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“You’re sure you want to come here instead of going to Riley’s place?”
“If I go to Riley’s, he’ll lock me in the coat closet and throw away the key.”
“We can’t have that,” Drayton said. “You’d better come over.”
***
When Theodosia arrived, Drayton’s first words were “Are you unharmed?”
“I’m okay,” Theodosia said. Physically, she felt fine. But the death of her fish, and the knowledge of the intrusion, had definitely shaken her up. Theodosia was first and foremost a homebody. And when the sanctity of her home was invaded, she lapsed into a cold fury. And while she knew this wasn’t a particularly genteel attitude for a lady of the Southern persuasion, that’s what it was, plain and simple.
Drayton’s next question was “Have you had dinner yet?”
“Unfortunately, I lost my dinner.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“No,” she laughed. “Not like that. When I walked into my yard and saw the poor fish, my bag of takeout from the Early Bird Diner sort of tumbled out of my hands and hit the pavement.”
“Understandable. But, oh my, their chicken is tasty. Sounds as if I’d better fix you something to eat. My larder is empty of actual poultry at the moment, but I do have eggs. Would an omelet work?”
“I’ll accept anything at this point.”
“We can do better than anything,” Drayton said as he pulled an onion and a bunch of chives from his vegetable bin, then eggs, cream, and a half wheel of sharp cheddar from his refrigerator. “Let me get this going and you’ll be dining in splendor, or a reasonable facsimile, in no time at all.”
Actually, Theodosia did dine in splendor. Because Drayton didn’t just break out the melamine dishes and everyday flatware. He slid her omelet onto a Limoges plate, grabbed a pot of Formosa oolong tea, then led Theodosia to his dining room, where they sat down at his Chippendale table.
The thing about Drayton was... he loved antiques. Not the fussy, faux stuff, the real-deal classic pieces. And he’d furnished his home accordingly with French provincial chairs, a Georgian mahogany coffee table, and a tufted leather sofa. His white marble fireplace was imported from France and his floors were heart-pine covered with fine Persian carpets. Silk curtains swagged his beveled glass lattice windows and his library was accented with antique barrister bookcases. So fabulous was his home that it had once been showcased in Southern Interiors Magazine.
As Theodosia enjoyed her poufier-than-air omelet, she looked up at one of the paintings on the wall and said, “Don’t you feel intimidated by that portrait?” Drayton had an oil painting of Charles Grey, the second Earl Grey and a former British Prime Minister, hanging over his table.
“Not in the least,” Drayton said as he sipped his tea. “But if I were you, I’d be intimidated by whoever murdered your little goldies. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming it’s probably the same psychopath who murdered Osgood Claxton and Booker.”
“I think you’re right,” Theodosia said.
“So you should be afraid, very afraid.”
“I’m a lot more angry than I am afraid.”
“Not good. Not smart.” Drayton took another sip of his tea and leaned back in his chair. “I worry about you.”
Theodosia smiled at him. “I worry about me. And you were right when you said, ‘And then there were none.’ I feel like we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel on suspects.”
“Are you still mulling over the possibility of Mignon Merriweather or Ginny Bell being the killer?”
“I see possibilities, but not probabilities.”
“Interesting. Then perhaps we’re completely off base,” Drayton said. “Perhaps the killer is someone who’s not even on our radar.”
“I’m starting to wonder if that might be the problem.”
“In which case we’re nowhere.”
“Please don’t say that. Because I hate to let Holly down. She’s in crisis and her gallery is losing money.”
“Is her gallery losing money?” Drayton asked. “Did you ever ask Holly about the two hundred thousand dollars that her silent partner put into the business?”
“I never did. But now that you bring it up, I’m going to ask Holly the details of her so-called cash infusion first thing tomorrow.”
