by Laura Childs
There was no answer.
Theodosia blinked, her eyes straining to see the rest of the room. To figure out how to navigate this dark space.
“Theo?” Drayton said. He was standing close behind her now. And he definitely sounded nervous.
Theodosia took another step forward and stopped. Someone was sitting at the kitchen table. Quiet as a mouse, not moving an inch.
“Henry?” she said, allowing a few moments to go by, letting her eyes adjust.
Henry Curtis was there all right. He was sitting in a kitchen chair, slumped forward, with a plastic bag over his head.
Theodosia’s breath caught in her throat as she registered the plastic bag. And knew instantly that Henry was dead. Panic fizzed through her, and she backtracked so hastily she stumbled into Drayton, who was directly behind her.
“Ouch,” Drayton said. She’d stepped on one of his feet. Then, “What? What’s wrong?”
Theodosia whirled around to face him. “We’ve got to get out of here. Like right now.”
Drayton tried his best to peer around Theodosia. “Something happened?”
“Don’t look!” Theodosia cried.
“But I . . .”
“Henry’s dead. I’m pretty sure he’s been murdered!”
“What?”
“We have to call the police!”
Those words finally sent Drayton scurrying out the back door with Theodosia right on his heels.
30
They heard police car sirens before they saw flashing red and blue lights, a loud, brazen WHOOP WHOOP that probably caught the attention of the entire neighborhood. Then two black-and-white patrol cars swooped in, one a slick top without a light bar, the other a regular cruiser. They rolled to a stop out front where Theodosia and Drayton were waiting, tires squealing as they connected hard with the curb. Those two cruisers were followed by an older-model Crown Victoria that plowed right up over the curb and onto the grassy median. Theodosia knew that all the detectives on the force had gone to Ford Escape except for one.
“Tidwell,” Theodosia said. “And he didn’t waste any time.” She wondered if Tidwell came out on every emergency call. Was he that driven? Did the man not have a private life?
Four uniformed officers formed a flying wedge as they ran toward Theodosia and Drayton. Then Tidwell shouted, “Everyone, stop right there.”
The officers were nobody’s fool. They stopped dead in their tracks. They knew darned well who was in charge.
Tidwell came huffing up. He was wearing baggy khaki slacks and an oversize blue sweatshirt with yellow FBI letters stenciled on the front. He may have retired from the Bureau but his clothes were still on duty.
“No,” he said at seeing Theodosia. “No, no, no.”
“He called me,” Theodosia said by way of a hasty explanation. “Henry Curtis did. I’d been trying to get hold of him for the last few days, and he finally called me today. Said he needed to talk.” Her words came tumbling out. “And then we—Drayton and I, that is—came over here and found him . . .” Theodosia suddenly ran out of steam and breath. Her shoulders sagged, she threw up her hands, and she said, in a choked voice, “He’s dead.”
“You found him dead. How convenient,” Tidwell said.
“Convenient for who?” Theodosia asked.
“Certainly not for me,” Tidwell said.
“You don’t think we killed him, do you?” Drayton said, stepping forward to assert himself.
“If I’m to believe the call that came in via my dispatcher, Henry Curtis, an intern at the Heritage Society, is stone-cold dead inside that house,” Tidwell said. “Do I have that right?”
“Yes,” Theodosia said.
Tidwell rocked back on his heels. “This is the second murder connected to the Heritage Society.”
“I’m afraid so,” Drayton said. “But the thing is . . .”
Tidwell held up a hand cowing Drayton into silence.
“And I understand he was asphyxiated?” Tidwell said. “The caller—I presume it was you, Miss Browning—said there was a plastic bag pulled over his head?”
“Yes, but I didn’t . . .” Theodosia began.
This time Drayton cut in to interrupt her. “It might possibly be a suicide. Henry Curtis could have murdered Willow French and was then unable to live with the consequences. With his own guilt.”
Theodosia turned to face him. “But what if Henry didn’t kill Willow?” she argued. “What if the person who killed Willow also murdered Henry?”
“Two wildly divergent theories wrought by amateurs,” Tidwell said. “How absolutely fascinating.”
Tidwell gazed out toward the street where a shiny black van emblazoned with the words cpd crime scene had suddenly pulled up.
“Good,” he said. “They’re here. Now we can get down to business and determine what really happened.”
* * *
* * *
Once the uniformed officers had cleared the house—making sure no one else was inside—the two crime scene techs went in. Dressed in white Tyvek suits and blue booties, they studied the scene, set up two bright lights on stanchions, then came back out to grab their gear.
“We’re going to do photos first, but you’re welcome to come in,” the one whose name tag read berger said to Tidwell. He was short and wiry, with dark hair and an earnest expression.
The other tech was an African-American woman with dreadlocks and a lovely oval face. Her name tag read jones.
Theodosia stood on tiptoes and peered in through the open back door as Drayton pressed up right behind her. She watched the two techs do their work, but mostly she watched Tidwell. She tried to read his face, tried to determine what critical information he might be picking up.
“What?” Theodosia asked when she saw Tidwell flinch.
“There’s tape around the victim’s neck, and his hands were pulled behind him and tied with plastic flex strips,” Tidwell said. “Someone thought this out. They came prepared.”
“Oh no,” Theodosia murmured. “How awful.” She wanted to cry great gluts of tears for Henry Curtis. To rage for a young life cut short. But mostly she wanted to know what monster had committed this terrible deed. So, with feelings veering wildly between anger and bewilderment, Theodosia watched as Berger shot about a million photos of the scene. And forced herself to stand quietly, poised to listen and learn and hope for a sliver of a clue.
When the photos were done, Berger took a video camera and carefully recorded the scene. When he was finished, he looked at Jones and said, “Ready?”
Jones nodded. “Let’s go ahead and hit the lights.”
The lights were turned out as Jones crept into the kitchen holding a spray bottle and an apparatus that looked like a chunky flashlight but wasn’t.
“What is that?” Drayton whispered in Theodosia’s ear.
Theodosia shook her head. “Not sure.”
“Ultraviolent light,” Tidwell mumbled. “She’s going to fluoresce the area, then scan for prints.”
Everyone watched and held their breath as Jones sprayed the kitchen table, the chairs, the floor, and the deceased with the plastic bag still over his head. Then she pulled on a pair of protective orange goggles and turned on her UV light.
She was thorough, running the light up and down the table, all around it, then carefully over the plastic bag. It was awful, but fascinating.
“I got prints,” Jones called out.
Tidwell moved forward as Berger handed him a pair of protective goggles.
“Show me,” he said.
“Right here,” Jones said, moving a gloved hand. “A partial friction ridge print. And then over here, one that’s a little better.”
“And they’re different from the deceased?” Tidwell asked.
“Yeah, that’s a positive,” Jones said.
“Wh
at does that mean?” Theodosia muttered. Then answered her own question. “Oh, it means Henry was definitely murdered, doesn’t it? That someone tied his hands and put a bag over that poor boy’s head.”
“Looks that way,” Berger said.
“Okay,” Jones said. “You can turn the lights back on.”
The lights came back on and everybody blinked. With the extra wattage, the kitchen looked garish and stark, like an old black-and-white newspaper crime photo.
“You see here,” Jones said in a soft voice to Tidwell. “The victim was incapacitated first. There’s a gash on the back of his head. A fairly deep one at that. Definitely premortem.”
“You mean someone hit Henry on the head and knocked him out?” Theodosia asked, a note of horror in her voice. “Then, while he was unconscious, they choked and strangled him?”
Jones looked over at her. With an almost sympathetic tone, she said, “Probably, yes.”
Theodosia stared at poor Henry Curtis. His eyes were mere slits; part of the plastic bag had been sucked into his mouth. Even unconscious, Henry Curtis had fought to live.
“When did it happen?” Tidwell asked.
“Hour. Two at the most,” Berger said. “There’s no obvious decomp yet.”
At hearing that, Theodosia’s stomach lurched. Then she willed herself to stay strong. To stay in the moment. Maybe there was something to be learned here.
“Bod Squad’s here,” Berger said.
Theodosia and Drayton stepped back as a collapsible gurney with a body bag on it was wheeled in by two men.
“Why would someone kill that poor boy?” Drayton wondered.
“I think Henry must have known something,” Theodosia said. “Maybe he really did figure out who murdered Willow.”
Berger had a clipboard and was writing something, making quick scratches with his pen. “Death by asphyxiation,” he murmured.
“Ghastly,” Drayton said.
“First Willow, now Henry,” Theodosia said. “Who could do this?”
Detective Tidwell turned to stare at her. “Good question,” he said. “But whoever it is, they’re getting good at it.”
31
“I’ve got some bad news,” Theodosia said.
It was Saturday morning, and she’d just invited Haley to sit down with her at the table by the fireplace. The tea shop wasn’t open yet, but there were important matters to discuss.
“You’ve got a scary look on your face,” Haley said, fidgeting in her chair. “Did something happen? Something really awful?”
“I’m afraid so,” Theodosia said.
Haley squirmed in her chair. “Am I being fired?”
“Haley, no. Of course not!” Theodosia cried.
“Then what is it?” Haley asked.
“Henry Curtis is dead.”
Haley did a classic double take. Her mouth dropped open, her body twitched as if she’d been touched with a hot wire, and she almost leaped from her chair. Her hands flew out, smacked the edge of the table, and gripped hard, every knuckle going white.
“He’s that kid you told me about, right? The one who dressed up like Frankenstein? Who sent the love note to Willow? Oh man oh man.” Haley’s words poured out in one long agonized stream.
“He’s the one,” Theodosia said.
“What happened?” Haley asked. “I mean how . . . ?”
“He was asphyxiated,” Drayton said as he carried a teapot over to the table and set it down. Dressed in a tweed jacket and trademark bow tie, he seemed unnaturally calm.
“How do you know all this?” Haley asked as Drayton sat down and poured each of them a cup of tea. “Were you guys there?”
“Unfortunately, Drayton and I were the ones who discovered Henry’s body,” Theodosia said. “At his apartment over by the university.”
Haley grabbed her teacup and took a fast sip, as if to calm herself. “So what happened? I mean really what happened?”
“We found Henry Curtis sitting in his kitchen with a plastic bag over his head,” Drayton said.
Haley winced, then her eyes went round as saucers. “That’s how he died? He was suffocated? That’s awful.”
“It is awful,” Theodosia said.
Haley was digesting their words, trying to recover from her shock, hoping to make the pieces fit. They didn’t, of course.
“Do you think Henry was the one who killed Willow?” Haley asked. “And then he committed suicide because he felt so terrible?”
“We thought that might be the case, but that’s since been proven false,” Theodosia said. “Our theory—and Detective Tidwell pretty much goes along with this—is that whoever killed Willow also murdered Henry.”
“To keep him quiet,” Drayton said.
Haley shrank back in her chair, her fear palpable. “You’re telling me the killer’s still out there?”
“That does seem to be the problem,” Theodosia said.
“But who . . . who is it?” Haley asked. “You guys have been looking into things like crazy so you must have some inkling.”
“We looked hard at Allan Barnaby, Willow’s publisher, but he has an ironclad alibi and was officially cleared by the police,” Theodosia said. “And Claire Waltho, one of the curators at the Heritage Society, was a suspect for about two minutes, but that didn’t pan out, either.”
Drayton was slowly shaking his head. “We honestly don’t know who the killer is. We have a few theories, but that’s all they are.”
“Jeepers,” Haley said. “This is so spooky. Today’s Halloween and now, with Henry getting killed . . . it feels like a really bad omen.”
“More like a killer trying to cover his tracks,” Theodosia said. She was more pragmatic. She didn’t believe in omens and portents. She believed in reality. In this case, moving doggedly ahead in the pursuit of justice.
“It’s still awful scary,” Haley said.
“Of course it is,” Drayton said.
Haley stared at them. “Do you think, um . . . that we’re in danger?”
“Highly doubtful,” Drayton said.
“Well,” Theodosia said, drawing the word out slowly.
Haley sat back and tapped a finger against the table. “Come on, guys, which is it?”
“I think we should all stick close together for the time being,” Theodosia said.
“You mean like the buddy system?” Haley asked.
“Yes,” Drayton said. “That might be a smart idea after all. Let’s definitely do that.”
* * *
* * *
Once Haley was back in her kitchen and Drayton was brewing tea, Theodosia got to work readying the tea room. They’d advertised a noontime Halloween tea and had a book full of reservations. So that’s what she focused on right now. Snazzying up the tables with orange tablecloths, adding sprigs of bittersweet in white ceramic skull vases, putting out black linen napkins, then setting the tables with a patchwork of plates, teacups, and saucers—a fun mix of different patterns.
When her phone rang, Theodosia glanced at the caller ID and felt a pang of worry. It was Riley. His morning check-in call.
For the first time this week she was reluctant to answer because of what she knew he’d say. But she picked up anyway with a bright, “Hey. How are you?”
Riley’s voice boomed in her ear. “You’ve been busy. You snooped around and got involved again. In another murder!”
“I didn’t set out to,” Theodosia said, trying to keep her voice light, hoping she didn’t sound too intimidated.
“Do you realize what you’re doing? That you’re putting yourself in terrible danger?”
“No, because things are finally happening. It feels like this investigation could come to a logical conclusion at any moment.”
Riley snorted. “More like an explosion. Or an implosion.”
“I suppose there’s always that chance,” Theodosia said. She wasn’t nearly as pessimistic as Riley was. Ellis Bouchard and Robert Vardell were still hot and heavy on her suspect list, and neither she nor the police had cleared either of them. So Bouchard or Vardell could easily be the guilty party. She just had to figure out who.
“What’s on your calendar for today? Besides investigating?” Riley asked. Some of the worry and tension seemed to have ebbed from his voice.
“We’ve got our Halloween luncheon and then tonight’s the Enchanted Garden Party at the Featherbed House.”
“Good. That should keep you occupied and out of trouble.”
“You’re welcome to come tonight.”
“Maybe I will,” Riley said. “I’ll have to let you know.”
“How are you feeling?” Theodosia asked.
“Truthfully? Worried about you and a little tired.”
“Take a nap, why don’t you.”
“Okay, I will. Kisses, talk to you later.”
“Kisses back. Later,” Theodosia said.
* * *
* * *
“We didn’t draw a bad crowd at all,” Drayton observed. Thirty-two guests were already seated for their Halloween tea, sipping cups of Drayton’s special autumn spice tea and slathering Devonshire cream on Haley’s Indian chai scones.
“It’s especially good since most people are in a panic over Halloween tonight, and it’s the start of a busy weekend,” Theodosia said.
“So lots of events as well as trick-or-treating.”
“And tons of parties,” Theodosia said. She personally had three friends who were throwing masked balls. She’d been invited to all of them but had to beg off since she’d already committed to catering the party at the Featherbed House.
“What’s next on Haley’s menu?” Drayton asked.
“We’re serving crostini with sliced ham and white cheddar, and then wedges of crab quiche with an Amontillado sherry drizzle.”
Drayton chuckled. “Amontillado as in . . . ?”
“Poe’s ‘Cask of Amontillado.’”
