Aunt Libby had been amazingly generous, too, in helping to furnish her cozy abode, gifting her with a lawyer’s bookcase, rocking chair, oriental rug, silver tea service, antique quilt, and some terrific old oil paintings. The paintings were dark, brooding seascapes in wonderfully ornate, gilded frames. Everyone who saw them tried to buy them from her.
Before she’d purchased the Indigo Tea Shop, she had lived in a sleek, modern building. Lots of squared-off angles, floor-to-ceiling windows, black countertops, white walls. Very contemporary, very boring.
This was infinitely better.
Theodosia finished her cottage cheese and offered Earl Grey the last morsel of bagel crisp. He chewed thoughtfully, gazing at her with brown, intelligent eyes.
“Want to go for a ride?” she asked him. Earl Grey’s ears pricked forward, and his tail beat a syncopated rhythm on the pegged floor boards.
King Street, between Beaufain and Queen Streets, is often referred to as Charleston’s antiques district. Here antiques aficionados will discover such shops as English Patina, with their fine collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture, Perry’s Estate Jewelry, and Helen
S. Martin Antique Weapons. Down a narrow walkway at 190 King Street is Gates of Charleston, an eclectic little garden shop with wrought-iron planters, statuary, and quirky sundials.
It was 208 King Street that Theodosia was searching for as she cruised the picturesque street with its palm trees, white turreted buildings, and black wrought-iron touches. Since it was early evening, traffic was light, and she was able to drive slowly, scanning the numbers above the tall, narrow doorways as Earl Grey sat serenely in the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee.
208 King Street was where Griffon Antiques was located. The Griffon Antiques where Cordette Jordan had supposedly overheard an argument between Hughes Barron and his partner, Lleveret Dante, of Goose Creek Holdings. Of course, Jory Davis had told her that the two partners had their office at 415 Harper Street.
Okay, Theodosia told herself, in about two minutes we’re going to find out exactly who was right.
She saw the sign for Griffon Antiques even before she could read the street address. A large, ornate, wooden sign with a griffon, that strange mythical eagle-cum-lion, painted in gold and black, hung out over the sidewalk from what appeared to be a four-story building. Theodosia took her foot off the accelerator, let the Jeep glide over to the curb, and studied the shop.
The large front windows were filled with English and French antique furniture. All genuine pieces, no reproductions. A hand-lettered sign hanging in the glass door said Sorry We Missed You, Please Return Tomorrow.
There was no Harper Street nearby. In fact, she wasn’t even familiar with Harper Street. To the best of her knowledge, the next street up was Market Street. Sure, that had to be the sign for Market Street just ahead. Without bothering to pull into traffic, Theodosia eased the Jeep along the curb, up to the corner. She gazed up at the street sign.
It read Harper Street!
What?
She checked for traffic, then took the Jeep into a slow right turn. She found Harper Street wasn’t really a street at all, just a narrow lane that seemed to lead to a small garden. She could venture in with the Jeep maybe twenty feet, then she’d have to back out.
Well, wasn’t this interesting. There really was a Harper Street. And the reason it didn’t sound at all familiar was because it wasn’t really a through street. Harper Street was one of the myriad little lanes that snaked through the historic district and the antiques district, lanes that often didn’t have names. Sometimes they were private and therefore not on official city maps. They could have their names changed at the whim of the property owner. These streets had probably been little passages that led to carriage houses at one time. Now they appeared on tourist walking guides that gift shops and B and Bs handed out.
“Sit tight,” she told Earl Grey as she hopped out of the Jeep. Rounded cobblestones poked at the soft leather soles of her Todd loafers as she ambled down the little lane toward an arched doorway flanked by a pair of stone lions. She stopped in her tracks and looked up. Over the arched doorway was a sign that read Hayward Professional Building, 415 Harper.
A tingle of excitement ignited within her. So 208 King Street and 415 Harper were one and the same! The city might not be aware of it, but, knowing the tangled bureaucracy that ministered over Charleston, chances were the postal service did. That meant that the offices of Goose Creek Holdings were here, after all. And that maybe, just maybe, Delaine’s secondhand story had been correct!
Chapter 19
There were two Jory Davises listed in the phone book, but one lived over in West Ashley. So Theodosia figured the one she wanted had to be the one on Halsey, near the marina. Anyway, it certainly sounded like an area where the Jory Davis she’d spoken with this morning might reside.
“Hello?”
Same voice, same Jory Davis. Theodosia breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Mr. Davis? Hello, this is Theodosia Browning. Sorry to bother you at home, but you were so helpful this morning, and I have just a quick question for you.”
“Uh-huh,” said the voice, sounding slightly discombobulated and not at all the calm, efficient, buttoned-up lawyer he’d come across as earlier.
“I know this is out of the blue, but does buying-selling mean anything to you?” Theodosia asked.
There was a loud clunk on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Davis? Are you all right?”
In a moment, Jory Davis was back on the line. “Sorry, I dropped the phone. I’m in the kitchen trying to whip together a vinaigrette. I know it sounds kind of dorky, but I’ve got this bachelor’s group coming to my place tonight. Four of us, all lawyers, who get together once a month for dinner. Kind of a boy’s night out. Two of the fellows are divorced, so this is probably the only decent meal they get for a while. Anyway, long story short, tonight’s my turn, and I’m hysterical. I was stuck at the office writing a legal brief until almost six-thirty, and now I’m halfway through this recipe and just found out I don’t have any prepared English mustard. So, my question to you is this: Can I use plain old yellow mustard? Hot dog mustard?”
“I don’t see why not,” said Theodosia as she thought to herself, Bachelor’s group. Interesting.
“And chives. It doesn’t look good in the chives department, either. Problem?”
“Maybe you could pinch hit with a flavored olive oil. That would give your vinaigrette a little extra snap.”
“Flavored olive oil,” he muttered. “Yeah, I got some of that. Basil, I think. Awright, we’re good to go.”
Now there was the sound of a wire whisk swooshing against the sides of a glass bowl.
“What did you want to know about a buy-sell?” Jory Davis asked.
Theodosia inhaled sharply.
“Miss Browning?” said Jory. “You still there?”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Theodosia. “A buy-sell. It’s a kind of agreement, right?”
“A buy-sell agreement, correct,” said Jory Davis matter-of-factly.
“Two partners would have this type of agreement?”
“They should. Although many don’t plan ahead all that well.”
“And one partner might want to rescind at some point in time?”
“Sure, it happens. But I still don’t see where you’re going.”
“I didn’t either,” said Theodosia. “But I think I just arrived there anyway. Mr. Davis, thank you! Good luck with your dinner.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Oh,” said Theodosia, “you’re still bringing those papers by, right?”
Chapter 20