by Laura Childs
What was it Professor Morrow had called the residue he’d found on the linen tablecloth?
Garden-variety dirt.
Okay, that had to be it. Then, the next big question that loomed in front of her was: Dirt from whose garden?
“Theo, there’s someone here to see you,” said Haley.
Theodosia had let herself in the back door that led directly from the alley to her office.
“Who is it?” she asked as she tucked her handbag into the desk drawer.
Haley shrugged. “Beats me. Some guy who came in about twenty minutes ago. I gave him a cup of tea and a scone and tucked him at the small table by the fireplace.”
Taking a quick peek in the tiny mirror that hung on the back of her door, Theodosia smoothed her hair and decided to pass on the lipstick. The six-block walk back from the Heritage Society had infused her complexion with a natural, rosy glow, infinitely better than anything packaged cosmetics could deliver.
She emerged through the green velvet curtains with a smile on her face and confidence in her step. But her smile froze when she saw who it was waiting to see her: Booth Crowley.
She recovered quickly. “I’m Theodosia Browning,” she greeted the man at the fireside table. “How can I help you?”
Booth Crowley stood and faced her. He was a big man to begin with, but wearing a coal black, three-piece suit, he looked even more imposing. His shock of white hair bristled atop his head, a crooked mouth jagged across his square-jawed face.
“I’m Booth Crowley,” the man said as he took her hand in his and clamped down roughly. “We need to talk.”
Booth Crowley released Theodosia’s hand only when she was half seated. By that time, a single word had bubbled to her brain: bully. She’d been in Booth Crowley’s immediate presence for all of thirty seconds, and already he impressed her as a bully of the first magnitude. But, then again, hadn’t she seen him bullying Billy Manolo that day at the church? It certainly looked like he’d been.
“A very unpleasant man, that Burt Tidwell,” said Crowley in his strange staccato manner. “Stopped by to see me this morning.” His upper lip curled as he spoke, and his pink face seemed to become increasingly florid.
Tidwell, thought Theodosia. He had received my E-mail and must have found some merit to it. Obviously he had, since he’d already had a chat with Booth Crowley.
But would Tidwell have confided to Booth Crowley that she was the one who harbored suspicions about him? Doubtful, highly doubtful. If anything, the pendulum swung in the other direction with Tidwell. He was extremely tight-mouthed about investigative details.
But Booth Crowley wasn’t nearly finished. “My wife attended a meeting yesterday,” he snarled at her. “Ran into a friend of yours. Delaine Dish.”
Theodosia groaned inwardly. Leave it to Delaine to chatter about anything and everything. And to Booth Crowley’s wife yet! Unfortunately, there was no way she could have known that Delaine sat on the same committee that Booth Crowley’s wife did.
Booth Crowley narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve been talking about me. Asking impertinent questions,” he said accusingly.
“Actually,” said Theodosia, deciding to play it absolutely straight, “my questions have been about Oliver Dixon.”
“And Grapevine,” Booth Crowley shot back, “which most certainly does concern me.”
“I was sorry to hear you closed it down,” said Theodosia, keeping her voice light. “Good thing you have two more companies ready to come out of the chute. What are they? Oh, yes, Deva Tech and Alphimed.”
“What do you know about those?” he snapped.
“Probably no more than anyone else,” said Theodosia, “unless you’d care to enlighten me.” There, she had jousted with him and obviously struck a nerve. Now it was his turn.
Booth Crowley smiled at Theodosia from across the table, but the vibes weren’t particularly warm. “You know,” he said, suddenly changing the cadence of his voice and adopting a silky, wheedling tone, “my wife, Beatrix, has always wanted to open a tea salon.”
“How nice,” said Theodosia. Give him nothing, she thought, nothing. Never let them see you sweat.
“Right now, she owns that lovely little sweet shop Le Bonbon. Down on Queen Street. She has a couple of ladies—dear, trusted souls—who’ve been with her for years. They make handmade truffles similar to the ones you find at Fauchon in Paris.” Booth Crowley took a long sip of tea, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and tossed it down haphazardly on the table. “But a salon de thé that serves high tea is her absolute dream.” He looked around imperiously. “Of course, it would be far more formal than what you have here. And I have the perfect name for it. Tea with Bea.”
“Cute,” said Theodosia.
“Yes, she’s always wanted a little shop. Somewhere here in the historic district,” said Booth Crowley. “I do so love to indulge my wife.”
Theodosia knew that Booth Crowley and his wife, Beatrix, could squash her like a bug if they wanted to. Booth Crowley’s net worth had to be high, almost astronomical. As CEO of Cherry Tree Investments, he smooth-talked countless investors into providing millions in venture capital for dozens of companies. More importantly, Booth Crowley sat on the Charleston Chamber of Commerce. If he decided to indulge his wife, as he had rhapsodized, he could easily persuade the Charleston tour buses to stop at his wife’s tea shop instead of hers. It wasn’t good, she decided, it wasn’t good at all. She’d stirred up a hornet’s nest, and now she might have to face the consequences.
Booth Crowley stood up abruptly and, reluctantly, Theodosia stood, too. “Good day,” he told her, his grin hard, his gray eyes filled with menace. “If you hear of any vacancies on your block, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, I’ll consult with one of the commercial Realtors my firm has on retainer.” He spun away from her, heading for the door, then stopped in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t go signing any long-term leases, if I were you,” he spat out. “Especially with the economy so uncertain and competition breathing down your neck.” Then he slammed out the door and was gone.
Theodosia was aware of Drayton hovering behind her.
“What did he want?” Drayton asked quietly. He put a hand on Theodosia’s shoulder, gently steering her over to the counter, where they could have some privacy.
“He came here to rattle my cage,” Theodosia told him. “To intimidate me.” She tried to keep her remark light, but she realized that, deep inside, she was rattled and intimidated.
“Who was that big boor?” asked Haley as they all crowded behind the counter, whispering.
“That was Booth Crowley,” Drayton told her.
Haley’s eyes went wide. “Really? Darn. If I’d known who he was, I wouldn’t have been so pleasant to him when he first came in.” She meant her remark to be humorous, but she saw the look of consternation on Theodosia’s face. “Just how did Booth Crowley try to intimidate you?” Haley asked.
“Oh, it was rather indirect at first,” said Theodosia. “He talked about how his wife has always wanted to have a tea salon somewhere in the historic district. Then he escalated things, told me not to sign a long-term lease or anything.” She struggled to maintain an outward calm, but she still came across shaken.
“You’ve had competition before,” said Drayton, trying to be practical. “It hasn’t made a whit of difference.”
“Not real competition,” said Theodosia.
“What about Tea Baggy’s over on Wentworth?” Dray-ton offered.
Theodosia looked thoughtful. “That’s different. Tea Baggy’s is retail, and all the charm is in the name. Besides, they only stock a few canisters of so-so tea. Most of their sales are in candy and glassware. And gobs of giftware.”
“They just added a line of teddy bears,” said Haley helpfully.
“You see?” said Theodosia to Drayton. “It is more retail. Booth Crowley was talking about something entirely different.”
“How much you want to bet he
was just bluffing,” said Haley.
“How did your meeting with Timothy go?” asked Dray-ton, deciding it might be best to change the subject and try to get Theodosia’s mind off Booth Crowley’s threats.
Theodosia stared at Drayton as though she wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then she blinked, and understanding came back to her face. “My goodness, I forgot to tell you! I came back here and went rushing into that awful meeting.”
“So Timothy was helpful?” said Drayton.
“Actually, he was extremely helpful. And so were you,” said Theodosia. “Thank you for calling ahead and smoothing the way.”
Drayton waved a hand airily. “Just making sure the ferocious Timothy didn’t make mincemeat out of you.”
“So what did Timothy Neville say?” asked Haley.
“Basically, he told me it’s fairly easy to rig a pistol to explode,” said Theodosia. “All you have to do is overpack it.”
“Overpack it?” frowned Haley. “With what?”
A sly smile crept onto Theodosia’s face. “I think somebody overpacked the yacht club’s pistol with dirt,” she said.
“Which tracks with what Professor Morrow told you,” Drayton exclaimed excitedly. “He said the tablecloth had dirt on it.”
“Does somebody want to give me the complete story?” asked Haley impatiently.
“Haley,” said Theodosia, “Professor Morrow analyzed the tablecloth and said the smudge, or schmutz, as you called it, was garden-variety dirt. Then I talked with Timothy, and he said that if you stuffed a pistol full of dirt, it would probably explode.”
“Holy smokes,” said Haley. “So maybe the garden-variety dirt—”
“Is really from somebody’s garden,” finished Drayton.
The three exchanged knowing glances.
“Sounds like we might have to slip into our ninja costumes tonight and visit a few gardens,” suggested Haley.
Drayton rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Like Booth Crowley’s, Billy Manolo’s—”
“Let’s hold off on that for the time being,” said Theodosia. “Professor Morrow is going to try to break down the compounds. He thinks he can get a lot more specific than telling us it’s just dirt.”
“You mean he’ll determine pH balance or nitrogen content?” asked Drayton. “That would be fabulous! In fact, it would help launch us in a very specific direction. For example, if we found out the soil was acid-based, we’d look for someone who had, say, a rose garden.”
“Pretty slick,” agreed Haley. “That would really help narrow it down. When do you think your professor will have those test results for us?”
“Hopefully, tomorrow,” said Theodosia.
“Isn’t it serendipitous,” said Drayton, “that the Garden Fest kicks off in two days?”
“Kind of gives us an excuse to poke around in the dirt,” said Haley with an impish grin.
Chapter 25
The next morning, they all fluttered about nervously, waiting for Professor Morrow’s phone call. But when the good professor hadn’t called by ten A.M., Drayton suggested they put their heads together and work on some ideas for an artists’ tea.
“I’ve heard of garden teas and teddy bear teas and, of course, we just had our mystery tea,” said Haley, “but what the heck is an artists’ tea?”
Drayton’s eyes skimmed across the tea shop. Only three tables were occupied, and the customers sitting at them had all been served. Business was a tad slow but, then again, it was midweek.
“I was thinking of holding an artists’ tea in conjunction with Spoleto,” explained Drayton. “Theme the tearoom with Art Deco table decor, offer a creative menu, invite a few performing artists in. Maybe a jazz trio or string quartet. Or we could have a poetry reading.”
“Sounds neat,” said Haley.
“Theo?” asked Drayton. She had been arranging sets of miniature teapots on the wooden shelves and seemed lost in thought. “What do you think?”
“Judging by the success of your mystery tea, I think you could expect standing room only,” she said, producing a grin that stretched ear to ear on Drayton’s venerable face.
“What if one of the teas we served was badamtam,” suggested Haley. “Really make it special.”
Drayton feigned mock surprise. “My goodness, our little girl has actually been paying attention. Badamtam is, indeed, a grand Darjeeling.”
“We could even invite some fine artists in,” suggested Theodosia. “Display their work or actually have them sketching or painting during the tea. You know, in the manner of a plein aire artist, where a small painting is begun and completed in the field, so to speak, all in one sitting.”
“How about using sheets of classical music as place mats?” suggested Haley.
“That’s the spirit,” crowed Drayton as his black Mont-blanc pen fairly flew across the pages of his notebook. “Now, if I can just jot all these great ideas down—”
“Yoo-hoo.”
They all spun on their heels. Delaine was standing there, smiling in her maddeningly, self-important manner.
“Can I get a quick cup to go?” she asked. “Assam, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“We’ve got ten different kinds of Assam,” said Drayton as he deftly ran his fingertips across the lineup of tea tins that were shelved on the nearby wall. “But this golden tips is by far the best,” he said, pulling down one of the shiny brass tins.
“Theo, I’m still holding that jacket for you,” said Delaine.
“I know you are. And I’m still thinking about it.” Theodosia paused. “Delaine, did you by any chance say something to Booth Crowley’s wife the other day?”
Delaine smiled coyly. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Booth Crowley stopped in here yesterday afternoon. To say he was unhappy would be putting it mildly. He was under the impression that I’ve been asking probing questions about him.” She paused. “When in fact, we were just making conversation, were we not?”
Delaine hesitated for a moment, and Theodosia could see her mind working to formulate a plausible, Delaine-deflecting answer.
Theodosia sighed inwardly. Really, it had been her own fault. She knew that Delaine’s true nature was to dish out as much information as she could, and still she’d kept pressing her for answers.
“Good heavens, Theodosia,” Delaine said finally, “I ran into Booth Crowley’s wife a couple days ago, that’s all. Beatrix and I are on the same committee. I suppose I might have mentioned that her husband’s name came up in conversation, but certainly nothing beyond that.”
Theodosia gritted her teeth. She really should have known better. Delaine thrived on gossip and adored passing it on.
“Drayton,” said Delaine, eager to change the subject, “are you terribly excited about Garden Fest? Is there any chance we’ll get a peek at your Japanese bonsai trees this year?”
Drayton filled an indigo-colored paper cup with the freshly brewed Assam and snapped on a white take-out lid. “Actually, Timothy Neville has invited me to display a few of my bonsai on his patio,” Drayton told her. “You know his garden is very dramatic and Asian-inspired. Of course, there’d be no judging involved, the bonsai would be purely for fun.”
“So you’ll have your bonsai at Timothy’s Garden Fest party!” Delaine exclaimed. “How delightful. You know what? You folks should serve some of your yummy Japanese tea as well. Make it a themed affair.”
“Yummy isn’t the precise term I’d use to describe Japanese green tea, but, yes, Delaine, the idea had occurred to me,” answered Drayton.
“We have to work at Timothy’s party?” asked Haley.
Delaine turned probing eyes on Haley. “You’re on the guest list, dear?”
“Well, not exactly,” stammered Haley.
“Then serving tea would be an ideal way for you to be in attendance at a major social function, would it not?” said Delaine. “Give you a chance to hobnob with café society?”
“It’s stil
l work,” grumbled Haley as she turned to answer the ringing phone. “Hello?” she said. “Yes, she’s here.” Haley put her hand over the receiver. “It’s for you, Theodosia.”
“I’ll take it in my office, Haley,” said Theodosia, chuckling at Delaine’s somewhat pompous reference to café society. It was hard to stay angry with Delaine. She was a sweet woman and a rich source of entertainment. Still, there was no way she was going to have this conversation, or any conversation, in front of Delaine Dish. She’d learned her lesson for good.
“Hello?” said Theodosia as she kicked back in her comfy leather chair.
“Theodosia, it’s Lizbeth Cantrell.”
“Hello, Lizbeth,” said Theodosia.
“My brother just told me.” Lizbeth Cantrell’s words spilled out in a rush.
“Told you what?” said Theodosia.
“That he’s been doing consulting work for Oliver Dixon.” She hesitated. “I feel like . . . I’m sure I put a great imposition upon you. Not knowing all the facts and then still pushing you...Well, anyway, it’s over, isn’t it? I feel like a great load has been lifted off my shoulders.”
“Lizbeth, what do you mean?” asked Theodosia.
“There’s no way anyone could be suspicious of Ford now,” said Lizbeth, her voice filled with relief.
Theodosia stared at a bright little spot of sunlight that fell at her feet. “Lizbeth, I hate to say this, but your brother is not entirely off the hook.”
There was silence for a moment. “I don’t understand,” said Lizbeth. “He and Oliver Dixon were working together. Surely, anyone could see they had a business relationship. Why would anyone believe that Ford wished harm to the man?”
“Yes, but it’s not clear what kind of relationship they had,” said Theodosia. She hated to say it, but she had to. “For all we know, it could have turned adversarial. Your brother made a recommendation that Oliver Dixon didn’t agree with. . . . The result was friction between the two of them....”