Ming Tea Murder (2 page)

No, it couldn't be. Could it?

Slowly, tentatively, her heart in her throat, Theodosia reached forward and slowly parted the curtains. And saw . . . nothing.

It was pitch-black inside the photo booth. Lights out.

Somehow that didn't feel right to her. What was going on?

She pushed the curtains a little farther apart.

And that's when she saw him. A large man, sprawled on a narrow wooden bench, bent all the way forward so his forehead pressed tightly against the front panel of the booth. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was passed out cold.

“Excuse me,” said Theodosia. “Sir?” Her mouth felt dry, her breathing was fast and thready. “Are you okay, sir?” She paused. “Do you need help?”

No answer.

Theodosia glanced backward, looking for a museum guard, one of the museum staff, anyone who might be able to lend a hand.

But everyone had their backs to her. They were still cheering and clapping like mad as the musicians played wildly and the Chinese dragon continued his energetic prance.

Tentatively now, Theodosia touched a finger to the side of the man's throat. To where she figured a pulse point might be.

She felt . . . nothing. In fact, he felt cool. Practically lifeless.

A loud pounding sounded inside Theodosia's head, and she could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle and rise.

No . . . please no.

And, as her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness inside the photo booth, as her mind slowly wrapped itself around what might have just happened, that's when she saw the first telltale evidence of foul play. Just above where her fingertip had come into contact with the man's throat, a trail of dark, sticky liquid dribbled from his ear!

Blood? Has to be.

Theodosia snatched her hand away and backed out of the photo booth as fast as humanly possible. Then she screamed as loud as she could, her voice rising in volume as it mingled with the urgent, shrill notes of the erhu.

It was amazing.
Or maybe it wasn't. That a gaggle of wealthy, sophisticated people could scatter in mere minutes, like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Who wanted to get involved in what appeared to be a brutal, spur-of-the-moment murder?

No one, apparently. Death was too nasty, far too unseemly for this well-heeled, fashionable crowd.

So when a gang of uniformed police officers and EMTs descended upon the museum, when the dancing dragon was shooed away and the stunned musicians were silenced, Theodosia was left with a handful of museum folks. Everyone fumbled for explanations and tried to relate the story as best they could.

“How could this happen?” exclaimed Max. He touched a hand to his forehead as if he couldn't quite process the event. The tall, dark-haired, and olive-skinned Max now looked pale as a ghost.

A uniformed officer with brush-cut gray hair, a solemn expression, and a nametag that said
D. HICKS
hastened to take charge. “It happened,” he said. “So let's move on from there. Because what I really need to know right now is:
Who
is this fellow?” He peered into the darkness of the photo booth at the dead man.

“I don't know,” said Theodosia. “I'm not sure. I never saw his face. When I found him, he was just, uh, kind of slumped forward like that. Like he is now.”

“You didn't touch him?” Hicks asked.

Theodosia grimaced. “Well, I kind of did.”

“Explain, please,” said Hicks.

Theodosia hunched her shoulders. “I'm sorry, but I reached in and touched an index finger to his throat.”

“To see if the man was still breathing?”

“That's right. It seemed like the smart thing to do. The
responsible
thing to do.”

“And was he breathing?”

“No. At least I don't think he was.” Theodosia was nervous and felt like she was fumbling the interview when she should be trying to be a little more helpful. “And he certainly isn't breathing anymore.”

“That's fairly obvious,” said Max.

“So my question still stands,” said Hicks. “Who is he?” Even the two EMTs who'd come rushing in with a clattering gurney stood on the sidelines now, watching and listening. The situation looked pretty darn strange, and their curiosity was ramped up.

Drayton, who'd been standing behind Theodosia and observing what was slowly turning into a freak show, held up a hand, and said, “I think I might be of some help.”

“Oh yeah?” said Hicks. He looked like he was normally a fairly easygoing guy, but tonight his jaw was set firmly and his eyes were pinpricks of intensity. “You believe you can identify this man?”

Drayton nodded. “I think this unfortunate gentleman might be . . .”

“Edgar!” A shrill scream echoed from halfway across the room. It rose in volume, like steel wheels grinding against metal rails, then tapered to a high-pitched whine. “Is that my Edgar?”

Charlotte Webster suddenly stumbled toward them. She was half staggering, half running, looking like a crazed zombie woman. Her blond hair stuck straight up, her bright red lipstick was hopelessly smeared, and she wore a look of utter anguish on her doughy face.

The small crowd parted silently for her as she lurched up to the photo booth. She stopped, peered inside, and let out a sound that sounded like
“Whump?”
Then she slumped so visibly that Drayton had to reach out and steady her.

“Is it him?” Hicks asked. “Is that your husband?”

But Charlotte wasn't about to be hurried.

She fanned herself madly with one hand. “When I couldn't find Edgar in the crowd,” she said, “I started to panic.” Now tears streamed like rivers down her cheeks. “And now . . .” She put a hand to her chest as if she was suddenly experiencing stabbing heart pain. Then she swallowed hard and pointed at the dead man. “And now I
recognize
him,” she said in a high, quavering voice. “We . . .” She shook her head, almost unable to continue.

“Take your time,” said Hicks.

“I mean . . .” said Charlotte. “I can't quite believe this, but earlier tonight we actually
argued
over Edgar's choice of tuxedos. He wanted to wear the Armani. I told him I much preferred the Brioni.” Her lower lip trembled and her finger shook as she pointed at the dead man, who was still slumped like a slab of meat inside the photo booth. “That's Edgar's Brioni. I'd know it anywhere.”

“Oh dear,” said Theodosia.

“That's Edgar Webster?” said Max. “I was just talking to him!”

“I think I . . .” Charlotte mumbled. Then her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed. Her knees trembled and buckled. In front of a dozen horrified onlookers, Charlotte dropped to the marble floor like a sack of potatoes. Potatoes encased in a fashionable red silk dress, anyway.

Drayton and Percy Capers, the Asian curator, immediately leapt to Charlotte's aid. Together they hauled her back onto her feet and led her, stumbling and blubbering, to a nearby bench.

“Well, you certainly don't see that every day,” said a gruff voice.

Theodosia whirled around, ready to chastise whoever had made what she considered a fairly rude and insensitive comment. And was met with the steady, dark gaze of Detective Burt Tidwell.

“You,” she said. Burt Tidwell headed the Robbery and Homicide Division of the Charleston Police Department. He was a bear-sized man with a strange, bullet-shaped head and huge hands. Brilliant, shrewd, and driven, he was not a man to be trifled with.

“You,” Tidwell fired back at Theodosia. They'd met on any number of occasions. Socially, at the Indigo Tea Shop, and, more recently, when Theodosia had been pulled into a bizarre murder case.

Tidwell extended a hand and gave an impatient flick of his wrist. “Please move,” he said as a kind of blanket warning to everyone in his immediate vicinity. “Everyone step back. You are all compromising my crime scene with your sticky little strands of DNA.”

“
Your
crime scene?” said Hicks. He put his hands on his hips. “I don't think so.” Suddenly, a turf war seemed to be brewing.

Tidwell directed a withering gaze at him. “I prefer to take over from here. Good work, though, Officer Hicks. I'm thrilled that you were able to keep so many guests from stampeding.”

“Look here,” said Theodosia, stepping in again. “It wasn't his fault. When I saw that poor man . . .” She pointed inside the photo booth.

“Edgar Webster,” said Max.

“When I saw him slumped inside,” said Theodosia, “I started screaming. Which meant the band quit playing, and then . . . well . . .” She stopped abruptly, aware that at least a dozen pairs of eyes were staring at her with increasing curiosity. “They all . . . all the guests, that is . . . got scared and ran off.”

“A fine narrative,” said Tidwell. “Very helpful indeed.”

“You don't have to be so dismissive,” said Theodosia, pulling it together and speaking more clearly now. “I was startled, and I'm afraid my screams launched everyone into panic mode.”

Tidwell glanced around. “Who is in charge here, please? Besides me?”

“That would be me.” Elliot Kern, the director of the museum, stepped forward and extended his hand. He was well turned out in an Ermenegildo Zegna power suit. His sparse gray hair was a fringed cap, a hawk nose dominated his face, and he exuded a faint patrician air. In an earlier century he could have been one of the wheeling, dealing members of the Medici family.

“I'm assuming you have a list of everyone who was in attendance here tonight?” said Tidwell.

“Of course,” said Kern. “Absolutely.” He seemed more than eager to lend assistance.

“Then I will be needing that list,” said Tidwell. Like many large men, he'd taken to wearing vests under his sport coats. And tonight, the small pearly buttons on Tidwell's vest seemed to yawn and strain, defying every dreary law of physics.

“Is there anything I can do?” asked Max. But both Tidwell and Elliot Kern ignored him.

“Again, people,” said Tidwell, raising his voice to a frightening rumble, “you must clear away from here.” A few more people shuffled backward as the EMTs looked anxious and edged their gurney closer.

“No, no,” said Tidwell, holding up a big paw. “We cannot load him up yet. We must wait for the crime-scene team to arrive. Since we haven't determined the primary cause of death, their small ministrations are going to be quite necessary in helping gather as much information as possible.”

Theodosia noted that Tidwell seemed to veer between blustering and decorous. Typical. She edged a little closer, ignoring his warning to back off.

“What was the cause of death?” Theodosia asked. She figured she already knew what it was, but she wanted to get it straight from the horse's mouth.

“If you want an official statement,” Tidwell said brusquely, “you're welcome to make an appointment and meet with the medical examiner of Charleston County.”

“Okay, then,” said Theodosia. “How about unofficially? You're an experienced investigator. What do
you
think might have been the cause of death?” She glanced at Charlotte Webster, who was still sitting on a bench, bent over with her face in her hands.

Tidwell offered a mirthless smile, a smile that seemed to imply his superiority as an investigator. Then he extended a hand toward the dead man. “You see there . . . how the blood has oozed out? Very dark, almost black, dribbling down the side of our victim's face?”

“Yes.” Theodosia wished he hadn't phrased it quite so graphically.

“Off the record, I'd say that a thin, sharp object had been inserted into our victim's right ear.”

Not
our
victim
, Theodosia thought. Your
victim.

“Dear lord,” said Drayton. All the blood seemed to drain from his face.

Theodosia was appalled but fascinated at the same time. “And this particular sharp object entered his brain, too?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” said Tidwell. “A sharp object, inserted rather deftly, would most definitely impact that particular area.”

“Deftly,” said Theodosia, frowning. “That's a strange way to describe such a brutal, up-close murder. Your choice of words almost implies a certain elegance.”

Tidwell's mouth twitched slightly upward at the corners, and he rocked back on his heels. “No, Miss Browning, the elegance lies in how adroitly this particular murder will be solved.”

Theodosia gazed at Tidwell, the feisty, obstinate, ex-FBI agent, who could be both courtly and brusque at the same time. “But . . .” she said. She hesitated, thought for a moment, and decided to voice her opinion anyway. “But the killer . . . the murderer . . . he had to have been a guest here tonight. It couldn't have been someone who just wandered in off the street.”

“Very good, Miss Browning,” said Tidwell. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Now the mu shu pork has really hit the fan,” murmured Max.

Theodosia lifted her gaze from the dead man to the elegant Chinese tea house. Red lights, set on a timer, had suddenly blinked on and shone down upon the enormous central gallery. Now the tea house shimmered in brilliant red light, while everything around it was bathed in a darker bloodred.

Theodosia shivered, as if a chill wind had suddenly swept across her grave. A killer had walked quietly among them with murder in his heart.

Who could it
be?