Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “Face it, Drayton, you’re a worrywart,” Theodosia laughed.

  “Noooo.”

  Theodosia held up a finger. “Still, you always accomplish your tasks with great style and finesse.”

  “Such a lovely backhanded compliment.” The phone rang and Drayton heaved another sigh. “Please, let this not be another take-out order.”

  It wasn’t.

  “Call for you,” Drayton said, handing the phone off to Theodosia. “I think it’s Angie.”

  “Angie?” Theodosia said into the phone.

  “I know this is last minute,” Angie said. “But Harold and I were wondering if you could join us for dinner tonight? But a little later, maybe around eight o’clock?”

  “You want to talk about . . . ?”

  “No, I really don’t,” Angie said. “This would be more like a thank-you dinner. A thank-you for sticking your neck out for us.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Okay, that sounds lovely,” Theodosia said. “I’ll see you tonight. I look forward to it.”

  Not ten seconds after Theodosia hung up the phone, it rang again.

  “Dear Lord,” Drayton said. He snatched it up, listened, and handed it to Theodosia. “For you. Again.”

  “Hello?” she said.

  Charles Townsend’s anxious, breathy voice was suddenly in her ear. “It’s urgent that I talk to you,” he said.

  Theodosia was instantly on alert. “Why? What’s going on?” Obviously Townsend was freshly sprung from jail, just as Bill Glass had suggested.

  “I don’t want to breathe a single word over the phone,” Townsend said. “In fact, I really don’t even want to show my face at your tea shop. Maybe we could meet someplace nearby? Somewhere that’s, like, extremely hush-hush and private.”

  “You’re being awfully mysterious.” And scaring me a little bit, too.

  “I know I sound strange and I apologize for that. But I can’t spill this over the phone, and I certainly don’t want to do it with other people around.” Townsend’s words poured out as if a dam had suddenly burst. “I saw how caring and kind you were to Detective Tidwell the other night and you were nice to me, too. And before that, when you and Drayton came to see me, you weren’t pushy and mean like some of the others. So I . . . I feel like I can trust you.”

  “Trust me with what?” Theodosia asked. This was a strange conversation.

  “I have to tell you in person,” Townsend said in a tight, strangled voice. “Can we meet somewhere? In secret?”

  “How about I meet you in front of St. Philip’s Church?” The church was just down the block from the Indigo Tea Shop. It was the historic edifice that bumped out into the street and had given Church Street its eponymous name.

  “That’s way too public. What if we met in back?”

  “You mean in the graveyard?”

  “Perfect,” Townsend said.

  Theodosia looked at her watch. “When?”

  “Can you be there in twenty minutes?”

  “Okay, um . . . yes. I’ll see you there.”

  25

  “I have to run out,” Theodosia said to Drayton once she’d hung up the phone.

  “What’s up?” Drayton asked matter-of-factly. He was stacking tea tins back on his shelves. Alphabetically, of course. And color coded.

  “That was Charles Townsend. He wants to meet with me in secret.”

  Drayton stopped stacking. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

  “He says he has something important to tell me.”

  Drayton lifted a single eyebrow. “What? Something the police weren’t able to beat out of him?”

  “I don’t think the police went that far.”

  “Could it be a confession?”

  “I don’t know,” Theodosia said. “Townsend was quite mysterious about the whole thing.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “No. Townsend was specific in his request. He said he wanted to speak to me alone, in private. He practically begged me not to tell anyone else.”

  “Where are you supposed to meet him?” Drayton asked.

  “St. Philip’s Graveyard in about twenty minutes.” Theodosia glanced at her watch. “Well, about eighteen minutes now.”

  “I still think I should come with you.”

  “How about if I put you on speed dial? If something feels the least bit hinky or threatening, I’ll give you a quick call.”

  Drayton gave her a hard-eyed gaze. “Difficult to call with your head bashed in.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Theodosia said.

  “We hope.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia hurried along the path that circled around St. Philip’s Church. It was the beginning of Gateway Walk, a four-block pathway that meandered through four different churchyards, moseyed past the Charleston Library Society, and ended up near the Gibbes Museum of Art. Along the way were countless pocket parks filled with flowers, fountains, and sculptures.

  Today, however, Theodosia’s ramble would be an abbreviated one. She was meeting Townsend in the antiquated cemetery directly behind St. Philip’s Church. It was a historic old place where brigadier generals and signers of the Declaration of Independence were buried.

  It was also a place of shadows and gloom, where tilting tombstones covered in dark moss looked like rows of rotted teeth. Many of the ancient tombs had sunk halfway into the ground and most of the mausoleums were chipped and pitted with age. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss made sure the place remained dank and cool.

  This was one of Charleston’s so-called haunted spots. Several “ghost tours” stopped here and visitors were encouraged to try to commune with the dead and possibly even snap a photo that captured a faint outline of the cemetery’s infamous “weeping woman” ghost.

  This is where Drayton—and many others—had also witnessed slow-moving orbs.

  Standing half-hidden behind a rounded tablet, on which names and dates were carved in French, Theodosia waited nervously for Charles Townsend. Branches rustled overhead, raindrops plipped and plopped, the wind snaking off the harbor sounded like a faint moan.

  Theodosia had been waiting a good fifteen minutes and still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone or anything. No tourists, no ghosts, no Townsend.

  How much longer should she wait? Theodosia wasn’t sure. Maybe give it another ten minutes? It was turning cooler and streamers of fog drifted in, giving her surroundings an ethereal feel. Overhead was the occasional grumble of thunder.

  It occurred to Theodosia that Charles Townsend might be so paranoid, so upset or obsessed by his employer’s murder as well as his recent trip to jail, that he might have changed his mind and decided not to show up at all.

  So be it. If that was the case, she’d just walk back to the tea shop. No harm done except some wasted time and energy.

  Another five minutes ticked by without a trace of activity.

  He isn’t coming. Maybe he forgot? Or changed his mind?

  Theodosia stepped around the tombstone, her feet crunching gravel underfoot. She took another couple of steps and heard . . . something.

  Footsteps. Fast-moving footsteps. Someone running hard in her direction. Heading right toward her and really pounding away, as if their life depended on it.

  Townsend?

  Theodosia ducked back behind the tombstone and peered out, feeling a little nervous, a little fluttery. Yes, now Townsend came partially into view. He was running down the path, arms pumping, face bright red as a fire truck, cheeks puffed out as if he could barely draw another ragged breath. What was going on?

  Theodosia stood up. “Charles? I was worried that you weren’t . . .”

  Townsend managed a quick glance over his shoul
der and then snapped his head back in Theodosia’s direction. Pure terror was written across his face as he scrambled toward her. “Watch out!” he screamed. “Get down!”

  Wow. This poor guy is seriously nervous.

  “Calm down,” Theodosia said. “You’re just being . . .”

  BOOM!

  A shot rang out, loud and thunderous, with enough firepower to wake the dead.

  The word paranoid died on Theodosia’s lips as she watched Townsend’s entire body twist in midair and his face contort in agony. Then a spray of bright-red blood exploded from his left shoulder, as if it were happening in slow motion.

  Townsend managed one more half stutter step and then faltered. A second later, he dropped in his tracks like a deer that had been nailed center of mass. Theodosia ducked down and waited tensely for another shot. When it didn’t come, she scrambled for her cell phone. Hands shaking, heart beating wildly in her chest, she dialed 911.

  * * *

  * * *

  Only when Theodosia heard the faint wail of a siren, some three minutes later, did she creep out from behind the tombstone to check on Townsend. He was lying where he’d fallen. Facedown, his entire body quivering. His shoulder was leaking blood like crazy and the fingers of one hand made crab-like motions in the white gravel.

  Still alive but wounded.

  Theodosia kicked it into high gear then. She whipped off her scarf, balled it up, and pressed it hard against Townsend’s shoulder to try to stop the flow of blood.

  “Help me,” Townsend croaked. He turned his head so one glazed eye stared up at her.

  “I called 911. You hear that siren? Try to hang on. Help should be here any minute.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Townsend groaned and the eye drooped shut.

  Seconds later, a uniformed officer was bending over Townsend. Ten seconds after that, two EMTs arrived on the scene with medical equipment and a gurney. They wrapped his wound and did their standard emergency ABC life check: airway, breathing, and circulation. One of them pulled out a portable ventilator bag and got some oxygen flowing into Townsend.

  While they worked on Townsend, the uniformed cop, whose name tag read T. MORROW, questioned Theodosia. She answered him as best she could. Who she was, why she was there, what she’d seen. Finally, she said, “You’ve got to call Detective Tidwell about this.”

  “Burt Tidwell?” Morrow said. “The head of RHD?” He meant the Robbery and Homicide Division.

  “He’s been in charge of this case,” Theodosia said. She pointed to Townsend. “The man who just got shot here, Charles Townsend, he is . . . was . . . a kind of suspect in that hot-air balloon crash.”

  Morrow looked at her for a few long seconds and then said, “Holy crap, lady. Seriously?”

  Theodosia nodded. “Call Tidwell. He’ll fill you in.”

  It wasn’t until the EMTs loaded Townsend into the ambulance, and the ambulance took off with a whoop-whoop burst of its siren, that Theodosia took a deep breath. She wondered what it was that Townsend had been so all-fired-up about? Just what had he been so anxious to tell her? And who on earth had shot him?

  26

  “How was your meeting with Charles Townsend?” Drayton asked Theodosia when she returned to the shop.

  Theodosia stopped at the front counter and gazed at him. She was feeling unsettled and more than a little freaked out.

  “What?” he said.

  “There was no meeting.”

  “Just as I figured.” Drayton nodded sagely. “Townsend chickened out.”

  “No, he was shot.”

  Drayton’s lips twitched into an almost-smile and he gave a low chuckle. “You don’t have to make up crazy stories for me, Theo. I never thought the fellow would show in the first place. He was simply playing . . . silly games.”

  Theodosia’s voice rose. “Drayton, the man was shot. Literally. One second I was standing in the cemetery watching Charles Townsend run toward me, the next second there was a sharp crack and blood started gushing from a shoulder wound.”

  Drayton wagged his head in a sort of double take. But he still looked hesitant, as if he didn’t believe her. “Shot?” he said.

  “With a bullet. You know, bang bang?”

  Right before Theodosia’s eyes, Drayton’s face morphed from disbelief to stunned. “Great Caesar’s ghost, tell me the whole thing!” he cried. “Tell me what happened!”

  So Theodosia told him about waiting in the cemetery, hearing the frantic thud-thump of running footsteps, seeing the fear on Townsend’s face, and then watching him jerk and twist like a game bird who’d been hit with a load of buckshot.

  “Then what did you do?” Drayton asked.

  Theodosia shrugged. “What could I do? I dove behind a tombstone so I didn’t get shot and called 911. Hunkered there until the police showed up. And an ambulance.”

  “Did you see who shot him?”

  “No I did not. You know how spooky and shrouded with foliage that place is. And the fog didn’t help, either.”

  “Is Townsend . . . is he dead?”

  “Whoever it was just winged him. He’ll live.”

  “Theo!” Now Drayton’s eyes bugged out like an animated cartoon character. “You’re talking as if this was an episode of Wyatt Earp. But . . . wait, all of this really happened?”

  “Cross my heart. Somebody took a shot at Townsend just as we were about to meet up. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I wanted to.”

  “Who do you think shot him?”

  “If I had to venture a guess,” Theodosia said, “I’d say it was someone who didn’t want Townsend talking to me.” She drew a deep breath and then blew it out, feeling a glint of fear. “Someone who almost pulled off a fourth murder.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia was still shaking, but she managed to show up at KTSC-TV right on time.

  “Theodosia Browning to see Alicia Kellig,” she said to the gum-chewing receptionist who sat at their swoopy, white front desk. The rest of the lobby was white as well: white chairs, tables, and lamps. The only spot of color was a large, shaggy, purple-and-orange rug. She supposed the place was intended to look industrial chic but it looked more like a set out of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

  “Actually, Alicia called me to do a quick on-air segment for your Action Auction.”

  “Oh,” the girl said, reaching to hit a button on her console. “That’s different. That makes you talent.”

  Theodosia smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  The receptionist mumbled something into her headset and said, “Okay, I’ll tell her.” She turned to Theodosia. “Do you know where Studio B is? Right down this corridor and . . .”

  “I think I can find it, yes.”

  “Alicia said she’d meet you there.”

  Theodosia walked down the hallway, amused by all the colorful, severely retouched photos of on-air personnel that were hanging on the walls. Here was Weston Keyes, the genial host of Charleston Today, wearing an inch of pancake makeup and a pound of pomade. And there was Chip Monson, one of the evening sports anchors, with sparkling white teeth, a golfer’s tan, and more hair than anyone had a right to.

  Just past the lunchroom, where a security guard was slouched in a chair eating a donut and studying his cell phone, Theodosia arrived at Studio B. Large red letters on the door said CLOSED SET, ABSOLUTELY NO ENTRY, but she went in anyway.

  And there was Alicia, clipboard in hand and wearing an earpiece. “Girl, you made it!” she whispered.

  I almost didn’t, Theodosia thought to herself and then said, “Thanks again for inviting me.”

  “Thanks for donating such good stuff,” Alicia said. White-blond, super short hair framed her wide-set eyes that were tinged with pink mascara. Her slight figure w
as encased in skintight jeans and a white T-shirt that said GUCCI GIRL.

  Theodosia had always thought of a producer as a frazzled, middle-aged TV veteran who ran around constantly trying to keep things organized. Now it looked as if her image was slightly out of date. Well . . . good.

  Theodosia glanced about the enormous studio. It was dimly lit, with cameras and dollies parked everywhere, and thick rubber cables snaking underfoot. At the far end of the studio was a brightly lit row of tables that held all manner of auction items: Instant Pots, a paddleboard, luggage, an Oriental carpet, some kind of home Pilates system, an antique clock, a cookware set, and, of course, Theodosia’s tea and teapots. A perky female host was facing a camera, talking up the merits of a matching set of zebra-striped luggage.

  “And when you return home from your fabulous vacation,” the host cooed, “each piece of luggage nests right inside the other. So hurry up and call those bids in right now!”

  “This is going out live?” Theodosia asked.

  Alicia nodded as she touched a finger to her lips. “Come this way. We’ll get you on next.”

  Theodosia followed Alicia toward the long table that was mounded with Action Auction items. The on-air host saw them coming and quickly wrapped up her presentation. “Stick around, because when we come back we’re going to talk about the most exquisite tea and teapots you could ever imagine!”

  The camera pulled back and the cameraman, a pear-shaped man in crepe-soled shoes, said, “And we’re out, Josie.”

  The host, Josie, took a step back and fanned herself. “Whew,” she said. “Hot under those lights.” She was in her early thirties, super skinny, with an extremely pale complexion and long, dark hair with a skunk stripe on one side. As a makeup artist hurried over to give her a touch-up, Josie said, “Use the absolute whitest, lightest powder you’ve got. No color except on my lips.”

  While Josie was having her lips lined, her face powdered to a corpse-like pallor, and her hair vigorously poufed, a soundman crept in and clipped a tiny microphone to Theodosia’s jacket lapel.