Ming Tea Murder (12 page)

No, it wasn't Mary Monica, because as Theodosia crept down the hallway, one shoulder gently brushing the wall, she could hear a low voice, a masculine growl.

She reached the outer office and peered in. The room was dark and shadowy, Mary Monica's desk looming like a barrier in front of the door that led to Kern's office. The office that glowed with faint light. Where a voice could definitely be heard.

Up until just that second, Theodosia had been fairly certain that she wanted to satisfy her curiosity. Now she wasn't so sure. Sneaking into Max's office had been dangerous enough, but this might be pushing the envelope.

Still, she wondered what Kern was doing here all by his lonesome and so late at night. Reviewing the budget? Doubtful. Planning next year's exhibitions? Maybe. Trying to cover something up? Possibly.

Barely breathing, walking on tiptoe now, Theodosia moved closer to the door of Kern's office. It was half open, a V of yellow light spilling out into the dark outer office. And he was still talking on the phone, mumbling to someone.

What is he saying?

Throwing caution to the wind, Theodosia moved closer and put a hand up to cup her ear, just like she'd seen robbers and jewel thieves do in movies. She was vaguely aware that, should she get caught, she would probably be prosecuted in much the same manner as a jewel thief, her only consolation being that Burt Tidwell headed the Robbery and Homicide Division and might show her a sliver of mercy. Maybe.

Barely breathing and practically undulating toward the doorway, Theodosia crept forward. She'd determined that Kern was alone and talking on the phone, since the faint grunts and words she'd been hearing definitely sounded like a one-sided conversation.

She was closer now and could hear Kern's words a little more clearly. He was saying something about “a great deal of money.” Then there was a pause, and he mumbled something that sounded like “probably in the clear.”

A great deal of money for what?
she wondered. And who was probably in the clear? Kern? Webster's killer?

The words struck Theodosia as being so ominous that suddenly all she wanted to do was get out of there. Holding her breath, she backed out of the office. When she hit the dark hallway, she spun around and ran soundlessly, as fast as her legs could carry her.

And when she burst through the back door and felt the cool night air brush across her face, all she could think was
Thank heavens!

Back home at
her cottage, Theodosia finally worked up the courage to tell Max about her very strange detour.

“Excuse me—you snuck down to Kern's office?” Max was flabbergasted. His face turned red, his voice grew strident, and his eyes fairly popped. “And he was actually
there
?”

Theodosia nodded. “All I did was tiptoe down the hallway and eavesdrop on his conversation. I didn't do anything else. I didn't want to risk it.”

“Risk it? What you did was bad enough. Jeez, I wondered what took you so long. I was almost frantic, thinking the worst.”

“Listen . . . Max.” She clutched his arm. “What if Kern had something to do with Edgar Webster's death?”

Max looked stunned for a second time. “Why would you even say that? Yes, he's been harsh with me, but . . . Wait a minute, what exactly did you overhear tonight?”

“I heard Kern talking on the phone, mumbling something about money,” said Theodosia. “I think his exact words were ‘a great deal of money.' And then he said something about being ‘probably in the clear.'”

“But what does that mean?” said Max. “Taken out of context, it just sounds like a bunch of gibberish. It could be anything.”

But Theodosia's eyes glowed hot with excitement. “Bear with me for a minute, because I have a theory. What if . . . what if this has something to do with Webster's company? With Datrex?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think I told you—Webster's partner, Roger Greaves, was chomping at the bit to take the company public. That would have brought in a huge infusion of cash.”

Max gazed at her. “Okay.” He lifted a hand and waggled his fingers, making a “gimme more” gesture.

“But Webster was in a huge flap over the IPO,” Theodosia continued. “He didn't want it to go through. But now that Webster's dead, that IPO will undoubtedly happen.”

Max still wasn't following her completely. “Okay.”

“So maybe there's some kind of slick deal going on. Maybe Kern is buying shares that will skyrocket once the IPO is announced.”

“Isn't that what they call insider trading?” said Max.

“That's exactly right,” said Theodosia.

“That would mean that Kern and Greaves are buddies.”

“We don't know that they are,” said Theodosia. “And they wouldn't have to be friendly buddies, but they could be in collusion.”

“Okay,” said Max, “and I am following your line of thought, albeit tenuously. What I think you're saying is that Kern could have . . . um . . . helped
facilitate
this deal by murdering Webster?”

“See?” said Theodosia. “You're becoming just as suspicious as I am.”

“Maybe,” said Max. “But if your theory is correct, that would be the craziest thing I've heard yet.”

“But think about it,” said Theodosia. “It tracks. You have to admit that it tracks.”

“Somewhat.”

“And Elliot Kern was in the perfect position to set you up. To frame you.”

“Do you think Kern really believes
I'll
go down for the murder?” said Max.

“Maybe not. Probably not. But in the meantime, he's blown up a huge smokescreen around it. He's shunted the investigation away from him and put it squarely onto your shoulders.”

“So Kern
is
a possible suspect,” said Max. He said it slowly, almost as if he could taste the words forming in his mouth.

“In a kind of far-fetched way, I'd have to say yes,” said Theodosia. “Yes, he is.”

Max backed up against one of the dining room chairs and sat down heavily. “Cripes.” Shoulders slumped, he gazed at her. “So what do we do now?”

Theodosia slid into the chair across from him and pulled the guest list from her pocket. “For one thing, we stick to our immediate plan. We keep an eye on Kern as a possible suspect, and we take a good, hard look at this guest list.”

“The guest list,” said Max, finally glancing at it. “With everything you've been laying on me, I almost forgot it was our original objective.”

Theodosia smoothed out the wrinkled sheet of paper. “There must be fifty names here.” She turned the list around and slid it across the table to Max.

“Sixty-two to be exact,” said Max. “Not counting museum staff members who were also present.”

“That's way too many people for us to investigate. What we need to do is eliminate as many names as possible. The ones who
feel
illogical anyway. You know, like interns, wives of board members, people who probably wouldn't have had anything to do with Webster.”

“Okay,” said Max. “Let's get out a red pen and try to do that.”

• • •

Fifteen minutes later,
they'd pared the list down to a more manageable twenty names. They crossed out names of people who were deemed far too mild-mannered to even consider committing murder, a few older ladies, several museum interns, and some people who just didn't seem logical or didn't fit the profile of a potential killer.

“Better,” said Max.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” said Theodosia. She ran her index finger down the list and hesitated when she came to Cecily's name. “Cecily Conrad,” she said. “She's still one of our main suspects. And we know she had motive.”

“Sure, but could she kill?” asked Max.

“You saw her the other night, when she turned her wrath on you. What do you think?”

“I feel like if she'd had a gun, she might have pulled the trigger.”

“Well, there you go,” said Theodosia. “So, from the looks of things, we have four main suspects—Cecily, Charlotte Webster, Roger Greaves, and now Elliot Kern. That's our A-list.”

“And our B-list?”

“The other sixteen or so people.”

“Whew,” said Max. “A lot to think about.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Makes me feel kind of shaky.”

“Do you want something to eat?” said Theodosia. “Are you having a protein drop? You never really finished your dinner.”

“I think maybe I've done enough eating, theorizing, and breaking and entering for the evening. Maybe I should just take off. Do something to calm my nerves.”

Theodosia walked him to the entryway and watched him shrug into his suede jacket.

“Where are you off to?” She put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. She hated the idea of Max just wandering around, fretting about his lost job and all the unfair accusations that went along with it.

“I don't know. Maybe I'll go home and change and then go for a late run. Blow out the carbon. Or maybe I'll head over to that cigar bar on Wentworth Street and hang out for a while.”

Theodosia frowned. She didn't really like the sound of that. But if Max needed to walk and think or smoke and think, that certainly was his prerogative. “Whatever you do, be careful, okay?”

“Always,” said Max. But to Theodosia's ears, his words sounded a little hollow.

• • •

Theodosia puttered around
her house. She cleaned up in the kitchen, washed her wineglasses by hand, and let Earl Grey out into the backyard. When she was finished with her chores, she slipped outside to join him.

Earl Grey was snuffling about in the azalea bushes, hoping to rout out a ground squirrel or two. When that didn't work out, he trotted over to check the small fishpond. Marauding raccoons had dipped their paws in there on occasion, and he was determined it wouldn't happen again. Not on his watch anyway.

Theodosia reclined in a woven twig chair that sat at the edge of her free-form flagstone patio. The night air felt silky and smooth as it rustled the ivy on the back fence and swept her hair away from her face. Overhead, a handful of stars twinkled dully, looking like rough-cut diamonds that had been tossed carelessly into the blue-black sky.

She was letting her mind free-associate, thinking about Webster's murder and all the various connections, Max, and her crazy foray into the museum tonight. Other subjects floated into and out of her thoughts, too. Their
Titanic
Tea tomorrow, the Halloween week, all the little nits and nats of everyday business that needed to be taken care of.

As Earl Grey turned his attention to a clump of columbine that was making a heroic last stand, Theodosia was thinking about how she might stop at City Market first thing tomorrow and pick up a bushel basket of colorful gourds. With Halloween only four days away, plus the need for some general autumnal decorating in the tea shop, the gourds would be perfect. If all else failed, Haley could do something creative with them. Make them into soup? Or bread? Or cookies?

Theodosia smiled as she shook her head. No, gourd cookies didn't sound at all appetizing. They certainly wouldn't be in the same league with Haley's peanut butter cookies or her lemon marmalade cookies.

Suddenly feeling the stresses of the day weighing heavy upon her, Theodosia decided it was time to turn in. She whistled for Earl Grey, and together they padded inside, checked and locked all the doors, and retreated to their upstairs lair. Theodosia had basically turned her entire second floor into a bedroom, walk-in closet, and retreat room. And then there was her cozy turret room, where she enjoyed snuggling up in an easy chair with a good book.

Kicking off her shoes, she remembered how she'd carried them, just an hour or so ago, during her whacked-out ramble through the museum. Interestingly, the recollection brought a faint smile to her face. Perhaps she was getting good at this business of surreptitious activity? Or at least getting used to it?

She doubted Detective Tidwell would agree.

Yawning, she snapped on her small TV. Maybe she could catch the late headlines, see what else was going on in the world today. Surely, there had to be some good news somewhere. A rescued puppy? Returning soldiers enjoying a heartwarming reunion?

Just as she tossed a red-and-blue chintz throw pillow onto a matching chair, a familiar face suddenly loomed large on her TV screen.

What?

The image looked surprisingly like Detective Tidwell!

Wait a minute, that
is
Detective Tidwell. The question is: What's he doing on TV?

Well, for one thing, she could see that he was looking seriously annoyed while trying to escape the clutches of a television news reporter. The pretty blond lady from Channel Eight. Stephanie something.

Theodosia grabbed her remote control and beefed up the sound.

Stephanie Hayward, the reporter, faced the camera directly, and said, “For those of you just tuning in, a brutal assault took place just moments ago near the Lady Goodwood Inn.”

A brutal assault? Moments ago? Theodosia wondered exactly what had brought Detective Tidwell out on a Saturday night. Hopefully,
assault
wasn't code for another murder.

“As chance would have it,” Stephanie continued, “our WCTV van was cruising just blocks from where this attack took place. Which put us squarely on the scene to bring you this exclusive.”

“An attack?” Theodosia said as Tidwell continued to look uncomfortable. “An attack on who?”

Stephanie smiled her dazzling smile and stuck her microphone back in Tidwell's face. “What can you tell us about the victim?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Tidwell muttered. “Since this incident is currently under investigation, I'm unable to release any details.”

Tidwell's words did little to deter the intrepid Stephanie. She adjusted her expression until she looked almost fearful, then continued. “But my sources are telling me that a woman by the name of Cecily Conrad was attacked after attending an event at the Lady Goodwood Inn.”

“Cecily Conrad was attacked?” Theodosia cried out. Feeling like one of those rabid sports fans who screamed at the TV, she moved closer so she could get the full story.

On-screen, Tidwell looked supremely unhappy. “That is all we know so far.”

“And Miss Conrad was attacked while walking to her car?”

“I do wish you'd stop using the word
attacked
,” Tidwell said peevishly.

Startled by this bizarre turn of events, Theodosia hastily dialed Max's number. She wanted to bring him up to speed on what was going on. Could this assault—or whatever it was—on Cecily be intricately related to Webster's murder? Or was it just a strange coincidence?

Theodosia waited impatiently as she listened to the ringing of his cell phone.

Pick up, Max. Come on, pick up.

But there was no answer. She hung up and dialed his home phone. Did that three more times. Finally, just as she was kicked over to voice mail, Theodosia hung up. He wasn't there. He wasn't going to be there.

She turned and looked out her upstairs window. Saw only her reflection looking back at her. Saw worry in her face.

There's no way Max could be part of this, is there?

No, she told herself. No way. Max hadn't been that rattled by Cecily the other night. Had he? He wouldn't threaten her or . . .