Scones & Bones Page 2

  Theodosia was aware of people pressing close to her, of whispers and anguished murmurs. She stared at Drayton. "This is bad.”

  His head bobbled in agreement.

  "I mean," she stammered out, "this is a crime scene. We have to get everyone out of here."

  As if she'd commanded it, three uniformed officers suddenly rushed in.

  "Thank goodness," Drayton muttered, as the officers took charge and the crowd was pushed back.

  "Camilla!" Theodosia cried suddenly. She turned from where she was still kneeling and saw a woman on the floor next to Camilla, holding her hand and whispering to her. "Is ... is Camilla all right?"

  "She's in and out of consciousness," said the woman. "Looks like she got a very nasty knock to the head. I'm a nurse," the woman added. "I'll stay with her until the ambulance arrives.”

  Theodosia looked down at Rob. One of the officers was kneeling across from her, checking vitals. "Gone," was all he said. Theodosia turned pleading eyes on Drayton. "Where's the ambulance?"

  He pulled himself to his feet, then helped Theodosia up. "Should be here any second.”

  There was the sudden, sharp wail of a siren, then Timothy said, "It's coming, it's coming." He looked frail and nervous, almost on the verge of collapse.

  The dozen or so people left in the room seemed to hold their collective breath in anxious anticipation. There were three short yips from the siren, signaling an impending approach, and then a tremendous screech of brakes and grinding clash of metal!

  "Good grief!" exclaimed Drayton.

  Theodosia touched a hand to her heart to find it beating like a timpani drum. Please, she prayed to herself, don't let another person be hurt! She tottered two steps, then hesitated as Delaine suddenly flung herself into the gallery.

  "There's been an accident!" Delaine keened. "A three-way collision!"

  "Oh, no!" Theodosia murmured. "What now?" said Drayton.

  There were a few more minutes of pandemonium, and then two EMTs rushed in with a clanking gurney. As everyone watched silently, one of the EMTs put a stethoscope to Rob's chest, then shook his head. They moved on to Camilla, who was barely breathing, hastily put an oxygen mask on her face, then carefully transferred her to the gurney and carried her out.

  Poor Rob still lay where he'd been felled.

  "We need another-" Theodosia called after the departing crew, then suddenly snapped her mouth shut.

  Like an angry bull in a china shop, Detective Burt Tidwell lurched into the gallery. He was a big bear of a man with a weather balloon stomach and bullet-shaped head. Bushy brows topped slightly protruding and belligerent eyes. Head of the Robbery-Homicide Division, Tidwell was short-tempered, blunt, and a pit bull of an investigator.

  But tonight, as he took in the gallery scene, Tidwell looked seriously shaken up. His legs quivered unsteadily and his eyes seemed slightly unfocused. An angry gash split one side of his wide forehead and bright red blood trickled down.

  "What happened?" Theodosia cried.

  "What happened here?" Tidwell demanded. He staggered backward two steps, his beady eyes taking in Rob's body and the shattered display case.

  "Murder," said Theodosia. "And theft," added Drayton.

  "Detective," said Timothy Neville, regaining some composure as he approached Tidwell, "you were in an accident?" Tidwell shrugged and waved a pudgy hand. "Got sideswiped ... it was nothing. Stupid. An ambulance, my car ... another guest attempting to leave."

  Theodosia stepped forward. She knew Tidwell and liked him. Respected him, in fact. But this was no time for him to gut it out. He was bleeding and looked ready to collapse.

  "Detective," said Theodosia, "I think you need medical attention."

  "Nonsense," Tidwell replied, in a brusque but quavering tone.

  But Tidwell was growing paler with every second that ticked by.

  "Can we get another EMT in here?" Theodosia asked Timothy.

  Timothy nodded and spun away.

  "It's nothing," Tidwell reiterated, looking angry and annoyed. "Just a silly, stupid accident.” He took a step forward, looking at the fallen body of Rob Commers. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white hanky. He held it to the side of his head for a few moments, then took it away. Red, sticky blood clotted the hanky.

  "Perhaps," said Theodosia, "we should call in another homicide detective. Just for the time being."

  Irritation and agreement were mingled on Tidwell's broad face as he swayed unsteadily. Then he said in a hoarse voice, "Possibly . . . you're right."

  Another ambulance arrived within minutes. The EMTs ministered to Tidwell first, while two crime-scene guys bagged, tagged, and photographed Rob's body as well as the shattered case. Theodosia, Drayton, and Timothy looked on silently from the hallway. Finally, the EMTs were allowed to file into the gallery to load Rob's lifeless body onto a gurney. Slowly, silently, they slid it past the cadre of onlookers and out to the ambulance.

  "What a night," breathed Drayton, turning his back on the gallery.

  "Awful," sighed Timothy. "Our patrons are going to. . ." Theodosia didn't hear the rest of Timothy's words. She stood there, staring morosely into the empty gallery, letting everyone file past her. When the voices had faded completely, she reentered the gallery, walking stiffly, her heart heavy. She stared at the shattered case, the bloody carpet, and the pirate flags that winked slyly at her.

  "Shocking," she muttered, then turned to go. The pinpoint spots glimmered overhead, turning the hundreds of tiny glass shards that lay underfoot into brilliant crystals.

  Plus one small flash of orange.

  What?

  Theodosia bent down and swiftly scooped up a small piece of paper. She stared at it and frowned. It looked like a ticket.

  A ticket? Whose ticket? Who could have dropped this?

  And, suddenly, like a light piercing the wilderness, her brain responded with a nasty possibility. The murderer?

  3

  "Awful," Timothy Neville murmured in a thin, reedy voice. "Simply awful."

  Monday morning had dawned sunny and bright in Charleston with a dazzling blue sky. A lazy breeze wafting in from the Ashley River brought delicious hints of springtime warmth and stirred palm fronds up and down historic Church Street. But inside the Indigo Tea Shop, the mood was morose.

  "More tea?" asked Drayton. Without waiting for anyone to answer, he hefted a Chinese red teapot and poured a steady stream of amber liquid into Timothy's cup. "A Grand Pouchong from Taiwan," he said in a quiet voice, "meant to calm the nerves and fortify the spirit."

  "I think we could all use a little fortifying today," Theodosia agreed. Timothy had shown up at their front door first thing this morning, dressed impeccably as always in a dove-gray suit and yellow Versace tie. His mood hovered somewhere between mournful and despondent, yet he was obviously eager to talk. So now, instead of prepping the tea shop for a busy Monday morning and looking forward to a busy week, Theodosia and Drayton were seated at a small round table next to the stone fireplace, puzzling through last night's terrible events.

  Timothy lifted a gnarled hand to his forehead and touched it softly, as if to indicate mental stress or the stirrings of a nasty migraine headache. "What is my board of directors going to say?" he asked with a downward-turned mouth. "Donations have slowed to a trickle these last couple of years. And now, with last night's fiasco . . ." He let loose a deep and mournful sigh.

  Theodosia didn't much care about Timothy's board of directors. Boards came and boards went, and not much fundamentally changed within an organization. Rather, she was consumed by thoughts of Rob's death as well as the terrible beating poor Camilla had sustained.

  "How is Rob's family going to cope?" Theodosia asked in a slightly arch tone. "Will Camilla make a full recovery?" Drayton nodded. "Theodosia's correct. Our immediate thoughts should be with the two of them.”

  "I know that," Timothy said, in a testy voice. "I'm just trying to get a grasp of the total picture."

  "As are we all," said Drayton.

  Timothy pursed his lips. "There'll surely be repercussions and . . ." He stopped short as Haley Parker, Theodosia's young chef and baker par excellence, arrived at their table and breathlessly presented them with a plate of scones. This was followed by a footed glass bowl filled with poufy mounds of Devonshire cream.

  "Sorry to interrupt," said Haley, giving a quick shake of her head and tossing back stick-straight blond hair. “Just thought you might enjoy some caramel scones.” She ducked her head and added, "They're fresh from the oven."

  "Thank you, Haley," said Theodosia. "They look wonderful." She reached for a fat, golden scone drizzled with sticky caramel and bits of chopped pecan and set it on her plate. It wasn't going to erase the terrible memory of last night, but it was going to be a lovely accompaniment to her tea.

  Haley edged closer to the table, shifting her slim body from one Capezio-shod foot to the other. "Figure anything out yet?" she asked. Her youthful curiosity seemed revved to a fever pitch.

  "No," said Timothy, in a flat, dismissive tone. He fluttered his fingers in an offhand wave, as if to shoo Haley away. But Haley hung in there. Over the years, she'd exchanged her fair share of words with Timothy Neville and, unlike many of his big-buck donors, Haley wasn't the least bit intimidated by Timothy's money, power, or brusque manners. "Because I was just wondering . . ." said Haley. "Wondering what?" asked Theodosia. Officially, on paper, she was sole proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop, but her little enterprise was run as an equal-opportunity tea shop. Everyone who worked there had a voice; everyone was treated with the utmost respect.

  "I know you're awfully upset about that fellow who was killed last night," Haley continued.

  "Rob," filled in Drayton.

  "Right," said Hal
ey. "And you're crazy worried over Camilla. . ."

  Timothy stared at Haley with red-rimmed eyes. "Do you have something to add to this discussion? If so, kindly spit it out!"

  To her credit, Haley kept her cool. "But nobody has a clue as to what really happened?" she asked.

  “A murder happened," said Drayton. "And a very close call.”

  “Do you know what Detective Tidwell's take was on the whole thing?" Haley asked. "You mentioned that he was there last night, that he got the call out personally." Theodosia and Drayton had filled Haley in on most of last night's events just before Timothy had shown up.

  "Detective Tidwell was involved in a car accident!" Timothy snapped. "And required medical attention. How helpful was that?" he asked, in a petulant tone.

  "Tidwell was a sort of casualty," acknowledged Drayton.

  "Then who do you think will head the investigation?" asked Haley.

  "Search me," said Drayton. "Hopefully the Charleston Police have a whole roster of smart detectives.”

  "I think Tidwell will be back on the job," offered Theodosia. He hadn't looked like he'd been badly injured. A scrape and shaken up for sure, but more of a bruised ego than actual body bruises.

  "Tidwell will have to play catch-up," predicted Timothy. "That's not good," said Drayton.

  Haley's eyes danced crazily. "But Theodosia wouldn't."

  "Excuse me?" said Timothy.

  "I mean, she was there, right?" said Haley.

  "What are you getting at, Haley?" asked Drayton. But Theodosia already knew.

  "Oh, no. . ." said Theodosia. She set her scone down and brushed her hands nervously against her black Parisian waiter's apron, focusing on tiny particles of sugar that danced and twinkled and caught the light like a miniature galaxy.

  Timothy swallowed his sip of tea with a gulp and suddenly fixed his eyes hungrily on Theodosia. "Yes," he said. "You were right there. First one in, in fact."

  "No," Theodosia said again.

  But Timothy had grasped the notion like a bird dog with its teeth set into its quarry. "Theodosia, we need your help. I in particular need your help. You're . . ." Timothy paused, looking contemplative for a few moments, then finished his sentence with, "You're good at puzzling things out."

  "She certainly is," agreed Drayton.

  Theodosia shot Drayton a warning look. A look that said, Kindly leave me out of this!

  "Sorry, Theo," said Drayton, "but the fact remains, you do have a certain nuanced way of looking at things. At solving puzzles.”

  "Nuanced?" said Theodosia. What the heck was that supposed to mean?

  "Focused, then," said Drayton. "Strategic."

  Theodosia picked up her knife and busied herself by splitting her scone lengthwise, then slathering on a little too much Devonshire cream. "Oh, that," she said in a soft voice. "The truth of the matter is, I get lucky sometimes."

  But Timothy was shaking his head. "No, it goes well beyond luck," he told her. "You're clever. And blessed with a real knack for figuring things out.”

  "Detective Tidwell doesn't think so," said Theodosia. "He thinks I'm a meddler."

  "That's his point of view," said Timothy. "Being a trained professional, he pretty much has to vehemently oppose any civilian who has the same skill sets he does."

  "Precisely," said Drayton.

  "You really do need to get involved in this," Haley urged Theodosia. "I mean ... jeez ... have you guys seen this morning's headlines?"

  All three gazed at her with blank expressions.

  "Oh, boy," said Haley, her eyes going wide. She held up a forefinger, then dashed to the front counter, grabbed the Post and Courier, and returned. Grimacing, she unfurled the paper with a reluctant flourish. The four inch-high headline, BLACKBEARD's CURSE, jumped out at them. And under it in slightly smaller type, BLOODY MURDER AT PIRATE EXPO.

  "Ghastly!" exclaimed Drayton. "Exactly what we don't need.”

  “My directorship is finished now," sighed Timothy. He dropped his head in his hands and remained motionless for a few moments.

  "Timothy?" said Theodosia. "Are you okay?"

  Timothy lifted his head and faced her with a defeated expression. "No. Not in the least."

  It broke Theodosia's heart to see Timothy so upset. She knew he was terrified of losing his position as director of the Heritage Society. Knew if that happened, it would mean the end of him. Timothy was a proud old man who carried out his duties with every fiber of his being. To strip him of his directorship would surely send him into a downward spin. And at his age ...

  Theodosia sat for a minute, thinking. Then she took a big gulp, a reluctant gulp, and said, "Um ... what would you actually want me to do?"

  A spark seemed to ignite in Timothy's slate-gray eyes. "Perhaps just ... look into things?" he asked in a hopeful voice.

  "Dear girl," said Drayton, turning to face Theodosia, "if you can help in any way . . ." He removed a pair of tortoiseshell half-glasses from the pocket of his jacket, perched them owlishly on his aquiline nose, then took the paper from Haley. After fifteen seconds of scanning the front page, Drayton said, "According to the police commissioner, they haven't narrowed it down to any particular suspect."

  "That's because they don't have any suspect," said Haley.

  "Typical," said Timothy.

  "I can't believe that," said Theodosia. "They must have some clue about where to start looking." At least she hoped they did.

  "No," said Drayton, as he continued to mutter over the article, looking more and more unhappy. "It says here they may have a witness, but that witness seemed slightly befuddled." He stabbed at the paper with his index finger. "Befuddled. That's quoting the writer verbatim."

  Theodosia knew they had to be referring to Nadine. And they probably weren't far off. Nadine had been crazy and overwrought last night, and that was putting it mildly.

  "Then it's all aver," said Timothy, in a defeated tone. "Over before we've even begun."

  Haley edged closer. "What about the skull drinking cup?" she asked in a quiet voice.

  Theodosia's brows pinched together. "What about the skull cup, Haley?"

  "Maybe that's where you should start," said Haley. "That's what the thief-the murderer-was really after, right? I mean, you said it belonged to Blackbeard."

  "Was Blackbeard," said Drayton. "The cup was supposedly created from his actual skull."

  "What are you all getting at?" Timothy asked, in a tremulous voice.

  "Haley may be right," said Theodosia, as a tiny spark of an idea ignited in the back of her brain. "If we knew a little more about the skull cup, we might be able to look at last night from a slightly different perspective."

  "You mean from a historical perspective?" Drayton asked. "Or look at a possible motive and try to track down the killer?”

  “We really don't want to attempt apprehending a murderer on our own," said Theodosia.

  "Good point," said Drayton.

  "But we could look at the basics," said Theodosia, warming up to the idea. "We could study the facts at hand and see where they take us. For instance, could the skull cup possibly be authentic? If so, where did it come from? Is it a rare collectible? And, if so, who would want it?"

  Drayton threw Timothy a questioning glass. "Where did the skull cup come from?"

  Timothy took a quick sip of tea. "You mean initially? Before it was donated to the Heritage Society?"

  "That's right," said Theodosia, putting a note of encouragement in her voice.

  "No idea," said Timothy.

  Theodosia shook her head. How could he not know? He was the director of the Heritage Society and the thing had been pulled from his own vast storeroom. "You must have some knowledge of the piece," she said. "After all, you thought it was significant enough to include in your show. And someone typed up a fancy little description card."

  Timothy pursed his lips, suddenly looking put upon. "To the best of my knowledge, that skull cup was donated some forty years ago, long before I even assumed directorship of the Heritage Society. Apparently it had been rattling around in storage until one of our curators pulled it out for the Pirates and Plunder show."

  "Which curator?" asked Haley. "That guy Rob?"

  "No, no," said Timothy. "Rob wasn't a curator, he was one of our interns. A good boy, working toward his degree in American history. No, he only assisted George Meadow. Meadow curated the show while Rob did the grunt work-sending out invitations, checking guest lists, that sort of thing."