by Laura Childs
The woman smiled. “And the sandwiches and desserts were arranged below them.”
“Exactly.”
Back at the counter, grabbing a pot of black tea, Theodosia said, “Miss Drucilla seems like a lovely person.”
“Oh, she’s a peach,” Drayton said. “Cut from a strong Southern mold and, even at eighty-four, is still sharp as a tack.”
“And she lives all alone in that big house over on Legare?”
“Ever since her husband, Everett, died nine years ago,” Drayton said.
“She has no other relatives?”
“There’s a nephew somewhere, but the less said about him the better.”
“Gotcha,” Theodosia said. “Oh dear, now Delaine’s waving at me. Duty calls.”
Delaine reached out and grabbed Theodosia’s arm as she approached her table.
“Theo, we absolutely must talk.”
Theodosia stared into Delaine’s heart-shaped face. She was a truly beautiful woman. Dark hair swept into a low chignon. Long lashes, full cupid lips, eyes that glittered. Too bad Delaine was so intense and . . . yes, she could admit it . . . a little ditzy.
“You mean, talk about Denim and Diamonds?” Theodosia asked.
Now Delaine gave a slow wink. “That and my current love life.” She adjusted the handbag that sat on the floor next to her. A bag that was roughly the size of a Galápagos tortoise.
“You’re still dating Tod Slawson, aren’t you?” Theodosia thought he was still her boyfriend du jour.
“On again, off again, dear.” Delaine cocked her head at a coquettish angle and said, “You know how it goes.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Theodosia said. But she was well aware that Delaine was absurdly high-maintenance. Delaine demanded (and usually received) complete and constant attention from the men she dated, accompanied by lavish (and outlandish) praise and adulation. If a man was unable to fulfill Delaine’s every wish, whim, desire, and demand, or if he stumbled in pursuit of her, she’d kick him to the curb without a second thought. Then she’d be back on the prowl for what she termed “a new gentleman friend.”
Yes, Delaine might blush and simper and revert to old-fashioned tricks, but when it came to men she was a great white shark.
“Do you still want me to serve tea and scones at your Denim and Diamonds Fashion Show?” Theodosia asked.
“I think so,” Delaine said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No, I can manage.”
“You’re a doll,” Delaine said, squeezing her arm again. “I’ll call you later with a head count. Oh, and isn’t that a sad situation with poor Willow French? I know her mother, of course. When she comes into town, she’s one of my best customers.”
“I didn’t know that,” Theodosia said. But she should have. Delaine seemed to have connections with everybody.
* * *
* * *
Two hours later, it was pretty much over. Miss Drucilla Heyward had been the first to murmur a genteel thank-you and take off, with half the guests following a few minutes behind her. Now, only a handful of guests remained, a few sitting around finishing their tea, others shopping for tea accoutrements.
“This was absolutely perfect,” Claire said to Theodosia on her way out.
“I hope you had a good meeting with your potential donor,” Theodosia said.
“I think so.” Then Claire glanced around and said in a quiet voice, “After we talked yesterday, I remembered something. About Willow, that is. And I thought it might be important.”
Theodosia was suddenly on high alert. “What is it, Claire?”
“I think Willow might have bought a house. Or was in the process of buying one. While she was arranging her books for the signing Sunday night, I heard her talking on the phone, and I think she was chatting with her real estate agent. It sounded like she was, anyway, because she was asking about assessed value.”
“Do you know if her home purchase had already gone through?” Theodosia asked. A new home would definitely explain the packing boxes and general disarray they’d found at Willow’s apartment.
“I don’t know for sure that she was buying a house,” Claire said. “But I’m sure her fiancé would know.”
“Thank you, I’ll ask him.”
Theodosia said goodbye to a few more of her departing guests, rang up purchases on tins of tea and beeswax candles, and poured a final cup of tea for two women who were lingering. Then she walked up to the counter and said, “Claire Waltho thinks that Willow was in the process of buying a house.”
“What’s that?” Drayton looked up. He’d been busy sorting through his tea tins.
Theodosia raised her voice a notch. “I said Willow was buying a house.”
This time Drayton frowned. “Are you sure? First I’ve heard of such thing.”
“I know. It’s strange that Timothy never mentioned it to us.”
“Maybe Timothy didn’t know,” Drayton said. “Maybe Willow was in the process of buying a house and wanted to surprise him. You know, demonstrate to Timothy how well she was doing, how financially independent she’d become.”
“I’m going to call and ask him.”
Drayton went back to his tea tins. “Couldn’t hurt.”
But when Theodosia finally got Timothy on the phone, he wasn’t just surprised; he was gobsmacked.
After a long, drawn-out silence, Timothy said, “House? What house?”
“Claire Waltho mentioned it when she was in for lunch today. She said she’d overheard Willow talking to a real estate agent.”
Timothy was clearly rattled, almost sputtering. “This . . . this is the first I’ve heard anything about a house.”
“You know nothing about it?” Theodosia was caught off guard, too. Timothy had practically doted on Willow’s every move. For him not to know about this was . . . strange.
“Robert Vardell never mentioned it, either. You’d think he would have said something.”
“Maybe Willow wanted it to be a surprise? A wedding gift to him?” Theodosia said. She was fumbling her words, her nerves ratcheting upward as she wondered why this had been such a tightly held secret.
“A house seems like an awfully large wedding gift,” Timothy said.
“Do you know . . . did Willow have money?”
“She had an inheritance, yes.”
“A lot?”
“Let’s just say it was sizable,” Timothy said. “But Vardell supposedly has a good job as well. I don’t think money was ever an issue between the two of them.”
“I’m going to call my Realtor and try to . . .”
“Do that,” Timothy said, in an almost pleading tone. “Please see what you can find out.”
“On a related matter,” Theodosia said, “do you know if Willow had a relationship with someone named Henry Curtis?”
“I’ve never heard of that person,” Timothy said.
“Well, surprise, surprise, but Mr. Curtis supposedly works in your conservation department.”
“Ah, he must be one of the new interns.”
“I believe he is.”
“Well, I haven’t met him yet, but you’re saying that Willow knew him?”
“I think she did,” Theodosia hedged. “So there’s another person I have to interview.”
“When do you think you can do that?” Timothy sounded anxious and fidgety.
Theodosia thought for a minute. “Probably tonight.”
“All right, thank you.”
Then, because Theodosia had a few minutes to spare, and Timothy had been so upset by her mention of a house, she called Maggie Twining at Sutter Realty. Maggie was the Realtor who’d helped her buy her cottage a couple of years ago.
After they exchanged greetings, Theodosia said, “Maggie, is there some way you can check to see if a house has been r
ecently purchased by someone?”
“Depends on who that someone is,” Maggie said.
“It’s Willow French. She’s that poor woman who was murdered the other night at the . . .”
“Haunted house!” Maggie exclaimed. “I read about it in the newspaper.” She paused, obviously curious. “You’re, um, looking into that?”
Her unspoken question hung in the air between them. Why are you interested?
“If you read the article, then you know that a police detective was shot when he was sent to Willow’s apartment to investigate,” Theodosia said.
“Okay.”
“Well, it just so happens that it was my police detective. My boyfriend, Pete Riley.”
Maggie let out a shriek. “Theodosia, no!”
“I’m afraid so. In fact, he’s still in the hospital.”
“Is he okay? Is he going to recover?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Maggie said. Then she snapped back into business mode. “Okay, I can definitely check that name for you. Willow French, you said? Any idea where the property is located?”
“None at all.”
“It’ll probably take some digging on my part—and I’ve got a showing over in Mount Pleasant at two o’clock. A high-end custom-built home with a saltwater pool and Caribbean pine floors. So I might not get back to you until later today.”
“That’s okay, Maggie. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Talk to you later, Theo. Best wishes for your fella’s quick recovery.”
13
After such a lovely, successful luncheon, Bill Glass was the last person Theodosia wanted to see. But there he was, slithering into her tea room, two cameras slung around his neck, looking like the disreputable quasi-journalist-publisher that he was.
“Hey.” Glass stepped up to the counter and gazed at her with a hopeful look. “That was some murder Sunday night, huh?”
“Mmn,” Theodosia said. Perhaps if she was completely noncommittal Glass would go away?
No such luck.
“They shoulda called it the House of Horrors,” Glass said. He slung his cameras onto the counter and favored her with a cheesy smile. Glass was mid-forties, a little stocky, dark haired, and had the sharp look of a used-car salesman. “I was all the way over in Goose Creek when I heard the call on my police scanner.”
“Aren’t those things illegal?” Theodosia asked. Bill Glass was the owner and publisher of a tabloid called Shooting Star. He was always on the prowl for the latest juicy gossip or gritty story. For some unknown reason, he liked her. Enjoyed dropping by the tea shop.
Probably just to bug me.
“Whatever.” Glass offered a shrug to indicate he was officially bored. “Anyhoo, by the time I got there the police had already cut the chick down.”
“Please leave,” Theodosia said.
Glass gaped at her. Theodosia had always been nice to him. Well, maybe not nice, but polite.
“What did you say?”
“If you’re going to talk that way, if you’re going to be disrespectful,” Theodosia said, “then I don’t want you in here.”
“Talk what way?” Glass pretended to not understand.
“In a crude and insensitive manner.”
Glass jerked his head back as he gestured wildly with his hands. “But I always talk that way.”
“I realize that.” Theodosia grabbed a lone cream scone that was sitting on a plate and looking a little dry. She dropped it into a bag and thrust it into Glass’s hands. “Here you go.”
Bill Glass frowned. “What’s this?”
“Take-out order.”
“Can I at least have a cup of tea to go with it?”
Drayton had overheard most of their conversation and was already on top of things, pouring tea into a paper take-out cup, briskly snapping on a lid. “Tea to go,” he said. “Do enjoy.”
Glass frowned. He knew he was getting the bum’s rush and wasn’t sure how to handle it.
“That’s all I get?” he asked.
Theodosia smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got. Teatime’s over.”
“Well . . . okay.”
“He’s an awful pain, isn’t he?” Drayton asked, once a dejected-looking Glass was out the door.
“He makes it difficult to remain civil,” Theodosia agreed.
“And Glass always looks so disreputable. Like he should be moonlighting as a bouncer at the Hotsy Totsy Club.”
“Drayton!” Theodosia said. Then she laughed.
Drayton’s eyelids dropped a centimeter. “See? You agree.”
“I suppose I do.” Then, curious, “Is there a Hotsy Totsy Club?”
“There probably is somewhere,” Drayton said, getting busy again.
* * *
* * *
Theodosia spent the next twenty minutes gathering up props from all the tables, then clearing dishes. When that was done, she went into her office and plopped down at her desk.
Theodosia’s office looked like the Mad Hatter’s tea party had exploded. There were teacups and saucers packed in Bubble Wrap, boxes of tea samples from a hundred different companies (oh, the choices!), books about tea, tea strainers, teapot trivets, and a towering stack of glitzy felt hats. No, she wasn’t a pack rat—Christmas was just around the corner and, like a good little Girl Scout, she wanted to Be Prepared.
Shoving a stack of tea catalogs out of the way, she picked up her phone and called Riley.
“Hey there,” Theodosia said when she finally had him on the line. “How about I come over for a quick visit?”
“Not today,” he said.
Theodosia could barely keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Why not?”
“Ah, these hospital people have got me signed up for some kind of occupational therapy thing. I have to learn how to grip balls, stretch rubber bands, and shoot clay pigeons.”
“Not clay pigeons,” Theodosia said, laughing. She could tell that Riley was feeling a whole lot better. What a difference a day makes.
“Okay, not that,” Riley said. “But this therapy thing is supposed to take a while. I’m told the hospital therapists aren’t going to let me rest on my laurels. Or anything else.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“If you say so.”
“What if I stop by tonight?” Theodosia said. “You know, bring flowers, scones, a six pack of beer?”
“Already got that covered. Some of the guys are planning to drop by.”
Theodosia felt a flash of disappointment. She wouldn’t be seeing him then. On the other hand, she’d have a free evening to continue her investigation.
“So you don’t want me to interrupt your guy thing with your brothers in blue?” she asked.
“Well . . .”
“No problem, I’m sure I can figure out something else to do.”
“Okay, talk to you later. Kisses,” he said.
“Kisses,” she said back.
Theodosia was packing up the costumes when Maggie Twining called.
“Your young lady Willow French did in fact buy a house,” Maggie said.
“Interesting,” Theodosia said. “Can you give me the address?”
“Sure. It’s located at 17 Lamboll Street.”
“That’s a pretty fancy address.”
“It’s a pretty fancy house,” Maggie said. “Four bedrooms, three baths, with a sizable backyard and gardens. It didn’t even hit the MLS; it was a pocket listing.”
“Were you able to look at financing details as well?”
“Yes, and I’m rather impressed. Your Ms. French paid cash for her property.”
“She paid . . . Wait, seriously?”
“In fact, her cash offer trumped two other offers. Of course, t
hose had contingencies. One had a ninety-day close; the other was an FHA.”
“I’m stunned,” Theodosia said. “So now Willow owns a house? Or her estate does?”
“In the eyes of the law,” Maggie said, “a young man by the name of Robert Vardell technically owns that house.”
“Oh my gosh,” Theodosia said. “Her fiancé. So you’re saying he owns it free and clear? Why is that?”
“Because his name is on the title.”
“It doesn’t have to go through probate?” Theodosia asked.
“Not if his name is on the title.”
“This tale keeps getting stranger and stranger.”
“Let me know how it all turns out,” Maggie said.
* * *
* * *
Theodosia wasted no time in telling Drayton about this unusual new development.
Drayton was shocked. “Willow paid cash? For a home?”
“An expensive home in the Historic District. I had Maggie Twining check the records.”
“Maggie should know; she’s the expert.” Drayton paused. “Well, that certainly explains all the moving and packing that was going on at Willow’s apartment.”
“Yes, but the really big news is that Willow put Robert Vardell’s name on the property title.”
Drayton gave a slow, reptilian blink. “You mean with Willow dead . . . Vardell is the owner?”
Theodosia nodded. “Sole owner.”
Drayton looked stricken. “Dear Lord, you don’t think Vardell might have . . . ? No, he couldn’t, could he? They were supposed to be . . . married.”
“I don’t know what to think, Drayton.”
“We have to tell Timothy about this.”
“And probably the police,” Theodosia said.
As the front door creaked open, they both turned to find Detective Tidwell ambling in. He glanced about nonchalantly, then walked to a table as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Speak of the devil,” Drayton said in a low voice. “Here’s your chance.”
“Do you think Tidwell is psychic or does he just have the ability to materialize out of thin air?”
“You ask me,” Drayton whispered, “I think he likes you.”
