Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Read Free

was curled up, nose to knees, like a pickled fish. His head was tilted forward, his arms clutched close across his chest. The man’s skin, what Theodosia could see of it, was practically purple from being submerged inside the barrel of red wine.
    Who?
and
What?
were the first thoughts that formed like a cartoon bubble deep in Theodosia’s brain. And then her eyes flicked over to Jordan Knight, who was kneeling in the spill of wine, his pant legs completely soaked with purple as tears streamed down his face and his arms flailed madly about his head.
    From the look of utter devastation on Jordan Knight’s face, Theodosia was pretty sure he’d found his missing son.

2

    This Sunday morning
was infinitely better than the horror Theodosia had witnessed last night. Because, on this sunny day, she and her boyfriend, Max Scofield, were relaxing on the backyard patio of her cottage in the historic district, enjoying a lovely, leisurely brunch. Her dog, Earl Grey, was wandering lazily about, sniffing in the garden, which was still in full and glorious bloom. Fish swam in the tiny little pond, and fuzzy yellow bumblebees hummed and bumped their way from fragrant flower to sweet vine.
    Over entrees of crab Benedict and poached asparagus, Theodosia related to Max all the gory details from last night. The rough wooden barrel being canted onto its side. The tremendous glut of wine swooshing out. The splayed-out body of Drew Knight. Then the horrified cries of the guests followed by flashing lights, blatting sirens, and the hurried arrival of the local sheriff.
    Max gave a mock shudder. “A body rolling out of a barrel of wine. It sounds like the kind of awful thing Edgar Allan Poe would write about. Like ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ Or in this case,
‘
The Body in the Barrel.’” Max was tall and wiry, with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a quirky brand of humor. Though it was horror rather than humor that was clearly being expressed at the present time.
    “Funny you should bring that up,” said Theodosia. “Since good old Edgar Allan once resided right here in Charleston. In fact, he used to stalk the windswept beaches of Sullivan’s Island trying to conjure up divine inspiration.” She smiled brightly at Max and lifted a platter. “Would you care for another cucumber and cream cheese sandwich?”
    “No thanks,” said Max, holding up a hand. Her recounting of last night’s fiasco had been a little too graphic for his taste.
    “Lost your appetite?” said Theodosia.
    Max cocked his head at her. Theodosia was more often than not a puzzle to him. She was smart and funny, always highly enterprising, but seemed to possess a quirky fascination for the dark and slightly macabre.
    “More tea then?” Theodosia reached for the blue-and-white Chinese teapot and poured refills of tippy Yunnan tea for both of them. It never occurred to her that Max wouldn’t want another cup of tea. Everyone she knew pretty much drank their weight in tea, after all.
    “Thank you,” said Max.
    “You know the funny thing about last night?”
    “
Is
there a funny thing?” said Max.
    “Everyone assumed that Drew Knight
drowned
in that barrel of wine.”
    Max lifted one eyebrow. “No?” Now he was just this side of interested.
    “Drew was shot in the head first and then stuffed into that barrel.” Theodosia took a sip of tea to punctuate her sentence. “So he was probably already dead from the gunshot wound.”
    “How did you discover that little gem?”
    “Oh . . . I suppose I overheard the sheriff talking about it. Sheriff Anson. Or one of his deputies.”
    Max sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was the PR director at the Gibbes Museum and far more interested in ruminating over his plans for the upcoming Art Crawl, which they were helping to sponsor. Between arranging for fine art demonstrations and getting all the galleries on the same page, there was a lot of work to complete in three days’ time.
    Theodosia picked up a