn’t someone already give you that information?” Cooper asked. “I was sure they did.” When Tidwell didn’t answer, he said, “Okay, just a sec. Let me get my shoes on.”
Cooper’s shoes turned out to be worn leather slippers that slapped loudly all the way across the patio. He led them to the back door, through the kitchen, and to his office underneath the stairway. Then he turned on a light, looked around as if in a daze, and said, “Now, where did I put my personnel book?”
“We really appreciate this,” Theodosia said, while Tidwell just stood there like a big, silent statue from Easter Island.
Cooper put on a pair of glasses and studied a row of three-ring binders that sat on a tilting, propped-up shelf. “Mmn.” His fingers crawled along the binders. “Here we go.” He looked up. “Jud Harker, you said?”
“Correct,” Tidwell said.
Cooper thumbed through several dividers and pages. “Let me see, now . . .”
“Either you have it or you do not,” Tidwell said impatiently. “You realize, the address of the boardinghouse we were given earlier is an old address. Mr. Harker no longer resides there. We’ve requested updated information several times and it hasn’t been forthcoming.”
“You already mentioned that,” Cooper replied. He continued paging through his personnel book. “Okay, here it is. Jud Harker.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and said, “Four seventy-six Dunbar Street in North Charleston.”
“You’re sure that’s correct?” Tidwell asked.
“Pretty sure,” Cooper said.
“Could we trouble you to write down that address for us?” Theodosia asked.
“No problem,” Cooper said. He grabbed a piece of notepaper off his desk and scrawled the information, handed it to Theodosia.
She looked at it, noting that Cooper’s printing looked nothing like the threatening note Timothy had received. “Thank you,” she said.
* * *
• • •
“I saw what you did there,” Tidwell said. They were cruising along in his Crown Victoria, running fast through the darkened city, headed for the address in North Charleston. “You were studying Mitchel Cooper’s penmanship to see if it matched up with the note.”
“It didn’t,” Theodosia said.
“No, it didn’t.”
“Why?” Theodosia asked.
“Why what?”
“Am I here with you?”
“Don’t you want to be?” Tidwell asked. “Isn’t this what makes your heart go pitty-pat? To be an integral part of the investigation?”
“Yes and no,” Theodosia said. “Because too much is happening too fast. It’s hard to make heads or tails of all the pieces.”
“Kindly enlighten me,” Tidwell said. “On all these pieces.”
So Theodosia took a deep breath, and from where she was snuggled in the deep cushions of Tidwell’s aging Crown Victoria, told him everything. The shouting match and fight between Sissy Lanier and Betty Bates, the rock through her window, the visit to the weapons store, meeting Bob Garver, and then Sissy’s claim about the missing Fidelity money.
When Theodosia had finished, and Tidwell still hadn’t said a word, she said, “So you see why I’m feeling a bit unsettled.”
“Because of all these perceived suspects,” Tidwell said. “And the fact that you know too much.”
“I didn’t set out to,” Theodosia said. “I’ve just been in the right place at the right time.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Or maybe the wrong place.”
“Either way,” Tidwell said, “you have gleaned a few bits of useful information.”
“You think so?”
He nodded. “Some of what you’ve told me is information—and insights—that we might not ordinarily get via regular questioning.”
They traveled down Rivers Avenue, past the Charleston International Airport and the Northwoods Mall. Tidwell’s police radio was on, and Theodosia half listened to the dispatchers’ abbreviated conversations and codes that crackled over the airwaves. It was like being at a large cocktail party surrounded by the excited buzz of conversation. But without a nice bourbon and sour.
Then they twisted and turned down a number of smaller streets until they finally hit Dunbar Street. They cruised down the darkened street until Tidwell slowed in front of number 476. It was a sprawling and dilapidated building that was obviously a rooming house. A battered metal mail receptacle hung next to the front door and had six individual slots.
“Which apartment does Mr. Harker supposedly occupy?” Tidwell asked.
“Number six.”
“Upstairs, then.”
They walked up the front sidewalk, stepped onto a sagging front porch, and let themselves inside. The smell of cooked potatoes (or maybe it was onions) hung heavy in the air. They crept up a creaking staircase that reminded Theodosia of the back staircase at the Stagwood Inn. When they reached the second floor, however, there was none of the same charm. A narrow hallway extended down the center of the building offering peeled-off wallpaper, worn carpeting, and more cooking odors.
“It’s this one,” Theodosia said, stopping in front of a door that had a wooden number six nailed to it.
Tidwell pushed past her and knocked on the door. Then they waited. When nobody came to the door, Tidwell knocked again. Harder.
“Maybe he’s not home,” Theodosia said.
Tidwell grasped the doorknob and shook it. “Mr. Harker,” he called out. “Police. Open up.”
Still nothing.
“Are you sure this is the correct address?” Tidwell asked.
“It’s the one Cooper gave us. Unless Harker moved again.”
Tidwell blew out a large glut of air and said, “Wasted trip.”
But Theodosia didn’t think so. She figured she’d learned enough tonight to nudge another small piece into the puzzle.
18
Even though Theodosia arrived home fairly late, Earl Grey was completely content. Today was one of the days that Mrs. Barry, his dog walker, had stopped by. Mrs. Barry was a retired schoolteacher who’d never met a dog she didn’t want to snuggle. Besides coming by to walk and feed Earl Grey, Mrs. Barry also did doggy daycare for a Scottie dog named Mr. Misty and two hyperactive schnauzers named Rock and Roll. She used to walk Tootsie, a poodle from down the block, but Tootsie and her owners moved away. Transferred to Atlanta. The owners, not Tootsie.
“How are you doing?” Theodosia asked Earl Grey. “Everything shipshape and copacetic?”
Earl Grey’s ears pricked forward and his tail thumped the floor.
“Did you give Mrs. Barry her check?” Theodosia asked. She glanced over at the dining room table and saw it was gone. “Good, your tuition is paid for another month.”
Earl Grey followed Theodosia up to the second floor. Theodosia had done some redesigning and redecorating up here to make it cozy and more personal. She now enjoyed a large bedroom with an en suite bathroom, a small tower room where she’d installed a cozy chair and lamp for reading, and a second bedroom that had been converted into a walk-in closet. Because, for goodness’ sake, how could any self-respecting woman jam her entire wardrobe into an old-fashioned three-foot-wide closet? Well, she just couldn’t.
“I’m thinking,” Theodosia said, “that we should try to fit in a run.”
“Rrowr?”
“Yes, right now.
I don’t mean to burden you, but it’s been a long, crazy day and I’m feeling horribly jazzed. What say we try to blow out the carbon, even if it’s only for twenty minutes?”
* * *
• • •
Ten minutes later, the two of them were loping down Meeting Street. Overhead, the sky was blue-black with a few clusters of stars peeping through the clouds. The salt-laced smell of the churning Atlantic hung heavy in the air, intermingled with the fragrant scent of jasmine and jessamine.
Arriving at White Point Garden, that lush park on the very tip of the Peninsula, was always a thrill. Wind gusted in, tossing and bending the trees; ancient cannons loomed up out of the mist; the ocean boomed loudly; and oyster shells littered the narrow, sandy beach. On the opposite shoreline, red and green lights from lighthouses winked reassuringly. The only things missing were the tall ships, which were off for another stop on their six-month-long seafaring adventure.
Theodosia and Earl Grey ran along lightly on the grass, down the entire length of the park. They circled the Victorian bandstand and then ran back again. Not a long run, but a satisfying one. Enough to get a slight but much-needed dopamine hit. They ducked down a short alley that ran past a pattering fountain, came out next to a spectacular fern garden, and then turned down Archdale. They breezed past Timothy’s home, which was completely dark now, Timothy being an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of guy. Next door at the Stagwood Inn, however, a few lights still burned in the upstairs rooms.
Theodosia couldn’t help but glance up at the third floor window. At the—what was it called again? Oh yes, the Treetop Suite—to see if someone was up there. The window was dark, making it look as if the place was unoccupied. Unless someone was sitting up there with the lights turned off, staring down at her. Which was a very spooky thought indeed.
