Theodosia grinned at him. “You know, that doesn’t sound all that bad.”
“Oh please,” said Drayton, darting away.
But the rest of Haley’s menu was traditional tea shop fare. Tea sandwiches of mozzarella cheese and tomato spread, as well as a prosciutto and roasted red pepper sandwich. Then there was her white Cheddar cheese croque monsieur, which was really just French for grilled cheese sandwich, and a luscious maple-flavored French toast casserole for dessert.
Theodosia delivered luncheons, poured tea, chatted with a few of their regulars, and helped Drayton pack up their takeout orders. And just as she was returning to the counter, a teapot in each hand, Max came rushing in.
“Hey there,” Max said to Theodosia. “Got time for a five-minute break?”
Theodosia raised a single eyebrow and glanced at the crowded tea room. “Uh . . . not really.”
He edged closer to the counter. “I guess you’re kind of busy, huh? Well, can you talk while you work?”
“For you . . . yes.” She grabbed a cookie from a plate and slid it across the counter to him. “Your buddy Andrew Turner was just in here an hour or so ago.”
“He was?” said Max. He took a bite of cookie then threw her a funny look, half questioning, half expectant. “Um . . . he didn’t ask you for a date or anything like that, did he?”
For the second time that morning, Theodosia blushed. “No, of course not. He just came in for tea and scones.” She shrugged. “It was all perfectly neighborly.”
“Well good,” said Max, taking another bite. “He’s a nice-looking guy so I’d hate to . . . I don’t know . . . have to beat him off with a tube of cadmium red or something.”
“Very funny,” said Theodosia. “In fact, I kind of set him up with a realtor. Maggie Twining.”
“For a date?” said Max.
“For a house,” said Theodosia. “That big one next to me.”
“The one Dougan Granville owned?”
“That’s right. It’s finally up for sale.”
“Then I guess Turner is pretty serious about buying a big place,” said Max.
Theodosia scanned the takeout boxes that were packed and piled on the front counter. “You’re here to pick up your order, right?”
Max gave a slow wink. “Unless you have something better in mind.”
“And the order’s under your name?”
“Oh, I see,” said Max. “We’re going to pretend we’re not really snuggle bunnies. Instead we’re going to act very proper and businesslike. Okay, yes. Yes, it’s under my name.”
“How many box lunches?” Theodosia was searching the counter, checking labels that were taped to a dozen or so boxes.
“Six.”
“Here they are,” said Theodosia. She bent down, grabbed a large indigo blue shopping bag, and stacked the boxes inside. “Put it on your tab or on the museum’s tab?”
Max cocked his head. “Please.”
“Okay then, the museum’s tab,” said Theodosia, making a notation. She looked up, smiled at him because he was giving her one of his trademark crooked smiles, and said, “Hey, cutie, can I fix you a cuppa to go?”
“Why not,” said Max.
He leaned forward as Theodosia grabbed a teapot and poured a generous amount of Keemun tea into an indigo blue cup.
“Hey,” he said.
She snapped the lid on the cup and handed it to him. “Hey what?”
“How much are you getting involved in this winery thing?”
Uh-oh. “I’m just helping Drayton out. Asking around.”
“That’s a nice noncommittal answer, but what is your role really?” said Max. “Just helping Drayton out? Which I don’t believe for one minute. Or investigating a brutal murder?”
“Last I heard” said Theodosia, “Sheriff Anson was the one who was tracking down suspects and asking the hard questions.”
Max stared at her. “And you’re sure he’s the only one doing that?”
She gave him a cagey smile. “Call the good sheriff himself if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I’m sure Sheriff Anson is up to his hips in crime fighting,” said Max. “What I’m not so sure about is how involved you are.”
“Like I said, I’m just asking a few questions, keeping my eyes and ears open.”
“I worry about you,” said Max. “You’ve got this crazy headstrong instinct that compels you to get involved in sticky situations.”
“You think I rush into things?” said Theodosia.
Max nodded slowly. “Where angels fear to tread.”
Theodosia reached out and touched his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“I want to believe you.”
Theodosia decided it was time to change the subject. “We’re still on for the Art Crawl tomorrow night?”
“Count on it,” said Max.
“Great, because I still need something to hang in my dining room. A nice painting or print. Something splashy.”
“Aren’t you lucky that you have your own personal art consultant going along with you?”
Theodosia gathered up Max’s bag and handed it to him. Then she gave him a slow wink. “Luck had nothing to do with it, cutie.”
• • •
When lunch had finally dwindled to a dull roar, Theodosia ducked into her office to change. She knew Delaine would have a conniption if she showed up in a T-shirt, slacks, and ballet flats. So, against her personal rules that governed comfort, convenience, and basic happiness, she changed into a black sheath dress and shucked her feet into a pair of high-heeled sandals. Then she plopped down at her desk and dug out a sliver of a cracked mirror from the top drawer. She added a smidge of Chanel’s Rose Sand lip gloss and a touch of black mascara.
There, that should meet the minimum daily requirement of glam.
Her cell phone shrilled abruptly and Theodosia grabbed it, hoping against hope that it was Delaine calling to offer some sort of pardon.
But it was Angie Congdon, proprietor of the Featherbed House B and B, which was located a few blocks away.
“Angie, hi!” said Theodosia.
“I’m just calling to see if you’re still coming Friday night,” said Angie. “I know I sent you an invitation for our open house, but I thought a personal call might be in order, too.”
“It’s on my calendar,” said Theodosia. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good,” said Angie. “I’m anxious for you to see all the changes we made here.”
“I hear a major addition.”
“That’s right,” said Angie. “A reboot.”
“Featherbed House 3.0.” Theodosia laughed. “But you kept all the geese, didn’t you? I mean, everybody loves your geese!” Angie had an enormous collection of ceramic, stuffed, and wooden geese.
“I’d never let my little darlings go,” said Angie. “This is their home!”
“See you Friday,” said Theodosia as she clicked off.
Okay, where was I?
Oh. My hair.
Theodosia’s auburn hair, always full to begin with, had poufed out heroically today. Heat, humidity, and the constant steam from chirping, burbling tea kettles had contributed to an angelic halo that most women would kill for.
All except Theodosia.
Always a little self-conscious about her hair, she ran a brush through it, trying to tame the curls and waves and puffs. Then she gave a sigh, patted it down, and hoped for the best. Dashing out the back door, she fired up her Jeep and headed for Cotton Duck.
So, of course, when she pulled up in front of Delaine’s boutique, there were two youthful valets who were busy parking cars. One had just hopped into a white Mercedes and pulled away, while the other was handing a ticket to a woman who’d just climbed out of an enormous BMW that could have doubled for a Sherman tank.
And then there’s my Jeep, thought Theodosia. A few bumps and dings, not the most glamorous mode of transportation. But she loved the crazy thing. It took her off road, roaring and rol
licking deep into the woods of her aunt Libby’s farm to search for morels in spring and to gather tender dandelion shoots, clover, and wild watercress in high summer.
She pulled up to the front door, climbed out, and smiled at the young valet.
“Boss ride,” he murmured as he handed her a ticket.
“I think so,” she answered back. And then Theodosia ratcheted up her courage and pushed her way into Cotton Duck.
The first thing that greeted her was the thump-bump-thump of eardrum-busting techno music. The next thing was the enormous jostling crowd. There was, quite literally, a sea of well-dressed women who, by some mysterious circumstance, all seemed to know one another. They jabbered away, grabbed for programs, and exchanged air kisses. As Theodosia stood there, a little nonplussed and looking around, she couldn’t help but notice that the shop looked fantastic. Delaine had pushed her racks of dresses, slacks, tunics, and tops to one side of the store to make room for an actual runway. It was approximately a foot high and covered in shiny white Mylar. A string of miniature klieg lights had been suspended above it. On either side of the runway were rows of pristine white wooden folding chairs. There was a champagne bar set up just to Theodosia’s left, and of course, enormous baskets of flowers graced every available surface.
“Theo!” called Delaine. She glided to Theodosia’s side like a predatory cat. “What do you think of my décor?” She gave a little toss of her head, and her gold chandelier earrings tinkled like wind chimes.
“Gorgeous,” Theodosia told her. “Very impressive.” Delaine herself was decked out in a long black column of crepe de chine. One bare arm and shoulder were exposed as well as her pink lacquered toenails peeping out from a pair of cage booties.
“You see?” Delaine purred. “I’ve arranged my runway the same way my favorite couture houses do it—you know, Chanel, Dior, Lanvin. With the front row reserved for my absolute best customers and friends!”
Theodosia glanced around at all the well-heeled customers in their designer dresses and skirt suits and took a gulp. She was thankful she’d done her little presto-chango act and worn a presentable dress.
“You’d better grab a flute of champagne from the bar and find your seat,” Delaine instructed. “The show is set to kick off in just a couple of minutes.” Then she placed a hand on Theodosia’s forearm and squeezed gently. “I think you’ll be delighted to find yourself seated in the front row!”
“I’m thrilled,” Theodosia responded. Really, she didn’t care where she sat, but she was happy to go along with this front row business for Delaine’s sake. This entire afternoon—an amalgam of fashion, music, drinks, and craziness—was an elaborate package deal. And she not only had to buy into it, but was expected to bid—generously at that—on some of the clothes.
Oh well.
Theodosia made her way to the bar and grabbed a glass of champagne from a young, hunky-looking bartender. Just as she was headed for the front row, her cell phone rang. Dipping a hand into her bag, she scooped it out and checked her screen. Indigo Tea Shop. Uh-oh, a problem?
“Hello?”
“Theo, it’s Haley.”
“Is everything okay?” Please tell me the tea shop didn’t blow up.
“Just peachy,” said Haley. “But I checked on that thing for you.”
“Thing,” said Theodosia.
“You know. Green alien.”
“Okay.”
“You remember that sort of Goth guy I used to go out with? Heinrich?”
“I remember.” Theodosia remembered Haley’s friend as having more metal in his lips, eyebrow, and ear than a custom hot rod.
“Well,” said Haley, “he’s kind of counterculture, so I figured he might know something.”
“About the green alien reference,” said Theodosia. Come on, spit it out.
“It means . . .” Haley dropped her voice. “A kind of heroin.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Wow. Talk to you later . . . and thanks.”
She stood stock-still in the sea of women and thought about the ramifications of this. Was Drew using heroin? Had he been a drug addict? Did that have something to do with why he was killed?
The overhead lights blinked once, a warning for everyone to hurry up and find their seats.
Still pondering the significance of green alien, Theodosia slipped between the runway and the first row of chairs, searching for the chair with her name pinned to the back, trying not to bump the knees of the women who were already seated. And just as she spotted her chair, a hand reached up to stop her.
Theodosia glanced down and put a game smile on her face, ready to say hello. But she didn’t recognize this woman whose hand was clamped tightly about her wrist. A woman with a broad, squarish face, sparkling eyes, and an enormous reddish-orange beehive hairdo. Talk about your Southern tradition of big hair—she made Theodosia look like an amateur!
Then the woman smiled and said in a fairly assertive tone, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Theodosia was searching her brain, trying to put a name to this face. Was this a customer from her tea shop? A friend of Delaine’s? When she wasn’t able to retrieve the woman’s name from her internal database, she gave a smile and a resigned shrug and said, “I’m very sorry . . .”
The woman continued to grin up at her. “I’m Georgette Kroft from Oak Hill Winery.”
9
“Oh my goodness!” said Theodosia. She was so startled, the words just seemed to burst from her mouth.
“I don’t think goodness is quite the right word, darlin’,” Georgette drawled in response. “In fact, I’ll bet you’ve been told that I’m the devil incarnate.” She released Theodosia’s hand and waited for her to settle into the chair next to her.
“I haven’t heard anything quite that bad,” said Theodosia. Now that she’d recovered from her initial shock, she was curious to learn something about this woman whom Pandora really had demonized.
“I’ll just bet,” said Georgette, “that Jordan and Pandora Knight asked you to take a hard look at me. Am I right? I bet they pointed their irate little fingers at me and said, ‘She’s the killer!’”
Instead of answering yes or no, Theodosia said, “How do you know I’ve been talking to the Knights? That they’ve asked me to look into things for them?”
“I have my ways,” said Georgette. “And let’s face it, now that we’re sitting here having our friendly little tête-à-tête, you are curious about me, aren’t you? You really do want to know if I’m such a big bad monster?”
Theodosia decided to meet Georgette’s tumble of words head-on. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Well, the simple fact of the matter is, they’ve got their undies in a twist all because I made an offer on Knighthall Winery. A rather generous one at that, considering the circumstances.”
“Those circumstances being . . . what?” Theodosia asked.
“Oh, how about the fact that their winery is a losing proposition and Jordan Knight doesn’t really know what he’s doing?”
“Jordan Knight seems to be under the impression that you acted quite aggressively toward him,” said Theodosia.
Georgette considered this for a moment, then her mouth twitched and a smile worked its way across her broad face. “That’s probably because I am aggressive. How else do you become a success in business?”
“Is your winery a success?” Theodosia wasn’t being impudent; she was just plain curious. She found this woman a fascinating study in brashness and bravado.
“I’d say so,” Georgette said in measured tones. “We produced almost five hundred thousand bottles last year and practically doubled production this year.”
“That sounds pretty amazing. You have that many orders?”
“We do,” said Georgette. “It seems we’re the flavor of the mouth here in South Carolina.” She looked rather pleased and added, “North Carolina and Georgia, too.�
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“You must have excellent distribution,” said Theodosia. She decided to keep Georgette talking and learn as much as she could from her.
“I’ve built a crackerjack sales force that’s opening more and more accounts every day.”
“Then it sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
“You got that right,” said Georgette. “Some days I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
“Then why would you want to take on Knighthall Winery, too? Why on earth did you make them an offer?”
Georgette glanced down at her program, then back at Theodosia. “I didn’t want to buy the winery per se. It was the vineyard I was after, simple as that. More grape production equals more wine equals more bottles for me to sell.”
Keep her talking, keep her talking, Theodosia told herself. Luckily, Georgette was cooperating nicely.
Besides,” Georgette continued, “I think Pandora was rather pleased with the offer I made.”
This was news to Theodosia. “You think so?” As far as she could recall, the Knights had made it sound like Georgette was trying to negotiate a hostile takeover.
“In fact, I’m fairly sure that Pandora’s had a belly full of the wine business.”
“What are you saying?” said Theodosia. “That Pandora wants out?”
Georgette nodded. “My guess is that Pandora would like to cash out. That she’s sick to death of the whole thing. Think about it—she’s endured five years of nursing so-so harvests, of struggling to gain traction in a tough market, and negotiating with the bank for additional time to pay off their loans.”
“I had no idea things were that bad,” said Theodosia.
Georgette uttered a sharp bark. “Bad? They’re terrible out there! Pandora is divorcing Jordan and is probably going to take him to the cleaners. And face it, she certainly never got along with Drew.”
“What you’re telling me is . . . interesting,” said Theodosia. Actually, it was enlightening!
“It’s a mess out there at Knighthall,” said Georgette. “Even Tom Grady is thinking about moving on.”
Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Page 8