Chapter 1 #2
Theodosia favored her friend with a tolerant smile.
“Just be careful to let the flame burn out before you…” She stopped abruptly.
Because two tables over a strange commotion had suddenly erupted.
Someone—one of their female guests—was in distress.
There were sharp, hacking coughs from the guest and cooing sounds from the people sitting around her as they administered gentle pats on her back.
But nothing seemed to assuage the poor woman’s choking fit.
Thirty seconds later, the woman—oh my goodness, it is Mrs. Van Courtland!
—broke into labored, panic-stricken gasps.
Then she bellowed out a series of convulsive, painful-sounding whoops as her shaking hand sought to grab a glass of water, but succeeded only in knocking it over.
Theodosia dropped what she was doing and raced toward that table.
Catching her foot on a chair leg, she stumbled but somehow caught herself and managed to get back on her feet.
But that short delay meant that Mrs. Van Courtland’s face had already turned a peculiar shade of blue even as her hands beat desperately on the table and her eyes began to roll back in her head.
Then her entire body began to shake violently as white froth formed at the corners of her mouth and flecks spattered down the front of her pink Dior jacket.
“Someone call 911!” Theodosia cried, instantly regretting that she’d left her phone in the kitchen.
Aunt Libby and another woman pulled out their phones and began dialing while another tablemate screamed, “I think she stopped breathing!” Which caused every guest at the dinner, all thirty-six of them, to push back their chairs in unison—SCREECH!
—and clamber to their feet. Some watched in horrified fascination, others shouted suggestions (creating an unhelpful cacophony), while a few shrank back from what looked like a dreadful situation.
Theodosia grasped a desperate, nearly asphyxiated Mrs. Van Courtland under the arms and, with the help of another woman, laid her on the cobblestones. As she attempted a Heimlich maneuver, praying she remembered how to do it, she was interrupted by a gentle yet authoritative voice.
“Let me,” a woman said. “I’m a nurse.”
“Thank you,” Theodosia said as the woman knelt down and, instead of doing the Heimlich, pinched Mrs. Van Courtland’s nose closed, breathed gently into her mouth, and began a series of chest compressions.
“Did she choke on something?” Theodosia asked as she stood up and moved out of the way. She worried that Mrs. Van Courtland’s heart was fluttering erratically like a wounded bird.
“I think it was her Alaska bombe,” one of the women at the table offered.
“She must have choked on the crispy flambéed crust,” Aunt Libby said.
“I’m sorry, but nobody’s flambéed your Alaska bombes yet,” Theodosia said. Then she looked around the table and saw that all the Alaska bombes had indeed been flambéed.
How did that happen?
“No, a waiter came by with a butane torch,” one of the women at the table pitched in.
Flustered, Theodosia’s eyes searched the patio.
She knew Drayton hadn’t been at this table.
So who would have done this? Certainly not Haley.
Glancing around, she kept one eye on Mrs. Van Courtland, who didn’t seem to be responding particularly well, and another on the patio, where glowing candles, torches, and fireflies suddenly made everything feel like a dimly lit, strangely tilting fun house.
And that’s when she noticed what looked like a dark figure lurking near the back hedge.
Wait one minute, are her eyes playing tricks on her? Is someone really there? Are fireflies creating a weird reflection or is actual light bouncing off the buttons of a waiter’s jacket?
Then, like an apparition out of a film noir horror movie, the shadowy figure turned and slowly disappeared through the back hedge.
And oh, what a strange illusion it was! First they were standing there, subtly blending in, then there was a soft, almost imperceptible ruffle of leaves, after which they’d vanished completely.
Like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
Since two dozen people were now shouting into their phones, presumably calling 911 or alerting the media, Theodosia knew she’d better do something fast. Because her hunch that this person was an unwelcome visitor had suddenly turned into a terrible feeling of dread.
And if this stranger had snuck in and put something in poor Mrs. Van Courtland’s dessert, maybe she should try to apprehend them!
Theodosia dashed across the patio and pushed her way into the hedge.
But it wasn’t easy. Tiny branches prickled her arms, pinched her hair, and bit unmercifully into her cheeks.
Pummeling the branches with both fists, she fought her way through the tangle of brambles and thorns, disrupting any number of fireflies.
Then, halfway through the hedge, Theodosia got stuck.
No, no, no.
Taking a deep breath, Theodosia bent forward, kicking her feet, batting at flimsy stalks, and muscling her way through.
Seconds later, she popped out of the hedge and found herself standing on Legare Street.
Naturally it was pitch black with a string of old-fashioned globe streetlamps to faintly light the way.
So where did this stranger run off to?
Theodosia spun left, then right, as shadows danced and played tricks on her eyes. Then she saw movement up ahead, maybe half a block away, as someone skulked down the walk.
That has to be the person!
A lifelong jogger, Theodosia took off like Usain Bolt launching from the starting block.
“Stop!” she shouted as she tore down the street. “Stop!”
When Theodosia pulled to within fifteen feet of the stranger, she slowed her pace.
“You there!” she called out.
The mysterious figure stopped dead in their tracks and stood motionless for a few moments. Then they turned slowly and stared at her with an attitude that was both unafraid and strangely menacing.
Theodosia blinked as she stared back. This person wore a long, dark jacket, some sort of hat—maybe a French beret?
—pulled low over the brow, and a black mask that covered their nose and mouth.
It occurred to her then that she was totally defenseless in this standoff.
Yes, she could run this person down, even harass them, but she couldn’t take them down.
For that she needed a weapon—or the police.
Theodosia figured she had but one thing in her bag of tricks—she’d have to run a bluff.
“I’ve already called the police,” she shouted. Her words rang out strong and pure in the night air, sounding (fingers crossed) almost authoritative.
There was no answer from the person for several moments.
Then a low chuckle erupted that slowly morphed into an unholy, menacing laugh.
A bright light flickered and the butane torch the figure was holding instantly sparked to life, spewing fire and hissing like an angry snake.
But this torch was far larger than the ones Theodosia and Drayton had used—and theirs reached temperatures upward of two thousand degrees Fahrenheit!
Now the flame from the butane torch swirled and crackled in a feverish, demonic dance, growing ever larger until it took on the appearance of a World War II flamethrower.
Holding the torch at arm’s length, the strange figure thrust it directly at Theodosia.
Mesmerized, she watched blue and gold flames twitch and quiver.
This person is crazy dangerous. Now what do I do?
Now nothing. She truly was defenseless. Only one option left…
Theodosia spun around and sprinted back toward the Tangled Rose B and B. Glancing back over her shoulder every few seconds, she was torn between hoping she was being followed and praying that she wasn’t.
* * *
When Theodosia arrived back at the Tangled Rose, the patio was an open-air calamity.
Two EMS techs were on their knees, working frantically over Mrs. Van Courtland.
Detective Burt Tidwell and two uniformed officers stood by nervously.
Drayton hovered directly behind them as a half dozen other officers tried desperately to corral and interview the shell-shocked guests.
Detective Tidwell’s head shot up when he saw Theodosia. “You,” he said. It was obvious from his tone of voice that they’d had run-ins before.
“There was a person,” Theodosia told him.
She was shaky and more than a little breathless.
“They were hiding right here on the patio, then slipped through the hedge. I think whoever it was put something in Mrs. Van Courtland’s dessert.
” She stopped and leaned forward, hands on knees, gasping, trying to pull in a cleansing gulp of air.
“Was it a man or a woman?” Tidwell asked.
“I don’t know,” Theodosia said. She pointed toward the hedge. “I followed them best I could—pushing through that hedge—trying to chase them down.” She was talking louder now, caught in the throes of anger and regret. “When I caught up they threatened me with a butane torch.”
“Yes,” Tidwell said. “Drayton said you dashed after someone. I put out an all-points bulletin so patrol cars should be flooding this entire neighborhood within three minutes.”
“They’ll be too late,” Theodosia said. Then she glanced down at Mrs. Van Courtland and saw that the EMS techs were winding down their lifesaving maneuvers. “Wait a minute, aren’t they going to transport her? Oh no, is she…is she dead?”
One of the EMS techs, a woman in a blue jumpsuit with a name tag that said E. James, pulled off her blue vinyl gloves and nodded. “I’m afraid we weren’t able to save her.”
Tidwell spun about, moving quickly for such a large man, to bark orders at the two officers nearest him. “When Crime Scene arrives we need every fiber, hair, twitch, and twig bagged and tagged. We also need to bag those desserts and transport them to the lab for analysis.”
“The Alaska bombes,” Theodosia murmured as her hand fluttered to her chest. “Please tell me she wasn’t poisoned.”
“More like drugged,” Tidwell said, looking pointedly at Theodosia.
The head of Charleston PD’s Robbery-Homicide Division, Tidwell was a big bear of a man—large head, rounded shoulders, stomach the size of a weather balloon.
Tonight he wore a shabby green jacket that clashed horribly with his brown slacks, as well as heavy steel-toe, kick-in-the-door cop shoes.
“The person I saw, the one I chased,” Theodosia said, “they put something in her dessert?”
The second EMS tech, who was still kneeling alongside Mrs. Van Courtland’s lifeless body and holding a syringe, glanced up at Tidwell and said, “Almost sure it’s Captain Cody.”
“Wait, you already know who did this?” Theodosia cried.
Tidwell gazed at Theodosia with sorrowful dark eyes. “No.”
“Then what?” Theodosia flapped her arms in complete frustration.
“Captain Cody is one of the street names for fentanyl.”