Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  The deliveryman from Floradora squeezed the big tree through the front door, then eased it past a few waiting customers.

  “Where do you want your tree, ma’am?” he asked Theodosia.

  “How about back out on the sidewalk?” Drayton suggested. He was staring at bits of white flocking that were filtering down onto the carpet.

  “Drayton!” Theodosia cried. “Don’t be such a curmudgeon. We’re talking about a Christmas tree. A gorgeous one at that.”

  “That’s not a tree. It’s an entire forest,” Drayton said.

  Even Miss Dimple came over to stare.

  “That tree’s ginormous,” she said. “Lovely but ginormous. Where on earth are you going to put it?”

  Theodosia had been studying the problem. It was a large tree. But maybe . . .

  “Maybe we can squeeze it between the highboys?” she said.

  “If you do that, you’ll have to pull down all those decorated grapevine wreaths,” Drayton pointed out. “Otherwise they’ll get smooshed.”

  “It’s no problem to move them,” Theodosia said. She couldn’t figure out why Drayton was suddenly so jumpy. Maybe it was something in the water (or tea)? Or was Mercury in retrograde? Or was he just being extra picky-fussy-nervous about the upcoming White Christmas Tea? Whatever.

  The problem was resolved when Theodosia and Miss Dimple moved the wreaths into the office and the deliveryman was able to slide the tree into place.

  “It’s nice,” the deliveryman said, giving it a final shove. “A tight fit but nice.”

  Theodosia and Miss Dimple got busy again, taking orders, pouring tea, and delivering food. Then subtly placing checks on all the tables, the better to get their customers moving so they could set up for their White Christmas Tea.

  As Theodosia was cashing out a customer, Drayton took a phone call. She figured it must have been someone hoping to snag a last-minute reservation, until Drayton said, “What?” loud enough for her to hear him halfway across the tea room.

  “Are you serious?” Drayton straightened up, his stiff body language signaling there was some sort of problem.

  Theodosia edged over to the front counter, the better to hear what was going on, and saw that Drayton’s ears were turning bright pink. What was the problem? Who was he talking to?

  Drayton listened for another minute or so, shaking his head, looking more and more intense. “Perhaps we could . . . ,” he began, but was obviously cut off by the caller. He listened some more and said, “If that’s the way it is, then. . . . Well, yes, okay. Fine. Good day to you, too.” The receiver wasn’t slammed down but it wasn’t set down gently, either.

  “What?” Theodosia asked in a low voice. She was standing right at the counter now, staring at Drayton’s ashen face (and still pink ears).

  “We’ve been canceled,” he said.

  “Canceled how? What was canceled? Explain please.”

  “That was Cordelia Manchester, the event coordinator over at the Gibbes Museum. It seems we’re no longer needed to cater their annual donor’s party next month.”

  “What!” Even as Theodosia felt shock waves rumble through her, she was making rapid calculations. “But we were counting on that catering event. It’s always a huge deal for us and . . . and January’s such a slow month.”

  “Now it’ll be even slower,” Drayton said. “I’m afraid the cancellation is a done deal. We can strike that event from our calendar.”

  “Did Cordelia give you a reason why?” Theodosia figured there had to be a legitimate reason. Must have been a change of plans. Some sort of delay.

  “Cordelia said our services were no longer needed. Just like that, very matter-of-fact and not terribly polite about it.”

  “I wonder what happened—or, rather, what changed her mind.”

  Drayton peered at her. “You want to know what I think?”

  “Of course I do.” Drayton was usually spot-on with his ability to read people.

  “I think that bully Donny Bragg got to her. We asked Bragg one too many questions on Monday night and he felt like he was being pushed around. So now he’s decided to retaliate. Flex his muscle as a board member.”

  “You think Bragg’s ego was on the line?”

  “I do.” Drayton nodded. “I think Bragg is majorly ticked off at us.”

  “You . . . could be right. Wow. And here I thought we were doing a good thing. I had no idea a few innocent questions would make us so unpopular.”

  “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” Drayton asked.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Theodosia said. Then she wondered, Is Bragg just angry at us? Or is he guilty as sin?

  13

  Bing Crosby warbled “White Christmas” over the sound system as Theodosia and Miss Dimple put the finishing touches on the tables. Today they’d used white linen tablecloths, then added white lace table runners. The china was white Regency Ironstone with a swirl around the edges, and the centerpieces were large bouquets of white roses interspersed with calla lilies. Flocked pinecones and antique Christmas cards added to the decor.

  Miss Dimple surveyed the tables with a practiced eye. “Maybe add a few white candles?” she asked.

  “Why not?” Theodosia said. When it came to tea tables, less wasn’t necessarily more.

  “And toss on a few strands of those pearls?”

  Theodosia nodded. “Whatever works.” She walked over to the counter, savoring the notion that her tea shop gleamed like well-polished silver, and said, “What’s brewing today, Drayton?”

  “Since it’s our White Christmas Tea what else could we possibly serve but white tea?”

  “The Emperor’s White Tea from Republic of Tea?” Theodosia asked.

  “For sure,” Drayton said. “And probably Harney and Sons’ Wedding Tea as well.”

  Then, because getting fired by the Gibbes Museum was still banging around in Theodosia’s brain, making her feel unsettled, she said, “Do you think I should call the Gibbes Museum and see if I can smooth things over? Were they absolutely clear about us not catering their donor’s party?”

  “Crystal clear,” Drayton said. “I wouldn’t bother calling them back.”

  “Oh. Okay.” That was disheartening.

  Theodosia fussed about the tea shop for another ten minutes until their guests started to arrive. Then she was thankfully busy and all thoughts about losing the party for the Gibbes evaporated from her mind.

  Theodosia had just seated a table of eight when Majel Mercer walked in. And surprise, surprise, she had Pauline Stauber in tow.

  “I had so much fun yesterday, I just had to come back,” Majel cooed.

  “And we’re delighted to have you,” Theodosia said. “Again.”

  “You see who I talked into coming with me?” Majel said. “I was picking up some papers from Pauline and found her moping about that great big house all by her lonesome. Figured she could use some tea and sympathy. I hope you have an extra chair.”

  “We certainly do,” Theodosia said. Then she turned to Pauline and said, “Lovely to see you again. You know, Wade was here earlier to grab some takeout.”

  “I thought he might drop by,” Pauline said, “especially after I told him what a charming little tea shop this was. And that you also served healthy green tea.”

  “Well, thank you for that. We’re always delighted to find ourselves with a new customer,” Theodosia said.

  Pauline glanced around. “Actually, I feel a little funny being here, like I shouldn’t be out in public having fun. After all, the funeral is tomorrow.”

  “You can’t mourn Miss Drucilla forever,” Majel said, her voice gentle, not scolding. “She wouldn’t want you to.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Pauline said.

  “She is right,” Theodosia said.

  Pauline gave a sad smile. “The Justice Ini
tiative was one of Miss Drucilla’s favorite charities, so I guess I am a little thrilled that Majel coaxed me along.”

  “It’s good for you to be out and about,” Theodosia said as she led them to a table. Once Pauline was seated, Theodosia patted her on the shoulder and said, “You really do deserve to treat yourself and have a little fun.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Not only was the White Christmas Tea fun; it was also a delicious menu. Eggnog scones were served with blackberry jam and Devonshire cream. Chestnut-and-mushroom soup was accompanied by a glazed ham and cheddar cheese tea sandwich. An entrée of chicken à la king on flaky buttermilk biscuits had the guests oohing and aahing about the wonderful flavors. And Haley’s gingerbread cake and red velvet cupcakes were the pièce de résistance for dessert.

  Drayton came through with flying colors, too, serving his special white teas, chatting with the guests, doling out little bits of tea lore here and there.

  “Why white tea?” one of the guests asked him.

  “Because they tend to be rather extraordinary,” Drayton said. “Many white teas are grown in the Fujian province in China and the small buds on those particular Camellia sinensis plants are covered in silvery hairs that give the appearance of being white.”

  “How are they picked?” another guest asked.

  “Generally by hand. Then the buds are either dried in the sun or steamed gently to give up their water content,” Drayton said. “As you can see, white teas have very little color, but their taste is magnificently delicate.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Theodosia filled Majel’s teacup, she said, “Majel, tell me about the nonprofit that you head, the Justice Initiative.”

  “Thank you for asking,” Majel said. “The Justice Initiative fulfills a critical need. We raise money to fund legal defenses for people who are unable to hire top-notch attorneys. And while we acknowledge there are a lot of great public defenders out there, there are some not-so-great ones, too.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Which is why we have a whole cadre of volunteer attorneys who give free legal advice. Not just for a defense in court, but for real estate, wills, divorce, child custody, that sort of thing.”

  “You were in line to receive a grant from Miss Drucilla, were you not?” Theodosia said. “I was wondering if that grant had come through yet.”

  “Not yet, but I have it on good authority that we were at the top of Miss Drucilla’s list, so I don’t imagine there’ll be a problem. On the other hand . . .” Majel shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see what happens with her estate.”

  “Well, good luck anyway.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once the tea was over, the guests began to slowly shuffle out. Miss Dimple got busy clearing tables while Theodosia ducked into her office. She had about thirty minutes, if that, to pack up her goods for the Holiday Market and then hustle over to Marion Square and get set up. She was taking the first shift, from two to five; then Haley would swing by and man their booth until eight o’clock when the market closed.

  Let me see. Two cases of tea and then my T-Bath products.

  Theodosia had developed her proprietary T-Bath products with the idea of creating relaxing tea-based bath bombs. Those had caught on like gangbusters, so she’d expanded into lotions and potions. Now Green Tea Lotion, Chamomile Calming Cream, Rose Tea Feet Treat, Head over Heels for Hibiscus, and Jasmine Rejuvenation Oil were also part of the repertoire.

  Theodosia grabbed a box of tea cozies and added them to her stash. Okay, now all she had to do was schlep everything out to her Jeep.

  Propping the back door open, Theodosia made four quick trips.

  Good. One more to go and then I’m outa here.

  But just as she was hauling the last box out to her car, Drayton came rushing outside, waving his hands.

  “Wait, wait!” he cried.

  Theodosia waited.

  “What’s up?” she asked, sneaking a glance at her watch. Now she had barely twenty minutes to get there.

  “I know this is coming out of left field, but Pauline asked us to help with Miss Drucilla’s funeral service tomorrow,” Drayton said.

  “What?” Theodosia shook her head. “You’re kidding. As if we don’t have enough to deal with?” Then, “Where’s the service going to be held?”

  “A hop, skip, and a jump away from us. Just down the block at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church.”

  “That church is almost two hundred years old. I expect they’ve handled an awful lot of funerals in their time and done them rather well. Why would they need our input?”

  “Select the music? Pick out an appropriate reading?” Drayton said. “I’m afraid a lot of details have been left to Pauline, and she’s not doing all that well.”

  “She seemed fine at lunch. I just saw her snarfing down cake some twenty minutes ago.”

  “Yes, but after you went into your office to pack, a few people started asking Pauline about Miss Drucilla. That’s when she had a kind of teary meltdown,” Drayton said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Majel was some help. But in the end, I called Pauline’s boyfriend to come over and pick her up.”

  “You called Wade? Is he still here?”

  “They just left. He was going to take Pauline home.”

  “To her home? Or Miss Drucilla’s place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Fifteen minutes left.

  “Okay. So what are we supposed to do?” Theodosia asked. “About the church service?”

  “Wait. There’s more,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia squinted at him. “How much more?”

  “They want to have their post-funeral luncheon here.” Drayton held up his hands, palms out. “I know. It’s a lot. But I already ran it past Haley and she says she can manage. Of course, you have final say.”

  “I’m fine with the luncheon, but still unsure what our contribution should be to the funeral service.”

  “Tell you what,” Drayton said. “You go on to your Holiday Market and I’ll run over to the church and try to handle things as best I can.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m an old Presbyterian from way back. I’m fairly sure finalizing a church service is in my wheelhouse.”

  “Bless you, Drayton.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Drayton might have been running on cool, but Theodosia was bubbling along at simmer. So it stood to reason she got stuck in traffic, then was late getting to the Holiday Market in Marion Square.

  Luckily, the event really hadn’t gotten rolling yet, so it wasn’t a big deal. Theodosia located her table, really a kind of three-sided booth, unrolled a large piece of red felt, and quickly set out her tea tins, T-Bath products, and tea cozies. She also plopped down a few Indigo Tea Shop business cards.

  There. Everything looks appropriately festive and cute.

  In the booth to her right, a man was selling wooden reindeer, the antlers made of curly willow. To her left a woman was selling homemade beeswax candles.

  “Have you had many customers?” Theodosia asked the candle lady.

  “Just a few. But it’s still early,” the woman told her.

  Just then there was a hiss of air brakes and a loud belch of exhaust as a gray double-decker bus pulled to a stop across the street from them. Minutes later, the bus’s door opened wide and four dozen women from the Goose Creek Women’s Club descended upon them.

  Business picked up then and Theodosia spent the next hour and a half talking tea, T-Bath products, and ringing up quite a few sales.

  When there was a lull in the crowd, Theodosia walked past booths selling jewelry, clothing, gourmet foods, and crafts. Following the heavenl
y aromas of cinnamon and spice, she found a food truck selling donuts and hot apple cider. As she grabbed a cup of cider, she turned and ran smack-dab (well, almost, though nothing actually spilled) into Sawyer Daniels.

  “Mr. Daniels,” she said. He looked like he’d just come from a three-martini lunch: slightly dazed expression, natty sport coat, tie that many silkworms had died for, a Burberry trench coat.

  He gazed at her. “Yes?”

  He doesn’t remember me.

  “It’s Theodosia Browning. Delaine and I spoke with you last night? At the ballet?” In the light of day, she saw threads of red just below his skin. Could definitely be a drinker, she decided.

  Recognition dawned faintly on his face. “Oh sure, you’re Delaine’s friend. Now I remember.”

  No, you don’t.

  “Nice seats, by the way,” Theodosia said. “At the ballet last night.”

  “Oh yeah, only the best. Doesn’t pay to go if you’re not close enough to spit on the stage.”

  “I’m glad I ran into you today,” Theodosia said as Daniels tried to edge away. “I started thinking about what you said last night and wanted to ask you a couple more questions.”

  “Questions?” Daniels shook his head as though he was completely confused. “Concerning what?”

  “Well, you were at Miss Drucilla’s the night of her party . . . actually her murder. And I’ve been doing some investigating. . . .”

  “What? You’re a private investigator?” Daniels’s lips creased in amusement.

  “Not exactly. I’m a private person and I investigate, if that makes any sense.”

  “Maybe it does. But if you’re going to ask me if I know anything or saw anything unusual that night, then the answer is a resounding no. I’m as baffled as you are. Upset about it, too.” Daniels bounced once on the back of his heels and said, “However . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If you really are investigating, there is someone you might want to take a look at.”

  “Who would that be?”