Chapter 7
Theodosia was on pins and needles. Even Earl Grey, her half dalmatian, half Labrador (a Dalbrador), knew something was up.
“Don’t mind me,” she told her dog as she put out his kibble along with a fresh pan of water.
“I’m just a little anxious.” Earl Grey took a couple of gulps, then, still chewing, looked up at her.
“Yes, I have to run out for a little while, but I shouldn’t be late.
I’m sure we’ll still have time for our walk. ”
Earl Grey’s dog walker, Mrs. Barry, always took him out for a walk midafternoon. In fact, she walked half the dogs in the neighborhood, but Theodosia always liked to do a fast-paced trot, or even a good blow-it-out run, right before bedtime.
Opening her refrigerator, Theodosia pulled out an apple and a hunk of cheddar cheese.
She sliced the apple and cut the cheese into bite-worthy chunks and walked into her dining room.
Tossing her bag on the Sheraton buffet, she took a look in the mirror, patted her hair, and continued into her living room.
She set her plate down on the Chinese table in front of the TV and opened the front door, where she grabbed a scant few envelopes out of a brass mailbox that hung on the brickwork next to her door.
“Just bills,” Theodosia murmured to Earl Grey, who’d padded after her.
She sat down on a sofa that she recently had upholstered in a nubby terra-cotta-colored fabric.
It went perfectly with her blue-and-persimmon-colored Oriental carpet and keyed off the warm brick of her fireplace and the exposed beams. She’d always shopped carefully when furnishing her little Queen Anne–style cottage and it had paid off.
She owned a fine mix of French, English, and Chinese pieces and had tossed in a wild card in the form of a vintage tea trolley that she used as a sideboard for serving wine and cocktails.
Earl Grey stuck his muzzle about one-tenth of a millimeter from her plate and looked at her.
“Okay, but just one,” Theodosia said as she gave him a slice of apple. Then she turned on the TV to catch the evening news.
And wished she hadn’t. There was Ken Lotter, standing in front of the Tangled Rose B and B, talking in hushed tones about how this had been the eerie scene of a grisly murder.
Theodosia turned the channel to a vintage Seinfeld episode and finished her snack. Then it was time to go.
* * *
Mrs. Van Courtland’s home, the one she called Sea Angel, was located on Archdale Street in the heart of Charleston’s Historic District.
It was an enormous Georgian-style manor surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that curved inward at the top.
Three stories high, the imposing home featured a hipped roof, two box chimneys, graceful columns, and a paved brick sidewalk that led from the street to the front veranda.
An adjacent road led to a porte cochere on the right side of the house.
Brass door knockers in the form of angels brandishing trumpets graced the two front double doors.
Theodosia lifted one of the angels—a heavy little guy—and let it fall against a metal plate.
Inside, she heard a resounding BONG. Two seconds later, the door flew open and there was Gordon Twombley to greet her.
“Come in, come in,” Twombley said in a hearty voice, as if he were the lord of the manor. Tonight he wore a pink sweater, dove gray slacks, and oxblood Tod’s loafers.
Theodosia stepped inside and found herself in an octagon- shaped, marble-floored foyer.
Real-deal oil paintings graced the walls, and a pair of Ming vases rested on a Chinese rosewood table.
She decided it was no wonder Mrs. V had hired Twombley to catalog her art and antiques.
Because if this was any early indication, her collection must be stunning.
And it was.
Twombley led her down a hallway hung with more paintings, some portrait, some landscape, and into a large, formal parlor.
There was a marble fireplace with an opening large enough to roast an entire hog, bookcases on either side filled with leather books, two large upholstered sofas facing each other across a heart pine coffee table, and antique Chinese rugs on the floor.
The walls were covered in hand-painted silk and were hung with dozens more fine paintings.
There were exquisite ceramics, ginger jars, marble statues, art pottery, and silver candlesticks everywhere.
In one corner, sitting atop a spinet desk was what looked like a Remington bronze sculpture.
Theodosia pointed. “Is that a…?”
“Remington?” Twombley said. “Yes, it is.”
“Stunning.”
“Mrs. V had a remarkable collection,” Twombley said as he gazed at the Remington. “And that horse”—he smiled to himself—“though it’s wearing a western saddle, it reminds me of one I once owned. A lovely mare named Satin Lady that I rode in the Cornbuckle Trials.”
“It must have been great fun for you to catalog all this,” Theodosia said.
“It was, and…oh, here she is now,” Twombley said as a small, thin, gray-haired woman in a sedate brown dress walked into the room. “Theodosia, I’d like you to meet Birdie Huger. Ms. Huger is—was—Mrs. V’s housekeeper and companion.”
“Nice to meet you,” Theodosia said as she shook the woman’s hand. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” There was only one word to describe Birdie and that was sensible. Sensible shoes, sensible dress, sensible wash-and-wear hair. Not a touch of flamboyance anywhere.
Looking somewhat bereft, Birdie Huger bobbed her head. “Thank you.” She had a careworn face and a soft, honeyed accent that was pleasant to the ear.
“Theodosia here is looking into Mrs. V’s death,” Twombley explained to Birdie. “She hosted last night’s Firefly Tea and is a kind of amateur detective.”
“Oh.” Birdie looked startled. “So you work with the police?”
“Now and then,” Theodosia hedged. “But right now I’m kind of on a fact-finding mission.”
Birdie pulled a hanky from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Well, I don’t know much since I wasn’t there. I’m about as shocked as everybody else.”
“You don’t know if someone had threatened Mrs. Van Courtland recently?” Theodosia asked. “If she’d had problems with anyone? A neighbor? Someone attached to one of her charities? Maybe someone in her family?”
“I don’t believe so,” Birdie said. “I think Mrs. V would have told me if there was a problem.” She wrung her hands and played with her ring, a small blue sapphire set in a gold band.
“You know, when I said goodbye to Mrs. V last night, I fully expected she’d be returning home from your Firefly Tea.
I even did a turndown on her bed, exactly the way she likes it, and laid out her favorite down comforter because the evening had turned a little cool. ”
“You must have cared for Mrs. Van Courtland very much,” Theodosia said to Birdie.
“I did,” Birdie said. “I liked working for her because she was a genuine lady. Very proper, very polite. And after a while, years really, we became more than just employer and employee. We were also friends. In the morning, after I’d wake her up, I’d prepare a pot of her favorite English breakfast tea.
We’d sit in the kitchen and drink our tea together, have toast and jam, read the papers, and gab about whatever was on our minds.
Sometimes Mrs. V would talk about her favorite charities; once in a while she’d mention her son.
It was just talk. But nice. Now…well, I guess that’s all over and done with. ”
“Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Theodosia said.
Birdie swiped at her eyes. “Now what’s going to happen to all her charities? To Honey Badger House?”
“Excuse me?” Theodosia said. “Did you say Honey Badger House?” She glanced at Twombley, who gave a distracted shrug. “I thought Mrs. V called this place Sea Angel.”
Birdie waved a hand. “No, no, Honey Badger House is one of Mrs. V’s charities, probably her favorite. It’s a halfway house for teens.”
“Runaway teens?” Theodosia asked.
Birdie unfolded her hanky and blew her nose again. “Actually, she told me that many of the kids are throwaways.”
“Oh no,” Theodosia said.
“It’s a sad situation,” Birdie said. “A lot of the kids who end up there are plagued with behavioral problems. Some had difficulties with school, their families, or with society in general, so their parents basically disowned them.”
“Where’s this place located?” Theodosia asked.
“Over on 27th Street,” Birdie said. “Not too far from here. Mrs. V bought the property two years ago and donated it to the nonprofit group that runs it.”
“Such an unusual name,” Twombley said. “Honey Badger House.”
“Well,” Birdie said, “Honey Badger House actually started out as Huntington House. But one night the kids watched a TV show, one of those nature documentaries, about honey badgers. And it showed how those feisty little critters survived in the wild and weren’t even afraid to stand up to African lions.
After that the kids started calling themselves honey badgers, because they’d all grown up fending for themselves and felt they were now equipped to face almost anything.
They kind of realized—and came to grips with—their own personal grit. Anyway, the name just stuck.”
Ding dong.
“Ah, the doorbell,” Birdie said as she turned and hastily left the room.
Theodosia took this opportunity to look around some more. “So these are some of the antiques you cataloged?” she said to Twombley. “Looks like Mrs. V had quite a few lovely pieces.” She noticed an ornate clock, inlaid tea caddy, and a green Limoges box decorated with orange tulips.
“Some of them are quite precious,” Twombley said. “Of course, everyone thinks their collection is worth far more than it really is.”
“Is that the case here?”
“In some instances, perhaps. But most of her pieces are quite good.”
“That table lamp—it’s genuine Victorian?”