Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “Don’t knock change,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton smiled. “Don’t knock tradition.”

  “I’m always tempted to stand on tiptoes and peer over this brick wall,” Theodosia said. “Drink in the beauty and lushness of these private gardens.”

  “Then let’s do so.”

  They both stopped, curled fingers over the top of the brick wall, and pulled themselves up.

  “Spectacular,” Theodosia said. “A picture postcard waiting to happen.” They gazed into a lush backyard garden that featured a long, narrow reflecting pool teeming with Japanese koi, and flower beds that were a riot of color.

  When they finally emerged from the alley onto Lamboll Street, Drayton said, “There’s a reason Charleston has been dubbed the ‘Holy City.’ How many church spires can you count just from here?”

  “Um . . .” Theodosia spun around slowly. “Four . . . no, five.”

  “And we have another two dozen churches with spires all piercing the sky. I’d say it’s a fine testament to the different faiths that make up our rich history. Of course, the churches do a fine job of showcasing our elegant eighteenth- and nineteenth-century architecture, too.”

  “Take a look at this particular bit of architecture,” Theodosia said. They had walked halfway down the block and were standing in front of the enormous brick mansion that had served as Don Kingsley’s home.

  “Federal style,” Drayton said. “Keenly influenced by Roman architecture and a kind of refinement of the Georgian style. You see those panels and friezes?”

  Theodosia nodded as they went up the walkway and stepped onto the piazza that fronted the home.

  “And the columns and moldings are narrower and less ostentatious. I’m curious about the interior . . .”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Theodosia said as she rang a large brass doorbell, stepped back, and heard a hollow boom inside the enormous house.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Charles Townsend met Theodosia and Drayton at the front door he was polite but formal. He ushered them into a lovely wood-paneled entry, took their coats, and then led them down a long center hallway that had a breathtaking, tea-stained (definitely on purpose) Oriental carpet. He stopped abruptly and gestured to his right. A signal that Theodosia and Drayton should precede him.

  What they walked into was a suite of three connecting rooms that looked like the period rooms at the Gibbes Museum, or maybe Thomas Jefferson’s house at Monticello.

  At any rate, the three rooms were all furnished in early American furniture. Pine tables, Chippendale chairs, desks, sugar chests, and sideboards. But these were not pieces one could sit on or actually use, they were old and clearly museum quality. The walls were hung with framed documents, flags, and oil paintings. Pottery, pewter candlesticks, and crystal inkwells sat on shelves, and antique books were housed in glass-front cabinets.

  Theodosia turned around to face Townsend. “This is all Don Kingsley’s collection?”

  “Most of it, anyway,” Townsend said. “There are a few pieces in storage.”

  “Magnificent,” Drayton said. “This is practically a museum.”

  “Mr. Kingsley always nurtured the dream of having his own museum separate from this house,” Townsend said. “But now . . .” Townsend’s face fell. “I’m afraid it’s not to be.”

  “What a lovely silver coffeepot,” Theodosia said, pointing to a tall, elegant pot.

  “Sheffield,” Townsend said. “One of our more recent acquisitions.”

  Drayton put on his tortoiseshell half-glasses and studied a framed flag that hung on the wall. “This flag is old?” he asked. It had thirteen stripes and thirty-three small stars clustered into one great star.

  “From approximately 1860,” Townsend said.

  “And where was the Navy Jack flag stolen from?” Theodosia asked. She decided they’d had enough polite conversation. Now it was time to cut to the chase.

  Townsend moved to an antique case and pointed to an empty spot. “It was here. Right here.”

  “You noticed that the flag was missing when you returned from the balloon accident last Sunday?” Theodosia asked.

  “That’s right,” Townsend said.

  “Why did you come here, instead of going to your own home?” Theodosia asked.

  Townsend stared at her. “I . . . I don’t know. I suppose I wasn’t thinking too clearly at that point and this is where the police cruiser dropped me off.”

  “So you had a key.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you came in here to look around and that’s when you discovered that the flag was missing?” Theodosia asked.

  “No. I went directly to Mr. Kingsley’s office and made some calls. Notification calls,” Townsend said. “A difficult, gut-wrenching task, as you might imagine.”

  “And after that?”

  “Then I came in here.” He glanced around. “I thought these rooms would serve as a kind of touchstone . . . a calming . . . well, you know.”

  “And that’s when you noticed the flag was missing.”

  “Exactly so,” Townsend said. “At which point I immediately notified the police.”

  “Busy night for the police,” Drayton said. He was standing there, arms crossed, listening intently to their conversation.

  Townsend shook his head. “A sad night for all of us.”

  “Had any of the door locks been tampered with?” Theodosia asked.

  “Not that I could see,” Townsend said. “And the police checked all the doors, front and back.”

  “Windows?” Drayton asked.

  Townsend shook his head. “Nothing looked disturbed.”

  “Ghosts,” Drayton said.

  “I hope not,” Townsend said. “The lack of forced entry seemed . . . strange. That’s why I told the police I thought it might be an inside job.”

  “An inside job . . . how?” Theodosia asked.

  “Mr. Kingsley entertained many visitors here. Friends, antiques dealers . . .”

  “People from the Americana Club?” Theodosia asked.

  “A few, yes.”

  “Interesting,” Theodosia said.

  Townsend gazed at her. “Is it? Because the police haven’t come up with anything yet.”

  “Will you be staying on here?” Theodosia asked. Since Townsend’s employer had just been murdered, she figured there was probably some confusion as to his status as an employee.

  “You mean . . . with the collection?”

  “That’s right.” Theodosia decided that if Townsend talked a good game and put up a brave front, he might be enlisted to help find a new home for all these objects. Or, if Tawney was still in charge and had her way, to oversee their sale at Sotheby’s.

  “I would hope I’m staying here. That would be my first choice,” Townsend said.

  “Best of luck to you then,” Drayton said. “If I had my druthers I’d want to remain among these precious objects, too.”

  Townsend took a step backward, edging for the door. “I take it you’ve seen everything that you wanted to see? That I’ve answered all of your questions?”

  “Actually, we’d like to talk with you a little more,” Theodosia said.

  Townsend seemed taken aback. “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re the one who’s smack-dab in the middle of this flag and drone furor,” Drayton said.

  “We’re interested in your reaction, how you’re making sense of all this,” Theodosia said.

  “Well, I’m not,” Townsend said with as much earnestness as he could muster. “It’s been just horrible.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Theodosia smiled at Townsend, who seemed to gather his wits about him and relax after a few moments. Then she dropped her bombshell.

  “If you had to point the finger at
someone, who would it be?” Theodosia asked.

  Townsend made a choking sound in the back of his throat. He was either stalling for time or taken aback by the audacity of her question. Finally, he recovered enough to say, “You mean for crashing a drone into Mr. Kingsley’s hot-air balloon or for stealing the flag?”

  “How about both?” Theodosia said.

  “Oh, well, I really couldn’t say,” Townsend said. “As I just mentioned, the police are completely stumped. And if they have stumbled onto something—or someone—they haven’t shared their findings with me. They’re playing it close to the vest.”

  Theodosia gave a tight nod, but was determined to hold Townsend’s feet to the fire.

  “But you must harbor some suspicions,” she said.

  “Well . . .” Townsend said, stalling.

  “I’m sincerely interested in your opinion,” Theodosia said. “And, after witnessing that horrific crash, you can see why Drayton and I also have a vested interest.”

  Townsend swallowed hard and then said, “Please don’t tell anyone.” His face puckered up, as if he’d just swallowed a sour pickle, and then he said, “But I do have—this would be pure speculation—some ideas, I guess.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Drayton said. He made a zipping motion across his mouth.

  Theodosia gave an encouraging nod.

  “I think it could have been Tawney Kingsley or possibly that horrible antiques dealer, Earl Bullitt,” Townsend said.

  “Why Tawney?” Theodosia probed. “Why suspect her?”

  “Two reasons. One, I think she still might have a key to this place,” Townsend said. “So she could have come in here anytime Sunday afternoon and grabbed the Navy Jack. She could have hidden it in that new albatross of a home of hers or at her condo on Johns Island.”

  “And reason number two. Why it could be Tawney?” Theodosia asked.

  “The woman adores money more than life itself,” Townsend said. “From what I’ve heard, her credit card bills were astronomical. I think that’s why Mr. Kingsley wanted to divorce her. She was just too darned expensive to maintain. It was like owning a home in Monaco, a Lamborghini, and a stable of race horses—all at the same time.”

  “Amusing,” Drayton said, though he didn’t look particularly amused.

  “Would Tawney have the wherewithal to steal the flag and then sell it?” Theodosia asked.

  Townsend took a few moments to form his answer. “Tawney’s shrewd and fairly well connected, so I think she could pull it off. She’s constantly flying to New York or London on various shopping trips where she could easily connect with wealthy collectors or dealers.”

  “Just as easy as Earl Bullitt could?” Theodosia said, referring to Townsend’s second choice of suspects. Of course, she was already familiar with Earl Bullitt. Tod Slawson had also named him as a possible thief. And Bullitt’s reputation preceded him as a local antiques dealer who was a definite hustler. Slawson might sell the occasional top-dollar, A-plus piece, but Bullitt moved his inventory—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

  “Earl Bullitt is a distinct possibility,” Townsend said.

  “How did you get involved with him?”

  “I didn’t, but Mr. Kingsley had some dealings with him,” Townsend said. “Bullitt tried to sell him an original painting by Thomas Hicks but, upon closer inspection, it turned out to be . . . not so original.”

  “So Bullitt is a crook,” Theodosia said.

  “Bullitt is as crooked as the day is long,” Townsend said. “He sells fakes and he’s a schemer. I understand he works with a whole network of other dealers in New York, Miami, and Dallas, most of them just this side of the law.”

  Theodosia glanced at Drayton. “Do you know anything about Mr. Bullitt’s nefarious dealings?”

  “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but I have heard rumors,” Drayton said.

  But rumors were only rumors, Theodosia told herself. They weren’t the solid, hard-core evidence that Tidwell craved, the evidence she needed to help pull Angie and Harold out of this sticky mess.

  “Mr. Townsend . . . Charles . . . we appreciate your being so open with us,” Theodosia said.

  “I don’t know if I’ve been any help because I’m not sure what you’re looking for.” Townsend’s eyes took on a curious gleam. “Are you investigating this on your own?”

  “Just helping out a friend,” Theodosia said.

  “Harold Affolter?” Townsend said.

  “You know about him?” Drayton asked.

  Townsend shrugged. “I know that Mr. Kingsley was quite unhappy with Mr. Affolter. The man called here several times, pestering him about something.”

  “I think he was more likely sounding an alarm,” Theodosia said.

  Townsend turned glum. “If that’s what it was, then he was too late.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Drayton asked as they walked down Lamboll Street. “Did we learn anything?”

  “Townsend mostly just reinforced the suspect names we’ve already heard bandied about,” Theodosia said.

  “What about the young man himself?”

  “You mean Townsend as a suspect? I think he’s mostly a frightened fellow who’s hoping to keep his job.”

  Miss Chatfield, the event coordinator at the Portman Mansion down the street, was eager to show them around. In her early sixties and petite, she wore a conservative black suit and sensible shoes. Her silver hair was rolled into a tidy bun and her eyeglasses dangled on a silver chain. She looked like someone’s great aunt who worked as a docent in a museum.

  “We’ve never hosted a tea party here before,” Miss Chatfield said. “It will be a first for us.”

  “For us, too,” Drayton said. “Since we usually host them in our tea room.”

  “Oh, I’ve visited the Indigo Tea Shop,” Miss Chatfield said. “You have a delightful little place. Delicious food and killer scones.”

  “And tea,” Theodosia added. “Don’t forget about our tea.”

  “Are you kidding?” Miss Chatfield said. “Last time I stopped in with a couple of friends I brought home three tins.”

  “That’s what we like to hear,” Drayton said.

  “So . . . a quick tour,” Miss Chatfield said. She took a deep breath and continued, “The Portman Mansion was built by an early phosphate manufacturer for his family. Then it served as a single family home for almost ten decades. Eight years ago, a consortium of investors purchased this place, made some needed renovations, and turned it into an event center.”

  “This is lovely,” Drayton said as they peered into a side parlor. “All this crown molding and hand-carved wood.”

  “Wait until you see the dining room,” Miss Chatfield told them.

  And what a fanciful dining room it was.

  “Impressive,” Drayton said, gazing around.

  “Very Gilded Age,” Theodosia said. “Perfect for our tea.”

  Though the storm was still raging outside, the dining room felt light and airy, thanks to a wall of twelve-foot-high windows with insets of Tiffany glass at the top. The floors were made of inlaid marble, an enormous crystal chandelier hung overhead, and a mirrored china case filled with wineglasses and champagne flutes reflected what felt like a million points of light.

  “We have tables and chairs to accommodate up to eighty-five guests in here and another side parlor that can handle an additional twenty-five guests,” Miss Chatfield said.

  “I see ample room for us to set up some paintings on easels,” Drayton said. It was an idea he and Theodosia had talked about to help lend authenticity to their Beaux Arts Tea.

  “And we have facilities to set up a custom bar if you like, plus we offer valet parking, audiovisual, and Wi-Fi access. We’re also happy to provide security if you need it,” Miss Chatfield added.

>   Security, Theodosia thought. That’s what we could have used at the hot-air balloon rally.

  From the dining room they looked at the kitchen, which Drayton deemed to be absolutely perfect for Haley’s purposes.

  “If it wasn’t raining, I’d open the French doors and show you our back courtyard,” Miss Chatfield said.

  “That’s okay, I’m sure it’s lovely,” Theodosia said.

  Miss Chatfield gave a little shiver. “I hope all this wind and rain isn’t going to turn into a rip-roaring hurricane.”

  “I believe it’s too early in the year for hurricane season,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia glanced out the window where trees were shaking and rain continued to slice down. “Tell that to the weather gods.”

  13

  The Tolliver Building was a large, yellow brick building, a former textile mill, that had been rehabbed through a grant from the State Arts Commission. Earmarked now as a home for nonprofit organizations, its major tenants included the Lebeau Theatre, Xenon Dance Troupe, and Ceramics Guild. There was also below-market-rate studio and gallery space for a dozen or so artists and potters, as well as the large meeting hall where Theodosia was now standing.

  It was the night of judging for the Floral Teacups Competition, and Theodosia had never seen so many gorgeous antique teacups overflowing with amazing bouquets and creative arrangements.

  Tea roses, herbal bouquets, wildflowers, miniature fairy gardens, nosegays of violets, and small green plants filled the teacups. One teacup held a green carpet of moss, sprigs of lady fern, and a strand of pearls. Another teacup held a miniature bonsai, what was known in Japan as mame. The room smelled like a luxurious mix of flowers, peat moss, and freshly cut grass.

  Theodosia’s heart jumped with wonder as she gazed across the dozen or so tables where the teacup arrangements were displayed. It was as if she was seeing some sort of magic carpet composed solely of greenery, bright colored flowers, and elegant bone china teacups.

  “Theodosia?” said a woman at her elbow.