Ming Tea Murder

by Laura Childs

  “The lady at your gallery told me I’d find you here,” said Theodosia.

  Duke whirled around at the sound of her voice, and his face lit up with delight when he recognized her. “Hey, there. How are you doing? I hope you brought along a picnic lunch for us to enjoy.” He chuckled heartily. “I guess you can tell I’ve been dreaming about your wonderful food. Particularly those honey scones.”

  Theodosia walked slowly toward Duke and his horse. “I’m afraid I arrived empty-handed,” she said. “But you can drop by the tea shop any time you like.” She ran a hand down the horse’s fine nose, across its velvet muzzle, and under its stubbly chin. “This is a beautiful horse you have here.”

  “This is Lady Veronique Begonia. But I just call her Begonia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Begonia,” said Theodosia.

  “Do you ride?” Duke asked.

  “I do.”

  “Jump?”

  “I’ve been known to tackle my share of poles and gates,” said Theodosia. “Though not all that well.” She gave Begonia a final pat and focused all her attention on Duke. “I take it you heard about the firebombing at Charlotte’s house last night?”

  Duke turned suddenly serious. “Oh my, did I ever! Charlotte called me right after you left. Right after the firefighters left. She was in hysterics, poor woman. She seemed completely unhinged.”

  “It’s good you were able to comfort her,” said Theodosia, watching Duke closely.

  “Yes, it’s been a tough week for her.” Duke shook his head. “Really miserable. Anyone with less strength would have completely fallen to pieces.”

  She did fall to pieces, Theodosia thought to herself. Or was it a masterful bit of play acting? Is Charlotte a candidate for Inside the Actors Studio?

  “Charlotte tells me you’re going to be stepping in for her as chairman of the Bloody Mary Crawl.”

  “And the Haunted Hayride. That’s right.”

  “They’re bringing in horses from right here, you know. Four nice Percherons from over in the next barn.”

  “Great,” said Theodosia. Then she added, “Have you spoken to Charlotte today? Do you know if she’s heard anything back from the fire department? Or from the police?”

  “I dropped by for all of five minutes early this morning,” said Duke. “She was subdued, as one might expect. She said she was still waiting for a call from that police detective. Tidlow.”

  “Tidwell.”

  “Ah yes, that’s it.”

  “Good,” said Theodosia. “I’m glad he’s on it.” She was watching Duke’s hands. He’d just set down his brush and was digging in the pockets of his leather apron.

  “I’m hoping,” said Duke as a piece of metal flashed in his hand, “that Charlotte will feel well enough to attend her first museum board meeting.”

  Theodosia heard his words as if off in the distance. Because her eyes were fixed on the metal tool that Duke wielded in his hands. He switched it back and forth, from one hand to the other, then leaned forward and, with practiced efficiency, picked up Begonia’s right front leg.

  Theodosia watched, fascinated, as the sharp metal hoof pick dug into Begonia’s hoofs. And she wondered—could a stainless steel hoof pick like that have killed Edgar Webster? Was that tool long enough, sharp enough, to slide into someone’s ear and turn off his lights for good?

  She took a step backward.

  She was pretty sure it was.

  Her smile merely pasted on her face now, Theodosia listened but didn’t really hear Duke as he chattered away.

  All she could think was, Is Harlan Duke the killer? And, if he had killed Webster, what had been his motive?

  “I . . . I have to take off now,” said Theodosia.

  Duke looked up, surprised. “Okay, then. Nice to see you.” He pointed the pick directly at her and smiled. “I’ll probably be dropping by your tea shop real soon.”

  “Do that,” said Theodosia, though the words tasted dry and dusty in her mouth.

  • • •

  Driving back toward the Indigo Tea Shop, the chill that Theodosia felt in her stomach had crawled all the way up to her heart.

  Was it possible that Harlan Duke was the killer? He could be. And might he have also attacked Cecily? Possibly. But . . . what could have motivated him to do such terrible deeds?

  Was Duke really and truly trying to worm himself into Charlotte’s good graces? And eventually win her love as husband number two? Or at least be the one who catered to her incessant neediness?

  Theodosia flew across the Cooper River Bridge. Normally, the dizzying height and awesome span of the cable bridge caught her attention and gave her a little thrill. Not today. Today she was too caught up in the Edgar Webster murder mystery and all the strange permutations that seemed to surround it.

  As she spun down Bay Street, an idea tickled at Theodosia’s brain. All the bizarre events that had taken place in the last few days had been set in motion since Edgar Webster’s murder the night of the Chinese tea house gala.

  So . . . did the tea house somehow figure into this? After all, Harlan Duke was the art dealer who’d located the tea house in Shanghai and arranged for it to be shipped to Charleston. And Edgar Webster had been its biggest booster.

  Theodosia puzzled over this notion for a few minutes. Was it possible that the tea house was a fake? Had Edgar Webster, who knew a fair amount about Chinese antiques, suspected as much and then confronted Duke?

  And then, had Harlan Duke, fearing that he’d be exposed as a fraud, boldly and cold-bloodedly murdered Webster?

  The whole thing sounded awfully far-fetched. In fact, it was pure conjecture, like a made-for-TV movie. Still, the more Theodosia thought through her scenario, the more she felt a tingle of excitement building, a vibe that told her she could be onto something.

  “I’m going to stop at the museum,” she said out loud. “I want to take another look at that tea house.”

  She turned right on Broad, hooked a left on Meeting Street, and turned down the alley behind the museum. She pulled into one of the parking spaces that said RESERVED FOR MUSEUM PERSONNEL. She didn’t care if she wasn’t supposed to park there. Nobody was going to shoo her away or tow her car. She wouldn’t be inside long enough.

  This morning, the back door was unlocked. Theodosia pushed her way through, recalling her covert operation on Saturday night. Down the corridor she hurried, heading directly for Percy Capers’s office. He was a friend and an Asian expert, so maybe he could render a learned opinion. Or maybe . . . maybe he harbored a few suspicions, too.

  Theodosia knocked on a frosted glass door that had two names with titles stenciled on it in gold ink—PERCY CAPERS, ASIAN ART and SUMNER MOTTE, AMERICAN ART.

  Without waiting for an answer, she twisted the knob and barged in.

  A man looked up from a sheaf of papers and smiled at her. “Hello,” he said, pleasantly. He had messy Albert Einstein hair and narrow, tortoiseshell glasses, and wore a black turtleneck. Theodosia thought he looked like a beatnik, or what a beatnik from central casting might look like. She also recognized him as one of the curators who’d accompanied Capers to the Titanic Tea.

  “I was looking for Percy Capers,” she said.

  Sumner Motte touched the eraser end of a yellow pencil to the tip of his nose. “I’m afraid you just missed him. He drove over to Columbia this morning to meet with some people at their museum of art. We’re thinking of doing a kind of South Carolina version of Antiques Roadshow and are putting our heads together to hammer out some of the details.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun,” said Theodosia. “I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “That sure was a lovely tea you put on Sunday night,” said Motte. “We enjoyed it immensely.” He twiddled his pencil.

  “I’m glad you did,” she said, backing out of his office. “And just FYI, we’re ha
ving a Tower of London Tea tomorrow.”

  He smiled. “Sounds like it’s been especially themed for Halloween.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve got a pretty clever gang over there.”

  Theodosia gave a quick wave. “Drop by anytime.”

  Because Theodosia’s curiosity was still running at a fever pitch, she hurried down the corridor and popped out into the central rotunda.

  Museums were traditionally closed to the public on Mondays, and this one was no exception. So she had the place pretty much to herself. Off to her right, a group of art students—probably from the museum’s Fine Arts Program—were bent over large pads of paper. They clutched sticks of charcoal and were diligently sketching their version of a statue done by Charleston sculptor Willard Hirsch.

  Theodosia turned left and headed for the museum’s newest acquisition—the Chinese tea house.

  Once again, the blue ceramic roof tiles; smooth, weathered wood; and the architecture in general looked and felt genuine to her. She stepped inside into the calm and quiet to take an even closer look.

  She was struck again by the utter serenity of the place. Tea houses—tea pavilions—had been constructed in ancient China as simple, elegant retreats to foster the poetic feeling that was long associated with tea drinking. And most tea houses, like this one in particular, typified an ancient ideal of simplicity. Hence the rustic feel, unadorned walls, and natural colors of rice paper and bamboo. Nothing was supposed to intrude or jar the tea drinker’s sensibilities. She’d even heard that a tune played on a lute in a tea house should be no louder than the hum of a bumblebee.

  Theodosia reached out and touched the interior wall. The wood felt ancient and soft, as if it had been rubbed smooth by a thousand loving hands.

  She smiled softly. This tea house was the genuine article, all right. It was everything else surrounding it that felt false and brittle.

  21

  “Hey, you’re finally here,” said Haley. She poked her head out of the kitchen as Theodosia rushed by. “It’s important that we talk.”

  “About the menu for the Tower of London Tea,” said Theodosia. “I know. Drayton mentioned it to me.”

  “When’s good?” called Haley.

  “Not this minute,” Theodosia sang over her shoulder as she continued on toward the tea shop. It was late morning, and customers would be arriving for lunch, if some hadn’t shown up already. Job one was to assist Drayton and make sure all the tables were polished and pretty and ready to go.

  Turns out they’d already been set up. In a Halloweenish sort of way. Their standard white tapers had been swapped out for orange candles, filmy ghosts floated from the rafters, and plastic skeletons clicked and clacked in the breeze. Seemingly overnight, her chintz-and-china tea shop had gone over to the dark side with broomsticks and bones.

  “You’ve been busy,” said Theodosia, slightly taken aback by the tea room’s changed appearance. “And I see everything’s already set up for lunch.”

  “It’s set up,” said Drayton, “just not to my particular taste. As you can see, Haley’s been indulging herself in a Halloween fantasy.”

  Haley sauntered toward them carrying a fat orange pumpkin that she’d carved. “Theo, you had a couple of phone calls.”

  “Who needs me now?” Theodosia asked. She reached out and rapped the top of the grinning pumpkin with her knuckles. “Knock, knock. Nobody home?”

  “Hah,” said Haley, pleased. “Detective Tidwell called. He wants you to call him back ASAP.”

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. “And who else?”

  Haley snickered. “Delaine. She says you’re late.”

  “I’m what?” That stopped Theodosia dead in her tracks. “Wait a minute, what time is the Hunt and Gather Market supposed to start?”

  “I believe it kicks off at one o’clock,” said Drayton.

  Theodosia checked her watch. “It’s just eleven.” She decided Delaine was certifiably Type-A crazy.

  “There you go,” said Drayton. “You have plenty of time to help with lunch, go set up your table, and prove Delaine wrong.” He let loose a dignified snort. “As if that’s ever going to happen.”

  “Right,” echoed Haley.

  While Drayton and Haley argued about where to display the pumpkin, Theodosia went back to her office and called Tidwell. She was put on hold for what seemed like an interminable amount of time before he finally came on the line.

  “What?” Tidwell barked.

  “Hey, you called me,” said Theodosia.

  “Oh, yes. So I did.”

  Theodosia heard papers rustling, as if he were combing distractedly through a stack of scribbled notes.

  “Probably concerning the firebombing at Charlotte Webster’s last night?” she prompted.

  “Why were you there?” Tidwell asked brusquely.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” said Theodosia, “but Charlotte asked me to step in and take over her Bloody Mary Crawl.”

  “So you are honchoing yet another event.” For some reason he sounded put out.

  “My world and welcome to it. So . . . what part of the walk is bugging you the most? Me, Bloody Marys, or the ghosts?”

  He ignored her question. “I’m reading the report filed by the engine company captain,” said Tidwell. “An incendiary device was actually hurled through Mrs. Webster’s back window?”

  “If that’s what it says, then that’s what happened.”

  “Do you know any reason why a person might throw something like that?”

  “As you keep reminding me,” said Theodosia, “you’re the detective, not me.”

  “But if you could venture a guess?”

  “You want me to speculate? Detective Tidwell, you’re always cautioning me never to speculate.” Theodosia was enjoying herself. This little joust with Tidwell was invigorating. Just what she needed to lighten her mood.

  “I’m glad you find our conversation so amusing,” said Tidwell. “But, need I remind you, there is a murderer on the loose.”

  “And a stalker and now an arsonist,” said Theodosia. “Which means you have a lot on your plate.” She hesitated, wanting to go on, but deciding not to. “But, I promise you, I will think about your question and get back to you.”

  “Sooner rather than later,” said Tidwell. There was a distinct click. He’d hung up.

  Theodosia had wanted to tell Tidwell about Harlan Duke and the dangerous-looking hoof pick. She really had. And she’d wanted to share her concerns about the Chinese tea house—how something seemed not quite right to her about it. That the tea house felt like it could be some weird nexus for all the events that had taken place. But she’d consciously held back her information.

  Why? Fear of ridicule? No, not at all. Tidwell had never actually pooh-poohed any of her theories.

  No, Theodosia decided she wanted to keep these little tidbits of information tucked away for herself. It would give her a chance to noodle things around and see if her hunches led anywhere else.

  With her phone still in her hand, Theodosia dialed Max’s number. He answered right away.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” asked Max.

  “Busy,” said Theodosia. “Par for the course. How are things with you?”

  “Making calls,” said Max. “Just putting the word out.”

  Doggone, she thought. “I was wondering if you’re still planning to run with us tonight in the five-K?”

  “Of course, I am. We can’t let Earl Grey down, after all. Hey, how’s his costume coming?”

  Theodosia looked over at a puddle of brown fur that sat on one of her office shelves. “It’s coming.”

  “Okay,” said Max. “See you tonight?”

  “See you,” said Theodosia. She leaned sideways and grabbed the hunk of brown fur that was supposed to be Earl Gr
ey’s costume.

  She’d gone to the fabric store last week with an idea in mind of creating a Chia Pet costume. If she could just find some shaggy green fabric, then maybe she could fashion it into a kind of wrap for Earl Grey. But then she’d seen a hunk of golden-brown fake fur. And it seemed to cry out lion’s mane. So it seemed easier, in the long run, to just fashion a collar for Earl Grey that would resemble a lion’s mane. She was already going as a witch, so why couldn’t they be The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?

  Theodosia pulled the needle out from where she’d stuck it earlier, when she’d been in the middle of whipstitching the last seam. Just a few more stitches and . . .

  “Now can we go over that menu for our Tower of London Tea?” asked Haley. She was standing in the doorway, fanning an index card that was clutched in her hand. Her tall, white chef’s hat was canted jauntily to one side as if she’d been caught in a strong wind and spun about.

  “Sure,” said Theodosia. “But I thought you had everything pretty much set to your liking.”

  “But is it to your liking?” said Haley. “You know I prefer to run everything by you.”

  Theodosia smiled as she leaned back in her chair. She and Drayton knew who the real boss was—it was the diminutive Haley who ruled the kitchen with an iron potholder. “Okay, then. What’s on your menu?”

  “We kick off with crown jewel scones,” said Haley. “Which are really cream scones chockablock with candied fruit. Those are followed by Anne Boleyn chocolate-dipped strawberries.”

  Theodosia grinned. “You had me at crown jewel scones.”

  Haley held up a finger. “But there’s more. Tea sandwiches of honey-roasted ham and English mustard on caraway seed bread. And English smoked salmon with cream cheese on brown bread.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And for dessert,” said Haley, “I was thinking about chutney crescents and Victoria sponge cake.”

  “It all sounds great, but what about the teas? Has Drayton worked out his tea offerings yet?”

  Haley nodded. “He’s got something called Lady Jane Grey, which is a variation on Earl Grey. And then a War of the Roses tea, which is basically his own blend of a Ceylon black tea infused with rose petals.”