Agony of the Leaves: Tea Shop Mystery #13 (29 page)

“If I’m not mistaken,” Theodosia cried, “it looks exactly like the truck that ran me off the road yesterday!”

They stared at
the black truck as if it were a Magic 8 Ball, able to magically produce an answer.
Very probable.
Or perhaps
Explore all possibilities.

Finally, Drayton said, “Do you think it’s also the same truck that pulled in when we were at the clam shack?”

I don’t know,” said Theodosia, squinting at it. “All trucks look pretty much alike to me. I’m not exactly a motorhead.”

“This one’s a what?” asked Drayton.

“Um…maybe a Chevy?”

“Okay,” said Drayton.

“That still doesn’t help much, does it?”

“Do you think maybe you’d recognize the driver?” Drayton asked.

Theodosia shook her head. “Unfortunately, I never really got a good look at him.”

“Or her,” Drayton muttered. When Theodosia registered surprise, Drayton added, “Well, the truck
is
parked behind Peaches’s restaurant.”

Theodosia considered this. “Good point.”

“Though it could be the wrong truck. Or just a weird coincidence,” Drayton hastened to add.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Theodosia. “Let’s go in and find out.”

Aubergine was a
luxe, upscale eatery that had received four stars from Michelin and atwenty-four-point rating from Zagat. In other words, it was your basicwhite-linen-tableclothfine-dining restaurant with prices that soared to astronomical heights.

The expansive lobby was paneled in dark cypress and featured a giant stone fireplace, two curved sofas upholsteredin—what else?—aubergine-colored velvet, and a series ofgold-framed etchings on the walls that depicted turn-of-the-century Parisian street scenes.

“Very nice,” said Drayton as they stood in a short queue at the maître d’ stand.

Aubergine was pretty much what Theodosia had expected. Peaches Pafford always went forover-the-top glam, so it would stand to reason her restaurant would be showy as well.

“Look,” said Theodosia, nodding toward a gilt plaque that was engraved with several lines of flowing calligraphy. “Peaches even has a corporate philosophy.”

Curious, Drayton put on his glasses to read it.

“Well?” said Theodosia.

“Platitudes,” said Drayton. “And wishful thinking.”

“Not up there with Kierkegaard?” grinned Theodosia.

Drayton’s mouth twitched upward. “Hardly. Then again, who is?”

Moments later, atuxedo-clad maître d’ flashed his broad smile at them. “Good evening,” he said in a brisk tone. “Might I see your tickets?”

Theodosia produced two of the orange tickets and the maître d’ nodded his approval. “Ah yes, tabletwenty-two. Please go right in. If you prefer to begin your evening with a libation, our cocktail lounge is directly to your right.” He made a quick hand gesture. “Off to your left is our dining room. Tonight, in honor of our special event, we’re offering a seafood raw bar as well as a station where Chef Oliver is roasting oysters. Please. Enjoy.”

Opting for the dining room, Theodosia and Drayton pushed their way through anaubergine-colored velvet curtain and suddenly found Peaches’s restaurant spread out before them.

Everything had been designed on a grand scale. Large, circular tables; enormous, upholstered chairs that looked like they’d been liberated from a French castle; another large fireplace made up of almost perfectly rounded stones; and not one but three huge crystal chandeliers. And everything, everywhere, dripped with gold. The chairs were edged with gold, the chandelier sparkled with gold, gold edged the rims of the plates and glasses, even the flatware was gold.

“Goodness,” said Drayton, slightly taken aback. “What would one call this style of decorating?”

“Gilt trip?” said Theodosia, with a wry smile.

Her words tickled Drayton’s fancy. “Ha! Clever.”

“Let’s go find tabletwenty-two,” said Theodosia, “and see if Max is here yet.”

They eased their way between the various tables, mumbling excuse-me’s and occasionally stopping to greet a familiar face.

“Everyone who’s anybody is here tonight,” noted Drayton. “That table over there? The executive director of the Charleston Symphony and the chairman of the Art Association.”

“Why is Peaches such a hot ticket?” Theodosia wondered.

“She’s a schmoozer,” said Drayton. “She ingratiates herself
all over town and donates just enough money to all the popular arts organizations and social causes. And, probably, her restaurants do turn out some very fine food.”

“At least her chefs do,” said Theodosia. They’d arrived at tabletwenty-two and found it empty. Two chairs had white dinner napkins dropped onto the seats, an obvious sign that someone had been here and staked their claim. “So now what?”

“Now we eat,” said Drayton. “Any sort of investigation, no matter how trifling, must always be conducted on a full stomach.”

The raw bar
at Aubergine was a thing of purebeauty—atwenty-foot-long table mounded with crushed ice and topped by a glittering ice sculpture of ahalf-naked woman rising from an oyster shell. But the shellfish were the real attraction. Gigantic pink shrimp curled on silver platters. Fresh oysters, practically quivering in their brine, were scattered atop the crushed ice. Lobster tails, crab legs, and even tiny imported periwinkles were enticingly displayed.

“This is amazing,” said Drayton.

“A feast,” agreed Theodosia.

Drayton brightened. “And look over there, they’re roasting fresh oysters over charcoal.”

“Yum,” said Theodosia. She smelled the mingled aromas of oak wood, sea salt, and hot sauce and could almost hear the oysters popping inside their shells. But first she was going to help herself to the chilled portion of the dinner. Specifically, the raw oysters.

“We’re two of a kind,” said Drayton, as they both placed oysters on their plates. “Love the briny little mollusks.”

“In the right season,” said Theodosia, “I think our local oysters are even tastier than blue crab.” Blue crab was also a local delicacy.

“It’s so interesting,” remarked Drayton, “that oysters actually derive their flavor from the region where they’re harvested.” He dribbled a dollop of creamy horseradish sauce onto his plate, then added, “Just as grapes take on the terroir, or taste of the land.”

“What would be the water equivalent for oysters?”

“Not sure,” said Drayton.
“Aquoir?”

Theodosia giggled. “Nice try, but I don’t think that’s an actual word.”

Unfazed, Drayton said, “It should be.”

Max was lounging
at their table when Theodosia and Drayton returned with their plates of seafood. He wore a snappy checked jacket and gray slacks and looked adorable (in Theodosia’s eyes, anyway) with hishalf-amused grin and carefully tousled hair. He was sipping from a flute of champagne and chatting casually with an older couple who were picking genteelly at small mounds of tiny pink shrimp.

Max made introductions all around, then turned his full attention on Theodosia. “Have you talked to Peaches yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Haven’t seen her.”

“You put up a fairly convincing argument,” Max told Theodosia, in a low tone, “that Peaches might be involved in your friend’s murder.”

“Did I?” said Theodosia. She wasn’t sure she’d convinced Max of anything. Or, at the very least, she’d managed to reveal what was probably her overly suspicious nature. Which might or might not be a turn-on orturnoff.

Max picked up a tiny gold seafood fork and speared an oyster from Theodosia’s plate. As he popped it in his mouth, his eyes widened then focused on some point across the room. “There she is now,” he said.

Theodosia followed Max’s gaze across the vast dining
room. Peaches Pafford had made her grand entrance, strolling through her dining room like the lady of the manor. Wearing afloor-length shimmering gold dress, Peaches projected the overall impression that she was garbed to look like some kind of award statue. The drapey dress fell to her ankles, where gold shoes peeped out from beneath the hem. Her ears were dripping with long gold earrings; chunky gold bangles clanked on both wrists. Even her hair, which always seemed to carry a pinkish luster, seemed to be threaded with streaks of gold.

“She looks like she’s been dipped in gold dust,” whispered Max.

Theodosia watched as the effusive Peaches greeted guests, blew air kisses, and administered hugs to a chosen few. Then Joe Beaudry emerged from the crowd and became the recipient of one of those hugs.

“Or maybe she’s the golden calf,” Theodosia remarked.

“Huh?” said Max.

“That’s Joe Beaudry,” Theodosia said, sounding both terse and tense. “The lawyer I was telling you about.”

Drayton leaned in to add his two cents. “The lawyer who brokered the deal between Shelby and Peaches. To buy Solstice.”

“Shelby,” said Max.

“The more
recent
girlfriend,” said Theodosia.

“Ah,” said Max. He sat back in his chair and a frown flickered across his face. For the first time, Max seemed to comprehend the fact that perhaps one of these players really was areal-life killer.

“I think,” said Theodosia, getting to her feet, “I’m going to wander over and get myself a couple of roasted oysters.”

“And do a little chitchatting as well?” asked Drayton.

“You never know,” said Theodosia.

“For gosh sakes, be careful,” warned Max.

But by the time Theodosia arrived at the oyster roast station,
Peaches was nowhere in sight. And neither was Joe Beaudry.

She turned her attention to the chef. “You’re roasting them over oak?” she asked.

“Yup,” he told her. “Just for a couple of minutes. Then I cover ’em with damp burlap and move them off to the side so they can sort of stew in their own juices.” He paused. “How many would you like?”

“Four to start with,” said Theodosia.

The chef looked past her. “And you, sir?”

“A half dozen,” said Lyle Manship.

Theodosia took a step back in surprise. Manship was the last person she expected to see here!

Manship gazed at her and said, in a neutral tone, “Hello, Theodosia.”

“Are you still in town?” Theodosia asked. “When are you going back to Savannah?”

“That’s awfully rude,” Manship told her. “Where’s that fine Charleston hospitality?”

“Not here,” said Theodosia. She wondered briefly if the black truck parked outside belonged to him. She had a sudden and murderous urge to stab him in the middle of his chest with her index finger and scream,
Are you the jackhole who ran me off the road yesterday? Who basically tried to kill me and my Aunt Libby? Then did you stalk us and purposely frighten the bees so they’d swarm and sting her?

But she didn’t say that. She kept her composure and cool. Because losing your head rarely advanced you from point A to point B. Hardly ever, anyway.

But there were
more surprises in store for Theodosia that night. Returning from the roast oyster station, slipping between tables, Theodosia bumped into Detective Burt Tidwell.

Taken aback, all she could stammer out was a somewhat blunt, “What are you doing here?”

Tidwell looked both bemused and a little startled. “Excuse me,” he fired back, “why are
you
here?”

“I have an invitation,” said Theodosia. It was the only benign answer she could come up with at the moment.

“Certainly not from the illustrious Mrs. Pafford,” said Tidwell.

“No, we’re not that close.”

Tidwell clenched his jaw and adjusted his mouth into a stolid frown. “You realize, your being here puts you in a somewhat sticky situation.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” said Tidwell. “And I seriously hope you don’t think you’re here to conduct any sort of investigation.”

“No,” said Theodosia, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course not,” said Tidwell. He knew she wasn’t being truthful, and Theodosia knew that he knew.

Theodosia gazed at Tidwell, trying to figure out his real mission. He was dressed in one of hisextra-large sport jackets, this one looking a little frayed at the elbows with a button hanging loose, and his tie was askew. Was Tidwell here to partake of the Oyster Fest? Was he someone’s grudging guest? Yes, of course Tidwell was here to eat. No matter where he went, Tidwell managed to eat. But Theodosia suspected there might be something else going on. Some other reason for hislarger-than-life presence. Not only were Tidwell’s eyes shining brightly, but he looked like he was fairly quivering on the balls of his feet. As much as someone his size could quiver. Jiggle, maybe?

“What’s going on?” she asked him. Her inner radar was pinging like crazy, telling her something big was about to happen. Had there been a break in the case? Was Tidwell close to making an arrest? Better yet, was he going to stage a
very public takedown of Peaches Pafford? Arrest her for Parker’s murder?

“You’re way too suspicious for words,” Tidwell barked, then quickly slid past her.

“You bet I am,” said Theodosia.