by Laura Childs
“I’m no expert, but I believe there are only thirty or so genuine Revolutionary War flags still in existence,” Drayton said.
“Then I can certainly understand a collector’s fervor. A Navy Jack flag is . . . well, it’s incredibly inspirational,” Theodosia said. “It would be akin to a holy relic.”
“Exactly so.”
“Where would Don Kingsley obtain a flag like that? And why would he want to sell it if he was a collector himself?”
“Hard to say. Maybe he inherited the flag, or maybe he picked it out of a junk store bin. Many pieces of fine art have been discovered that way,” Drayton said.
“An occasional Jackson Pollock painting that turns up on Long Island maybe. But a Revolutionary War flag?”
“You never know.”
“Who could tell us about this type of flag? Are there any flag experts in Charleston that could offer an opinion?”
“Possibly someone in the Americana Club.”
“What is that? Some historical group? I’ve never heard you mention them before.”
“And I’m sure the members would prefer to keep it that way,” Drayton said. He cleared his throat, as if he were about to impart a deep, dark secret. “The Americana Club is a small group of wealthy men who collect rare pieces of American history. Old documents, flags, medals, militaria, you name it.”
“Civil War pieces, too?”
“Of course.”
Theodosia felt her heart blip with interest. “And you say this group is local?”
“Most of them live right here in Charleston. They reside in the Historic District, of course. And own homes along the Battery and Tradd Street.”
“So really a hop, skip, and a jump away from us.”
“Correct.”
“Does this Americana Club have its own private museum?”
Drayton chuckled. “No, but all the members probably have a secret room in their home.”
“Sounds like they fly under the radar.”
“You know, Theo, I don’t think you should get all wound up about this purported Union Jack. Now that I think about it, there’s a good chance the flag isn’t genuine.”
“But what if it is?”
“Well, what if it is?” Drayton said. “What’s the problem?”
“For one thing, the flag’s owner was just murdered along with two other innocent people. So it wasn’t just an indiscriminate killing. I mean, there was a reason behind it. Somebody must have wanted something from Kingsley. And when they didn’t get it . . . BOOM!”
“I suppose you do have a point.”
“And now there seems to be a mad scramble going on.”
“A treasure hunt to see who can possess that flag,” Drayton said slowly.
“Or steal it,” Theodosia said. Missing money and a missing flag. How very . . . curious.
* * *
* * *
The rain didn’t keep customers away this morning and, five minutes later, the tea shop was busy. The door flew open constantly as merchants from up and down Church Street came in to grab their morning cuppa and a take-out scone. Tourists came in to seek refuge and get a bite to eat, their faces aglow when they saw what a lovely tea shop they’d discovered.
Theodosia took orders and ran them back to Haley. Drayton brewed pots of tea. Theodosia ran Haley’s finished orders back to their guests, picking up the steeping pots on the way.
And all the while Theodosia’s mind was in a whirl. Thinking about the deadly explosion yesterday, wondering about this missing flag. When there was a lull in the action she said to Drayton, “Do you mind if I skip out for five minutes and run next store to the bookshop?”
Drayton cocked an eye at her. “Looking to do a little research?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
Theodosia grabbed an umbrella and ducked out into the storm. The rain had let up some, but the wind was whooshing down the street. It caught her hair and made the auburn tendrils stream out like ribbons on a maypole.
Theodosia gritted her teeth. When her hair got wet—or slightly damp—it took on a life of its own. Not exactly frizzing, but expanding in size until it became an abundant halo around her head.
Luckily, the Antiquarian Bookshop was only three doors down from the Indigo Tea Shop. It was housed in a tall, redbrick building and had a classic storefront, with gold, curlicue letters painted on the window. Theodosia ran in, shaking rain from her umbrella, and breathed a sigh of relief. Inside the bookshop it smelled like old paper, ink, and leather book covers. Tall, wooden bookcases were crammed full of used books as well as new books written by local authors. Antique library tables held interesting displays and vintage leather club chairs were scattered about so you could sit a spell and do some reading.
Lois Chamberlain, the owner and a former librarian, was at her usual place, hunched over the front desk. She was a compact woman, late fifties, wearing a purple shawl and bright-red half-glasses. Her long gray hair was plaited in a single braid that extended halfway down her back. With her sharp eyes and crinkly smile, she reminded Theodosia of one of the traditional low-country wise women who knew just when and where to gather healing herbs and tender roots in the forest.
Lois looked up and smiled as Theodosia approached her desk.
“Rainy out there,” Lois said. “Bad for business. Keeps the tourists indoors.”
“Hopefully this weather won’t last all week.”
“It will because this Thursday I’m supposed to have a booth at an outdoor bookfair over in Columbia.” Lois rapped her knuckles against the front desk and said, “What can I do for you?”
“What do you know about flags?” Theodosia asked.
“Not much, but we probably have several books about them.”
“From the Revolutionary War era?”
Lois’s chair creaked as she stood up. “That could be tricky, but let’s go take a look.”
Theodosia was in luck. Lois found two separate books about Revolutionary War uniforms, battle dress, and flags.
“I need to purchase these books,” Theodosia said.
“You’re welcome to borrow them.”
“No, I want to buy them. It’s important.”
“Well, let me at least wrap them in plastic. Since it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”
* * *
* * *
“Hurry up, we’re really getting busy,” Drayton called to Theodosia the minute she stepped through the front door.
Theodosia glanced around the tea shop. Only four tables were occupied and none of the guests looked particularly anxious or irritable. They nibbled scones and sipped cups of tea, seemingly enjoying their respite from the inclement weather.
Theodosia held up an index finger. “Give me one more minute.”
She disappeared behind the celadon velvet curtains that separated the tea room proper from the kitchen and her own small office. She tossed her purse on her messy desk and dumped the two books alongside it. She turned, ready to get back to work, and then stopped and glanced back at the books.
Just one quick peek. What could it hurt?
Theodosia flipped through the book entitled Emblems of the American Revolution. When she got to the chapter on flags, she scanned the illustrations and photos and carefully read the captions. The fact that all the flags were homespun and hand-sewn gave them a resolute do-or-die feel. And the more Theodosia studied the flags, the more she had the sense that she was looking at something remarkable, something that carried a great deal of spiritual significance.
Yes, it took only a few pages and Theodosia was hooked.
6
“The tea sandwich you mentioned that was sort of up in the air,” Theodosia said. “Have you settled on a particular filling?” She stood in the doorway, looking in at their postage-stamp kitchen. It was remarkable that Haley functioned so w
ell in there. Theodosia was well aware of the space constraints and figured the heat from the oven and dishwasher would drive her bonkers. But Haley loved it. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Didn’t want to remodel.
“I’m just finishing that now,” Haley said. She stirred a cream cheese mixture in a silver bowl, tossed in a cup of chopped almonds, and stirred some more.
“So what is the filling exactly? I don’t want to keep our luncheon guests guessing.”
“Just my basic cream cheese, green olive, and almond mixture,” Haley said. She gave it a couple more quick stirs and then tapped her spoon against the rim of the bowl. “There. Done.”
“And you’re spreading it on . . . ?”
“White sandwich bread. But you know I always keep my bread frozen so I get a nice clean cut.” Haley grabbed a loaf of bread from the freezer and dealt the slices out onto the counter. “I spread my mixture on the bread while it’s still frozen, pop on a top piece, and trim the crusts. The mixture stays cool while the bread thaws out nicely in about four or five minutes.” Haley explained her technique as she worked. “See how crisp the cut is?” she said as she sliced the sandwich into four triangles. “I use frozen bread when I do double stackers, too.”
“Are you doing a double stacker tea sandwich today?”
“I could. Maybe do three slices of bread with cheese spread between the top two slices and ham on the bottom.”
“I love it,” Theodosia said.
Just then the oven bell dinged loudly.
Haley peered in. “Lemon scones are done.”
* * *
* * *
Out in the tea room Theodosia seated a few more customers and took their orders for tea.
“Table six is asking for Japanese green tea,” Theodosia told Drayton.
“Good. I’ve been itching for a chance to brew a pot of Gyokuro.”
Like Haley, his hands worked efficiently as he talked. “A measured scoop and a pinch for the pot. Then we steep for about two minutes.”
“Have you gotten over your nervousness about your home being photographed?”
“Not a bit. In fact, I’m working myself into a mad panic over it,” Drayton said in a pleasant voice.
“When the idea was first presented, you were so pleased. We all were. Aunt Libby even wanted to come and watch the photo shoot.”
Drayton bobbled his head back and forth. “I know. I was bubbling over with unbridled enthusiasm as well when Southern Interiors Magazine first called. But now, the idea of opening up my home to strangers—and magazine readers—simply paralyzes me.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“I have to do it, Theo,” Drayton said with intensity. “I made a commitment. You know as well as I do that a gentleman never goes back on his word.”
“Then I must not know any gentlemen,” Haley said. She hurried toward them, carrying a silver tray heaped with a dozen fresh-baked lemon scones, each one dripping with creamy white frosting. “Because the guys I know are forever going back on their word.”
“Then they are not gentlemen,” Drayton said.
Haley smiled sweetly at him. “Well . . . duh.”
* * *
* * *
The take-out orders kept coming. Customers and innkeepers alike—mostly from local hotels and B and Bs—called in droves to order lunches. Haley made tea sandwiches and wrapped scones like crazy while Drayton poured to-go tea orders into indigo-blue paper cups and snapped on the tops. Needless to say, there was a steady stream of pickups at the front counter.
At one o’clock, Burt Tidwell came shuffling in. He wore a strange-looking raincoat that could have been cut from oilcloth or sailcloth and then coated with wax. Whatever it was, water had beaded up on it to keep him relatively dry.
“Taking time out from your investigation?” Theodosia asked him.
Tidwell gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Interested in a spot of lunch then?” Theodosia led him to the small table near the stone fireplace and waited while he got seated. “I’ll have to run and grab whatever from the kitchen. We’ve been doing take-out orders like mad so I can’t make any promises about what Haley has left.”
“No problem,” Tidwell said.
Theodosia went into the kitchen, placed two ham and cheese tea sandwiches on a plate, and then added a lemon scone and a small glass bowl of Devonshire cream. She stopped at the front counter and grabbed a pot of Yunnan tea. The flavor of the tea was slightly peppery, much like Tidwell’s general disposition.
Setting everything down on his table, Theodosia watched him dig in. Since this luncheon was gratis—Tidwell never paid for anything, never offered to pay—she decided it wouldn’t be too forward to ask him a few questions.
“It’s been almost twenty-four hours since the crash,” Theodosia said. “Have you dug up any evidence?”
“There’s not a lot to go on. The explosion pretty much took care of any fingerprints or trace evidence.”
“Then do you have any suspects, anyone under suspicion?”
Tidwell nodded as he pushed the remains of his first sandwich into his mouth. “A few, yes. But what I really need is for you to give me a few more details concerning the crash.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Theodosia said.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Touché.
“Okay . . .” Theodosia thought for a few moments. “The whole incident had an almost dreamlike quality about it. I mean, there we were in this gently swaying basket, rising slowly up toward the clouds, almost no sound at all, and suddenly this horrible buzzing thing came out of nowhere.”
“No,” Tidwell said. “It came out of somewhere. Which way were you facing when you first became aware of the drone?”
“I remember seeing the dog park, so I must have been facing . . . what? North?”
“So perhaps the drone came from south of the park?”
“What would be back there?” Theodosia asked.
“Parking lot set behind a row of trees.”
“So you’re thinking that the drone operator wasn’t someone who was part of the hot-air balloon rally. Not a spectator.”
“Not a friendly participant anyway,” Tidwell said.
“Anybody could have been back there,” Theodosia said. “It’s a one-in-a-million shot.”
“I’m sure Charleston PD can narrow our suspect list down to a more manageable number than that.” Tidwell picked up his second sandwich and took an enormous bite.
“Tell me about possible suspects,” Theodosia said.
“There were a few people at odds with the victim.”
“Victims,” Theodosia said. “Three people were killed.”
“Yes, but only one victim has garnered our attention so far,” Tidwell said.
“Don Kingsley,” Theodosia said. She decided Kingsley had to be the main target since Tod Slawson was so rabid about the missing flag. “So who are you looking at? Disgruntled coworkers? Business rivals?”
“Interesting you should ask. I just spent an hour asking Tawney Kingsley those same pertinent questions about her deceased husband.”
“The wife?” There had been a small mention of Tawney in this morning’s paper and now her name was starting to ring a bell. “Does she have something to do with a brand-new bed-and-breakfast?”
“Tawney Kingsley has recently purchased the Graham-Royce Mansion over on Tradd Street,” Tidwell said.
“Fancy neighborhood.” Then, fishing for a few more details, Theodosia said, “I imagine she’s in serious mourning?”
“More like bright and cheery as a morning glory,” Tidwell replied. “The newly minted Widow Kingsley did not appear to be shedding a great deal of tears.”
“That’s . . . interesting.” Especially since her husband was just killed.
�
�As for the newly purchased mansion, it would appear that Mrs. Kingsley is giving it a much needed spit and polish,” Tidwell said.
“I think the place was in pretty tough shape,” Theodosia said.
“Not anymore it’s not. She’s renovating her new white elephant from top to bottom.”
“I’d guess that mansion is about a block away from the Featherbed House,” Theodosia said.
Tidwell took a sip of tea and puckered his lips. “About that.”
Theodosia couldn’t help but make a rather strange, convoluted connection. The wife of a murdered man, a man who had in his possession a priceless flag, is opening a fancy B and B near the Featherbed House. And the owner of the Featherbed House is the girlfriend of a man who works at SyncSoft. Why does that seem strange to me? A little too close for comfort?
Theodosia decided to tuck this information away for now and ask Tidwell about the flag.
“What can you tell me about this valuable Navy Jack that Mr. Kingsley had in his possession?”
Tidwell’s brows pinched together. “How do you know about the missing flag?”
“For one thing, a young man was running around last night like a chicken on crack cocaine crying about a flag. Then Tod Slawson came storming in here this morning, wanting to squeeze Drayton and me on details of the crash. When we weren’t exactly forthcoming, he mentioned the Navy flag, the Navy Jack.”
“Alright, yes. The first inkling I had that the flag was missing was when I followed up with that foppish fellow Charles Townsend. He was . . . is, apparently, Don Kingsley’s private assistant and possibly his curator.”
“Don Kingsley has a museum?” Theodosia asked.
“More like a dedicated series of rooms in his home. All filled with paintings and documents and such.”
“And this Revolutionary War flag, if that’s what it really is, is truly missing?”
“It would appear so,” Tidwell said. He nibbled a bite of scone then topped it with an extra pouf of Devonshire cream.
