Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) (25 page)

Andrew Turner ducked
his head and hotfooted it through the crowd like a star running back heading for the goal line.

Startled by Turner’s sudden exit, Theodosia bobbled the wine bottle in her hands. It slipped from her grasp and plunged to the floor, crashing like a miniature atom bomb. Shards of glass and droplets of wine flew everywhere, causing people to turn and stare.

“I’ve got to—” Theodosia began.

“No, you don’t!” said Max. He reached out and clutched her arm. Hard. No way was he going to let her run off in hot pursuit.

“Max,” Theodosia cried. “He killed Drew Knight!”

Max continued to hold her tight, but Theodosia’s eyes implored him to let her go.

“Okay, okay,” Max relented. “But
we
have to be careful!”

“Call the police!” Theodosia yelled to Drayton and Timothy as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Get hold of Tidwell . . . and Sheriff Anson, too!”

Drayton nodded unhappily as Theodosia and Max took off running.

Turner had crashed through the crowd on the dance floor and left a mess in his wake; two men and one poor woman in a long white dress were muttering angrily as they picked themselves up off the floor.

Theodosia and Max careened to the door of the ballroom and pushed their way through, spinning out into the nearly empty hallway. Just up ahead they could hear Turner’s feet pounding down the marble stairs. He had a head start on them, but just maybe . . . if they really booked it . . .

Skittering down the wide stairway, Theodosia and Max descended into the plush hotel lobby. They pulled up short for a few seconds, glancing at the checkin desk, the concierge’s desk, the front door, and an acre of leather sofas and potted plants, trying to figure out which way Turner might have gone.

“Which way?” said Max. “Any guesses?”

“You head out the front way, I’ll go out the back!” said Theodosia.

“Right,” said Max. “But be careful! Please be careful!”

Theodosia trotted into the lobby, trying to decide if Turner had dashed out the back door or had maybe hopped an elevator to one of the upper floors as a clever dodge.

Then she heard it. A loud voice, angry and clearly upset, shouting, “Hey, man, are you crazy? What do you think you’re doing!”

Theodosia pivoted and sprinted to her right, down a long corridor lined with shops. Up ahead of her, several pieces of expensive luggage lay strewn on the plush carpet. The bellman’s brass cart had also been upended and the angry bellman was muttering fiercely and shaking his fist.

Aha! Turner had definitely come this way!

Theodosia chased down the hallway and spun around a corner, just in time to see Turner disappear through a heavy brass and wooden door into Cerise, the hotel’s upscale French restaurant.

Like a hunter after its quarry, Theodosia followed Turner into Cerise. She abruptly brushed past the host’s stand, then bumped and pushed her way through a bevy of tuxedo-clad servers.

“Pardon, madame!”
the dapper-looking host called after her as she slewed around a corner, hot on Turner’s trail.

Theodosia never broke stride. She dashed past table after table of dinner patrons, who seemed shocked to witness a footrace in what was normally a very sedate and posh restaurant.

Up ahead, Turner glanced back, saw her coming, and spun past a table. Then, just when he thought he was in the clear, he collided head-on with a waiter who was preparing salads tableside for a party of four. The enormous glass bowl teetered precariously, then toppled to the floor, spilling its contents of mixed baby field greens. A half-dozen crystal cruettes, filled with colored vinaigrettes, smashed to the floor also.

Theodosia continued after Turner, almost slipped on a piece of ten-dollar arugula, and caught sight of him again as he pushed with desperate force through a swinging door into the kitchen.

Hot on his trail, Theodosia followed right into the kitchen after him. Angry, raised voices—some jabbering in French, others in Spanish—told her that Turner had indeed come this way.

Theodosia ran past a stove where enormous kettles of beef bouillon and French onion soup simmered. Then past an enormous open-flame broiler, where tasty cuts of steak and chops sizzled and popped. Several men and two women in stained white chef’s garb stood dumbfounded as she rushed by. A waiter—most of his face and part of his shirt covered in crème fraîche—struggled to get to his feet after what, Theodosia suspected, had been yet another collision with the crazed and panicked Turner.

Through the stifling heat, steam, and sheer pandemonium, Theodosia saw Turner up ahead. Arms akimbo, he skidded on the slick tile floor and yelped loudly as he took a nasty fall to one knee. Then, just as quickly, he pulled himself up and bolted for the emergency exit. As he smacked into the bar across the door, an alarm went off. Loud, buzzing, incredibly annoying.

As the door started to swing closed, Theodosia also hit it hard and pushed her way through after him.

Out in the back alley, the stench of garbage rose heavily in her nose.

Awful.

Theodosia looked right, then left, and saw Turner sprinting down the narrow alley, kicking up his heels as he went.

Turner glanced back at her over his shoulder, a look of panic straining his face. Then his arm shot out and he began tipping over garbage cans as he ran.

Like an Olympic hurdler, Theodosia sprinted after him, leapt over a battered tin can, sprinted some more, and made another flying leap.

“Stop!” Theodosia cried out to him.

Turner didn’t stop. Instead, he barreled his way out into the crowded street into a critical mass of art vendors and food trucks, and hundreds of strolling art lovers.

Theodosia emerged from the alley a few seconds later. She pulled up short and gulped a mouthful of air, wondering exactly which way Turner had gone. Up and down Church Street, the carnival atmosphere prevailed. With crowds of people, bright lights, and strolling musicians—and no one had a clue as to what was going on!

With the sky just beginning to turn a purplish-black, Theodosia glanced to her left and was stunned to see Max hobbling toward her. He looked red-faced and exhausted.

“Did you see Turner?” she asked. “Which way did he go?”

“That way!” Max cried, pointing and gesturing frantically. “I ran the opposite direction, finally doubled back, and just caught a peek of him as he came out of the alley and headed up the street.” He gasped and suddenly bent over. “But I can’t . . .” He was completely spent, totally out of breath.

But Theodosia wasn’t finished by a long shot. She’d spent the last few years keeping pace with her long-legged canine, Earl Grey, running through White Point Gardens, slaloming down back alleys and skipping across dark backyards. She was surefooted and in condition, her muscles taut and well trained. She could run full out for the better part of twenty minutes. Could do an hour if it was just a lope. So she knew, deep in her steadily pumping heart, in every fiber of her being, that she could run down this killer!

She pushed off after him.

Turner, who was already halfway down the block, was starting to struggle. He was staggering and weaving his way through the art fair, maybe fifty or sixty strides ahead of Theodosia. Obviously tired and winded, he suddenly cut through a booth displaying framed color photographs, dodged past the Zorba’s Gyros food truck, and almost ran smack-dab into a tent that was filled with ceramic mugs and bowls.

Turner pulled up short by a kettle corn stand, trying to catch his breath. As he peeled off his black jacket, the better to blend in, his head swiveled wildly and he searched frantically for an escape.

I’ve got him now
, thought Theodosia. Turner was losing ground and he knew it. Every time he stopped to grab a breath or risked a backward glance, his face looked gaunter and more pinched with panic.

Where would Turner run to? Theodosia wondered. Maybe try to run a couple more blocks and then cut over to Gateway Walk? If he did, they’d have him! With all the hedges and wrought-iron fences, he’d be completely bottled up! Drayton had undoubtedly called 911, and the Charleston Police had probably scrambled squad cars. If they hadn’t, Max would certainly put them on alert. So all she had to do was stay on Turner’s tail and . . .

What on earth? What’s he doing?

Turner suddenly dashed toward the back door of a large red food truck. The red-and-yellow sign painted on the truck’s side said,
BOWSER’S HOT DOGS.

Turner yanked the back door open and scrambled inside. He was obviously met with some resistance, because, without warning, an enormous tray of hot dog buns came flying out, followed by a shower of red that looked like blood but was really a crimson spray of catsup. Then the sputtering proprietor in a mustard-spattered apron came tumbling out.

Oh no! If Turner drives that truck out of here, we’ll never catch him!

There was more clatter inside and then a loud revving sound as the food truck’s engine roared to life.

Theodosia sprinted for the back door of the food truck just as she heard a massive grinding of gears. The door flapped open and she could hear Turner swearing inside as he shifted wildly, still trying to find the proper gear.

And just as the truck pulled away with a sharp jerk, Theodosia got one foot on the back bumper and grabbed hold of the back door.

With a burst of speed, Bowser’s Hot Dogs caromed down Church Street with Theodosia hanging on for dear life!

Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, mouths agape, as they watched the truck wobble down the street. And once the truck reached cruising speed, the speakers on top began cranking out the glaring notes of “Pop! Goes the Weasel.”

Turner powered his way down Church Street, relentlessly hitting parked cars, sideswiping oncoming cars, and almost nicking a horse-drawn jitney. And all the while, Theodosia was holding on for dear life, trying to pull herself into the truck.

Squealing brakes heralded a series of five orange construction cones that flew past Theodosia’s head. Then, with one mighty effort, knowing this was it, she pulled herself inside.

Lurching to and fro in the swaying truck, trying to steady herself on a rubber mat, Theodosia fought to catch her breath. She knew she had to somehow get Turner to stop this food truck. To pull over to the curb before he killed someone.

But how to do that?

Theodosia’s eyes searched the interior of the truck, looking for some sort of weapon. She saw cupboards; a flat grill crusted with grease; aluminum bins filled with pickles, raw onions, and chopped olives; and a cooler heaped with hot dogs. But none of it had any stopping power.

Frantic now, Theodosia ripped open one of the cupboards. And saw a large metal skillet hanging from a hook.

Okaaaaay. This might do the trick!

Grabbing the skillet in her right hand, Theodosia steadied herself with her other hand as she tried to move slowly, quietly, toward the front of the truck.

If Turner knew she was on board, he gave no indication at all. Instead, he seemed more intent on dodging pedestrians and loudly gunning the engine.

And still there were no sirens. Theodosia thought it bizarre that no police cars had shown up to give chase. That no one had reported seeing a woman in a black formal dress clinging to the back of a speeding food truck. Although probably, she decided, the entire scene would be shown on YouTube by tomorrow—the entire chase gone viral!

Keeping low, moving quietly, she crept forward, the rubber mat cushioning her steps and deadening the sound.

Finally creeping up to just behind the driver’s seat, Theodosia paused and drew a deep breath. Then, raising the skillet above her head, she cried, “This joyride is over!” and slammed the skillet down on top of Turner’s head.

Bong!

Turner’s entire body reacted as if he’d been shot through with a jolt of electricity. His shoulders hunched forward and his hands flew off the steering wheel. Then his head lolled sideways, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his right leg stiffened hard against the accelerator.

Oops!

“Not quite as planned,” Theodosia muttered. She lurched to grab the steering wheel just as the food truck blew through a red light. Thinking fast, she kicked Turner’s leg out of the way and shoved his unconscious body up against the driver’s side door. Then she tromped down hard on the brake pedal—and hoped for the best.