by Laura Childs
When she reached the museum, she was told she needed to speak with a Mr. Allan Abrams. But when she was connected, she was bumped over to his voice mail. Theodosia waited for the beep, then said, “Please call me as soon as possible. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Chinese tea house you’re thinking of purchasing.” She left her name and number. And, as an afterword, said, “Please call any time. It’s really quite urgent.”
Theodosia was still thinking about Chinese tea houses and Harlan Duke’s connection, when her phone rang. She picked it up, figuring it was someone hoping to grab a late reservation for the Tower of London Tea.
It wasn’t.
“Theodosia?” said a crackly voice. It was a voice she knew but for some reason couldn’t quite place.
She clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “Who is this? Speak up, please.”
“It’s me, Glass.”
“Bill Glass?” What does he want? “What do you want?” she said. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up,” Glass suddenly spat out. “I’m in the hospital!”
Was this a joke?
“What?” she said. “Are you trying to be funny? Because if you are, it’s not work—”
“This is about as funny as a crutch, which I’m going to be needing for the next couple of days!”
“You’re really in the hospital?” said Theodosia.
“Yes!”
“What happened?” Oh my goodness, she thought. Another attack, another injury, maybe another attempted murder? What was going on?
“Can you come over here?” Glass asked.
“What? You mean now?”
“Yes, now. I’m at Mercy Medical Center. I need to talk to you. There’s something fishy going on.”
“You think?” said Theodosia.
“I don’t need sarcasm,” said Glass. “I need sympathy.”
“You know what?” said Theodosia. “You’re probably going to have to settle for the sarcasm.”
“But you’ll still come?”
Theodosia sighed. “I’m on my way.”
She flew out into the tea room, almost colliding with Miss Dimple.
“Oh dear,” Miss Dimple exclaimed. “I almost poured my pot of English breakfast tea all over you. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Drayton glanced up. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I have to duck out for a short while.”
“Now?” He frowned and consulted his watch. “You’re aware our Tower of London Tea starts in less than two hours?”
“Bill Glass was attacked late night,” said Theodosia. “He’s in the hospital.”
Drayton did a slow blink. “Dear lord.”
“Bill Glass, that silly photographer?” said Miss Dimple.
“That’s right,” said Theodosia. “I want to run over and see him, but I’ll be back in plenty of time for the luncheon, I promise.”
Miss Dimple patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll take care of things.”
But can I? Theodosia wondered.
• • •
The heels of Theodosia’s Coach loafers drummed a staccato beat on the marble floor of the hospital lobby. She glanced around, saw two wheelchairs sitting empty, a cart full of flowers trundling by, and a receptionist sitting at the front desk.
Definitely need to start at the front desk, she told herself. She approached quickly and smiled at a stern-looking woman with curly red hair. She wore a badge that said LAILA, MMC VOLUNTEER.
“Excuse me,” Theodosia said. “Can you tell me which room Bill Glass is in?”
The woman’s eyes squeezed shut at the sound of Glass’s name, and then she focused a cool, appraising look at Theodosia.
“Are you another one of Mr. Glass’s girlfriends?” the woman asked. Her tone was just short of unfriendly. “We’ve had a couple of ladies call for him already.”
“What?” said Theodosia. She reared back, a little unsettled by the question. “No, I’m not a girlfriend. Certainly not. I’m just . . . look, could you please just give me his room number? I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Four six seven,” said the woman. She seemed to take pleasure in carefully enunciating each and every syllable.
Theodosia hurried toward the elevators, wondering just how many girlfriends Bill Glass might have? And had they really been calling him? She’d never thought of the man as a devil-may-care bachelor. Now there appeared to be another side to Glass, a side she really didn’t want to know too much about.
Stepping out of the elevator on the fourth floor, Theodosia was almost mowed down by a linen cart. She pressed her back against the wall, vowing not to be involved in a hit-and-run with a stack of starched hospital sheets. She glanced at the signage on the wall, decided she needed to hang a left, and struck off down the corridor.
She still had to dodge busy nurses, rattling carts, and a couple of concerned-looking visitors, but she managed to find Glass’s room.
“Four six seven,” Theodosia murmured to herself as she knocked on the door.
“Yeah?” Glass called out in a loud, caustic bray. “Door’s open. Come on in.”
Theodosia pushed her way into Bill Glass’s room. He was sitting up in bed in a perfectly ordinary hospital room that had a sliver of a view of the Ashley River. There was a white bandage wrapped around his head that caused his dark hair to stick up wildly. His right eye was badly bruised and ringed in colors of purple and black. He looked as if someone had used him as a personal punching bag.
“Look at this dump of a room,” Glass suddenly shouted, waving an arm at her in protest. “It’s just short of a charity ward. The sheets are scratchy and the entire place reeks of disinfectant. There aren’t any RNs to plump my pillows, not even a lousy candy striper!”
“It looks fine to me,” Theodosia said. Because it really did look fine. Crisp and clean and antiseptic. Although he was right about the odor of disinfectant. That was downright nasty.
“You know what else?” said Glass. “I was lying in bed this morning, barely able to twitch a single sore and battered muscle, when some idiot barges into my room with a breakfast tray.”
“Okay,” said Theodosia. She took a few steps forward and eased herself down into a vinyl-covered chair. She decided to let him ramble, because it seemed like he needed to blow off steam.
“So, anyway,” said Glass, “this idiot yells out, ‘Dietary!’ and then slams down my breakfast tray on the cupboard over there. You see?” He flailed an arm out. “My breakfast is still sitting over there, because I’m unable to limp over and get it,” he sputtered. “Now I ask you, what good is breakfast if it’s not served to you properly?”
Theodosia was suddenly having trouble keeping a straight face.
“How are you feeling?” Theodosia asked.
“Terrible,” said Glass. “Never felt worse in my entire life.”
“Would you like me to run down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat?” she offered. “Some toast and juice, perhaps?”
“No, no.” Glass placed a hand on top of his sheet and patted his midsection gingerly. “The thing is, I have this extremely sensitive stomach. Powdered eggs, cold toast, that kind of crap will give me the urps all afternoon.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Theodosia also hadn’t realized that Bill Glass was such a crybaby. He’d always come off like a cigar-chomping tough guy.
Glass fixed her with a slightly lopsided gaze. “How do I look?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is my face all banged up? Do you have a mirror or something so I can take a look?”
Theodosia dug into her handbag and pulled out a small compact. She flipped it open and handed it to Glass.
He gazed in the mirror and flinched. “Oh, howdy! I look like a bit player from The Walking Dead.”
He put a hand up, touched his forehead, and winced. “Feel like one, too. Except my entrails aren’t hanging out all over the darn place.”
“So there’s a bright spot after all,” said Theodosia.
“Oh, man.” Glass was still groaning as he inspected himself in the mirror. “And I think my front tooth is chipped. Crap on a cracker. That’s gonna cost a fortune to fix.” His gaze shifted to Theodosia. “Do you hear a whistle when I talk? I thought I just heard a whistle, and I don’t think it’s from my nose. Oh, man, if it’s my tooth . . .”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Theodosia interrupted. After all, you wanted me to drop everything and race right over here.
Glass snapped her compact closed and handed it back to her. “You know what’s so strange? I really don’t know what happened last night.”
“You don’t know what happened to you?”
Glass made a grimace. “I know some creep clobbered me on the head with a baseball bat or something.”
“Were you robbed? Were any of your cameras stolen?”
“Nope. They were still strung around my neck when the ambulance showed up.”
“Do you think your assault had something to do with the fact that you were investigating Edgar Webster’s murder?”
“Well,” Glass said slowly, “I think that might be it exactly.”
“Did you get a look at your attacker?”
“Afraid not.”
“Did you get any sort of general impression?”
“Only, you know, that the person who hit me had some heft to him.”
“Heft,” said Theodosia.
A cagey look spread across his face. “But you know what I did after they loaded me into the ambulance?”
“What?”
“I called Charlotte Webster’s house,” said Glass. “Just because . . . well, you know why.”
“To see if she was home,” said Theodosia.
Glass nodded. “But she was there.”
Theodosia leaned forward in her chair. “Last night, you mentioned that you might have a lead on someone.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Some evidence, then,” said Theodosia. “Which I have a feeling you might want to share with me now?”
“Aw,” said Glass.
“Come on, what gives?”
Glass hunched his shoulders forward and glanced about his room as if somebody might be listening in.
“What’s wrong?” said Theodosia.
“Somebody could overhear us.”
“There’s just us and that hemostat stand over there. And I don’t think it’s going to blab.”
“The thing is,” said Glass, “I talked to this guy at the museum . . .”
“What guy?”
“A guy who works there.”
“A curator?”
“No, no, he’s in building maintenance. You know, like a janitor.”
“Okay.” This was brutal, like pulling teeth.
“Anyway,” said Glass, “my guy tells me there are all these late-night meetings and things going on.”
“Staff or board members?”
“He wasn’t completely clear on that.”
“So what are these meetings supposedly about?” said Theodosia.
“He wasn’t sure. But he said it was the first time anything like that ever happened there.”
“And it’s also the first time a murder ever occurred at the museum,” said Theodosia. “So it’s reasonable to expect a little extra activity. A little nocturnal action.”
“And then I was nosing around and asking questions as well,” said Glass, “of the staff and whoever else I could buttonhole.”
“And you think what?” said Theodosia. “What’s the bottom line here?”
Glass crooked a finger at his bandaged head. “I think somebody at the museum didn’t want me hanging around asking all those questions.”
“You think that’s why you were attacked?”
Glass gnashed his teeth together. “I know that’s why I was attacked.”
24
Tea kettles chirped and teacups rattled softly as Miss Dimple scurried from counter to table.
“I’m back,” said Theodosia, suddenly putting in an appearance at the front counter. “What did I miss?”
“Just good food and fun,” said Miss Dimple. She shot a sly glance at Drayton. “And Drayton’s amazing nonstop comments. It’s like being part of a tea documentary.”
“I prefer to think of it as encouragement,” said Drayton.
It was eleven fifteen, and the Indigo Tea Shop was half-filled with customers. Miss Dimple had already reset the empty tables for the Tower of London Tea, which kicked off at noon, so there wasn’t all that much to do, thank goodness.
“I see we’re using the Coalport china,” said Theodosia.
“What else?” said Drayton. In his mind it was a fait accompli.
“And the Edinburgh crystal?”
“Tell me what other maker crafts fine leaded glasses in that English thistle-cut pattern?”
“You must have quite a collection of china and glassware at home,” Miss Dimple said to Drayton.
The corners of his mouth crooked upward. “You have no idea.”
“And teapots,” put in Theodosia. “Our Drayton’s a bit of a hoarder. Only he’s a very organized, OCD-type of hoarder.”
“Everything in its place,” said Drayton. “Carefully and neatly categorized and stored.”
“And labeled,” said Theodosia. “Drayton still uses one of those old-fashioned plastic labeling guns.”
“The kind that makes letters and spits out little plastic tape?” said Miss Dimple. “Oh my, that’s quite a relic.”
“Not if it still does the job,” Drayton replied.
• • •
Finally, when the last of their morning customers had departed, Theodosia flew around the tea shop, cleaning and resetting the rest of the tables, making last-minute preparations. As candles were lit and the polished crystal and silver caught the morning light, the shop sparkled like a miniature jewel box.
And Drayton was front and center with a few surprises.
First off, there were tiny bouquets of pink English roses that he’d ordered from Floradora. Those went on the tables in crystal vases, along with miniature Union Jack flags stuck in place card holders. And there were favors, too. Each guest would receive an individual packet of English shortbread along with a miniature jar of marmalade.
“It looks like merry old England in here,” Miss Dimple marveled. “Like some charming little tea shop you’d visit in the Cotswolds.”
Theodosia scrutinized the tables. “You don’t think our table décor is slightly at odds with the Halloween décor?” In what world, she wondered, did ghosts and witches rub their bony shoulders with sweet marmalade and tea roses?
“But it’s a Tower of London Tea,” Miss Dimple chortled. “In honor of Halloween. I think you folks struck just the perfect balance.”
“If you say so,” said Theodosia. She decided she’d just go along with the whole thing. Haley adored the theme, the tickets had all been sold, Miss Dimple was a perennial cheerleader, and Drayton . . . well, Drayton was still gloating over his tea choices.
• • •
At eleven forty-five a line began to form outside the Indigo Tea Shop. It continued to swell until, at precisely twelve o’clock, Drayton threw open the front door and welcomed their guests in his inimitable hale-hearty style. Dozens of folks poured in and began to mill about excitedly. They exclaimed over the Halloween décor, oohed and ahed over the lovely tables, and then wandered happily about, searching for their place cards.
The few customers who showed up without reservations were regretfully turned away as even more guests rolled in.
�
��Theodosia!” cried Delaine. Looking like a contemporary witch in a slithery black shift, shiny black leather boots, and a floofy hat, she waved at Theodosia from across the tea room.
Theodosia noticed Delaine windmilling her arms and waved back. Then Theodosia hurried to join her, noting that Aunt Acid was still stuck to her like a tick on a hound dog.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Theodosia said.
“So am I,” said Delaine. “It was touch and go there for a minute. Whew.” She made a big production out of exhaling loudly. “I’ve been crazy busy, dancing as fast as I can. Well . . . you saw me at the Hunt and Gather Market yesterday. Insane! But we did manage to raise a pile of money.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Theodosia. “And as a special reward, I have a table for you and your aunt right over here.” She took Delaine by the elbow and guided her to a table.
“Thank you,” said Delaine. “Come along, Auntie.” The two of them plopped down in their chairs. “Oh, I hear you got roped into honchoing the Bloody Mary Crawl and Haunted Hayride tonight.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Theodosia.
“Good old Charlotte twisted your arm?” Delaine said in a wry voice. Then she added, “The woman’s completely nutters, you realize.”
“Charlotte has a lot on her plate right now,” said Theodosia. “I’m just trying to lend a hand.” She glanced over at the front door and saw a familiar puff of multicolored hair. Who is that again? Oh no, it’s Dolly Greaves, Roger Greaves’s wife. “Excuse me.”
But Dolly Greaves had seen Theodosia and was already making a beeline for her.
“We meet again!” Dolly squealed. She reached out and clamped her fingers down on Theodosia’s shoulders, pulling her forward in a tight embrace.
“Welcome back to the tea shop,” said Theodosia, trying to pull herself away.
“I have to tell you,” said Dolly, looking back over her shoulder at the two other women who’d come in with her. “I had such a fabulous time Sunday night that I just couldn’t stay away.” She grinned at Theodosia. “So you see? I brought two of my BFFs along.”