Twisted Tea Christmas

by Laura Childs

  “Need something to do?” he asked.

  “Actually, it looks like we’re almost caught up,” Theodosia said. “If you can spare me for ten minutes or so, I’m going to run down to Antiquarian Books.”

  “Go,” he said, waving a hand. “Enjoy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia was on a mission when she walked through the doors of the bookshop. She was hoping to find Drayton’s Christmas present.

  “Hey,” Lois Chamberlain said as she looked up from wrapping a package at the front counter. She was a retired librarian in her late fifties who’d reinvented herself as a used-book dealer. Today she wore a red-and-black-plaid jacket, black yoga pants, and tortoiseshell reading glasses. Her long gray hair was swept up in a schoolmarm-type bun.

  “Hey, yourself,” Theodosia said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be up to your ears in scones and Darjeeling?”

  “We’re not so busy right now,” Theodosia said, then chuckled. “Besides, I have people working on all that.”

  “I have people, too,” Lois said, pointing to a young woman who was busy shelving an armload of books.

  “Temporary help for the holidays?”

  “The very best kind. My daughter. Home on Christmas break.” Lois waved a hand. “Cara, come on over here and meet the infamous tea shop lady.” She grinned at Theodosia. “Do you by any chance have a ‘tea lady’ vanity plate on your car?”

  Theodosia shook her head. “No.”

  “Well, you should.”

  A pretty twentysomething with reddish blond hair down to her shoulders came bouncing toward them. Cara Chamberlain. She extended her hand to Theodosia and said, “I think we met once before. But I was twelve and wearing braids.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again,” Theodosia said. “And I do remember the braids. And that you were deeply into Nancy Drew books.”

  “A good mystery still makes me tingle,” Cara said.

  Lois, the proud mother, said, “Cara’s just finishing up her master’s in media and communication at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Theodosia said.

  “And she’s about to do an internship at Channel Eight in their Investigative News Division,” Lois said.

  “When do you start?” Theodosia asked, hoping Cara wouldn’t get paired with Monica Garber.

  Cara smiled broadly. “Right after the first of the year. And I can’t wait. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed about.”

  “Cara and I are looking forward to your fancy Victorian Christmas Tea on Saturday,” Lois said. She touched a hand to Cara’s shoulder. “We’re intrigued by your so-called Grand Illumination, although neither of us is quite sure what it’s all about.”

  “It’s something brand-new we’re trying,” Theodosia said, “an idea that Drayton hatched. Hopefully it’ll be a fun addition.”

  “Did you come in here looking for a special book?” Cara asked. “Can I can help you find something?”

  “Maybe a book for Drayton, my tea sommelier,” Theodosia said.

  “So he’s like a wine sommelier, only for tea,” Cara mused. “Huh. Interesting.”

  Lois snapped her fingers. “We just got in a pristine copy of John Blofeld’s Chinese Art of Tea though I know you already have a copy—and Drayton probably does, too.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup copy,” Theodosia said, “one we can keep handy at the tea shop.”

  “There you go,” Lois said.

  While Cara went to pull the Blofeld book, Theodosia took a quick spin through the bookshop. There was a delightful mix of old books, new books, and lots of great authors to choose from—Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Salinger—but nothing jumped out at her. As a special gift for Drayton, that is.

  “You know Drayton’s taste,” Theodosia said to Lois. “If you come up with any ideas, let me know.”

  “Will do,” Lois said.

  Once Theodosia returned to the Indigo Tea Shop, she discovered that afternoon tea service was leisurely at best. Seven customers at three tables.

  “I have a suggestion,” Drayton said as he plucked the tea book from Theodosia’s hand, studied it, smiled, and set it on the counter.

  “What’s that?” Theodosia asked. She was thinking Drayton might want her to phone Detective Tidwell to ask if he’d been able to wring a heartfelt confession out of Smokey.

  Instead, Drayton surprised her and said, “Since we’re not all that busy right now, I think we should run over to the Dove Cote Inn and do a final check on Saturday’s venue.”

  Theodosia took one look around, saw that Miss Dimple was handling tea service with ease, and said, “Works for me.”

  19

  Wind swirled out of Charleston Harbor, rattling the trees up and down Lamboll Street. The temperature had been dropping steadily all day and was threatening to go down to thirty-nine degrees by tonight.

  Drayton struggled to wind the ends of his flapping scarf around his neck as he pulled his Brooks Brothers coat closer around him. “If it gets any colder, I’m afraid we’re going to have a white Christmas.”

  “I’ve never seen that happen here,” Theodosia said. Dressed as she was in short boots and a white puffer jacket, she rather liked the idea of snow. If they actually got a sprinkling of the white stuff, she and Riley could compare notes.

  “The last time Charleston saw a measurable amount of snowfall was back in 1960.”

  “Before my time,” Theodosia murmured.

  “Look here,” Drayton said as they stopped directly in front of the Dove Cote Inn. “You see this winding stone footpath that leads to the front door?”

  “It’s lovely. Like something Hansel and Gretel might follow.”

  “To kick off our Grand Illumination, the lighting people are going to place two dozen six-foot-high Victorian lamps along this pathway, extending all the way up to the front door.” Drayton smiled. “Can you just imagine the setting: a pinkish purple smudge in the sky as evening creeps in, and then a warm yellow glow that leads our guests to their special tea party?”

  “It sounds magical.”

  “Of course, in the interest of historical accuracy, I selected the lamps myself—lovely six-sided globes encased in scrollwork.”

  Theodosia gazed at the stately bed-and-breakfast that, just six years earlier, had been a fanciful-looking Victorian family residence. Now, with new owners, it had been turned into a charming inn with twelve luxurious suites along with a wonderful new dining room addition that was sure to make it a premier entertainment venue.

  “I love your idea of a Grand Illumination, but what’s the story behind it anyway?” she asked. “Is it some historical thing?”

  “Very much so,” Drayton said. “In the eighteenth century, Grand Illuminations were ‘da bomb,’ as you might say today. They were all about shooting off huge volleys of fireworks and firing cannons. Today, they mainly involve lighting trees, fancy decor on homes and buildings, plus some dancing and pageants. In our case we’ll have the lamps outside and actors presenting a short skit while we serve tea.”

  “I can’t believe you already held auditions.”

  “It was actually quite amusing,” Drayton said. “There are so many amateur theater groups in Charleston. Anyway, you didn’t have time. That was the day you drove Riley to the airport.”

  “And you’ve written an honest-to-goodness script for the actors?”

  Drayton gave a satisfied smile. “Of course.”

  “Are you going to give me a hint about this . . . What would you call it? A play?”

  “More like a tableau. And no, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  They walked up the front path, climbed two steps to a wide front porch, and stepped into the warmth of the Dove Cote Inn’s lobby. The lobby smelled of burning ced
ar and cinnamon-scented candles, and a blazing fire crackled merrily in a yellow brick fireplace. There were cozy armchairs and sofas in cream-colored leather with plump velvet pillows, and the Chinese carpet underfoot was an elegant shade of persimmon. Brass lamps had filmy shades, and white flocked Christmas trees decorated with sparkling white lights and ornaments completed the look and lent a festive air.

  “This is gorgeous,” Theodosia breathed. She’d been here once before when they’d met with the inn’s catering manager, a woman named Isabelle Franklin. But back then it hadn’t been decorated for Christmas.

  Now Isabelle was gliding gracefully toward them with an expectant smile on her face.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Isabelle said. “Our new owners have created a wonderful little boutique hotel.” She was a small woman who wore a cocoa-colored tweed blazer and cream-colored slacks. She was in her mid-thirties, and her shoulder-length blond hair was brushed back and held in place with a black velvet headband.

  Preppy, Theodosia decided. Isabelle looked preppy. And she was kind of peppy, too.

  “Your inn is a wonderful addition to the Historic District,” Drayton said.

  “And since this is brand-new as a business, we’ve managed to capture our fair share of publicity,” Isabelle said.

  “Which is always a good thing,” Theodosia said.

  “Oh my, yes,” Isabelle said. “And let me just say that we’re thrilled you chose us to host your Victorian Christmas Tea.”

  “It was your Essex Room that won us over,” Drayton said.

  “Come and take another look,” Isabelle said. “See how we’ve decorated for the holidays.”

  They walked through the lobby, down a short wood-paneled hallway hung with small oil paintings, and into the Essex Room.

  It was, in a nutshell, perfect. The inn’s owners had started with a lovely, fairly spacious dining room, then taken it one step further and added a large glass addition that included a curved glass roof. The finished product was light, airy, and impressive—a room that could easily accommodate seventy or eighty guests.

  Drayton walked to the center of the room, tilted his head back, and looked up at gray clouds scudding by overhead. Obviously charmed, he said, “If it actually did snow, this room would become one giant snow globe.”

  “That’s a lovely thought,” Isabelle said.

  “Your decorations are perfect,” Theodosia said. There were three more flocked Christmas trees with white lights and ornaments, plus tons of green garland strung in the windows. On a far wall, another impressive fireplace had a large Baroque mirror above it. An elegant brass clock entwined with flora, fauna, and lounging leopards rested on the mantel. Green topiary trees hung with golden pears were perched on two inlaid cocktail tables that flanked the fireplace.

  “When we first spoke, you mentioned that you were expecting around sixty-eight guests?” Isabelle said.

  “That number’s increased,” Drayton said. “We now have confirmed reservations for seventy-five guests.”

  “And there could always be a couple more,” Theodosia said. “Last-minute stragglers.”

  “So if we seat eight people per table . . . then, um, we’ll need to set up ten tables.” Isabelle looked pleased. “That gives you room for a few more guests. Your so-called stragglers.”

  “There’ll be a couple,” Theodosia promised. “There always are.”

  “For some reason the local hotels aren’t holding as many Christmas teas as they used to,” Drayton said. “So we seem to be absorbing all their former guests.”

  “Lucky you,” Isabelle said.

  Drayton nodded at her. “Lucky you, too.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle looked suddenly flustered. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Let’s talk about the tables,” Theodosia said, taking a step back and surveying the entire room.

  “Just as you specified, all the tables will be covered in white linen tablecloths with lace place mats at each setting. And we’re planning to use our Eternal Christmas china by Lenox and our Buttercup flatware by Gorham,” Isabelle said.

  “Perfect,” Theodosia said. She was starting to feel her excitement build. She saw this Victorian Christmas Tea as a kind of happy culmination of a successful year as well as a fun new challenge. After all, there’d be lots of guests, a pageant to contend with, and four separate courses. Lots of moving parts to worry about!

  “We’ve ordered plenty of flowers and candles,” Drayton was saying. “To be delivered the day of. White roses in antique pitchers for every table along with white pillar candles.”

  “And we’ll make sure all the chairs have white organza tiebacks done in a nice neat bow,” Isabelle said. “You know, I think this is the biggest event we’ve done so far.”

  “And I’m confident it will be a rousing success,” Drayton said.

  “We should check out the kitchen again, too,” Theodosia said.

  Isabelle led them through a swinging door into a fully equipped kitchen.

  “Just as I remember, this is more than adequate,” Drayton said, looking around. “Haley will set up at the main counter of course. . . .” He stepped over to a smaller counter. “I can brew my tea right here.”

  “And you don’t need any help from us?” Isabelle asked. “I can always bring in one of our chefs.”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Theodosia said. “All you have to do is set the tables and light a fire in the fireplace, and we’ll handle the rest.”

  “The temporary lanterns will be installed down your front walk on Saturday morning and the actors should arrive about an hour before the tea begins,” Drayton said. “You can put them . . . where?”

  “Probably our breakfast room will make as good a greenroom as any,” Isabelle said.

  Drayton gazed at Isabelle and gave a wicked smile. “You’re not worried, are you?”

  “Not in the least,” Isabelle said.

  But Theodosia saw how Isabelle had twisted her hands. Yup, Isabelle was worried. A little bit anyway. Then again, so was she.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Theodosia and Drayton arrived back at the Indigo Tea Shop, Detective Tidwell was sitting at a table, stirring sugar cubes into his Fujian white tea.

  Theodosia practically broke a leg getting to him.

  “Well?” she said, standing in front of him, hands planted on her hips.

  He gazed at her, offered a perfunctory smile, and said, “We had to let Smokey go. There wasn’t a single shred of evidence that linked him to Miss Drucilla’s murder. Or to the break-in at your tea shop last night.”

  “You don’t think paintings and syringes are enough?” she asked. “And by the way, how did Smokey explain the syringes?” She was aware that she’d begun to wave her arms somewhat wildly, so she forced herself to stop. Folded them across her chest. Decided she could at least tap a foot to indicate her frustration.

  “Smokey explained to me that he used the syringes for more intricate handyman projects,” Tidwell said. “Squirting wood glue into tiny cracks, as well as filling syringes with oil for lubricating small moving parts.”

  “Huh,” Drayton said. He was standing behind the counter, listening intently.

  “But the lab is going to test the syringes, right?” Theodosia asked. “To make sure that’s what they were actually used for?” She felt nervous. Nervous that she’d made a wrong assumption, nervous that maybe poor old aw-shucks Smokey had pulled the wool over Tidwell’s eyes.

  “Of course we’ll test them,” Tidwell said. Then, when he saw that Theodosia was still unhappy, he added, “I’ll be the first one to admit the syringes look incriminating, but that sort of evidence is basically circumstantial. Nothing concrete that I can slap down on the city prosecutor’s desk and say, ‘Go get Smokey. Lock him up.’ No, that good-old-boy prosecutor would laugh me right out of his offi
ce.”

  “So your suspicions about Smokey have cooled,” Theodosia said.

  “Tempered anyway,” Tidwell said. He glanced around, trying to catch Miss Dimple’s eye. She was arranging chairs and seemed to be ignoring him. So he cast a hopeful glance at Theodosia and said, “I wonder if there might be any leftover scones.”

  “Scones?” she said somewhat distractedly. “I suppose I could go and check.”

  Yes, there were still cream scones in the kitchen, so she plated one (only one), grabbed a small dish of orange marmalade, and carried it out to Tidwell.

  “Here you go,” Theodosia said. She set everything down without fanfare.

  “No Devonshire cream? Ah well,” Tidwell said. His mouth turned downward as he sliced his scone.

  Theodosia slid into the chair across from him and said, “I have a question that concerns Julian Wolf-Knapp.”

  “Hmm?” Tidwell was occupied with troweling on as much marmalade as possible.

  “When you contacted the art dealer in Amsterdam . . .”

  But before Theodosia could finish her sentence, Tidwell dropped his scone back onto his plate and grabbed for his ringing cell phone.

  “Yes?” Tidwell said, obviously unhappy at the interruption. He frowned, then listened intently for a few moments as his eyes roved over his uneaten scone. He said, “So you’re sending someone down to . . . Oh, you already have? Yes, I’ll finish here and come back. Ten minutes at the latest.”

  “What’s going on?” Theodosia asked. From the energy Tidwell was putting out, it felt like something big had popped.

  “Speak of the devil,” Tidwell said as he clicked off his phone. “A very nervous art dealer in Savannah just contacted my assistant. The dealer said someone had called him about a Renoir for sale.” Tidwell grabbed his scone and hastily wrapped it in a napkin, his own version of takeout.

  “Sweet dogs,” Drayton said from across the room. He’d overheard the exchange about the dealer from Savannah and the Renoir.

  Theodosia was suddenly on high alert, too, practically quivering with excitement. “Detective Tidwell,” she said, “I think I might know . . .”