Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  “I want your opinion. Can you just . . . look at this?”

  Drayton very carefully pulled his tortoiseshell half-glasses from the inside pocket of his tux and put them on. Then he accepted the bottle of wine from her and proceeded to study the label.

  “Well?” she said.

  Drayton gave a perfunctory smile. “This appears to be a very expensive bottle of Château Latour.”

  “Do you think so?” Theodosia had a fizz of excitement running through her that just wouldn’t subside. “Look at the label. Does it seem a little off to you?”

  “I’m not sure. Why?” He cocked his head at her. “Do you doubt its authenticity?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Of course,” said Drayton, “one really wouldn’t know unless one took a taste.”

  “Then let’s taste it,” said Theodosia.

  “Oh no,” said Drayton. He held the bottle against his chest protectively. “There’s no way I could render a learned opinion on this particular wine. While I do imbibe in fine wines occasionally, I certainly wouldn’t call myself any sort of wine expert.”

  “Do you know someone who is?” asked Theodosia. “Do you know anyone who really knows his stuff? Someone whom you might consider a wine connoisseur?”

  Drayton frowned. “Really, Theodosia, I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

  “I know you don’t, and I apologize for being so abrupt. But can you please just answer the question?”

  “Well, Timothy Neville certainly knows fine wines. He has a very impressive cellar filled with vintage French wines.”

  Theodosia looked around. “And Timothy’s still here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Where is he?”

  Drayton glanced around the room.” He’s . . . well, I just saw him a few minutes ago.”

  “We have to find him.” Theodosia tugged at his sleeve impatiently. “Like right now.”

  “Why?” said Drayton. “What on earth are you up to?”

  “Please just trust me on this, Drayton. I don’t have time to explain.”

  • • •

  Timothy was standing at the bar. A cocktail, an old-fashioned, rested on the bar in front of him.

  “Theodosia!” Timothy enthused. “How nice to see you again. We certainly enjoyed your lovely tea the other day. I was just telling Drayton that—”

  Theodosia grabbed the bottle of Château Latour out of Drayton’s hands and shoved it at Timothy. “Please, this is a Château Latour eighty-four, yes?”

  Timothy blinked. “Ah . . .”

  “Timothy,” said Theodosia. “I’d like you to take a very careful look at this bottle of wine and tell me if you think there’s anything wrong with it.”

  “Wrong with it,” Timothy repeated. He stared at Theodosia with hooded eyes. “You think there’s something wrong with it?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Theodosia. “But you’re the expert. So I’d like to hear what you think.”

  Timothy shifted the bottle from one hand to the other. “Well . . .” He gave one of his trademark frowns. “For one thing, the label looks a little off.”

  “The label?” said Drayton. “Really?”

  Timothy looked nonplussed. “She asked, Drayton, I merely answered.”

  “You’re worried about a label?” said Drayton. “Really, Theo, we need to put this back immediately. It’s one of the premier items in the silent auction.”

  Theodosia reached across the bar and grabbed a wine opener. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s test its authenticity. Let’s open this bottle of wine and have a taste.”

  “Theodosia!” said Drayton. “That wine doesn’t belong to you. You have no right to do that!”

  “Watch me!” Theodosia stabbed the corkscrew into the bottle of wine, gave it three good turns, and pulled hard. The cork came out with a resounding pop.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Max, suddenly coming over to join them.

  “Theodosia’s going to taste test this bottle of Château Latour,” said Drayton rather stiffly.

  “She bought it in the auction?” said Max. “Really?” He looked at her expectantly. “Don’t tell me the bids have already closed?”

  “No, they have not,” said Drayton. “She appropriated it.”

  “What?” said Max as Theodosia poured out a full glass of wine for Timothy.

  “Will you?” Theodosia said, focusing intently on Timothy. “Taste it, I mean?” She pushed the wineglass toward him.

  Timothy shrugged. “Why not?” He picked up the glass, studied it for a moment, and took a small sip.

  “Well?” said Theodosia. She was so nervous she was basically dancing on the balls of her feet. “What do you think?”

  Timothy took another, longer sip, and let the wine roll around inside his mouth. Then he gazed at her impassively. “You really want my opinion?”

  “Yes, of course I do!” said Theodosia.

  Timothy curled his upper lip. “It’s swill.”

  Drayton let loose a loud gasp. “What? Are you telling us this is not Château Latour?”

  “Good heavens no,” said Timothy. “Not even close.”

  “That’s because this wine is counterfeit,” said Theodosia. Now she was clutching the bottle. “Aged all of a few months at Knighthall Winery. That’s why Pandora wanted to produce only red wines. That’s why she struck up such a fast deal with Mr. Tanaka at Higashi Golden Brands.”

  Max blanched. “What are you talking about? What are you saying?”

  “I’m pretty sure that Higashi Brands is planning to sell knockoff wine to the Japanese wine market!” said Theodosia.

  Drayton looked utterly stunned. “Absolutely not! Jordan Knight would never do such a dishonest deed!” He said it with such ferocity that several people turned to stare at him.

  “I doubt that Jordan knows anything about this,” said Theodosia.

  “Then who does?” Drayton sputtered. “Besides Pandora?”

  “Andrew Turner, that’s who,” said Theodosia. “He has an artist—and probably a printer, too—who are creating phony labels for him.” She held up the bottle for them all to see. “I think Drew somehow tumbled to Turner’s scheme. And maybe even tried to stop him. And that’s why Turner murdered him!”

  “Turner!” Drayton cried.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Theodosia. “I’m absolutely positive he’s the one behind this counterfeit wine scheme.”

  Drayton suddenly lifted his arm and pointed. “No, I mean . . . there he is!”

  They all four gazed across the crowded ballroom and saw that Andrew Turner was staring at them with a watchful, suspicious expression on his face.

  And then, as comprehension began to dawn, as Turner suddenly realized that he’d been made, his face darkened and his jaw tightened. He spun on his heels and, with the sprightliness of a character in a Road Runner cartoon, took off running.

  “We’ve got to stop him!” cried Max.

  “Then let’s go after him!” cried Theodosia.

  And from across the dance floor, as Delaine saw her date turn tail and disappear into the crowd, she called out pleadingly, “Please . . . wait!”

  25

  Andrew Turner ducked his head and hotfooted it through the crowd like a star running back heading for the goal line.

  Startled by Turner’s sudden exit, Theodosia bobbled the wine bottle in her hands. It slipped from her grasp and plunged to the floor, crashing like a miniature atom bomb. Shards of glass and droplets of wine flew everywhere, causing people to turn and stare.

  “I’ve got to—” Theodosia began.

  “No, you don’t!” said Max. He reached out and clutched her arm. Hard. No way was he going to let her run off in hot pursuit.

  “Max,” Theodosia cried. “He killed Drew Knight!”

  Max continued to hold her tight, but Theodosia’s eyes implored him to let her go.

  “Okay, okay,” Max relented. “But we have to be careful!”<
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  “Call the police!” Theodosia yelled to Drayton and Timothy as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Get hold of Tidwell . . . and Sheriff Anson, too!”

  Drayton nodded unhappily as Theodosia and Max took off running.

  Turner had crashed through the crowd on the dance floor and left a mess in his wake; two men and one poor woman in a long white dress were muttering angrily as they picked themselves up off the floor.

  Theodosia and Max careened to the door of the ballroom and pushed their way through, spinning out into the nearly empty hallway. Just up ahead they could hear Turner’s feet pounding down the marble stairs. He had a head start on them, but just maybe . . . if they really booked it . . .

  Skittering down the wide stairway, Theodosia and Max descended into the plush hotel lobby. They pulled up short for a few seconds, glancing at the checkin desk, the concierge’s desk, the front door, and an acre of leather sofas and potted plants, trying to figure out which way Turner might have gone.

  “Which way?” said Max. “Any guesses?”

  “You head out the front way, I’ll go out the back!” said Theodosia.

  “Right,” said Max. “But be careful! Please be careful!”

  Theodosia trotted into the lobby, trying to decide if Turner had dashed out the back door or had maybe hopped an elevator to one of the upper floors as a clever dodge.

  Then she heard it. A loud voice, angry and clearly upset, shouting, “Hey, man, are you crazy? What do you think you’re doing!”

  Theodosia pivoted and sprinted to her right, down a long corridor lined with shops. Up ahead of her, several pieces of expensive luggage lay strewn on the plush carpet. The bellman’s brass cart had also been upended and the angry bellman was muttering fiercely and shaking his fist.

  Aha! Turner had definitely come this way!

  Theodosia chased down the hallway and spun around a corner, just in time to see Turner disappear through a heavy brass and wooden door into Cerise, the hotel’s upscale French restaurant.

  Like a hunter after its quarry, Theodosia followed Turner into Cerise. She abruptly brushed past the host’s stand, then bumped and pushed her way through a bevy of tuxedo-clad servers.

  “Pardon, madame!” the dapper-looking host called after her as she slewed around a corner, hot on Turner’s trail.

  Theodosia never broke stride. She dashed past table after table of dinner patrons, who seemed shocked to witness a footrace in what was normally a very sedate and posh restaurant.

  Up ahead, Turner glanced back, saw her coming, and spun past a table. Then, just when he thought he was in the clear, he collided head-on with a waiter who was preparing salads tableside for a party of four. The enormous glass bowl teetered precariously, then toppled to the floor, spilling its contents of mixed baby field greens. A half-dozen crystal cruettes, filled with colored vinaigrettes, smashed to the floor also.

  Theodosia continued after Turner, almost slipped on a piece of ten-dollar arugula, and caught sight of him again as he pushed with desperate force through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  Hot on his trail, Theodosia followed right into the kitchen after him. Angry, raised voices—some jabbering in French, others in Spanish—told her that Turner had indeed come this way.

  Theodosia ran past a stove where enormous kettles of beef bouillon and French onion soup simmered. Then past an enormous open-flame broiler, where tasty cuts of steak and chops sizzled and popped. Several men and two women in stained white chef’s garb stood dumbfounded as she rushed by. A waiter—most of his face and part of his shirt covered in crème fraîche—struggled to get to his feet after what, Theodosia suspected, had been yet another collision with the crazed and panicked Turner.

  Through the stifling heat, steam, and sheer pandemonium, Theodosia saw Turner up ahead. Arms akimbo, he skidded on the slick tile floor and yelped loudly as he took a nasty fall to one knee. Then, just as quickly, he pulled himself up and bolted for the emergency exit. As he smacked into the bar across the door, an alarm went off. Loud, buzzing, incredibly annoying.

  As the door started to swing closed, Theodosia also hit it hard and pushed her way through after him.

  Out in the back alley, the stench of garbage rose heavily in her nose.

  Awful.

  Theodosia looked right, then left, and saw Turner sprinting down the narrow alley, kicking up his heels as he went.

  Turner glanced back at her over his shoulder, a look of panic straining his face. Then his arm shot out and he began tipping over garbage cans as he ran.

  Like an Olympic hurdler, Theodosia sprinted after him, leapt over a battered tin can, sprinted some more, and made another flying leap.

  “Stop!” Theodosia cried out to him.

  Turner didn’t stop. Instead, he barreled his way out into the crowded street into a critical mass of art vendors and food trucks, and hundreds of strolling art lovers.

  Theodosia emerged from the alley a few seconds later. She pulled up short and gulped a mouthful of air, wondering exactly which way Turner had gone. Up and down Church Street, the carnival atmosphere prevailed. With crowds of people, bright lights, and strolling musicians—and no one had a clue as to what was going on!

  With the sky just beginning to turn a purplish-black, Theodosia glanced to her left and was stunned to see Max hobbling toward her. He looked red-faced and exhausted.

  “Did you see Turner?” she asked. “Which way did he go?”

  “That way!” Max cried, pointing and gesturing frantically. “I ran the opposite direction, finally doubled back, and just caught a peek of him as he came out of the alley and headed up the street.” He gasped and suddenly bent over. “But I can’t . . .” He was completely spent, totally out of breath.

  But Theodosia wasn’t finished by a long shot. She’d spent the last few years keeping pace with her long-legged canine, Earl Grey, running through White Point Gardens, slaloming down back alleys and skipping across dark backyards. She was surefooted and in condition, her muscles taut and well trained. She could run full out for the better part of twenty minutes. Could do an hour if it was just a lope. So she knew, deep in her steadily pumping heart, in every fiber of her being, that she could run down this killer!

  She pushed off after him.

  Turner, who was already halfway down the block, was starting to struggle. He was staggering and weaving his way through the art fair, maybe fifty or sixty strides ahead of Theodosia. Obviously tired and winded, he suddenly cut through a booth displaying framed color photographs, dodged past the Zorba’s Gyros food truck, and almost ran smack-dab into a tent that was filled with ceramic mugs and bowls.

  Turner pulled up short by a kettle corn stand, trying to catch his breath. As he peeled off his black jacket, the better to blend in, his head swiveled wildly and he searched frantically for an escape.

  I’ve got him now, thought Theodosia. Turner was losing ground and he knew it. Every time he stopped to grab a breath or risked a backward glance, his face looked gaunter and more pinched with panic.

  Where would Turner run to? Theodosia wondered. Maybe try to run a couple more blocks and then cut over to Gateway Walk? If he did, they’d have him! With all the hedges and wrought-iron fences, he’d be completely bottled up! Drayton had undoubtedly called 911, and the Charleston Police had probably scrambled squad cars. If they hadn’t, Max would certainly put them on alert. So all she had to do was stay on Turner’s tail and . . .

  What on earth? What’s he doing?

  Turner suddenly dashed toward the back door of a large red food truck. The red-and-yellow sign painted on the truck’s side said, BOWSER’S HOT DOGS.

  Turner yanked the back door open and scrambled inside. He was obviously met with some resistance, because, without warning, an enormous tray of hot dog buns came flying out, followed by a shower of red that looked like blood but was really a crimson spray of catsup. Then the sputtering proprietor in a mustard-spattered apron came tumbling out.

  Oh no! If Turner dr
ives that truck out of here, we’ll never catch him!

  There was more clatter inside and then a loud revving sound as the food truck’s engine roared to life.

  Theodosia sprinted for the back door of the food truck just as she heard a massive grinding of gears. The door flapped open and she could hear Turner swearing inside as he shifted wildly, still trying to find the proper gear.

  And just as the truck pulled away with a sharp jerk, Theodosia got one foot on the back bumper and grabbed hold of the back door.

  With a burst of speed, Bowser’s Hot Dogs caromed down Church Street with Theodosia hanging on for dear life!

  Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, mouths agape, as they watched the truck wobble down the street. And once the truck reached cruising speed, the speakers on top began cranking out the glaring notes of “Pop! Goes the Weasel.”

  Turner powered his way down Church Street, relentlessly hitting parked cars, sideswiping oncoming cars, and almost nicking a horse-drawn jitney. And all the while, Theodosia was holding on for dear life, trying to pull herself into the truck.

  Squealing brakes heralded a series of five orange construction cones that flew past Theodosia’s head. Then, with one mighty effort, knowing this was it, she pulled herself inside.

  Lurching to and fro in the swaying truck, trying to steady herself on a rubber mat, Theodosia fought to catch her breath. She knew she had to somehow get Turner to stop this food truck. To pull over to the curb before he killed someone.

  But how to do that?

  Theodosia’s eyes searched the interior of the truck, looking for some sort of weapon. She saw cupboards; a flat grill crusted with grease; aluminum bins filled with pickles, raw onions, and chopped olives; and a cooler heaped with hot dogs. But none of it had any stopping power.

  Frantic now, Theodosia ripped open one of the cupboards. And saw a large metal skillet hanging from a hook.

  Okaaaaay. This might do the trick!

  Grabbing the skillet in her right hand, Theodosia steadied herself with her other hand as she tried to move slowly, quietly, toward the front of the truck.

  If Turner knew she was on board, he gave no indication at all. Instead, he seemed more intent on dodging pedestrians and loudly gunning the engine.