Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “I want you to be straight with me,” Theodosia said, and then paused. “You really believe Tod Slawson was the one who sent a drone careening into that hot-air balloon?”

  “That’s what I suspect, yes.”

  “But you don’t have any suspicions at all about Brooklyn Vance?”

  Tawney shook her head. “It couldn’t have been Brooklyn. She’s the nicest, most sincere person you’d ever want to meet.”

  Theodosia wasn’t completely sure about that, but let it go for now.

  “What about Earl Bullitt?” Theodosia asked.

  Tawney lifted a hand and seesawed it back and forth. “Maybe. I don’t know, he’s certainly nasty enough. And so crude. Definitely a sociopathic type.”

  “Okay, wild card question. Do you think Harold Affolter could have killed your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” Tawney said. “I mean, I’ve never actually met the man, but the police told me he was a whistle-blower at SyncSoft. That he was responsible for trying to stall a major product release. So . . . you know . . . he could have had a really big chip on his shoulder.”

  I hope not. I truly do.

  “Do you feel well enough to go back out into the tea shop and finish your lunch?” Theodosia asked.

  Tawney shrugged. “I guess.”

  “And you promise to remain calm? No more knives or assault with a blunt object? No shattering of teacups?”

  “I promise,” Tawney said.

  Theodosia gave her an encouraging smile. “Okay then.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia led Tawney back to her seat, poured her a fresh cup of tea, and brought her a slice of quiche. Brooklyn, with sympathy on her face, reached across the table and patted Tawney’s hand. She was clearly sensitive to the woman’s emotional needs.

  Delaine and Tod Slawson were seated on the far side of the room well away from Tawney. Neither party spoke to or acknowledged the other. They’d settled into what a political scientist would probably call a nonaggression pact. Never going to be friends, but they weren’t about to kill each other, either. At least not here and now.

  Thank goodness, the Tawney-Slawson fracas hadn’t dampened any spirits at the tea luncheon. Guests conversed excitedly as Theodosia and Miss Dimple cleared plates, poured cups of dessert tea, and passed out supersized desserts, which were much appreciated.

  After a while, guests began to flit about, conferring excitedly with Madame Poporov while Theodosia handed out samples of Drayton’s Black Velvet tea to everyone as a sort of apology gift.

  Two winners were announced for the Nancy Drew contest, enthusiastic cheering ensued, and prizes of vintage Nancy Drew books, teapots, and tea were awarded.

  Delaine and Tod Slawson slipped out early while the rest of the guests hung around to savor their tea, visit with Madame Poporov, and shop the gift area. Nobody mentioned the fight.

  When Tawney Kingsley finally departed and there were only a few stragglers remaining, Drayton blew out a long breath and said, “Wasn’t that a laugh and a half.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Theodosia said. She was still stunned that mayhem had intruded into her tea shop, normally such a sane and pleasant oasis. She prayed that nothing like it would ever happen again.

  Even Madame Poporov expressed her shock. “I didn’t see that fight coming at all,” she said. “And I should have.” She pursed her lips and shook her head mournfully. “I’m supposed to be attuned to disturbances and fractures in the fabric of the universe.”

  “It’s the storm,” Drayton said. “It’s probably knocked everything off-kilter.”

  “That must be it.” She nodded.

  “Would you care for another cup of tea and a chocolate cake pop?” he asked her. “We have plenty of both.”

  Madame Poporov smiled. “How kind of you.”

  While Drayton was fixing her a small pot of tea, Haley crept up to the counter. Drayton saw Haley out of the corner of his eye. Theodosia, who didn’t consider herself remotely psychic, also saw the inquisitive look on Haley’s face and knew precisely what she was up to.

  “What’s going on?” Theodosia asked Haley.

  “Oh . . . uh. Do you think now we could ask Madame Poporov about the murders? The triple homicide?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Drayton said immediately.

  “Why not?” Haley asked.

  “Because . . .” Drayton struggled to come up with a good answer but wasn’t able to dredge one up.

  Haley turned to Theodosia. “What do you think?”

  Theodosia considered Haley’s question. “I think . . . what can it hurt?”

  Drayton lifted a single eyebrow. “Looks like we’ve struck a happy medium, so to speak.”

  So the three of them, Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley—with Miss Dimple looking on expectantly—gave Madame Poporov a sort of CliffsNotes version of the hot-air balloon crash, the missing flag, and all the various players.

  The little frown lines between Madame Poporov’s brows grew deeper and deeper the more she heard.

  “So you’re on the lookout for a desperate character,” she said finally.

  “Exactly,” Haley said. “A stone-cold killer.”

  “And you saw what happened here today,” Drayton said. “The victim’s wife attacking the antiques dealer.”

  “With a few folks pointing their fingers at other contenders,” Theodosia said.

  “So what do you think?” Haley asked.

  Madame Poporov’s hands were poised delicately above her crystal ball. “I’d say the killer is close by.”

  “That’s it?” Haley said. “That’s what you see after just a quick flutter over your crystal ball?”

  Miss Dimple leaned forward. “You don’t want to read your tarot cards, too?”

  Madame Poporov shook her head. “My advice to every one of you is to use the utmost caution.”

  “Because the killer is close at hand,” Theodosia said.

  “Extremely close,” Madame Poporov said.

  “You’re quite positive of this?” Drayton asked. As a nonbeliever in spiritualists, he certainly was hanging on her every word.

  Madame Poporov gave a little shiver. “I can actually feel a ghostly presence!”

  16

  As Theodosia bused dishes and put away candlesticks, her mind was in turmoil. Could Tawney have been right about Tod Slawson? Had Slawson cleverly engineered the drone attack? And then managed to steal the Navy Jack flag for himself?

  Or was Tawney the real killer and flag thief and she’d just been throwing up a hellacious smoke screen today? Garnering a bit of sympathy so she was sure to get a nice piece of SyncSoft as well as Don Kingsley’s money, life insurance, and stock options.

  And if Tod Slawson was the guilty party, would Delaine associate with a killer? Maybe. But only if she didn’t know the real truth about him and instead thought that he was a terrific guy. Marriage material.

  And what about Earl Bullitt? He’d been bidding on the flag, too. Plus, he was rude and boorish, the proverbial bull in a china shop. And not only was he sneaky, but there was no love lost between him and Brooklyn Vance. They’d pretty much demonstrated that last night at the Floral Teacups Competition.

  Bullitt.

  Even his name sounded dangerous. Just speaking it was like spitting out a hunk of gristle.

  Theodosia set down her plastic tub full of dishes and reached for the phone.

  It took her five minutes and the persistence of Job to get through to Detective Tidwell. But now she finally had him on the line.

  “What? What do you want now?” Tidwell asked. He sounded gruff. Busy.

  “I want to know what you have on Earl Bullitt so far,” Theodosia said.

  “Who is this again?”

  “You k
now who this is. I’m wondering if you’ve turned up anything on Earl Bullitt?”

  “Even if I had,” Tidwell said, “why would I share such pertinent information with you?”

  “Because I have a vested interest in this case,” Theodosia said.

  “Not really.”

  “Of course I do. Listen, you weren’t there. You didn’t see that hot-air balloon suddenly explode into flames and crash to the ground. You didn’t hear the victims’ screams.”

  Tidwell was silent for a few moments.

  “Are you still there?” Theodosia asked.

  “I’m here and I despise the fact that you’re poking around in this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not,” Tidwell said. “I don’t think you have any idea how desperate this situation really is.”

  “Now you’re worried about me?”

  “I have concerns for everyone involved.”

  “Let’s get back to Earl Bullitt,” Theodosia said. “Do you consider him dangerous?”

  “Yes, I do,” Tidwell said.

  “Like crazed, sociopathic dangerous?”

  “Define ‘crazed.’”

  “Do you think Bullitt could be the killer?”

  “Could be. However, I have no proof,” Tidwell said.

  Proof. There’s that pesky little stumbling block again. How do I go about finding some proof?

  As if reading her mind, Tidwell said, “Please don’t go bumbling about, trying to investigate. Just leave Mr. Bullitt well enough alone.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take that under advisement,” Theodosia said. She hung up the phone and walked to the front counter where Drayton was swishing out his last teapot.

  “Come on,” Theodosia said. “Grab your coat. We need to go bumbling in somewhere where we’ve been warned not to go.”

  “We need to what?” Drayton said.

  “We need to check somebody out. Ask a few probing questions.”

  Drayton’s mouth twisted up at the corners. “Who exactly are we going to probe?”

  “Earl Bullitt.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Earl Bullitt’s shop, Bullitt’s Antiques & Collectibles, was located on King Street, a fairly glitzy, high-traffic shopping area where dozens of galleries, restaurants, and antiques shops were located. Bullitt’s shop was located in a traditional redbrick building with dapper white shutters. Gold letters, like an old-fashioned mercantile sign, arced to form the words BULLITT’S ANTIQUES & COLLECTIBLES. BUY AND SELL.

  “Parking space,” Drayton sang out because it wasn’t always easy to find a spot in this neighborhood.

  Theodosia slid her Jeep into a spot directly behind a black Porsche Carrera that was parked in front of Bullitt’s shop. The car looked sleek and dangerous, like some kind of predatory animal.

  “That’s some exotic-looking car,” Drayton remarked as they stepped out of the Jeep and onto the sidewalk. “You think it belongs to Bullitt?”

  “Take a gander at the license plate,” Theodosia said. The blue-and-peach-colored South Carolina plate with its signature palmetto tree read BULLITT.

  “Ah, personalized,” Drayton said. There was the slightest tone to his voice.

  “Hard to keep a low profile driving around town with a plate like that,” Theodosia said. Early on, she’d toyed with the notion of getting a TEA LADY license plate. Then she’d dropped the idea like a hot potato once Bill Glass had started calling her that. Theodosia had also reached the conclusion that she didn’t need to announce herself wherever she went. Better to be subtle. Something Earl Bullitt clearly didn’t have a handle on.

  Earl Bullitt was on the phone when they walked through the front door of his antiques shop. Looking past a tasty array of items that included a silver soup tureen, cut glass cruet set, brass clock, and Wedgwood vase, Theodosia could see Bullitt in his back office. He was sitting behind his desk, phone held tight to his ear, talking in a loud hail-hearty voice. From the sound of it he was probably trying to woo a client or potential client.

  “Yes, yes, of course I can get it,” Bullitt said. “Don’t worry, I’m going to come through for you.” He glanced out into the shop and noticed Theodosia and Drayton wandering around. He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Remember the Drews painting? I managed to snag that, didn’t I?”

  Theodosia glanced at Drayton and raised her eyebrows. This guy Bullitt was some kind of operator.

  “Mr. Bullitt seems like a lovely man to do business with,” Drayton responded in a quietly facetious voice.

  “Remember what Tod Slawson said when he first came crashing into the tea shop? He said Bullitt was a crook.”

  “Maybe so, but he has some first-class pieces here. Take a look at this music box. Made by Bremond of Geneva, Switzerland, one of the best.” Drayton lifted the burnished wood music box up, wound it, and then opened the top to let tinkling music flow out. “You see how it replicates the effect of a mandolin?”

  “Bullitt also has some lovely antique jewelry,” Theodosia said. She’d spotted a Burmese ruby ring, a Verdura cuff, and a spectacular South Seas pearl necklace whose price tag made her gasp. One hundred twenty-eight thousand dollars? Yow.

  A few minutes later, Earl Bullitt emerged from his office with a snarky grin pasted across his face. “Well, well, we meet again, Miss Browning. Tell me, are you unhappy about how I cast my votes last night?”

  “I think, all in all, we did a fine job,” Theodosia said.

  “Good.” Bullitt seemed satisfied with her response. “I do, too. So.”

  Drayton stuck out his hand. “And I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Bullitt said. “You work with her.” He rocked back on his heels, obviously a lot more relaxed now. “How may I help you folks? Are you looking for a particular item?”

  “I’m always interested in antique teaware,” Drayton said.

  Bullitt squinted at him. “Oh yeah? I do have a rather nice Victorian bachelor teapot.” He reached into a glass case and pulled it out. “Sterling silver, manufactured around 1865. You see, there’s a hand-embossed scene of the foxhunt on the side of the teapot and the hinged lid is crowned with a fox head finial.”

  “Quite nice,” Drayton said. “I’ve not seen one like this. May I ask how much?”

  “I’ve had it priced at two thousand. But there’s a little wiggle room in that number. I’m sure we could work something out,” Bullitt said.

  “You come highly recommended as an antiques dealer,” Theodosia said. She’d decided to use the honey versus vinegar ploy.

  “Is that a fact?” Bullitt said. “Who recommended me?”

  “Tod Slawson,” Theodosia said. She wondered how Bullitt would react.

  He didn’t disappoint her.

  Earl Bullitt curled his lip and practically chortled. “That crook? I hear the police are nipping at the heels of his fancy French loafers. They think he might have been responsible for that hot-air balloon explosion. That he might have stolen the Navy Jack flag, too.”

  Theodosia decided to take the gloves off—not that they were ever on.

  “I understand you were also one of the bidders,” she said.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Bullitt growled.

  Drayton folded his arms across his chest. “Basically all over town.”

  “But mostly from Tawney Kingsley,” Theodosia said.

  “Huh, that lady’s a sneaky one,” Bullitt said. “One day she professes to despise old Don, can’t wait for their divorce to go through. And now that he’s dead and buried . . . wait, is he buried?”

  “Tomorrow,” Theodosia said.

  “Anyway,” Bullitt continued. “Now that Tawney stands to inherit every dang cent, she suddenly paints herself as the poor grieving widow.” He flashed a smile that was all teeth and not a hint of warmth.
“Nice job if you can get it.”

  “Maybe Tawney’s the one who stole the flag,” Theodosia said.

  “If she’s the culprit she’ll get found out soon enough,” Bullitt said. “Hard to sell something that important and keep it on the down low.”

  “What if you’re dealing with a wealthy collector?” Theodosia asked. “One who values his privacy above all?”

  “There are a number of those types around,” Drayton said.

  Bullitt gave an uninterested shrug. “Maybe.”

  “You were bidding on the flag,” Theodosia said. “You must have an opinion about these rather strange coincidences.”

  “You mean do I know who crashed the hot-air balloon and stole the flag?” Bullitt said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t the same person,” Theodosia said. “Culprit A could have killed Don Kingsley and the other two passengers, and culprit B, someone entirely different, could have stolen the flag.”

  “You pose an interesting theory,” Bullitt said.

  “But you don’t care to wager a guess as to what might have happened?” Theodosia asked.

  Bullitt shook his head. “Not me, I’m no investigator.”

  “Hmm,” Theodosia said. She felt stumped, unsure of what to ask Bullitt next. Luckily, Drayton stepped in to fill the void.

  “I was wondering if you ever handled any early American paintings,” Drayton said.

  Bullitt cocked his head. “Such as?”

  “I’m always on the lookout for a nice William Ranney or Martin Johnson Heade,” Drayton said.

  “You’re a high-end collector,” Bullitt said, giving him a slightly more interested look.

  “Well, the paintings would have to be priced at the lower end,” Drayton said.

  “I have a few oil paintings, but nothing of the caliber you’re interested in,” Bullitt said.

  “Can we look at them anyway?” Theodosia asked. She’d spotted a door next to a lovely Chippendale highboy that was marked PRIVATE and wondered what was in there. “Are they in . . . what is this?” She stepped toward the door marked PRIVATE, ready to pull open the door. “A separate annex?”