Chapter 12
As Theodosia and Drayton walked into the main entry of the Heritage Society, Drayton said, “By the way, we sold two of Gordon Twombley’s pieces today.”
Theodosia whirled toward him. “We did? How did you even know what to charge?”
Drayton lifted his right eyebrow and held it. It was one of his innate skills. “Twombley gave me a price list. I presume the man believes in leaving no stone unturned.”
“Well, he is in the business of antiques. Which pieces sold?”
“The lamp and the tea caddy, which I had my eye on.”
“You’ve got a zillion tea caddies already.”
“What’s wrong with a zillion and one? And by the way, how many teapots have you amassed in your personal collection?”
Theodosia lifted a shoulder. “Let’s just say I stopped counting.”
“I rest my case.”
They walked down the main hallway of the Heritage Society, where dozens of oil paintings, many crackled with age, hung on the walls.
But there was more to this enchanting Charleston museum than just paintings.
They also had an amazing collection of sculptures, rare books, maps, furniture, drawings, vintage linens, important documents, and even antique weapons and firearms.
Theodosia loved the Heritage Society. Not just because Drayton served on its board of directors, but because it stirred the romance and fantasy within her.
With its high ceilings, manor house interior, and tucked-away rooms, the place reminded her of a castle.
There were winding stairs, turret rooms, underground storerooms, and a half dozen period rooms furnished with fine English and French furniture, priceless silver, and faded (but still glorious) oil paintings.
Of course, the pièce de résistance was a lovely library filled with leather chairs, cases of floor-to-ceiling leather-bound books, and brass lamps with emerald green shades.
The Heritage Society was also Drayton’s pride and joy. He’d served on the board of directors of this excellent museum for almost a dozen years now. And under his stewardship—and that of Timothy Neville, the executive director—the Heritage Society had become a cherished part of the community.
“Where is this seminar being held?” Theodosia asked. Then answered her own question when she saw the poster. “Oh, here we go. The Historic Reflections Seminar in the Great Hall.”
They stood outside the Great Hall and pressed their ears to the door. In fact, they could hear one of the speakers going on about the Joseph Manigault House, a graceful Adam-style home built in 1803 by two wealthy rice planters.
Five minutes later, the doors to the Great Hall opened and the seminar guests spilled out for a midafternoon break. June Winthrop, one of the administrative assistants, quickly ushered the group across the hall into the Palmetto Room, where snacks and coffee were waiting.
“June,” Theodosia said.
June Winthrop gave a little wave as she continued to herd her guests into the Palmetto Room. Then, when everyone was inside and going through the refreshment line, helping themselves to brownies, cookies, lemon bars, and coffee, June approached Theodosia and Drayton.
“Have you come for the seminar?” she asked. “Because I’m afraid you’ve missed the first half.”
“Actually, we wanted to touch base with one of your corporate sponsors,” Theodosia said. “Roger Birch? Of Birch Tree Holdings? Could you direct us to him?”
“Sure,” June said. “Mr. Birch is the man who’s just helping himself to a cup of coffee. You see him over there?”
Theodosia peeked into the room. “Got it.”
“Thank you,” said Drayton.
“Be sure to help yourself to refreshments if you’d like,” June said.
“And for goodness’ sake, please don’t miss the photo exhibit next door in the East Bay Gallery.
We had our noteworthy and historic Charleston homes photographed in color then printed in black and white so they look almost silvered.
It’s really quite haunting and remarkable. ”
“What do you think?” Theodosia said to Drayton. “Want to go in and confront Roger Birch?”
“You’re the one who wants to question him,” Drayton said. “I’m just along for the fireworks.”
“Okay then, let’s go.”
Roger Birch was juggling a cup of coffee and a plate with a brownie and two sugar cookies as he made his way to a table.
“Mr. Birch?” Theodosia said as she approached him.
Roger Birch glanced at her. “Hmm?” He was tall, fairly slim, and wore a European-cut gray suit that matched his eyes and close-cut gray hair. A subtle suntan hinted that, besides spending time on his yacht, he probably played his fair share of country club golf or tennis.
“Could we talk to you for a minute?” Theodosia asked.
“Sure. Just let me grab this table and set my stuff down.”
Theodosia and Drayton waited as Roger Birch sat down and got situated.
When no invitation to join him was forthcoming, they sat down anyway and Theodosia made hasty introductions.
Then, before Birch could ask what they wanted to talk about, she said, “I understand you’ve been trying to get your hands on Mrs. Van Courtland’s home over on Archdale Street. ”
Birch gazed at her with his cool gray eyes. “Who told you that?”
“Brody Van Courtland as well as Mrs. Huger, the housekeeper.”
Birch cocked his head to one side and said, “So what? I’m a real estate developer who’s always on the lookout for properties.
” He looked from Theodosia to Drayton and back to Theodosia again.
“That means homes, office buildings, land, whatever.” The tone of his voice was calm and confident, as if he had nothing to hide.
“But you seem more than persistent about Mrs. Van Courtland’s property,” Theodosia said.
“Look, I make no apology about wanting to get my hands on that house,” Birch said. “Because it’s a honey of a property. Good bones, still in excellent condition, superb location. It even has a name, Sea Angel, because of its second- and third-story views of Charleston Harbor.”
“And by buying it you could make money on it?” Drayton said.
“Heck yes,” Birch said. “That’s what I do, that’s what real estate is all about.
If I can get that property for two million give or take, I can cut it up into four separate condo units and sell each one for one point five million.
I figure that after construction costs I might be able to clear almost three million. ”
“The funny thing is,” Theodosia said, “first that house wasn’t for sale and now it is.”
Birch leaned back in his chair and stared at Theodosia. “Wait a minute. These aren’t just innocent questions, are they? You think I killed that old lady, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Theodosia said. “Did you?”
Birch stood up so fast his chair practically blew backward and anger spread across his face like a crimson tide. “I resent your questions and nasty implication,” he snarled. “You”—he pointed at Theodosia—“you are a most impudent young woman.”
“Well, we knew that,” Drayton muttered under his breath.
“Is there a problem?” June Winthrop was suddenly hovering at their table, looking deeply concerned.
“No problem,” Drayton said as he grabbed Theodosia’s elbow and pulled her up from her chair. “We were just leaving.”
“But…” It was the only word Theodosia got out as Drayton hustled her toward the door.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Birch,” Drayton said, without bothering to look back.
* * *
Theodosia had managed to cool off by the time she arrived home that Tuesday evening.
Drayton, being reasonable and fairly level-headed, had managed to take her back to the tea shop and talk her down.
And then, just as the sun was beginning to set and gild everything a lovely rose gold, she’d driven home.
The sight of Charleston looking so glowing and rose-hued had helped soothe the worry in her heart and soul.
As she parked in her back alley, Theodosia glanced over at the passenger seat and realized she had Lenny’s bouquet of irises.
Not wanting to be responsible for the flowers wilting on her watch, she hurried inside, fed Earl Grey, and then jumped back in her Jeep.
The evening was young and there was plenty of time to make a quick trip to Mrs. V’s house.
Maybe Birdie could stick the flowers in a vase and keep them relatively fresh until Brody showed up.
Or until there was some sort of memorial service for Mrs. V.
But as Theodosia drove down Queen Street, she realized she had murder on her mind.
Not that she wanted to go out and commit a heinous crime, but she still felt anger and bewilderment at whoever was responsible for Mrs. V’s untimely death.
And because she couldn’t seem to shake her slowly creeping suspicion about Payton, Brody, Roger Birch, and Lord knows who else, she was in a kind of dream state as she coasted past her turn.
Now why did I do that? Because my mind’s traveling in circles. I’ve got a bad case of monkey brain.
Taking her foot off the accelerator, Theodosia realized she was a half block away from the Tangled Rose B and B. Also known as the scene of the crime.
As if guided by an unseen hand, her car drifted in that direction, the whole time Theodosia wondering if she should drop by. Yes? No? Okay, how about this? If she walked back out onto that patio, maybe something would jog her mind concerning Sunday night. Maybe.
Theodosia found a parking spot on the street and walked up the front sidewalk.
The Tangled Rose was your basic storybook B and B.
It was a white clapboard building adorned with shutters, window boxes, and touches of dun-colored stone.
Tonight, small outdoor lights sparkled along the brick walkway that led through a latticed archway twined with roses.
On either side of the sidewalk were elaborate rose beds with varieties that included Blush Noisette, Cupcake, and Red Masterpiece.
The proprietor, Neela Carter, who was descended from Gullah folk, was also a licensed master gardener. Hence the profusion of rosebushes.
Theodosia entered the cheery lobby with its apricot-glazed walls, matching velvet chairs, and vases filled with roses.
She gave a quick look around and was about to duck down the hallway that led to the patio.
Except she was stopped dead in her tracks when her eyes lit on a familiar face in the small study just off the lobby.
“Payton?” Theodosia called out, not knowing if the woman would remember her. “Is that you?”
Payton Van Courtland was sitting in a tufted dark green leather chair.
Her legs were crossed and she was half-heartedly glancing through a fashion magazine.
When she heard her name called, she looked up and gave Theodosia a squinty-eyed glare.
Then the magazine slipped from Payton’s grasp as she recognized Theodosia and said, “Holy crap, you’re the tea shop lady, aren’t you? ”