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Theodosia was fresh out of ideas. And didn’t know where she could turn for more information.
Unless...
She searched her phone’s directory, found what she was looking for, and headed down Meeting Street on her way to North Charleston.
When Theodosia got to Booker’s house, the one he shared with his trigger-happy roommate, she hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she go to the door? She’d been shot at by a man she figured must be Booker’s roommate. But that was at night, when the roommate thought there was a break-in going on. And this was the middle of the afternoon. And she was already here, so... what did she have to lose?
Except my life? No, that isn’t quite right.
Theodosia marched up the front walk, avoiding a jagged hunk of concrete that a slow-growing tree root had upended, then knocked on the front door. When nobody answered, she knocked again, this time putting more muscle behind it.
Seconds later, a voice shouted out, “That better not be you, Binger!”
Theodosia remembered that was the name Booker’s roommate had yelled out Tuesday night when he spotted her slinking around the garage.
“I’m not Binger,” she shouted back. When there was no answer, she said, “My name is Theodosia Browning. And I’m very sorry for what happened to your friend Booker.”
Ten seconds went by, then the door opened and a man’s shaggy face peered out at her.
“You knew Booker?”
“I only met him a few times, but I admired his work very much.”
Those were the magic words, the “open sesame” that got her inside.
“Come in,” the roommate said. “I guess.”
Theodosia was admitted to the bottom half of a duplex that was surprisingly neat and tidy. From where she stood in the entry, there was a living room with a Goodwill-type sofa and recliner, an enormous bookcase jammed with art history and design books, a threadbare Oriental rug on the floor, and a brick fireplace with a cat sitting in front of it. The cat was black with a white chest and four white paws. A tuxedo cat.
“You wanna sit down?” the roommate asked. He was late twenties, a good six feet tall, and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. His plaid shirt was pulled tight across his chest and he wore dark jeans and motorcycle boots. Long reddish hair and a beard surrounded a curiously chubby and boyish face.
“Thank you,” Theodosia said as she seated herself on the sofa.
“Theodosia,” the roommate said. “Interesting name. Historical, right?”
“There was a Theodosia who was married to the governor of South Carolina back in the late seventeen hundreds. She was also the niece of Aaron Burr.”
“Aaron Burr, huh. Interesting. You a descendent? You ever shoot anybody?”
“No. And, excuse me, but you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
“Hooper. Just Hooper. Now you wanna tell me why you’re really here?”
“I’ve been looking into the Osgood Claxton murder,” Theodosia said.
Hooper’s eyes were lasered on her. “Because you’re a cop?”
“No, I’m not in law enforcement. I actually own a tea shop.”
“Interesting. That’s even kinda cool.”
“Thank you. And the reason I’m here is because my friend Holly Burns has suffered a tremendous amount of fallout to her gallery following Claxton’s murder. You see, Claxton was murdered at the tea party I helped arrange.”
“And you feel guilty.” Hooper reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and a Bic lighter. “Got it.”
“The police had Booker on their suspect list until...”
“Until last night.” Hooper lit his cigarette, inhaled, and blew the smoke out slowly.
