Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  Once Josie had been beautified (embalmed?), she turned a bright, TV smile on Theodosia. “You’re my tea lady?”

  “That’s me,” Theodosia said.

  “Come on around here and stand next to me,” Josie said. She peered out at the cameraman. “Frankie, we’re going to want to open and hold with a two-shot, then do a tracking shot into the teapot.” She glanced at Theodosia. “You ready to give us the poop?”

  “This particular teapot is made by Shelley, which is . . .”

  “Whoa. You don’t have to sell me,” Josie chuckled. “Just worry about pitching it to our TV audience.”

  “Gulp.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Josie said.

  “Theodosia’s done this before,” Alicia said. “She’s a natural.”

  Two minutes later, nerves fizzing, Theodosia was selling it like her life depended on it. She told the TV audience about the Shelley teapot in the Melody pattern and sang sweet siren songs about Drayton’s new house blends, his Imperial Oolong and Chocolate Cherry Paradise tea.

  “And these particular teas are blended right there in your tea shop? The Indigo Tea Shop?” Josie asked.

  Theodosia nodded. “Absolutely. We’re right over on Church Street and stock at least two hundred different varieties of tea.”

  Theodosia’s segment was over before she could say Egyptian chamomile spice.

  “Well done,” Josie proclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Alicia said. She touched a hand to her earpiece. “I’m getting word from our call center that bids are coming in.”

  “Already?” Theodosia asked as the sound guy reached in and unclipped her mike.

  “Don’t you just love live TV?” Alicia said. “It scares us half to death, which is why we hardly ever do it. Except for the news and weather, of course. And if we could pretape that, we would.”

  “Live TV is kind of thrilling,” Theodosia said. “Like walking a tightrope.” Her palms felt sweaty and her heart was still pounding. But in a good way.

  “Thank you again,” Alicia said as she walked Theodosia through the studio. “Hope to see you soon.” Just as Alicia pushed open the door to the outside corridor, a man eased his way in. “Hey, you must be my four forty-five.” She clicked her pen and pointed it at him. “The antique clock, right?”

  “Right,” said the man, which caused Theodosia to give him a startled glance.

  “Tod Slawson?” Theodosia said. “What are you doing here?”

  Slawson gave her a lazy grin and pointed at Alicia. “Just like she said, I’m her four forty-five.”

  “You donated a piece to the auction?” Theodosia asked.

  “A Biedermeier mantel clock,” Alicia said. “And we are scheduled to go on . . .” She glanced at her clipboard and grabbed Slawson by the sleeve. “Right now!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Just as Theodosia was leaving the building, she ran smack-dab into Dale Dickerson, the roving TV reporter. She gave him a friendly, neutral smile, while Dickerson fairly beamed at her.

  “What are you doing here?” Dickerson boomed. He looked coiffed and buffed and ready to leap in front of a camera.

  “Just a quick on-air thing for your Action Auction,” Theodosia said.

  “You donated something?”

  “A teapot.”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart,” Dickerson said. He was blocking the doorway, trying his best not to let her get past him. “It’s so great that our paths crossed again!”

  Ever since he’d started flirting with her, Theodosia wondered if Dickerson was interested in her or in trying to worm a few more details out of her for his story.

  “It was nice seeing you,” Theodosia said as she tried to ease her way past him.

  “Hey, don’t be in such a hurry. Have you got time for a cup of coffee . . . I’m sorry, tea? Or we could go somewhere and have a drink if you’d like.”

  “Sorry, but I have to be going.”

  Dickerson leaned toward her, not exactly invading her space, but certainly getting close. “I’d like to see you again,” he said.

  “Again? We’ve barely seen each other a first time.”

  “You know what I mean. I feel like we have a genuine connection.”

  “Mr. Dickerson,” Theodosia said in a mock formal tone, “are you trying to pry more information from me about the crash?”

  “No!”

  Theodosia smiled. “I do believe you are.”

  Dickerson looked supremely disappointed.

  “Another time then,” Theodosia said, wincing because she really didn’t want to encourage him, but she didn’t want to be impolite, either.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Theodosia walked across the parking lot and climbed into her Jeep. Just as she was about to start her engine, her cell phone rang.

  She scrambled to dig it out of her purse. “Hello?” She was expecting it to be Drayton asking how her TV gig had gone.

  Big surprise. It was Tidwell.

  “I think you’ll be interested in what has become a radical new development,” Tidwell said without any sort of introduction or preamble. “We have a confession. Granted it’s a trifle overwrought, but it’s a confession nonetheless.”

  “What are you talking about?” Theodosia stammered. What was Tidwell talking about? “A confession from whom?” she asked.

  “Your little friend Charles Townsend.”

  Theodosia dropped the phone to her chest. Oh dear Lord, I knew it all along. Townsend was the one who caused the hot-air balloon crash that killed those three people. The idea’s been pinging around in my subconscious all week long. Only I didn’t listen carefully enough. I didn’t do anything about it.

  Theodosia recovered seconds later and said, “Townsend caused the hot-air balloon crash? He drove his drone right into it?”

  “No, he did not,” Tidwell said.

  “Wait a minute,” Theodosia said. “I’m confused then. What exactly is Townsend confessing to?”

  “It’s complicated,” Tidwell said. “Better you just get yourself over here to Mercy Hospital.”

  27

  It was rush hour, so traffic was in a snarl all up and down Broad Street. It took a bit of creative navigation, but Theodosia finally arrived at Mercy Hospital, circled the parking lot twice, and managed to find the only available parking space. She walked through the automatic door into the hospital, mindful of the people on crutches and in wheelchairs, and headed for the front desk. The information desk.

  But before she could inquire about Charles Townsend’s room number, a dark-haired plainclothes policeman spotted her and hurried toward her. Leaning in, he said, “Miss Browning?”

  Theodosia straightened up. “Yes?”

  “Detective Tidwell asked me to send you up to room four fifteen.”

  “That’s where . . . ?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Theodosia rode up in the elevator with two orderlies and a laundry cart, wondering the whole time what kind of confession Charles Townsend had poured out to Tidwell. Was that what he’d wanted to tell her in the cemetery this afternoon? To spill his guts? About . . . what?

  If Townsend wasn’t the one who’d murdered Don Kingsley and company, then what exactly was the big crime he was confessing to? Theodosia couldn’t imagine what it could be. An unpaid speeding ticket? Cheating on his SAT test? Falsifying a résumé? Seriously, Townsend was a fairly young guy so how bad could it be?

  Well, it was apparently bad enough because Tidwell had shackled one of Townsend’s arms to the railing of his hospital bed.

  Theodosia figured it had to be Townsend’s good arm, right? Or could Tidwell be that much of a sadist?

  Tidwell stood up when Theodosia entered the hospital room. Townsend just grimaced in her direction and made a dull clank.

  “Good, you’ve
arrived,” Tidwell said. “About time.”

  “I came as fast as I could. It’s rush hour out there in case you hadn’t noticed,” Theodosia said.

  “There’s little time to waste, so I prefer we get right down to business,” Tidwell said.

  “What exactly are we getting down to?” Theodosia asked.

  Tidwell stared at her. “Imagine my utter surprise when I found out that young Mr. Townsend here had been shot,” he said. “And that it happened on his way to meet you.”

  Theodosia met his gaze evenly. “I didn’t think it was supposed to be a social call.”

  “I dare say it wasn’t,” Tidwell said. “Yet you continue to insinuate yourself into any number of bizarre situations surrounding this case. And since you’ve been so blasted involved in what has become a thorn-in-the-side homicide for me, I wanted you to hear Townsend’s confession directly from the horse’s mouth.”

  “I guess that makes me the horse,” Townsend said, licking his lips and finally speaking up. His voice was choked with emotion and his face looked pinched and ashen against the flimsy white sheets. Part of a large bandage stuck out from the rounded collar of his pale-blue hospital gown.

  “How’s your shoulder?” Theodosia asked him. She was wary of Townsend, but felt sorry for him, too.

  “Terrible,” Townsend said. “Hurts like crazy.”

  Tidwell ignored their exchange. “You are now going to relate to us your side of the story, Mr. Townsend. While I record every single dulcet tone you utter.” Tidwell held up a small tape recorder and waggled it in Townsend’s face. Then he clicked it on and spoke into the microphone, noting the time, date, place, and names of the three people present. When he played the recording back, his voice sounded tinny but audible. “Good, it’s working. Mr. Townsend, you may proceed. Tell us your tale of woe and don’t leave out any glaring details. Realize, too, that this is not the time to jerk us around or try to curry sympathy. Those tactics won’t work with me.”

  Me neither, Theodosia told herself.

  Townsend struggled to sit up in bed. “Can you at least take this handcuff off me?”

  “Not a chance,” Tidwell said. He fiddled with one of the tape recorder’s knobs and waited.

  Theodosia sat down in an ugly peach-colored vinyl chair between the window and the bed, anxious to hear Townsend’s confession, whatever it may be.

  “I’m no killer,” Townsend started out in a barely audible, creaky voice. Theodosia thought he sounded like the Man in the Iron Mask. Like he’d been locked up in a dungeon and hadn’t uttered a word in twenty years.

  “Go on,” Tidwell prodded.

  “I loved working for Don Kingsley, he was a good guy, a real gentleman.” Townsend coughed, reached for his glass of water, and took a long sip. His hand shook as he put it back and water dribbled down his chin and onto his gown. Finally, he resumed. “Mr. Kingsley was giving me more and more responsibility with his collection. He was talking about establishing an honest-to-goodness museum. It was all rather exciting, and I figured I had a real future there. So when the hot-air balloon exploded and it was obvious there were no survivors, I went into absolute shock. I felt like I had died, too. And I had no idea what to do or where to turn.” Townsend’s face was beaded with sweat, his eyes rolling back and forth as if he were experiencing excruciating pain.

  “Tape’s rolling,” Tidwell said.

  “Afterward,” Townsend continued, “a few hours later, when I returned to the mansion, I wandered through the place, just going from room to room. It felt so empty and forlorn. And I felt absolutely hopeless, as if my life had ended, too. And then . . .”

  “And then?” Theodosia said, leaning forward in her chair.

  Townsend’s face took on an almost cunning look. “And then . . . I don’t know why I did it . . . but I took the flag and hid it upstairs in the attic. Way back in a dusty old part where nobody would ever find it.”

  “Just to be absolutely clear, you stole Mr. Kingsley’s Navy Jack flag,” Tidwell said.

  Townsend hung his head forward and whispered, “Yes.”

  “Louder, please,” Tidwell said.

  “Yes, I took the flag,” Townsend said.

  “So you have the missing Navy Jack?” Theodosia asked.

  Townsend shook his head miserably. “That’s the terrible problem. I don’t have the flag anymore. Someone stole it from me!”

  Theodosia stood up. “What are you talking about? Who stole it?” She was knocked for a loop by this revelation and practically shouted at Townsend.

  “I don’t know who stole it!” Townsend cried. “Someone broke into the mansion and accosted me at gunpoint. Threatened me, told me they’d kill me if I didn’t hand over the flag. So I did. I had to. You can’t believe how terrified I was!”

  “And when exactly did this holdup occur?” Tidwell asked.

  “You know when,” Townsend said, ducking his head and giving Tidwell a nervous, guilty look. “It was Wednesday night. Right before you got hit on the head and you and Miss Browning showed up at the back door.”

  “You see?” Tidwell said to Theodosia.

  Theodosia blinked. “My goodness but this is strange.” She was shocked. She hadn’t seen this coming at all.

  “And you can keep asking and asking, but I don’t know who the thief was!” Townsend shouted, nearly in tears. “Whoever it was wore a balaclava—a kind of black ski mask—so I couldn’t see their face or hair. And they spoke through one of those voice things.”

  “A voice changer?” Theodosia said. “So they could alter and disguise their real voice?”

  “Yes!” Townsend cried.

  The door to Townsend’s room opened and a nurse stuck her head in. “Everything okay in here?” she asked.

  “Fine. Please leave,” Tidwell said. He moved his chair closer to Townsend and his expression hardened. “Young man, were you the one who struck me on the back of the head while I was investigating outside the Kingsley mansion?”

  “What?” Townsend looked astonished. “No! I figure it had to be the same person who stole the flag. After they threatened me, they ran out the back door and must have encountered you!”

  “This is all rather confusing,” Tidwell said.

  “Maybe you got hit harder than you thought,” Theodosia said. She sat back down again and said, “So let me get this straight. You were threatened by . . . someone with a gun. At which point you turned over the Navy Jack flag to them. And then this same mystery person rushed out and, in trying to get away, struck Detective Tidwell on the head?”

  “Probably,” Townsend said. “I mean, that scenario sounds right.”

  “Why didn’t you say something when I brought Detective Tidwell to the back door? When he limped in and I asked you for help?” Theodosia asked. “That’s the point at which we could have done something!”

  “I was terrified and not thinking straight!” Townsend cried. “I’d just been threatened with bodily harm.”

  “You’re sure you weren’t covering up for someone else?” Theodosia asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “So our desperate killer is still out there,” Tidwell said. “And now it turns out our killer is also a thief.”

  “I suppose that’s it in a nutshell,” Theodosia said. “Which puts us back to square one.” But even as she said that, a random thought streaked through her brain. Unless somehow . . . somewhere . . . there’s a second person involved.

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia had just enough time to get to the Featherbed House for dinner. She pulled to the curb some fifty feet from the front door and sat there thinking. Her engine ticked down as she wondered if she should tell Angie and Harold about Charles Townsend’s hospital bed confession.

  She was still wondering about it when she walked into the lobby.

  “Checkin
g in?” the young woman behind the front desk asked.

  Theodosia touched a hand to her chest. “I’m Theodosia Browning. I’m supposed to be joining Angie and Harold for dinner tonight.”

  “Of course,” said the young woman. “Angie told me you were coming. Right this way.”

  Theodosia was led through the ample, elegant lobby where guests sipped glasses of sherry, lounged on sofas and chairs, and browsed through an extensive library of books on Charleston history.

  “In here,” the young woman said. “The breakfast room.”

  “Thank you,” Theodosia said. The white linen-clad table was set with service for three. Candles glowed and soft music played.

  “Theo,” Angie said from behind her. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  Theodosia turned and gave Angie a warm hug. “And I’m so glad you invited me. This looks lovely.”

  “If your young man had been in town, I would have invited him, too.”

  “Pete will be back tomorrow,” Theodosia said.

  “You must be happy about that.”

  “You have no idea.”

  A door at the far end of the room creaked open and Harold appeared with a tray of appetizers. “Talk about timing,” he said. “These stuffed mushroom caps just came out of the oven.”

  They all sat down then as Angie poured glasses of red wine and Harold served his baked mushrooms sprinkled with bread crumbs and Romano cheese.

  Dinner was lovely. Angie brought out a second course of angel-hair pasta swirled in a light lemon and fresh herb sauce—what Harold called a segundo. Then a main course of grilled pork medallions and Broccolini was served. Conversation was easy and upbeat. The missing drone was not mentioned. Nor were the deaths of Don Kingsley and his fellow hot-air balloonists, or the fact that Harold had been summarily fired from his job at SyncSoft.

  “This is a wonderful treat,” Theodosia remarked. “Usually I’m the one who’s serving food and then dashing back into the kitchen to grab more.”

  “Harold’s become quite the food service manager,” Angie said. “He’s completely updated our breakfast menu . . .”