The electricity was off and would remain so for a month, so there was no way to pump water. Fortunately, she had stored up a large water reserve in gallon jugs up in the loft, and she had plenty of food for herself and the dogs—enough to last three to four weeks—and she knew how to cook over a campfire. She didn’t relish it, but she could live without air conditioning, heat, television, and even cell phone reception … for a while.
Within days, the roads were cleared by neighbors bearing chain saws, and generators were used to power the larger homes all around her. Tommie Watson was nothing, if not resilient. She could make it work, even without a generator. She had been on her own for six years, and she was strong and confident she could continue to live in what was left of her woods by the creek. Then, one morning when she got up to walk the dogs, she stepped outside the cottage, stumbled on some debris, and shattered her ankle.
That was the end of Tommie’s independence.
A neighbor couple heard her screams and were able to get her to the hospital in Ag City, Alabama. Kevin and her Rivertown friends moved her to Floribunda a week later.
Now, she felt like she was facing another loss of independence, and all she could do was wait for her eventual encounter with the Irish owner of her duplex.
Chapter Four
On Monday, Tommie had yet to meet the Irishman who bought her duplex, if indeed he had even arrived, so she dressed and went to her tea shop early. Even though she was distracted and agitated, she forced herself to stay busy. First, she tidied up the self-service tea counter which held a cream dispenser, lemons, sweeteners, disposable spoons, napkins, and loose tea strainers. Then, she emptied the trash cans, made sure the restroom was clean, and checked the retail items on the bookcases. She completed an inventory of her bulk herbs and potion making supplies in the storage room and checked the large cooler for any outdated concoctions. After replenishing the bottled waters and cold teas in the small coolers beside the cash register, she crawled into the left front window display and began shifting a few of the items there.
While she was on her hands and knees in the display, she gazed out the window at the Confederate Memorial Park and Gazebo which were directly opposite her shop on the other side of Bottlebrush Boulevard, Floribunda’s Main Street. The park was a popular picnic spot, with its lush grassy area and large octagonal gazebo beneath a spreading oak tree—one of the few left standing after the hurricane. When the weather was pleasant, people frequently bought cold teas or bottled waters from her store and took them into the gazebo during their lunch hour rather than sit inside and eat.
Directly behind the gazebo was Silver Linings—a four-story, red brick, senior living facility that was formerly a fancy hotel in the 1940s. An access road—Lantana Lane—ran diagonally between the park and the facility, connecting Nandina Street and Oleander Street.
Tommie smiled. All the streets were named after flowering trees and bushes, and she thought that was charming. Floribunda was a rural community, in size somewhere between a town and a city—small enough for one to have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, yet large enough for a Wal-Mart. Its bucolic nature was what appealed to Tommie; she loved countryside living.
She continued gazing out the window while she repositioned the March Hare in her Alice in Wonderland themed display. There was parking on Lantana Lane in front of the two office buildings beside the senior facility. The UPS Store was located in the building nearest Oleander Street, and Floral Real Estate was situated right next to Silver Linings.
From their front door, both Charles Williams and Beverly Cantrell could see everyone who came in and out of Brewster’s Coffee Shoppe and Watson’s Reme-Teas, as well as all the other shops that lined Bottlebrush Boulevard for which they, no doubt, held the leases. Tommie could almost feel Charles watching her from his office, and her pleasant smile drooped. She shifted her gaze to the adjacent building.
From her vantage point at the UPS Store, Ms. Coral Beadwell—a 58-year old widow from one of the original founding families of Floribunda (she took her notable maiden name back after her husband died)—held an identical view of the comings and goings along the Boulevard and at the park. She could frequently be seen standing in the doorway, her head swiveling side to side as she kept tabs on who was where, doing what, and when. She was more than a trifle nosy.
Tommie liked Coral, even though she was known to be an overbearing bully. Her behind-the-back nickname was “hard core Coral.” Tommie had heard the rumors concerning the woman: she was condescending to customers she didn’t care for (especially Charles Williams); she made people wait in line for an inordinate amount of time while she intentionally dragged out helping them one by one, often causing them to run late for their jobs and appointments; and she was even suspected of blatantly snooping through people’s mail. The only redeeming quality she had heard was that Coral supported Kitty Kare, the local feline rescue center.
Nonetheless, she was always friendly to Tommie when she brought her sack lunch to Watson’s each day. Coral had even convinced the Ladies’ Charity Organization from Trinity Episcopal Church to hold their monthly meetings at Watson’s Reme-Teas. The LCO had tea and shared the sweet treats they brought with Tommie. She was happy to serve them; they filled all 28 seats in her shop and helped her business considerably by becoming frequent patrons.
Coral was definitely a creature of habit and insisted on drinking Tommie’s latest house blend tea from what she claimed was her “special teacup”—a jumbo-sized teal and pale yellow ceramic container with a picture of an orange cat on one side. Tommie kept it handy on the counter by the tea caddies.
Despite Tommie’s acceptance of her quirks, it was no secret Coral was at the center of fierce animosity between the employees of the two office buildings on Lantana Lane. Tommie had seen evidence of it herself. One day, she had watched as Charles stormed out of the UPS Store with Coral on his heels, flapping her arms and shaking her head. He hurried into the real estate office, clinging to a clearly damaged parcel, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears.
Adding to the office drama, Tommie discovered there were a couple of unrequited romances constituting a tragic love triangle—perfect fodder for enquiring minds in a small town. Perched on her barstool behind the counter at Watson’s, Tommie heard all about it through the lunchtime “tea-vine” (as opposed to the grapevine).
Beverly Cantrell, the money hungry real estate maven who insisted on calling herself “Miss” despite being 56 and twice-divorced, frequently visited the UPS Store. Tommie had often watched her traipsing over there in her impossibly high heels, her brightly polished fingernails gripping legal envelopes and parcels.
“Why doesn’t she take her mail to the Post Office?” Tommie asked Sarah Beth one day. “It’s just one street over and a whole lot cheaper.”
“She prefers the customer service at the UPS Store,” Sarah Beth responded with a sneer.
Upon further inquiry, Tommie learned that Beverly had a thing for Henry Erving who worked at the UPS Store with Coral, but Henry was carrying a torch for Coral, and she entertained no such feelings for Henry.
Resting on her elbows in the display window, Tommie shook her head as she thought about the situation.
“That’s why I’m not interested in any more marriages … or even dating, for that matter. Three strikes, and I’m officially out, O Mouse,” Tommie said to the stuffed dormouse sitting in the teacup on the brightly decorated table.
As she continued crawling around in “the Mad Tea-Party,” Tommie heard angry voices next door at Brewster’s. She checked her watch and noted it was well past time for coffee drinkers. Sarah Beth must have a late customer, she decided as she flipped over on her backside and carefully scooted toward the opening.
Tommie heard Brewster’s door slam. Thinking she heard her own back door open, she craned her neck up to try and peek over the bookcases. She glanced back toward the restroom. Seeing nothing, she gingerly moved forward and set her feet down on the fl
oor, hopped over to her front door, and turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
Gazing across the street, she became aware of four people: Charles Williams—crouched down beside a parked car on Lantana Lane; Beverly Cantrell—rushing through the doorway of Floral Real Estate carrying a paper sack; Coral Beadwell—walking toward Charles; and Henry Erving— sitting alone in the gazebo, peeking around the corner post.
“We’re all mad here,” she said to the Cheshire Cat.
As she turned around, from the corner of her eye she glimpsed a short woman exiting through the back door. The woman’s hairstyle was distinctive: a dark brown pageboy with blond highlights. It was the signature hairdo of Coral’s sister-in-law, Linda Beadwell.
Chapter Five
The bell rang over the door at 12:05, and Beverly Cantrell wobbled in, precariously balanced on new designer heels. Grabbing a cold tea and a bottled water from the cooler, she reached toward the cash register to drop three dollars onto the counter, bumped her hand clumsily against the teacup caddies, and then disappeared out the door without a word.
At 12:15, Coral Beadwell entered with Charles Williams. The two of them walked to the counter together. Well, this is an interesting wrinkle in the triangle, Tommie thought, automatically reaching for Coral’s favorite teacup.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Watson,” Coral said with a tight smile. “I’ll have my usual …”
“… same thing for me,” Charles interrupted, pressing against the counter beside her.
Tommie raised her eyebrows but refrained from commenting. She grabbed another jumbo teacup from the caddy and added tea ball infusers packed with Fruity Friendship to both cups. Then, she poured boiling water from an electric kettle into the cups and set them on saucers.
Coral and Charles both laid five-dollar bills on the counter at the same time. As Tommie reached for the money, Charles grabbed Coral’s teacup.
“No, Charles. That’s mine, you jerk. Get your grubby hands off,” Coral squawked.
“What’s the difference?” he growled.
“Coral has a certain cup she prefers, Charles. Here, yours is exactly the same but a different color,” Tommie explained, pushing his cup and saucer forward.
“I don’t see what the big deal is. A cup’s a cup. But, go on and take your special cup, Coral. Have it your way, just like everything else,” he said splashing his hot tea on the floor as he jerked the cup and saucer off the counter.
“Sorry Coral,” Tommie said. “Do you want a fresh teacup? Just take a jiffy.”
“No, thank you. I prefer my regular one.” She walked over to the self-serve counter and added a splash of milk, a lemon wheel, and two packets of raw turbinado sugar before settling herself in her usual seat near the bookcases with a view out the windows.
Charles, in the meantime, took his teacup and saucer directly to a table at the other end of the room and sat, staring at Coral angrily.
At 12:20, Tommie spotted Beverly Cantrell and Henry Erving sharing a sack lunch in the gazebo.
At 12:24 three more customers came in, got their tea, and visited the self-serve counter.
At 12:27, all hell broke loose.
Charles Williams left his seat and strode to Coral’s table, depositing himself in the chair opposite her. He leaned forward with both hands flat on the tabletop and glared.
“I’m warning you, Coral Beadwell. You leave me be,” he said. Tommie could hear the menace in his voice.
Coral’s face was flushed bright red. She took a hiccupping gulp of air and pitched head-first to the floor.
Charles pushed away from the table in alarm, staring open-mouthed as she lay at his feet, her grey hair wet from the tea which splashed into her face on the way down, her glasses lying beside the broken teacup.
The two women customers screamed, and the man, holding a cellphone, stood frozen. “Call 9-1-1, call 9-1-1,” he shouted without dialing the number.
Tommie, in an effort to get to Coral as quickly as possible, threw herself onto the floor and scrambled through the opening in the counter on her hands and knees. When she reached her, she rolled the woman on her back and began to do chest compressions.
“One little, two little, three little Indians, four little, five little, six little Indians, seven little, eight little, nine little Indians, ten little Indian children,” she sang over and over until the EMTs arrived and took over.
Five minutes later, Coral Beadwell was rolled out the door on a gurney and loaded into the ambulance. The lights were flashing, but the siren was not sounding. Tommie knew she was dead.
The traumatized patrons milled about the shop, all trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed. Tommie took up a position by the door so nobody would leave. She was sure the Police would want to interview all of them.
Tommie saw Henry Erving cleaning up the mess on the floor. There were welled tears in his eyes, and he seemed disoriented. He was about to throw the broken cup and soggy napkins into the trash, but Tommie stopped him.
“The Police might need those, Henry,” she said, gingerly taking the mess from him with a plastic grocery bag she kept in her pocket for cleaning up spills. She transferred the cup pieces and sodden napkins into separate zipper lock bags before setting them behind the counter. Henry nodded slowly and sat down at the table next to Charles, who was in a daze and had not moved from his seat. Beverly hovered nearby and then sat beside Henry, patting his hand sympathetically.
At 12:45, three uniformed policemen entered the shop. One of them, a young cop in his 30s, turned the sign to CLOSED, flipped the thumb lock, and then stood blocking the door. A female cop of about 40 positioned herself at the back door. The third policeman was a burly and handsome seasoned officer in his mid-to-late fifties. He walked directly to Tommie, who was standing behind the counter. Although his young partners authoritatively guarded the doors, monitoring the patrons in the room, Officer Earl Petry was clearly the person in charge.
“Hey, Ms. Watson,” he said with a slight smile, his voice hushed, his steely blue-grey eyes kind.
“Hey, Earl,” she responded, matching his volume level, grateful for his demeanor.
“Tommie, can you tell me what happened here?” He was tender in his approach, but he kept his intense eyes focused on her expressions as she spoke.
“Coral Beadwell came in at 12:15, ordered tea, and sat at that table over there to drink it with her lunch. Her bag and food are still on the table. At 12:27, Mr. Williams sat in front of her and seemed to be angry with her. Her face was very red, and then she just keeled over onto the floor. I got to her as soon as I could and started giving her CPR.”
“You’re trained in CPR, Tommie?”
“Yes. I used to be a teacher. I took a course. The P.E. teacher and I were the ones designated to perform it.”
“Did you see anyone try to lay their hands on Ms. Beadwell in a harmful way?”
“No. Not that I saw.”
“Anybody threaten her verbally?”
“I couldn’t really tell,” she said, flicking a glance at Charles Williams, a look that did not go unobserved by Earl.
“Did you see anything to make you think she had been deliberately hurt?”
“No, Earl. She was just eating her lunch and drinking her tea, and then she collapsed. She’s dead, isn’t she?” Tommie asked, her lip quivering.
Earl lifted his eyebrows just a fraction. “I can’t say, Tommie. There’s not been an announcement for the public.”
“They didn’t turn on the siren,” she stated.
He took a deep breath. “No, they didn’t turn it on.”
She nodded, taking her own deep breath and shifting her weight from her throbbing ankle. Earl took her elbow.
“C’mon, Tommie. Sit up here on your stool. Let me get you something to prop your leg on. There ya go. I’ve got to interview these other six folks. When I’m done, I’ll need for you to close up shop and go on home or to the Wal-Mart or something. OK? If there’s anything suspicious about Ms.
Beadwell’s death … her collapse, I mean … your shop will have to be processed. I’m afraid you may be closed for a few days. I’m sorry about that, but it’s what we might have to do.”
“I understand, Earl. I do. Here’s my spare key.” She pressed it into his palm, and he closed his hand over her fingers for a moment, squeezing them softly before putting the key in his shirt pocket.
“Thanks. If you think of anything else later, call me. Here’s my card with my number, and that’s my cell number on the back. It’ll be OK. Think of it as time off to rest your ankle,” he said with a wink and a thoughtful smile before he went to interview the others.
Half an hour later, when all the interviews were completed, Earl locked the shop and escorted Tommie out the back door to her car. Instead of going home, she went to her friend Annie Lang’s house where she was consoled with comfort food and snacks, pampered with her feet up on a plush cushion, and distracted with three back-to-back movies from Annie’s extensive collection of DVDs.
Earl texted in the middle of the third movie and asked her to meet him at the shop in the morning at 9:30. She also received a voice message from her cousin Sanderson Harper.
“Tommie, it’s Sandy. They brought Coral Beadwell in here today and the circumstances surrounding her death are suspicious. It’s gonna be real important that you’re truthful and cooperate with the Police. No need to call me back. Just make sure you check off all your boxes. Bye.”
In light of those two messages, by the time Tommie Watson got home, she barely had the strength to feed the dogs, much less wonder about whether or not the Irishman had arrived. Exhausted, but too keyed-up to sleep, she pulled out her mortar and pestle and went to work at the makeshift counter on her ottoman making some Zzzzz-Tea to help her rest. After a hot shower, the Zzzzz-Tea worked its magic, and Tommie Watson was able to get a good night’s sleep.
Tainted Teacup Page 3