Ming Tea Murder (26 page)

“You'll enjoy it,” Drayton promised.

“And then we're going to ride the hay wagon,” said Aunt Acid.

Delaine wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, Auntie? Horses are awfully . . . How shall I put this? Aromatic?”

“Stinky?” said Aunt Acid, smirking.

“Well, yes,” said Delaine.

“I still want to ride,” said Aunt Acid.

Delaine shrugged at Theodosia. “What can I say? She wants to ride.”

“Don't let the haunts get you,” Drayton said to Aunt Acid with a twinkle in his eye.

“If they try,” said Aunt Acid, “I'll give 'em a shot of my pepper spray!”

“Get a load of her,” said Delaine. “She thinks she's my personal bodyguard.”

“Good luck,” said Theodosia. She gave a little wave as she and Drayton headed down the street in the direction of another house on her list. But they'd only gotten twenty feet or so when Max came running toward them. He was waving his arms, trying to get their attention.

“What's wrong?” Theodosia asked as he huffed up to meet her.

“Aw, they're completely swamped over at the cemetery,” said Max. “One of the guides from the Heritage Society, the lady who was doing a lovely lesson on the history of the place, just went home sick.”

Theodosia turned immediately to Drayton. “Drayton, can you do it? Can you lead the tour?”

“What?” His eyes widened and he touched a hand to his chest. “Me? You want
me
to lead a tour? What do I know about Gateway Walk and the program the guides are supposed to be presenting?”

“Are you serious?” said Theodosia. She practically laughed out loud. “Drayton, you know just about
everything
there is to know. I mean, you're on the board of the Heritage Society. You're probably one of the most knowledgeable people concerning legends and lore in this area.”

“You think so?” said Drayton.

“I know so,” said Theodosia. “So . . . will you do it?”

Drayton nodded. “For you, Theo, yes. I'll try to muddle through.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “Max, will you take Drayton over to Gateway Walk and get him set up?”

“You got it,” said Max.

As Theodosia watched the two of them disappear into a swirl of revelers, her cell phone began to hum. She dug for it in the bottom of her bag, fumbled it once, and then finally said, “Hello?” She hoped there wasn't another problem somewhere along the route.

“Ms. Browning?” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Theodosia Browning?”

“Yes, that's me.” She didn't recognize the voice.

“This is Allan Abrams from the Crenshaw Museum. You wanted me to call you back?”

“Oh, yes, thank you!”

“I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time, but the voice mails you left were awfully insistent.”

“I do appreciate the call back,” said Theodosia.

“What was it you needed to know?” asked Abrams

“Just some basic information. I understand your museum is buying a Chinese tea house? From Mandarin Art and Antiques in Shanghai?”

“We're
trying
to buy it,” said Abrams. “We're in the process now of rallying support from the arts community and staging a number of fund-raisers.” He hesitated, sounding a little wistful. “Still, one-point-two million dollars is a lot of money.”

“Excuse me?” said Theodosia.

Abrams repeated himself, speaking up louder. “I said one-point-two million dollars is a lot of money.”

“Yes, it is,” said Theodosia. Somewhere in the back of her mind, that figure sounded way low. Hadn't the Gibbes Museum paid considerably more for their tea house? She thought they had. “You know,” she said, “we have a tea house here in Charleston.”

“Yes,” said Abrams. “I saw the photos on your museum's website. It's a gorgeous tea house. Almost identical, I'd say, to the one we're trying to buy.”

“Almost identical,” said Theodosia. Her mind was suddenly in a tumble. “Well, thank you,” she told Abrams. “Thank you for calling back.”

She punched the Off button on her phone and practically swayed as crowds streamed past her. Why was there such a discrepancy in price between the two tea houses? she wondered.

Why had the Charleston museum paid . . . what was the figure? She thought it was something like $2.3 million. But the Crenshaw Museum was only trying to raise $1.2 million for their tea house. That was a difference of $1.1 million.

Maybe the discrepancy didn't mean anything. Maybe the two tea houses were completely different. They could be. They could be as different as night and day.

Or maybe my recollection is wrong.

Theodosia suddenly wondered if Charlotte Webster was still sitting in the Haunted Garden over at the Featherbed House. She drew a breath and glanced around. Only one way to find out.

Theodosia tore down the street and into the Featherbed House. She glanced right and left inside the lobby, then bolted out the back door and into the garden.

Charlotte was still there all right, sitting on the back patio with Roger Greaves, drinking what was probably her second or third Bloody Mary. She looked like she wasn't feeling any pain.

Theodosia dashed over to her table.

“Charlotte!”

Charlotte looked up with a question on her face. “Theodosia?” Her bewilderment was soon replaced by worry. “Is something wrong? I mean, you look like you're positively frantic. Please tell me something hasn't turned disastrous.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to come careening up to you like that,” said Theodosia. “But I have to ask you something. It's really important.”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Something about tonight's event? I'd help if I could, but I'm just not—”

“No,” said Theodosia, interrupting. “I need to ask you about the Chinese tea house that you and your husband helped finance.”

At that, tears sprang to Charlotte's eyes. “The tea house,” she said, almost blubbering. “It was the fulfillment of Edgar's dream. His legacy.”

Theodosia tried to pull Charlotte back into the here and now. “Do you remember the price that the museum paid for it?”

Charlotte swallowed hard and did a sort of double take. “The price?”

“Yes. Do you remember the exact amount the museum paid for it?”

“Of course, I do,” said Charlotte. “I have a very good head for numbers.”

“And that number was?”

Charlotte didn't hesitate. “All in, the price was two-point-three million dollars.”

“Quite a pretty penny,” said Roger Greaves, finally interjecting himself into the conversation.

“Yes, it is,” said Theodosia. She backed away from the table. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Theodosia?” Charlotte gazed at her sharply. “What's wrong? Why are you asking about the tea house? And why do you look as if you've just seen a ghost?”

Theodosia mustered a faint smile. “Because maybe I have.”
A ghost of
an idea, anyway.
“So I just need to . . . um . . . take care of a couple of things.” She took off hurriedly, leaving a very puzzled Charlotte in her wake.

Back out on
the street, standing in a puddle of yellow light cast by a flickering street lamp, Theodosia ran the numbers in her head again. Just to make sure.

Okay, the Gibbes Museum paid $1.1 million
more
than the Crenshaw Museum planned to pay for their Chinese tea house. That was an awfully big discrepancy. Too big to ignore. So . . . was it possible . . . could someone have lined their pockets with that $1.1 million? She clenched her fists tightly. They
must
have. That had to be the answer.

Theodosia spun quickly and practically swayed in her tracks from the effort. So who had absconded with all that money? And—here was the kicker—had the thief
murdered
Edgar Webster because he'd discovered the theft?

Oh, dear.

This was big. This was too big for Theodosia to deal with all by herself. She needed to bring in reinforcements. Not just Drayton, not just Max, but the big guns: Detective Tidwell and his crew of detectives and uniformed officers.

Walking slowly down the street, Theodosia knew what she had to do. She turned down an alley where she could have a little privacy. Cool wind rushed past her, dried leaves swirled, footsteps echoed behind her.

She whirled around, saw no one, and smiled faintly.

Nobody there. Just ghosts.

Theodosia pulled out her phone and made the call to Tidwell. There was no answer. All she could do was leave a message. Tidwell was probably sitting at home in an oversized bathrobe, reading Plato or something incredibly academic. On the flip side, he might be watching trash TV.

Theodosia tried to keep her message as short and succinct as possible. She fought hard to modulate her voice, but she was aware that it was starting to rise—just like the panic that fluttered deep inside her chest.

What do I do now?

She dropped her phone inside her bag, hoping Tidwell would get her message and call back as soon as possible. Or rush over here as soon as possible.

In the meantime . . .

Maybe she could figure out exactly who had absconded with the money?

It didn't seem as if Charlotte or Roger Graves could have pocketed the difference, since they had no idea that the museum had grossly overpaid for the tea house. So that meant they were free and clear as suspects.

Okay, what about Cecily? She might not be the most forthright person in the world, but she couldn't have had anything to do with the actual transaction. She wasn't involved with the museum, so there was no way any money had passed through her hands. There was no way she could have skimmed such a large amount.

So who was Cecily so afraid of? Who did that leave as suspects?

Well, it left the two people who'd been most involved in the importation and installation of the Chinese tea house, that's who: Harlan Duke and Elliot Kern.

Harlan Duke was occupied right now, driving the hay wagon, but Theodosia wondered if Elliot Kern was still over at the Ames-Parker House? And, if so, what would happen if she went over there and accused him outright?

He'd deny it, of course. But her threat of unmasking him might also set something in motion. He might flee, he might hire an attorney, he might go into total denial, or he might beg for mercy. Really, anything could happen.

So . . . was she willing to take that risk? Did she feel comfortable confronting Kern to see what his reaction might be?

Theodosia wasn't sure.

On the other hand, maybe she could drop a very broad hint and see if he flinched.

If he's even still there.

Theodosia turned and hurried back toward the Ames-Parker House, still unsure of how she was going to play it.
If
she was going to play it. Her nerves were completely jangled, and she constantly had the feeling that her footsteps were being dogged. But when she looked back, she could see . . . nothing.

Back at the mansion, Theodosia crept past the bat-infested staircase, past the Sherlock Holmes room. She exploded out onto the back patio and looked around, ready for a cataclysmic confrontation with Kern.

He wasn't there. The table where he'd been sitting was now occupied by a gaggle of women.

Feeling defeated, questioning her own reasoning now, Theodosia hauled herself back out to the street. Maybe Kern had gone to the Halloween party that Percy Capers had been headed to? She'd go after him if she could get the address. Try to pin his wily little ears back against his head. But she didn't have the address. Who would know? Max? No, he'd been out of the museum loop for a few days, so that possibility was slim to none.

Disgruntled, Theodosia walked slowly down the street.

“Theodosia?”

She looked up. Maggie Twining, her Realtor friend, was smiling at her. But when Maggie saw the worried look on Theodosia's face, her smile slipped a few degrees.

“Theo, are you okay?” Maggie asked.

“I'm just . . . Oh, I'm fine,” said Theodosia. “Just in a quandary over something.”

“You look pretty upset. I could tell straight away.” Maggie hesitated. “You're investigating something, aren't you?”

Theodosia's brows pinched together. “Why would you say that?”

Maggie fixed her with a kind smile. “Because that's what you do, hon. That's what you're good at. I mean . . . besides tea. Drayton mentioned it to me just the other day when I dropped in to grab some tea and scones. He's very proud of your sleuthing skills.”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “I'll admit it. I am on the trail of something.”

Maggie seemed pleased. “I'll just bet you're following up on the murder of Edgar Webster. That's all people have been talking about lately. That and the lovely tea house he helped bring to the museum.”

Theodosia stared at her. “You're good.”

“Did I guess right?”

Theodosia nodded.

Maggie put a hand on Theodosia's arm. “I hope your friend Max isn't involved.”

Theodosia stiffened. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh, just because he handles PR at the museum,” said Maggie. “I'd hate to see him pulled into any kind of witch hunt over there.”

She doesn't know
, thought Theodosia.

Theodosia desperately wanted to tell Maggie about Max being fired, but she didn't want to lay a total bummer on this lovely woman.

“You know,” said Maggie. “I'm working with one of Max's colleagues right now.”

“Oh, really?” Theodosia was only half listening. Her brain was still whirling like a cyclone, trying to figure out who might have benefitted financially from the tea house purchase. Could it have been the dealer in Shanghai?

“He's buying a gorgeous townhouse on St. Michaels Aly,” Maggie continued. “Expensive, but positively steeped in history, with a walled courtyard garden to boot. Still, he's putting a half million down. I had no idea those museum positions paid so well.”

Theo's ears suddenly perked up.

“Huh? Excuse me,
who's
buying it?”

“Percy Capers,” said Maggie. “You know, the Asian curator?”

The light instantaneously snapped on for Theodosia. (There was, in fact, an audible
click
inside her head, as if she could physically feel the lightbulb being turned on.)

Taking a deep breath and a step backward, Theodosia stared off into the distance, thinking. Percy Capers. Yes, he was most certainly the
Asian
curator. If anybody could have masterminded a swindle, it could have been him.

Feeling as if Max had been partially vindicated, Theodosia cast her eyes around and was rocked to the core when she suddenly saw the dark eyes of Percy Capers staring directly at her. He was practically hidden, crouched way back in the shadows, where a narrow walled alley led to a private garden. But she could tell he was staring fixedly at her and Maggie, his eyes as flat as a reptile's, desperately trying to listen in on their conversation!

Theodosia tried to remain calm as Capers shifted slightly and continued to study her. She didn't want to let on that she'd seen him.

Panic bubbled up inside her like hot lava, and there was a loud whooshing sound in her ears.
What to do? How to get help?
Most of all, she didn't want to trigger a bad situation that would put this crowd of parents and kids in any sort of danger!

Theodosia tried to pull it together. She squared her shoulders and set her jaw in a hard line. She hadn't intended to convey her fear to Capers, to give him what a Vegas card player might call a “tell.” Unfortunately, she probably
had
telegraphed the anxiety and fright that was prickling her senses and flooding her brain.

Oh, yes, she had, because Percy Capers suddenly broke cover and took off running down the block at full speed.

That was all Theodosia needed. She shoved her binder into the hands of a surprised Maggie Twining and, without really thinking about it, dashed after him.

Capers spun down the sidewalk, dodging people, slamming into a couple of older women, then dashing up onto a lawn and vaulting a flowerbed. Then he was careening down the middle of the street, feet slapping hard against the pavement.

“Stop!” Theodosia cried as she ran after him. “Stop right there!”

Capers continued his flight with Theodosia running hard right behind him. Startled by this impromptu chase, the crowd seemed to magically part as Theodosia—legs pumping, hair flying—tried to chase him down.

They may have been roughly around the same age, but Theodosia figured she could take him. She was in far better shape, her muscles toned and tight from daily runs. Her lung capacity was the best it had ever been.

Legs flying, arms akimbo, Percy Capers dared to turn his head and sneak a glance back at Theodosia. Fear registered on his face when he saw that she was gaining on him fast. He'd started out with a half-block lead, and now Theodosia was a hundred yards back, running flat out with a cold, determined look on her face. And a battle song in her heart that said,
I'm
going to run you down, punk, and knock you flat to the ground.

Percy Capers did what all cowards seemed to do. He panicked. His mouth gaped open, and his pinched face took on the appearance of a cornered rat. He spun wildly around one of the red barrels that marked the hay wagon–loading station, bumping people left and right. The wagon had just emptied out, and the driver was standing on the street, talking to a group of small kids. Without breaking stride, Capers shoved his way past the startled driver and sprang up onto the front wheel of the hay wagon. He landed on the flat wooden seat with a thud and snatched up the reins. Giving them a furious shake, he let loose a loud cry and took off!

Metal horseshoes grated against cobblestones as the two giant horses struggled to gain traction. Gentle in nature, not built for speed, they'd been pulling the wagon at a nice sedate pace all night, and this new driver had shocked their equine sensibilities to the max.

“Oh no, you don't!” Theodosia shouted after Capers as she raised a fist at him.

With barely a glance around, she leapt on board the second hay wagon. Floundering through a foot of loose hay, she scrambled madly toward the front seat and plopped down right next to Harlan Duke.

“Follow that wagon!” Theodosia screamed.

• • •

If it hadn't
been so dangerous, it would have been the Keystone Cops meets the wild, wild West.

Capers's wagon roared down Meeting Street, shuddering and rocking, scaring everyone silly and causing innocent bystanders to run for their lives.

“You've got to catch him!” Theodosia shouted to Duke. “Capers killed Edgar Webster!”

Duke's wagon was rolling fast and picking up speed. “You serious?” Duke shouted back to her.

Theodosia gritted her teeth and nodded. “I think he stole a big chunk of money and Webster found out.”

Comprehension dawned on Duke's broad face. “He's the one who handled the final . . .” He ground his teeth together and leaned forward, urging his pair of Percherons on harder. “The final sale,” he grunted out.

Theodosia grabbed his arm. “Be careful. We don't want to kill anyone!”

“Brace yourself,” cried Duke as they spun around a corner.

Capers had turned his wagon onto South Battery, urging his horses to run full tilt. Not used to such a rough, unskilled driver at the reins, the nervous team plunged from left to right, changing lanes haphazardly. The hay wagon swung back and forth wildly, its wheels jouncing up over curbs and trampling flowerbeds. The wagon was swaying so violently that it slammed into a couple of parked cars.

“Ouch,” said Theodosia. “I think he just creamed a Volvo.”

“There goes a BMW,” said Duke.

“Pull over!” Theodosia screamed at Capers. But he ignored her and just kept going on his wild, destructive ride.

“Where's he gonna run to?” wondered Duke.

“He's headed straight for White Point Gardens,” said Theodosia. And, indeed, Capers drove his team right up over the sidewalk and into the park, clipping a magnolia tree and barely missing a row of Civil War–era cannons.