by Laura Childs
That’s good, she had told herself. The nature of a home should shift and mature along with its owner.
But tonight, the upstairs apartment she’d worked so hard and lovingly on just felt confining.
Enough, she decided as she padded into her bedroom, rooted around in the bottom of the closet for her Nikes, and pulled a pair of leggings from a chest of drawers.
When in doubt, go for a jog.
Earl Grey, suddenly alert and convinced something wonderful was about to take place, sprang to his feet. Toenails clicking against hardwood floors, he circled her repeatedly, ears pitched forward, tail beating a doggy rhythm in double time.
“You got it, fella, let’s go,” said Theodosia as she grabbed his leather leash off the hook in the kitchen.
Ecstatic now, Earl Grey tumbled down the stairs ahead of her, ready to charge out and own the night.
Heading down Church Street past the Chowder Hound Restaurant, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and Floradora, her favorite flower shop, Theodosia and Earl Grey cut over on Water Street to East Bay. The night was cool but not cold. The atmosphere, laden with humidity, lent a soft focus to the light that streamed from the old mansions, garden lanterns, portico and street lamps. Charleston, always highly atmospheric to begin with, positively glowed at night.
The first six blocks they kept it down to a fast walk. Theodosia wanted to stretch her legs, ease out the kinks. She loved to run, had been a runner for some ten years now. But she also knew the cardinal sin in running was to skip the warm-up and zoom right into high gear. That was the absolute wrong way to do it. That’s how muscles got pulled, tendons sprained.
But by the time she and Earl Grey hit Battery Park at the very tip of the peninsula, they were warmed up and ready to blow out the carbon.
Theodosia gave a fast look around, didn’t see anyone who remotely resembled the pooch police. Excellent, she thought with a tiny stab of guilt as she unclipped Earl Grey’s lead. And with that, the two of them bounded down the pathway that snugged the shoreline.
A salty wind whipped Theodosia’s hair out in streaming tendrils, oyster shells crunched beneath her feet. They pounded past a trio of Civil War cannons, past a huge stack of old cannon balls, past the bandstand where so many weddings and wedding party photos had taken place. To their left was the surging harbor with its marker buoys and flickering lights, to their right loomed the dark city of Charleston, the Kingdom by the Sea that Edgar Allan Poe had immortalized in his poem Annabelle Lee.
Theodosia took a right where Legare Street intersected and Earl Grey bounded along beside her. They flew down the block, the dog maintaining his easy, loping stride in order to stay even with his beloved owner. Now they were deep in the heart of the historic district again. Streets were canopied over with trees, cobblestones paved a warren of narrow walkways and secret alleys, and large, elegant homes butted up against each other. Theodosia cut to the right, down Atlantic, and whistled softly for Earl Grey to follow. He did.
They skimmed past the tiny brick Library Society building with its ornate wrought iron fence, then turned down a narrow, hidden pathway that ran behind the building. Theodosia slowed her pace, then pulled to a stop just outside the Library Society’s lush courtyard garden. In the dim light, she could make out the three-tiered fountain, columns of lush oleander, and large camellia bushes.
Time to reel her dog in, she decided. Time to start the cool-down. Theodosia knelt down, clipped the leash back onto Earl Grey’s leather collar, and gave him a reassuring pat.
And in the moment of silence that followed, heard footsteps coming up behind her.
Had someone been following her?
She remained kneeling in the back alleyway, her breath coming faster now, her heart pounding.
If someone had been following her, she reasoned, they probably hadn’t realized she’d stopped. Which meant they’d be coming around that corner any second. Hastily, she unclipped Earl Grey’s leash and wound it around her right fist. The leather and metal snap would make a dandy weapon and Earl Grey would be far more effective as a guard dog if he were free to move about on his own.
Earl Grey stood expectantly now, as did Theodosia, listening to rapidly approaching footsteps.
Suddenly, the nighttime runner was upon them. Startled, obviously not expecting to see someone blocking the pathway, the man, a tall man, skidded to a stop and gaped at Theodosia, his breath coming in hard gasps.
“Theodosia?” he said.
Theodosia stared back, relief suddenly flooding her. The mysterious runner was none other than Cooper Hob-caw.
She put a hand to her heart. “Oh my goodness,” she laughed, “you startled me.”
Cooper Hobcaw looked equally rattled. “Yeah . . . sorry. Are you okay?” he asked.
Theodosia knew he was probably wondering just what she was doing here, standing in this dark pathway, looking like an idiot.
“I was just putting the leash back on Earl Grey,” she explained, “and heard someone coming.” When she’d realized who it was, she had quickly loosened the leather leash from around her hand. There was no reason to let Cooper Hobcaw know she’d been prepared to launch an all-out assault on him.
Now Theodosia bent down and clipped the leash onto Earl Grey’s collar. “There,” she said as it made a satisfying snap. “Sorry we startled you.”
“Hey,” he breathed, “same here. You can’t be too careful after what happened last night.”
“Exactly my thought,” replied Theodosia.
“Strange goings-on,” said Cooper Hobcaw. “Have you heard . . . is the fellow who got knocked on the head, the security guard, going to be okay?”
“I think so.”
“Good,” he said. Cooper Hobcaw peered at her in the darkness. “I thought I was the only nutcase who went running through the historic district at night.”
“No,” she said. “There are actually quite a few of us.”
Cooper Hobcaw nodded. “The professional’s dilemma, right? Work all day, exercise at night.”
She nodded back. “ ’Fraid so.”
“I like your buddy here.” He reached out and rubbed Earl Grey behind the ears. Earl Grey responded by tossing his elegant head and inviting a scratch under the chin. “Nice dog,” said Cooper Hobcaw. “Friendly, too. I like that.”
It was only after Cooper Hobcaw had jogged off that Theodosia remembered he lived over on the other side of Calhoun and not in the historic district at all.
Chapter 7
“Once you taste this Formosan Oolong,” promised Drayton as he poured a steaming brownish-amber liquid into celadon green ceramic teacups for the three women seated at his table, “I think you’ll understand why it’s been dubbed the champagne of teas.”
Heads bobbed forward, and here and there a delicate slurp was emitted.
“Delicious!” declared one of the women.
A second woman held up the small teacup. “Why no handles?” she asked.
“It’s simply the convention for Chinese teacups, or tea bowls as they are often called,” replied Drayton. “Same for Japanese teacups. Now if we were drinking a nice strong tea in Morocco or Russia, we’d probably be using a glass. And the English teacup, usually slightly fluted and with a delicate handle, is a derivation of the ale tankard which was often used for imbibing the proverbial hot toddy.”
The ladies nodded happily, delighted with their tea tasting and with Drayton’s fascinating bits of tea lore.
“This oolong does have a slightly sweet flavor,” declared one of his tasters.
“Can you pick up a hint of peaches or honey?” he asked.
The three ladies tasted again, then nodded.
“And chestnuts,” he added. “Very often an oolong will offer up a delicate nutty taste. That’s a result of the shortened withering period. Freshly picked leaves are dried for only about four or five hours, then allowed to partially ferment. Once the outside of the leaves begin to turn greenish-brown, the tea is fired. Remember,” h
e told them, “tea is one thing that never improves with age. Freshness does count.”
“I’ll never go back to orange pekoe again,” declared one woman happily.
“Which, as you all know, is really a grade of tea, not a flavor at all,” said Drayton as a quick aside. “Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he stood up from the table, “I shall check to see if a certain batch of croissants are out of the oven yet.”
The ladies beamed, caught up as they were in the fascinating world of tea. But then, whenever Drayton conducted one of his tea tastings, he was highly instinctive as well as delightfully entertaining. He was sometimes booked weeks in advance, and often, bed-and-breakfasts such as the Featherbed House or the Allister Beene Home would recommend to their guests that tea with Drayton was a “not to be missed” event.
Drayton hustled over to where Theodosia stood at the counter. “Are the croissants ready yet?” he asked.
“Should be just coming out of the oven,” she told him.
Drayton stood for a moment and fidgeted.
“You’re thinking of the funeral,” she said, noting the suddenly somber look on his face.
“Yes,” he said, “aren’t you?”
“Here you are, Drayton,” said Haley as she came through the curtains and delivered a plate of golden pastries into Drayton’s waiting arms. “And some pain au chocolat, too. I had extra dough so I sweetened things up a bit.” Haley suddenly paused, registering the looks on their faces. “Oh, gosh,” she said, “the funeral’s today, isn’t it? I wonder how they-all are doing down in Savannah.”
“Probably awful,” said Drayton.
“That’s what I figured, too,” said Haley. “I mean, I only met Camille that one time but I really liked her a lot. She was a hoot. Well, you know what I mean.”
“Of course, we do, dear,” said Theodosia. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“You called Tidwell, right?” said Drayton.
“You’re going to talk to him?” said Haley. She didn’t care for Tidwell, thought him to be a boor and a brute.
“I sent him an e-mail last night,” said Theodosia.
“Technology,” Drayton said derisively. “It’s going to be the downfall of Western civilization.”
“You didn’t think so the other day when you guys set up those tracker beams,” said Haley.
“And they didn’t work, did they!” argued Drayton.
“Hold everything,” said Theodosia. “We all know the motion sensors didn’t work because someone cut the power. It had nothing to do with a technological meltdown.”
“Drayton, don’t you have a table full of customers waiting for those?” Haley indicated the plate of baked goods in his hand.
“Don’t you have today’s luncheon to figure out?” he asked her.
“Tea-marinated prawns on Japanese noodles,” she told him. “But I don’t anticipate there’ll be any leftovers.”
“Tea-marinated prawns?” he said, suddenly perking up. “My, that does sound lovely. May I ask which tea you’ve chosen as a marinade base?”
Haley grinned. “You may not. But if any of our customers are interested, you may tell them it is Lapsang Souchong.”
“Mmnn,” said Drayton, considering. “Nice, rich, black tea from southern China. Smoky flavor. Should be highly complementary with seafood.”
“Maybe there’ll be a nibble left over,” she told him.
“Let’s hope so,” he said.
Haley’s tea-marinated prawns were an enormous hit. Theodosia wasn’t sure exactly what seemed to be bringing the customers in these days—the cool, sunny weather, the hint of autumn in the air, or a sudden jump in the number of tourists—but they were packed for lunch once again. Standing room only, in fact. Giselle and Cleo, two regulars from Parsifal, a gift shop down the street, ended up getting their lunches packed to go in one of the Indigo Tea Shop’s indigo blue boxes, rather than stand around and wait for a table.
“Maybe we should be putting tables on the sidewalk,” Theodosia lamented to Drayton.
“We’ve talked about outside tables before and never done it,” he said. “It would mean a little more work, but it would certainly increase our capacity as well.”
“By capacity, you mean profits,” she said.
“Of course I mean profits. Profits are the lifeblood of a business,” said Drayton, ever mindful of the bottom line.
“What would we need to do?” she asked. “File something with the city for a permit?”
“I think so,” he said. “Maybe your friend, Jory Davis, could look into it.”
“Good idea,” replied Theodosia, then added, “or is it too late in the year? We could get a cold snap any day now.”
“Then we’ll be well prepared for spring,” Drayton assured her.
By two o’clock things had settled down to normal. Haley was rattling dishes in the kitchen, clearing away lunch, and had already put a couple pans of gingerbread in the oven in anticipation of the afternoon tea crowd. Dray-ton was seated at the table nearest the counter, munching his prawns and doing a highly adequate job of snaring the slippery Japanese soba noodles with his pair of wooden chopsticks. Theodosia was arranging antique teacups and muffin plates on the high shelf behind the counter where their old brass cash register sat.
She had collected dozens of teacups over the years, a hard-to-find Shelley Apple Blossom, several Limoges, and a pretty fan-handle Russian teacup from the Popov Porcelain Factory, to name just a few. And she’d decided it was a shame to keep so many stored away in boxes. Better to bring them downstairs and create a fanciful display.
“That’s a lovely Shelley,” called Drayton from his table.
Theodosia held up the Shelley Apple Blossom for him to admire. It was creamy white bone china covered in a riot of pink apple blossoms. It was also one of the cups and saucers that was most prized among the many avid Shelley collectors throughout the world.
“As you probably know,” Drayton told her, “I’ve got the Shelley Dainty White in the Queen Anne style. Setting for eight. Hudgins Antiques offered me fifteen hundred for it just last year.”
“Did you consider selling?” she asked.
“Absolutely not, it’s worth twice that. Besides, I love those dishes. They were passed down to me by my dear Aunt Cecily.”
When the front door fluttered open a few minutes later, it wasn’t the first wave of afternoon customers come for tea. Instead, Detective Burt Tidwell strode forcefully into the room.
Burt Tidwell wasn’t exactly one of Theodosia’s favorite people. But then again, Burt Tidwell wasn’t anyone’s favorite person. An ex-FBI agent, Burt Tidwell lived in Charleston in what he considered a state of semiretirement. Which, for the driven, results-oriented, obsessive-compulsive man that he was, meant he was employed full-time, working a sixty-hour week as lead homicide detective for the Charleston Police Department.
Brash, bordering on boorish, Tidwell’s physical being projected his inner personality. What you saw was what you got. A tall man, way beyond heavyset, Tidwell had a strange bullet-shaped head that seemed to rest directly upon his shoulders. Worse yet, Tidwell was a bulldog with steel jaws, tenacious, slightly ill-tempered, perpetually dubious.
Yet Burt Tidwell did have a certain way about him. When he chose to be, Tidwell could border on courtly, particularly in discussions with women. He was an avid reader and a keen admirer of Sartre, Hemingway, and Octavio Paz. Many years ago, back when FBI agents were also required to have law degrees, Tidwell had attended Harvard and so still had a keen sense of the written word.
Theodosia seated Tidwell at the table with Drayton, then quickly ferried over cups, saucers, a pot of tea, plates, napkins, silverware, and a tray of assorted goodies.
When she finally sat down next to Tidwell, Theodosia didn’t mince words.
“What do you know about cat burglars?” she asked him.
But Tidwell wasn’t about to let her slip into a prosecutorial mode quite so easily. He took a sip of tea, allowed
his eyes to rove across the tray of baked goods. “Pray tell, what is this delightful-looking bread?” he asked with an inquisitive air as he hooked the plate with his index finger and pulled it toward him.
Realizing Tidwell wasn’t going to be as forthcoming as she wished, Theodosia slid the butter plate toward Tidwell. “Persimmon bread,” she told him.
“And the tea is . . .”
“Assam. Taste the sweetness?”
“I do. As well as a slightly malty flavor.”
“Why, Detective Tidwell, I do believe you’re becoming a tea connoisseur,” said Theodosia as Drayton looked on, pleased.
Tidwell picked up the cloth napkin and daubed at his lips. “You never know, dear lady, you never know.”
“Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “you received my e-mail and my slightly abbreviated account of the two thefts.”
“The wedding ring and the gems at the Heritage Society. Yes, I did,” he said. “Additionally, I spoke with the two investigators, Jacob Gallier and Peter Delehanty, who are currently working both cases. They’re not convinced the two incidents are at all related.”
This was surprising news to Theodosia. “How could they not look at them in the same context?”
Tidwell shifted his eyes from the persimmon bread to Theodosia’s face. “What is your interest in this?” he inquired.
“My friends are involved,” she said. “I’m worried about them.”
“Ah,” he said, “assuming the worries of the world again, are we?” Tidwell shook his great head slowly. “Oh, to be young and burning with such inner fire.”
“You were saying,” prompted Theodosia, “that Mr. Gallier and Delehanty do not think the two thefts are related?”
Tidwell chewed thoughtfully. “From their perspective, the first incident at the Lady Goodwood Inn seems more like an unfortunate accident.”
“And the second incident?” asked Drayton, suddenly deciding to join the conversation. “The missing necklace at the Heritage Society?”
“That is a clear-cut robbery,” said Tidwell. “No one’s disputing that.” He swiveled his head toward Theodosia and bore into her with small, intense eyes. “But according to the rather rambling e-mail you forwarded to me, you believe there is some mysterious cat burglar prowling the historic district.”