Death by Darjeeling

by Laura Childs

  Tanner Joseph frowned. The gush of compliments he’d hoped for didn’t seem to be forthcoming. Instead, her comment was more a calculated, measured appraisal. A pro forma “job well done.”

  “You finished them in tempera paint?” Theodosia asked. She tapped at one of the drawings with a fingernail.

  “Colored markers,” replied Tanner Joseph. He eased himself back in his chair. She was pleased, he knew she was. He could read it in her face.

  Theodosia laid her attaché case on Tanner Joseph’s desk and opened it.

  “Drayton is going to love these,” she said. “You did a first-class job.” She placed the art boards carefully in her case, closed it, snapped the latch.

  “That’s it?” he inquired lazily.

  “That’s it,” replied Theodosia. “Send me your invoice, and I’ll make sure you receive samples as soon as everything’s printed.” She spun on her heel, heading for the door.

  Tanner Joseph stood up so quickly his chair snapped back loudly. “Don’t rush off,” he implored. “I was hoping we could—”

  But Theodosia was already out the door, striding across the hardpan toward her Jeep.

  “Hey!” Tanner Joseph slumped unhappily in the doorway of the Shorebird Environmentalist Group headquarters and waved helplessly at her.

  “Bye!” called Theodosia as the Jeep roared to life. The last thing she saw as she pulled into traffic was a forlorn-looking Tanner Joseph, wondering how things had gone so wrong.

  CHAPTER 41

  WHAT ARE YOU drinking?” asked Bethany. Drayton answered her without looking up from his writing. “Cinnamon plum.”

  He sat at the table nearest the counter, working on his article. It was 2:00 P.M., and Bethany and Haley were bored. The lunchtime customers had left, and afternoon tea customers hadn’t yet arrived. Baked goods cooled on racks, shelves were fully stocked, and tables were set.

  “Cinnamon plum sounds awfully sweet. I thought you said you never drink sweet teas,” responded Bethany.

  “I consider it more flavorful than sweet,” said Drayton as he continued writing.

  “What are you working on?” asked Haley.

  “I was working on an article for Beverage & Hospitality magazine,” said Drayton as he sighed heavily and put down his pen.

  “About tea?” said Haley.

  “Yes, about tea. I can’t seem to put my finger on the precise reason, but I seem to have completely lost my train of thought.”

  “No need to get snippy, Drayton.” Haley peered over Drayton’s shoulder. “You always write your articles in longhand?”

  “Naturally. I’m a Luddite. I abhor modern contraptions such as computers. No soul.”

  “Is that why you live in that quaint, rundown house?” asked Bethany.

  “The dwelling you are referring to is neither quaint nor rundown. It is a historic home that has been lovingly and authentically restored. A time capsule of history, if you will.”

  “Oh,” said Haley, and the two girls burst out giggling.

  Drayton turned to face them. “Instead of plaguing me, ladies, why don’t you just come right out and admit it? You’re nervous about Theodosia’s errand.”

  When he saw their faces suddenly crumple and real worry appear, Drayton immediately changed his tune. “Well, don’t be,” he replied airily. “She’s highly capable, I assure you.”

  “It’s just that everything’s been so topsy-turvy around here,” said Haley. “And now with that awful note . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I wish it hadn’t been typed. If it was someone’s handwriting, we’d have something to go on.”

  “Listen to yourself,” scolded Drayton. “You’re still talking about investigating. Don’t you know we may be in real danger? Dear girl, there’s a reason Theodosia hired a private security guard.”

  “She did?” Bethany’s eyes were as round as saucers. This was news to her!

  The doorknob rattled, then turned, and they all held their breath, watching.

  But it was Miss Dimple.

  Drayton rose from his seat and rushed over to greet her. He extended an arm to lead her to a table. “Get Miss Dimple a cup of tea, girls.”

  He sat down next to her, patted her arm. “How are you doing, dear?”

  Miss Dimple’s sadness was apparent. Her shoulders were slumped, her usual pink complexion doughy. “Terrible. I was just up in the office and I kept waiting for Mr. Dauphine to come clumping up the stairs.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

  Drayton pulled a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. She accepted it gratefully.

  Bethany and Haley arrived with a steaming teapot and teacups. “Tea, Miss Dimple?” asked Haley.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, blotting her tears.

  Drayton poured a cup of tea for Miss Dimple and, without asking, added a lump of sugar and a splash of cream.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and took a sip. “Good.” She smiled weakly, glancing around at the three of them.

  “We were all very sorry to hear about Mr. Dauphine,” volunteered Haley. “He was such a nice man. He parked his car in the alley outside our apartment. He was always worried that he’d disturb us or something. Of course, he never did.”

  “I came to tell you all,” said Miss Dimple, “that there will be a memorial service for Mr. Dauphine. Day after tomorrow.”

  “At Saint Philip’s?” asked Drayton.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dimple squeaked, and a few more tears slid down her cheeks. “He loved Saint Philip’s,” she said tremulously.

  “As do we all,” murmured Drayton.

  Thirty minutes later, when Theodosia walked in, Drayton was back at his table working on his article, while Haley and Bethany were waiting on customers. Even though almost all the tables were filled, the mood in the tea shop seemed somber and quiet.

  “Who died?” asked Theodosia, sitting down across from Drayton. Then she remembered. Mr. Dauphine had. “Oh, dear,” she said contritely, “how could I have even said that! How thoughtless of me. Forgive me, Drayton.” She went to pour a cup of tea and spilled it, so flustered was she by her inappropriate remark.

  Drayton waved a hand. “Not to worry. I think the stress is getting to all of us. And of course it didn’t help that poor Miss Dimple stopped in here a while ago. She’s going around to all the shops. Well, the ones up and down Church Street anyway. Telling folks that Mr. Dauphine’s funeral will be held day after tomorrow.”

  Theodosia nodded.

  “You picked up the artwork?” Drayton pointed his pen toward her attaché case.

  “Already dropped it by the printer. They’re probably making color plates even as we speak.”

  “No problems out there?” he asked, a pointed reference to Tanner Joseph.

  “None at all.”

  “Excellent. FedEx delivered the tea tins while you were out. There are ten cartons in back stacked floor to ceiling. Your office now resembles a warehouse. All you need is a hard hat and forklift.”

  “Let me get you a fresh cup, Theodosia.” Bethany reached over and carefully retrieved Theodosia’s cup and saucer with its overflow of tea.

  “Thank you, Bethany,” murmured Theodosia.

  Bethany transferred the cup and saucer to her silver serving tray. She hesitated. “Everything was fine with the artwork?”

  Theodosia nodded. “Bethany, you wouldn’t go out on a date with Tanner Joseph again, would you?” Theodosia asked the question as gently as possible.

  “No chance of that,” declared Bethany.

  “I’m glad,” said Theodosia, “because there is something decidedly unsettling about his—”

  “I think so, too,” whispered Bethany as she hurriedly slipped away to the kitchen.

  “Theodosia. Telephone!” Haley called from the counter.

  Theodosia hurried to the counter and picked up the phone. “This is Theodosia.”

  “Hi, it’s Jory Davis,” said the voice
on the other end.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that your private security guard has reported no unusual incidents over the last two days.”

  “He’s been watching us for two days? Are you sure? Because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone.”

  Jory Davis chuckled. “You’re not supposed to. That’s the whole point.”

  Theodosia considered his remark. “You’re probably right. I certainly appreciate your arranging for this. I’m not entirely convinced it’s necessary, but still it feels comforting.”

  “Again,” said Jory, “that is the point.” He hesitated. “Theodosia, I have two tickets for the opera tomorrow evening. Madame Bovary, to be exact.”

  She smiled, her first genuine, heartfelt smile in days.

  “Realizing this is a rather late invitation, I offer, by way of explanation, that they are my mother’s season tickets, actually quite excellent seats, and she is just now unable to attend. But I would love it if you’d accompany me.”

  “As it so happens, Mr. Davis, I am free.”

  “Wonderful. Black tie, of course. There’s a cocktail party preceding the performance and afterwards a number of small parties to choose from. I shall call for you at precisely six-thirty P.M.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Theodosia hung up the phone and whirled about to face the tea shop. So genuine was the smile that graced her face that two elderly ladies seated near the door smiled back at her.

  What a delight! she told herself. A date with Jory Davis. And to the opera, which was always fabulous. With parties before and after!

  “You look energized, Theodosia,” commented Haley. “Your face is absolutely glowing.”

  “Drayton.” Theodosia fairly skipped over to where he was sitting. “Why don’t we start filling the tea tins with the holiday blends? Get a jump on the whole process?”

  “Today? Now?” he asked, surprised by her shift in mood.

  “As soon as the customers leave. I’ve been dragging everybody down with my snooping and sleuthing, and all it’s done is put us farther and farther behind. Jeopardize business.”

  He was still staring at her.

  “Where’s the tea?” she asked. “Over at Gallagher’s?”

  “Of course.”

  Drayton always used the extensive food-prep facilities at nearby Gallagher’s Food Service to blend his teas. Now they were stored there as well, all four of the holiday blends, in their twenty-gallon airtight canisters.

  “Can they deliver today?”

  “With their fleet of delivery trucks, they can probably have the tea here in thirty minutes.”

  “Perfect,” said Theodosia.

  CHAPTER 42

  TABLES PUSHED TOGETHER, empty gold tins laid out upon

  them, glinting under overhead lights, the group was ready to begin.

  “Okay,” began Drayton, “this is going to be assembly-line style. Haley and I will begin at opposite ends. She’ll measure out the black currant blend, and I’ll do the Indian spice. You two—” he nodded at Theodosia and Bethany—“have to keep tabs and let each of us know when we’ve filled two hundred fifty tins. Then we’ll put covers on and restack the filled tins back in their original cartons to await the labels.”

  Bethany looked at the daunting task that loomed ahead. “Machines can’t do this?” she asked.

  Drayton snorted disdainfully. “Can machines create the perfect blend? Can machines add just the right touch of bergamot oil? Can machines impart care and love into each tin? I hardly think so.” Drayton dipped a glass scoop into the twenty-gallon canister, filled it to equal approximately six ounces of tea, and began pouring tea into tins at his end of the table.

  “Trust me, dear,” said Theodosia. “It won’t feel like love an hour from now. It will just feel like a sore back.”

  “You got that right,” agreed Haley, who’d done this chore for the last two years.

  “And remember,” warned Drayton, “when you close up the filled tins and put them back into the cartons, mark each carton carefully as to the blend. We don’t want to mix them up!”

  “Yes, Drayton,” said Theodosia obediently, and the two girls chuckled.

  They worked quickly and efficiently. Soon the aroma of the spicy teas filled the air, and bits of loose tea clung to their clothing.

  “This is like working in an aromatherapy factory,” joked Haley. “There are so many different essences and aromas swirling around, I don’t know whether to feel relaxed or invigorated.”

  “Just feel diligent,” said Drayton. His personality was so task-oriented that, once he started a project, he doggedly kept at it until he finished.

  “My back is killing me,” complained Haley. She had just added a fourth layer of filled tins to one of the cartons and was bending over it, about to close it up.

  “We’re almost done,” said Drayton. “It can’t be more than . . .” He carefully surveyed the table of empty tins. “Perhaps forty more tins to fill with cranberry orange blend.”

  “Tell you what,” said Theodosia. “Why don’t you let me finish up?”

  “Okay,” agreed Haley. She was tired and ready to throw in the towel.

  “But we’re almost done,” protested Drayton.

  “Exactly,” said Theodosia. “It’s late. It’s been a long day. I don’t mind finishing myself. It’ll be fun.”

  “Well . . .” said Drayton. “Be sure to mark each . . .”

  “I’ll mark each carton, Drayton,” she assured him. “Now, you folks scoot!”

  Theodosia breathed a sigh of relief as she turned the latch on the door.

  It was nice to be alone in the tea shop, she decided. Nice to be able to finish this chore at her own pace instead of whipping along, trying to keep up with Drayton’s production line.

  She turned on the radio and found a station that was playing a whole set of songs by Harry Connick. She sang and hummed along, thoroughly enjoying herself. It took her almost an hour to finish filling the tins, replace the lids securely, pack them up, and stack the boxes in her office. When she was done, she enjoyed a real sense of accomplishment. All that was needed now were the printed labels.

  Drayton was right, Theodosia decided as she surveyed the wall of floor-to-ceiling cartons. She did need a hard hat and forklift. What a huge amount of tea to sell. She definitely had to buckle down to business!

  Once upstairs in her apartment for the evening, Theodosia’s thoughts turned to her date tomorrow night. She was determined to find just the right moment to tell Jory Davis all about her private sleuthing and what she’d uncovered. He was a smart man, a lawyer. It would be valuable to get his input and hard-nosed advice. She certainly didn’t seem to be making much headway. Maybe Jory Davis would see an angle that had eluded her.

  Now, she asked herself, what would she wear? Jory Davis had specified black tie, so that narrowed it down. And the weather was still cool, so that was a factor, too. Were we talking black cocktail dress and beaded jacket or long gown with velvet opera cape? she wondered. Even though a long gown was technically not black tie, women in Charleston did tend to favor them. Especially for opening night at the opera. Oh, and there was that wonderful hand-painted velvet jacket hanging in her closet, too. Could she wear it with black velvet slacks and get away with it? Hmm . . . probably not. Might be just a tad casual. Better to go with the black dress and beaded jacket. That outfit would be classy and slimming.

  Now, what about jewelry? Small, tasteful diamond stud earrings or glitzy drop earrings?

  Just as she was beginning to think she should get Delaine on the line and do a quick consultation with the fashion police, Theodosia straightened up, cocked an ear. She’d heard a noise downstairs. A slight rattle. Subtle. Surreptitious.

  Rattle? Like someone trying to open the back door? Maybe the same someone who left a threatening note two nights ago?

  Panic gripped her heart. Her hand flailed for the light switch and hit it, dousing th
e lights. Now she pressed her face up close against the window and peered down into the alley.

  There was a car down there, all right. Its lights were off, but she could hear the low throb of an engine. It sounded almost as loud as the pounding in her chest.

  She contorted her head, trying to see more. A shadowy figure moved from her doorway to the car and climbed inside.

  What to do? Where was the security guard? She had a phone number to call—should she dial it? Yes!

  She scurried into the living room, fumbled through her purse, and found the number. Grabbing the phone, she punched in digits.

  Someone picked up on the first ring. “Gold Shield Security.”

  “This is Theodosia Browning at the Indigo Tea Shop.” Her words tumbled out, one on top of the other. “Someone’s downstairs in the alley. Right behind my shop. Someone who shouldn’t be.”

  “Calm down,” replied the voice. “Let me check my screen.” There was a pause. “Miss Browning, the security guard patrolling your area is about three blocks away. I’ve flashed him a message. Is the prowler still in the alley?”

  “Just a minute.” Clutching the cordless phone, she scurried back into the bedroom and pressed her face against the window. “Yes,” she whispered into the phone.

  “Stay on the line, please. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get a response. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Then Theodosia was standing there in the shadows, watching the dark car in the alley below, hoping the prowler hadn’t ducked back in his car for a lock pick or sledgehammer, praying he wasn’t going to step across the alley to Haley’s and Bethany’s apartment and knock on the door. Because, trusting souls that they were, they’d probably let him in!

  “Miss Browning, our guard should be there any moment. Do you see anything?” asked the voice on the phone.

  “No . . . yes!” She suddenly saw a car turn in to her alley, glide swiftly toward her shop. But now the prowler’s car below suddenly flashed its lights on and gunned the motor. The driver hit the accelerator, and the tires screeched horribly for a few seconds, then found purchase on rough cobblestones. Roaring ahead, the prowler’s car fishtailed, gaining speed. But the response car was right behind, searchlight on, accelerating full bore.