by Laura Childs
“How well do you know Harold? I mean, really?” Drayton asked. “How well does Angie know him?”
“I don’t know.” Theodosia lifted her foot off the gas pedal. She’d been cruising at forty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. Gotta watch out. She didn’t want to hit a . . . tourist, or something. “Angie’s been dating Harold for a while, I guess. Maybe a year and a half?”
“Harold could be one of those guys who keeps everything bottled up tight inside himself. Every anger, grievance, and imagined slight. Then one day, the cork blows sky-high and all those emotions come ripping out. Kerpow!”
“Now you’re really making me depressed.”
“A sage piece of advice,” Drayton said. “If you want to avoid a case of advanced clinical depression, then I suggest you not attend Don Kingsley’s funeral tomorrow.”
“I can hardly back out now. Not after I promised Tawney that I’d be there to support her. Besides, I told Tawney that you were coming with me.”
“Me?” Drayton yelped.
“Drayton, we need to get to the bottom of this attack drone–disappearing flag business once and for all.”
“By attending a funeral? By poking our nose in a murder investigation?” Drayton asked. “Do you think any of this is wise?”
Theodosia shook her head. “Probably not. But when has that ever stopped us before?”
18
Earl Grey was wolfing down his kibble as Theodosia zipped up her blue nylon windbreaker. It was dark and still drizzling outside, but she felt jazzed and anxious and knew she needed a run. Even if it was a quick twice around the block, it always felt good to inhale a little extra oxygen and get the blood pumping. Running helped clear her head so she could think better. And tonight Theodosia had an awful lot to think about.
Earl Grey finished eating and moved to his water dish. Slop, slop, slop. He drank noisily and greedily, and then lifted his nose. Water streamed onto the floor making that a slippery wet mess.
Theodosia grabbed an old tea towel and gently wiped her dog’s muzzle. “Are you sure you want to go with me tonight?” she asked him.
“Rrowr.” Yes.
“Okay, but you could get splashed because there are going to be puddles. You know how much you hate getting your paws wet.”
Earl Grey stared resolutely at her. His mind was made up. They were going for that walk.
“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Theodosia grabbed a flashlight, snapped the leash onto the dog’s collar, and headed out the back door with him. They splashed past a tiny goldfish pond and ducked under a palmetto tree that was bent and heavy with rain. They walked single file down the narrow flagstone path that ran alongside Theodosia’s cottage and led to the front of the house. Because the stones were wet and slippery, some with damp, velvety moss growing on top of them, they had to pick their way carefully.
Just as Theodosia and Earl Grey emerged onto the front sidewalk and were about to set out in the light mist, a shadow floated toward them from across the street.
Who . . . ?
“Hey!” A teenage boy raised a hand and hailed Theodosia with an enthusiastic wave. Then, with a goofy grin lighting his face, the boy dashed toward them. Theodosia recognized him immediately. It was Shep O’Neil, one of the neighbor kids. Though at almost six feet tall, Shep probably couldn’t be classified as a kid anymore.
“Hey there, Shep,” Theodosia said. “How’s it going?”
“Miz Browning,” Shep said in a friendly voice. “What up?” He wore a dark hoodie, jeans, and tennis shoes, just like every other young high school guy. He also looked a little damp and rain-spattered.
“What can I do for you?” Theodosia asked. Shep O’Neil was sixteen years old, string-bean thin, with large feet encased in the latest tennis shoes Nike had to offer. He had a permanently crooked smile and was favoring her with that smile right now.
“It’s what I can do for you, Miz Browning,” Shep said. He took a step back and made a vague gesture in the direction of her house. “It’s your gutters, ma’am. With all the rain that’s been pounding down lately, most folks’ gutters are clogged up real bad.”
“I suppose they are.”
Shep held out his hand for Earl Grey to sniff. “I could clean ’em out for you if you want. I’ve been going around the neighborhood, cleaning out the muck and leaves and stuff for a lot of the neighbors. Well . . .” His sales pitch faltered a bit as he shifted from one foot to the other. “I usually charge folks around twenty-five bucks.”
Theodosia hesitated. Not because of the price—it was quite reasonable—but because Shep was not exactly known for finishing his odd jobs. Last summer she’d hired him to weed her back garden and, halfway through the job, he’d run off to play softball. When Theodosia checked with Shep’s mom a few days later, Mrs. O’Neil told her that Shep had been packed off to sailing camp.
But Theodosia figured that, after all this pounding rain, most gutters and downspouts were clogged with great gobs of leaves and pine needles and Lord knows what else. Heck, if you listened carefully to all that gurgling, they actually sounded clogged.
“Okay, Shep, that would be fine. When do you suppose you can get to them?”
“We’ve got a deal then?” Shep seemed pleasantly surprised. “In the next couple of days for sure.”
“You’ve got a ladder or do you need me to . . . ?”
“I got a ladder,” Shep said.
“Okay, see you later then.” Theodosia tightened up on Earl Grey’s leash and they jogged off down the block.
The night was as dark as a coal bin, the streetlamps rimmed with faint yellow halos. There wasn’t another soul on the street—nobody walking their dog or taking an evening constitutional. Theodosia heard the hiss of tires on wet streets from the occasional car, but that was blocks away over on Concord Street.
They jogged down East Bay and then turned into White Point Gardens, which was located at the exact tip of the peninsula. Wild gusts of wind swept in to thrash the trees. Streamers of fog drifted in and the salty smell of the Atlantic hung heavy in the air. When Theodosia and Earl Grey stepped onto the grass it was rain-soaked and squishy, so they wisely ran on the sidewalk that stretched along South Battery Street. They passed elegant mansions of all varieties—Victorian, Federal, Italianate, Gothic Revival, and Georgian. Like so many homes in the romantic city that was once christened “Charles Town,” these grand old homes were painted in a soft French palette: dove gray, pale pink, eggshell white, cornflower blue.
Halfway down the length of the park, they came to a gravel path and veered onto it. They wound past antique Civil War cannons that stood like sentinels and an old bandstand where concerts and weddings were still held, ending up at the very tip of the point. Here, where the Ashley River flowed in to their right and the Cooper River did the same on their left, was where early settlers had first set foot on this land and rogue pirates had been hanged to death. Just across Charleston Harbor, a lighthouse beacon at Patriot’s Point glowed warmly. Always a welcome and reassuring sight.
Rollers pounded the shell beach where, just last week, children had played in sunbeams and dabbled their toes in gentle flotsam. Now enormous waves surged in and white foam bubbled and hissed at the shoreline. In the morning, seabirds would flock there, pecking and probing, eagerly looking for tiny crustaceans that rough tides had swept in.
Feeling buoyed from the surge of oxygen that the waves had stirred up, Theodosia led Earl Grey down King Street. They jogged past enormous homes with tall, illuminated windows, and turned down a narrow alley. This was one of the supercool things about the Historic District—the narrow paths, alleys, and ancient carriage lanes that spread through it like a system of tiny capillaries.
But this one, the one that Theodosia had chosen tonight, wasn’t one of the infamous Charleston alleys like Dueler’s Alley or Philadelphia Alley. I
t was far more private. So narrow and hidden that most people didn’t even know it existed. But it was one of Theodosia’s favorites. Unlike the more traditional walled alleys, this one allowed an easy peek into fabulous backyards where fountains, fern gardens, reflecting ponds, and English rose gardens held sway.
This is how the other half lives, Theodosia thought. The homes were all large, luxe, and upper crust. Lovely but not exactly her cup of tea.
“We prefer a residence that’s small and cozy, don’t we?” Theodosia whispered to Earl Grey.
“Rrowr?”
As they walked down the narrow lane, Earl Grey lurched forward. Then, a split second later, he put on the brakes and skidded to a sudden halt. On guard and hyperalert, the dog stared into one of the backyards with absolute concentration. His ears pricked forward, the hackles on his back wrinkled up like a hedgehog that was anticipating . . . something.
“What is it, boy?” Theodosia asked. Then she realized her dog was staring into the darkness that surrounded Don Kingsley’s house.
Don Kingsley’s house. The murdered CEO. This is very weird.
A few lights burned behind heavy curtains, so maybe Charles Townsend was there, working late?
But Earl Grey wasn’t looking at the lights. There was something in the dark backyard that had caught his attention and riled him up.
Earl Grey let loose a growl, deep and throaty, a canine warning.
Slowly, carefully, Theodosia lifted the latch on the wrought iron gate. She pushed it open gradually, trying not to make a sound as they stepped into the backyard.
What has got my dog so hot and bothered? What’s wrong with this picture?
They padded along a stone path, weaving their way through a tumbled, unkempt garden. Though the path was lit by small accent lights snugged low to the ground, they were few and far between. And Theodosia’s overall impression was of walking through a veritable tunnel of overgrown magnolias, palmettos, and crepe myrtles that closed tightly around them. It was intriguing but disturbing, too.
This was probably a bad idea. We shouldn’t be in here.
“Come on,” Theodosia whispered to Earl Grey. They continued through the dripping, damp tunnel of greenery and exited onto a small back patio. There, the house seemed to loom larger and far more imposing than when viewed from the street.
Theodosia tilted her head back and sniffed the wind, testing for danger, looking for danger. Nothing here? Something here? Earl Grey was holding himself rigid, his nostrils slightly flared.
Did he sense that something was amiss? Should she trust her dog? He wasn’t any kind of hunting dog. Then again . . .
A car splashed by out front on Lamboll Street bringing Theodosia back to reality. It was time to get moving. There was nothing going on here. False alarm.
Theodosia tugged on Earl Grey’s leash. If they hurried along the side of the house, they’d pop out on Lamboll, where they should’ve been walking in the first place. And nobody would be the wiser about their impromptu clandestine detour.
As Theodosia carefully led Earl Grey around a bow window, her foot struck something and she nearly tripped.
What the . . . ?
A root or maybe a coil of garden hose left out had caused her to stumble?
And then, as people so often do when they’ve been unexpectedly thrown off balance, Theodosia looked down at the reason for her misstep. And saw . . .
Is that a leg? Or an arm?
Theodosia gasped out loud and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Just as she gathered herself together to make a mad dash out of there, she heard a dull groan, which caused her to do a complete double take. Because in the split second it took for her eyes to become accustomed to the utter incongruity of seeing human limbs on the ground, she realized a rather large body was attached to those limbs. Sprawled on the ground, half-hidden beneath a magnolia bush.
Hands shaking, Theodosia snapped on her flashlight and could hardly believe her eyes. It looked like . . . no, it was . . . Detective Tidwell!
19
“Detective Tidwell!” Theodosia shouted. Stunned beyond belief, she dropped to her knees and touched a hand to his broad shoulder. “What happened? What are you doing here? Why are you sprawled on the ground like that?” Earl Grey nosed forward, also looking genuinely concerned.
“Huh?” Tidwell said. He gazed up at her but his eyes were unfocused and he seemed mentally confused. “What’d you say?”
Theodosia put an arm around Tidwell’s shoulders and struggled to get him into a sitting position. “There. Is that better?”
“Better than what?” Tidwell said in a cranky, querulous tone. He blinked rapidly and stared at Theodosia as if seeing her for the first time. “Miss Browning?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“A better question might be what are you doing here? Sprawled on the ground all crumpled up?”
Tidwell shook his head, still looking a little wonky. “If you must know, I was on an impromptu stakeout.” He slurred his words, saying wush for was and shtakeout for stakeout. He sounded like he’d been drinking, but Theodosia knew better. He hadn’t been drinking, he just got his bell rung.
“You were on a stakeout right here?” Theodosia asked. “At Don Kingsley’s home?”
“Yes, right here!” Tidwell shouted as if she was hard of hearing. “Or more to the point, I was taking a casual look around the yard when some lunatic snuck up behind me and struck me on the head!”
“Who was it? Did you see?”
“If I knew who the miserable degenerate was I would have radioed for a police unit and had them arrested. Better yet, I would have shot them.” Tidwell let loose a loud, shuddering wheeze. “Unfortunately, I stumbled and must have lost my balance.”
“Must have lost consciousness, too.”
“Um . . . perhaps,” Tidwell said.
“That’s not good at all. I think we’d better get you to a hospital.”
Tidwell’s hands flew up and he slashed wildly at the air. “No, absolutely not. I was only out for a minute or two.”
“Still, there could be neurological damage . . .”
“No hospital, no damage,” he barked.
“You don’t know that,” Theodosia said. Dear Lord, this man is bullheaded.
“Just let me . . . I have to catch my breath.”
“Do you think Charles Townsend was the person who hit you?”
Tidwell touched a hand to his head and groaned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he’s in there alright, pussyfooting around like Hamlet’s ghost.”
“Townsend could have spotted you and hit the panic button,” Theodosia said. “He might have thought you were a prowler. Or maybe he recognized you and got scared. It’s not like you’re . . . inconspicuous.”
“Point taken,” Tidwell said as he brushed bits of dirt and leaves from his suit jacket. “Can you get that dog away from me?”
Theodosia pulled back on Earl Grey’s leash. “Come on, fella.” Then, “I don’t know if I should be so nice to you after the way you treated Angie and Harold this afternoon.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“You were browbeating my friends.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Tidwell said. “Just let it go, will you? And help me get to my car.”
“Are you sure you can walk?” Theodosia asked as Tidwell pulled himself up and took one lurching step. “No, you can’t. I think we’d better ring the doorbell, go inside, and call for help.”
But when they limped up to the back door, Theodosia noticed that it was open a crack.
“Somebody either came running in or out of here,” Theodosia said. “And didn’t stop to latch the door.”
“Huh?” Tidwell said. He was up on his feet and walking but he still staggered like a drunken sailor.
“Charles!” Theodosia called out. “Mr. Townsend! Are you in there?” She rapped her knuckles hard against the partially open door.
Moments later, a shadow moved across the window, and then the door opened with a low moan. Townsend peered out. “Yes?”
“There’s been an accident,” Theodosia said. “A sort of mugging right here in your side yard.”
When Townsend noticed that Theodosia was trying to prop up the listing-to-the-left Tidwell, he looked utterly stunned. “What happened?” he gasped.
“I found Tidwell lying under the shrubbery outside your house,” Theodosia explained. “Somebody hit him on the head and he apparently lost consciousness for a few minutes.”
“Detective Tidwell?” Townsend cried.
“Well, yes.”
“You say he was outside . . . here?” Townsend stammered.
“Just doing a little impromptu investigating,” Theodosia said. “Could we . . . ?”
“And someone hit him on the head?” Townsend asked.
“Hit me on the head,” Tidwell muttered.
“You might have had a prowler on the property,” Theodosia said.
When Townsend didn’t respond immediately, Theodosia studied him carefully and said, “What’s wrong, Charles? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Townsend’s face was washed out, his hair looked like it had been electrostatically charged, and his hand shook as he held open the door.
“I . . . I’m fine,” Townsend gulped. “Just a little surprised. You surprised me.”
“You don’t look fine,” Theodosia said as Tidwell started to slump against her. “But here, why don’t you help me get Detective Tidwell inside. I want to call the duty officer and get a squad car over here to pick him up. I hope you don’t mind if my dog comes in, too.”
“No, I . . . the police are coming here?” Townsend blurted out.
“Did something happen to you?” Theodosia asked. “Because your door was partially open and you’re acting as if you’re terrified.”
