Chapter 31
Theodosia, Drayton, and Shipman strolled into the ballroom.
Projections of stars twinkled on the ceiling and silver and gold stars dangled just above the revelers’ heads.
A full orchestra played a jazzed-up version of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain” and couples were dancing with exuberance.
Waiters circulated with flutes of champagne and trays of hors d’oeuvres that included paté and crackers, cheese bites, and small steak croquettes.
“Care for a drink?” Drayton asked. Then, without waiting for an answer (which would have been a resounding yes), he grabbed two champagnes off the tray of a passing waiter, handed them to Theodosia and Shipman, then quickly stretched an arm out to snatch another for himself.
As Drayton and Shipman began a lively conversation about book collecting, Theodosia wandered off. She was looking for Haley and Ben, as well as Leigh Carroll from the Cabbage Patch Gift Shop. Along the way she ran into Angie Congdon.
“Angie!” Theodosia exclaimed as Angie saw her, waved, and came running up. “Your dress is adorable.” Angie was wearing a cream-colored gown with a sparkling bodice that set off her blond hair perfectly.
Angie grabbed her skirt and swished it back and forth. “This old thing?” she laughed. “I’ve had it forever.”
“You could have fooled me. You look like you just jumped off a runway in Paris.”
“And you look very va-va-voom for a proper tea lady,” Angie said.
Theodosia shrugged. “Delaine picked it out.”
“Well, she does have good taste.”
“Is Gordon around? I have someone I want him to meet.”
“He’s here somewhere,” Angie said. “Probably pitching one of the guests on an antique clock or something equally collectible.”
“Speaking of which, was Gordon able to get the leather-top desk you told me about yesterday?” Theodosia was dying to talk about anything other than kidnapping, murder, and poisoning. Tonight she was going to have fun and kick up her heels.
“He did,” Angie said. “From that dealer who owns Lovejoy’s in Gardens Corner.”
“Omigosh! That’s the same town where Lois Chamberlain’s book dealer friend hails from. He’s British, too.”
“Small world,” Angie laughed.
“Now I really have to introduce them.”
“Only if you can find Gordon,” Angie said. “Last I saw, I think he was headed for that interactive exhibit. Now he could be lost in the crowd.”
Theodosia said hello to a few more people, then circled back to where Drayton and Shipman were talking about first editions.
Shipman saw her and said, “Did you take a spin around the dance floor?”
“Not yet, but now you really have to meet my friend.” Theodosia was bubbling with energy. “I take it you’re familiar with an antique shop called Lovejoy’s?”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” Shipman said.
Theodosia frowned at such an unexpected answer. “Are you sure? Because I was under the impression that Lovejoy’s was in Gardens Corner, the same place your bookstore is located.”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Something was striking a wrong chord with Theodosia. Then a little voice in her head urged her to clear up this somewhat baffling discrepancy.
“Could you come with me for a minute?” Theodosia asked Shipman.
“Sure,” Shipman said. Then he hesitated. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“Probably not, but would you indulge me for a moment?”
Shipman offered a faint smile. “When a lovely young woman asks me to indulge her, how do I dare refuse?”
“Drayton, you don’t mind if we wander off, do you?”
“Go,” Drayton said. “Enjoy.”
“We’ll be back in two shakes,” Theodosia promised.
But it wasn’t quite that easy. The crowd had grown much larger, and with all the bodies pressing around them, it was slow going.
As they exited the ballroom and pushed their way along the outer hallway, Theodosia saw Bill Glass up ahead. He was wearing a shiny black jacket with too-sharp shoulders and taking pictures like mad, entreating anyone who would cooperate to pose for him.
Shipman noticed Glass, too, and said, “Who is that photog? The way he’s dressed reminds me of a bouncer in a London gaming establishment.”
“That’s Bill Glass, the publisher of Shooting Star magazine.”
“It’s local?”
“Right.”
“And you say he’s the publisher? And photog?”
“As well as the editor, writer, and ad salesman. Suffice it to say Glass works on a shoestring budget.” Theodosia’s eyes traveled down from Glass’s black sport coat to his baggy jeans and scuffed tennis shoes, which he wore without laces. “Well, whatever.”
Then she looked up and saw Payton. The woman was giving Glass a foxy smile as he urged her to pose for him. She seemed vaguely reserved, then suddenly threw back her head and shoulders in an exaggerated pose.
“Interesting woman with your photog friend,” Shipman said. “Edgy look.”
“That’s just our friendly local arsonist,” Theodosia said.
Shipman chuckled. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. The only reason Payton Van Courtland is swanning around here tonight is because she hired herself a hotshot lawyer who got her out of jail on bail. But I’ve received every assurance from the police that she’ll be convicted of her crime.”
“This is turning into a rather strange event.”
“Hang on, it could get even stranger,” Theodosia said. She’d just spotted Gordon Twombley, who was talking loudly to a half dozen people clustered around him.
“You see that fellow holding court over there?” Theodosia said. “That’s the man I wanted you to meet. His name is Gordon Twombley and he recently relocated his antique shop from the UK to right here in Charleston.”
“That one?” Shipman was studying Twombley with a careful eye.
“Right,” Theodosia said.
Shipman continued to watch as Twombley gestured broadly and spoke in a loud, authoritative voice. Then Shipman’s forehead wrinkled in consternation and he moved a few steps closer to listen in on Twombley’s story.
Two minutes later, Shipman was back at Theodosia’s side and shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“What?”
“If that man is British, then I’m the Earl of Sandwich.”
Shipman’s words sent shock waves through Theodosia. “What are you talking about? Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s simply not a British accent,” Shipman said. “That’s an actor’s idea of a British accent. And all those words he keeps sprinkling into his conversation—bloke, dodgy, chuffed—it’s like a bunch of Cockney slang that he looked up on Wikipedia.”
“That can’t be right,” Theodosia said. “He…I mean, he acts British. And he once owned a horse that was in some kind of race or jumping trial.”
“Introduce us,” Shipman said. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s from…who knows?”
So Theodosia introduced the two of them. And as they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, she couldn’t help but think they were both British. Weren’t they?
“I understand you once owned a shop in Mayfair,” Shipman said to Twombley.
“Eons ago, but now I’m happily ensconced in Charleston,” Twombley said in a hale, hearty way.
“But surely you must miss England?” Shipman said.
“Oh, I do,” Twombley said. “I especially miss the emerald green countryside with its small villages, quaint pubs, and bucolic scenes of horses grazing in a field.”
“Didn’t you once own a horse?” Theodosia asked.
“You mean Pattycake?” Twombley said.
Theodosia thought for a moment. “I thought her name was Satin Lady.”
“Um, right,” Gordon said. He rocked back on his heels and gazed upward as if in deep thought. “A lovely little mare I once entered in the Cornbuckle Trials.”
“Don’t you mean the Cornbury House Horse Trials?” Shipman asked.
“Ha ha, you’re quite right,” Twombley said. “The Cornbury Trials. I’ve been away so long it seems I’ve forgotten a few things.”
“Remind me again where Cornbury House is located,” Shipman said.
Twombley scrunched up his face. “As I recall it’s rather near Exeter.”
“Actually, Cornbury House is close to Oxford.”
“Oh…well,” Twombley shrugged.
“And Lovejoy’s is not in Gardens Corner,” Shipman added.
“What?” Twombley said, his lips suddenly twitching.
“There is no Lovejoy’s in Gardens Corner,” Shipman repeated.
“Yes, there is!” Twombley shouted, causing more than a few people to turn around to see who was causing such a terrible disturbance.
“Sir,” Shipman said, “you do a passable imitation, but you are definitely not British.”
“Gordon,” Theodosia said, “we need to talk.” She was thinking about Mrs. Van Courtland’s precious artwork and antiques.
If Gordon Twombley had lied about being British—and traveling to Gardens Corner—what else had he lied about?
Had Mrs. V’s valuables actually been shipped to Crispin’s Auction House in New York?
Or had they ended up somewhere else? Somewhere Twombley could sell them all by himself and reap a huge profit?
“I don’t take kindly to this line of questioning,” Twombley blustered. His face and even the tips of his ears were flushed bright pink and his eyes had bugged out. “I find you both to be highly impertinent.” Panic was setting in and he began to back away from Theodosia and Shipman.
At that exact moment, Lois Chamberlain and her dog, Pumpkin, suddenly appeared at Theodosia’s side.
“What’s going on?” Lois asked. Then she took in Gordon, Twombley’s obvious distress and the fierce look on Theodosia’s face, and said, “Uh-oh. I think I might have interrupted something.”
“Twombley,” Theodosia said, her voice rising, “you have some explaining to do.”
“Not to you, I don’t,” Gordon Twombley spat out. He was losing his cool as fast as he was losing his accent. With a jerk of his head, he turned his back on Theodosia and hurriedly walked away.
“Twombley!” Theodosia cried again. She wasn’t so easily put off. After all that had happened, she needed some answers and she wanted them now.
Which sent Twombley into a lumbering sprint.
Not so easy in that large a crowd. He bumped into a man whose wrist was in a cast, almost bowling him over, then he caromed off an older woman in a silver dress.
Hunching forward now, Twombley picked up his pace, juked left like a broken-field runner on a football field, and crashed headlong into a waiter who was carrying a tray full of champagne glasses.
The tall glasses teetered for a split second, then fell, spilling froths of champagne and crashing loudly to the floor and sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
“Oh my Lord,” Theodosia said as, all around her, outraged cries went up and she felt glass crunch beneath her feet.
Trying to leave the destruction behind, Twombley broke into a frantic dash.
As he glanced back over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him, he plowed headlong into Delaine Dish.
“Watch it!” Delaine yelped, as she was rocked backward. She teetered precariously on her high heels until a man in a tuxedo caught her just in the nick of time. But in righting Delaine, he overcorrected, pushing her back onto her feet, where she once again crashed smack-dab into Gordon Twombley.
As the two of them bumped and fumbled together, Delaine bared her teeth, ready to read Twombley the riot act.
At which point Twombley’s hands flailed wildly about Delaine’s neck and shoulders and suddenly grabbed hold of her diamond necklace.
Horrified, feeling the sharp tug at her neck, Delaine screamed, “Don’t you dare!
” But with one heroic pull, Twombley jerked it off her neck!
Delaine’s frantic screams could have woken the dead.
They also caused a blind panic as shocked ball goers thought something terrible had happened—a shooter, a heart attack, fire, whatever—and began to scatter in every direction.
Gordon Twombley, a crazed grin on his face and an expensive diamond necklace in hand, suddenly ran for his life. As he bolted toward the main exit, Pumpkin suddenly appeared right on his heels, barking like crazy.
Alerted by Pumpkin’s sharp barks and Delaine’s screams, Theodosia fought her way through the stampeding crowd to get to Delaine. But poor Delaine was doubled over in shock as her high-pitched screams morphed into dramatic sobs. Theodosia reached out and pulled Delaine close. “What happened?”
Delaine fumbled a shaking hand to her neck, where the diamond necklace had hung only moments ago. “He stole my diamond necklace!” she cried.
“Who did?”
“That horrible Gordon Twombley!” Delaine wailed.
Theodosia was shocked. “The necklace you said was worth a quarter million dollars?” What was going on?
Tears streamed down Delaine’s face. “He snatched it right off my neck! The necklace I was supposed to guard with my life. Theo, I have to get that necklace back!” Delaine’s tears continued to roll down her face, melting her makeup into raccoon eyes and making her look even more sad and pitiful.
“Help me, Theo,” she begged. “Please, you’ve got to help me! ”
Not waiting for any more explanation, Theodosia hiked up her skirt and sprinted for the exit. She could hear Pumpkin still barking furiously, somewhere in front of her now, maybe outside? So perhaps she could…what? Catch up to Gordon and then…call the police?
As Theodosia ran, she fumbled in her evening bag for her cell phone. If she could just call 911…
But as Theodosia arrived at the exit, she saw Gordon Twombley shove one of the parking attendants aside and grab a set of keys right out of his hand.
Then Twombley wrenched open the passenger-side door of a silver SUV and lunged inside, catapulting himself across the console and into the driver’s seat.
At that same instant, Pumpkin took a flying leap. She stretched her little body to the max and jumped in behind him.
“No, Pumpkin!” Theodosia screamed.
But it was too late.
The door slammed shut and the SUV took off with a squeal of rubber. And as it roared past Theodosia and careened into the street, there was poor little Pumpkin staring out the side window.