Ming Tea Murder by Laura Childs Page A

Theodosia told him.
“Awls.”
She proceeded to give him a detailed description of her workshop discovery.
    Max finally caught on. “Seriously?” His voice sounded strangled and his eyes went slightly crossed. “You’re talking about those sharp, pointy things used in woodworking projects?”
    â€œThat’s right. Kind of like ice picks, only probably made of stronger steel. Tempered steel.”
    â€œThere you go!” said Max. “That could definitely point to Cecily being the killer.”
    â€œIt could. Or it might just be a bizarre coincidence. I mean, who’s crazy enough to stab somebody with an awl and then put it back in their own workshop for everyone to see? I mean, especially in the middle of a
party?
”
    â€œCecily’s plan could be to hide the murder weapon in plain sight,” said Max. “It’s been done before.”
    â€œSure, but mostly on reruns of
The Alfred Hitchcock Hour
.”
    Max thought for a minute. “There’s another possible explanation for her going all postal.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat if Cecily did kill Webster, and the guilt is starting to eat away at her? That could explain why she went completely berserk.”
    Theodosia turned on the radio: WAAP, easy listening. Because, boy, did they ever need it. “It’s a possibility.”
    â€œThat’s it? That’s all you have to say? Theo, you just made a major discovery! One of those awls really could be the murder weapon.”
    â€œCalm down,” said Theodosia. “Try to dial it back a little. I’m definitely going to run this awl thing past Tidwell.”
    â€œAnd tell him how whacked-out Cecily was?”
    â€œYes,” said Theodosia. “If she really is guilty, she may be hitting her breaking point. Or, as you say, she’s already lost it. And the awl thing . . . well, it’s what you’d call an incriminating lead. Tidwell might even want to send in his crime-scene team.”
    â€œTo test the awls for, like, blood?”
    â€œOr tissue residue,” said Theodosia. “But that’s his call. The thing is, we’ve got other fish to fry.”
    â€œNow what are you talking about?”
    â€œWe have to think about getting your job back.”
    Max did a double take. “Kern was pretty adamant when I talked to him. He did everything but tell me to start punching up my résumé.” He paused. “So I don’t think getting my job back is even a possibility.”
    Theodosia gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Anything’s possible. You just have to work it right and stay positive. Or at least
I
have to work it right.”
    â€œWait a minute,” said Max. “You’re talking about getting my job back? When are you going to attempt this miracle?”
    Theodosia reached across the console and squeezed his hand. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

9

    Theodosia was as good as her word. Bright and early Saturday morning, she slipped into her midnight-blue Dior jacket, patted Earl Grey on his sweet little head, and hurried off to the Gibbes Museum.
    She parked out front on Meeting Street, noting that two yellow school buses had just pulled up in front and disgorged at least three dozen museum-going youngsters.
    This was good, she decided. The museum was back on track. Visitors, especially these kids, weren’t going to be held hostage by what had taken place here Thursday night.
    Of course, nothing was ever easy, and Mary Monica Diver, the director’s longtime secretary and personal assistant, proved to be a formidable obstacle.
    â€œHe’s extremely busy,” Diver told her when Theodosia asked to see Elliot Kern.
    â€œI imagine he is,” said Theodosia. “The tragedy here . . . dealing with the aftermath . . . must be a trial for all of you.” She was determined to keep the mood light and sweet.