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“When we saw Miss Bell at the silent auction, she struck me as a fairly tough cookie. One of those sociopath types who could shoot you dead and then walk away with an unblemished conscience.”
“And escape in a boat? Then circle back and take a few shots at us?” Theodosia asked. “You think Ginny Bell was the one who shot at us last night? Then rammed her boat into ours and tried to sink us?”
“Like I said, it feels to me as if she might have a crazy streak.”
“Huh,” Theodosia said as the front door opened and a half dozen customers streamed in. “Something to think about.”
Then Theodosia and Drayton got busy. Because it was Friday, lots of tourists were in town for the weekend. Folks who’d come to gaze at Charleston Harbor, take in the historic sights, snuggle up in gracious B and Bs, and explore Gateway Walk. Which inevitably led them to the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street.
Theodosia served eggnog scones and blueberry muffins. Drayton worked his tea alchemy by brewing pots of Earl Grey, Pu-erh, and Grand Keemun.
At ten o’clock, Pete Riley came strolling in. Theodosia, feeling more than a little sheepish about last night, ran to greet him.
“You’re looking none the worse for wear,” Riley said. He bent forward, gave her a kiss on the tip of her nose.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Theodosia said. “Hitting the panic button like that.”
“But you’re not sorry you snuck over to Little Clam Island and discovered a dead body?”
“We didn’t sneak, we simply went.”
“And caused a ton of trouble. Tidwell told me you were shot at, that your boat was rammed and practically sunk.”
“Only partially,” Theodosia said, brushing off the shooting part. “The Coast Guard was kind enough to engineer a temporary patch and tow it back to the marina. I’ve already talked to the owner of the boat and he was fairly cool about it. Said his insurance should cover the incident.”
“Incident.” Riley tried to sound gruff but his mouth twitched at the corners. “That’s what you call it?”
She looked up at him, hoping for a sign of understanding. “Unfortunate incident?”
“That’s my Theodosia,” Riley said. “Always downplaying the danger. But sweetheart, you’ve got to start keeping your distance. Tidwell almost gave himself a stroke this morning just talking about the Booker murder. And about you, of course.”
“Did the vein in his forehead turn pink?”
“More like purple.”
“He was upset.”
“So in the interest of Tidwell’s well-being and my job security, let’s not torment him any more than we have to, okay?”
“Sure,” Theodosia said. “Works for me.”
Riley studied her. “You sound contrite, you almost look penitent, but why do I have a feeling it’s all a big act?”
“It’s not,” Theodosia said.
“Riiiight,” Riley said. “So.” He glanced over at the front counter. “I’m off to a meeting so whatcha got in the way of takeout?”
“Trade you an eggnog scone and a cup of Earl Grey for a fast answer to a couple of questions.”
“And those would be what?”
“Does Mignon Merriweather own a boat? And do you have a ballistics report yet? Was the gun used on Booker the same one used on Claxton?”
Riley smiled and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. There’s a lockdown on any and all further information.”
Theodosia gave Riley his scone and tea anyway. Because she had another way to get at least one of her questions answered. A better way. After he left, she simply went into her office and called the Charleston Yacht Club. When she had Bud Claskey, the club’s manager, on the line, she popped the boat question to him.
“What was the name again?” Bud asked. “Conklin?”
