by Laura Childs
There was a long silence and then Ginny said, “Yes, that’s correct. Detective Riley did call about that very same thing.”
“I’m kind of following up,” Theodosia said.
Ginny sighed. “Well, it’s all public record, so I can tell you that our office did indeed award a rather substantial grant to Mr. Garver. Though it wasn’t exactly free money.”
“How do you mean?”
“The first twenty thousand was a free and clear grant. The balance of the money was loaned to him at an extremely low-interest rate. That money is expected to be repaid.”
Theodosia took a chance. “On the whole, how is Garver doing?”
“Not all that well, I’m afraid.” Then, “Do you people know something I don’t know?”
“I don’t mean to be cryptic about this,” Theodosia said, “but we’re trying to figure out if Garver is a legitimate developer or a really clever crook.”
“Oh dear. And he did have such excellent references from his banker.”
Who’s now deceased, Theodosia thought. With his murder still unsolved. “So there have been problems?”
“Not with the loan repayment,” Ginny said. “Because that money’s not due yet. But Mr. Garver has been remiss with his reports. He’s supposed to keep us informed every step of the way . . . architectural plans, timetable, approved contractor list, that sort of thing.”
“And he’s not doing it?”
“Not yet, anyway,” Ginny said. “But I remain hopeful.”
“Then so do I,” Theodosia said. She thanked Ginny for her candid answers and hung up the phone.
That conversation didn’t exactly answer any burning questions. So now what?
Theodosia decided she could throw together some gift baskets while she mulled over the Bob Garver conversation. She knew the baskets would get snapped up at the garden club’s Plum Blossom Tea tomorrow. But five minutes after she started, Drayton stuck his head in her office.
“Busy?” he asked. Then he took a quick look at the limp and rather lackluster bow Theodosia had just tied. “No, I see you’re not.”
“Just because my bow artistry isn’t up to snuff . . .”
“What are we going to do about plum blossoms for tomorrow?” Drayton asked.
“I already called Floradora. They promised to deliver a dozen or so branches first thing tomorrow.”
“Good.”
Theodosia lifted her brows. “Something else?”
“I was hoping we could leave early and pop into the Heritage Society.”
“Okay.” Theodosia stood up so fast her chair made a spronging sound and practically tipped over backward.
“Just like that? You’re ready to go?”
“I think we have a few things to talk to Timothy about, don’t you?”
Drayton sighed. “I’m afraid we do.”
* * *
• • •
The Great Hall at the Heritage Society was quiet this time of day. The workmen and curators had all apparently finished their chores and gone home. Probably because the staging of the Rare Weapons Show was 99 percent complete.
“This looks wonderful,” Drayton said as they stood in the hallway and gazed through the double doors.
“Probably just needs some last-minute touches,” Theodosia said. Only a few shards of light came through the clerestory windows, and the lights in the Great Hall had been dimmed so that just a few pinpoint spotlights bounced off the glass display cases. That small bit of light showed off the gleaming weapons inside the cases, creating a sort of kaleidoscopic effect that made the weapons appear somewhat sinister.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Drayton said.
They stepped into the room, their footsteps echoing hollowly as they approached the first case.
“Look here,” Drayton said, pressing forward eagerly. “A set of antique dueling pistols.”
“From what era?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton put on his tortoiseshell reading glasses and bent forward to study the small printed placard that sat at the front of the case. “Let’s see, now, looks like these are from 1800.”
“The Aaron Burr era.”
“Approximately, yes.” Drayton straightened back up and tapped the case. “But these are British made. Simmons of London. Burr and Hamilton wouldn’t have used this sort of pistol.”
“Still,” Theodosia said, shivering as they moved on to the next case. There was something otherworldly about being in this cavernous room, surrounded by all manner of antique weapons. As though each weapon might have a bloody tale to tell.
“Here’s a pistol that was reputedly used by Francis Marion,” Drayton said. Marion, best known as the Swamp Fox, had confounded the British during the American Revolution with his hit-and-run guerilla tactics. It was said that General Cornwallis had practically pulled his hair out over the wily Swamp Fox’s maneuvers.
Theodosia leaned forward and gazed into the case. The pistol was forged black metal with a wooden handle, technically a muzzleloader. Next to it sat a small pile of black gunpowder, a few lead balls, and bits of paper that looked almost like parchment. The gun required old-fashioned do-it-yourself ammunition, wherein the shooter grabbed a pinch of powder and a lead ball in a fold of paper, and then inserted the hastily folded packet directly behind the hammer of his gun.
“Oops, be careful,” Drayton warned as the case rattled slightly. “This hasn’t been locked up tight yet. They must still be working on the exhibit.”
Theodosia glanced around the room at the flintlocks, Kentucky rifles, derringers, Springfield Trapdoor rifles, knives, swords, and crossbows that were on display. They were interesting, yes, but more than a little unsettling.
“We should go see Timothy,” she said, anxious to get out of there.
* * *
• • •
Timothy was sitting at his desk, turning a small bronze bust of Thomas Jefferson in his hands.
“I was wondering when you two would show up,” he said when he saw them hovering in his doorway. “Come in, come in.”
Theodosia and Drayton stepped into his office and took seats in the burnished leather and hobnail chairs that faced Timothy’s desk.
Drayton inclined his head toward the bronze bust. “American?”
“French,” Timothy said. “Circa 1860. There’s a small chip in the marble base, so it’s headed to our conservation department.”
“We just took a quick peek at the Rare Weapons Show,” Theodosia said.
“The displays are almost ready for our big opening,” Timothy said. “But you didn’t come here to talk about the show, did you?”
“No,” Theodosia said. “We wanted to bring you up to speed on a few things.”
“Good.”
Theodosia proceeded to lay out all the background information that she deemed relevant; the insults that Sissy Lanier and Betty Bates had hurled at each other, their horrible fight at Delaine’s shop, and the rock tossed through her window. She told Timothy about Bob Garver’s crossbow preference and running into him at the Brittlebush Gun and Bow Club. She mentioned Sissy showing up at the tea shop bereft because her Fidelity account had been raided, visiting Jud Harker’s apartment last night with Tidwell, and her call to the City of Charleston concerning Bob Garver’s grant money and loan.
“We didn’t want to muddy the waters last night by telling you about some of these bizarre developments,” Theodosia said. “Because the threatening note you received clearly took precedence. But, as you can see, there’s been an undercurrent of strange happenings. Events that may or may not be related to Carson Lanier’s murder.”
“Let me get this straight,” Timothy said slowly. “You’re telling me that your list of suspects so far includes Betty Bates, Carson’s ex-wife Sissy, Jud Harker, and this Bob Garver person.”
“Tha
t’s correct,” Theodosia said.
“But no one from my guest list.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Drayton said.
Timothy leaned back in his chair. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourselves. And I had no idea that Carson was disliked by so many people.” He waved a hand. “Do you have any feeling for one suspect over another?”
“Not really,” Theodosia said. “They’re all just potential suspects in our book.” She threw a hasty glance at Drayton who said, “We’re still sorting things out.”
“I see,” Timothy said. He touched a finger to his cheek and said, “You realize, Betty Bates, unless she’s convicted of first-degree murder, will probably end up serving on our board of directors.”
“That might be unfortunate,” Theodosia said.
“I understand she’s been campaigning,” Timothy said. “So she might have garnered enough sympathetic votes from among our current board members.”
“She doesn’t have mine,” Drayton said.
Timothy smiled. “No, I daresay not yours.”
“How is everything here at the Heritage Society?” Theodosia asked him. “Especially in regard to the threat you received last night. No strange incidents? Jud Harker hasn’t shown up where he’s not wanted?”
“I haven’t laid eyes on anyone who doesn’t work here or belong here,” Timothy said. “And we’ve made it a point to tighten security.”
“You hired more guards?” Drayton asked.
Timothy bobbed his head. “Four more.”
“That should do it,” Drayton said.
“I have another question,” Theodosia said. “You told us that Carson Lanier had donated a number of weapons that will be featured in your show.”
“That’s right,” Timothy said.
“Do you have a list of those weapons?”
Timothy bent his head like an inquisitive magpie. “Probably. Why do you ask?”
“This might be awfully far-fetched,” Theodosia said. “But is it possible that the pistol crossbow and quarrels used to kill Lanier were actually stolen from here?”
Timothy leaned back in his chair, a shocked expression on his face. “That would imply that someone from the Heritage Society was involved.”
“We can’t rule that out,” Theodosia said. She thought of the current board of directors that Drayton said was too often feuding. Did they comprise a plausible suspect pool? She supposed they might. Which meant she was probably back to square one.
But Timothy was looking worried. “Let’s talk to the curator and get you that list.”
* * *
• • •
Theodosia dropped Drayton off at his house and then, instead of heading home, turned down Broad Street. She cruised along through late-afternoon traffic, turned right on Franklin, and drove past the Old Jail. Then, as purple twilight morphed into blue-black dusk, she turned down Beaufain Street.
It wasn’t difficult to find the Charleston single homes that Bob Garver planned to renovate. There was a large sign at the corner of the block that said HISTORIC RENOVATIONS BY ROBERT T. GARVER. The letters were red against a white background with lots of curlicues and flourishes on the type.
It was a lovely neighborhood, Theodosia decided as she pulled over to the curb. The entire block that stretched ahead of her was populated by classic Charleston single homes, all built in a unique style. That is, the homes were narrow, some no more than twenty feet across, but built very, very deep. Most of the homes were two and three stories, with side piazzas that were also two stories tall. Theodosia also noted that, on this particular block, the Charleston single homes were of mixed styles that included Federal, Greek Revival, and Victorian.
Climbing out of her Jeep, Theodosia walked slowly up the sidewalk. Only one of the homes looked occupied, with lights burning in a first floor back room, though it didn’t appear that restoration work had been started on any one of them.
But they were fanciful and uniquely Charleston, well suited to catching the breezes that blew in from the harbor and allowing them to flow the entire length of the house. That kind of natural air-conditioning was important considering Charleston’s industrial-strength heat and humidity.
From deep within her hobo bag, Theodosia’s cell phone chimed. She dug it out and said, “Hello?” thinking it might be Pete Riley calling with some sort of update. Who knows—maybe he’d even apprehended Lanier’s killer.
But when Theodosia answered, it wasn’t Riley at all. Haley was on the line barking out a series of choked gasps. She sounded frantic.
“Theodosia!” Haley cried. “Something awful has happened!”
Theodosia clutched her phone tighter, imagining a grease fire in the kitchen and Haley injured. Or a rock hurled through their front window.
“What is it?” Theodosia asked. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Jamie!” Haley cried. Her teeth were chattering and she sounded as if she was barely hanging on.
“What happened to Jamie?” Theodosia asked. “Slow down, whatever it is I’m sure we can fix it.”
“Jamie got hit by a car in the back alley,” Haley managed to stutter out. “And the ambulance guys were pretty sure his leg was broken.” She let out an anguished sob. “Theo, it was a hit-and-run!”
21
Theodosia’s heels rang out like castanets as she pushed through the door into the ER and ran down the hospital corridor. She’d managed to call Pete Riley as she drove headlong toward Mercy Medical, quickly relating what she knew about Jamie’s accident so far. Riley was suitably alarmed and promised to be at the hospital within ten minutes.
Now Theodosia practically flung herself up against the desk at the nurse’s station and said, “Jamie Weston. He was just brought in here by ambulance. Where can I find him?”
An efficient-looking African American nurse with a name tag that read SHEREE CRAIG came around the desk and crooked a finger. “Come this way,” she said. “I’ll show you where he is.”
Theodosia followed Nurse Craig to a part of the ER that had a half dozen beds set up in a large, white antiseptic-looking room. Two of the beds were completely surrounded by flowing white curtains.
“Haley?” Theodosia called out. “Are you in here?” The curtains in front of her billowed and puffed and then were suddenly ripped open. Haley’s head popped out of the curtained bay.
“We’re right here,” Haley said.
“Thank you,” Theodosia said to Nurse Craig.
The nurse nodded. “Call if you need me.” She looked at Jamie, who was lying on a narrow bed, looking pasty white and pained as Haley went back to clutching his hand. “For anything.”
“Thank you again,” Theodosia said. Then she aimed a concerned look at Haley and Jamie and said, “What happened? Tell me everything.”
“He was taking out the trash,” Haley said.
“And some jackhole drove right into me,” Jamie said. “Clipped my left leg.”
“I heard this loud crash,” Haley said. “And then Jamie let out this horrible strangled cry.”
“I was pretty sure my leg was busted from the get-go,” Jamie said. “‘Cause it started hurting right away.”
“Where was Drayton during all of this?” Theodosia asked.
“Home,” Haley said. “He’d already left. We were just finishing up.”
“So it really was a hit-and-run?” Theodosia asked. Her mind was going a million miles an hour, revved up and suddenly bothered by all sorts of nagging suspicions.
“Oh yeah,” Jamie said. “I don’t know if the guy even saw me. At least, he never slowed down.”
“A guy,” Theodosia repeated. “Was it a man? Did you actually see the driver of the vehicle?”
Jamie shook his head. “Not really. It all happened so fast.”
Theodosia wondered if it had been a hit-and-run, vers
us . . . an intentional hit?
“Are you in a lot of pain?” Theodosia asked Jamie.
“It’s pretty much killing me!” Jamie cried. “My leg is broken. Just look at it!” He flipped back part of the blanket to show her. “It’s knocked all catywampus!”
Theodosia didn’t think Jamie’s leg looked horribly mangled or anything, but it was pink and terribly swollen. “Oh, Jamie,” she said. She hated seeing him in such distress. Hated that someone had raced their car down her back alley and been so callous. Or maybe the suspicion that was expanding by leaps and bounds inside her brain was correct—that someone had taken deliberate aim to make a carefully calculated hit. Either way, another couple of inches and Jamie might have been killed.
“Jamie’s already had an X-ray,” Haley said. “And the radiologist called it a simple fracture of his tibia. There’s no surgery required, thank goodness, but we have to wait for an orthopedist to come and set it.”
“I hope I don’t have to wait too long,” Jamie moaned.
“I hope you don’t, either,” Theodosia said. She felt awful. And she was starting to convince herself that Jamie getting injured in her alley was all her fault. If Jamie hadn’t been working at the Indigo Tea Shop . . . If he hadn’t stayed late. If only she’d been there!
The other thing that loomed in Theodosia’s consciousness was . . . maybe someone had been after her. After all, she’d already had a rock lobbed through her window, and it felt as if someone had been dogging her footsteps in Dueler’s Alley the other night.
Is someone trying to stop me from investigating? That possibility suddenly felt very real.
“Theodosia. Theodosia Browning,” a voice called out.
Theodosia whirled around and ripped the curtains apart. Seconds later, Detective Pete Riley was gripping her shoulder protectively while his eyes roved over the injured Jamie.
