“Bar,” Drayton said in Theodosia’s ear, trying to override the music. He pointed in the direction of a small bar that was doing a brisk business. “Care for a glass of wine?”
Theodosia nodded as they elbowed their way through what was mostly an artsy, fashionista crowd.
“Two glasses of white wine, please,” Drayton said to Phil the bartender. He slipped a five into the glass tip jar and nodded when Phil winked at him. Then he grabbed the two wines and handed one to Theodosia. At that exact moment, Echo Grace came rushing over, clutching a flute of champagne, almost spilling it on them.
“If it isn’t my favorite tea people!” she cried.
“We’re probably the only tea people here,” Drayton said, but his words carried a good-natured lilt.
“I’d say a victory toast is in order,” Theodosia said as she held up her glass. “To a talented designer and another fantastic fashion show.”
“Hear! Hear!” Drayton added.
They all three clinked glasses.
“Your clothes,” Theodosia said, as three models sauntered by, “are making me positively delirious. I mean . . .” She tipped her glass at a model in a lemon-colored dress. “They’re all so frothy and delicious.”
“Gauzes are really my jam right now,” Echo said. “They’re challenging to work with but also lots of fun.” She herself had on a long diaphanous dress that’d been dip-dyed into ombre layers of caramel, gold, and wheat. A belt bag made of recycled tan leather and encrusted with turquoise and lapis stones was cinched about her tiny waist.
I would kill to have a waist that small, Theodosia thought. Then a waiter came along with a tray of canapés, and she picked out a lovely goat cheese goody covered in crushed pistachios.
When a group of chattering fans closed in on Echo, the designer gave a helpless, hapless wave goodbye and let herself be pulled away.
“This is turning out to be fun,” Theodosia said. “I thought it might be kind of a chore, but now that I’m here . . .” She turned to Drayton who was gazing past her shoulder at someone.
“I see Arnold Fisher over there,” he chuckled. “Though I never thought an antique dealer would be part of the fashionable café crowd. Give me a minute, will you? I want to go over and say how do.”
As Drayton hurried away, Theodosia took a sip of wine and looked around the gallery. That’s when she also spotted a familiar face.
It’s Billy—no, Bobby—one of the cameramen from Channel Eight News.
Bobby was cradling a video camera in the crook of his arm and had a coil of black cord looped over one shoulder. Behind him was his lighting and sound guy, Trevor.
Theodosia walked over and touched his arm to get his attention. “Bobby . . .”
Bobby turned, instantly recognized her, and said, “Theodosia. Long time no see. Hey, you remember Trev, don’t you?”
“I do,” Theodosia said. “Nice to see you both again.” She’d met Bobby and Trevor a few months earlier when one of their team members, a female reporter, had been brutally murdered.
“How are you doing, Bobby?” Theodosia asked.
“Oh, you know, can’t complain. There’s always plenty of news to keep us hopping from one story to another. Crime, celebs, city events, political dustups, the same old same old.” Bobby had curly dark hair, olive skin, and wore a battered leather jacket that looked like it had come through World War II. Trevor, his blond and blue-eyed soundman, wore a hoodie and jeans. He was skater-boy cute and had the earnest gawkiness of a teenager even though he was in his mid-twenties.
“Are you here to film the show?” Theodosia asked. “The informal modeling?”
“Yeah, the station is putting together a half-hour special on Charleston Fashion Week, and they want to feature as many local designers as possible. So I’ve been bouncing all around town filming all sorts of fancy shows, which, it turns out, is actually pretty fun duty.” Bobby ducked his head. “Lots of free food and good-looking models.”
“I’m sure,” Theodosia murmured. Then, “You’ve worked at the station for a few years now, right?”
Bobby winked one eye closed. “Um . . . almost four years.”
“And you do freelance camerawork as well?”
“Industrial films, some commercials . . . why? You got something in mind?”
“Really just a question. I was wondering if you knew a film guy by the name of Eddie Fox. He’s the owner of Foxfire Productions.”
Bobby was already nodding his head. “Are you kidding? Sure. Everybody in the business knows Fast Eddie. He started out working at Channel Six. Then, when he got his butt canned, he went out on his own. I hear he’s doing okay, won some big award.”
But Bobby had said something interesting that caught Theodosia’s ear. “Eddie Fox was fired because . . . ?”
“Not for lack of talent, because Fox is actually a fairly skilled shooter,” Bobby said. “He always got his story and managed to make it look good, whether his slant was tearjerker, upbeat, or just plain hard news. No, the problem wasn’t with his work; it was that Eddie liked to dip his nose into the white stuff a little too much.”
“You’re telling me Eddie Fox is a cokehead?”
“Big-time.”
“You know this for a fact?” Theodosia asked.
“Well . . . yeah.” Bobby watched as a model in a flowing pink and green tunic and formfitting leggings strolled past them. He followed her with roving eyes and an interested smile, then turned back to Theodosia. “Fox was involved in that shooting last Sunday, right? At your tea party? At least that’s the scuttlebutt I heard in the newsroom.”
“He was there to film the fashion show, yes,” Theodosia said.
Bobby was no dummy. “Is Fox, like, a suspect?”
“Probably everyone is at this point,” Theodosia hedged. “But anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.”
“You mean to clear him? Or pin the hit on him?”
“Could go either way.”
“I don’t know what Fox is up to now, but . . .” Bobby glanced around, then dropped his voice. “Have you ever heard of the High Life Club?”
“Never, what is it?” Theodosia asked.
“It’s this loosey-goosey private social club that was formed by a bunch of kids who were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Or, in some cases, coke spoons in their noses. They’re basically rich kids in their twenties and thirties who love to party.”