Ming Tea Murder Read online

  “So you think Charlotte killed her own husband?” Somehow the murder didn’t feel quite that cut-and-dried. There had to be more to it than an angry, vengeful wife, didn’t there?

  Glass shrugged. “She could have done it. Cops don’t know for sure yet.” He peered at her. “I was hoping you could help me fill in a few blanks.”

  “On what?”

  “Sweet cakes, you were there last night. You bum around with all those swells. Your cuddle-bunny boyfriend works at the museum.”

  Not anymore, Theodosia thought to herself.

  “Exactly what kind of information are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Anything and everything,” said Glass. “What society lady was cozying up with which gent? What businessman was trying to pick his buddy’s pocket? What are the latest society rumbles and rumors?” He took a slurp of tea. “And I want to know if Cecily Conrad was there.”

  “What do you know about Cecily?” Theodosia asked.

  Glass wrinkled his nose. “Ah . . . I hear she’s a blue blood wannabe. A cute little piece of fluff who thinks she’s God’s gift to man and is trying her darnedest to claw her way into Charleston society.”

  “I have it from a reliable source that Cecily was there last night,” said Theodosia.

  “Aha. I thought as much.”

  Theodosia decided they’d come this far, why not keep going? In for a penny, in for a pound. “And you know that Cecily had been carrying on with Edgar Webster?”

  Glass nodded. “Yup, heard that a while ago.” He looked at Theodosia over his teacup. “Your mentioning Cecily like that . . . are you a little suspicious of her, too?”

  “Not really.” At least not until I get some evidence on her.

  “But when you think about it,” said Glass, “she does stack up as a pretty solid suspect.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So it’s only logical to dig a little deeper,” said Glass. “Since Cecily had been canoodling with Webster and then talked him into bankrolling her so-called design and furniture shop.”

  “Does everyone know about that?” said Theodosia.

  Glass looked smug. “Cecily’s a little girl with a great big mouth. She bragged about her big score all over town. You ask me, I think she even thought she might be the next Mrs. Edgar Webster.”

  “Not anymore she won’t.”

  “Still,” said Glass, getting more and more worked up, “you gotta admit there’s a tasty catfight in the making. The widow pointing her finger at the girlfriend, the girlfriend dishing dirt on the widow.”

  Theodosia wondered if that might really happen. Then again, with a dead body in the morgue and big money on the line, anything could happen.

  “I guess I’m gonna have to nose around some more,” said Glass. “I hear Cecily’s got some big shindig going on at her new shop. Maybe I’ll get in touch with her and tease her with the possibility of a feature article.”

  Theodosia thought about the puddle of dark red blood that had oozed its way out from the photo booth last night. “Maybe you shouldn’t do that,” she told Glass.

  “Aw”—he waved a hand—“don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  • • •

  Theodosia popped into the kitchen just as Haley pulled a pan of lemon scones from the oven. Besides the lemon scones, the intoxicating aromas of cinnamon, chocolate, and almonds also hung in the air.

  “Do we have any scones left?” Theodosia asked.

  Haley tilted her tray toward Theodosia. “These. Why?”

  “I’m going to run over to Charlotte Webster’s house. I’d like to take her some scones and a couple tins of tea.”

  “A care package.”

  “Something like that.” Theodosia didn’t want to admit to Haley, or even to herself, that she wanted to scope out the situation with Charlotte.

  “Well, I can put something together easily enough,” said Haley. “Can we spare one of those sweetgrass baskets from your office?”

  “Sure. But you know what? I’ll put the basket together. I’ve got time.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Haley.

  Theodosia swept into her office, grabbed one of the handle-style sweetgrass baskets that their friend Miss Josette had crafted by hand, and then ran out to study her shelves. She decided on tins of dragonwell and rosehips tea. Then, just because she knew Charlotte might perceive her as being a little bit nosy, tossed in jars of lemon curd, strawberry jam, and honey for good measure.

  When she carried everything over to the counter, Drayton peered at her, and said, “That looks delightful. Who’s it for?”

  “I’m going to tie a ribbon on this and run it over to Charlotte Webster.”

  “A condolence gift of sorts?”

  “I guess.”

  Drayton’s furry brows arched. “And it wouldn’t hurt to check out the situation over there, would it? To see if Charlotte really is the grieving widow.”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Good,” said Drayton, “because it was top of mind with me, too.”

  Back in her office, Theodosia added Haley’s cellophane-wrapped scones, and then tied a yellow ribbon around the handle of the basket.

  Wait, was that too festive? Should she use a black ribbon? No, that seemed too funereal. She would stick with the yellow.

  Then, just as Theodosia was about to duck out the back door, she called Max.

  His cell phone rang six, seven, eight times, but Max wasn’t answering.

  Theodosia wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad news. Or was no news good news? Whatever. When the beep for his voice mail sounded, she said, “I’m just wondering what’s going on, sweetie, since I haven’t heard from you. Call me when you get a chance. Oh, and come over to my house tonight. Okay, bye.”

  She hung up feeling oddly disquieted.

  6

  Charlotte Webster lived in a palatial home a few blocks over, on Meeting Street. Georgian in style, the home featured an enormous hipped roof, red box chimneys at either end, a belt of elaborately carved molding between the second floor and the third-floor ballroom, and a row of six pillars fronting the covered veranda, or what folks in Charleston usually called a piazza. The gardens that surrounded it were magnificent, though it was so late in the season that only a few hardy flowers bobbed their shaggy heads.

  Jingling with nerves, hoping she wasn’t butting in too much, Theodosia stood at the front double door and grabbed a brass knocker molded in the shape of a boar’s head.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Theodosia heard muffled metallic sounds ring out on the other side of the door. Her fingers had barely released the knocker when the front door popped open.

  “Yes?” A middle-aged woman peeped through the four-inch crack of the opened door. In her black dress and tidy white apron, she was obviously the housekeeper or maid. But with her papery voice and gray hair unflinchingly scraped back from her forehead, she looked more like a character out of an old black-and-white movie from the forties.

  “I just wanted to drop this off for Charlotte,” said Theodosia, holding out her basket of goodies.

  Expressionless, the maid opened the door so Theodosia could step inside. The door swung closed behind her.

  “This way, miss,” the maid said as she spun quickly.

  “So I can . . . well, okay, then,” said Theodosia. She followed the maid in her squeaky crepe-soled shoes as she led Theodosia across a green-tiled portico. They passed a wood-paneled library on the left and a staid-looking parlor on the right, and then headed down a long, dark hallway. On the walls, oil paintings depicting three generations of disapproving Websters glared down at them.

  As they rounded a corner, Theodosia heard the murmur of low voices. Was Charlotte curled up in front of the TV, sniffling into a box of Kleenex tissues? Consoling hersel
f with a box of chocolates and an episode of Dr. Phil? But no, it didn’t sound like the good doctor’s friendly Texas twang. Obviously, Charlotte was entertaining a visitor.

  As Theodosia entered the room, Charlotte recognized her, jumped to her feet, and let loose a high-pitched squeal. “Theodosia! Bless your sweet little heart. I’m tickled to see you!” She did a quick hop across a room that was glassed in on three sides and filled with a heroic jumble of orchids, roses, palmetto trees, and other leafy green plants. Theodosia decided that solariums, if that’s what people still called this type of room, always felt more like claustrophobic human terrariums.

  Theodosia thrust her gift basket out in front of her. “I just wanted to drop off some fresh-baked scones and a few tins of tea for you.” She gazed at a thin, silver-haired man who occupied a nearby chair. “But apologies. I see you have company and certainly don’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re not interrupting at all,” Charlotte beamed. She was barefoot and dressed in a canary yellow silk top and flowing slacks. Very Acapulco-ish. Her blond hair was swirled atop her head like a show pony. “Roger and I were just having drinks.” The name Roger tripped off her tongue in a very familiar way.

  Theodosia gazed at Roger, who’d barely stirred from his tufted leather chair. “Hello,” she said, and gave a friendly wave.

  “Oh,” said Charlotte. “You two don’t know each other?” She giggled coquettishly, and Theodosia decided Charlotte had already enjoyed a drink. Or two or three.

  “We’ve not had the pleasure,” said Theodosia. Since Charlotte held a half-full drink in her hand and had made no move to accept the basket, Theodosia placed it on a nearby wicker table.

  “This dear fellow is Roger Greaves,” said Charlotte. “Edgar’s business partner at Datrex Technology.”

  Greaves hefted himself out of his chair and languidly crossed the floor so he could shake Theodosia’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. He was dressed in khaki slacks, a pale peach golf shirt, and Tod’s loafers. Casual but expensive.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Theodosia. “Considering the circumstances.”

  “Yes,” said Greaves, struggling to look a little more somber. “Of course.”

  But Charlotte would have no part of it. “We were just having mint juleps, Theodosia. May I fix one for you?”

  “No thanks,” said Theodosia. “I can really only stay a couple of minutes.”

  Charlotte eyed Greaves. “I know I don’t have to ask you twice.”

  He shrugged and went back to his chair.

  “Come on over here,” Charlotte waved. “Sit with me at the bar while I mix Roger another drink.”

  Theodosia perched on a high stool while Charlotte busied herself behind the bar.

  “It’s so sweet of you to drop by,” said Charlotte. She reached for two cut-glass tumblers and set them on the counter in front of her.

  “I wanted to extend my condolences,” said Theodosia.

  Charlotte gave a noncommittal nod. “Kind of you.”

  “And Drayton sends his sympathies as well.”

  “Dear Drayton,” Charlotte murmured. “Always so proper.” She dug into the freezer compartment of a small built-in refrigerator and pulled out a good-sized chunk of ice. “Such a traditional southern gentleman.” She grabbed an ice pick and stabbed at the ice while it spun wildly on the counter. “Too bad there aren’t more like him.”

  Theodosia watched Charlotte’s strong, practiced hands as the gleaming metal tip flashed back and forth, hacking at the ice. She broke off one hunk and tossed it into a tumbler, where it clinked and spun around. She thrust the ice pick back into the block of ice and sheared off another shard. That went into the second tumbler.

  Watching her was almost hypnotic. And the notion couldn’t help but swirl inside Theodosia’s head—was it possible that this woman had stabbed her own husband to death? Could she have done it with the same cool detachment that she was exhibiting right this very moment? Theodosia shook her head to rid herself of such an awful thought. But like a bad dream that lingers on into morning, it circled back and wouldn’t go away.

  “Theodosia?” said Charlotte. She was smiling, her eyes shining bright like polished pennies, holding up a mint julep. Garnished with a sprig of fresh mint, no less.

  “Excuse me . . . yes?” said Theodosia. While she’d been lost in her reverie, Charlotte had managed to whip together two fresh drinks.

  “I know you said you didn’t want a cocktail, but what’s the harm, right? TGIF?”

  “Right,” said Theodosia, accepting the drink. The mingled scent of hothouse orchids and strong bourbon, plus Charlotte’s constant prattle, made her feel slightly woozy. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself.

  “Come over here and sit with us,” said Charlotte, crossing the room and motioning to Theodosia. Charlotte handed a drink to Greaves, then plunked herself down on an overstuffed floral love seat and patted the space next to her.

  Theodosia obliged.

  Charlotte smiled at Theodosia, and said, “Thank you for the scones and tea, my dear. But . . . it feels like you might have come here for something else. Would I be correct in assuming that?”

  Taken aback, Theodosia said, “Not really, I . . .”

  Chuckling now, Charlotte held up a hand. “It’s not a problem, Theo. I’m well aware of your . . . what shall we call them? Prodigious talents?”

  “What on earth are you muttering about?” Greaves asked.

  “Our dear Theodosia here,” said Charlotte, “is a bit of an amateur investigator.”

  “Oh, not really,” said Theodosia. She felt like shrinking into the furniture.

  “Is that so?” said Greaves. He hunched forward, looking a little more interested now.

  “Drayton Conneley speaks about you in glowing terms,” Charlotte said to Theodosia. “He can positively enthrall with tales of your derring-do.”

  Thanks a lot, Drayton, Theodosia thought.

  “How interesting,” said Greaves. “Why don’t we see if Theodosia has any insights into poor Edgar’s untimely death? After all, she was a guest at the party last night.”

  “She was the one who found him,” said Charlotte. “So I’d love to hear what she has to say.” This time her gaze wasn’t quite so friendly.

  “The thing is,” said Greaves, resting his drink on his knee, “something had been seriously bothering Edgar for the past couple of weeks.”

  “Do you have any idea what that might have been?” Theodosia asked.

  Greaves shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

  “Oh, come on, now,” said Charlotte. “Don’t you think some of his distress had to do with your pushing him to take the company public?”

  Greaves sighed. “Well . . . yes. You’re probably right. Edgar was certainly upset over that.” He gazed at Theodosia. “We were working to put together an IPO,” he explained, “to finally take Datrex public.”

  “Except Edgar was extremely reluctant,” said Charlotte. “He was dragging his feet.”

  “Why do you suppose that was?” said Theodosia.

  “Fear of change?” said Greaves. “Fear of success? Edgar and I had been partners for eight and a half years, and in all that time, he generally preferred the status quo. He was never comfortable making major changes.”

  “He was an engineer,” said Charlotte, as if that explained everything.

  “But Datrex had clearly hit its stride,” Greaves continued. “We were growing by leaps and bounds. Why, we even inked an agreement with the DOD a few weeks ago.”

  “The DOD?” said Theodosia.

  “Department of Defense,” said Greaves.

  “For data mining,” Charlotte said brightly.

  “So there was a security clearance involved,” said Theodosia.

  “Yes, of course,” said Greaves. “But a
side from all that, this was an opportune time to make our grand move. An IPO would give Datrex a major infusion of cash and propel us to the next level.”

  “I take it your privately held shares would skyrocket in value?” said Theodosia. She wasn’t immune to the intrigue of high finance and the stock market. She watched Squawk Box every morning.

  “Oh, absolutely,” said Charlotte. She put her lips together and pulled them downward into an unhappy face. “But Edgar was always too worked up to give the IPO serious consideration. To sign off on it.”

  “What do you think he was worried about?” said Theodosia. Breaking up with Cecily? Or something else?

  “Oh,” said Charlotte, “Edgar fretted about anything and everything. That’s how he operated. There were always huge business concerns nagging at him, of course, but he also worried about getting the best seats at the orchestra. Or whether aphids were lunching on his precious cymbidium orchids.”

  “We always suspected Edgar was afflicted with OCD,” said Greaves. “We tried to convince him there were good medications that might help—but to no avail.”

  “Because Edgar sat on the board at the museum,” Charlotte continued, “he’d even worked himself up over that silly Chinese tea house. I know he called some art dealer over there just to check up on things.”

  “The man was conscientious,” said Greaves. “You have to give him that.”

  “I think they’d even talked yesterday morning,” Charlotte babbled. “Of course it would be a day later in China.”

  “Today?” said Greaves, looking puzzled.

  “Well, now it’s tomorrow,” said Charlotte.

  “Edgar was probably reassuring the Shanghai people that the tea shop had arrived in fine condition,” said Greaves, shaking his head. “And that it had been properly assembled in time for the reception.”

  Charlotte nodded sagely. “Oh, yes. That’s typical Edgar. Very meticulous. Very thoughtful.” Her voice hardened. “On some things, anyway.”