by Laura Childs
“But not impossible.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s not?” Haley asked. She was suddenly standing there, looking inquisitive and holding a tray heaped with fresh-baked treats.
“It doesn’t seem possible, but those are the most aromatic scones I’ve ever smelled in my life,” Drayton said. “What magic have you wrought, dear girl?”
“Cream scones and lemon poppy seed scones,” Haley said. She was suddenly in a peppy mood, thrilled by Drayton’s praise. “The lemon ones are really good ’cause they’re made with freshly squeezed and zested Meyer lemons.”
“And I see muffins, too?” Theodosia said.
“Those are my double dare chocolate chip muffins,” Haley said. “I used cinnamon and pasilla chile–infused chocolate to give them an extra zing.” She shifted her tray onto the counter. “But I know you guys were talking about Willow’s murder. And possible suspects. I know you’re trying to help, and I really appreciate it.”
“Theodosia’s doing her best,” Drayton said. “Even though she’s been warned to stay away from the investigation.”
“Are you getting anywhere?” Haley asked Theodosia.
But Drayton jumped in to answer for her. “Theo will let you know when she has some concrete facts.”
“But do you . . . ?” Haley began again.
“Really, she’ll let you know,” Drayton said.
Haley nodded sagely at this second interruption and pointed a finger at Drayton’s blue-and-white teapot. “You know, Drayton, there are electric tea brewers that are Bluetooth enabled and can send a message to your phone when the tea is ready.”
A look of horror spread across Drayton’s face. “What?” he squeaked.
“Or you can do it the old-fashioned way,” Haley said. She gave her hair a quick flip and grinned at him as she headed back to the kitchen. “Just making sure you’re on your toes.”
“That girl. She’ll be the death of me yet,” Drayton said.
“She’s just worried,” Theodosia said. “We all are.”
They were an hour into morning tea when the front door opened and Miss Dimple came rushing in. Drayton was suddenly grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
“There she is,” he exclaimed. “Our crackerjack bookkeeper who doubles as my right-hand tea expert.”
“I hope I’m not late,” Miss Dimple said. She glanced around the busy tea shop as she slid out of her brick-red coat. “Theodosia said ten. Is it ten yet?”
“On the button,” Drayton said.
“Thank you so much for coming in to help us,” Theodosia said. She took Miss Dimple’s coat from her and hung it on the brass coatrack that stood in the entry.
“Are you kidding?” Miss Dimple peered at her with glowing eyes. “This is a treat for me. Gets me out of the house. You can only spend so much time playing with your cats and watching One Life to Live.”
Miss Dimple was eighty-something and still going strong. Feisty, warmhearted, and barely five feet tall, she was plumpish with a cap of pink-tinged curls. She had a breathy little voice and used quaint phrases such as oh my stars, cheese and crackers, and whoopsie daisy. Miss Dimple was also a very capable bookkeeper for the Indigo Tea Shop and filled in as server a few days a month. Today was one of those days.
“So did I hear you right? You’re having a Sherlock Holmes Tea today?” Miss Dimple asked.
“Quite correct,” Drayton said.
“How exciting. In celebration of Halloween, I would expect.” She paused and said, “What do you want me to do?”
“For now just grab a pot of tea from Drayton and refill our guests’ teacups,” Theodosia said.
* * *
* * *
The tea shop was buzzing when Sybil Spalding, the Heritage Society intern that Theodosia had interviewed yesterday, walked through the front door.
Theodosia recognized Sybil immediately and hurried over to greet her.
“Have you come for tea?” Theodosia asked. She was pleased to see a familiar face, a youthful face. She loved the fact that so many young people were embracing tea drinking and tea lore.
Sybil shook her head. “I’m just the designated gopher today. Here to pick up an order of scones that one of our curators phoned in.”
“I have your order right here,” Drayton called from behind the counter.
“And I know it’s kind of last minute, but I’m wondering if you have room for two more guests at your fancy luncheon today,” Sybil said.
“Our Sherlock Holmes Tea isn’t all that fancy, more like a fun event,” Theodosia said. “But we surely do have a couple spots left. Will you and a guest be joining us?”
Sybil shook her head, her dark curls bouncing around her face. “I wish. But, no, it’s not for me. Claire Waltho wants to take a potential donor to lunch today, and I suggested bringing her here.”
“Well . . . thank you. We appreciate the business.”
“It’s a woman by the name of Drucilla Heyward,” Sybil said.
“I know Miss Drucilla,” Drayton said. “Lovely woman with a most charitable heart. She donated a bundle to the Opera Society last year so they could stage a production of Verdi’s Rigoletto. She also helped underwrite a jazz quartet at this year’s Spoleto.”
“That’s good to know,” Sybil said. “Because word on the grapevine is that Miss Heyward is planning to donate a chunk of money to the Heritage Society.”
“That would be terrific,” Theodosia said. “We’ll try to help things along by giving Claire and her guest some extra special treatment.”
“As we do all our guests,” Drayton murmured from the counter. “And just for the record, it’s either Mrs. Heyward or Miss Drucilla.”
“Why is that?” Sybil asked.
“Because that’s how it’s done in the South,” Drayton said.
Theodosia grabbed the scone order that Drayton had packaged in one of their indigo blue bags and walked Sybil to the door. “Sybil, have you ever heard of a man by the name of Henry Curtis?”
“Henry? Sure.”
Sybil’s breezy answer caught Theodosia by surprise. “Seriously?”
“Henry works at the Heritage Society, same as me. Only he’s doing an internship downstairs in the conservation department.”
“I had no idea.”
“You probably even met Henry the other night. The guy with the green paint on his face and . . .” Sybil grinned as she tapped two fingers against her neck.
“The bolt in his neck,” Theodosia said. “Henry Curtis was Frankenstein?”
“Still is Frankenstein,” Sybil said. “Kinda cool, huh?”
Theodosia didn’t think it was all that cool, but she sure wanted to know more.
“Do you know if Henry Curtis ever had a close relationship with Willow French?”
“Not that I know of,” Sybil said. She turned an inquisitive gaze on Theodosia and studied her for a few moments. Then the proverbial light bulb seemed to pop on over her head. “Say, you’re onto something, aren’t you?”
“Just trying to piece a few things together,” Theodosia said, weighing her words carefully. “Before I draw any conclusions.”
But Sybil wasn’t fooled. “Claire told me you were a darned good amateur detective. Now I believe it. So . . .” Her eyes fairly sparkled. “Do you want me to ask Henry about Willow?” She made an exaggerated face. “Or should I be afraid of him? Maybe . . . maybe if I was super careful I could do a little digging?”
“Please don’t,” Theodosia said. Since that’s exactly what I intend to do.
* * *
* * *
When only two tables of guests lingered and the time was nearing eleven fifteen, Theodosia decided she’d better hurry up and start decorating for her Sherlock Holmes Tea. She began with pristine white tablecloths on all the tables, then added tweed table runners.
From there things began to get noir and whimsical with the addition of a few old-fashioned pipes, some oversize magnifying glasses, stacks of mystery books, pairs of handcuffs, rings of keys, and several toy pistols. She’d laser printed vintage maps of London from her computer and now set those out as place mats.
“Your tables look adorable,” Miss Dimple said and chuckled. “I was baffled as to what decor would work for a Sherlock Holmes Tea, but now I can see your creativity won out. Bravo, Theodosia.”
Drayton also gave his nod of approval. “Highly amusing,” he said. “Very Sherlockian. And what china have you picked out?”
“I was thinking of using our Royal Crown Derby Balmoral pattern,” Theodosia said. She always liked to match a china pattern to an event. It made it even more special for her guests.
“I’d say Royal Crown Derby strikes the perfect note,” Drayton said.
As Theodosia and Miss Dimple put out plates, cups, saucers, and silverware, a large cardboard box arrived via messenger.
“This delivery,” Drayton said, staring at a box that took up most of his counter space. “I’m guessing it somehow pertains to our tea party?”
“You didn’t think you’d get away scot-free without wearing a costume, did you?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton just shook his head as he continued brewing pots of tea.
But Miss Dimple and Haley were suddenly all over the carton. Carrying it to one of the tables, opening the lid, digging right in.
“Costumes from the Big Top Costume Company,” Haley declared. “Those guys always come through with the goods whenever we have a crazy idea for a themed tea.”
Miss Dimple pulled out a purple velvet frock coat, squealed with delight, and promptly handed it to Theodosia. “This has a lace collar and everything, really perfect for you.” She dug in again and came up with a white ruffled maid’s cap and matching apron. “How very Edwardian,” she said. “I do believe this outfit suits me.”
But, suddenly, Haley wasn’t so sure about the box full of costumes. “This stuff smells kinda funny,” she said.
“That’s just the dry cleaning fluid,” Theodosia said.
Haley took another sniff. “I suppose that’s good. At least it means the clothes have been cleaned.” She hunted around inside the box and let out a whoop as she pulled out a tweed hat. “Hoo, Drayton. This has your name on it. You get to wear the crazy backward hat.”
Drayton came over and grabbed the hat out of Haley’s hands. “Bite your tongue, miss. That’s not a backward hat; it’s a deerstalker hat. Traditionally British and generally constructed out of houndstooth, herringbone, or twill.”
“There’s a matching cape for you, too,” Miss Dimple said.
Drayton popped the hat onto his head and draped the cape around his shoulders. Then he struck a pose. “What’s the verdict? Do I look like a serious investigator who’d prowl the back alleys of London?”
Haley studied him. “More like you belong on the BBC.”
But there were still a few things that needed to be done.
Theodosia cut out black paper footprints and glued them to the floor, starting at the front door and leading into the tea shop.
“How fun,” Miss Dimple said. “Like a suspect Sherlock Holmes and Watson would have to tail.”
“How are the cats, Miss Dimple?” Haley asked. Miss Dimple had two cats, Samson and Delilah, that she doted on.
“Still as lively and rascally as ever,” Miss Dimple said.
“I’ve been feeding a little stray cat who’s been hanging around our back alley,” Haley said.
“Bless you for being so kindhearted. The poor little thing must not have a forever home,” Miss Dimple said.
“I might have seen your cat yesterday,” Theodosia said. “Outside in our alley.”
“Kind of a mottled orange-and-brown cat?” Haley said.
“That’s the one,” Theodosia said.
“I think he’s wild,” Haley said.
“Feral,” Drayton said.
Haley nodded. “Yeah, that, too.”
12
Amazingly, most of their luncheon guests had taken the Sherlock Holmes theme directly to heart. Case in point, Theodosia had never seen so many tweed suits, ruffled blouses, velvet hats, and jeweled stickpins in her life.
“I know I’m probably half-Edwardian and half–Downton Abbey,” her friend Nancy Graham confessed to her, “but I sure had fun getting dressed this morning.”
“And you look terrific,” Theodosia said. “Very British and upper-crust.”
She checked off each guest’s name from her list as they arrived—Jill, Kristen, Judi, Linda, and Jessica—and led them to seats at the various tables.
“Am I in the right place?” one white-haired lady asked as she and her friend walked in. “Teddy Vickers at the Featherbed House B and B made the reservation for us so . . .” She stopped dead and gave a speculative glance around. Then a smile lit her face. “This place is a-dor-able,” she purred. “Almost as if a genuine tea shop had been airlifted in from the Lake District of England.”
“Thank you,” Theodosia said. “Now if you’ll just come this way . . .”
Both old and new friends had shown up today. Brooke Carter Crockett, from Hearts Desire Jewelers down the block, and Delaine Dish, the mercurial owner of Cotton Duck Boutique. Delaine brought along her niece Bettina, who’d recently graduated from FIT, the Fashion Institute of Technology, in New York.
And, finally, Claire Waltho from the Heritage Society arrived with her would-be donor, Drucilla Heyward. Once Claire and Miss Drucilla were seated, Drayton stepped out from behind the counter to personally pour cups of tea for them and renew old acquaintances. Needless to say, Miss Drucilla was thrilled.
“We’ve almost got a full house,” Theodosia whispered as she brushed past Drayton.
“It’s looking good,” he said. “Though everyone’s buzzing about the murder.”
“Hard to keep something like that quiet,” Theodosia said.
“The world’s spinning faster,” Drayton said. “Do you think that’s a good thing?”
“I’m not sure.”
* * *
* * *
When everyone was seated, when cups of steaming tea had been poured and lumps of sugar, milk, or lemon had been duly added to those cups, Theodosia drew a deep breath and stepped to the center of the room. This was what she lived for, but it scared her a little bit, too. Kind of like the tingle she got from investigating a murder.
“Welcome, dear friends,” Theodosia said, addressing the eager, upturned faces of her guests as they gazed in her direction. “In honor of Halloween, we’re saluting Sherlock Holmes, one of the literary world’s experts when it comes to mystery, murder, and mayhem. For your first course we’ll be serving Hound of the Baskervilles cream scones with clotted cream and blackberry jam. Following that, your assortment of tea sandwiches will include smoked salmon with crème fraîche, ham with mustard, and roasted red pepper with cream cheese. Your entrée will be our very own Baker Street meat pie, and for dessert we’re offering a sticky date and toffee pudding that we call Moriarty’s Bomb.”
As peals of delighted applause rang out, a dashing-looking Drayton slipped in to take his place beside Theodosia.
“For our featured tea today, we’ve filled your cups with Lapsang souchong,” Drayton said. “This rich, smoky tea is reminiscent of the aroma of briar pipes and fires burning in an English hearth. And for your second tea, we’ll be serving our very own Sherlock Holmes blend, a flavorful black tea with hints of orange, ginger, cloves, and cardamom.”
There were murmurs of “wonderful” and “how delightful.”
Drayton touched a finger to his hat in a final salute and said, “As our esteemed Mr. Holmes was fond of saying, ‘Life is full of whimsical happenings.’”
“And this happens to be o
ne of them,” Theodosia said. “So please . . . enjoy!”
And enjoy they did. The guests ate, drank cup after cup of tea, oohed and aahed over each course as it was brought out, and seemed to have a genuinely rousing good time.
Theodosia couldn’t have been happier. She loved serving tea and she loved entertaining. And having the Indigo Tea Shop was, for her, the perfect culmination of both those passions. When she was a little girl, she’d enjoyed tea parties with her friends as well as with her stuffed animals. Now she got to live out her dream for real. What could be better?
Grabbing a fresh pot of tea, Theodosia made the rounds again. It was important to check on her guests, make sure everything was perfect, that every course was being thoroughly enjoyed. As she passed behind Claire, she overheard her telling Miss Drucilla about her stint as curator at the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. And how she found the pace and ambiance at the Heritage Society—and the city of Charleston itself—infinitely more appealing.
That makes two of us, Theodosia thought. She was a Charleston girl through and through. And if that meant heeding to old-fashioned manners and values, of holding family and friends dear in a world that sometimes seemed a little untethered, then so much the better.
“Excuse me.”
One of her guests was asking a question.
Theodosia shook her head, bringing herself back to the here and now. “Yes?”
“I was here for the Garden Club Tea last month when you served everything on those spectacular three-tiered trays.”
“Yes, we often do that,” Theodosia said.
“I was wondering if there’s a particular order. I mean, how do you decide what goes on which level?”
“Here’s the thing,” Theodosia said. “I always heed to tradition and put the scones on the top tier.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back in the seventeen hundreds, when tea parties first became popular, the top tier was the only tier that would accommodate a warming dome—so that’s where the fresh-baked scones were placed.”