Ming Tea Murder (7 page)

“Anyway,” continued Charlotte, “the reason I tell you this is because we're holding the services at St. Philip's Church, which is just a half block down from the Indigo Tea Shop. Since the funeral is by invitation only, I was hoping we could have all our attendees drop by your place for a post-funeral luncheon. Do you think you could arrange that?”

“Yes, of course,” said Theodosia. “I'd be happy to.” She hesitated. “Well, not exactly happy, but I'd . . .”

Charlotte touched her arm. “Don't worry, dear, I know what you mean. And I'm sorry to give you such late notice.”

“That's not a problem,” said Theodosia. The tea shop was open tomorrow, Saturday, and would be open again on Sunday for the
Titanic
Tea, so it would be easy to pull Charlotte's luncheon together. Just one more event to rotate in.

“Probably just serve tea and tea sandwiches,” said Charlotte, absently fingering a large coral ring.

“Along with scones and perhaps a small salad or fruit plate?” said Theodosia.

“Mmn, that does sound lovely,” said Charlotte. “Yes, that would be perfect.”

“Is there any particular tea you'd like to serve?”

Charlotte looked suddenly pained. “Perhaps you and Drayton could figure that out. You're the experts, after all.”

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, claiming the onset of a sudden headache, Charlotte shooed Theodosia and Greaves out the door.

“I'm sorry but I just can't . . .” said Charlotte. “I must . . .”

“We understand,” said Theodosia. She figured the shock of her husband's death was finally catching up to Charlotte.

Standing on the front walk in fading October sunlight, with long shadows beginning to creep across the lawn, Theodosia and Greaves faced each other.

“May I speak to you frankly?” Theodosia asked.

Greaves gave an imperceptible nod.

“Charlotte never mentioned Cecily Conrad.”

Greaves looked thoughtful. “No, she didn't. I think because her pride was . . . is . . . so deeply wounded.”

Theodosia thought it was an interesting choice of words.

“Have there been any accusations from Charlotte that Cecily might have been the killer?”

Greaves stuck both hands in his pants pockets and jingled his change. Finally, he said, “Yes. In fact, it was the first thing she said to the detectives last night.”

“Just to be clear,” said Theodosia, “Charlotte made a direct accusation against Cecily?”

“She pretty much
hurled
an accusation,” said Greaves. “Shrieked her head off to that rather large, stolid fellow. The one who heads the Robbery and Homicide Division.”

“Detective Tidwell.”

“Yes, that's the one. Tidwell.”

“Do you think he took her seriously?”

“Hard to say,” said Greaves. “He seemed to. Then again, Charlotte was beyond hysterical after the police hauled her husband's body away.”

Theodosia hesitated. “What do
you
think, Mr. Greaves? Edgar Webster was your business partner for many years, you worked together closely, so you must have known something about Cecily.” She'd tried to word her question carefully so as not to put Greaves on the defensive.

“Cecily was angry,” said Greaves. “There's no doubt about that. Edgar cut off the relationship and asked her to pay back the money he'd loaned her. And Cecily pretty much spat in his face.”

“Was he angry and demanding or . . . ?” What she really wanted to know was if he had provoked Cecily.

“No, no, Edgar was quite calm about the whole thing. He wanted to give her a reasonable amount of time and all that.”

“Really?” said Theodosia. Then she added, “Do you think Cecily would have paid him back? I mean if she proved successful?”

Greaves shook his head. “Doubtful. I mean, Edgar was a pretty trusting sort of fellow. If you ask me, he pretty much just
gave
Cecily Conrad several hundred thousand dollars.”

“I heard a half million.”

“Maybe.”

“And he didn't get anything in writing?” Theodosia asked. “Get her to sign some sort of note or contract?”

“Not that I know of,” said Greaves.

“Which means, now that Webster is dead, Cecily really isn't obligated to pay the money back.”

“That's right,” said Greaves. “She's free and clear.”

Maybe not that free and clear after all
, Theodosia thought as she walked to her car.

Theodosia was lost
in thought as she wove her way through the picturesque streets of the Historic District. She realized that, in just fifteen minutes' time, she'd stumbled upon quite a few relevant facts. She'd discovered that Charlotte Webster was not just crazy, as Delaine had warned, but that she was awfully cozy with Roger Greaves. Roger Greaves, on the other hand, with his cool, casual indifference, could be a raging sociopath who'd murdered his own partner in order to wrest control of the business and speed ahead with his IPO.

The third thing she knew for sure was that Max had been unjustly fired, no matter what crappy, rotten reason the museum board had drummed up.

And, yes, Theodosia had made up her mind that it was her mission in life to unravel this whole ridiculous mess. A man had been murdered in cold blood, Max desperately needed her help, and justice had to be served.

So where to start?

For one thing, Theodosia hoped that Max had gotten the voice mail she'd left him earlier and was waiting for her at home. Then they could sit down together, sort through the sordid details, and maybe figure a few things out. Or at least figure out where to start.

Hanging a right on Meeting Street, Theodosia bumped along toward her cottage, barely registering the fact that golden leaves were spinning down in miniature, swirling tornadoes. Charleston's hot, steamy summer was finally behind them, and the cooler, more temperate days of autumn were here.

She passed the historic Gunther-Melrose Home, a fine old Italianate mansion with rounded arches, balustrades, and a loggia. Unfortunately, its new owners, with their recently installed outdoor lighting, had managed to give it the garish appearance of a supper club. On the next block, the Granville Mansion stood hunkered in gloom. It was far more tastefully done, but was still waiting for a buyer after Dougan Granville, Delaine's fiancé and the home's owner, had been murdered last June. It had been priced high at almost four million dollars, so no takers thus far.

Then her headlights swept across the front of her own small cottage, and Theodosia's heart swelled with pride. Because she truly adored this cute little Queen Anne–style cottage that she had scrimped and saved for—her own little place, with the endearing name of Hazelhurst. How many plates of scones had she sold to make the down payment? How many pots of tea had she ferried to customers? It didn't matter; the Indigo Tea Shop was a labor of love, the home was in her name, and that was all that mattered.

Pulling to the curb, Theodosia gazed lovingly at the exterior. Her quirky little home fairly oozed street appeal, thanks to its slightly asymmetrical design and rough cedar tiles that replicated a thatched roof. The exterior walls were brick and stucco, and there was an arched door, wooden cross gables, and the blip of a two-story turret. To complete the look, lush curls of ivy meandered up the sides of her house.

Theodosia had barely gone three steps up the cobblestone walk when the front door flew open, and there stood Max with Earl Grey at his side. Earl Grey had been a terrified, half-starved puppy when she'd found him huddled in the rain in the alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop. Now he was a magnificent animal with his dappled coat (she thought of him as a Dalbrador), expressive eyes, and fine, aristocratic muzzle.

Bending forward, she clapped her hands together, and called, “Hey, pup!”

That was all Earl Grey needed. He dive-bombed toward her, almost knocking her off her feet as he buried his head in hands that moved gently and lovingly over him, patting ears, muzzle, and neck.

“Nice to see you, too,” Theodosia told him.

“Rrwwr,” said Earl Grey.

“I am home kind of late,” said Theodosia. “Sorry about that.” She looked up. “But I see Max dropped by. Were you two enjoying some playtime?”

“We went for a run together,” said Max. “Down to the harbor.”

“Great,” said Theodosia. She threw Max a questioning look. “Well?” She hadn't heard from him all day and was dying to know what happened.

“I've definitely been fired,” said Max. “There's not much else to say.”

“Au contraire,” said Theodosia, “there's a lot more to say.” She dusted her hands together. “Why don't we go inside and you can tell me what's going on.”

Max sat in a wooden Shaker-style rocking chair while Theodosia kicked off her shoes and curled up on her chintz-covered sofa. Earl Grey lay on the Aubusson carpet, equidistant between the two of them and looking a little nervous, as if he might be called upon to referee.

“So tell me,” said Theodosia.

Max lifted one hand. “It's pretty much over. I'm not
technically
fired yet; I guess HR has to draw up some legal documents. But I've been put on unpaid leave.”

“And why is that exactly? What reason did they give? Don't tell me this is because of the photo booth?” Theodosia had given some thought to the reason behind Max's firing and decided the photo booth couldn't be the
real
reason. It was far too petty. It had to be a smokescreen for something else.

Max shook his head. “Not the photo booth. That's really just an unfortunate add-on. Turns out the board was upset about an argument I had with Edgar Webster.”

“You argued with him?” This was news to her. “When?”

“Couple days ago.”

“Over what?”

“Oh, it was stupid, really,” said Max. “Almost inconsequential.”

“Obviously not.”

“Our disagreement concerned publicity for the opening of the tea house.”

Theodosia waggled her fingers. “Okay. Tell me more. Give me all the dirty details.”

“I decided our private-donor party really didn't warrant any publicity,” said Max. “I figured it was smarter to conserve our resources and garner as much press as possible for the public opening instead.”

“Sounds right to me.”

Max rocked forward in his chair and gazed at Theodosia earnestly. “It is right. I mean, think about it: Invitations had gone out and donors and Gold Circle patrons had already RSVP'd to the opening-night party. In my book, there's nothing worse than generating publicity for an event that the general public isn't invited to attend. Isn't
allowed
to attend. It's elitist and rude and defeats the purpose of presenting ourselves as a public institution.”

“Absolutely,” said Theodosia. Before opening the Indigo Tea Shop, she'd spent several years as a marketing executive. She understood the business of PR and media relations. “But you're telling me that Edgar Webster didn't agree with you.”

“That's right. He had his heart set on a feature story in the
Post and
Courier.
Apparently, he was fairly well connected with the arts editor, Phil Sirochi, and had it all ironed out.”

“He wanted to toot his own horn,” said Theodosia. “And that of the donors who paid to import the tea house.”

“I'm fairly sure that was the gist of it,” said Max. “But the story would have come off as a self-serving article about a bunch of rich guys.”

“So you put the kibosh on it.”

“Yes, I did,” said Max. “I made a call to Sirochi, explained the situation, and that was the end of it. The other thing is, all publicity, all marketing efforts, are supposed to be run through me. We can't have everyone at the museum scurrying around like chickens with their heads cut off, writing their own press releases and sucking up to the media.”

“That's right,” said Theodosia. “The media is supposed to suck up to you, to the PR guy.”

That brought a faint smile to Max's face. “Something like that, yes.”

Theodosia gazed about her living room with its beamed ceiling, chintz and damask furniture, antique highboy, and elegant oil paintings, and said, “So that's why Webster was chewing you out last night? Because you pulled the plug on his publicity?”

“Yeah . . . and I have to admit I pretty much shrugged him off. Nicely, of course. But now . . . now our confrontation has taken on new meaning and been blown completely out of proportion.”

“And the board of directors really did vote to oust you?”

“Probably because they're running scared. They're worried about possible lawsuits from Charlotte Webster as well as from Edgar Webster's company. Or they're afraid of bad publicity, as well as backlash from board members, patrons, and donors—you name it.”

“Cowards,” said Theodosia.

“Looking for a fall guy,” said Max. “Hey, for all I know one of the board members or Gold Circle patrons
who was there last night
could have stabbed Webster. I don't attend their board meetings and affinity groups, so I don't know what goes on. But I'm sure there's a fair amount of political maneuvering and backstabbing.”

“Or ear stabbing,” said Theodosia.

“Well, yes,” said Max. “Unfortunately.”

Theodosia thought about the situation. Pretty much every board of directors that she'd served on, with the exception of Big Paw Service Dogs, had been rife with infighting. It was the nature of the beast.

“So that's it,” said Max. “In a nutshell.”

“I have some news for you,” said Theodosia. She quickly filled him in on her visit with Charlotte Webster and Roger Greaves, and what she perceived as a seemingly cozy and questionable relationship.

Max listened carefully.

“Oh, and there's something else,” said Theodosia. “Webster was opposed to Greaves taking Datrex public with an IPO. But now, with Webster dead, there's nothing to stand in the way.”

“Wow,” said Max, when she'd finally finished. “All this information leaves me a little breathless.”

“I haven't even gotten to Cecily Conrad,” said Theodosia.

“The woman you mentioned this morning,” said Max. “The one who was having the torrid affair with Webster.”

“We've got to throw that little temptress into the mix as a possible suspect, too.”

“So now we have three suspects. Each with a possible motive.”

“A lot to think about,” said Theodosia.

“How much do you know about Cecily Conrad?” asked Max.

“Not that much. Just that she's the proud owner of Pine Nut Décor and Custom Furniture.”

“Okay.”

“And, of course, Edgar Webster gave Cecily the money to open her store. I'd guess we're talking six months' rent, as well as money for interior renovation and decorating, fixtures, a complete inventory, custom woodworking shop . . . well, you name it. And the crazy thing is, I found out there was never any agreement in writing.”

Max was listening carefully. “So now that Webster is dead, Cecily doesn't have to pay the money back.”

Theodosia aimed an index finger at him. “Bingo.”

“Theo,” said Max, “you're getting that funny look in your eyes. You're leaning toward Cecily, aren't you? You think Cecily Conrad murdered Edgar Webster.”

“Thinking is a long way from knowing.”

“And you got most of this information from Delaine?”

“And I picked up a smattering from Roger Greaves,” said Theodosia. “Who also had a serious motive to get rid of Webster.”

“It seems like Delaine has the 411 on everybody.”

“Telegraph, telephone, tell Delaine. Although, she's probably got her own podcast by now. And has raked in even more information since we talked this morning.”

“You think it's worth calling her again? See if she's picked up anything new?”

“I suppose I could give her a ring.”

“I'd appreciate it,” said Max. “Especially since my neck is on the line here.”

Theodosia pulled her cell phone from her bag and hastily punched in Delaine's number.

“Hello?” came a squawky, tremulous voice. Theodosia figured it had to be Aunt Astra.

“Is Delaine there?”

“Who wants to know?” Harsher now. Definitely Aunt Astra.

“It's her friend Theodosia.”

“Hold.”

When Delaine came on the line, Theodosia said, “Is Aunt Acid always that testy?”

“I warned you. Battery acid runs in that woman's veins.”

“In that case, I hope you
can
pawn her off on one of your other relatives.”

“I'm working on it, Theo, believe me. And while I have you on the phone, I want to remind you about the Hunt and Gather Market this Tuesday.”

“The what?”

“Hunt and Gather Market,” said Delaine. “Theo, don't tell me you forgot!”

“I . . .”

“You
guaranteed
me that the Indigo Tea Shop would have a table. In fact, I reserved one for you. I'm the chairwoman, don't you remember?”

“I guess it kind of slipped my mind.”

Delaine released an unhappy-sounding sigh. “I thought that's why you might be calling.”

“I was actually wondering if you'd picked up any more dirt . . . uh, information . . . on Cecily Conrad.”