Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  Drayton’s shoulders rose and dropped in a long, drawn out sigh. “I suppose you’re talking about the crew of photographers, lighting people, and stylists that will be invading my home,” he said in a flat tone.

  “That’s gonna be so exciting,” Haley enthused. “Southern Interiors Magazine is a really big deal. It’s so cool that they selected your house to feature in an article. I mean, shots of your house will be in their magazine right along with photos of fancy celebrities’ homes. And country and western stars. And homes owned by people who are so rich you don’t even know their names!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t share your abundant enthusiasm. In fact, I view this as a bit of a distraction and inconvenience,” Drayton responded.

  “Whoa,” Theodosia said, holding up a hand. “What changed? You were positively over the moon when Southern Interiors Magazine first called.”

  “Yes . . . well, in thinking about the disruption to my private life, my enthusiasm has since waned,” Drayton said.

  “But it’s fabulous publicity,” Haley said.

  “Publicity.” Drayton spat out the word as if he were referring to llama dung. “Who wants publicity? Who would go so far as to court it?”

  “You?” Haley asked in a squeaky voice.

  Drayton let loose a shudder. “Never.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Five minutes later, the Indigo Tea Shop turned into a hub of activity. Haley scurried back to her kitchen to finish baking her scones, muffins, and quick breads, and begin prepping for lunch.

  Drayton slipped behind the front counter where he reigned supreme over his prized floor-to-ceiling shelves of tea. This private domain featured the finest in loose-leaf teas and included first-flush Goomtee Garden Darjeeling from India, Neluwa Garden BOP from Ceylon, and Hao Ya ‘A’ black tea from China. Of course, there were hundreds of other varieties, along with his custom house blends.

  Theodosia, on the other hand, focused all her efforts into turning her cozy little enterprise into a sparkling jewel box of a tea room. She smoothed white linen tablecloths over wooden tables and folded linen napkins just so—today she managed a tricky bishop’s cap fold. Then there were the table settings to consider. Theodosia pulled out a set of Spode china in the Golden Valley pattern, and decided the gold trim and purple-and-green peaches and pears would be the perfect antidote to such a rainy, gloomy day.

  Silverware was added along with sugar bowls, creamers, and tea light candles in small glass jars.

  When the tables were finished and gleaming with perfection, Theodosia stepped back to admire her handiwork—actually her life’s work. Several years ago, she’d left a hustle-bustle, 24-7 job in marketing to take the plunge and open the Indigo Tea Shop. She’d borrowed money, drawn up plans, worked like crazy, and eventually converted a former stable and blacksmith shop into a cozy, welcoming enterprise. Now the tea shop featured wood plank floors, a stone fireplace, gabled ceiling, and small windows with wavy antique glass—the perfect spot to offer elegant cream teas, luncheon teas, and high teas.

  Drayton as tea master had also been a rare find and a true complement to her shop. Haley, her chef and baker, had been a lucky strike. Now, after almost a half dozen years together, they operated as a well-oiled machine.

  “Theo?”

  Theodosia’s tea shop reverie burst like a soap bubble. “Yes, Haley?” she said.

  “I’ve got today’s menu for you to look at.” Haley dodged two tables and a wayward captain’s chair to hand Theodosia an index card filled with her left-canted printing.

  “Strawberry scones and lemon scones,” Theodosia read out loud. “And for lunch, Cheddar and pimento tea sandwiches, another sandwich to be determined, citrus salad, three-cheese quiche, and beef barley soup.”

  “We can combo a cup of soup and half sandwich if you’d like,” Haley said.

  “Good idea. Hot soup is always appealing on a cold day.”

  “You got it.” Haley disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared. She was an autocrat in the kitchen and ruled her domain with an iron fist in a quilted oven mitt. No greengrocer would dare stick Haley with wilted butter lettuce or slightly over-the-hill tomatoes. If they did, the full wrath of Haley Parker would descend upon their shoulders and they’d be cut out from her carefully cultivated list of providers.

  “What’s on the docket for today?” Drayton asked Theodosia. “Anything I can do a tricky match with?” He was balancing a tin of Taiwanese oolong in one hand and a tin of Plum Deluxe’s Candlelight Blend in the other hand, deciding which tea would be the most apropos for a morning brew.

  Theodosia read Haley’s menu to Drayton.

  Drayton smiled. “I’ve also got an itch to brew a few pots of Chinese gunpowder green tea, which I think will be the perfect accompaniment to Haley’s lemon scones.”

  “Go for it.”

  “And I’ve been wondering about . . .”

  Drayton’s words were cut short by an earsplitting crash at the front door. What could it be? Had a hit and run accident on Church Street sent a car skidding onto the sidewalk? Did one of the horse-drawn jitneys throw a wheel?

  Then the door flew open and whapped hard against the wall, ushering in a nasty onslaught of rain and cold air. From out of the fog and dampness, a distraught-looking man careened toward them.

  The man stared at Theodosia and Drayton for all of one second and then cried, “I need some help!” He slammed the door behind him and stomped his feet.

  Drayton was instantly on alert. “Are you injured? Were you in an auto accident? I’m sure the driving out there is terrible. Do you want me to dial 911? Or call a tow truck?”

  The man vigorously shook his head “no” while he flapped his arms about his body like a flightless bird.

  Drayton relaxed some. Not an accident. Just someone caught in the storm. “Perhaps we could offer you a cup of hot tea on an emergency basis?”

  Looking more desperate than ever, the man gazed about with wild eyes. “No,” he barked out. “What I need . . . what I have to talk to someone about . . . is yesterday’s hot-air balloon crash!”

  4

  “Who are you?” Theodosia asked. She’d crept forward to intercept this stranger, this interloper, before he advanced any farther into her tea shop. Yes, she was territorial and proud of it.

  “Forgive me,” the man said. A modicum of courtesy had returned to his voice. He touched a hand to the front of his beige rain-spattered trench coat. “I should introduce myself. I’m Tod Slawson.”

  “The antiques dealer,” Drayton said immediately.

  Slawson nodded. “That’s right.” He was tall, at least six feet two, with slicked back, dark blond hair, a slightly hawk nose, and soft amber eyes that darted to and fro.

  Theodosia thought he looked like an Englishman who’d inherited a minor title and a dilapidated manor home. Someone who raised sheep, read poetry, and was slightly long in the tooth but short in the jaw.

  But Drayton clearly knew who Slawson was. “You specialize in Chinese antiques,” Drayton said.

  “Not anymore I don’t,” Slawson said. He brushed at the front of his coat. “Now you can’t give away Ming and Quing pieces. After the market in Chinese antiquities was flooded with thousands—maybe millions—of fakes and forgeries, it dropped like a brick. No, no, now I’ve completely moved into Americana. That’s where the up-and-coming market is. Early American furniture, paintings, and decorative pieces.” He waved a hand in the air, as if to erase his words. “But enough about me, I need to know what the two of you saw yesterday. At the crash site.”

  “Why exactly are you asking?” Theodosia said.

  “Because it’s critical. Practically a life and death matter,” Slawson said.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Slawson, that I don’t know you from Adam,” Theodosia said. And how do you know that Drayton and I were at the hot-air
balloon rally yesterday? Then she thought, Oh, the newspaper.

  Slawson looked supremely injured. Then, deciding he ought to come up with a more suitable angle for this conversation, said, “What is it you want to know about me?”

  “Probably a tad more than you’ve already told us,” Theodosia said. She was polite but firm.

  Slawson frowned. He clearly wasn’t used to being stuck on the hot seat. “For one thing, I own Marquis Antiques over on King Street. We’re one of the premier antiques dealers in Charleston and my clients include some of our fair city’s finest families. The Ravenels, the Calhouns, the . . .”

  “Oh,” Theodosia said, interrupting him and looking slightly startled. “I do know who you are.”

  Deep in the recess of Theodosia’s brain, she remembered her friend Delaine Dish rhapsodizing about a new boyfriend who was elegant, sweet-natured, and didn’t mind accompanying her on the occasional shopping trip. A man named Tod Slawson. Clearly, this had to be the same Tod Slawson.

  “I believe you’re dating a friend of mine,” Theodosia said. “Delaine Dish.”

  “Yes. Delaine,” Slawson said. He gave a perfunctory smile and said, “Now that we’re all one big happy family, perhaps we can skip my curriculum vitae and you can help me out, answer a couple of questions. You see, I need to know exactly what you saw yesterday. Every single detail about the hot-air balloon crash that took the lives of those three people.”

  “Why do I have a feeling you’re interested in one of those people in particular?” Theodosia asked.

  Slawson’s hands flew up and he turned his palms toward her, as if in capitulation. “You’re right. I am,” he said.

  “Let me guess,” Theodosia said. “Donald Kingsley.”

  Slawson pointed a finger at her. “Yes. Because I’m convinced that poor Don Kingsley was murdered. That the drone showing up wasn’t random at all. That it was a carefully planned and choreographed attack.”

  “When you use the word ‘attack,’” Drayton said, “you make it sound as if terrorists were at work.”

  “Maybe not full-blown, radical, suicide-vest terrorists, but I’m positive that hot-air balloon explosion wasn’t an accident,” Slawson said.

  Theodosia pretty much agreed with him, but instead of saying so, said to Slawson, “Have you shared your suspicions with the Charleston police?”

  Slawson nodded. “First thing this morning. I talked to a big guy . . . well, he was a bigwig, too, I guess. A detective named Tidwell.”

  “Burt Tidwell. Yes, we know him,” Theodosia said. Do we ever.

  “Tidwell was the one who mentioned you were at the hot-air balloon rally. And then I read it in this morning’s paper, too.” Slawson looked pointedly at Theodosia and then at Drayton. “Tidwell said the two of you witnessed the drone flying directly into Kingsley’s hot-air balloon.”

  “Why would Tidwell talk to you about this?” Drayton murmured.

  “Because I asked him,” Slawson said. “Because this whole thing—this crash—is too preposterous for words. And the crazy thing is, I was supposed to be riding in the balloon with them!”

  A tiny alert pinged in the back of Theodosia’s brain. “Why weren’t you riding with them?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” Slawson fixed her with a slightly cockeyed gaze.

  “Why didn’t you go up in the balloon with the others?” she asked again.

  “Um, a family matter came up,” Slawson said. He held the back of his hand against his forehead as if his brains were about to explode. “But Don Kingsley and the other two getting killed. It’s just unbelievable!”

  Theodosia’s curiosity was more than tickled. Who wanted Don Kingsley and his client dead? She wondered. Who would send up a drone to purposely take down a hot-air balloon? And was the drone attack intended to kill Kingsley the CEO, or was his client, Roger Bennet, the target? Maybe Kingsley was merely collateral damage.

  “Are you familiar with drones?” Theodosia asked Slawson. “Do you know anything about them?”

  “Only what I’ve seen on TV. Like, in a few years they’re supposed to be delivering all sorts of things direct to our homes. Books, groceries, wine, whatever.”

  “As if that’s ever going to happen,” Drayton muttered. He was a confirmed Luddite who eschewed cell phones, cable TV, satellite radio, online banking, and the Internet. Drayton’s idea of current technology was a vinyl record—preferably classical—played on his thirty-year-old RCA turntable.

  “If you’re so sure this drone attack was planned, that it was cold-blooded murder, you surely must have a perpetrator in mind,” Theodosia said. She was keenly interested in hearing Slawson’s answer.

  “If anyone’s capable of murder it’s Earl Bullitt,” Slawson said immediately.

  “Another antiques dealer,” Drayton said.

  “Why on earth would you say that?” Theodosia asked. It felt as if Slawson had randomly plucked a rival antiques dealer’s name out of thin air. “And more importantly, why would an antiques dealer murder a software CEO? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”

  “There’s a huge connection. We were all vying to purchase the exact same item,” Slawson said.

  “Excuse me. You mean like a bidding war?” Drayton asked.

  “Something like that,” Slawson said.

  “What were you bidding on?” Theodosia asked. Antiques? This doesn’t sound like business. Like anything SyncSoft would be involved in.

  “So there was some type of private auction?” Drayton asked.

  “What exactly were you bidding on?” Theodosia asked again. She kept her tone courteous but direct.

  “If you must know, it was a flag,” Slawson said.

  “A flag,” Theodosia repeated. She recalled that when Charles Townsend had been running around yesterday, he’d been babbling about a flag.

  “It was . . . well . . .” Slawson looked unhappy. “I suppose the details are bound to come out one way or another.”

  “What’s going to come out?” Theodosia asked. Slawson’s double-talk was beginning to wear on her.

  “Details concerning the flag,” Slawson said. “You see, Don Kingsley was about to sell an original flag that dates all the way back to the American Revolution.”

  “No,” Drayton said. But it was said in stunned surprise rather than as a negative comment.

  “There were several of us . . . are several of us,” Slawson said. “All interested parties that were contacted by Kingsley.”

  “And . . .” Theodosia said. There had to be more.

  “And now the flag is missing,” Slawson said.

  “Under what circumstances?” Drayton asked.

  “Right after the crash—or possibly during—it simply disappeared from Don Kingsley’s home. Pouf. Gone like a puff of smoke. Kingsley’s secretary was the one who sent up the hue and cry that it was missing.” Slawson massaged his forehead in disbelief. “I can’t quite believe it.”

  “This missing flag,” Theodosia said. “It’s important? In a historical sense?”

  Slawson screwed his face into an unflattering grimace. “It’s an original Navy Jack flag.”

  Drayton was so startled he practically vaulted across the front counter. “Gracious me!” he said, in what was clearly a stunned tone of voice.

  Theodosia knew something important had just been revealed. Feeling that her knowledge of early American history was somewhat challenged, she focused on Drayton, who possessed a much keener grasp of historical data. “Translation, please?” she asked him.

  “Mr. Slawson is referring to the ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flag,” Drayton said in a hushed, almost reverent tone.

  “The what?” Theodosia was rocked back on her heels. She’d seen the DON’T TREAD ON ME flag depicted in various history books and on posters. It was a Navy Jack flag with a red and yellow snake wriggling agains
t a background of red and white stripes.

  “Amazing,” Drayton breathed.

  Theodosia opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She let Slawson’s words sink in for a moment. Then, like a Roman candle streaking across the night sky, she was struck with the realization that a flag such as that, if it proved to be genuine, would surely be . . . priceless.

  5

  “Could Don Kingsley really have been in possession of an original Navy Jack flag?” Theodosia asked Drayton once Tod Slawson had left. “Where would he get something like that? More importantly, could a more than two hundred-year-old flag have withstood the ravages of time? After these many years, wouldn’t a flag of that vintage be in tatters and remnants? Or simply reduced to dust?”

  But Drayton thought differently. “If the flag was properly cared for, stored correctly, and by that I mean temperature and humidity controlled, it might still be in fairly decent shape.”

  “That would be amazing.”

  Drayton scratched his cheek absently, as if deep in thought. “As I recall, there was a Continental Light Dragoons flag that went up for auction at Sotheby’s a few years ago.”

  “Do you remember what it sold for?”

  “It went for a pretty penny. Almost eighteen million dollars.”

  The number was so vast, it took Theodosia’s breath away. She cleared her throat self-consciously. “So this ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flag might be worth even more?”

  “I would guess . . . yes,” Drayton said. “A lot more.” He dropped his voice to a reverent tone. “Realize, please, these antique flags are sacred objects. People died defending them. Not just those serving in the Continental army and navy, but ordinary men and women who stood alongside them in the American Revolution and believed implicitly in the principles these flags stood for.”

  “Dear Lord,” Theo said. “I’m shocked there’s a flag of that vintage available. I would have thought most old, historic flags were enshrined in museums and history centers.”