Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “Do you think someone killed Donald Kingsley over the flag?”

  “That was my initial gut feeling. The flag is apparently worth a great deal of money. We’re talking in the millions.”

  “Then you don’t just have a triple homicide on your hands,” Theodosia said. “If Don Kingsley possessed this flag, was intending to auction it off to the highest bidder, and now it’s gone missing, you’re looking at a robbery, too.”

  “Aren’t you the astute amateur detective,” Tidwell said.

  Theodosia smiled at him. “Aren’t I just?”

  7

  “Did Tidwell pay for his luncheon?” Haley asked. She’d just emerged from the kitchen and was wiping her hands on a blue tea towel. Her outfit consisted of a white chef’s jacket over black leggings. Her feet were shod in Keds high-tops that she claimed helped maintain her superior cooking mojo.

  “He did not pay,” Theodosia said. “It turned out to be a sort of quid pro quo.”

  “Meaning you actually pried some information out of him?” Drayton asked.

  There were still two tables of guests left, so Theodosia dropped her voice to a lower pitch. “A few details, yes.”

  Theodosia and Haley crowded up against the counter so they could confer with Drayton.

  “Tidwell had a talk with Tawney Kingsley, the widow,” Theodosia told them.

  “They were divorced?” Haley asked.

  “Not yet,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton inhaled sharply. “Then she stands to inherit.”

  “Maybe she does,” Theodosia said.

  “Which makes her a serious suspect,” Haley said. She grinned and slapped her hand down hard against the counter. “Man, I love this crazy stuff.”

  Drayton’s right eyebrow rose in a questioning quiver. It was one of his unique talents. “You mean you enjoy murder?”

  Haley tried to backpedal fast. “Well, no. More like the investigating part.”

  “We’re not investigating,” Drayton said, shooting a warning look in Theodosia’s direction.

  “Not yet,” Haley muttered under her breath.

  “Haley,” Theodosia said, suddenly eager to change the subject until she’d had time to ruminate on whether to get involved or not. “What have you come up with for our Nancy Drew Tea?”

  “I was thinking ginger scones . . .” Haley began.

  “Perfect,” Drayton said. “We can also serve cardamom tea.”

  “Along with what else?” Theodosia asked.

  “The middle part of the menu is still a little iffy—it depends on what kind of fresh crabmeat or lobster I can source—but I was thinking dark chocolate cake pops for dessert.”

  “At least we’re halfway there,” Drayton said. “The sugary part anyway.”

  “I’ve got most of the decorations handled,” Theodosia said. “And Haley is working on our centerpieces.”

  “Yes, I’ve been wondering about those. What exactly are they?” Drayton asked.

  “It’s a secret,” Haley said.

  “You’ll have to ask our psychic,” Theodosia said to Drayton.

  Haley gave a little shiver. “Ooh, I’m really intrigued by this psychic we’ve got coming in.”

  “Madame Poporov,” Theodosia said. Instead of relying on ESP or mental telepathy, she’d found the psychic the old-fashioned way—through the woman’s website.

  “I understand Madame Poporov claims to be a displaced Lithuanian royal,” Haley said.

  “But of course she is,” Drayton said with a wry smile.

  “Even if she’s not of royal blood, do you think she’s a genuine psychic?” Haley asked.

  “There’s no such thing as psychics,” Drayton said. “It’s all hocus-pocus and slick chicanery.”

  “Me, I’m reserving judgment,” Haley said.

  “You must want to ask her something.” Drayton’s eyes twinkled.

  “Maybe.”

  “Romance-wise?”

  “Hey, buster, that’s between me and the psychic.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When it got to be the tail end of afternoon tea, Theodosia strolled into the kitchen. “How many scones do we have left?” she asked.

  Haley glanced around. “Um, six lemon scones and two—no, just one because I ate it—strawberry scone.”

  “But enough for a nice basket.”

  “Maybe if you stick in a jar of jam to round things out.”

  Theodosia packed the remaining scones into a clear plastic bag, placed it in a wicker basket, and added a jar of jam and a jar of honey. She’d decided to take a gift basket over to the Graham-Royce Mansion and introduce herself to Tawney Kingsley. For some reason, Tidwell’s description of the woman had intrigued her. There was also the chance she could scrounge up a little more information.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was still damp and cold when Theodosia hit the streets. She was bundled up in her raincoat and had found a red paisley scarf that she’d tied babushka-style around her head. With her wicker basket, she figured she looked like Little Red Riding Hood’s crazy aunt out for an afternoon jaunt.

  When Theodosia was a half block away from the Graham-Royce Mansion, she noticed a woman exit the very same mansion she was heading toward. The woman had a swirl of dark hair, looked fairly young, and appeared to have an excellent figure, though she had a pink shawl wrapped around her shoulders and upper body. Her head was bent forward, probably because she was being buffeted so hard by the wind, and she looked perplexed. Maybe even a little upset.

  Interesting. I wonder who she is?

  Theodosia climbed the steps of the mansion and stood on the wide veranda, watching the woman disappear down the block. Then she focused on the mansion itself. It was built in the Classical Revival style, meaning a little bit Grecian and a little bit Roman, with large heavy columns and a fair amount of ornamental statuary.

  When Theodosia reached out and rang the buzzer, she heard faint music coming from inside. Classical music, light and sweet. Debussy perhaps?

  Seconds later, Tawney Kingsley flung open the door with a surprised look on her face. “Hello,” she said, as if she hadn’t expected to see another caller quite so soon. Tawney was thin, slightly bug-eyed, and looked to be on the fine edge of hyper. She also had the shortest, blondest hair Theodosia had ever seen. It was so short it reminded Theodosia of the skinned, almost shaved heads that the French Resistance had bestowed upon the women who’d collaborated with the Nazis during World War II.

  When Theodosia introduced herself, Tawney gave a knowing nod.

  “I do know who you are. You own that charming little tea shop over on Church Street. The Indigo Tea Shop.”

  “Yes and I’ve come to offer my condolences,” Theodosia said. “I was one of the witnesses yesterday. I saw the whole thing happen.” She held the basket out. “This is a small offering and certainly can’t make up for your sadness, but I’ve brought you some scones.”

  “Thank you so much,” Tawney said as she accepted the basket. “Won’t you come in?”

  I’d love to.

  Theodosia followed Tawney inside.

  “It’s terribly sad about Donald,” Tawney said as she led Theodosia down a hallway and into a small room that was half-furnished. “But the truth of the matter is, we were in the process of dissolving our marriage. We hadn’t really been . . . what you’d call together . . . for a number of months.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Theodosia seated herself on a blue velvet sofa, and Tawney draped herself in an easy chair across from her.

  “Don’t be. We were both getting along okay. I have my mansion to renovate and Donald had his company.” Tawney stopped as a perplexed expression crossed her face. “Now I suppose the company will have to go on without him.”

  “I understand there
might be a problem with the company,” Theodosia said. I may as well dive right in.

  Tawney stared at her with huge eyes. “Why would you say that?”

  “There was a sidebar article in this morning’s paper . . .”

  “I haven’t paid much attention to the media. What did it say?”

  “The article mentioned that some of SyncSoft’s money seems to have disappeared.”

  “Money,” Tawney said slowly, letting the word roll off her tongue as if this was a completely new concept to her.

  “Yes, they’re missing a rather tidy pool of investor funds. Or maybe it was working capital. I’m not exactly sure. Maybe you’d know better?”

  “I don’t know a single thing about their corporate finances. But . . .” Tawney narrowed her eyes in a critical, almost analytical manner. “I wouldn’t put it past Donald to siphon off money for his own foolish pursuits. And to keep me from getting my fair share in a divorce settlement.” She shrugged. “But now Donald is dead. And, as the old maxim goes, you can’t take it with you.”

  “So now he’s left it all behind,” Theodosia said. For you?

  “Not my problem, not my doing.”

  Isn’t it? Theodosia wondered. Or is it possible you could have masterminded that drone attack all by yourself? Tawney struck her as being fairly clever with the potential to be manipulative—a far cry from the little girl attitude she tried to project.

  “Besides offering my condolences, I wanted to ask you about the missing flag,” Theodosia said.

  “That’s so interesting. The woman who was here just before you wanted to know about the flag as well.”

  “I saw someone on your front walk . . .” Theodosia said in an encouraging tone. Maybe Tawney would fill in the blanks?

  “That was Dr. Brooklyn Vance,” Tawney said. “She represents a museum that also wanted to bid on the flag.”

  “I’m guessing she was upset when you told her that it’s disappeared?” Because she sure looked upset. Or maybe just befuddled.

  “Oh, Dr. Vance already knew it was missing. Mostly she just wanted to ask a few polite questions.”

  “About the flag?” Theodosia said.

  “About what will happen if the flag should turn up.”

  “Like, will it still be for sale?” Theodosia said. “And who will be in charge of selling it or auctioning it off?”

  “Those questions came up, yes. But in an easygoing manner. Dr. Vance struck me as being smart and highly cultured. Quite dedicated to her job at the museum.”

  “Which museum is she affiliated with?”

  “It’s in North Carolina.” Tawney looked around with a helpless glance. “I put her card somewhere.”

  “Getting back to the flag. You really don’t know what happened to it?” Theodosia asked. “Perhaps your husband removed it from his home and placed it in a lockbox for safe keeping. Maybe it’s not really missing at all.”

  Tawney’s eyes grew larger. “I already pointed the police in the direction of First Security where Donald did his private banking. They checked his lockbox and the flag isn’t there. It’s not at his country house, either. In fact, no one seems to know where the flag disappeared to.”

  “Do you believe it was stolen from your husband’s home yesterday?” Theodosia wondered if the flag had gone missing before or after the balloon crash. Or during. If it happened during the balloon flight, maybe two people were involved. A stone-cold killer and a master thief.

  “Stolen from his home, yes. That’s what Donald’s assistant, Charles Townsend, claims. That’s what I’ve been told by the police.”

  “So you have no idea at all about the flag’s possible whereabouts?”

  Tawney shook her head. “I’ve never even laid eyes on it.”

  The doorbell rang, a loud briiiing that reverberated throughout the entire downstairs.

  Tawney popped up from her chair. “Excuse me.”

  Two minutes later she was back with a deliveryman who wheeled in an enormous package wrapped in brown paper. It looked like it might be an oil painting or large mirror.

  Tawney signed for it, thanked the deliveryman, and then gave a little giggle. “I’m so excited it finally arrived. Want to take a peek?” she asked Theodosia.

  “Why not?”

  Tawney proceeded to rip the paper away from the painting or whatever it was. When the wrapping was half off, she grinned and beckoned with her fingers. “Come closer and take a look.”

  It was a stained glass window—an enormous stained glass window that must have cost a small fortune to create.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Theodosia said. And it was. The window depicted birds and trees in the foreground and a small French village in the background. The colors were predominantly gold, yellow, and amber.

  “Custom made to grace my main salon.”

  “You sure are pulling out all the stops here.”

  “You have no idea,” Tawney said. She grabbed a thick roll of wallpaper off a sofa table and unfurled it. “Look at this. Hand-painted wallpaper from France.”

  “That’s amazing,” Theodosia said as she studied hand-dabbed swirls on a background of . . . was that silk? Yes, it was.

  “And I’ve ordered eiderdown beds from Switzerland, genuine Art Nouveau lamps from Paris, and Pratesi sheets and towels.”

  “You’re a veritable United Nations of décor. Visitors to Charleston will be beating a path to your door,” Theodosia said.

  “They will because I’m going to create Charleston’s first-ever six-star B and B. There won’t be any other hotel, guest house, or B and B that can touch it for first-class service and luxury.”

  “When do you intend to open for business?”

  Tawney made a face. “Unfortunately, not until September. There’s a ton of work still to be done in the upstairs bedrooms. Plumbing for the spa tubs, heated towel racks, skylights, more stained glass, all the little niceties.”

  Theodosia wondered exactly how Tawney was going to pay for all of this. Was she wealthy in her own right? Or—and this would be the kicker—had the SyncSoft money somehow found its way into Tawney’s pocket? Or was about to? And if Tawney was using SyncSoft money, it meant she could have had a hand in the death of her husband as well as his client and balloon pilot.

  “What are you going to call this place?” Theodosia asked as she looked around. “Will you be keeping the name Graham-Royce Mansion or . . . ?” Her eyes landed on Tawney’s shoes. Purple suede uppers, bright-red soles. Christian Louboutin. Known simply, by ladies-who-lunch, as Louboutins.

  “I’m calling it Château Roubine after my favorite wine château in Provence,” Tawney said. “I feel that particular name conveys class, elegance, and luxury. After all, I desire only the best.”

  Theodosia nodded. “I can see that.”

  “Not a single guest amenity will be spared.”

  “Does that mean you’ll have dog-friendly rooms, like several of the other B and Bs?”

  Tawney frowned. “Dog-friendly? Absolutely not.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Back on the sidewalk, Theodosia decided to give Drayton a call at the tea shop. She struggled to dial the number with one hand as she fought pounding gusts of wind and rain that threatened to rip her umbrella right out of her hands.

  When Drayton answered, she said, “How would you like to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

  Drayton was instantly on alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to talk. Tell you about my meeting with Tawney Kingsley and get your take on a couple of things.”

  “Alright then, that does sound lovely. What time do you want me to darken your doorstep?”

  “Seven?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  8

  Hoppin’ John was a sort of Southern
chowder-soup-stew that everyone and his brother-in-law had a favorite family recipe for. Well, Theodosia had her own recipe as well, handed down from her Aunt Libby. And she figured it was the perfect antidote to the cool, rainy weather that had swooshed in, stalled out, and seemed determined to hunker over Charleston for a while. So she’d chopped celery, onions, a bell pepper, and garlic, and sautéed it with some thick-cut bacon in a pan.

  Now, as her black-eyed peas and Carolina Gold rice bubbled in the mixture and offered up a tantalizing aroma, she buzzed about her kitchen, finishing up the salad. As she worked, Theodosia heard the rain beating down and could almost feel her little house utter the occasional creak and groan.

  “I’ll bet Mrs. Barry didn’t take you for a very long walk today, did she?” Theodosia said to Earl Grey. Mrs. Barry was a retired school teacher and the neighborhood dog walker. Earl Grey was Theodosia’s dog, but really her roommate, constant companion, and jogging partner. He was basically a Heinz 57 dog, but Theodosia had decided Earl Grey was a nice medley of dalmatian and Labrador. So . . . a “Dalbrador.”

  “Did you wear your plaid coat?” Theodosia asked. Then she spotted his coat folded across the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Along with a note from Mrs. Barry.

  Theodosia smiled as she read it: Short walk today, Earl Grey unhappy about paws getting wet. Be back tomorrow. Mrs. B.

  The phone rang while Theodosia was fixing dinner.

  Is Drayton calling to cancel?

  No, it was Pete Riley, her “amour du jour” and one of Tidwell’s assistant detectives, calling from Minneapolis.

  “Theo,” he said.

  “Riley,” she said, sounding pleased. That was how they addressed each other. He called her Theo and she called him Riley. Hey Riley, pick up a bottle of wine, will you? Want to go to a jazz concert this Saturday, Riley? It suited him. Actually, it suited both of them.

  “I didn’t think you were going to call until tomorrow night,” Theodosia said. He’d only been gone two days, but she was secretly pleased that she was talking to him now.