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“Exactly,” Theodosia said. “And now that Booker is out of the picture, the police are kind of grasping at straws.”
“And so are you.”
“Which is why I’m here,” Theodosia said. “To see if you could give me something—anything—that might help resolve this case.”
“I’m not sure I can help,” Hooper said. “Booker and I were roommates, sure, but he was a quiet guy, kind of closed in. He was mostly focused on his work, on making a name for himself.”
“Not a lot of friends?”
“More like acquaintances. But I can tell you this. Booker was no killer. He was big, he looked kind of mean sometimes, but he was a good guy. The kind of guy who’d help out a neighbor or donate to a food bank.”
“Really,” Theodosia said. She hadn’t expected this.
“Booker taught the occasional class at the Arts Alliance, too. Mostly to kids. He tried to help them express their feelings and emotions through painting.”
“That’s very admirable. But I have to ask. Did Booker have a temper?”
“Not so much. He might get a little huffy when he downed a few too many cans of Holy City Pilsner, but nothing too crazy. Now me? I’m the one with the bad temper. Get me riled up and watch out!”
“Did Booker have any enemies that you know of?”
Hooper shook his head. “The cops asked me that same question and I couldn’t come up with a soul.”
“Not even somebody who was jealous that he’d gained some prominence in the art world?”
“Nobody I can think of.”
Theodosia wondered what else she could ask.
“Do you know if there’s, um, going to be a service? A funeral?”
“That will be up to Booker’s folks. I gave the cops his parent’s names and address when they came by last night.” Hooper let loose a snort. “Had to give them my alibi, too.”
Theodosia stood up. “Booker’s folks, are they from around here?”
“Little town called Long Creek up in the Blue Ridge.” Hooper looked mournful as he shook his head. “This is gonna crush those poor people.”
They walked to the door, both of them lost in thought.
Stepping outside, Theodosia turned and said, “What’s with Binger, anyway?”
Hooper made a face. “That miserable little shit? He’s always trying to siphon fuel out of our gas tanks. Drives me crazy.”
“It would me, too,” Theodosia said.
***
On the way home Theodosia took a short detour to the Early Bird Diner on the Savannah Highway. The Early Bird Diner was a Charleston mainstay that had once been profiled on the TV show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, and their fried chicken was the best in the state. Maybe in the country.
Waiting in line, Theodosia decided on fried chicken with spicy honey sauce, but was still scanning the list of sides. She was allowed two and it was a tricky decision because their offerings included French fries, fried okra, mac and cheese, butter beans, collards, mashed taters, and corn cakes—and each one was home-cooking good. Finally, she chose fried okra and corn cakes.
Not exactly a heart-healthy dinner, but Theodosia was a diligent runner and could afford to be indulgent once in a while. Plus, she didn’t feel like cooking tonight. She’d feed Earl Grey, enjoy her takeout dinner, and flake out with a good book. Maybe reading a mystery by Susan Wittig Albert or Terrie Farley Moran would spark some ideas and help her solve her own murder mystery.
She was still looking forward to a leisurely evening as she parked her car in the alley and grabbed her bag of takeout. Moonlight shone down, frosting the leafy trees, while a soft wind whispered through sweet magnolias.
Even with that bucolic picture, Theodosia knew something was wrong the minute she stepped through her back gate.
28
