Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “We’ve added crepes,” Harold said. “Turns out they’re not all that hard to make. The trick is using a blue steel pan and then seasoning it correctly.” He ducked his head. “I meant seasoning the pan, not the crepes.”

  “And he’s been handling all our food ordering,” Angie finished.

  “I take it you’re still keeping your complimentary wine and cheese each evening?” Theodosia asked.

  “That’s squarely in Teddy’s wheelhouse, so I dare not touch it,” Harold laughed.

  It wasn’t until Harold brought out dessert—raspberry tortes—that the fateful balloon crash was finally mentioned.

  “I want to thank you for all you’ve done,” Angie said to Theodosia. “Standing up against that awful Detective Tidwell and trying to ferret out suspects. But I’ve got to ask . . . have you learned anything more?”

  Theodosia was about to tell her about Townsend getting shot in the cemetery and his subsequent revelation from his hospital bed. Then she stopped. Hushed herself. Instead, she shook her head.

  “I’m afraid,” Theodosia said, “that I’m just as much in the dark as you are.”

  She wasn’t going to mention the flag being stolen for a second time. Because, after all, who knew who’d been wearing that balaclava? And carrying a pistol?

  * * *

  * * *

  Earl Grey scrambled to his feet when Theodosia came flying through the back door. “Did Mrs. Barry feed you?” She glanced at Earl Grey’s stainless steel dog bowl where a few hunks of kibble remained. “Oh, good. She was here.”

  The dog walked over to her and poked her with his muzzle. Give me a pet, why don’t ya?

  “You are such a dear boy,” Theodosia crooned to him. She cupped Earl Grey’s head in her hands and gently tugged his ears. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Rrowrr.” Tell me again.

  “How about a jerky treat?” Theodosia pulled the treat bag out of the cupboard and fed one to Earl Grey just as the phone rang.

  It was Pete Riley.

  “You sound like you’re close by,” Theodosia told him. “Did you catch an early flight? Are you by any chance back in Charleston?” Hope, hope.

  “Does fantasizing about being back with you count?”

  “It’s nice, but certainly not as good as the real thing.”

  “But I am in my hotel room packing,” Riley said.

  “So you’ll be back tomorrow for sure?”

  “I’m catching the three o’clock plane out of here.”

  “Mmm, not until then.” Theodosia’s brows pinched together. “That means you’ll be arriving fairly late.”

  “Isn’t dining late the fashionable thing to do?” Riley asked.

  Theodosia smiled to herself. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “I could stop at Harris Teeter for groceries on my way home and then whip up my famous brown butter sea scallops.”

  “You’re on.” Riley was no Ina Garten, she knew that. Still, this was a man who owned a mortar and pestle and he’d once cooked scrumptious crab cakes for her. So there were positive signs that he might harbor some fine culinary skills along with his detecting skills.

  “Come over to my place tomorrow night around nine,” Riley said. “And I’ll have everything ready. Wine chilled, candles lit, the whole romantic thing. Bring Earl Grey, too. I’m dying to see him, though not as much as I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Whew, I thought I might be playing second fiddle for a moment.” Then Theodosia hesitated. She didn’t want to tell Riley how deeply immersed she was in the killer drone case, but was curious if Tidwell had tapped him for a second opinion. “I was wondering . . . how much have you been briefed on this drone thing?”

  “Bits and pieces. I’ve accessed a few reports on my laptop and skimmed through them. Now I’m going to read through all of the police reports and interviews, see if a fresh pair of eyes can help figure something out.”

  Theodosia nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Bless you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night, sweetheart.”

  Theodosia went upstairs and puttered around. She changed into comfy clothes, fluffed Earl Grey’s upstairs bed (yes, he had two beds), and ran a finger down an enormous stack of books that she’d just had to have but hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.

  Outside, trees whispered and shuddered while lightning slashed across the night sky—the storm making a return engagement. Theodosia glanced out the window as another flash turned the landscape into a stark black-and-white image, like a reverse negative. And, just for an instant, she thought she saw a face looking up at her. Then the world went completely dark. She hovered uneasily at the window until the next lightning flash lit up her side yard. There was nobody there.

  Just nerves, she told herself. Just nerves.

  Flopping down in her cushy armchair, Theodosia turned on the TV. The late news was on and, interestingly enough, so was Detective Tidwell. He was standing next to the mayor at a press conference that had clearly taken place just a few hours earlier. Tidwell’s posture was stiff and he didn’t look one bit happy. Then again, nobody looked particularly happy. Not Tidwell, not the mayor, not the PR flunky who was trying to inchworm his way into the photo op.

  Theodosia wondered if Tidwell had talked about the missing flag on TV and decided he probably hadn’t. It would muddy the water too much. Besides, the press was rabid for details about the investigation into the hot-air balloon crash.

  The mayor, looking grim and slightly frantic, as if a pack of jackals was slavering after him (which they were), promised that the triple homicide would be solved in a matter of days.

  Tidwell flinched visibly at the mayor’s words. He obviously didn’t think it would be that easy.

  Neither did Theodosia.

  28

  Wonder of wonders, the sun was out. Well, technically it had made a guest appearance for all of five minutes on this Saturday morning. Still, it was a huge improvement. The sky was definitely brighter with an occasional hint of blue breaking through. The breeze off Charleston Harbor was pleasant and tinged with warmth.

  Theodosia, who’d shown up bright and early at the Portman Mansion, along with Drayton and Haley, figured this nicer weather heralded abundant good luck for their Beaux Arts Tea.

  “You’re sure those gold tablecloths are appropriate?” Haley asked. They were clustered in the dining room and had just draped a single table to test Drayton’s design and color scheme.

  “They’re perfect,” Drayton said. “Spot-on, in fact. You realize we’re also using brocade place mats and will have huge bouquets of white roses set on top of octagonal mirrors for our centerpieces.”

  “All that plus tea accoutrements and candles?” Haley asked.

  Drayton smiled. “I’m putting white tapers in those gilded cherub candelabras that you adore so much.”

  Haley made a face. “If you throw those ghastly, grinning little celestial beings into the mix that’s going to make for an awful lot of ornament.” She pushed a hank of blond hair back behind her ear and squinted at him. “Maybe too much?”

  “Consider it embellishment, not merely ornament,” Drayton said. “There’s a world of difference between the two. What we’re striving to achieve today is rich, decorative detail, layered with gilt and gold. We want our table décor to hold true to our beaux arts theme.”

  Haley curled a lip. She still wasn’t convinced. “It still looks like the last dregs of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to me.”

  “I know you’re a shabby chic kind of girl,” Drayton chuckled. “And next time we need quaint patterned linens and paint-spattered wooden chairs, I promise I’ll look to you for expertise.”

  Theodosia was unpacking their Sevres china, slightly bemused at the way Drayton and Haley were going back and forth. They didn’t exactly f
ight as much as they quibbled with each other. It was kind of like watching a hot dose of Housewives reality TV.

  “While you two layer on the schmaltz, I’m going to get cracking in the kitchen,” Haley said.

  “Do you need any help?” Theodosia asked. She was mindful that this was a big undertaking for all of them.

  “Nope.” Haley sounded confident. “Miss Dimple should be arriving any minute. But fear not, I’ll yell if I need help.”

  Once Haley had disappeared, Theodosia said, “I’ve got to bring you up to speed on something that happened.”

  “Hmm?” Drayton said. He was focused on polishing the silverware. Or, rather, repolishing it and buffing each piece with a soft cloth so it shone even more brilliantly.

  “I have to tell you about last night.”

  Drayton stopped polishing and stared at her. “What happened last night?”

  Theodosia told him about being called to the hospital, hearing Charles Townsend’s confession about stealing the flag, and then Townsend’s blow-by-blow description of subsequently being robbed of the flag himself.

  “Townsend was actually robbed?” Drayton asked. “At gunpoint?”

  “That’s what he claims.” Then Theodosia told Drayton about the rest of her evening. About how, right after the hospital visit, she’d run over to Angie and Harold’s for dinner.

  “Sounds like you had yourself a nice drama-filled evening,” Drayton said. “But the big question is, did you spill the beans to Angie and Harold about Townsend’s flag confession?”

  “No, I didn’t. Because now it seems like a somewhat separate issue,” Theodosia said.

  “Separate from the hot-air balloon crash?”

  “Yes.”

  Drayton thought for a few moments. “You believe that Townsend, in a moment of self-induced pity after the balloon crash, stole the Navy Jack flag . . .” He paused. “Which in turn was stolen from him a few days later.”

  “That’s what Townsend claims and the events certainly sound plausible enough,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton held up a hand. “And then whoever chased and shot Townsend yesterday did so because they feared that Townsend was going to confess the flag heist to you?”

  “I guess so. Although Townsend didn’t exactly phrase it that way.” Theodosia frowned. “I guess I kind of assumed . . .”

  “The problem I see,” Drayton said, “is that somebody—some third party, possibly the killer—knows that you’re involved. That’s definitely not good.”

  “I hear you,” Theodosia said.

  “So now we’re fairly sure that someone other than Townsend was responsible for bringing down the hot-air balloon.”

  Theodosia touched a hand to her cheek. “That’s what I’m thinking. That Townsend is off the hook as far as the triple homicide is concerned.”

  “But he’s on the hook for the flag. And so is the person who stole it after he stole it.”

  “Maybe it was the killer who came back and held Townsend up at gunpoint to steal the flag. Because that was his aim all along—to get his sticky hands on that flag,” Theodosia said.

  “This situation gets more and more convoluted,” Drayton said.

  “I know. I keep thinking I should take Detective Tidwell’s advice and bow out.”

  “You mean bow out of the investigation?”

  “That’s right,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton shook his head. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we need to find that flag. The Navy Jack. It’s a sacred, hallowed piece of history and I don’t want some desperate criminal to profit by it. Truth is, I’d love to see that flag recovered and then convince Tawney to donate it to the Heritage Society.”

  “What if Tawney was the one who stole it?” Theodosia asked.

  Drayton’s face clouded. “Then we’ve got a problem.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miss Chatfield, the event coordinator, was suitably impressed with their table décor.

  “Wonderful,” Miss Chatfield said, practically clapping her hands. “So elegant and refined.”

  “We planned our table decorations to play off the architectural elements of your fine mansion,” Drayton told her. He was laying it on as thick as meringue.

  “And what may I ask will be displayed on these lovely easels?” Miss Chatfield asked. Drayton had hauled in three borrowed wooden easels and placed them strategically around the dining room.

  “Oil paintings,” Theodosia said. She was just carrying in one of the paintings when she heard Miss Chatfield ask her question.

  Drayton dashed over to help Theodosia. “Let me give you a hand with that. That gilt frame looks awfully heavy.”

  Miss Chatfield’s eyes widened as Drayton gently unwrapped the painting and placed it on one of the easels. It gleamed under the light of the room’s chandelier.

  “My goodness but you pulled out all the stops,” Miss Chatfield said. “Did you borrow your paintings from the Gibbes Museum or . . . ?”

  “The Dolce Gallery over on Church Street,” Theodosia said. “Tom Ritter, the gallery owner, let us pick out three works that had a late nineteenth-century beaux arts feel.”

  “Your tea is going to be fanciful as well as amazing,” Miss Chatfield said. “I’m going to run and grab my camera so I can capture a few shots of this table décor. It may serve as inspiration to other potential clients who plan to hold an event here.”

  Just as they finished carrying in the paintings and Theodosia was busily arranging long-stemmed white roses in silver teapots, Haley came back in from the kitchen carrying a plate. Miss Dimple was with her. She’d arrived on time as promised.

  “Teapots instead of vases, huh?” Haley said as she studied the tables. She’d changed into a black blouse and skirt with a frilly white apron.

  “I thought they might be kind of fun,” Theodosia said. “We hardly ever use these really large teapots.”

  “Everything looks beautiful,” Miss Dimple beamed. “And I really love the paintings. They lend such a Parisian art gallery feel.”

  “Are you ready to help serve, dear lady?” Drayton asked Miss Dimple. “It promises to be a busy day.”

  “I’m ready as ever,” Miss Dimple said, giving him a slow wink. Her frilly white apron was worn over a simple black dress.

  “What have you got there?” Theodosia asked Haley. “Something delicious to tempt us with?”

  “I wanted to show you guys our dessert cookies.” Haley tipped her plate so everyone could see. “Vanilla tea cookies piped with gold trim and a sugary Napoleon bee in the center.”

  “Now this would definitely fit in the sugar arts category,” Theodosia said.

  Haley bobbed her head. “I think so. Cool, huh?”

  “Beyond,” Miss Dimple said.

  Drayton and Miss Dimple fussed with the tables, making tiny adjustments here and there, while Haley helped Theodosia finish arranging the floral bouquets.

  When they were all done, when the plates, teacups, and crystal were perfectly set and sparkling in the light, Drayton glanced around and bobbed his head. He was pleased. “Alright now, we need to synchronize our watches.”

  “Why?” Haley asked. “Will we be blowing up a bridge?”

  Theodosia and Miss Dimple burst out laughing while Drayton tried not to smile. Didn’t work.

  “Gotcha,” Haley said to him. “I gotcha good this time.”

  “Yes, you did,” Drayton said.

  “Do you two need any help with the food?” Theodosia asked Haley and Miss Dimple. They were zeroing in on eleven o’clock. Their guests would be arriving precisely at twelve.

  “Nope,” Haley said. “Miss Dimple and I have it covered.”

  “Can I at least come back and take a peek?”

  “Of cours
e,” Haley said.

  Theodosia followed them into the kitchen where scones baked and lobster bisque simmered. Just as she was admiring Haley’s cookies again, the ornate wall phone rang.

  “I hope it isn’t one of your guests calling to cancel,” Miss Dimple said.

  Haley picked up the phone and listened for a few seconds. Then she rolled her eyes and handed the receiver to Theodosia. “For you,” she said. “I guess.”

  “Who is it?” Theodosia whispered.

  Haley frowned and shook her head. “Don’t know. It’s either a hysterical woman or someone’s playing badminton with a squawking chicken. I could barely make out what she was saying.”

  Theodosia took the call with some trepidation. “Hello?”

  “Theodosia!” came a loud, high-pitched screech. “I need you to come over here immediately!”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Tawney. Tawney Kingsley. I need your help. I’m desperate!”

  “Tawney, I’m desperate myself. I’m an hour away from seating fifty-seven . . . almost sixty guests for my ultra-fancy Beaux Arts Tea. Now, I don’t doubt that you have a major problem on your hands, but could you possibly ask someone else to lend a hand? I’m just not . . .”

  “Pleeease!” Tawney implored. “I need your cool head. I’m smack-dab in the middle of a gigantic emergency . . . life and death, actually. You see, I just received a . . . an extremely bizarre delivery. Or at least I think I did.”

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Haley was right, the poor woman sounded absolutely bedbugs.

  “Don’t you want to get to the bottom of this hot-air balloon murder?” Tawney yelped.

  Those were the words that stopped Theodosia from hanging up and writing this off as a frivolous call from an overwrought, probably overindulged woman. “Well . . . yes,” she said. “Of course I do.”

  “Then get over here!”

  * * *

  * * *

  A tearful Tawney met Theodosia at the front door of her soon-to-be ultra-fancy bed-and-breakfast. She wore an embroidered pink crepe dress that was probably Gucci, but her complexion was blotchy, her hair as frizzled as a Medusa, and she was in the middle of an ugly cry.