A Dark and Stormy Tea Page 2

  The scene was macabre. The woman’s face and arms looked bleached white, like bones picked clean. And every time lightning flashed, and wind ruffled the woman’s clothing and hair, it was like watching a herky-jerky old-time black-and-white movie.

  But wait . . .

  It took Theodosia a few moments to become fully aware of the khaki book bag with a purple emblem, sodden and half-hidden under the woman.

  “Dear Lord,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “Could it be Lois?” Lois Chamberlain was the retired librarian who owned Antiquarian Books, a few doors down from the Indigo Tea Shop. She sold khaki book bags that looked a lot like this one.

  Theodosia lifted her cell phone and spoke into it again. “I think . . . I think I might know her.”

  “You recognize the victim?” the dispatcher asked. Surprise along with a hint of doubt had crept into his voice.

  “I recognize the book bag anyway.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m afraid it might be Lois Chamberlain from Antiquarian Books,” Theodosia said. Then the lightning strobed again, set to the tune of a kettle-drum thunderclap, and she saw long reddish blond hair hopelessly tangled and streaked with blood.

  “Or maybe . . . her daughter?”

  Could that be Cara? Theodosia wondered.

  “Officers are thirty seconds out,” the dispatcher said in her ear. “Two cars coming.” He seemed more concerned with their timely arrival than the dead body Theodosia was staring at. “Are you hearing sirens yet?”

  As if on cue, dual high-pitched wails penetrated her consciousness.

  “I hear them, yes. They’re getting close.”

  Then they were more than close. Gazing across a tumble of moss-encrusted tombstones through swirls of fog, Theodosia saw the first cruiser turn off Church Street and bounce up and over the curb. Without cutting its speed, the car skidded across the sidewalk, maneuvered around the side of the church, and churned its way toward the graveyard. Slewing across wet grass, the car rocked to a stop just as its reinforced front bumper hit a tilting tombstone with a jarring clink.

  A second cruiser followed as lights pulsed, sirens blared, and a crackly voice yelled at her over a loudspeaker.

  It was kind of like Keystone Cops, only it wasn’t.

  Guns drawn, serious-looking uniformed officers sprang from both vehicles.

  “Here. Over here,” Theodosia called out. She raised her hands in the air to let them know she was an unarmed civilian. “I’m the one who called it in.” So please don’t shoot me.

  The EMTs arrived right on their heels. Siren screaming, red lights flashing, jumping from the ambulance and rushing to tend to the victim. They cleared her airway, used a ventilator bag, did chest compressions, administered some sort of injection to try to jump-start her heart. Nothing seemed to work. The woman—Cara?—appeared to be dead.

  “Soft tissue trauma compounded by a hyoid fracture,” one of the EMTs murmured. “Ligature cut deep. Not much we could do.”

  One of the officers, a man who’d been holding a flashlight so the EMTs could work, walked over to Theodosia. His name tag read dana.

  “You’re sure she’s been . . . ?” Theodosia touched a hand to the side of her own neck to indicate a strangulation.

  “Looks like,” Officer Dana said.

  Theodosia’s face was a pale oval lit only by bouncing flashlights and the glowing blue and red bars on the cruisers. “So it could have been . . . ?” Her voice trailed off again.

  Officer Dana aimed suspicious cop eyes at her. “You’re thinking Fogheel Jack? Let’s hope not.”

  But Theodosia knew it probably was. She’d been born with masses of curly auburn hair, blue eyes that practically matched her sapphire earrings, an expressive oval face, beaucoup smarts, and a curiosity gene that simply wouldn’t quit. Right now her smarts and her curiosity gene were ramping up big-time, telling her this was definitely the brutal handiwork of the killer known as Fogheel Jack.

  Another officer, Officer Kimball, walked over to them as he spoke into his police radio. He said, “K,” into the radio, then looked at Officer Dana. “We need to lock down the scene until they send an investigator.”

  Theodosia took a step forward. “Pete Riley?” Her voice sounded soft and muted amid the clank of activity and barked orders.

  Officer Dana looked at her sharply. “You know him?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “I don’t know who got the callout tonight,” Officer Kimball said. He sounded unhappy and resigned, as if he’d rather be anyplace else. “We’ll have to wait and see.” He sighed. “Anyhoo, Crime Scene’s on its way.”

  “I’ll get some tape from the vehicle,” Officer Dana offered.

  Halfway through stringing yellow-and-black crime scene tape from a grave to a mausoleum and then winding it around another grave, Officer Dana glanced up at a large figure that was bobbing toward them. The figure slipped behind a tall obelisk, then reemerged again.

  “Looks like the big boss himself came out,” Officer Dana said.

  Theodosia peered through dark swaying strands of Spanish moss and decided that could mean only one thing.

  “Detective Tidwell,” she murmured, just as Detective Burt Tidwell, head of the Charleston Police Department’s Robbery and Homicide Division, appeared. He was dressed in a baggy brown suit the color of sphagnum moss. What little hair he had left was acutely disheveled, his eyes were magpie beady, and his oversized belly jiggled. As he drew closer, Theodosia saw a soup stain marring his ugly green tie.

  “You,” Tidwell said when he caught sight of Theodosia. Clearly they knew each other.

  Theodosia gave a half shrug. “I was taking a shortcut back to my tea shop and I . . .” Her voice trailed off as Tidwell held up a hand. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I think I know her.”

  That grabbed Tidwell’s attention. He peered at Theodosia from beneath heroic bushy eyebrows and said, “You recognize the victim?”

  “I think it might be Cara Chamberlain, Lois’s daughter.”

  “The bookstore lady,” Tidwell murmured. Besides being a meticulous, boorish, ill-tempered investigator, he was extremely bright and well-read. “You’re sure it’s Lois’s daughter? Are you able to make a positive ID?”

  “I think so.”

  His head shook, setting off a jiggle of jowls. “You need to be absolutely sure before we do any kind of notification.”

  “Then I don’t . . .”

  Theodosia’s words were once again cut short, this time by the arrival of the Crime Scene team. Their shiny black van pulled up next to the police cruisers. Men in black jumpsuits got out and immediately established a hard perimeter—setting up lights on tripods and even more yellow crime scene tape. When the entire graveyard glowed a ghastly yellow, they began to record the scene, using still cameras as well as video cameras.

  “Any footprints?” Tidwell asked. “Can you pull plaster casts?”

  The tech looked skeptical. “Dunno. There are a few prints, but they’re already mushy and filled with rain.”

  Theodosia stood there feeling helpless and bedraggled. Her normally curly hair was plastered to her head and she’d crossed her arms in a futile attempt to stay warm. Still, a keen intellect shone in her eyes as she watched the proceedings.

  Strangely, the night was shaping up for even more action. A shiny white van with a satellite dish on top had just rolled in. Theodosia figured it was TV people who’d tuned in on their scanner and gotten wind of the murder.

  “Oh, hell’s bells,” Tidwell said when he saw the van. “The media jackals have arrived.”

  “What have we got? Lemme through, lemme through,” came the high-pitched, semi-authoritative voice of Monica Garber. She was the lead investigative reporter at Channel Eight, a tenacious pit bull of a woman who lived for the thrill of sinking her teet
h into a fast-breaking story.

  Officer Kimball held up a hand and tried to block her, said, “Ma’am, you need to stay back.”

  “Stuff it,” Monica Garber snarled as she sailed right past him. She was in her mid-thirties—around Theodosia’s age—attractive in a hard-edged way, and always projected her own brand of on-air sassiness. Tonight she was tricked out in a form-fitting hot pink blazer, tight black jeans, and short black boots. Her long dark hair swished damply about her shoulders.

  Theodosia didn’t think Monica Garber would be particularly thrilled when she discovered who the victim was. Cara Chamberlain was a journalism student who’d taken the semester off to do a news internship at Channel Eight. Thus, she was practically one of their own.

  How would Monica Garber handle her emotions when she realized the victim was Cara?

  Turned out, not very well.

  Once Monica had pushed her way past the police line and registered that it was Cara lying there, she promptly fainted. Would have fallen and split her skull open on a hump-backed tombstone had not Bobby, her cameraman, lunged forward and caught her at precisely the last second.

  “Nuh, I’m okay,” Monica protested when she regained consciousness a few moments later. Then, as she looked over at the body, her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees wobbled like a Jell-O ring being passed around a Thanksgiving table.

  “Get her out of here!” Tidwell shouted.

  Bobby the cameraman and the young man who’d been manning the boom microphone got on either side of a shaky, protesting Monica Garber and half carried, half dragged her away.

  “Good,” Tidwell said. “Now, if only this tedious rain would let up. I have additional personnel on the way and we need to . . .” He half spun, noticed Theodosia again, seemed to seriously study her, and said, “Miss Browning. A favor if you will.”

  3

  “There you are,” Drayton exclaimed as the door to the Indigo Tea Shop burst open. “I was wondering what could’ve . . .”

  His words suddenly evaporated as Theodosia hurried in, followed by Detective Tidwell; his assistant, Glen Humphries; and two uniformed officers.

  “What?” Drayton said, his voice rising, high-pitched and sharp, like a surprised crow. The normally unflappable Drayton Conneley was suddenly flapping.

  “There’s a problem,” Tidwell said as he shouldered his way into the tea shop, glanced around, and seemed pleased that it was warm, dry, and unoccupied.

  “There’s been a murder,” Theodosia said. Why beat around the bush when the media had already latched on to this terrible story and would no doubt whip things into a frenzy?

  “Oh no.” Drayton touched a hand to his heart. Then, when he saw the look of anguish on Theodosia’s face, he said, “Is it someone we know?”

  “Cara. Lois’s daughter.”

  Drayton’s mouth opened and closed without uttering a single peep. Then he said, “Antiquarian Books Lois? That can’t be.”

  “I’m afraid it’s so,” Tidwell said.

  Drayton raised both hands as if to invoke divine intervention. When nothing happened, he said, “What can I . . . ? What can we . . . ?”

  “I told them they could use the tea shop as a makeshift command post,” Theodosia said. “It’s pouring outside. Really coming down hard.”

  “Certainly,” Drayton said. “So I should . . . what? Brew some tea? Round up a few scones?” He stood there, anxious and worried, a sixty-something gent who’d been working almost nine hours straight. Still, in his tweed jacket and bow tie, he looked perfectly turned out, as if he’d just stepped out of a Savile Row tailor’s shop.

  “Would you?” Tidwell asked as his men spread out, grabbed chairs, and sat down heavily at one of the large tables. “I’m afraid that, besides all of us, there are more people on the way.”

  More people meant more drama. But it also gave Theodosia and Drayton something to do, a chance to burn off pent-up nervous energy by prepping both food and tea for their impromptu guests. Theodosia grabbed two dozen eggnog scones from the cooler, warmed them up, then arranged them on two large trays. She added a stack of small plates, a dozen butter knives, and silver bowls filled with generous scoops of Devonshire cream and raspberry jam.

  Drayton got busy at the front counter, brewing pots of Darjeeling and Assam tea, sending out great steaming clouds that gently perfumed the air.

  When Theodosia emerged from the kitchen carrying the food, Drayton was already pouring tea for a dozen members of Tidwell’s law enforcement team, many newly arrived and sprawled out at various tables.

  Her boyfriend, Pete Riley, was among them. Tall, serious-looking, but with a boyish demeanor about him, Riley had an aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, and blue eyes a shade lighter than Theodosia’s. He was also one of the up-and-coming detectives on Charleston’s police force. Theodosia, of course, simply thought of him as Riley, her Riley. And he called her Theo. It was as easy as that because it suited them.

  “Hey,” Theodosia said, setting down one of the trays in front of him.

  Riley offered a faint smile, caught her hand and squeezed it, then focused on what Detective Tidwell had to say.

  Theodosia listened in on the conversation as well.

  Tidwell was standing in the center of the tea shop, gathering information from all the involved officers. As he asked questions and jotted notes, he seemed to be weighing some kind of decision.

  A few minutes later, Jesse Trumbull, the CPD’s public information officer, flew through the door. He was stocky and slightly muscle-bound, the way free-weight lifters often get. His dark brown hair was worn in a crew cut, his hazel-brown eyes darted about worriedly, and he looked a little dazed by all the excitement.

  “Good, you’re here,” Tidwell said to Trumbull. “We’re going to need a carefully worded press release ASAP.” His mouth pulled into an unconscious grimace and he added, “You’ve got your work cut out for you tonight.”

  This was it, Theodosia decided. This was when they made the call on whether there really was a serial killer stalking the women of Charleston. This was when they’d make a decision to alert the media—and thus all of Charleston. The moment felt absolutely terrifying. Still, being in the nerve center, surrounded by this hubbub of activity, felt strangely exhilarating, too.

  “You’re making the call?” Officer Dana asked Tidwell.

  “It appears to be the same MO, so I’m making the call,” Tidwell said. He looked reluctant but decisive. “But we have to make sure next of kin have been notified,” he cautioned.

  Glen Humphries looked up from a sheaf of papers. “They’ve been notified.”

  “Okay, then,” Tidwell said. “Okay.”

  “If we’re going ahead with this, I need as many details as possible,” Trumbull said. “Because anything we release to the media is surely going to get blown out of proportion.”

  “It’s already out of proportion,” Tidwell said.

  There was a flurry of activity then. Lots of low mumbles as the officers put their heads together. Cell phones burped and beeped. Tension hung heavy in the air. Finally, Trumbull began tapping away on his iPad as he talked nonstop into two cell phones at once.

  Shaking her head, feeling dazed and more than a little sick at heart, Theodosia went into the kitchen to grab another dozen scones. In the back hallway she encountered a worried-looking Haley.

  “What’s going on?” Haley asked. She was dressed in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said take it one steep at a time. Her long blond hair curled around a youthful face that was scrubbed clean and never seemed to need a speck of makeup. Her feet were bare, toenails painted pale peach, and she cradled her cat, Teacake, in her arms.

  “There’s been a murder,” Theodosia said.

  “Where?” Fear flickered in Haley’s eyes. “Here?”

  “In the graveyard, behind St. Philip’s Chur
ch.”

  “Who?”

  “Cara Chamberlain.”

  Haley’s eyes were suddenly huge with alarm. “Lois’s daughter? Oh no.” She digested the terrible news for a few moments, then said, “Was it, you know, that creeper the newspaper’s been talking about?”

  “Fogheel Jack? That’s what the police are speculating,” Theodosia said.

  “Wow.” Haley peered around Theodosia at the gaggle of law enforcement that had taken over the tea shop. “How come the police are here? Wait, are you involved in this?”

  “I’m afraid I discovered Cara’s body.”

  This time Haley’s hand flew to her mouth. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. Just . . . go back upstairs to your apartment.” Theodosia bent forward and gave Haley a reassuring hug. Gave the cat one, too. “And be safe.”

  Walking back into the tea room, Theodosia grabbed a pale blue teapot, rounded a table, and poured a second—or maybe it was a third—refill for Detective Tidwell.

  “I have a question,” she said.

  Tidwell’s head tilted sideways to acknowledge her.

  “How could this murder . . . this death . . . have happened so fast?”

  This time Tidwell swiveled in his chair to meet her eyes.

  “Whoever did this knows his business,” Tidwell said.

  “But how . . . ?” Theodosia was still confused.

  “A carotid artery will collapse under five and a half to twenty pounds of pressure,” Tidwell said. “The human trachea collapses under thirty-three pounds of pressure. Loss of either vital structure leads to almost instantaneous death.”

  “Dear Lord,” Drayton muttered under his breath. He’d edged his way over to listen in.

  “So the killer used some kind of wire?” Theodosia asked. She knew her question was macabre but needed to ask it anyway.