Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  The day was a picture-perfect example of why residents and tourists alike dearly loved Charleston. With a soft, salty breeze gusting in off the harbor, helping to nicely cool down afternoon temperatures, the cloudless azure sky mimicked the water of a tropical bay, and the city fairly shimmered in the sunlight.

  Despite the day’s temperate perfection, Theodosia was troubled. She’d tried in vain for the last hour to reach Jordan Knight. Was he in despair over the Japanese distribution deal? Satisfied with it? Or resigned to it?

  Theodosia also wondered if Jordan had blithely signed off on Pandora’s decision to remove her from the investigation. While she and Jordan Knight were far from friends, she still felt a strong affinity for the man—mostly because of Jordan’s close friendship with Drayton. Drayton was one of a handful of people that she herself could count on no matter what. When push came to shove, she could always trust Drayton.

  Theodosia pulled to a stop across the street from a large, cement block building with a sign out front that read, PALMETTO LIQUOR DISTRIBUTING, INC. Trucks were backing up to three large loading docks on one side of the building, and men in overalls were wandering around with clipboards. Obviously, this was ground zero for the liquor distribution business as well as the home office of Alex Burgoyne, Jordan and Pandora Knight’s silent partner.

  Theodosia wondered just how silent Burgoyne had been when he found out that the Knights—most likely Pandora now acting as major shareholder—had negotiated a deal to sell their wine exclusively to Tanaka and his overseas conglomerate. Did he even know?

  Theodosia figured Burgoyne had to be aware of the sale. Despite having only a minority share in the winery, he would most likely have to sign off on any major business decision.

  Stopping at the security desk just inside the building, Theodosia gave her name to the gargantuan guard sitting behind the desk. The man nodded, leaned forward, and laboriously hand-printed a temporary stick-on badge for her. Then he handed her the badge and grunted, “Elevator is that way.”

  Stepping off the elevator on the second floor, Theodosia was greeted by a no-nonsense hallway. She followed a strip of green indoor-outdoor carpet into an office where a thin blonde sat smiling behind a glass-and-brass reception desk.

  “Good afternoon,” the blonde said. Her cheeriness seemed like a ploy to compensate for the gruffness shown by the no-necked behemoth security guard one floor below.

  “Good afternoon,” Theodosia replied. “I have a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Burgoyne . . . I’m Theodosia Browning.”

  “Of course, Ms. Browning. Mr. Burgoyne is expecting you. He’s on the phone right now, but I’ll let him know that you’re here. Please have a seat and help yourself to some coffee. Or if you’d like something stronger to drink . . .”

  Theodosia waved a hand as she walked to a black leather sofa and sat down. She sighed and turned her gaze toward a large flat-screen television on the opposite wall. The volume was turned off, but on the screen Rachel Ray was organizing a contest between two audience members to see who could frost a birthday cake the fastest. Theodosia decided that if Haley were part of the contest, it would be no contest.

  Just as the contestants were panicking and frosting was spattering everywhere, the blonde behind the desk called out, “Ms. Browning?”

  Theodosia looked over.

  “Mr. Burgoyne can see you now,” said the receptionist. She burst up from her desk with an explosion of smiling energy and pushed open a heavy oak door. “Ya’ll have a good meeting!” she said.

  Theodosia wasn’t sure if this was going to be a good meeting or not, but she’d take all the good wishes she could get. Burgoyne was a wild card and she knew this little confab could go either way. He could shed a little light or he could clam up completely.

  The door closed behind her and Theodosia found herself in Burgoyne’s expansive office, where a mammoth teak desk dominated most of the space. It was set against a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over a parcel of green space. Beyond was a labyrinth of streets that led to the harbor.

  Theodosia had expected wood panel walls, lots of liquor bottles, and maybe the trophy heads of a few dead animals. But as Burgoyne smiled at her from across his desk, she was pleasantly surprised. He looked positively welcoming, and the walls on either side of her were hung with dozens of pieces of original artwork.

  “I see you noticed my artwork,” Alex Burgoyne’s deep voice intoned. He sounded pleased.

  “Looks like you’ve got your own gallery here,” said Theodosia.

  Burgoyne nodded. He was dressed casually in a red-checked shirt and faded blue jeans. His dark hair curled softly over his forehead and he appeared to be about fifty years old. He was also in excellent shape, with the kind of narrow waist and broad shoulders that announced he was an exercise devotee.

  Theodosia smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Theodosia. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  Burgoyne stood up and shook her hand with a firm dry grasp, the grip of a man well practiced in the art of shaking hands.

  “I’ll bet you were expecting a full bar and disco,” Burgoyne teased. “Instead of contemporary art.”

  Theodosia laughed in spite of herself. Burgoyne was a true salesman; he was adept at getting people to like him and feel comfortable around him.

  “I have to admit if I’d seen a poster for Saturday Night Fever, I wouldn’t have been too surprised,” said Theodosia.

  Burgoyne laughed, a genuine, good-natured chuckle. “Please take a look,” he said, obviously eager for her to view his artworks. He struck Theodosia as a man happy to show off his pride and joy, a kid with a shiny new toy. “All my art was done by local artists. You see . . . Roger Tremaine . . . Jacques Brissard . . .”

  “Very nice,” said Theodosia, appropriately impressed.

  “Now you may recognize this particular artist,” Burgoyne said, indicating a pencil drawing at the far end of the line of framed art.

  An exquisite pastel drawing depicted Pineapple Fountain at nearby Waterfront Park. Water dripped from the two fluted sides of the fountain into the pool below, and two children—a boy and a girl—would be forever young as they splashed and played in the pool of water, their watchful mother resting just to their right on the marble ledge fronting the half-circle hedge. It was evocative and beautiful. The signature at the bottom was that of Drew Knight.

  “Beautiful,” Theodosia whispered. She could see why Burgoyne had it in a place of honor near his desk, presumably where he could gaze at it as he worked.

  “Yes, it is. Drew was quite a talent, which is why his senseless death was even more of a tragedy.” Burgoyne paused. “I’m guessing that’s why you wanted to talk to me? Jordan mentioned you might be stopping by to ask a few questions.”

  “That’s right,” Theodosia replied. She also wondered if he knew she’d been fired by Pandora. But if he did, he wasn’t giving any indication.

  “Well, as my father used to say, let’s get to it.”

  More of that sales pitch. Theodosia wondered if his folksy demeanor was an act or if he really did quote his daddy, Mark Twain, and Foghorn Leghorn as evidence of his Southern gentility.

  Burgoyne escorted her to a dark brown leather chair, then walked around to his desk chair and sat down. He steepled his fingers together and leaned back to await her questioning.

  “As you already know,” said Theodosia, “I’ve been doing some checking around on behalf of Jordan and Pandora. They aren’t overly satisfied with how the formal investigation is proceeding so far, and I agreed to try to glean some additional information into the circumstances surrounding Drew’s death.”

  Burgoyne nodded silently.

  “May I ask . . . how well did you know Drew?”

  “I really didn’t know him personally,” Burgoyne began. “I saw him around the winery from time to time. Bought a few of his pieces of art, as you can see. He always seemed cordial enough . . . and maybe a little distracted.”

  “Did you ev
er see him around the winery with anyone? Friends? Acquaintances?”

  “Well, you probably know about Tanya. I mean everyone knows about Tanya. She’s kind of hard to miss.” Burgoyne laughed. “I guess other than her. No. I never noticed him with anyone else. But we didn’t travel in the same circles, either.”

  “Ever have any conversations with Jordan about Drew being in trouble? Or having difficulty with someone?” Theodosia was getting the feeling that Burgoyne didn’t know all that much. There didn’t appear to be any dishonesty; he simply wasn’t very plugged in.

  “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but . . .” Burgoyne paused. “Well, you knew he was a doper, right?”

  “Yes. I’d heard Drew had some problems with drugs.”

  “I don’t know what he was on, but sometimes when I ran into him, it was like he wasn’t really there—you know? Jordan never said much about it, but I could tell the issue was wearing on him. He developed a lot of gray hair these last two years, and not all because the winery wasn’t doing well.”

  “There could be lots of reasons for that,” Theodosia responded.

  “Yes, marriage on the rocks . . . failing winery . . . cracked-out kid. I’m amazed the guy could pull himself out of bed in the morning.”

  “You knew about the Knights’ marital problems?” Theodosia asked.

  “It was hard to miss,” said Burgoyne. “I finally cornered Jordan about it one day, and he told me that they were getting a divorce. No surprise there. Pandora was never around, and when she was, they barely spoke to each other.”

  “How do you feel about the deal Pandora just brokered with Higashi Golden Brands?” Theodosia asked. “That can’t be good news to you, can it? I mean . . . now you won’t even have distribution rights to your own wine.”

  Burgoyne looked thoughtful. “Yeah, but as a partner . . . heck, even as a minority partner, I’m still going to make a fair amount of money. Maybe even more than if we finally made it big selling domestically. Either way, at least it’s stable money for a while. Knighthall was becoming a money pit. Every few months I had to drop a little more into that place to help keep it afloat. Jordan kept saying ‘Just wait until we release Knight Music,’ but now that the wine is close to distribution, things haven’t really changed.” He shrugged. “One wine can’t make that much of a difference anyway.”

  “Still,” said Theodosia, “is it really good business to put all your proverbial eggs in one basket? It seems like an odd marriage—Japan and South Carolina wine? Why Japan? And from Tanaka’s standpoint, why Knighthall wine?”

  “Interesting that you should ask,” Burgoyne replied as he reached into his top drawer and removed the most recent issue of Wine World magazine. Burgoyne licked the tip of his index finger and paged through the magazine, pausing once before continuing to the article he was looking for. “Now check this out. This magazine and the author—Mr. Mark Pendleton, a guy who really understands the wine business—says that the Japanese market is, quote, ‘ripe for the American wine business. By the year 2020, Japan will be the world’s third largest importer of international wine,’ unquote.” He grinned. “Now, if we can get in on the ground floor of something like that, we can make a killing.”

  “Your business decision is based on a magazine article?” Theodosia asked.

  “Well, I’ve been in the wine and spirit business for a long time and seen a lot of changes. And one thing I’ve learned is that it’s always better to be the porpoise out on the bow of a big ship rather than a small fish swimming frantically to catch up.”

  “I hear you,” said Theodosia.

  “And Pandora has done her research,” Burgoyne continued. “The thing is . . . Tanaka is guaranteeing more revenue over the next five years than we could have ever made if Knighthall took off big time in the States.”

  “That does sound impressive,” said Theodosia. She thought about a phrase she’d once heard on one of her favorite police procedural shows. It was, Follow the money. She wondered if Pandora and Burgoyne were following the money. Or were the Japanese the ones who were doing so?

  And how did any of that relate to Drew’s murder? In this case, was Follow the drugs a far better maxim? Is that where the real story was? Theodosia made a mental note to try to contact Tanya again. Maybe there was more information to be had from her. She also needed to get Carl Van Deusen alone. Maybe then he could answer her questions honestly. Other than that, she had nothing. Maybe this conversation with Burgoyne really was a dead end. It had initially felt productive but now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Thank you for your time.” Theodosia stood up abruptly and reached out to shake Burgoyne’s hand for a second time. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Burgoyne said as she turned and started for the door. “Happy to help—if I really did.”

  Then Theodosia saw them, on the wall opposite Drew’s artwork, propped up in the corner. Golf clubs.

  “Mr. Burgoyne, do you play golf?” Theodosia turned to ask.

  Burgoyne bobbed his head. “I’m certainly not very good, but I have to admit—I find supreme pleasure in chasing a little white ball around on weekends.”

  “May I ask where you play?” said Theodosia. Except, deep down, she knew the answer before he said it.

  Burgoyne gave her a benevolent smile. “I just got a membership at Plantation Wilds.”

  • • •

  Theodosia called Tanya and left a message, asking her to return the call. She was pretty sure the model would ignore her. But no matter. She’d try again later. And keep trying for as long as it took.

  Carl Van Deusen was another matter. If she stopped by Smalley’s Bistro, she could probably catch him before the restaurant fired up for the evening.

  She checked her watch and decided now was as good a time as any. It was past four o’clock, and if she took the long way down the harbor, she could pretend that Smalley’s was on her way home. It was such a beautiful day, the drive would be worth the effort.

  Turning right onto Concord, Theodosia could see that the Fort Sumter Ferry was returning to its launch just up from the Maritime Center. A blaring foghorn announced the boat’s arrival into port.

  As she turned onto Calhoun Street, she passed by the Charleston County Library with its impressive front of white pillars. The library was an excellent example of the Greek Revival style so prevalent in Charleston. Just past the library, Theodosia turned onto Anson Street and idly wondered if Sheriff Anson might be a descendant of the street’s namesake. What, she wondered, did Sheriff Anson think of Jordan and Pandora Knight’s contract with Tanaka? Did he even know about it?

  Traffic was a series of stops and starts, so she didn’t arrive at Smalley’s until almost five. Evidently the dinner rush hadn’t started yet because only a handful of cars shared space in the bistro’s parking lot.

  Removing her sunglasses, Theodosia entered Smalley’s Bistro. She was instantly bombarded with the wonderful aromas of freshly baked dill bread, corn muffins, and grilled fish. Her stomach growled in anticipation, but she ignored it. She had business here.

  The maître d’, her nemesis from a few days earlier, was standing at the copperplated host stand leading to the dining room. He was talking intently into the ear of one of the female servers. The server was listening, but seemed more than a little anxious to get away from a man who stood just a little too close for professional conversation.

  Theodosia stood patiently a few feet in front of the pair, waiting to catch their attention.

  The server finally nodded her assent and quickly made her getaway into the dining room. The maître d’, whose name Theodosia remembered as Philip Rusk, made a couple of notes in a notebook. Then he lifted his eyes and gave her a radiant smile. “Good evening,” he purred. “Welcome to Smalley’s. Do you have a reservation?”

  “No,” Theodosia admitted. “I’m not here for dinner. I’d like to speak with one of your employees.”

  Instantly, the smooth talk was over and Ru
sk quickly discarded his smile and all manner of decorum. He pulled himself up to his full height, probably a little over six feet, and stared down his nose at Theodosia. His diction became clipped as he said, “We are just about ready to welcome our dinner guests. I’m afraid we do not have time for anyone to entertain idle chitchat with our staff.”

  Theodosia groaned inwardly. This guy was beyond rude. He was just plain nasty.

  “You don’t even know who I want to speak to,” Theodosia replied, her anger barely in check. She could feel her face flush as she fought to control her temper.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Rusk. “Please contact our employee when he or she is not at work.”

  “But you’re not even busy at the moment,” Theodosia began.

  Rusk sighed deeply and a little lightning bolt of a blood vessel began to pulse in his forehead.

  “Before we reach an impasse here,” said Theodosia, “maybe you could tell me if Carl Van Deusen is working tonight?”

  Rusk studied her and rocked back on his heels. “Is that who you wish to speak with?” His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “You realize Mr. Van Deusen is a suspect in a murder case? The police have already been here asking questions.”

  “He’s actually a witness, not a suspect,” Theodosia replied. “Really, I just want to talk to him. A couple of minutes—what can it hurt?”

  “You want to ask him some questions, too?” said Rusk. “About the investigation?”

  “I . . . yes, I do,” said Theodosia.

  Rusk smirked. “And just who do you think you are—Angela Lansbury?”

  “Look,” said Theodosia. “I’d love to hang around here and trade witty repartees with you. But all I want to know is—is Van Deusen here?”

  “No,” said Rusk. “No, he is not.”

  18

  The party at Oak Hill Winery wasn’t as elegant as the one orchestrated at Knighthall Winery, but it made up for it with casual charm. Dozens of picnic tables were arranged on the grassy lawn that surrounded the winery’s production center. Inside a large open-sided shelter, wide planks had been laid across oak barrels to serve as a rustic, temporary bar.