Ming Tea Murder (9 page)

“I thought you were trying to dump her.”

“I am, just not in the ocean.”

A little stymied by Aunt Acid's hasty disappearance, Theodosia and Delaine checked the area around them. There were lots of small women slugging liquor down their gullets, but no Aunt Acid.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Delaine, lifting a hand to point, “there she is.”

“Where?”

“On the other side of that window. She's wandered into the studio where they bang out the custom pieces.”

Theodosia tilted her head, the better to see around a woman in a flamboyant black cape and red beret. “Oh, jeez, you're right. She's in the workroom.”

“We have to grab her,” said Delaine, “before she glues her feet to the floor or picks up a nail gun and . . .”

“Nails herself in the head,” said Theodosia as they pushed their way through the crowd.

“Honestly, Auntie,” Delaine said as they burst into the workroom, “I can't have you wandering off like this.”

“We were worried about you,” said Theodosia. The workroom was filled with all manner of finials, banisters, chair arms, and table legs. It carried the pleasant aroma of freshly planed wood, varnish, and lemon-scented polish.

“Hmmm?” Aunt Acid was balancing a tack hammer in her hand, looking like she wanted to smash something.

“Put that down,” Delaine ordered.

“Don't yell at me, missy,” said Aunt Acid. She stuck out her lower lip in an almost comical pout. “I got bored listening to you two jabber away mindlessly and was just looking around.”

“Snooping,” said Delaine.

Theodosia stepped in. “We just don't want you to get . . .” Her roving eyes suddenly fell upon a row of tools. “. . . hurt,” she finished lamely.

“Now what's gotten into
you
?” Delaine asked, frowning at Theodosia.

“Look over there,” said Theodosia. She pointed toward a row of awls. Long, pointed instruments, all neatly arranged, smallest to largest, on a pegboard that hung on the wall. Awls that were used for carving, piercing, and punching holes.

“What are you . . . ?” Delaine began. Then her eyes took in the awls, and her brain flashed a quick connection. “Oh,” she said. “Oh my. Those look so nasty and . . . sharp.”

Theodosia stared at the woodworking tools, which bore a remarkable resemblance to ice picks. And, as her heart did a little
thump-bump
inside her chest, all she could think was:
Cec
ily?

She wondered if Cecily Conrad could have jammed one of those nasty, pointy things into Edgar Webster's ear. And then, when the deed was done, when Webster's dying breath was nothing more than a sigh, had she carefully wiped the blood off an awl, one of
these
awls, and stashed it neatly inside her perky little Fendi bag?

And then what?

And then made her getaway, of course.

“I find these tools very disturbing,” said Delaine, “in light of the, uh, murder.”

“More like incriminating,” said Theodosia. “I'd say any one of these awls could have made a perfect murder weapon.” There, she'd said it. She'd spoken the words without having one shred of evidence. Except, of course, for Edgar Webster's poor dead body.

Delaine grimaced. “Do you think we should . . . ?”

“Tell someone?” said Theodosia. “Yes. I'll call Tidwell first thing tomorrow.”

Delaine moved closer to her. “Why not call him right now?”

“Because I want to let this percolate,” said Theodosia. “I want to . . .”

Her words were suddenly interrupted by a shrill aria of piercing screams and angry screeches.

“Now what's going on?” said Delaine, startled. “It sounds like a fight just broke out in the middle of the party.” She put a hand to her chest and said, “Good glory, you can't even attend a fancy soiree anymore without somebody throwing down and starting a fight.”

The awls suddenly forgotten, Theodosia, Delaine, and Aunt Acid rushed from the workshop into the main part of the store where all the action seemed to be taking place.

As if it were a good old-fashioned street fight, a tight circle of onlookers had gathered around two people who were apparently going at it tooth and nail. Theodosia could only hear raised voices, but from the tension in the room, it felt like they'd be throwing blows and ripping each other to shreds any minute now.

“What's going on?” Theodosia asked a tall man in a purple velvet jacket and matching paisley ascot. “What's it all about?”

“Our illustrious hostess is having a
Jerry Springer
moment,” said the man, grinning.

“Who is?” said Delaine.

“Our hostess?” said Theodosia. Shocked now, she looked at Delaine, and said, “Cecily?”

“Cecily's in a fight?” said Delaine. “Whoa. This I gotta see. Maybe she'll even pitch a folding chair.” Then, like a wide receiver running the ball in for a touchdown, Delaine sprinted into the crowd. She practically straight-armed a silver-haired lady, then dipped a shoulder and shoved a young woman in black leather out of the way. As Theodosia rode her coattails, Delaine zigged and zagged her way directly into the middle of the fray.

“Wait!” cried Theodosia. She was momentarily stalled behind a large man in a pink sweater.

“Hurry up,” said Delaine. Her five-inch high heels didn't slow her down one iota. “We don't want to miss this.”

Delaine popped out on one side of Marianne Petigru, one of the decorators who owned Popple Hill Design Studio, while Theodosia ducked out on Marianne's other side.

Theodosia took one look and blinked in utter disbelief.

“Max!” she cried.

Her boyfriend was standing in the middle of the circle, while Cecily Conrad slapped at him and screamed like a crazed banshee.

“No!” Theodosia cried as she dove in to grab Max. “Stop it!”

Max continued to back away from an angry, red-faced Cecily Conrad. Her short, dark hair stuck up from her head as if she'd plunged her finger into a light socket. Her mouth was pulled into a tight, ugly grimace, and she looked as if clouds of steam were about to pour from her ears. About a hundred shocked but spellbound open house guests surrounded them. It looked, Theodosia thought, like a very classy rugby scrum.

“Get out of my shop!” Cecily screamed at Max.

Max held his hands high in a show of surrender. “I'm leaving, I'm leaving.”

“You're a horrible, vicious excuse for a human,” Cecily hurled at him.

Theodosia was suddenly at Max's side, latching onto his arm and pulling him away. “What happened?” she demanded. “Who started this?” The whole episode was embarrassing and humiliating for everyone.

“She did,” someone said, pointing at Cecily.

Theodosia stared at Cecily, who was busy throwing the hissy fit of the century. And, at the exact moment Cecily screamed again, her mouth gaping so wide you could practically count her fillings, Bill Glass ducked in and took a picture.

“Get out of here!” Theodosia slapped at him.

Strobe lights flashed as Glass snapped another quick series of shots.
Pop, pop, pop.
He was Charleston's own unwelcome paparazzo.

“You're not helping,” Theodosia hissed at Glass. She tried to wave him off at the same time she struggled to drag Max in the direction of the front door.

Cecily spun toward Theodosia like a rabid weasel and pointed a shaking finger. “Get him out of here!” she screamed.

“C'mon,” said Theodosia. She'd sneaked an arm halfway around Max's waist and gave a series of urgent yanks. “Right
now
,” she said, using her insistent “Don't you dare chew on that carpet, Earl Grey,” tone of voice.

That seemed to get through to him.

“What?” Max said. He stared at her as if in a daze.

“Come with me,” said Theodosia, “this instant.” But this time she let a hint of gentleness seep into her voice.

“Yes, go!” Cecily shrilled. “You lying, freaking animal!”

Dodging and darting their way through the crowd, Theodosia and Max finally emerged onto the sidewalk. Cool air ruffled their hair, and darkness and quiet wrapped around them like a soft cloak.

“Okay,” said Theodosia. She inhaled deeply. “That went well.” She touched a hand to her hair and found that the heat, humidity, and the general aura of vitriol had caused it to expand. She smoothed it down, fearing she probably looked like a wild woman, too.

“Jeez,” said Max. He touched a hand to his forehead and gave a mock wipe. “That woman's plum crazy.”

“The thing I need to know,” said Theodosia, “is
what did you say to Cecily to make her flip out like that?”

“I was just minding my own business,” said Max. “Standing at the bar and talking to that Bill Glass character.”

“Oh, great.”

“He was being snooty about the wine they were serving, making wisecracks about it coming in a box and all that. But then he apologized for the nasty shot he took at me earlier. I let him know it was cool, that I wasn't nursing any sort of grudge.”

Theodosia made a rolling motion with her hand. “Yeah, yeah, and then what happened?”

“Then Glass mentioned Cecily, and I said something about her, and before you know it . . . she was right there in our faces, howling like a scalded cat.”

Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “In what context did you mention her?”

Max just stared at her.

“As Edgar Webster's killer?”

“
Killer
is your word,” said Max. “I only referred to her as a possible suspect.”

“You did this right in the middle of her open house,” said Theodosia, her tone getting a little rougher. “Where she or her friends could overhear you? Where she obviously
did
overhear you. Sheesh . . . no wonder the woman came unglued.”

“I didn't
mean
for her to overhear me,” Max muttered.

“You know what?” said Theodosia. “You think
I'm
the crazy one on this team?” She jabbed an index finger into the middle of his chest. “You're the one who's off his spindle.”

“I'm sorry. I really am.”

“Come on,” said Theodosia. “Let get in the car. There's something important I have to tell you.”

Max's face fell. “You're breaking up with me?”

“No,” said Theodosia. “It's actually much worse.”

• • •

When they were
finally settled in Theodosia's Jeep with the engine running and the defroster pumping out a refreshing shot of cool air, she told him about the row of awls she'd seen in Pine Nut's workshop.

“Owls?” said Max. His brain was still a little discombobulated.

“No,” Theodosia told him.
“Awls.”
She proceeded to give him a detailed description of her workshop discovery.

Max finally caught on. “Seriously?” His voice sounded strangled and his eyes went slightly crossed. “You're talking about those sharp, pointy things used in woodworking projects?”

“That's right. Kind of like ice picks, only probably made of stronger steel. Tempered steel.”

“There you go!” said Max. “That could definitely point to Cecily being the killer.”

“It could. Or it might just be a bizarre coincidence. I mean, who's crazy enough to stab somebody with an awl and then put it back in their own workshop for everyone to see? I mean, especially in the middle of a
party?
”

“Cecily's plan could be to hide the murder weapon in plain sight,” said Max. “It's been done before.”

“Sure, but mostly on reruns of
The Alfred Hitchcock Hour
.”

Max thought for a minute. “There's another possible explanation for her going all postal.”

“Yeah?”

“What if Cecily did kill Webster, and the guilt is starting to eat away at her? That could explain why she went completely berserk.”

Theodosia turned on the radio: WAAP, easy listening. Because, boy, did they ever need it. “It's a possibility.”

“That's it? That's all you have to say? Theo, you just made a major discovery! One of those awls really could be the murder weapon.”

“Calm down,” said Theodosia. “Try to dial it back a little. I'm definitely going to run this awl thing past Tidwell.”

“And tell him how whacked-out Cecily was?”

“Yes,” said Theodosia. “If she really is guilty, she may be hitting her breaking point. Or, as you say, she's already lost it. And the awl thing . . . well, it's what you'd call an incriminating lead. Tidwell might even want to send in his crime-scene team.”

“To test the awls for, like, blood?”

“Or tissue residue,” said Theodosia. “But that's his call. The thing is, we've got other fish to fry.”

“Now what are you talking about?”

“We have to think about getting your job back.”

Max did a double take. “Kern was pretty adamant when I talked to him. He did everything but tell me to start punching up my résumé.” He paused. “So I don't think getting my job back is even a possibility.”

Theodosia gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Anything's possible. You just have to work it right and stay positive. Or at least
I
have to work it right.”

“Wait a minute,” said Max. “You're talking about getting my job back? When are you going to attempt this miracle?”

Theodosia reached across the console and squeezed his hand. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

Theodosia was as
good as her word. Bright and early Saturday morning, she slipped into her midnight-blue Dior jacket, patted Earl Grey on his sweet little head, and hurried off to the Gibbes Museum.

She parked out front on Meeting Street, noting that two yellow school buses had just pulled up in front and disgorged at least three dozen museum-going youngsters.

This was good, she decided. The museum was back on track. Visitors, especially these kids, weren't going to be held hostage by what had taken place here Thursday night.

Of course, nothing was ever easy, and Mary Monica Diver, the director's longtime secretary and personal assistant, proved to be a formidable obstacle.

“He's extremely busy,” Diver told her when Theodosia asked to see Elliot Kern.

“I imagine he is,” said Theodosia. “The tragedy here . . . dealing with the aftermath . . . must be a trial for all of you.” She was determined to keep the mood light and sweet. She'd dealt with Diver before and knew it would do no good to pressure her. Diver, who was pushing sixty, wore a beehive hairdo, brown pantsuit, and sensible shoes. She was as formidable and stolid as she looked, tenacious at running interference for her boss.

“I just need five minutes with him,” Theodosia said.

Diver gave a passing glance at an appointment calendar and grimaced. “That's probably not going to happen.”

“He's in a meeting?” said Theodosia. She leaned down and pulled a clear cellophane bag filled with toasted coconut scones from her tote bag. She'd stopped by the tea shop on her way over. Knowing Diver was a sugar freak of the first magnitude, she'd come armed for bear.

“Oh,” said Diver when Theodosia plunked the scones down on her desk. Her squeaky little
oh
was the equivalent of the enemy blinking first.

“Because, if he's in a meeting, these scones might be a welcome addition,” Theodosia said.

Diver stared at the scones as if she'd just discovered the treasure of the Sierra Madre.

“You know, I actually have an extra bag here,” said Theodosia. She set the second bag on the counter. “Maybe
you'd
enjoy them.”

Diver's brows knit together for a fraction of a second. “That's kind of you,” she said slowly. “Generous, in fact.” Her salivary glands seemed to be waging war with her no-nonsense attitude.

Theodosia gave an offhand wave. “Not a problem. Our scones are so popular, we pretty much bake them all day long. There's more where those came from.”

Diver's hand snaked up to grab her bag.

“So . . . do you think Mr. Kern would have, like, two seconds to spare?” Theodosia asked.

Diver licked her lips. “He's awfully busy,” she said, making a final pro forma protest, “but let me check.” She stood up and smoothed the front of her jacket. “I'll just be a moment.”

“Take your time,” Theodosia said sweetly.

• • •

“I don't know
how you weaseled your way in here,” said Elliot Kern, “but I'm not about to discuss our employment policies with you.” He was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a blue button-down oxford shirt and was bristling with outrage. His hawk nose seemed to vibrate and his lips were pulled tight. Theodosia thought that Kern still looked like one of the members of the Medici family. One of the bean-counter types.

Seated in a black leather club chair, Theodosia stared across an acre of mahogany library table that served as a desk in Kern's private office. If his words and attitude hadn't been so hostile, the meeting might have been downright cozy. Kern's floor-to-ceiling shelves held an array of art objects ranging from Greek vases to South Sea island masks to early American silver. Oil paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. His desk was peppered with tasty objects d'art such as brass candlesticks, geodes, and Chinese ink bottles. It was like taking a crash course in museology.

Theodosia placed the scones on his desk and offered a distracted smile. “I'm not here to discuss museum policy,” she said. “I just want to get a few things straight.”

Kern stared at her as if she were an unwelcome squatter. Which she pretty much was. “Such as?”

“You put Max on unpaid leave.”

“Yes,” said Kern. “I most certainly did.”

“When do you expect him to return and be back on your payroll?”

Kern leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

“When will he be—”

Kern held up a hand. “No, I heard you just fine. I just can't believe you have the gall to ask that question.”

“I don't mean to be galling,” said Theodosia.
I just want a straight
answer.

“Look,” said Kern, pressing his palms flat against his desk until his nail beds practically turned white. “I admire your loyalty. I even have a grudging respect for your chutzpah. But as far as Max's return to work . . .” He lifted both hands and his fingers flew apart, as if to indicate: Poof! There simply wasn't an answer to be found.

“Come on,” said Theodosia. “You don't want to make Max the fall guy in Edgar Webster's death. In fact, you're completely off base if you do. Max is no killer and you know it. He's well liked in the community and has done an admirable job for the museum. When all the dust settles and the real killer is apprehended, you're going to look pretty darn silly.”

“It's out of my hands,” said Kern. “His dismissal wasn't an indictment; it was merely a recommendation that came straight from our board of directors.”

Theodosia shoved the bag of scones toward Kern and smiled serenely. “I know quite a few of those board members,” she told him. “Some are friends of mine, others are good friends of Drayton.” Kern might regard Drayton as simply the local tea master and antiques buff, but Drayton was held in high esteem by many prominent families in the upper echelons of Charleston society. If Drayton gave Max his vote of confidence—and he certainly had—then that was serious currency. Something to be reckoned with.

“I don't care to be threatened, Miss Browning,” said Kern.

Theodosia lifted her right eyebrow and let it quiver. “It's not a threat. I was merely stating a known fact.”

“Then let me make myself perfectly clear,” said a red-faced Kern, and this time all semblance of propriety seemed to have left him. “I heard all about that nasty squabble between Max and Cecily Conrad last night. Max caused quite a stir, so it's obvious to me that he's a hothead and a troublemaker. And, I can assure you, that is
not
the sort of person I want on staff at my museum!”

• • •

Theodosia didn't exactly
storm out of Kern's office, but she exited in a distinct huff.

How
dare
Kern slander Max like that
, she thought. Kern was a cowardly administrator who was hiding behind a bad decision that his board of directors had made. Or maybe it wasn't even the entire board. Maybe it had been just a few angry, paranoid old men. Either way, she was determined to turn the tide on this ridiculous ruling, no matter what it took. No matter how long it took.

Because the thing about Theodosia was . . . she was tenacious. Call it
wrong
; she'd prove it right. Tell her to back off; she'd dig in her heels. She was a woman who believed in equality and fairness. And no two-bit museum administrator was going to get the best of her!

Theodosia's heels sounded like castanets as she flew down the museum's central corridor, past Greek statues and elegant sixteenth century tapestries. In fact, her steps rang out so loudly, she barely heard the soft voice that called after her.

“Theodosia. Theodosia, hold up a moment.”

She turned around with a flounce, her brows pinched together. “What?” she barked out.

Percy Capers, the curator of Asian art, hustled toward her. “I want to talk to you,” he said. A stack of brochures fluttered in one hand—he must have been about to give a tour or lecture—and a look of concern lit his normally bland face. He was fairly young—not yet thirty—and wore round wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a friendly, studious look.

“What's up?” Theodosia asked.

Capers pulled up next to her and took in her expression. “Oh my, you don't look happy at all.”

“I'm not,” said Theodosia. “I just had an unsettling meeting with Elliot Kern.”

Capers gave a knowing nod. “Fearless leader.”

“Some leader,” Theodosia snorted.

“I take it you were talking to him about Max's suspension?”

“Trying to,” said Theodosia. She wondered how much Percy Capers knew about this.

Capers touched her arm gently. “If it's any consolation, please know that I'm on your side. And Max's side, too, of course. For Kern to have suspended him like that, with no evidence whatsoever, was unconscionable. That's not how we do things around here.” He straightened the brochures that threatened to spill out of his hand. “We're gentlemen. And we conduct business as such.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “It's nice to know we have a friend on the inside.”

“Listen,” Capers said hurriedly. “I
am
on the inside, and I promise I'll do everything in my power to help get Max reinstated. I believe in his innocence. Heck, I believe in
him
.”

“You're very kind,” said Theodosia.

“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” continued Capers. “Edgar Webster had enemies. That's who the police should be looking at. And I'm sure they are, but . . .”

Theodosia was slightly taken aback. “Wait a minute, what enemies are you referring to?”

“Certainly that crazy woman he was carousing with,” said Capers. “I heard that she completely turned against him. As for his business partner . . . well, I'm not sure the two of them ever got along all that well.”

“What about Charlotte, his wife?”

“That I couldn't say. Although . . .” Capers's eyes darted from side to side and he glanced around, as if fearing he'd be overheard.

“What?” Theodosia pressed.

Capers dropped his voice to a minimal stage whisper. “I understand Charlotte is lobbying to take Edgar Webster's place on the board of directors.”

“That's interesting,” said Theodosia. She wondered if a woman would murder her husband just to improve her social standing. On the other hand, philandering husbands had been murdered for far less.

“I do find Charlotte's move a little strange,” Capers admitted.

“Will you let me know if that happens? If Charlotte really does get invited onto the board?”

“Count on it,” said Capers. He held up a finger. “And if there's anything else I can do . . .”

“You're an angel,” said Theodosia.

• • •

Feeling somewhat mollified,
Theodosia wandered into the museum's rotunda. Sunlight streamed down through the domed window overhead, dappling the marble floor and creating little prisms of warmth and cheerfulness.

And, almost on impulse, Theodosia found herself being drawn to the Chinese tea house. She threaded her way through groups of museumgoers until, finally, she was standing outside, once again marveling at the peaked roof and dark cypress walls.

When a group of three women exited the tea house, Theodosia seized the opportunity to duck inside. The interior was dark and peaceful, just as it had been two nights ago, the night of the opening reception. Candles flickered, tins of aromatic tea lined a single shelf, an antique tea chest rested near the small fireplace, where a cast-iron teapot hung. Lightly furnished with a teak tea table and four square Chinese benches, the tea house projected an aura of contemplation and peacefulness.

This transplanted bit of history was truly beautiful, Theodosia decided, from the ornately carved wooden screens right down to the antique scrolls hanging on the walls. It was everything you'd expect from a tea house where scholars and poets had once raised tea bowls filled with fine black tea and quoted the teachings and poetry of Lao Tse and Li Po.

Exhaling deeply, Theodosia settled onto one of the Chinese benches and pulled out her phone. It was time for ugly conversation number two. That is, it was time to call Detective Tidwell and clue him in about the woodworking awls.

Tidwell's gatekeepers were even gnarlier than Mary Monica Diver—they dug their heels in like a pack of unruly mules. But finally, after some serious wheedling, she got through.

“Speak,” said Tidwell once he was finally on the line. He sounded gruff and harried.

“Do you have any news from the medical examiner regarding the murder weapon?” she asked.

“Why do you want to know?” said Tidwell. “Wait. Let me guess . . . You're planning to commit a copycat crime? You wish to add to my agitation.”

“No, I was wondering if it really was an ice pick that penetrated Mr. Webber's frontal cortex.”