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“Theodosia,” Angie said, her eyes wide and blue. “I heard about what happened on the movie set yesterday. It must have been awful.”
“It was awful,” Theodosia said. “Which is kind of why I’m here.”
A small line inserted itself between Angie’s brows. “A TV crew already stopped by.”
“Because Craig Cole, the screenwriter, is staying here?”
Angie nodded. “Cole is here. I hear the rest of the crew is staying at the Saracen Inn.”
“Here’s the thing. I was hoping Cole might be in so I can ask him a few questions.”
“You mean pick his brain?” Angie asked. “To see if he has any ideas about the murder?” Angie was well aware of Theodosia’s skill at ferreting out clues and suspects.
“Something like that, yes.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure Craig Cole is here since I just saw him go up to his room ten minutes ago.”
“And what room might that be?”
Angie chuckled. “He’s staying in our Honeymoon Suite.”
Theodosia blinked. “Seriously? And Cole is the sole occupant?”
“To my knowledge he is. I guess Mr. Cole just wanted to spread out in the nicest suite we have.” Angie grinned. “A soaking tub roomy enough for two, heated towel rack, vintage furniture, cozy window seat, and featherbed duvet.”
“Complete with a turndown and mints on his pillow?”
“We’ve recently switched to miniature pralines. Our guests find them more authentically Southern,” Angie said.
“And you say Cole is up there now?”
“I’m fairly sure he is. Probably tippy-typing away on his computer, working on one of his scripts.”
“Or maybe a script revision,” Theodosia said. She rapped her knuckles against the antique wooden reception desk and said, “I do believe I’ll pay Mr. Cole a visit.”
“Third floor,” Angie said. “Room at the end of the hall.”
Theodosia climbed two flights of stairs and walked down a short hallway where cushy cinnamon-colored carpet whispered softly under her feet. She hesitated, then knocked on a door where two brass cherubs hovered above the stenciled words honeymoon suite.
Cole opened the door immediately. “What?” He had his cell phone in hand, as if he’d just gotten off an important call. He wore faded denim jeans, was barefoot, and wore a T-shirt that said we’ll fix it in postproduction.
Theodosia didn’t waste any time. “Mr. Cole, I’m Theodosia Browning…I’m not sure you remember me or not…”
“Not,” said Craig Cole. He stared at her blankly, as if she were the chambermaid there to deliver fresh towels.
“My tea sommelier, Drayton, and I are handling the craft services table for your movie shoot. And then, just yesterday, Josh Morro asked me to step in and read the tea leaves?”
“Oh sure.” Cole gave an indifferent shrug. “I guess maybe I do remember you.”
“Are you busy?” Theodosia leaned forward and peered into the room. It was empty. “May I come in for a few minutes?”
“I suppose so. But…why?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About?”
“Josh Morro’s murder.”
