Chapter 4
“What did he want?” Drayton asked. As a confirmed Luddite, Drayton tended to be highly dismissive of TV reporters. And don’t even mention social media or its so-called influencers.
“Lotter wanted an interview, what else?” Theodosia said. She’d made sure Lotter was out the door and on his way before she approached Drayton at the front counter. “Ken Lotter is convinced I’m going to investigate Mrs. Van Courtland’s death.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes. Well, maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean I want everyone in TV land plus their brother-in-law to know about it.”
“I suppose it’s best to remain a bit cagey.”
“I’ll settle for flying under the radar.” Theodosia lifted the top off the glass pie saver and said, “Are these the only scones we have left?”
“Afraid so. They’ve been selling like hotcakes today,” Drayton said. “Everyone wanted scones for takeout.”
“But that’s a good thing, right?”
“It is if Haley baked lots more.”
“Well, I need at least a half dozen scones to take over to the Featherbed House,” Theodosia said.
“You’re going over there to talk to Angie?”
“I pretty much have to, since Delaine called that meeting with Angie and Aunt Libby early this morning. Now I’ve got to figure out the secret handshake and see just what it is they expect me to do.”
“They expect you to be brilliant,” Drayton said, “and solve a major crime.”
Theodosia managed a half smile and said, “I think they’re asking a bit much.”
* * *
The Featherbed House B and B was a charming landmark located two blocks from the Indigo Tea Shop.
It was an enormous old mansion constructed of brick and clapboard that, over the years, had acquired any number of additions—an extra wing here, an outdoor patio and greenhouse there—and been turned into a cozy, luxurious inn.
Wicker furniture and lazy swings graced a wide front porch, and a second-floor balcony was perfect for sunning.
Gazing up at the three-story structure from the street, an impressive number of turrets, finials, and balustrades offered a display reminiscent of a wedding cake.
Inside, the lobby featured oversized red and yellow chintz sofas and chairs, handwoven fabric rugs, and a redbrick fireplace.
In keeping with its namesake, the Featherbed House was chock-full of plush geese, ceramic geese, carved geese, and metal geese.
Geese were embroidered on sofa cushions and also stood guard as four-foot-high sculptures.
A myriad of geese paintings—some realistic, some whimsical—decorated the walls.
As Theodosia stepped across the lobby, Angie Congdon glanced up from behind the high wooden reception desk.
She looked adorable as always with inquisitive blue eyes peeping out from a mop of curly blond hair that cascaded onto her shoulders.
She wore a serene smile and was dressed in a white silk blouse tucked into slim blue jeans.
“Are you our new Bite Squad delivery person?” Angie asked as Theodosia held up her telltale indigo blue bakery bag.
“I brought cream scones for you and Aunt Libby,” Theodosia said as she passed the bag over to Angie.
“Be still my heart. Did you also pack a container of Haley’s fabulous Devonshire cream?”
“Is the sky indigo blue?” Theodosia asked.
“Just wanted to make sure.”
“Aunt Libby’s all checked in, right?”
“We set her up in our third-floor Dream Suite,” Angie said, “and she seems to be reveling in it. To say nothing of your aunt going completely ga-ga over the canopy bed, down comforter, fluffy robe, Hermes bath products, and her own private terrace, as small as it is.”
“Good to know she’s sitting in the lap of luxury.”
“It’s the least we could do,” Angie said, “since your poor aunt had quite a scare last night.”
“She talked to you about that, did she?”
“Yes, and then Delaine dropped by bright and early this morning.” Angie rolled her eyes. “Well, you know how Delaine is. Spitting fire and wanting us to gang up on you. She’s convinced you should spearhead a private investigation.”
“Tell me about it. Delaine already paid me a visit,” Theodosia said. “Really tried to push my buttons.”
“Was she successful?” Angie asked.
“Basically, Delaine laid a heavy guilt trip on me. Played on the fact that Mrs. Van Courtland was murdered at my Firefly Tea. Then she talked about how Mrs. V had been chairperson of the upcoming Starry Starry Night Ball and how we owed it to her memory to discover her killer.”
“That was Delaine’s pitch to me in a nutshell. But, Theodosia, you don’t have to put your neck on the line for this,” Angie said. “Tracking down a killer is dangerous work. Then again, I don’t have to tell you that.”
“I know, but I have to admit that Delaine kind of tipped me over the edge. I mean, I do feel guilty about last night.”
“Last night?” a voice said from behind Theodosia. “Are you ladies gossiping about that awful tea party?”
Theodosia whirled around to find Gordon Twombley, Angie’s new British boyfriend du jour, gazing at her. His face was flushed, as if he’d just run up a flight of stairs, and he had a Monster energy drink clutched in one hand.
“Awful?” Theodosia practically cringed. “That’s what you heard?”
Gordon Twombley’s face crumpled in sudden concern. “Oh no, no. Heartfelt apologies, dear lady. I didn’t mean the tea party was awful, merely the unfortunate circumstances.”
“How do you know about the…circumstances?” Theodosia asked.
“Are you serious?” Twombley’s face lit up in surprise. “A mention on the telly last night and a story splashed across the front page of this morning’s paper. You didn’t catch any of it?”
Theodosia shook her head. “I was too busy talking to the police last night and then moving Aunt Libby over here this morning.”
“Like I said, we’re delighted to have her,” Angie said. “But, Theodosia”—she dropped her voice, then managed a quick look at Twombley—“there’s kind of a strange coincidence here.”
“What do you mean?” Theodosia asked.
“Gordon has been working with Mrs. Van Courtland,” Angie said.
Theodosia’s head swiveled to stare at Twombley. “You’re kidding.”
Twombley furrowed his brow. “It’s true. Mrs. V hired me to catalog and appraise her rather extensive collection of art and antiques so she could eventually decide which pieces to donate and which ones to sell.”
“Wait. Wow,” Theodosia said. “So you really knew her?”
“It was a business arrangement with the idea that she was probably going to consign a few things to my shop,” Twombley said.
“I thought you sold primarily British and French antiques,” Theodosia said.
Gordon spread his hands. “Now that I’ve dipped my toe in the waters here, I see there’s a demand for all manner of fine antiques.”
Theodosia knew that Gordon Twombley, a transplant from London, owned a small shop over on King Street called Mayfair Antiques.
Besides being British, Twombley looked British.
He had a broad, open face; pale blue eyes; and a nose that looked like it might have been broken once or twice.
On the other hand, he could have been a rugby player in his younger days.
Today, a plaid camel Thompson sweater, white shirt, and pressed khaki slacks concealed his somewhat stocky physique.
“And I’d have to say Mrs. V and I got along rather well,” Twombley said.
“You mentioned she was downsizing?” Angie asked.
“Not in the keenest sense of the word,” Twombley said. “From what I gathered, Mrs. V would have been quite happy to live out the rest of her days in the home she loved. But she was ready to pass on a few select pieces to museums and organizations that would appreciate them as much as she did.”
“And you’ve completed all your cataloging?” Theodosia asked.
“As well as the appraisals,” Twombley said. “Finished most everything last week, except for a few bits and bobs.”
“So what happens now?” Theodosia asked.
Twombley shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I suppose it’s all up to the lawyers. And the heirs.”
“Aunt Libby told me there’s a spendthrift son as well as an ex-daughter-in-law,” Theodosia said.
“And a sister in Savannah,” Twombley said. “Heard all about those folks from Mrs. V but never met any of them.”
Then, because Theodosia had nothing to lose, she said, “Gordon, since you were fairly well acquainted with Mrs. Van Courtland, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
Twombley shook his head sadly. “None at all. She seemed very sweet and, I assume, was well-liked. There were friends who dropped by her house and people from her charities, but I never did meet any of her relatives.” He hesitated for a moment.
“But if push came to shove and I was asked by the police, I might be tempted to put one or two of her family members on a short list.”
“Why is that?” Theodosia asked.
“Because they seemed so absent. So not in her life,” Twombley said.
“That’s very sad,” Angie said.
“Isn’t it,” Theodosia agreed.
“The only other kind of one-off who’d been in her life lately was a real estate developer who was super anxious to get his hands on her house.”
“But Mrs. V didn’t want to sell?” Theodosia asked.
“She thought he was a bit dodgy. And as far as I could see, she remained fairly adamant about not selling Sea Angel—that’s what she called her home,” Twombley said.
“But this particular developer…let me see if I can recall his name…” He bounced an index finger against his pursed lips, then said, “Okay, I believe the name was Birch, Roger Birch. Anyway, this Birch fellow was calling her almost every other day, really putting on the pressure.”
“Now that Mrs. V is dead, what do you think will happen to her house?” Theodosia asked.
Gordon Twombley arranged his face in an unhappy mask.
“My guess is it will be put up for sale. It’s a monster of a place, three stories, something like ten bedrooms, three parlors, and a huge kitchen as well as what you’d call a butler’s pantry.
The surrounding property is lovely, with gardens and a fountain, and it’s located just blocks from Charleston Harbor.
My guess is it would fetch a premium price. ”
“You said Roger Birch was the developer’s name?”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting,” Theodosia said. She gave Twombley a bright smile and immediately decided it might not hurt to file Mr. Birch in the possible suspects section of her brain.