Haunted Hibiscus Page 4

  “Perfect,” Theodosia said under her breath as she stepped over to the front counter. Drayton was busily brewing tea, looking like an alchemist at work in his laboratory.

  “Of course it’s perfect,” Drayton said as he scooped Assam into a Chinese blue-and-white teapot. “We’re the finest tea shop in all of Charleston.”

  Theodosia had to smile as she lifted a single eyebrow. “Hyperbole from you, Drayton? You’re always so modest.”

  “Not when it comes to our tea shop,” Drayton said. “I’ve turned over a new leaf—a tea leaf, if you will. From now on I’m going to toot our horn as much as possible.”

  “Our favorable review in Tea Faire magazine really got you wound up, didn’t it?”

  “So much so that I think we should launch that Tea of the Month Club we talked about.”

  “Just tell me what November’s blend is and I’ll list it on our website,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton was a master at blending new teas—he’d come up with dozens over the years—but now he suddenly looked hesitant.

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. I didn’t know I had to create a brand-new house blend Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “You’re always so inventive. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Maybe oolong tea with bits of plum,” Drayton said. “Call it Autumn Splendor.”

  “Works for me.”

  “But for now . . .” Drayton poured a cup of fresh-brewed tea and slid it across the counter to Theodosia. “I want you to try this organic Assam. It’s got good body and a whisper of maltiness—guaranteed to pick you right up.”

  Theodosia took a sip. “It’s delicious.”

  “Do you feel picked up?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Still feeling down because of last night?”

  Theodosia nodded. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Do try to look on the bright side,” Drayton prompted. “Riley is going to make a full recovery. You said so yourself.”

  “Still, someone caused him a great deal of pain.” Theodosia took another sip of tea. “Then there’s the matter of finding the person or persons who murdered Willow.”

  “We’re back to that, are we? Let me ask this . . . are you looking for justice or seeking revenge? Because revenge isn’t exactly your cup of tea. In fact, it’s totally out of character for you.”

  “Maybe so, Drayton, but Willow’s body is lying on a slab in the city morgue right now. And Riley . . . well, I’ve never had anyone that close to me be so savagely attacked.”

  “Point taken,” Drayton said. “So. I have to ask. Are you going to investigate?”

  “Let’s just say I’m going to look into things.”

  Drayton pursed his lips. It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for.

  “I know you’re thinking about Timothy’s feelings—and of course Riley’s recovery—but please don’t forget we have an extremely busy week ahead of us,” he said.

  “They’re all busy.”

  “Not like this. Need I remind you we have the Sherlock Holmes Tea tomorrow, then our pumpkin and spice tea as well as our afternoon catering gig for the Edgar Allan Poe Symposium on Wednesday, and then the Enchanted Garden Party on Saturday?” He paused. “I hate to even bring this up, but there’ll probably be a funeral shoehorned in there as well.”

  “I’m sure there will be,” Theodosia said. Her brows pinched together at the thought of it. So sad, such a tragic situation. “I’ve also got Delaine’s Denim and Diamonds Fashion Show on Friday.”

  “Please tell me you’re attending as a guest and not doing m’lady’s bidding by serving tea and scones.”

  “It could be a little of both,” Theodosia admitted. “Delaine and I still need to put our heads together and talk.”

  They both got busy then as the bell over the front door da-dinged, signaling the arrival of their first customers of the day. Theodosia seated their guests, took orders, ran them back to Haley, and served pots of tea. Thirty minutes later, the tea shop was almost full, the air redolent with the aromas of smoky Lapsang souchong, slightly muscatel Darjeeling, and malty Assam. What Theodosia liked to think of as aromatherapy for tea lovers.

  By midmorning, things had settled down. Customers were enjoying Haley’s orange scones, butterscotch muffins, and lemon-lavender bread. Drayton was packaging up take-out orders as well as call-in orders from the local B and Bs. Theodosia was answering phones and taking luncheon reservations.

  “We’re good,” Theodosia said as she swung by the counter to pick up a pot of black currant tea for table six. She wasn’t feeling as rocky as she had an hour ago. “We’ve got this.”

  And that’s when it all went kaboom.

  That’s when the door whapped open with a thunderous peal and Timothy Neville lurched in. His face was pale, his Burberry trench coat flapped open on the normally unflappable Timothy, and his shoulders were hunched forward as if he were carrying a terrible burden.

  “Oh dear,” Drayton said under his breath. “Timothy looks upset.”

  Theodosia was of another opinion. “No, Timothy looks completely devastated.”

  And he certainly was.

  Theodosia rushed to greet Timothy at the door. “Timothy, are you here for tea? Can I . . .”

  “We need to talk,” Timothy said, cutting her off sharply. It was the same brook-no-nonsense voice he used when he was chairing a Heritage Society board meeting.

  Theodosia glanced about the tea shop. Her customers had all been served and taken care of so, yes, she could probably spare a quick five minutes.

  Sprinting ahead of him, Theodosia led Timothy to the small table by the fireplace where they’d be able to talk in relative privacy.

  Timothy lowered his thin frame into one of the captain’s chairs and drew a deep breath. Theodosia slipped into the chair across from him.

  “Tell me,” she said. She could see that Timothy was so upset he was practically shaking. In fact, she’d never seen him this upset. Despite his age, Timothy always comported himself with a certain strength and dignity. Now suddenly, with the murder of Willow hanging over his head, he looked like a man consumed with rage and bitterness. But also one who seemed battered and beaten.

  “I made a solemn promise to my nephew Byron that Willow would be perfectly safe here in Charleston. That I would watch out for her. And now you see what’s happened . . .” Timothy’s voice broke and ended in a choking sob. He was unable to continue.

  Drayton to the rescue.

  “Excuse me,” Drayton said. He was suddenly front and center at their table, a tea tray in hand. “I don’t know if you’re interested, but I just brewed a pot of Darjeeling.” He set cups and saucers on the table and poured tea into them, all the while talking in a soothing voice, giving Timothy the necessary time to recover. “This Goomtee Garden Darjeeling is an assertive tea, just the thing to revive and invigorate.”

  Timothy reached out, grabbed his teacup, and took a long sip. “Thank you,” he croaked.

  “But you’re not just here for tea, are you?” Theodosia said. “Or to listen to our condolences.”

  “I came because I desperately need your help,” Timothy said.

  “Because of Willow,” Drayton said.

  Timothy nodded, then switched his gaze to Theodosia. “And because you were there.”

  “You see?” Theodosia said to Drayton. “Timothy needs our help.”

  Drayton gazed at them over his half-glasses. He didn’t look happy.

  “Perhaps,” Theodosia said, “I could start by interviewing the people from the Heritage Society who were there last night.”

  “That can easily be arranged,” Timothy said.

  “I mean like today, this afternoon,” Theodosia said.

  Timothy gave an eager nod. “Yes. Fine. The sooner the better.” He seemed slightly more
relaxed now that he knew Theodosia was on board.

  “Do you know who’ll be spearheading Willow’s . . . mm . . . the investigation?” Drayton asked. He’d just caught himself. He was about to say murder investigation.

  “Detective Tidwell assured me he’d be taking charge,” Timothy said.

  “The big cheese himself,” Drayton mused. “Well, Tidwell’s got his work cut out for him. A publicly staged murder and a vicious attack on one of his own detectives have probably ignited a hornet’s nest at police headquarters.”

  But Theodosia was barely listening to Drayton. Her focus had turned to the Heritage Society and its people who were working at the haunted house last night. Perhaps one of them had seen or heard something and might be able to offer a bit of insight?

  “Is the Heritage Society still holding the Edgar Allan Poe Symposium this Wednesday?” Theodosia asked. She wondered if it might be put on hold, considering the circumstances.

  “I’m afraid we’ve committed considerable time and energy to the event, as have the speakers we engaged,” Timothy said. “So we’re going full speed ahead.”

  “Maybe that’s good,” Theodosia said. “It gives us another chance to talk to people on Wednesday, though I can’t imagine . . .”

  The front door banged open yet again as a tall, almost scarecrow-thin man rushed into the tea shop. He glanced about hurriedly, spotted Timothy, and screamed, “They told me I’d find you here!”

  5

  “Ellis?” Timothy said, flopping against the back of his chair in surprise. “Ellis Bouchard? What are you doing here?” Timothy seemed shocked and completely unnerved by this intrusion.

  Without answering, Bouchard sped over to their table and launched into a ferocious diatribe.

  “You see what happened at that horrible, so-called historically accurate haunted house that your curators and publicity people thought was such a marvelous idea?” Bouchard screamed. “A woman was killed!”

  “That was my grandniece,” Timothy said with great emotion.

  “But it happened in my family’s estate,” Bouchard said. His long face twisted in anger, and his wiry gray hair seemed to fluff up every time he screamed.

  “Excuse me,” Drayton said, interrupting the man and hoping to temper his outburst. “We haven’t been properly introduced. You are . . . ?”

  “Ellis Bouchard,” the man answered with an almost feverish assertion. “I’m a direct descendant of Beau Bouchard, who built the Bouchard Mansion back in 1872. His fifth cousin. As a matter of record, I was in line to inherit that house!”

  “I’m sorry but we’ve been through this,” Timothy said, his voice turning sharp as a knife’s edge. “That house has been fully deeded to the Heritage Society.”

  “A haphazard mistake,” Bouchard countered.

  “No mistake,” Timothy said. “My lawyers assure me that the document—the will—is perfectly legal.”

  “Still, I find it a great travesty of justice,” Bouchard said.

  Several customers in the tea shop had overheard Bouchard’s blustery words and were beginning to wonder what was going on. Curious heads turned and voices murmured nervously as they stared across the tea room at Timothy and Ellis Bouchard.

  “Please. Sit,” Theodosia said to Bouchard. She meant to be polite, but it came out sounding like a command.

  Sensing her seriousness, Bouchard took a seat at the table.

  “Good,” Theodosia said. “Thank you. Perhaps now we can discuss this in a more civilized manner.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Bouchard said. “I was cheated.”

  “The will was deemed legal,” Timothy countered. “As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”

  Bouchard held up a finger and shook it in Timothy’s face. “Why do you refuse to believe there are two sides to this story?” His face had turned a blotchy red, his voice rose, and he seemed poised to launch into another angry diatribe.

  That was it for Theodosia. She’d had enough.

  “I’m sure we’d all like to hear your side of the story, Mr. Bouchard,” Theodosia said. “But now is not the time nor place.”

  Bouchard’s eyes widened in surprise. “Whaaat?”

  “So if you’ll . . .” Theodosia’s hands fluttered in a Move along gesture.

  “Excuse me, are you asking me to leave?” Bouchard said.

  “If you would,” Theodosia said, still being scrupulously polite. “I think that’s best for everyone involved.”

  Bouchard stood up. “All right, fine, I’ll leave. For now. But, mind you, Timothy Neville, this isn’t over by a long shot.”

  And with that Ellis Bouchard turned and stomped out of the tea shop.

  Timothy’s shoulders slumped forward. “Oh dear,” he said. “On top of everything else, now I have to contend with him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once Theodosia had reassured Timothy she’d drop by the Heritage Society this afternoon, she hurried out the back door, almost tripping over a stray cat in the alley, and drove her Jeep to University Hospital. She was desperate to see how Riley was doing.

  But when she arrived, she found him lounging in bed, watching TV—TMZ, seriously?—after having eaten an early lunch. His tray held the remnants of a small sandwich, a cup of fruit cocktail, and some chocolate pudding. None of it looked particularly appetizing. Maybe she could bring him something nice and tasty tomorrow?

  Riley saw Theodosia standing in the doorway and gave an expectant grin. “You’re a vision,” he declared. “Albeit one that keeps reappearing.”

  “It’s hard to stay away,” Theodosia said. “I’m so worried about you.”

  “Please don’t be.” Riley reached for the remote control and snapped off his TV set.

  “Concerned, then.” Theodosia moved closer to his bed.

  “Well, thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  Riley looked tired, played out. As if he’d just run a marathon or crewed his heart out in a yacht race. Or got shot. And Theodosia thought he seemed thinner lying there under the covers. She wished she’d brought him something good to eat, like a slice of quiche and an orange scone.

  Riley was smiling at her, trying to make small talk, attempting to downplay his injury as well as the circumstances surrounding his attack. Theodosia would have none of it.

  “I want to know exactly what happened last night,” she said.

  Riley gazed at her. “I already told you, Theo. I may have been in pain last night, but I think I was still fairly cogent. And when you stopped by this morning . . .” He reached his good arm up and scratched his head. “Did I miss something? Didn’t we talk then?”

  “I only had time for drive-by kisses and hugs,” Theodosia said. “Not a whole lot of conversation. But now . . .” She sat down in a green vinyl chair and slid it closer to his bed. “Now I want to hear a minute-by-minute, play-by-play account of what really happened.”

  “So you can sneak in behind Tidwell’s back and run your own shadow investigation?”

  Riley had pretty much hit the nail smack-dab on the head, but Theodosia managed to maintain a mild expression. She didn’t want to let on just how close he was to the truth. “I just . . . want to understand what happened.”

  “It’s as simple as that?”

  “Yes, because I care about you.” Theodosia wondered how much of this Riley was actually buying. Maybe, possibly, he’d open up a little more if he was in a slightly drugged and altered state. She studied his nightstand. Did she see any drugs there? Nice strong painkillers? Nope. Not really. Too bad.

  “Theodosia,” Riley said. “I can read you like a book, and I know you’ve got a powerful attraction to danger. So I want you to promise me that you won’t get involved in what’s probably going to be a complicated and dangerous murder investigation.”

  “I’m not just filled wit
h outrage over Willow’s murder,” Theodosia said. “Let’s please not forget the breaking and entering and shooting of a law enforcement officer—namely you.” Riley was trying to downplay the whole thing, and it frustrated her no end.

  But Riley didn’t seem to care about the mounting charges. “Just promise me you’ll keep your distance?”

  “A safe distance, yes,” Theodosia said. She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it. “I’m curious as to how it all went down, okay?”

  Riley sighed. He was stuck in bed, practically immobilized by a huge bandage on his arm. He wasn’t going anywhere. So . . . he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell her some of it.

  “I’ll tell you only because I know you don’t have the resources to launch a full-scale investigation,” Riley said with a crooked grin. “Sure, you might sniff and snoop around, ask a few probing questions, but I seriously doubt you’ll come up with anything concrete.”

  “You’re probably right,” Theodosia said, smiling to herself because she had an ace up her sleeve. She knew the police were duty bound by all sorts of rules and regulations—search warrants, subpoenas, procedures, protocol, and the like. Pesky little details that she didn’t have to bother with. Which meant she could snoop, dig, and ask questions to her heart’s content.

  “Okay, here goes,” Riley said. “I arrived at Willow’s place on Logan some ten or twelve minutes after I left you . . .”

  “Wait. Willow’s place—is that a house or an apartment?”

  “It’s both. Willow lived in a one-bedroom apartment that had been carved out of a Charleston single house.”

  “Okay,” Theodosia said. “So you had a key. You walked into her apartment and saw . . . what? What was your first impression?”

  Riley touched a hand to his forehead as if trying to remember. “It was crazy—completely unexpected. Even in the dark it looked as if the apartment had been ripped apart. Chairs overturned, books pulled from shelves, boxes everywhere, papers scattered all over. The place was a disaster zone, as if an F5 tornado had ripped through it.”