Sweat Tea Revenge (16 page)

*   *   *

“Pretty tasty stuff,”
said Bill Glass, when Theodosia sat down across from him. “I guess you really do make a living selling these little dinky sandwiches.”

“I guess I do,” said Theodosia.

“Did you catch the front page of my tabloid?”

“Of course.” The headline blared, M
URDER AT THE
A
LTAR!
B
IGWIG
A
TTORNEY
B
LUDGEONED TO
D
EATH.
“Very pithy. Right to the point.”

Glass narrowed his eyes at her. “You think it’s too sensational.”

Theodosia shrugged. “It’s what you do. It’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

Glass grabbed a brownie bite from his plate and popped it into his mouth. “I’ll tell you something,” he said, as he chewed noisily. “These guest photos I took are nothing special. All those self-proclaimed socialites turned out to be a bunch of stiffs.”

“Let me take a look,” said Theodosia.

Passing his camera to her, Glass showed her which button to push to advance the shots. “I took maybe thirty or forty shots of the guests, then I got another dozen or so shots of the dead guy before the cops kicked me out.”

“Nice work.” What Theodosia was most interested in were the guests, of course. She had the guest list with everyone’s name, but she wanted to see what they were wearing. She wanted to know if someone’s outfit might account for that beige fiber she’d found stuck to the window frame.

“See anything interesting?” Glass asked, as she clicked through the photos.

“Not yet,” said Theodosia. Looking at the photos this way was difficult at best. They were small and Glass was too close for comfort, breathing hotly down her neck. She wished she could upload the photos to her computer and peruse them when she was alone. Still, she persisted.

“Pretty good, huh?” said Glass. “I mean my composition and framing.” He seemed to delight in bugging her. On the other hand, he was always annoying and overly chatty. That was his normal state of being.

“Everything’s wonderful,” Theodosia muttered. Glass had taken shots of the guests milling around, as well as the floral arrangements and tea table. There were also close-ups of the more prominent guests—a state senator and a board member from the Charleston Opera.

It wasn’t until about the thirtieth shot that Theodosia came across Allan Grumley. He was chatting with two other guests that Theodosia didn’t know and had been caught while talking. His mouth was skewed wide open, his eyes were rolled sideways and the angle made him look positively manic. But it was Grumley’s clothing that stopped Theodosia dead in her tracks. Although the photo wasn’t flattering, she could still see that Grumley was wearing dark checked slacks and a light-beige sport coat.

18

Theodosia studied the
shot intently.

Allan Grumley is wearing a beige jacket. Almost the same color as the thread I found. Could Grumley have murdered his law partner?

Theodosia figured the odds were three to one that he had. There was something hostile about Grumley, something strange. Plus, he was acting stiff and almost disrespectful to Delaine. So, even if he’d been only a tertiary suspect before, he’d certainly been elevated to prime suspect now.

Theodosia clicked on with resolve. Eight shots later she came across Delaine’s nemesis, Simone Asher.

Hello, there, Simone. Fancy seeing you here.

Simone was posing for the camera, standing sideways with her head cocked over her shoulder in a classic fashion model stance. She was wearing a skirt suit with a tightly fitted jacket and a super short skirt. And both pieces were tailored from a light-beige linen.

Theodosia considered this. She hadn’t expected to find a real link to the fiber, and here she’d already found two. Correction, make that three. Because Charles Horton, though not in any of these shots, also had a light-colored blazer. So what did all this mean? That it was all a strange coincidence? Or that one of the people close to Granville was the murderer? She pondered this idea for a few moments, then said to Glass, “Can you do me a favor?”

Glass stuffed a last bit of scone into his mouth, then gazed at her with dark-eyed suspicion. “It depends.”

“I’m wondering if you could e-mail your photos to Detective Tidwell. Because, well, he hasn’t seen these yet, right?”

“Not yet. I don’t even think he knows about them.”

“I think it might be helpful if he took a look,” said Theodosia.

“Because of the murder investigation?”

“That’s right.”

Bill Glass’s hand snaked across the table and his index finger came to rest on top of his camera. “I’m guessing you think there’s an important clue in one of these photographs?”

Theodosia wasn’t about to tell Glass any more than she had to. “There could be.”

“And that’s why you think Detective Tidwell would want to see these?”

“Something like that.”

Glass studied her for a moment, then said, “All right. I’ll e-mail them to Tidwell. But I’m going to want first crack if any kind of story or arrest comes out of this.”

“I’m sure Detective Tidwell would agree to that,” said Theodosia.
Yeah, right.

“Okay,” said Glass. “I’ll send them as soon as I get back to my office.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “I really appreciate it.”

Glass pointed a finger at her. “You owe me. You know that, don’t you?”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “And you know I’m good for it.”
At least I think I am.

*   *   *

“I can’t believe
you were civil to that scoundrel,” said Drayton, once Bill Glass had left. Drayton never called anyone a jerk or a sap or even a scumbag. He was too polite for that. Instead, he called them a scoundrel. It was an old-fashioned term, but generally spot on.

“I pretty much had to be nice to Glass,” said Theodosia. “Because I wanted something from him.”

“You were looking at his photos?”

“The ones he took at Delaine’s wedding,” said Theodosia.

“Did you find anything interesting?”

“Maybe,” said Theodosia. And then, because Drayton had always been her closest confidant, she spilled the beans about going back to Ravencrest Inn and finding the beige fiber stuck in the window frame. And then she told him about Allan Grumley and Simone Asher both wearing clothes made from beige linen. And then she tossed the stepson, Horton, into the mix, too.

Drayton gave a low whistle. “Which leads you to believe the killer could be any one of them?”

“It’s possible,” said Theodosia. “Of course, it could be someone else entirely.”

“Still,” said Drayton, “you came up with some very interesting evidence. The problem I see is, how do you go about obtaining conclusive proof? Aside from breaking into their homes and ransacking their closets.”

“I asked Bill Glass to e-mail the photos to Detective Tidwell. That way he can get a court order to go into their homes and ransack their closets.”

“That’s smart thinking,” said Drayton. “If that’s how the law really works.”

“We can only hope,” said Theodosia.

“Excuse me,” said Haley. “I hate to interrupt, but we just received an awfully strange delivery at our back door.”

Theodosia and Drayton exchanged glances. A
what now
kind of glance.

“Oh,” said Theodosia, suddenly remembering the call she’d made earlier. “I think I know what it is. And it’s definitely for me.”

“Really?” said Haley, scrunching up her face. “Because it’s very unusual.”

“I think I need to see this mysterious item for myself,” said Drayton. “Whatever it is.”

They all trooped past the kitchen and through Theodosia’s office. When they pushed their way out the back door, it would barely open because of the large metal trap blocking it.

Haley squeezed outside and kicked the trap with her toe. “Are you gonna rent a boat and drop that thing in the water? Are we that hard up for fresh seafood?”

“That’s not a lobster trap,” said Theodosia. “It’s a live trap for raccoons.”

“You’re going to trap raccoons?” she said.

“I’m going to try,” said Theodosia. “One’s been hanging around my backyard, trying to mess with my goldfish.”

“Not again,” said Drayton. “I thought you drove that poor beast off.”

“I did, but he’s back for another go-round,” said Theodosia. “Or at least one of his kin is.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Haley. “When you catch him, maybe I could bake a raccoon pie.”

Drayton’s eyes practically crossed. “Surely, you’re not serious!”

“But I am,” said Haley. “You’ve lived in the South for long enough, Drayton. Haven’t you ever eaten squirrel?” There was a funny light twirling in her eyes now. “Or ’possum?”

“Gracious, no!” said Drayton.

“Well, those varmints are awfully good eatin’,” said Haley. “So I’m thinking, why stop there? Why not expand our culinary horizons to include raccoon?”

“No, definitely no,” said Drayton. “I put my foot down at that.”

Haley was grinning now. “Come on, Drayton, live a little.”

Exasperated, Drayton shook his head and said, “You know I don’t appreciate your bizarre brand of humor one bit.”

“But I had you going,” said Haley. “Right? I had you going?”

“If that’s what you choose to believe, fine,” said Drayton.

*   *   *

By three o’clock,
business at the Indigo Tea Shop was winding down. Two tables remained. Drayton was putting away his tins of tea, probably organizing them first according to country of origin and then tea-growing region; and Haley was singing a slightly off-key rendition of Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night” in the kitchen.

Still thinking about the thread (a shred of evidence?) and the charge that had been on Granville’s American Express bill, Theodosia bid a hasty good-bye to them and strode down Church Street to Heart’s Desire.

“Hey, Brooke,” she called out as she let herself into the shop and a tiny bell tinkled overhead.

Brooke Carter Crockett looked up from her workbench behind the counter where she was polishing a white agate, recognized Theodosia immediately, and grinned. Brooke was a spry fifty-something woman with a cap of white hair cut into a perfect-for-her pixie. She specialized in high-end estate jewelry and was also a skilled jewelry designer. Brooke had created a series of sterling silver turtle pendants to help raise money for the preservation of the local loggerheads. And she crafted the most exquisite Charleston charm bracelets. Some of her charms included tiny sweetgrass baskets, palmetto trees, crayfish, church steeples, wrought-iron benches, bags of rice, and models of Fort Sumter.

“I’ve got something you might be interested in,” Brooke said as she jumped up to greet Theodosia.

“What’s that?” Theodosia asked. There was always some tasty jeweled tidbit in Brooke’s shop that tickled her fancy. Problem was, it wasn’t always in line with her budget.

“I was in New York last week,” said Brooke. “At the Caravel Jewel and Gem Show. And I managed to pick up a few choice estate pieces, one of which reminded me of you.” She unrolled a thick piece of black velvet, then reached down, slid open her glass case, and pulled out a cameo pin. She set the pin on the velvet, where it gleamed enticingly.

“That’s gorgeous,” said Theodosia. “And it’s hand-painted?”

“Right,” said Brooke. “We’re used to seeing carved cameos, but during the Victorian era many cameo images were painted by hand. This one was done on Limoge porcelain.”

Theodosia gazed at the tiny, elegant cameo. It depicted a French noblewoman with high color in her cheeks and a low-cut bodice. Her auburn hair was tumbled into a messy pompadour and she wore a single strand of pearls. For some reason, it
did
remind Theodosia of herself—if she’d been born into an earlier era and had her portrait captured on a delicate brooch.

“I really love this,” said Theodosia.

“See?” said Brooke. “I knew it the minute I laid eyes on it. You don’t wear a lot of jewelry, but when you do, you tend to gravitate toward unusual, one-of-a-kind pieces.”

“This piece is certainly unique. Dare I ask how much?”

“Three hundred dollars and the painted lady goes home with you,” said Brooke.

“Can the lady reside here for another week?” Theodosia asked. “Until I sort through my finances?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I’ll tuck her in my desk drawer for safekeeping.”

“These other estate pieces are gorgeous, too,” said Theodosia. Nested on a black velvet tray were a large amethyst ring, a string of pistachio-colored Baroque pearls, and a silver bracelet that looked like it might be an early Tiffany design.

“A lot of people are selling their jewelry these days because they’re hard up for cash,” said Brooke. “I heard from a couple of Florida dealers that, right after the Bernie Madoff fiasco, women in Palm Beach were selling their family jewels for a song.”

“That’s kind of sad,” said Theodosia.

“Isn’t it?” said Brooke. “I can understand selling your grandmother’s ring if it’s clearly not your taste. But to sell because you’re desperate for cash? Kind of tragic, really.”

“Brooke,” said Theodosia, “have you ever run into a woman by the name of Simone Asher? She has a shop called Archangel over on King Street. She specializes in vintage clothing, but she carries some jewelry, too.”

Brooke shook her head. “No. She must be fairly new. Is the place worth visiting?”

Theodosia shrugged. “Maybe. But I think her stash of jewelry is less high-end estate and more vintage.”

“You mean like Bakelite bangles and colored glass brooches?”

“Right,” said Theodosia. She paused. It was always awkward to ask a shopkeeper about a customer. “I’ve got kind of a tricky question to ask you.”

“Ask away,” said Brooke.

“If you can’t tell me, I’ll certainly understand.”

“Now you’ve amped up my curiosity,” said Brooke.

“The thing is, I’ve been looking into things for Delaine,” said Theodosia.

“Because of her fiancé’s murder,” said Brooke. “Yes, what a terrible tragedy. And for it to happen right here in the Historic District . . . it makes one feel rather unsettled.”

“I know what you mean.”

“And it’s kind of you to help Delaine out,” said Brooke. “I mean, the police don’t have any conclusive answers yet, do they?”

“Not really.”

Brooke cocked her head. “But I bet you’re onto something. In fact, I know you are. I can tell by the intensity in your face.”

“
Maybe
I’m onto something,” said Theodosia.

“So what’s your question?”

“I happened to take a look at Dougan Granville’s most recent American Express bill . . .”

“Yes?”

“And one of the charges listed on it was for Heart’s Desire.”

Brooke nodded. “I don’t think I’d be revealing any deep, dark secrets if I told you what it was for.” She paused. “I did some custom engraving on a couple of sterling silver key chains.”

“Really,” said Theodosia.

“Probably for his contingent of groomsmen.”

Theodosia considered this. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “As far as I know, there was only a best man. His stepson, Charles Horton.”

Brooke shrugged. “Still, the sentiments were pretty garden-variety stuff, as I recall.”

“What do you recall?” said Theodosia. “I mean, do you remember what you engraved?”

Brooke looked thoughtful. “I’ve got the paperwork around here somewhere. Want me to try to find it?”

“Well . . . sure.”

Brooke rummaged around her back counter, poking and prodding in cubbyholes, until she finally pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. “Okay. One of the key chains was engraved with
CHH
.”

“For Charles Horton,” said Theodosia. “And the other ones?”

Brooke scanned her paper. “There were only two.”

“What did the other key chain say?”

“It was engraved with the word
Forever
.”

“That’s it?” said Theodosia.

“That’s it,” said Brooke.

“Kind of strange,” said Theodosia.

“Maybe the second key chain was for a friend or business acquaintance. A client, perhaps?”

“Would an attorney give a client a key chain that says
Forever
?” Theodosia wondered.

“Maybe if it was a longtime client?” said Brooke.

“Possibly,” said Theodosia. But to her, the sentiment sounded more heartfelt. Like something you’d present to a lover.

*   *   *

Once she was
back at the tea shop, Theodosia put in a quick call to Tidwell.

“Did you receive the photos from Glass?” she asked. “Did he e-mail them to you?”

“Yes,” said Tidwell. “And I was a little surprised. I had no idea they even existed.”

“You can thank me later,” said Theodosia. “But for now, tell me, what did you think?”

“About . . . ?” said Tidwell.

“You must have noticed what Grumley and Simone Asher were wearing. Do you think the thread I found might match up with the fabric from one of their jackets?