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“Osgood Claxton?” Theodosia said in a small voice.
Booker nodded. “You got it, lady. Claxton deemed my work degenerate. Which is exactly what the Nazis said about paintings by Picasso, Cézanne, and Dalí.”
“That’s why you lost your grant?”
“I lost it because Claxton made a big, hairy stink to the committee and basically browbeat them into rescinding my award.”
“Unfair.”
“Absolutely, it was. But it happened. Claxton appointed himself the Reich Minister for Public Enlightenment just like Joseph Goebbels did in the forties. So you see, Miss Theodosia, whether Osgood Claxton was poisoned, shot, or hung by his thumbs and devoured by jackals, I’d say he got exactly what he deserved.”
“Death,” Theodosia said. “And you see that as karma?”
“Sometimes there’s order in the universe, sometimes you have to make it happen yourself.”
Theodosia stood there, trembling at such harsh words. Wanting to ask Booker straight out if he was the one who’d murdered Osgood Claxton, if he’d tried to restore order to the universe. But she was too afraid. Because this man, this very large man, was not only clouded with rage, he clearly had a taste for revenge.
Her concentration was broken when Earl Grey tugged on his leash.
“You have a dog,” Booker said, suddenly noticing Earl Grey. “Nice.”
“Who’s probably ready to go home.”
“You live around here?”
“Close enough,” Theodosia said. She wasn’t about to give Booker a hint as to where she lived.
“Well, good night, lady,” Booker said. “Sleep well while I continue to work on my mural here.”
“Good night,” Theodosia said. She turned and jogged back down the alley. Then, with a look over her shoulder to make sure Booker wasn’t following her, turned down Glebe Street and headed for home.
***
When Theodosia and Earl Grey arrived home, she locked the door, checked it twice, then grabbed a bottle of Fiji water out of the fridge. As she took a few sips, she realized she still felt nervous and a little scared. Booker was a guy who seemed to have an anger management problem. Maybe he was even a killer.
As Theodosia turned out the lights and headed upstirs, she wondered if Booker could have pulled on a beekeeper’s suit and gone after Claxton. Was he the one who’d threatened her yesterday when she’d chased after him? Maybe, but tonight he hadn’t shown an ounce of recognition. On the other hand, he could be a great actor. Lots of people were skilled at concealing their true nature. And if Booker was a killer then he could also be a sociopath, capable of great deception.
Earl Grey curled up on his overpriced L.L.Bean dog bed while Theodosia stepped into the shower, dialed it up hot, and let the spray wash away some of the psychic dust she’d accumulated during the course of the day. Then, when she felt a prune situation coming on, she stepped out and wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth robe.
Early on, she’d converted her entire upstairs into a bedroom-bathroom-reading-room kind of loft. One that was both girly and relaxing. The walls were covered with Laura Ashley wallpaper, the comforter on her four-poster bed done in a matching print. There was a plump marshmallow-soft chair in her reading room and a vanity scattered with jewelry, bottles of Chanel and Dior perfume, an antique comb set, a ceramic leopard, her journal, and a Jo Malone candle. And she’d finally splurged and bought that pair of antique Chinese ginger jar lamps she’d been coveting for a long time. They lent the perfect touch—and soft illumination—to what had become a kitchy, creative, relaxing space.
Theodosia piled up four pillows on her bed, climbed in, then grabbed the two lists that Holly had given her. She scanned the guest list first and saw a few prominent names, movers and shakers, descendants of old Charleston families, most of whom resided in the Historic District.
Could any one of these people have masterminded Claxton’s death? Sure they could have. Prominent people, wealthy businessmen, had manipulated history for decades.
Theodosia switched to the list of artists. She recognized two or three names, mostly because they were fairly well-known in the community. They donated pieces of work for charity auctions, created pieces for public buildings. She doubted a prosperous artist would even be interested in a man like Claxton.
But then there was Booker. Angry, a chip on his shoulder, and from the looks of him definitely not prosperous.
Theodosia grabbed her phone and called Riley.
“I need to tell you about Booker,” she said when he answered.
“Booker.” Riley repeated it slowly as if testing the word. “Is that someone’s name or an occupation?”
“It’s the name of an artist,” Theodosia said. “Thadeus T. Booker. Actually an artist that Holly represents at the Imago Gallery.”
“And what’s so special about this Booker guy?” Riley asked. “Wait, did you buy one of his paintings?”
