by Laura Childs
“You look like a character out of a William Faulkner novel,” Haley quipped. “All you need are Drayton’s reading glasses perched on the end of your nose.”
Theodosia ignored her. “These are all the sales receipts, correct?”
“Should be, unless you want me to pull computer records, too.” Haley sobered up. “We don’t need to do that, do we? I think it would just duplicate efforts.”
“If the two of us go through these, we should be able to sort out sales receipts on everyone who purchased a tea infuser.”
Because the Indigo Tea Shop maintained a customer database for the purpose of sending out newsletters and direct mail, customer names and addresses were almost always entered on sales receipts.
Haley looked skeptical. “Which kind? Spoon infusers, mesh ones with handles, tea ball infusers?”
“All of them,” declared Theodosia. “You take these three stacks, I’ll take the others.”
“What about infuser socks?” asked Haley.
“Anything having to do with tea infusers means infuser socks, too.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just double-checking. I’m worried about Bethany, too.” Haley bent diligently over her stacks of papers.
“You’re sure Bethany didn’t fill in here before six months ago?” asked Theodosia. She was concerned about the window of time they were checking.
Haley squinted thoughtfully. “Before last May? No, I don’t think so.”
Two hours later, they had sifted through all the receipts and found, amazingly, that the Indigo Tea Shop had sold almost fifty tea infusers in the last six months.
“Now we’ve got to try to rule some people out,” said Theodosia, overwhelmed at the sheer number of receipts just for tea infusers.
“Such as?” said Haley.
“Tourists, for one thing. People who stopped by for a cup of tea and made a few extra purchases.”
“Okay, I get it,” said Haley. “Let me go through these fifty then. See what I can do.”
Fifteen minutes of work produced a modicum of progress.
“I think we can safely rule out about thirty of these,” reasoned Haley. She indicated a stack of receipts. “These customers are all from out of state and fairly far-flung. California, Texas, Nevada, New York . . .”
“Agreed,” said Theodosia. “So now we’re down to local purchases. Who have we got?”
Haley passed the remaining handful of receipts to Theodosia. “Those two sisters, Elmira and Elise, who live over the Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop. Reverend Jonathan at Saint Philip’s. A couple of the B and Bs.”
Theodosia studied the culled receipts. “Mostly friends and neighbors,” she said. “Not exactly hardcore suspects.”
“Lydia at the Chowder Hound Restaurant down the street bought three of them,” said Haley. “Do you think she had it in for Hughes Barron?”
“I doubt she even knew him,” murmured Theodosia. “Okay, Haley, thanks. Good job.”
“Sorry we couldn’t come up with something more definitive.” Haley hesitated in the doorway, feeling somehow that she’d let Theodosia down.
“That’s all right,” said Theodosia. “Thanks again.”
Theodosia reached for the clip that contained her thick hair and yanked it out. As her hair tumbled about her shoulders, she thought of all the things she had left undone at the shop, how she’d even missed this week’s therapy dog session with Earl Grey.
Her heart caught in her chest. Earl Grey. The dog she’d found cowering in the alley out back, the dog that was her dear companion. Someone, quite possibly the person who had murdered Hughes Barron, had threatened to poison Earl Grey if she didn’t back off.
Okay, Theodosia thought to herself. Following up on these sales receipts was going to be her last effort. And if it didn’t pan out, she would back off.
Sitting in her chair, trying to focus, Theodosia leafed through the stack of twenty or so receipts Haley had culled out.
Lydia at the Chowder Hound. Could she have had any sort of connection to Hughes Barron? Or, for that matter, any of the possible suspects? Her gut feeling told her probably not.
And Samantha Rabathan had bought a tea infuser a few months ago. Theodosia pondered this, thought about probable connections. What if, just what if Samantha purchased the tea infuser for the Heritage Society?
Samantha was kind of a goody-goody that way. When she wasn’t out winning a blue ribbon for her spectacular La Reine Victoria roses or flitting about being a social butterfly, she spent a good portion of her time as a volunteer with the Heritage Society. She worked in the small library and helped the development director entice new donors.
So it was possible that Timothy Neville might be behind this after all.
Timothy Neville could have done away with Hughes Barron and somehow planted the tea infuser with Bethany’s fingerprints as false evidence. He knew her prints would have thrown the police off the track. That is, if the police ever got onto that track in the first place.
Well, there was only one way to find out. She would go and ask Samantha if she’d bought a tea infuser for the Heritage Society. Samantha might think it a strange question, but she’d probably be too polite to say so.
CHAPTER 48
PAVED IN ANTIQUE brick and bluestone, accented by a vine-covered arbor, Samantha Rabathan’s garden was a peaceful, perfect sanctuary. Flower beds arranged in concentric circles around a small pool had lost much of their bloom for the season but, because of the great variety of carefully selected greenery, still conveyed a verdant, pleasing palette.
“Yoohoo, over here, dear,” called Samantha.
She had seen Theodosia approach out of the corner of her eye, had heard her footfalls. Still on her hands and knees, Samantha looked up, a smile on her face and pruning shears in her hand.
“Artful pruning in autumn makes for healthy flowers in spring,” said Samantha as though she were lecturing a garden club. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, even though the afternoon sun kept disappearing, without a moment’s notice, behind large, puffy clouds.
Theodosia gazed about. The garden was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. At the same time, Samantha’s garden always seemed a trifle contained. So many of Charleston’s backyard gardens felt enchanting and mysterious because of their slightly wild, untamed look. Vines tumbling down crumbled brick walls, tree branches twining overhead, layers of lush foliage with statuary, rockery, and wrought iron peeking through. These were the places Theodosia thought of as secret gardens. And there were many in the old city.
“How is everyone at the tea shop?” Samantha inquired brightly.
“Good,” said Theodosia. “Busy. We’re right in the middle of inventory, so everything’s a muddle.” She thought this little story might help deflect any flak concerning her tea infuser inquiry.
“Sounds very tedious,” said Samantha as she picked up a trowel, sank it deep into the rich turf, and ousted an errant weed.
“Only way we can get a handle on reorders,” said Theodosia as Samantha tossed the weed into a carefully composed pile of wilted blooms and stems.
“Samantha,” continued Theodosia, “did you purchase a tea infuser for the Heritage Society?”
Samantha finished tamping the divot she’d created, stood up, and gave a finishing stomp with her heel.
“Why, I think perhaps I might have. Is there a problem, Theodosia? A product recall?” Now her voice was tinged with amusement. “Tell you what. Come inside, and we’ll have ourselves a nice cup of tea and a good, friendly chat.”
Without waiting for an answer, Samantha stuck her steel pruning shears and trowel into the webbed pockets of the canvas tool belt she wore cinched around her waist, linked her arm through Theodosia’s, and pulled her along toward the back door of her house.
“Look, over there,” Samantha said, pointing, “where I planted my new La Belle Sultane roses last year. What do you bet that in five months I’ll have blooms the size of your fist!”
Sam
antha fussed about in her kitchen, clattering dishes, while Theodosia seated herself in the small dining room. Samantha had an enviable collection of Waterford crystal, and today it was catching the light that streamed through the octagonal windows above the built-in cabinets in a most remarkable way.
“Here we are.” Samantha bustled in with a silver tea service. “Perhaps not as perfect as you serve at the Indigo Tea Shop, but hopefully just as elegant.”
Theodosia knew Samantha was making reference to her silver tea set. Not just silver-plated, the teapot and accompanying pieces were pure English sterling, antiques that had been in Samantha’s family for over a century.
“Everything is lovely,” murmured Theodosia as Samantha stood at the table, held a bone china cup under the silver spout, and poured deftly.
Theodosia accepted the steaming cup of tea, inhaling the delicate aroma. Ceylon silver tips? Kenilworth Garden? She couldn’t quite place it.
As Theodosia lifted her cup to take a sip, her eyes fell upon the livid purple flowers banked so artfully on the cabinet opposite her. Funny how she hadn’t noticed them before. But then the sun had been streaming in and highlighting the crystal so vividly.
The purple blooms were like curled velvet and bore a strange resemblance to the cowled hood of a monk’s robe, she noted. Pretty. But also somewhat unusual.
Images suddenly drifted into Theodosia’s head. Of flowers she’d seen elsewhere. Purple flowers that had graced the wrought-iron tables the evening of the Lamplighter Tour. Mrs. Finster at Hughes Barron’s condominium holding a vase of dead flowers. Deep purple, almost black. Papery and shriveled.
Theodosia put her teacup down without taking a sip. The fine bone china emitted a tiny clink as cup met saucer. Suddenly she understood what kind of poison had been used to kill Hughes Barron and how easily the deed had been accomplished.
As understanding dawned, the chastising voice of Samantha Rabathan echoed dreamlike in Theodosia’s ears.
“You’re not drinking your tea,” Samantha accused in a peevish, singsong voice as she slipped quickly to Theodosia’s side.
Theodosia, stunned, gazed down at the teacup filled with deadly liquor, blinked, lifted her head again, and stared at the steel-jawed pruning shears with their curved Bowie knife blade and sharp tip poised just inches from her. In a single, staggering heartbeat she saw anger and triumph etched on Samantha’s face.
“Hughes Barron,” whispered Theodosia. “Why?”
Samantha’s mouth twisted cruelly as she spat out her answer. “I loved him. But he wouldn’t divorce her. Wouldn’t divorce Angelique. He promised he would, but then he wouldn’t do it.”
“So you poisoned him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh, please. At first I only tried to make him sick. So he would need me. Then I . . .” Samantha’s eyes rolled crazily in her head as she jabbed with the pruning shears, the sharp tip pressing in, dimpling the skin of Theodosia’s neck again and again.
She’s having some sort of breakdown, thought Theodosia. The nerves that connect her thoughts with her actions have somehow short-circuited. She’s divorced herself from reality. At the same time, Theodosia knew she had to try to keep Samantha talking. Keep Samantha communicating and engaged, seeing her still as a person. Theodosia shuddered, trying to keep at bay the thought of those nasty carbon steel pruning shears slicing into her neck.
“What are they?” Theodosia’s voice was hoarse. “The purple flowers.”
“Monkshood,” snapped Samantha.
“Monkshood,” repeated Theodosia. She’d learned something about this plant in the botany class she’d taken back when she first became serious about the tea business. Monkshood contained the deadly poison aconite. It had been used for centuries. The Chinese dipped arrows and spears in aconite. In England the plant was called auld wife’s huid. And, indeed, the potent petals had turned many an old wife into a widow.
“Don’t be impolite,” taunted Samantha. “Drink your tea.” The sharp point traced a circle on Theodosia’s neck, slightly below and behind her left ear.
Theodosia flinched at the needlelike pain. That’s where the carotid artery is, she thought wildly.
“The tea,” spat Samantha. “You are fast becoming a rude, unwelcome guest who has severely stretched my patience!” The last half of her sentence came out in a loud, shrill tone.
Anger flickered deep within Theodosia, replacing fear. This woman, with cold, cunning calculation, had poisoned Hughes Barron. Had gone on to threaten Earl Grey. And now, this same deranged creature was within an inch of inflicting bodily harm on her! Smoldering outrage began to ignite every part of her body.
Theodosia raised her right hand slowly, extending it tentatively toward a tiny silver saucer where a half dozen cubes of sugar rested.
“May I?” asked Theodosia.
Samantha’s laugh was a harsh bark. Her head jerked up and down. “What’s that silly song? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down? Go on, help yourself, you prim and proper little simp.”
Theodosia reached for two cubes, clutched them gently between her thumb and forefinger. Feeling the fine granulation of the sugar cubes between her fingers, she was also keenly aware of cold steel pressed insistently against her neck.
As she drew her hand back, Theodosia suddenly dropped the sugar cubes as if they were a pair of hot dice. Her right hand wrapped around the handle of Samantha’s handsome silver teapot, clutching it for dear life. With every bit of strength she could muster, Theodosia swung the heavy teapot, filled to the brim with hot, scalding tea, toward Samantha. The silver lid flew forward, cutting Samantha in the cheek. Then hot tea surged out and met its intended target, splashing directly into Samantha’s face.
Samantha threw back her head and howled like a scalded cat. “My face! My face!” she shrieked. The garden shears flew from her hand and clattered to the floor as her hands flailed helplessly. “You nasty witch!” She gnashed her teeth in pain and outrage. “What have you done to my face!” Samantha tottered back unsteadily, eyes blinded by the viciously hot liquid, her hair drenched.
Theodosia bent down and snatched up the pruning shears. Then she reached over and plucked the steel trowel from Samantha’s webbed belt as well. Like disarming a gunslinger, Theodosia told herself recklessly.
Samantha had one hand on the wall now, hobbling along, trying to cautiously feel her way toward the kitchen. “Help me!” she yowled. She was stooped over and bedraggled. “Cold water . . . a towel!”
Theodosia pulled her cell phone from her handbag and dialed Burt Tidwell’s number. Tidwell’s office immediately patched her through to his mobile phone.
Theodosia barked Samantha’s address at Tidwell, admonishing him to get here now, even as she stepped outside and stood on the front porch to finish their terse conversation. Then she collapsed tiredly on the steps and dropped her head in her hands. She tried not to listen to Samantha’s pitiful cries.
CHAPTER 49
YOU ALL RIGHT?” Tidwell peered inquisitively into Theodosia’s face. He had arrived ten minutes earlier, breathless and bug-eyed, gun drawn. Two patrol cars, lights flashing, sirens screaming, had been just seconds behind him.
Theodosia took a deep breath, then blew it out. “I’m okay.” Tidwell had led her gently from her perch on the front steps to more comfortable seating on the porch’s hanging swing.
“You’re sure?” One of Tidwell’s furry eyebrows quivered expectantly. “Because you look awfully pale. Ashen.”
“It’s just my post-traumatic stress look,” Theodosia said slowly. “Comes from confronting murderous maniacs.” There was a slight catch in her voice, but there was a touch of humor, too.
Tidwell cocked his head, studying her. “You’re right. You do project a certain been-to-the-edge look.” He grinned crookedly, but his manner was respectful.
Theodosia sat silently for a few moments, staring at Tidwell’s big hands fidgeting at his side. “Did you talk to her?” she finally asked.
Tidwell nodded gravely. “She wasn’t making a lot of sense, but, to answer your question, yes, I did.”
“I was so off base,” fretted Theodosia. “I was so sure Timothy Neville was the murderer. And that was only after I’d cast suspicions toward Lleveret Dante and Tanner Joseph as well.”
Burt Tidwell pulled himself up to his full height, sucked in his stomach, and gave her a look dripping with reproach. “I beg your pardon, madam. Kindly do not denigrate or underestimate your efforts. Justice will be served precisely because of your actions.”
As if on cue, the front door snicked open, and two uniformed officers led a handcuffed Samantha out onto the porch. The officers had allowed her to pull a pink wool blazer over her gardening clothes and tie a matching paisley scarf, turban style, around her head. Even though the scarf was pulled down across her ears, angry red blotches, the beginnings of blisters, were visible on one side of her face.
Samantha, hesitating at the top of the steps, looked around dazedly. As she suddenly spotted Theodosia, something akin to recognition dawned.
“Theodosia.” Her mouth twitched in a slightly vacant smile. “Be a dear and water that basket of plumbago, will you? And do take care with the sun.”
CHAPTER 50
SHE HELD A knife to your throat?” squealed Haley. “Haven’t you been listening?” Drayton returned snappishly. “Theodosia just told us it was pruning shears.” Still shaken to the core by Theodosia’s recent brush with danger, Drayton stretched an arm across the table and clasped his own hand warmly atop Theodosia’s. “Anyone knows a tool like that is a deadly, dangerous weapon!”
Drayton, Haley, and Bethany had sat incredulous and openmouthed as Theodosia related the bizarre string of events that had unfolded at Samantha Rabathan’s house. In fact, when Burt Tidwell led Theodosia into the tea shop some ten minutes earlier, pale and still slightly shaken, Tidwell had pulled Drayton aside for a hastily whispered conversation. Drayton listened to the amazing story and thanked Tidwell profusely. Then the usually unflappable Drayton had fairly kicked the few remaining customers out of the shop. As Haley declared later, this was the one time Indigo Tea Shop customers got the bum’s rush!