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“Not so silent today,” Tidwell said. “He seemed rather obnoxious. You say his name is Slade? Was he here for the event?” He gestured at the overturned tables and chairs. “Your ruined tea party?”
“Not that I can recall,” Theodosia said.
“So he just now showed up.” Tidwell turned to watch Jeremy Slade as he walked angrily about the grounds. Slade kicked at one battered painting, then leaned over, grabbed another damaged canvas, glanced at it casually, shook his head, and tossed it aside.
Theodosia, never one to miss a critical nonverbal cue, also watched Jeremy Slade. And began to wonder why he’d shown up when he did. How he knew to show up.
“Do you think...?” she began.
But Tidwell just shook his head and walked away.
***
So that was the messy aftermath of Theodosia’s tea party. Ambulances and police cruisers, followed by a shiny Crime Scene van, then a coroner’s van with two somber-looking attendants. The Crime Scene techs roped off the area, took photos and measurements, and looked for footprints, hairs, fibers, and whatever it was Crime Scene people found interesting. Anything that might help them piece together the puzzle of why Claxton had been murdered. And who could have murdered him.
Then there was the detritus from her tea party. The rumpled tablecloths, precious teapots that had been cracked or broken, flower bouquets accented with fuzzy faux bees that were strewn everywhere, and the discarded scones, honeyed ham sandwiches, and miniature jars of DuBose Bees Honey. It was all smashed on tables and scattered across the lawn, along with ripped paintings that had been knocked clean off their easels.
Theodosia’s heart ached when she saw so many dirtied and damaged canvases. And that the handle had broken off one of her good Sadler teapots.
And she wondered—who was responsible? Not just for this mess, but for the bizarre and brutal murder of Osgood Claxton III. For the devastating blow to Holly’s gallery. For injuries to so many guests.
Better yet, who was going to track down that phony beekeeper and drag his sorry ass to justice?
3
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Someone was knocking at Theodosia’s back door. A friendly but insistent knock.
And as she hurried through her dining room into her kitchen, her dog, Earl Grey, right on her heels, Theodosia had a fairly good idea of who might be paying her a visit this evening.
“Riley,” she said, pulling open the door and favoring him with a bright smile.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Pete Riley bent forward, gathered her in his arms, and gave her a kiss.
She kissed him back, snuggling in close, enjoying his warmth and comfort, then said, “You heard?”
“I reviewed the incident report an hour ago. Are you okay? I mean, you were right there.”
“Saw the whole thing unfold before my very eyes.”
“Terrible,” Riley said. “A gun was recovered, you know.”
“Yes, I know. I mean, I heard.”
“And a few people are still in the ER because of the toxic gas or smoke.”
“Do you know what it was? Specifically, I mean?” Theodosia asked.
“Not yet,” Riley said. “Both Crime Scene and the ME have to run a bunch of toxicology tests. Oh, and a couple of the victims ended up with nasty blisters on their hands and arms. They had to be taken to the ER.”
“Gracious!”
“Tell me about it.”
“Is there anything new? Has anyone been able to identify the killer?” Theodosia asked.
Riley shook his head. “Not so far. But we’ll get him, I have faith.”
