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“The first one’s Andrea Blair.”
“The film’s leading lady,” Theodosia said.
“Rumor has it Andrea despised Josh Morro.”
“Because he was tough on her?”
“I think Morro was tough on everybody. But the big rumor was that Morro wouldn’t let Andrea out of her contract so she could star in some new reality show.”
“I heard that,” Theodosia said. “I wonder why Morro was being such a stickler about it?”
Helene shrugged. “Search me. I don’t know the particulars.”
“Who else?”
“Maybe…Craig Cole, the screenwriter? I know that he and Morro were constantly at odds.”
“When I was there I overheard Morro refer to Cole’s script as total dreck.”
“There you go!” Helene said, lifting a hand with a grand flourish as if ready to conduct an orchestra.
“Anyone else?” Theodosia asked.
Helene frowned as if considering someone else. “Well, since Morro was electrocuted, I imagine the lighting guys or rigging people or whatever they’re called might come under suspicion as well.”
“I think you’re right.”
Helene reached out and touched Theodosia’s hand. “Just because we’ve got a semi-disaster on our hands, you’re not going to quit on us, are you? I’ve heard wonderful things—raves, actually—about your craft services table.”
Theodosia shook her head. She’d been musing about the circumstances of Josh Morro’s murder, about Delaine being a prime suspect, and about how maybe she could help figure out who the real killer was.
“Quit?” Theodosia shook her head. “Not on your life. In fact, I’m just getting started.”
7
Drayton and Haley had already gone home for the day, leaving Theodosia sitting in her office. She was munching on a chicken salad sandwich that Haley had fixed for her, half-heartedly going through a few catalogs, trying to decide if she should order a few more tea cozies, trivets, straw hats, and other gift items.
But Theodosia was also musing about what Helene had said about Craig Cole. About how Cole and Morro hadn’t gotten along. Yes, Craig Cole did strike her as a hothead. And the kind of guy who might go a little berserk if his creativity was challenged. She knew something else about Cole, too. She knew he was staying at the Featherbed House. And maybe, just maybe, if she went over there, she could have a quick conversation with him.
Theodosia looked at her watch. It was just five thirty. Maybe she could catch Cole before he dashed off for dinner.
* * *
The Featherbed House B and B was just a short stroll from the Indigo Tea Shop. It was an enormous old home constructed of brick and clapboard that had been added onto over the years—an extra wing here, an annex there—and turned into a cozy but luxurious inn. Wicker furniture and lazy swings graced a wraparound front porch; a second-floor balcony was the perfect sunning and stargazing spot. And looking up at the structure from the street, the architecturally ornate third floor offered a virtual wedding cake display of turrets, finials, and balustrades.
When Theodosia walked into the lobby, a young woman with long blond hair, wearing a kind of peasant blouse, was sitting at the reception desk.
“Good evening,” Theodosia said as the girl looked up with a smile. “Is Angie around?” Angie Congdon was the owner as well as a good friend. “Tell her Theodosia would like a quick word with her.”
The girl looked slightly amused. “Tea shop Theodosia?”
“That’s me.”
“Angie’s in her office. Hang on a minute while I go grab her.”
Theodosia looked around at the lobby as she waited. There were comfy, cushy sofas and armchairs slipcovered in red and yellow chintz, handwoven fabric rugs, and a redbrick fireplace. In keeping with its namesake, the Featherbed House was chockablock full of plush geese, ceramic geese, carved geese, and metal geese. Geese were even embroidered on sofa cushions and a few stood guard in the form of four-foot-high sculptures. A myriad of watercolor paintings of geese in flight hung on the walls.
When Angie came out she looked worried but adorable. Curly blond hair cascaded onto her shoulders and she wore the same kind of peasant blouse as the receptionist, except hers was paired with a long, filmy beige skirt and sleek buff-colored leather cowboy boots. An Annie Oakley innkeeper.
