Ming Tea Murder

by Laura Childs

  “You’re right,” said Theodosia, pulling herself up from the table. “This is Friday, so it’s likely to be busy.”

  “Fridays are always busy,” said Drayton. He was starting to bustle about, unfurling white linen tablecloths and draping them across tables. “It’s the end of the work week, so people tend to slack off.”

  “You mean relax,” said Theodosia. “There’s a difference.”

  She was following in his footsteps now, setting out small plates along with cups and saucers. They were lovely mismatched pieces of Shelley Chintz, Aynsley, and Spode that she’d picked up at various Charleston antique shops and tag sales.

  “That’s what the Indigo Tea Shop is all about, don’t you think?” said Theodosia. “Relaxing?” She loved the notion that the tea shop served as a little oasis of calm for their work-weary customers.

  With its brick fireplace, battered hickory tables, and leaded-glass windows, the Indigo Tea Shop exuded a cozy ambiance. Since it was autumn again, the pegged wooden floors had just gotten their annual red-tea wash, and the highboys were crammed with candles, tea towels, tea cozies, and antique silverware. A new crop of dried grapevine wreaths hung on the walls alongside antique prints that were also for sale.

  And once the tables were set, the candles lit, and the faint strains of Vivaldi playing over the stereo system, the Indigo Tea Shop pretty much oozed its own blend of British and Victorian charm.

  “I’m going to make a pot of that Grand Pouchong from Taiwan,” Drayton announced. He was bustling about at the front counter, where floor-to-ceiling cupboards were stacked with tins that held the world’s most exotic teas. Everything from delicately fruited Nilgiris to malty Assams to rich, dark oolongs.

  “Sounds like a fabulous idea,” said Theodosia. After Webster’s demise she was craving a little fabulosity in her life.

  Drayton carefully measured in the leaves and added a tiny bit extra. “And a pinch for the pot,” he told her.

  “That always makes it better,” Theodosia agreed. Between Haley’s baked goods and Drayton’s tea offerings, the Indigo Tea Shop was redolent with the most amazing aromas.

  “Uh-oh,” said Drayton. He was gazing past the filmy curtains that framed the front window. “Here come our first customers of the morning.”

  • • •

  The tea shop was half-filled and bustling when Delaine Dish burst through the front door around ten o’clock. Dressed in a bright fuchsia-colored skirt suit and matching jaunty hat and wearing great flashes of gleaming gold jewelry, she looked like (and was) a miniature volcano.

  “Hello!” Delaine cried out to anyone who was even remotely in her vicinity. “Good morning!”

  Theodosia hurried over to greet Delaine, who was the proprietor of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston’s premier clothing boutiques. Loud, gossipy, and self-centered, Delaine was not only a handful, she was certified mad as a hatter.

  And this morning Delaine wasn’t alone.

  “Theo,” Delaine said in a slightly grudging tone of voice, “I’d like you to meet my great aunt Astra.” She nodded in an offhand way at the tiny lady who accompanied her. “She’s here for a short visit. Well, hopefully it’s short.” She focused an intense gaze on Aunt Astra, who was dressed in a sedate gray dress and wearing what Theodosia always thought of as “old lady shoes.” That is, they were black leather lace-ups with clunky, low heels. Although now that Theodosia thought about it, maybe they were the latest in hipster fashion.

  As Drayton ambled over to greet Delaine, she felt obliged to mumble another hasty introduction. Which prompted Drayton, always the proper gentleman, to give a formal half bow and lead Aunt Astra to a table.

  Delaine rolled her eyes as she watched him being so solicitous.

  “That woman on his arm is barely even a blood relative,” Delaine confided to Theodosia. “She’s, like, my great aunt once removed. And she’s about a hundred years old.” Delaine’s head whipped around. “But, Theo, she’s no doddering old fool. She’s still got all her buttons, and her tongue is sharp as a razor blade. That old bat will cut you to the quick if you don’t watch out.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to watch out,” Theodosia said with some amusement. Surely Delaine had to be embroidering her words?

  “And she’s constantly harping at me,” said Delaine. “Criticizing me.” She snuck a quick peak Aunt Astra’s way to make sure she couldn’t be overheard. “I’ve nicknamed her Aunt Acid because of all her bile and bitterness.”

  “How long is she staying with you?”

  “Too long,” said Delaine. She frowned, and then pressed an index finger against the frown lines forming between her brows, as if willing them to disappear. “I’m going to try to ship her off to my cousin in Goose Creek as soon as I can make suitable arrangements.”

  “Come on,” said Theodosia, leading Delaine to her table. “You need to sit down and relax. Have yourself a nice cup of tea.” She settled Delaine alongside Aunt Astra and gave them a quick summary of the day’s specials.

  When Theodosia returned with a plate of cream scones and a pot of English breakfast tea, Delaine shot a nervous glance at Aunt Astra, and said, “I’m sorry I missed all the excitement last night.”

  “Don’t be,” said Theodosia. “It was pretty brutal.”

  “You’re talking about the actual murder?” said Delaine.

  “I’m talking about everything,” said Theodosia. Fresh in her mind was the furor that had ensued.

  “Hmm,” said Delaine, savoring that little bit of excitement. “There was a delicious article about the murder in this morning’s Post and Courier. But they didn’t elaborate on what poor Edgar Webster was stabbed with. The reporter just kind of danced around it.” She paused. “Didn’t mention where or how he was stabbed, either.”

  Theodosia dropped her voice. “He was stabbed with some sort of long, thin blade.” She hesitated. “Inserted in his ear.”

  “Oh my,” said Delaine, fully relishing the details. “You mean like an ice pick?”

  “I suppose it was something like that,” said Theodosia. “But the police haven’t revealed any specific details. I suppose they want to conduct a thorough autopsy first.”

  “It would be fairly easy to conceal a weapon like that,” said Delaine.

  “That’s exactly the problem,” Theodosia agreed. “A small weapon the size of an ice pick could have easily disappeared into someone’s pocket or handbag.” And disappear it had, she thought, since so many people had been stampeding their way out the door as the police and EMTs were rushing in. The weapon could have gone out the door in that first mad scramble of people. It could have just disappeared—poof!—into the dark of the night.

  Aunt Astra’s eyes got progressively larger as she listened and methodically chewed her scone.

  Delaine gave a faint smile. “I can just picture all of Charleston’s blue bloods positively fighting to get out of the way of a murder investigation. Nobody wants their family name dragged through the mud or attached to something as sordid as murder.” She took a demure sip of tea and the feather atop her hat bobbed. “You know, Edgar Webster may have moved in the upper echelons of Charleston society, but he wasn’t very well liked.”

  Theodosia leaned forward. “Why would you say something like that?”

  Delaine waved a hand. “No reason, really.”

  “No, there has to be something,” said Theodosia. “You started to let the cat out of the bag, so now I’d like to hear exactly what you have to say.”

  “So would I,” said Aunt Astra, touching a napkin to her lips as she finally spoke up.

  Delaine made an unhappy face. “Well, you know about the trouble between him and his little wifey, Charlotte, right?”

  “No, I certainly don’t,” said Theodosia. “What about him and Charlotte?”

  Now Aunt Astra looked seriously interested. “There were pr
oblems in their marriage?” she asked.

  Delaine pursed her lips. “I would have to say they had what might be termed an open marriage.”

  “Ah,” said Aunt Astra, relishing this juicy tidbit.

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. She was surprised but not startled. Both Charlotte and Edgar had larger-than-life personalities and were involved in charities and major social functions all over town. So they were independent people. And, of course, temptation lurked everywhere.

  “Their marriage was open on one side, anyway,” Delaine said, selecting her words carefully.

  “I’m assuming you meant on Edgar Webster’s side,” said Theodosia. She pondered this for a moment. “Charlotte must have been awfully upset about him stepping out on her.”

  “Believe it,” said Delaine. “Why . . . up until a couple of weeks ago, Edgar was carrying on like a madman with Cecily Conrad.”

  “What do you mean by ‘up until a couple of weeks ago?’” Theodosia asked.

  “Webster and Cecily recently broke up,” said Delaine. “Of course, they chose to conduct their big brouhaha in front of about a million people at the Valhalla Country Club. And from what I understand, the fur flew like crazy.”

  “Why did they break up?” Theodosia asked. And was it even a legitimate breakup if Edgar was still married to Charlotte?

  Delaine scooped up a blob of Devonshire cream and deposited it on her scone. “Webster just got fed up with Cecily, I guess. She’s a very pretty girl, nice eye candy and all that, but she was a complete money-grubber. She talked Webster into buying her a new BMW as well as bankrolling her new furniture shop. So she probably sank her talons into him to the tune of at least a half-million dollars.”

  “That’s a major chunk of change,” said Theodosia.

  “But Webster was demanding his money back,” said Delaine.

  “You mean calling in his loan?” said Theodosia.

  Delaine nodded. “You might say that. Only, from the chatter I heard, Cecily never considered it a loan. She thought it was her due. That’s what their big fight was all about.”

  “Money!” spat out Aunt Astra. “That’s always a huge motive to kill someone!”

  “Of course it is, dear,” said Delaine. “Even though we all know Charlotte Webster is rich as Croesus.”

  “So his wife controlled all the money?” said Theodosia.

  “Pretty much,” said Delaine. “Don’t you know Charlotte’s been living fat and sassy on a ginormous inheritance? Edgar Webster did okay with his business, but he was a piker compared to his wife. I’d say he was mainly along for the ride.”

  “But now poor Charlotte is stuck in a terrible middle ground,” said Theodosia. “Her husband not only cheated on her, he got himself murdered.”

  “With a nasty ex-girlfriend talking smack about him,” said Delaine.

  Theodosia shook her head. “Charlotte must be brokenhearted as well as angry.”

  “Mostly angry,” said Delaine. “She’s an extremely volatile woman, you know.”

  “She is?” said Theodosia. “How so?”

  “Didn’t you ever hear about the Corvette incident?” asked Delaine. “About how Charlotte drove her husband’s classic 1976 Corvette right into an antique lamppost on Tradd Street just because he came sneaking into the house at four AM?”

  “Sounds right to me,” said Aunt Astra.

  But Delaine wasn’t finished. “And how about the time Charlotte had a bloody blue hissy fit right in the middle of a Broad Street Garden Club meeting?”

  “What happened there?”

  “Somebody proposed planting lowly zinnias in the garden between the Library Society and the Governor Aiken Gates, when what Charlotte really wanted were Juliet roses.”

  “That does sound a bit unreasonable,” said Theodosia.

  “Oh, Charlotte’s unreasonable,” said Delaine, touching an index finger to her lips and then helping herself to another scone. “In fact, the woman’s a complete whack job.”

  4

  Standing at the front counter, watching Drayton pull down a tin of Empire Keemun tea, Theodosia said, “Do you know Cecily Conrad?”

  Drayton pried off the lid and looked pensive for a moment as the heady scent perfumed the air around them. “Yes. If I remember correctly, Cecily moved here a year or so ago and got caught up with the Opera Society, even though she’s a bit of a wild child. Her father is Colonel Josiah Conrad from down Savannah way.” He measured out two heaping scoops of tea into a blue-and-white teapot. “You know, Cecily was at the museum opening last night.”

  “She was?” This was news to Theodosia. “Did you notice if she was, um, interacting in any way with Edgar Webster?”

  Drayton looked at her sharply. “Why are you asking? For some reason, it feels like you have some sort of hidden agenda.”

  “Not so hidden at all,” said Theodosia. “I just found out from Delaine that Edgar Webster had been cheating on Charlotte and that Cecily was the so-called other woman. And to top things off with a nice, fat maraschino cherry, Webster apparently had a recent and highly volatile falling out with Cecily.”

  Drayton stared at her. “This is conjecture, right?”

  “I know it sounds like an episode of The Good Wife, but I swear it’s the honest truth.”

  “Hmm.” Drayton seemed to mull everything over for a moment. “You’re sure about this affair?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Then your information, even though it’s dreadful and gossipy, might possibly . . . um . . . impact the police investigation?”

  “Is that a question?” said Theodosia.

  “Mmn. No, I guess not.”

  “So you’re saying that Tidwell and company might not look at suspects who are fairly close to home?” said Theodosia. “That the investigation could go off in a another direction? Maybe questioning past and current business associates, or something like that?”

  “That could be the case,” said Drayton, looking a little worried.

  Theodosia drummed her fingers against the counter and fidgeted with a Royal Vale cup and saucer decorated with a sprightly yellow daffodil. “So both Charlotte and Cecily should probably be regarded as prime suspects,” she said slowly.

  “Your newly procured information,” said Drayton, “even though it came from an unreliable source like Delaine, could definitely point to motive.”

  “Because Charlotte might have been jealous and Cecily might have been angry,” said Theodosia. She tilted her head to one side. “So what do you think? Should I call Detective Tidwell and drop a few heavy-handed hints about Webster’s extracurricular activities? Sort of clue him in?”

  Drayton stared back at her, his gray eyes practically boring into her, his brow furrowed. “Knowing what you do now, I think you have to share this information with him.”

  Theodosia set the cup and saucer down on the counter. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  • • •

  They got busy then, brewing tea, ferrying plates of scones and pots of tea to all their customers. And because it was Friday, with its usual onslaught of weekend tourists as well as regulars, morning teatime at the Indigo Tea Shop stayed rush hour busy as they eased their way through the morning. And then, suddenly, it was time for Theodosia to duck into the kitchen and consult with Haley about lunch.

  “The tea shop is jammed,” Theodosia told her. “And in about two minutes we’re going to have a few of our guests inquiring about lunch offerings.”

  Haley spun around like a ballerina, dipped a ladle into a pot of steaming sausage and gnocchi soup, tasted it, and said, “So you’d like to know what’s on the menu?”

  Theodosia smiled. “That would be the general idea, yes.”

  “Okay.” Haley dug into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a three-by-five-inch index card. She glanced at it for all of one second
, and then handed it over to Theodosia. “Here you go, boss.”

  “Thank you,” said Theodosia. “And please don’t call me boss.”

  Haley cocked her head. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re all in this together.”

  “You think?”

  Theodosia chuckled. “I’ve always looked at it that way. Besides, I don’t want to be that one lonely soldier who’s always walking point.” She scanned the card quickly. “Haley, this is just super.” In her cramped, left-canted printing, Haley had listed sausage and gnocchi soup, chicken and wild rice salad, prosciutto and fig tea sandwiches, apple and Cheddar cheese scones, and chocolate cupcakes.

  “I just hope our customers like everything,” said Haley.

  “Are you kidding? They’ll love it.”

  • • •

  And love it they did. Theodosia served bowls of soup until the pot was empty. Then she tried to steer customers to the salads. When those started to dwindle, she had Haley whip up extra prosciutto and fig sandwiches.

  “Another success,” said Drayton. He was lounging against the counter, his eyes focused on the busy café even as he sipped a cup of Darjeeling.

  “Don’t get too relaxed,” Theodosia told him. “This is going to be a long slog of a weekend. Remember, we’re going to be open on Sunday, too.”

  “How could I forget?” said Drayton, smiling. “Our Titanic Tea.”

  “A night to remember,” said Haley as she dashed out to deliver a plate of fresh apple and Cheddar scones. “Just like the title of that old black-and-white Titanic disaster movie.”

  “And to think the Titanic Tea was all Drayton’s grand idea,” said Theodosia. “We could have gotten off easy by hanging up ghost and goblin decorations, but no, he wanted to go all out.” Halloween would be arriving in a few days’ time, and this Sunday’s Titanic Tea was Drayton’s clever homage to that quasi-holiday. No witches, ghosts, or goblins for him, just the grand, haunting memory of the Titanic tragedy.

  “I think our guests will enjoy a Halloween tea without benefit of the same old ghoulies, don’t you think?” said Drayton.