Death by Darjeeling

by Laura Childs

  Theodosia retrieved an apron from behind the counter, and tied it around the waist of her Laura Ashley dress. Although not overweight, neither was Theodosia thin. She was solid, had been all her life. A size ten that occasionally veered toward a twelve, especially around Christmas and New Year’s when the tea shop overflowed with scones, benne wafers, cream breads, and sweet butter biscuits. And holiday parties up and down Church Street featured buffet tables groaning with she-crab soup, roast duckling, and spicy shrimp with tasso gravy.

  Theodosia’s mother, a confirmed romantic and history buff, had named her only daughter after Theodosia Alston, wife of former South Carolina governor Joseph Alston and daughter of former vice president Aaron Burr.

  In the early 1800s, when Theodosia Alston reigned as First Lady of the state, she had cut a colorful figure. But her notoriety was short-lived. In 1812 she was a passenger on a sailing ship that sank off the coast of North Carolina. When the bodies of the unfortunate souls washed up on shore, only the remains of Theodosia Alston were missing.

  As a young child, Theodosia had sat with her mother in the garden swing and speculated on what had really become of the historical Theodosia. As they whiled away afternoons, listening to the gentle drone of bees, it was exciting to imagine any number of chilling scenarios.

  Had she been kidnapped by her father’s enemies? Did the pirates who plied their sinister trade off the coastal waters capture poor Theodosia Alston and sell her into slavery? And years later, when the estate of an old North Carolina woman was sold, why did a portrait of the old woman, painted when she was young, look startlingly similar to the missing Theodosia?

  But in Charleston, that fine city that began as Charles Town, when rice, indigo, and tobacco from the plantations were in demand throughout the world, legend and history blended into a rich patois.

  And Theodosia Browning found running a tea shop to be a civilized melding of merchant and Southern hostess. Rather like throwing open one’s parlor and awaiting whatever surprise guests might drop in.

  But Theodosia, now at the age of thirty-six, had not always been the owner of a tea shop.

  Years ago (though she’d prefer not to count them) Theodosia had been a student at the prestigious University of Charleston. As an English literature major, she’d been swept up in the poetry and prose of Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, and Charlotte Brontë. Determined to compose her own romantic, lyrical poetry, Theodosia had adapted the bohemian style of wearing a flowing purple velvet cape, walked the grounds of the old Magnolia Cemetery for inspiration, and taken a part-time job at the Charleston Rare Book Company.

  But a month before graduation, Theodosia’s father passed away and, with her mother long dead since she was eight, she had only a small inheritance on which to live. Knowing the life of a poet can be one precarious step down from that of starving artist, Theodosia took a job in an advertising agency.

  Because she was blessed with a knack for creativity as well as a genius for business and marketing, she rose through the ranks swiftly. She began her career as a lowly media estimator, graduating to account coordinator, eventually becoming vice president of client services.

  But fourteen years in a cutthroat, results-driven arena took its toll. Long hours, tight deadlines, nervous clients, and high-stakes creative decisions led to her gradual disenchantment. Theodosia searched for a way to step off the merry-go-round.

  While serving on a pro bono marketing committee for Spoleto, Charleston’s annual arts festival, Theodosia stumbled upon a quirky opportunity. The artistic director for a participating theater organization was trying to unload a little tea shop on Church Street that his mother had run years ago. Intrigued, Theodosia took a hard look at the dusty, unoccupied little tea shop that was up for sale and thought, What if?

  Mulling her decision for one long, sleepless night, Theodosia made the ultimate executive decision and used her small savings to put a down payment on the property.

  Convinced that the congenial atmosphere of a tea shop would be far more satisfying for the soul than helping to market credit cards, computer peripherals, and pharmaceuticals, Theodosia threw herself wholeheartedly into her new venture.

  She learned how to evaluate the twist, tip, and aroma of tea leaves and acquired a spectacular shop inventory of loose and boxed teas from notable wholesalers such as Freed, Teller, and Freed’s in San Francisco and Kent & Dinmore in England.

  Serendipitously, America’s sole surviving tea plantation, the Charleston Tea Plantation, was located just twenty-five miles south of Charleston on the subtropical island of Wadmalaw. So Theodosia was able to acquaint herself with owners Mack Fleming and Bill Hall and their 127-acre plantation that grew nearly 300 varieties of tea.

  From Fleming and Hall Theodosia was able to learn about the harvest process. How to select the newest, most tender leaves. The use of withering troughs to circulate air through the leaves. Techniques on macerating leaves to break down cell walls.

  She went so far as to glean special tea recipes. A wonderful orange pekoe dessert soufflé from a chef at the Four Seasons in San Francisco, a recipe for tea-smoked chicken from the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong.

  And Theodosia hired Drayton Conneley away from his role as hospitality director at Charleston’s famed Vendue Inn.

  It wasn’t long before the newly energized Indigo Tea Shop, as tea salon, retail tea shop, and gift shop, became a profitable enterprise and a popular stop on Charleston’s many walking and carriage tours. Much to Theodosia’s delight, her tea shop also came to be regarded by her neighbors as the social and spiritual hub of the historic district.

  The clip-clop of hooves on the pavement outside the Indigo Tea Shop signaled that the horse-drawn coach had arrived to carry their tea-tasting visitors back to their respective inns and hotels.

  “I hope you have tickets for one of tonight’s Lamplighter Tours,” said Theodosia as final sips were taken, mouths carefully daubed, and linen napkins refolded. “Many of the historic homes on the tour are private residences that graciously open their doors only for this one special event. It’s really quite remarkable.”

  Sponsored by the Heritage Society, the Lamplighter Tour was an annual tradition in Charleston, held during the last two weeks of October when the long-anticipated cooler nights had returned. These evening walking tours of notable avenues such as Montagu, Queen, and Church Streets afforded visitors a leisurely stroll down cobblestone lanes and a golden opportunity to step inside many of Charleston’s elegant, lofty-ceilinged grande dame homes and cloistered courtyard gardens.

  “If I may impart my own personal recommendation,” said Drayton, pulling back chairs and offering his arm to the ladies, “I would heartily suggest our own Church Street walk. It begins at the Ravenel Home, a stunning example of Victorian excess, and concludes in the formal garden of the elegant Avis Melbourne Home where our gracious hostess and proprietor, Miss Theodosia Browning, has been engaged to serve a repertoire of fine teas, including a special Lamplighter Blend created just for this event.”

  “Oh, my,” said one of the ladies. “How intriguing.”

  “You have characterized it aptly,” said Drayton. “Our Lamplighter Blend is a lovely marriage of two traditional black teas with a hint of jasmine added for high notes.”

  Theodosia glanced toward the counter and grinned at Haley, who had just emerged from the back room, her arms filled with gift baskets. Haley was always accusing Drayton that his role as Parliamentarian in the Charleston Heritage Society led to oratorical extravagance.

  “Of course,” added Theodosia in a droll voice meant to be a casual counterpoint to Drayton’s, “we’ll also be serving blackberry scones with clotted cream.”

  Pleasured groans emanated from around the table.

  Catching the subtle exchange between Theodosia and Haley, Drayton snatched one of the baskets filled with small tins of tea and tied with white ribbon and held it up for all to see. “Be sure to take a quick perusal of our gift baskets before you leave.
Miss Parker here has recently taken up the art of weaving traditional South Carolina sweetgrass baskets and has become quite an accomplished artisan.”

  Haley’s face reddened at Drayton’s announcement. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  And, of course, ladies being ladies, veteran shoppers, and enthusiastic tourists, at least three of the delightfully done gift baskets were carefully wrapped in Theodosia’s signature indigo blue tissue paper and tucked safely in the carriage as they departed.

  “Did you bring Earl Grey down?” asked Theodosia after the door had swung shut and the shadows lengthened enough so she knew there wouldn’t be any more customers for afternoon tea.

  Haley nodded.

  “Earl, come on, fellow,” called Theodosia as she clapped her hands together.

  A furry muzzle poked through the draperies, then an angular canine emerged and padded softly across the wooden planks of the floor. When the dog reached Theodosia, he laid his head in her lap and sighed contentedly.

  Earl Grey, Theodosia’s adopted dog, looked a far sight better today than when she had first found him. Hungry and shivering, curled up in a cardboard box in the narrow cobblestone alley that ran behind the tea shop, Earl Grey had been an abandoned, unwanted mongrel that probably wandered the streets for weeks.

  But Theodosia found his elegant head, soft, troubled eyes, and quiet temperament endearing and took to him immediately. She nursed him, groomed him, named him, and ultimately loved him.

  When Drayton had objected to a stray dog being named after the popular nineteenth-century prime minister who first brought back the famed bergamot-flavored tea from China, Theodosia insisted the name was more an old English reference to the dog’s mottled coloration.

  “I can’t see that he’s particularly gray,” Drayton had argued, his tone just this side of vexation.

  Indeed, the dog was more salt and pepper.

  “There. On the inside of his left hind leg,” Theodosia had pointed out. “That area is distinctly gray.”

  Drayton was nonplused by the dog. “A mixed breed,” he’d declared with arched eyebrows.

  “Like blending a fine tea,” Theodosia had said with artful cleverness. She’d placed her strong hands atop the animal’s sleek head and gently massaged the dog’s ears as he gazed up at her, limpid brown eyes filled with love. “Yes,” she had exclaimed, “this fellow is a blend of Dalmatian and Labrador. A Dalbrador.” And from that moment on, Earl Grey of the Dalbrador pedigree became the beloved, official greeter at the Indigo Tea Shop and a permanent resident of Theodosia’s cozy upstairs apartment.

  “How many more sweetgrass baskets can you manage?” Theodosia asked as Haley, standing on tiptoe, arranged a half dozen of the gift baskets on a shelf behind the cash register.

  “How many do you need?”

  “My guestimate is at least fifty between now and the holidays. If our Web site is up and running by then, double it.”

  “Bethany can help me finish maybe another dozen,” said Haley, referring to her friend, Bethany Shepherd, who was temporarily living with her in the little garden apartment across the alley. “But we’ll have to buy the majority.”

  “No problem,” said Theodosia. “I was planning a drive out to the low country anyway. After I pop in on Aunt Libby, I’ll round up some more baskets.”

  Sweetgrass baskets were a staple in the makeshift stalls along Highway 17 North. Handmade from bunches of sweetgrass, pine needles, and bulrush, then bound together by fiber strips from native palmetto trees, the baskets exuded both functionality and beauty, and the women of the low country took great pride in their handiwork.

  “How is Bethany doing?” asked Theodosia, her face softening with concern for Haley’s friend whose husband had died in a car accident just eight months earlier. In the past couple of months, the shy Bethany had helped out in the tea shop a few times, and Theodosia was hoping the young woman would soon find her rudder again.

  “Good days, sad days,” said Haley in measured tones. “It’s not easy being a widow at twenty-seven. I think if Bethany didn’t have the internship to sustain her, she’d really be at loose ends.”

  “So at least that part of her life is successful,” said Theodosia.

  “Yes, thanks to Drayton.” Haley glanced gratefully toward Drayton Conneley, who was talking on the telephone, briskly finalizing details for that evening’s tea service. “If he hadn’t put in a good word for Bethany at the Heritage Society, I don’t know what she would have done. Bethany slaved to get her master’s degree in art history, but it’s still impossible to land any type of museum curator job without internship credentials. Maybe now . . .” Haley’s voice quavered and her large brown eyes filled with tears.

  Theodosia reached over and gently patted Haley’s hand. “Time heals,” reassured Theodosia in a quiet voice. “And in Charleston, time is an old friend.”

  CHAPTER 2

  DARKNESS HAD SETTLED on Charleston like a soft, purple cloak. Palmettos swayed gently in the night breeze. Mourning doves that sheltered in spreading oak and pecan trees had long since tucked downy heads under fragile wings.

  But up and down Church Street the atmosphere was alive and filled with magic. Candles in brass holders flickered enticingly from broad verandas. Clusters of Lamplighter Tour walkers thronged the sidewalks, gliding through dusky shadows only to emerge in pools of golden light that spilled from arched doorways of houses buzzing with activity, open this one special evening to all visitors who had a ticket in hand and a reverence for history in their hearts.

  Fat, orange pumpkins squatted on the steps of the Avis Melbourne Home. On the sweeping porch where a half dozen white Ionic columns imperiously stood guard, young women in eighteenth-century garb greeted visitors with lanterns and shy smiles. Their hair was nipped into sleek topknots, their step dainty and mannered, unaccustomed as they were to layers of petticoats and the disconcerting rustle of silk.

  Inside the Avis Melbourne Home, the room proportions were enormous. This was a residence designed for living on a grand scale, with gilt chandeliers dangling overhead, rich oil paintings adorning walls, and Italianate marble fireplaces in every room. The color palette was soft and French: salmon pink, oyster white, pale blue.

  More costumed guides, members of the Heritage Society, accompanied visitors through the parlor, dining room and library. Their running patter enlightened on architecture, antiques, and beaux arts.

  Down the long center hallway, footsteps barely registered on plush wool Aubusson carpets as guests found their way outside to the courtyard garden.

  It was here that many of the tour guests had now congregated, sitting at tables that ringed a central three-tiered fountain. Foliage abounded, the sound of pattering water pleasantly relaxing.

  Theodosia ducked out the side door from her command post in the butler’s pantry. For the last hour she and Drayton had been working nonstop. He oversaw the preparation of five different teas, while she hustled silver teapots out to Haley for serving, then ran back for refills. At one point they’d been so harried she’d asked Haley to make a quick phone call to Bethany and plead for reinforcement.

  Now, as Theodosia surveyed the guests in the garden, it looked as though she could finally stop to catch her breath. Haley and Bethany were moving with practiced precision among the twenty or so tables, pouring tea and offering seconds on blackberry scones, looking like French waiters with their long white aprons over black shirts and slacks. The tables themselves had been elegantly draped in white linen and held centerpieces of purple flowers nestled in pockets of greenery.

  “Theodosia, darling!”

  Theodosia turned as Samantha Rabathan, this year’s chairperson for the Church Street walk, tottered across the brick patio wearing three-inch heels and flashing a winning smile. Ever the social butterfly and fashion maven, Samantha was fetchingly attired in a flouncy cream-colored silk skirt and pale peach cashmere sweater, generously scooped in front to reveal her matching peach skin and ample endowments.
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  Theodosia tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind one ear, and rested the large teapot she’d been holding on one of the temporary serving stations. Even in her midnight blue velvet tailored slacks and white lace top, an outfit that had received admiring glances from several of the gentlemen in the crowd, she suddenly felt like a brown wren next to Samantha’s plumage.

  “We’ve got a packed house, Samantha.” Theodosia swept a hand to indicate the contented crowd enjoying tea and treats on the patio. “Your walk is a huge success.”

  “It is, isn’t it,” Samantha agreed with a giggle. “I was just calling around on my cell phone and heard that the Tradd Street walk got half our turnout.” She nudged Theodosia with an elbow and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial purr. “Did you know we sold ninety more tickets than last year? It’s a new Church Street record!”

  Last year Delaine Dish had been the Church Street chair. For some reason unknown to Theodosia, Samantha and Delaine had a weird, catty rivalry going on between them, one she had no desire to explore, much less get in the middle of.

  “Oh, my,” Samantha cooed as she fanned herself briskly with one of the tour’s printed programs. “Such a warm evening.”

  And off she went across the patio, the heels of her perfect cream shoes dangerously close to catching between the stones, her cell phone shrilling once again.

  “I can’t imagine why she’s warm,” whispered Drayton in Theodosia’s ear. “She not exactly bundled up.”

  “Be nice, Drayton,” said Theodosia. “Samantha worked hard on ticket sales and lining up volunteers.”

  “You can afford to be charitable,” he said with a sniff. “Samantha’s always been sweet to you. My guess is she’s secretly in awe of your past life in advertising. She knows you’ve sold the proverbial ice to Eskimos. But in complete, unadulterated fairness, this has been a group effort. A lot of good people worked very hard to pull this off.”