Devonshire Scream (15 page)

The door stood open.

Theodosia drew a deep breath and plunged inside.

Her eyes quickly took in the bizarre tableau. An elderly man in a tuxedo lay sprawled on the carpet, gasping for air. Blood poured from a cut on his forehead and had trickled
down to soak through the front of his white shirt. An older woman—the screaming woman she'd seen before—was now bent over him and racked with sobs. A grim-looking theater manager crouched next to the man and barked sharp orders into his cell phone.

When the theater manager glanced up and saw Theodosia, he waved a dismissive hand at her. “Go away!” he cried.

“What's wrong?” Theodosia asked urgently. “What happened?”

The crying woman stumbled toward Theodosia, almost tripping on the hem of her long lilac-colored dress. “Help me,” she gasped. Her shoulders shook and her body heaved with erratic sobs. “Somebody snu-snu-snuck into our box,” the woman babbled. “They hit my husband over the head and then they . . .” Her right hand clutched at her bare neckline as her lower lip quivered wildly. “They stole the necklace right from around my neck.”

Theodosia bent down to look at the elderly gentleman on the floor.

“Sir, are you all right? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes fluttered open. “I can hear you,” he moaned.

“Stay down,” she told him. “You've got a bad cut on your right temple and you might have a concussion.” Why was she getting a terrible sense of déjà vu? Why did this suddenly feel like a replay of Sunday night at Heart's Desire?

“Did you call an ambulance?” Theodosia asked the theater manager.

He bobbed his head. “They're on their way. I'm talking to the police right now.”

“Ma'am?” Theodosia reached a hand out to the crying woman. “You're white as a sheet. Come here and sit down. An ambulance is on its way. Help will be here in a matter of minutes.” She was aware that a large crowd had gathered outside the door, that there was a high, insistent buzz, like the sound of a thousand cicadas.

The woman stumbled toward Theodosia.

Theodosia guided the distraught woman into a theater seat. “Here you go.” The woman's legs buckled beneath her as she sat down heavily.

“Harold?” the woman sobbed.

“I'm here,” the old man croaked.

“He's right here,” Theodosia said, reaching down to pat the man's shoulder. “We're just going to keep him lying flat until the ambulance arrives.”

The old woman nodded sadly. Then her fingers clawed helplessly at her neck again. “My emerald necklace.” Tears streamed down her face. “I took it out of the safe just so I could wear it tonight.” Her voice caught. “It was an heirloom.”

Well, Theodosia thought. Of course it was.

It really did
feel like the sad aftermath at Heart's Desire all over again. The EMTs arrived with a clanking gurney and a flutter of blankets. A half-dozen uniformed police officers came storming in. And, finally, Detective Burt Tidwell showed up as well.

Theodosia and Drayton watched the drama unfold from the security of their box seats.

“How are the police ever going to be able to question all these people?” Drayton asked.

Theodosia stared down glumly over the railing. “They're not. Take a look.”

Drayton peered down. The audience was pushing and shoving and stumbling over themselves to escape from the theater. “Oh no,” he said. “It looks like the last gasp on the
Titanic
. Right before the ship sank and all the passengers rushed to the Boat Deck in a blind panic.” He shook his head. “This is definitely not good.”

“None of this is remotely good,” Theodosia said. She sat down, tapped her foot anxiously while she tried to think.

If only . . . No, that's not going to solve anything. I need to come up with a better idea than that.

“What's going to happen now?” Drayton asked. He'd worked himself up into a slight tizzy. “Who do you think stole that necklace?”

An idea was suddenly fizzing in Theodosia's brain. “We need to check on something right now,” she said to Drayton. “Or, rather, check on someone.”

“What are you talking about?” Drayton asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“We need to call your friend Rinicker. To see if he's at home.”

“Because . . . ?” Drayton hesitated, and then comprehension slowly dawned. “Ah, because you suspect Lionel might have been the one who snuck in here, whacked that poor man, and stole his wife's necklace?”

“Her
emerald
necklace. And, yes, I think there might be a sliver of a possibility. If Rinicker really is a hotshot jewel thief, then he might have seen this place as easy pickings.”

“So we're going to make an anonymous call to see if he's home. And then hang up if he answers?”

“Yes, we have to pretend that we're silly teenagers playing a prank.”

Drayton pursed his lips. “You make it sound so appealing.”

“Okay, let me rephrase my words. We're concerned citizens who are investigating a homicide and two robberies. There, does that make you feel any better?”

“Not really,” Drayton sighed. “But I'm willing to play along with you. At least for the time being.”

•   •   •

Theodosia and Drayton
made their way down to the main floor and squeezed out a side entrance. Once they were out
on the dimly lit street, they had to thread their way through a tangled web of honking cars as the horde of angry, disillusioned operagoers attempted to flee the area.

“It's gridlock,” Drayton said, as they skipped across Wentworth Street.

“Never mind that,” Theodosia said. “We have to concentrate on finding a phone somewhere.”

“Why don't you just buzz Rinicker on your cell phone?”

Theodosia made a face. “Because if he's got caller ID, then he's going to know it's us.”

“And that we're checking on him,” Drayton said as they huffed along. “Good point. This sleuthing business isn't all that easy, is it?”

“No, it's not.”

They finally located a battered pay phone stuck in the middle of a wall of colorful posters in an all-night mom-and-pop grocery store.

Theodosia fed a quarter into the phone and heard an old-fashioned
ding
. “This has to be the last pay phone in the tricounty area. Maybe in existence.” She gazed at Drayton. “What's his number?”

“His . . . ? Oh, just a sec.” Drayton pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card. He read Lionel Rinicker's number to her as she dialed.

“It's ringing,” Theodosia told him. Anxiety nibbled in the pit of her stomach.

“He'll pick up,” Drayton said.

But he didn't. The phone rang and rang until Theodosia was sick of hearing the dull ring at the other end of the line. If Lionel Rinicker was home, he definitely wasn't picking up.

“He's not home,” Theodosia said.

“Now what?”

She shifted from one foot to the other, the arches of her feet keenly aware that she'd been dashing all over the place in designer heels. “I don't know.”

“On the other hand,” Drayton said, “Lionel could be with his lady friend.”

“Grace,” Theodosia said, pouncing at once on the idea. “We need to go check her out. We'll drive by her home and see if Rinicker's car is parked outside.” She held up a hand. “Wait, do you know what kind of car he drives?”

“I'm pretty sure it's a BMW.”

•   •   •

It took a
good ten minutes for them to get Theodosia's Jeep out of the parking lot, and then another fifteen minutes to thread their way through heavy traffic and bump their way over to the Historic District. But finally they were cruising down Tradd Street.

Ten o'clock at night and the evening was dark as pitch. Only a few streetlamps glowed pink, giving the neighborhood an eerie, otherworldly feel. A few homes had lights on inside, but mostly it was a quiet Wednesday night. The weather had shifted, and the wind was gusting in from the Atlantic, stripping leaves from trees, whipping a few palmettos into a frenzy.

“That's Grace Dawson's home right there,” Theodosia said.

“Where George Burwick used to live,” Drayton said. “Before he died. Such a big place. And quite fancy, too.”

“Take a look around. Do you see Rinicker's BMW parked on the street anywhere?”

“Not yet.”

They cruised slowly up and down the street. Went around the block and checked the side streets. Came back again and double-checked. There was still no sign of a BMW.

“There are hardly any lights on in Grace's home,” Theodosia said. “So I'm guessing she either went to bed early or she's not at home.” Theodosia pulled over to the curb and put her foot on the brake. Sat there, tried to sort out her thoughts, listened to the engine's hum.

“Maybe the two of them went out together?” Drayton said.

“And maybe Rinicker is sitting at home fat and sassy with his brand-new heirloom necklace.”

“You really have it in for him, don't you?” Drayton said.

“Not really. He's just at the top of my list of suspects.”

“A long list. And getting longer.”

Theodosia dug in her clutch and pulled out her phone. “Okay, now we have to call Haley.”

“What? Why?”

“I want you to call her and, if she answers, if she's home, just ask her some silly question.”

“It's okay to use your phone?” Drayton asked. “This call isn't supersecret?”

“No.” Theodosia dialed the number and pushed the phone toward Drayton. “Just try to act normal.”

“But what am I supposed to ask her?” He looked panicked.

“I don't know. Ask her if you left your hat in the kitchen.”

“Hello?” Drayton stammered into the phone. “Haley?” He hesitated as Theodosia made a hurry-up spinning motion with her hands. “Did I leave my hat in the kitchen? You don't think so? Oh, you were? Okay, so sorry to have awakened you.” He handed the phone back to Theodosia. “Okay, Haley's at home. She was sleeping. And she thinks I'm an idiot. So what does any of that prove?”

“We at least know that Haley's not out with her boyfriend du jour, Billy Grainger.”

Drayton did a double take. “Now you think
he
was the one who robbed that poor woman tonight and hit her husband on the head?”

“I don't know. Maybe.” Theodosia knew the connection was thin, but weren't all leads fairly tenuous? Wasn't that the hallmark of a good investigator? You had to be willing to search out every sliver of a lead?

But Drayton wasn't so keen on pursuing the Grainger angle.

“You think Grainger might be part of the gang that held up Heart's Desire, don't you?” he asked. “And it's all because he rides a motorcycle.”

“I don't know, Drayton. It's possible. Grainger would have known all about the jewelry show at Brooke's because Haley had been tapped to set up the buffet and serve tea. So he could be playing her. She hasn't known him all that long.”

“Still, wouldn't you call that circumstantial evidence?”

“I'm not sure it's evidence at all, but I'd sure like to know if Grainger's at home right now.”

“So what do you want to do about it? Call him, too?”

“Actually,” Theodosia said. “I'd like to drive over to his house and see for myself.”

“Do you even know where Grainger lives?”

Theodosia affected a casual shrug. “I have his address.”

“How on earth did you get that? Are you telling me that Haley willingly coughed it up for you?”

“Heck no,” Theodosia said. “I did what any clever investigator would do.”

“Which is?”

“I peeked at her cell phone when she wasn't looking.”

•   •   •

Billy Grainger lived
in North Charleston. On Fariday Street, which wasn't all that far from the airport.

They drove around for a while, hit a couple of dead ends, and then finally found the address. They parked three houses down and tried to take stock of things. The neighborhood looked okay, maybe a little shabby, but some of the homes looked like they were being rehabbed. It was also intensely quiet, with no sign of evening joggers or dog walkers. Probably too late for that, Theodosia decided.

“I didn't see any lights on inside Grainger's house,” Drayton said. “Not even the telltale flicker of a TV.”

“So he's either out for the evening or in bed for the night,” Theodosia said.

“Should we call him, too? Or is this a straight-ahead stakeout?”

Theodosia gazed at him. “You think this is funny, don't you? You're amused.”

The corners of Drayton's mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I think this is all a little strange. This is not exactly how I'd planned to spend my evening.”

“Nobody back at the opera thought things would go sour, either,” Theodosia said.

“Is that what happened? Things went sour?”

Theodosia had to giggle, Drayton looked so serious. “No, Drayton, only your mood.”

He pretended to look outraged. “Wait a minute—I'm here, aren't I? I'm . . . what would you call it? Riding shotgun for you.”

“Yes, you are. And for that I'm eternally grateful. Because some of what we're doing tonight is a little scary.” She reached over and clasped his arm. “So thank you for indulging me.”

“You're welcome,” he said. “And I didn't mean to be sour.”

“You really weren't,” Theodosia said. “I think I'm just unsure about what to do next.”

“Theodosia,” Drayton said, “of all the people I know, you're the most sure of themselves.”

“You think?”

Drayton bobbed his head emphatically. “Absolutely.”

•   •   •

They sat there
for five minutes until Theodosia said, “I need to take a closer look.” She reached up, turned off the dome light, and popped open the driver's-side door.

“If you're going to go creepy-crawl that house,” Drayton said, “then I'm going with you.”

“Oh dear,” Theodosia whispered. “I think maybe I'm a bad influence.”

They crept up a cracked cement sidewalk toward Billy's Craftsman-style home. Dim streetlamps overhead cast long shadows that ghosted along with them, a dog let loose a high-pitched yip from somewhere in a backyard.

“Creepy,” Drayton said.

“You mean Grainger's house or our current situation?”

“Yes to all of the above,” Drayton said.

They were standing in front of Grainger's bungalow now. The place had potential but an obviously unmotivated owner. A drainpipe hung askew, there were weeds in the dried-up flower beds, and the front porch sagged. They tiptoed up the front walk but were unwilling to go up onto the front porch, because that seemed a little too close for comfort. Instead, they snuck around the side of the house. Halfway down the length of it, they came to a low window.

“Let's take a look,” Theodosia whispered.

Drayton cupped his hands together and peered inside. “I can't see a thing,” he said.

“Shades drawn?”

“Hard to tell, it's so dark.”

“You know what?” Theodosia said. “If a next-door neighbor looked out right now and saw us snooping, they'd probably call the police. Plus, we look strange. You're in a tuxedo and I'm wearing a long skirt.”

“They'd just think we were high-class cat burglars,” Drayton said, which set them both to giggling. Then Drayton pumped his arms and did a jaunty little quickstep. “Look at me,” he said in a stage whisper, “I'm the gentleman bandit.”