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  "They sell them at Bow Geste, too," volunteered Haley. Located just down the street from the Indigo Tea Shop, Bow Geste was a hat and accessory shop.

  Rolling her eyes, Delaine looked decidedly peeved. "Yes," she said. "But those are undoubtedly commercially made. Whereas this particular flower was pleated by hand. A true work of art."

  "Speaking of works of art," said Theodosia, eager to change the subject and move on, "I can't wait to see the marvelous tea towels Claudia has in her store."

  Delaine focused bright eyes on Theodosia "What did you call them, dear? Tea towels? I suppose that sort of thing is interesting if you're an old-fashioned gal who like to fuss over towels and napkins. Or enjoys little convent-stitched items."

  "You don't have to be old-fashioned to love fine linens," said Haley a trifle defensively. She'd been fairly quiet up until now.

  "You know what I mean," said Delaine in a breezy tone. "It's wonderful to have a beautifully turned out table, but all that washing and ironing of linens. Makes me wilt just thinking about it!" Delaine whirled on her stiletto heels. "Oh, good heavens! There's that society photographer. I was so hoping he'd show up."

  "So what's the drill tonight?" asked Haley, once Delaine had rushed off.

  Drayton glanced across the hallway where four dozen or so folding chairs had been set up in the large library. The chairs all faced the far end of the room where an oversized fireplace with a dazzling black granite mantle served as focal point. Timothy Neville, the octogenarian director of the Heritage Society, had set up music stands and chairs in front of that great fireplace for his string quartet, which would be playing shortly. Timothy's group, of which he was the violinist, was scheduled to play for approximately forty minutes. Then Delaine would give a short speech and invite all the guests to partake of tea and refreshments. And once everyone was relaxed and sipping tea, Delaine planned to work the room, making her appeal for donations to help complete much-needed renovations on the house.

  "To be honest," said Drayton, glancing around, "we're fairly well set. While the concert is in progress I'll putter around in the kitchen. You know, heat water for tea, set out the scones and tea sandwiches on trays. Then, once Timothy strikes his final chord and Delaine chats for a few moments, you two can jump up and help me serve. Oh, and I'll be sure to pull these pocket doors closed so I won't disrupt the concert."

  "I can help you in the kitchen," volunteered Haley. "I don't mind."

  "Don't be silly," said Drayton. "Enjoy the concert. Go out and mingle with Delaine's captains of industry."

  "Can I get a quick shot of you three?" asked the photographer who suddenly loomed in front of them. Clutching a small but expensive-looking digital camera and wearing a khaki photojournalist vest, the photographer also had two traditional Nikons slung casually about his neck.

  "Why not?" said Theodosia, as she, Drayton, and Haley edged closer to each other from their vantage point behind the tea table.

  "Good," said the photographer, a brusque-looking man with slicked back hair and olive skin. "Closer, please. Smile. Perfect!" he declared with enthusiasm as he clicked off a few shots then bounded off to stalk his next quarry.

  "Who was that?" asked Drayton, somewhat taken aback. "Are you kidding?" said Haley. "That's Bill Glass, our own local paparazzi. You know who he is, don't you? Besides being a self-professed society photographer, he also publishes that little weekly tabloid, Shooting Star."

  "Good heavens," sniffed Drayton. "That awful rag? It's nothing more than a local scandal sheet."

  "Call me wacky, but I get a kick out of reading Shooting Star," said Haley, with a lopsided grin. "It's like Charleston's own little mini Enquirer. Besides, it's fun to read local gossip.

  "Only when you aren't the subject of it," responded Drayton in an arch tone.

  "This is great," said Haley as she sipped daintily from a glass of champagne. “Mingling with the upper crust."

  "They're just people, Haley," said Theodosia. They had stepped away from Drayton's tea table and helped themselves to glasses of Perrier-Jouet champagne from the bar that was set up in the hallway. "Don't let Delaine turn your head with her talk of upper classes and bigwigs. These people have the same challenges and problems in their lives as we do." Haley was still young, early twenties, and easily impressionable. She was also more than a little cowed by wealth and privilege. Or at least by Delaine's impression of what represented wealth and privilege.

  "This is some place, huh?" said Haley looking around the Augustus Chait House. "Do you ever wish you lived in a house like this?"

  Theodosia gazed at the high ceilings, the wainscoting, and the elaborate chandeliers. "Sometimes I do," she told Haley. Theodosia had to admit that even though this house needed considerable sprucing up, it was still quite glorious. Plus, Delaine had helped set the stage by raiding the storeroom at the Heritage Society. She'd had several pieces of Hepplewhite furniture trucked in as well as two large eighteenth-century landscape paintings. And various pieces of chinoiserie had been artfully positioned to help enliven the place.

  "I just love living in Charleston," said Haley, taking another sip of champagne. "I don't think there's another city quite as beautiful. Except maybe Paris and I haven't been there yet."

  Theodosia nodded in silent agreement. When it came to mansions, row houses, and carriage houses, Charleston was unsurpassed. The historic district alone boasted block after block of magnificent edifices. Throw in the enormous live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, the cobblestone streets, and its catbird location at the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers with the Atlantic Ocean surging into the harbor, and you had to admit, Charleston was beyond spectacular. Highly atmospheric, very romantic, bordering on ethereal.

  Back when Theodosia had been dating Jory Davis, a local attorney, she'd allowed herself to imagine that they might get married one day and buy a big old house in the historic district. Maybe one close to the Battery, where you could almost feel the sea spray off the harbor when the wind was just right. Now, of course, Jory was in New York working twelve hours a day at his law firm. And she was still cozily ensconced in her apartment above the Indigo Tea Shop with her beloved dog, Earl Grey, as roommate.

  "I was just telling Pookie about our tea offerings," Drayton said to Theodosia as she rejoined him at the tea table. In her late fifties, Pookie Wilkes was a dynamo of a woman and one of their tea shop regulars. She headed up the Meeting Street Tea Club and was married to Duke Wilkes, a prominent retired executive who was thirty years her senior and who Delaine would probably accost later in hopes of garnering a generous donation.

  Theodosia nodded as Pookie flashed her a winning smile. "So glad you could make it tonight," she told Pookie.

  "We wouldn't have missed this for the world," said Pookie in her upbeat, positive manner. "Restoring this old house was a grand idea. And Duke and I are happy to help any way we can." She grabbed Theodosia's arm and gave it a friendly squeeze, then turned her attention back to Drayton. "Now hurry up and tell me about those teas, Drayton."

  "We're serving two of our custom Indigo Tea Shop blends this evening," began Drayton. "The first one is Blood Orange Evening. It's basically a rich black tea flavored with bits of Sicilian blood oranges, hibiscus flowers, and rose hips."

  "So it's what exactly?" asked Pookie. "An herbal tea?”

  “No, no," said Drayton. "There are blood orange herbal teas on the market, but this particular tea features plenty of strong camellia sinesis."

  "And what's your other tea?" asked Pookie, always intrigued by anything to do with tea.

  "Another house blend we've dubbed Carolina Plum," said Drayton. "A black Ceylonese tea flavored with plum, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon."

  "They both sound delicious as well as dramatic." Pookie was enthused. "I can't wait to try them."

  "They're wonderful," agreed Theodosia as she fussed with the flower bouquets. She was trying to make something that was already perfect into something even more perfect and knew
she wasn't having much luck. Better leave well enough alone, she decided.

  Pookie nudged Theodosia with an elbow. "Look at Duke," she said, her voice dropping to a low, warm whisper. The three of them gazed across the room, where Duke Wilkes, Pookie's husband, was holding court. Attired in a bright blue blazer with various pins and ribbons scattered boldly across his lapels, Duke was gesturing excitedly to a group of guests.

  "He's such a crazy old coot," Pookie said lovingly. "Always wearing his ribbons and decorations."

  Even though Duke Wilkes often bragged that he was the last living Confederate soldier, Theodosia knew that Duke had proudly served in World War II, fighting hand-to-hand during the Battle of the Bulge with Patton's Third Army. Duke's warped sense of time and great love of history were just a few of his strange though endearing qualities.

  "Is Duke still active in the Fair Housing League and People's Law Office?" asked Drayton.

  Pookie nodded. "And the Heritage Society and Wildlife Conservation Society," she added as the first high warning note from Timothy's violin sounded, signaling all the guest to take their seats. "He's busier now than when he was working sixty hours a week heading up Victory Capital!"

  "Come on," said Theodosia, gently grasping Pookie's arm.

  "Let's go sit down." And they slipped across the hallway to find seats in the back row just as Drayton quietly pulled the pocket doors closed on the small parlor.

  Timothy Neville and his string quartet outdid themselves. Then again, all four of them were card-carrying members of the Charleston Symphony. Professional musicians who could perform Beethoven's Quartet in C-sharp Minor with great skill and aplomb.

  Theodosia quickly found herself lost among the notes, focused on the grandeur and majesty of Beethoven's composition. In the flickering candlelight, the warm music pouring over her, all cares and distractions seemed to simply slide away.

  And then, all too soon, the music ended. As the string quartet's final, mellow notes hung in the air, a burst of delighted applause filled the room. Then the four tuxedo-clad musicians were on their feet, taking their bows, and Delaine was fluttering to the front of the room, a colorful moth among the strobe of the candles.

  "Lovely, lovely," an exuberant Delaine told the musicians. Then she whirled to face her audience. "And my thanks to all of you for coming here tonight. As you can see, there's much work ahead of us if this grande dame home is to be properly restored. . . ." Delaine gestured theatrically as she moved slowly toward the front parlor. "But I just know in my heart of hearts that your generosity will help us see this project through to completion. Which is why I'd like to spend a moment with each and every one of you. But first . . ."

  Delaine beamed at her guests as she paused dramatically, ready to invite them all to partake of tea and dessert. But as she slid the pocket doors open to reveal the parlor, someone was standing in that darkened space, silhouetted by blazing candles and sparkling silver and teacups.

  Drayton? thought Theodosia immediately, then checked herself. No. Someone smaller, thinner.

  And as Theodosia continued to peer into that dim light, she saw that the person wasn't really standing at all. His posture was more slumped, as though he were leaning back against the tea table.

  And in the flickering light from the candelabras, whoever it was seemed to weave and teeter precariously. Sitting next to her, Pookie let out a sharp gasp.

  Good heavens! Theodosia thought suddenly. Could that be Duke Wilkes up there? And on the heels of that thought: What on earth is Duke up to? Has he been drinking? Or is he... ?

  But in that split second, Theodosia knew something was horribly wrong.

  Jumping up, trembling with fright, Pookie stared straight ahead at the wavering figure. "Duke?" came Pookie's high, strangled cry. And with her heartfelt plea, the crowd fell silent, every eye in the house suddenly focused directly on the strange scene that was being played out before them.

  "It is Duke," came Pookie's hoarse voice. And now Theodosia could see that Pookie was right. Old Duke Wilkes was clearly in distress. Was definitely in trouble.

  Staring straight ahead, a ghostly gray pallor on his face, Duke continued to waver drunkenly. Then a low moan escaped Duke's lips and he seemed to give a final, strangled, pleading gasp for air.

  Delaine, who'd been standing there the whole time, horrified, unsure what to do, slowly stretched out an arm.

  Seeming to acknowledge her gesture of help, Duke's head turned robotically. He stared at her, gave one final, gargled cry, and then a terrible fine spray of blood filled the air.

  Startled and completely unnerved, Delaine uttered a piercing scream and jumped backwards. And in that same split second, Duke Wilkes, Civil War re-enactor, retired CEO, and political and social activist, toppled face forward and hit the worn cypress floorboards with a bone-crunching thwack!

  Screams filled the air as guests sprang to their feet, turning over chairs in the ensuing pandemonium. A circle of horrified onlookers began to close in around Duke, each one seeming to grapple for a cell phone, the better to summon an ambulance. And then a horrified Theodosia was pulling Pookie through the crowd to stand in the middle of what had become a rugby-like scrum.

  Was he ... is he ... dead? wondered Theodosia. Her eyes took in Duke's thin white hair and pale pink parchment skin. And ... finally ... the nasty glint from a jagged piece of metal protruding from the right side of Duke's scrawny neck even as his ruined carotid artery pulsed and pumped a final glut of blood.

  2

  Maraschino cherry scones and apple muffins emerged from the oven looking golden-brown and smelling delicious. The steamy, malty scent of Assam tea and the light, fruitiness of Ceylon Breakfast tea hung redolent in the air. A fire crackled in the little stone fireplace as customers sipped tea and eagerly slathered white mounds of Devonshire cream and spoonfuls of jam on their scones. All in all, the atmosphere in the Indigo Tea Shop this Monday morning should have been sheer heaven. But it wasn't.

  As Haley moved woodenly from table to table, pouring refills and delivering seconds on fresh-baked goods, Theodosia and Drayton huddled together at the little table nearest the kitchen, pondering the terrible events of the previous evening.

  "It was nothing short of bizarre," said Drayton, shaking his grizzled head for the umpteenth time. "Poor Duke."

  "Poor Pookie," said Theodosia. "Did you see the look on her face when the ambulance came and the EMTs carried him out?"

  "She was devastated, poor soul," said Drayton. "Absolutely devastated. And of course there was nothing anyone could do to revive him. Duke was already gone."

  "I heard the two of them were absolutely inseparable," said Haley, coming over to their table to pour an extra splash of Assam into Drayton's cup.

  "They were a perfect match," said Drayton. He bent his head forward, cupped a hand at the back of his neck and massaged nervously. "Oh, dear, such an awful thing."

  "You're feeling guilty about this," said Theodosia, peering at him. "I know you. I know how your mind works" Drayton raised his head slowly to meet her gaze. His eyes blazed passionately. "Of course I am!" he declared. "There I was, stumping about in the kitchen, barely twenty feet from the proverbial scene of the crime, and I neither heard nor saw a thing!" He shook his head sadly. "Not a single, niggling clue that might give the police a jump start on solving this hideous crime."

  "A crime that wasn't your fault," said Haley. "Besides, why would you have heard anything, Drayton? Water was boiling, tea kettles were chirping, you were busy working. You were totally focused ... in the zone, as they say."

  "Plus Timothy's string quartet was playing that marvelous Beethoven Quartet," said Theodosia. "So Haley's right."

  "Of course, I'm right," said Haley, jumping in again.

  "Still, some maniac managed to sneak in and murder Duke Wilkes," was Drayton's bitter comment. "If only I'd gone back into the parlor, if only I'd been more vigilant . . ."

  "It's hard to be vigilant when you don't know something's goi
ng to happen," said Theodosia. "It's similar to the dilemma of homeland security. You can't take precautions when you have no idea which direction your enemies are coming from." She felt great sympathy for Drayton who had been a member of the same Civil War reenactment group as old Duke.

  "A penetrating neck wound is what the police called it," said Drayton. "But from what, I wonder? Some kind of knife?"

  "Maybe one of the surgical instruments from that old operating room?" suggested Haley.

  Drayton shook his head. "I don't think so. I overheard one of the investigators talking. Apparently nothing was missing."

  "Detective Tidwell talked to you last night, didn't he?" Haley asked Drayton.

  "Afraid so," said Drayton in an acerbic tone. "And I must say, Tidwell was none too pleasant."

  "Burt Tidwell was in work mode," said Theodosia. "And please realize, Tidwell was there to glean the most he could from the crime scene, not shmooze around making friends." Detective Burt Tidwell was the Chief of Detectives in the Charleston Police Department's Robbery-Homicide Division. He was aggressive, boorish, and totally brilliant. As they'd found out when they had previous dealings with him.

  "Still," said Drayton. "Tidwell's manners could use some serious polishing."

  "I agree with Drayton," said Haley. "Detective Burt Tidwell can be a condescending bully."

  "He's also helped us out on more than one occasion," murmured Theodosia. But she wasn't about to change anyone's mind today. She didn't harbor glowing feelings for the rather brusque and brash Tidwell. But she did have serious respect for the man. He could be an absolute genius at sleuthing out clues, maddening though he was. And as for sullenly sniffing about the crime scene? She knew that was simply Tidwell's modus operandi. Head down, hackles up, and woe to anyone who crossed his path.

  "Tidwell and that other detective ... Detective Henderson? They were busy interviewing a lot of other folks, too," said Haley. "Unfortunately, no one . . ." Haley's voice trailed off.