Chapter 8
There was another chirpy “hello,” then a spectacular-looking blonde came bouncing into the room.
Amber looked fresh and glowing, as if she’d just gotten off a private plane from Malibu.
She wore a cream-colored cashmere sweater draped off one perfectly tanned shoulder, artfully ripped jeans, and a pair of crocodile Manolo Blahnik stilettos.
Brody glanced over at her and said, “What now, Amber?” All of a sudden he sounded dead tired.
The girl, who Theodosia figured was barely a day or two over eighteen, strolled over to Brody, rubbed a shoulder up against him, and said, in a petulant tone, “I’m bored.”
Theodosia fought to control her smile as the term barely legal flitted through her brain.
“What else is new?” Brody said.
“I’ve been waaay-ting,” Amber said in an annoyed tone. “We have reservations at High Cotton. Unless you forgot. Again.” Amber did a practiced hair flip and a light stomp with a high-heeled foot. “I mean I really don’t want them to give away our table.”
Brody’s expression was a tolerant grimace as he nodded at the girl. “Everyone, this is my sort-of-fiancée, Amber. Sweet little thing, isn’t she? Has me wrapped around her little finger.” Then he relaxed and his smile softened. “Be with you in a minute, turtledove.”
“How about now?” Amber pouted.
“You go on ahead,” Brody told her. He looked around with a distracted smile, as if he’d forgotten something but couldn’t quite remember what it was. “Okay, I guess everything’s pretty much settled here.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Theodosia said again.
“Thank you,” Brody mumbled as he, Amber, and Gordon Twombley started for the front door.
Hoping to have a final word with Birdie, Theodosia hung back.
“Was Mrs. V planning to sell this place?” Theodosia asked.
“No, she loved this house,” Birdie said.
“Did she ever get offers from Realtors or developers?”
“Fairly often. But she always blew them off. Like I said, Mrs. V loved this place.”
“She wanted to die here,” Theodosia said.
Tears came to Birdie’s eyes as she choked up. “It would have been more fitting.”
* * *
Theodosia thanked Birdie and walked out to her Jeep. When she saw that Brody hadn’t left yet, she lifted a hand and waved at him. “Mr. Van Courtland, Brody, hold up a minute, will you?”
Brody waited next to his car, a bright red swoopy-looking sports car, and said, “What’s up?”
Theodosia walked over to him. “A quick question. Can you think of anyone who wanted your mother dead?”
Brody looked both puzzled and stricken by her question. “What are you, some kind of investigator?” He shook his head. “I thought you were with that antique guy, Gordon whoever.”
“Actually, I’m the one who hosted the Firefly Tea last night,” Theodosia said.
He gave her an interested look. “You don’t say. I suppose that explains why you’re here then—you have a personal interest in my mother’s death.”
“In a way, yes.” Theodosia hoped that answer would appease him. She didn’t want to reveal too much about her shadow investigation. Because…well, you never know.
Brody’s shoulders rose in a helpless shrug and his face fell. “So you asked if someone wanted my mother dead?” He blew out a glut of hair. “For one thing, there’s my ex-wife, Payton, rhymes with Bride of Satan. She not only hates me, she hated my mother.”
“Why was that?”
“Money of course. When Payton divorced me she was basically cut off from the family fortune, board memberships, private clubs, and more than a few society contacts. Which didn’t sit well with Payton’s social-climbing, money-grubbing nature.”
“But you pay alimony to Payton.”
“I consider it more like getting hosed.”
“Guess you two didn’t have a prenup,” Theodosia said.
Brody swept a hank of hair off his forehead. “Did you ever hear the phrase ‘love is blind’?”
Theodosia answered with a wry smile.
“That was me when I was young and innocent. Now with this one”—Brody nodded toward the front seat of the car, where an impatient Amber squirmed around, peering into the rearview mirror as she applied shiny pink lip gloss—“if we make it to the beyond-dating stage before she runs me ragged, I’ll be sure to demand an iron-clad prenup.
” He considered his words. “Or maybe I should just keep her dangling on the hook.”
“It’s certainly a strategy,” Theodosia said as she squinted at Brody’s car. She wasn’t big into luxury sports cars, but she knew there was something unique about this one. Then it hit her. Brody was driving the dream car of the early nineteen eighties.
“This is a DeLorean, right?” Theodosia said.
Brody beamed at her as if she’d just answered a Jeopardy! Daily Double correctly. “Yeah. Pretty sweet ride, huh?”
“Interesting ride anyway.”
“This baby’s a nineteen eighty-one DMC-12. Got the original leather seats and the gull-wing doors.”
“Don’t those flip-up doors make parking difficult?” As well as climbing in and out?
“Yeah, they’re sorta trippy. That’s why when I go to a restaurant I always make the valet park my car right out front. Makes a strong statement, too.”
“I’m sure it does,” Theodosia said.
“And you drive a Jeep,” Brody said, looking over at her Wrangler.
“It gets me where I want to go.” Truth be told, Theodosia loved her Jeep. She drove it down trails and across fields when she was collecting tangles of grapevines to make teacup wreaths, or when she was gathering wild lemon verbena and mint for tea.
“You’ve got the jacked-up thirty-three-inch tires,” Brody said. “Which is pretty cool. Did you ever think of driving in a road rally?”
Theodosia turned to gaze at Brody. Was he serious? “Can’t say I ever have.”
“There’s one happening in a couple of months. The Bogs to Beaches Race, put on by the Sandlapper Rally Club.”
“And you’re a member?”
“Right on. Maybe you’d like to join us?”
Theodosia grinned. “You planning to drive your DeLorean?”
“Naw, I have a two-year-old Range Rover I use for cross-country rallies. Hey, that Bogs to Beaches Race is for charity, but the winner gets a nice prize. A week of golf at Hilton Head. Maybe you’d be interested?”
“Maybe I would.” Another opportunity to drive off-road sounded fun to Theodosia.
“Here.” Brody ducked under one of the gull-wing doors and reached into his car. Managing not to bump his head, Brody grabbed a flyer and handed it to Theodosia. “Take a look. All the info is there, the racecourse map and all the entry information. Think about it; you might get a kick out of it.”
“Maybe,” Theodosia said. “Thanks.” She watched as Brody hunched over again and crawled into his car.
When he fired up the engine, it sounded like a commercial jetliner getting ready for takeoff.
As he pulled away, Amber turned in her seat to look at her.
And Theodosia had the distinct feeling Amber was laughing.
* * *
Theodosia drove home, winding her way back through the Historic District as she thought about Brody Van Courtland.
Had he been serious about Payton wanting his mother dead?
What would Payton gain from it? Money? From the way Brody talked, it was doubtful Payton would still be in Mrs. V’s will.
So what would Payton’s motivation be? Revenge?
That was a possibility. She’d once read that the FBI listed anger, domination, revenge, and political ideology as prime motivators when it came to major crimes.
She was still thinking about Mrs. V’s murder when Earl Grey met her at the back door.
“Hello, handsome,” she said as Earl Grey stretched out his neck then shivered with delight as she gave him an ear scratch.
Checking her watch, Theodosia saw it was a little past nine, and said, “Want to go for a quick run? There’s still time to blow out the carbon before we turn in for the night.”
Earl Grey gave an enthusiastic ROWF accompanied by a tail wag.
“I’d say that’s a resounding yes.”
Theodosia changed into a yoga T-shirt, jogging pants, and Nike trainers. Then she clipped a leash on Earl Grey and they headed outside.
As they ran down the back alley, the night felt even darker than it had the previous evening.
Maybe because a solid ceiling of clouds had floated in from the Atlantic and was pressed low in the sky.
And a breeze had sprung up. It sang through the eaves of the nearby homes, riffled treetops and early blooming magnolias, and lent an overall feeling of eeriness.
Yes, streetlamps twinkled up and down Meeting Street as they ran silently past enormous homes, but none of the residents were out tonight.
Theodosia picked up the pace, running right down the middle of the street as Earl Grey loped alongside her.
She’d always been a runner; she liked the way it warmed her body and kept her joints moving in harmony.
Drayton lectured her that continued pounding wasn’t good for her knees, but she kept on anyway.
Riley worried about her being out late at night, but he was a typical cop, preoccupied with crime.
She kidded Riley that he was always looking for the flyspecks in the pepper.
Halfway down the block, there was a faint on-and-off sparkle over to her left.
Theodosia slowed to a stop and peered through the wrought-iron gate of a prim Victorian home that had always reminded her of the Addams Family manse.
Past a bed of azaleas, beyond a brick patio filled with wicker furniture, a tiny galaxy of fireflies darted about a verdant garden.
So a few of the little lightning bugs were still hanging around. Which was great, and strangely comforting, especially after last night.
Turning the corner at Tradd, heading in the direction of the Gibbes Museum, Theodosia heard a car approaching behind her. As it whooshed closer, she moved to the far-right side of the street, guiding Earl Grey along with her, taking care to make room.
And that’s when it all ran amuck.
As the car accelerated past her, enveloping her in its slipstream, something came flying out the passenger-side window.
The object hit the pavement with a harsh tinny, metallic sound, bounced once, twice, then cartwheeled directly toward her.
Theodosia made a mad dash for the curb, pulling Earl Grey with her and shielding him with her body.
Seconds later, a loud BANG split the air, accompanied by an explosion of silver-white sparks.
It was over as fast as it happened.
Theodosia stood there, shaken and confused, watching the car’s red taillights disappear down the street. There was a screech of tires as it spun around the corner and disappeared.
Her first thought was, Did that really just happen? Followed by, Who did that? Who just threw a grenade at me?
She walked over to where a small, cylindrical metal object lay inert in the street and peered at it.
Or was it a grenade?
The darn thing looked like a grenade. Then again, it could be some kind of exploding firework. Or even one of those flash-bangs that police used for crowd control.
And had this been a random act? A bunch of jerk-off kids committing a little street crime? Trying to scare her and her dog just to get a laugh?
Or, hold on a minute, was someone trying to target her?
But who?
Theodosia’s mind searched for answers. Could it have been Brody Van Courtland? Had he circled back in a different car? Somehow that didn’t feel right to her. Their conversation had been relatively friendly. At least she thought it had been.
What about the very irate Payton?
Theodosia stood in the middle of the dark street, Earl Grey huddled next to her, feeling both scared and vulnerable, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When the car didn’t return, when no one ran out from a nearby house to investigate the noise and flying sparks, Theodosia bent down and picked up the spent object. Holding it gingerly, like one might handle a dead rat, she carried it home with her.