Pekoe Most Poison

by Laura Childs

  “Frantic,” Drayton said.

  “It doesn’t look frantic.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, Theo. Suffice it to say I missed you. But enough about my woes. How was your visit to Gilded Magnolia Spa? Did you learn anything new?”

  “For one thing, I met Big Reggie.”

  Drayton threw her a quizzical look. “Big Reggie?”

  “That’s what everyone who works there calls Reggie Huston,” Theodosia said. “Mostly because of his big personality and big, bad temper.”

  “That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging.”

  “In meeting Reggie, he struck me as someone who loves having a fancy title, but doesn’t really want to do any of the work.”

  “In other words, he’s living off Beau Briggs’s good graces,” Drayton said.

  “More likely Doreen Briggs’s good money.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s not a good situation at all,” Theodosia said. “I’m guessing that if Big Reggie continues to run the spa, he’ll fleece Doreen like a prize sheep. Until she eventually goes broke.”

  Drayton looked downcast. “That’s terrible. So . . . where do we go from here? What do we do next? How do we put a stop to Big Reggie’s reign of terror?”

  Theodosia tapped a toe nervously and looked around. “I’m not sure. It’s an awful lot to think about. Maybe we should worry about our Madame Pompadour Tea first? We’ve got almost twenty reservations and I’m sure a few more people will wander in looking for lunch.”

  Drayton nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But please, Theo, keep working on this.”

  “I will. You know I will.”

  • • •

  Wednesday might have been their Madame Pompadour Tea, but it was also let’s-stop-in-for-lunch-at-the-Indigo-Tea-Shop Day for Theodosia and Drayton. Their reservations streamed in, as well as customers who just popped in for the fun of it. Two B and Bs (not the Scarborough Inn) sent groups of guests their way, and a horse-drawn jitney stopped outside and all the passengers jumped off and came tumbling in. Except, of course, for the chestnut horse, who was given a feed bag as he waited patiently outside.

  “This is crazy,” Drayton said as teakettles burbled and teapots steeped, enveloping them in a fragrant cloud of steam. “We’re absolutely jammed.”

  “Just keep those pots of tea coming,” Theodosia told him. She was taking orders, rushing them into the kitchen, then picking up finished orders to deliver to tables. Drayton had brewed Adagio Tea’s Madame de Pompadour, a lavender tea imbued with fresh fruit flavors and a hint of smokiness, and that had proven to be a huge favorite. That and the rose petal scones.

  “We can’t keep up this pace,” Drayton said as Theodosia grabbed two just-filled floral teapots.

  “Can you say ‘profitable’?” she asked. “Remember how I talked about making a profit versus just making a living?”

  “We’re making a profit?” Drayton asked.

  Theodosia nodded.

  “Then I shall work harder. My two-week vacation to the tea shops and manor homes of the Cotswolds still looms on the horizon. Along with my need for plane tickets and hotel reservations.”

  “And by the way, you’re supposed to be out there front and center to give a little speech.”

  “Do I have to?” Drayton asked.

  “People will expect it,” Theodosia said. “I’m sure you don’t want to disappoint.”

  “No,” he said, “you’re right. The Indigo Tea Shop never disappoints.”

  So Drayton traded his apron for a tweed jacket, gave his bow tie a final tug, and stepped around the corner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to our Madame Pompadour Tea.” Necks craned, chairs swiveled, and all eyes were suddenly on Drayton. He held up one of the menus. “You’ve all received souvenir menus, so you’re quite familiar with the delicious food we’ll be serving today. But I thought I’d give you a short primer on Madame Pompadour herself.” He gave a quick smile and continued. “The marquise de Pompadour, also known as Madame Pompadour, was a member of the French court and a close friend and confidant to King Louis XV. At an early age, she played the clavichord, danced, sang, and painted. It was this artistic beginning that laid the groundwork for her prestigious position at court. She became a major patron of architecture and the arts and was a patron of the philosophers of the Enlightenment, including Voltaire. As a champion of French pride, we salute Madame Pompadour’s accomplishments today with our special tea, French cheeses, pâtés, macarons, and pain au chocolat.”

  “C’est magnifique,” someone called out as Drayton finished.

  Another woman shouted, “Très bien!”

  “Do you think they liked it?” Drayton asked as he joined Theodosia back at the counter.

  “No,” she said. “I think they loved it.”

  • • •

  By one thirty, the luncheon was pretty much concluded and Theodosia found a little time to breathe. Good thing, because Delaine came strutting in like an entitled grand duchess. Looking like one, too, in a plum-colored tweed skirt suit, matching cap set with a jaunty feather, and an enormous jewel-encrusted pin on her jacket lapel.

  “You just missed our Madame Pompadour Tea,” Theodosia told her.

  Delaine waved a hand. “No time.”

  “You want to grab a quick bite?” Theodosia asked. She looked around. “Maybe sit by the window?”

  Delaine’s feather bobbed in agreement as Theodosia led her to a table.

  “I’m still holding several dresses for you,” Delaine said as she plopped down and made herself comfortable. “I wish you’d find time to drop by Cotton Duck.”

  “I’ll for sure try,” Theodosia said. “But I’ve been awfully busy.”

  “Haven’t we all,” Delaine said. She pulled a compact from her purse and hastily checked her lipstick.

  Something about the small bronze disk looked familiar to Theodosia. “Your compact . . .”

  “Glam Baby Cosmetics,” Delaine said, smiling at herself in the tiny mirror and then snapping it shut.

  “Now isn’t that interesting. I was just looking at some of their products this morning. Over at Gilded Magnolia Spa.”

  Delaine raised her thinly penciled brows. “The spa is carrying Glam Baby in their gift shop?”

  “Yes, they are. How do you know about those products?”

  “Glam Baby is a brand-new line that was just being introduced when I attended the Makeup Show in Orlando,” Delaine said. “Who knows, if it gets popular enough I might start carrying it at Cotton Duck.” She gave Theodosia a thin smile. “The woman who developed that makeup line lives right here in Charleston. In fact, she stopped by my shop earlier this week to deliver her sales pitch along with a few nice samples.”

  “Who’s that?” Theodosia asked. “Do I know her?”

  “I don’t think so. Her name is Jemma Lee and . . . well, you can read about her right here . . .” Delaine snapped open her bright red Chanel bag and pulled out a colorful brochure. She handed it to Theodosia. “It tells all about Miss Lee and her products. You’re welcome to keep that brochure if you want.”

  Theodosia skimmed the brochure, which pictured a number of Glam Baby products, all encased in cool, bronze-hued compacts and tubes. “This is a pretty comprehensive line,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?” Delaine said.

  Theodosia turned to the brochure’s back page. A color photo showed Jemma Lee, the makeup line’s founder, smiling brightly. The woman had dark hair, wide-set, slightly canted eyes, and wore lots of bright red lipstick on her pouty lips.

  With a start, Theodosia recognized her.

  Wait a minute. Isn’t this the woman Big Reggie had his arm around in the photo that was sitting on his desk? Sure it is. It has to be the same girl. Now I know how she managed to get her products into the sp
a’s gift shop so easily.

  “Excuse me,” Delaine said. “About how many carbs are there in one of your scones?”

  Theodosia looked up from the brochure. “I don’t know, maybe twenty?”

  Delaine made a face. “That sounds a little low to me.”

  “Okay, then, thirty-six carbs. Does that make you happy?”

  “No!” Delaine shrieked. “Absolutely not. Perhaps I’d better order a poached chicken breast instead.”

  “We’ve got chicken mousse pâté.”

  Delaine shook her head.

  “Suit yourself then.”

  Delaine stared at Theodosia through half-lidded eyes. “You know, Theo, man—and particularly woman—does not live by bread alone. You have to incorporate a little Paleo in your diet as well.”

  “Got it,” Theodosia said. She pulled out her order pad. “One low-carb, no sauce, no salt, poached chicken breast coming right up.”

  “Thank you.”

  As fresh as if I’d just grabbed the bird and wrung its little neck. Or yours.

  • • •

  As soon as Theodosia put in Delaine’s order, she told Drayton about Glam Baby Cosmetics.

  “The thing is, they weren’t going to carry the makeup line at all, and now they are.”

  “You think Big Reggie killed Beau just so his girlfriend could have her makeup line in the gift shop?” Drayton asked. “I find that awfully far-fetched.”

  “Are you kidding?” Theodosia said. “These days perfect strangers are murdered for twenty bucks and a carton of Marlboros. Or a slightly dented laptop computer.”

  Drayton shook his head. “It’s a different world. You see why I try to resist change?”

  “And a fine job you do,” Haley said as she swung by to drop off a plate of scones. “No cell phone or laptop computer for Drayton, and he only plays vinyl records on . . . wait, what was that called again? A phonograph?” She chuckled. “Your life is like a perfect time capsule from 1972.”

  “You weren’t even born then,” Drayton said.

  Haley cocked her head and grinned. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know about the olden days.”

  “Kindly don’t upset the tea sommelier,” Drayton said. “He might just spill something on you.”

  Haley raised both hands in a sign of surrender. “Okay. I’m going, I’m going.”

  Drayton turned to Theodosia. “About your boy, Fat Reggie . . .”

  “Big Reggie,” Theodosia said.

  “Whatever,” Drayton said. “I don’t think he’d kill his business partner just to get his girlfriend’s line into the gift shop. It’s not that big a deal. But he certainly could be embezzling the spa’s money.”

  “Or he might have designs on running the place all by himself,” Theodosia said.

  “Do you think Gilded Magnolia is profitable?”

  “Run correctly, I think the spa could be extremely profitable,” Theodosia said. “They’re high-end, don’t have a lot of competition, and offer a very desirable product.”

  Drayton looked curious. “That being . . . ?”

  “Pampering.”

  • • •

  By two thirty, Theodosia was sitting in her office, noshing on a scone, and sipping a cup of oolong tea.

  “What do you think of that Simpson & Vail oolong?” Drayton asked. He was suddenly lounging in the doorway, looking very dapper in his gray herringbone jacket and primrose-pink bow tie.

  “It’s delicious. Very fresh and bright, with a fragrance like honeysuckle.”

  “What is it you’re doing on that computer of yours?” he asked.

  “Exactly what you asked me to do. I’m running a search on Angel Oak Venture Capital.” Theodosia’s expression turned to one of concern. “From what I’ve found so far, they don’t exactly have a stellar track record.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “I guess not. Not considering the way Robert Steele was pitching last night anyway. With his slick huckster salesman’s patois.”

  “Maybe because he really is a slick huckster?” Drayton asked.

  “According to an article I found that ran in the Post and Courier’s business section, the state attorney general has looked into his company a couple of times.”

  “That’s never good,” Drayton said. “Do you think Steele completely conned Beau Briggs out of his money?”

  “I don’t know. And I’m not exactly sure how to find out, short of dangling a pile of money in front of Mr. Steele.”

  “To see if he lunges at it like a hungry crocodile?”

  Theodosia smiled as she glanced back at her screen. “Something like that.”

  “I spoke with Timothy Neville earlier today.”

  Theodosia looked up from her work again. “About Doreen’s grant? Or possible grant?”

  “Obviously that’s preying on Timothy’s mind. But he has something else that he’s bouncing around, too. He wondered if we could drop by the Heritage Society later this afternoon. Would you have time?”

  “I think so,” Theodosia said. “Why? What’s up?” She picked up a copy of The Tea House Times and began thumbing through it, her eyes falling upon a short review of a new tea shop that had just opened in Savannah.

  “Timothy is interested in harnessing our brain power.”

  That caught Theodosia’s attention even more. “Brainstorming? About what?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to wander over there and find out.”

  15

  In Drayton’s eyes, the Heritage Society wasn’t just a nonprofit organization. To him it was a temple of knowledge, a place where like-minded history buffs gathered to exchange ideas, and a repository of fine art and cultural treasures.

  To Theodosia, the Heritage Society represented a grand old building with stone turrets, creaking staircases, lead-paned windows, and enormous fireplaces. Add in the Oriental rugs, velvet draperies, leather furniture, fine art, and private library, and you had a place you could practically call home, should your taste run to medieval castles or eighteenth-century manor homes. It was baronial splendor at its best. In her wildest fantasies, she could almost imagine living there.

  “Let me check in at the reception desk first,” Drayton said as they entered the marble-tiled foyer. “I probably have a few memos and a stack of mail waiting for . . .” He stopped abruptly as a woman in a black leather jacket came barreling out of nowhere. “Whoa!” His tin of tea was almost knocked out of his hands.

  The woman skidded to a wild stop in front of him and flashed an angry, confrontational glance, as if Drayton had no business blocking her way.

  Theodosia instantly recognized Starla Crane.

  “Starla?” she said.

  Starla, who also recognized Theodosia and Drayton at the exact same moment, planted herself stolidly in front of them and said, “What on earth are you two doing here?”

  Theodosia wanted to ask her the same thing, but deferred to Drayton for an explanation.

  “If you must know,” Drayton said, “I serve on the Heritage Society’s board of directors.”

  “Oh really,” Starla said in a condescending tone.

  “Let’s go,” Theodosia said. They didn’t have to stand there and put up with Starla’s nonsense.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Drayton said, “we have a rather important meeting to attend.” They brushed past her, with Starla barely yielding an inch.

  “Well, la-di-da,” Starla called out, throwing them another hostile glance.

  “I wonder what she was doing here?” Theodosia said, once they were halfway down the hallway and out of earshot.

  “No idea,” Drayton said. “But I detest the idea of her setting foot in this place. I love the Heritage Society, and I don’t want it touched by her bad temperament.”

  “I hear you,”
Theodosia said. Starla had invaded Drayton’s turf and it had unsettled him to no end.

  Drayton stopped in front of the arched doorway that led into the Great Hall. “But I refuse to let that woman bother me.” They both gazed into the Great Hall, where curators and their assistants were scurrying around, setting up a new installation. “You see what’s going in?” he said. “A rare weapons show featuring pieces used in the military, as well as for hunting and dueling.”

  “That sounds like it could prove very popular,” Theodosia said.

  “Which is exactly what we need right now. An exhibit that will bring more people in.”

  “Bring more money in,” Theodosia said. “That seems to be the major concern.”

  They continued down the hallway and then veered left into the administrative wing, where most of the offices were housed. Stopping outside a large door, Drayton knocked softly. “Timothy?”

  “Come in,” Timothy Neville called out. “It’s open.”

  “It’s us,” Drayton said as they both filed into Timothy’s slightly darkened office.

  Timothy gave a faint smile. “About time.”

  Timothy Neville was an octogenarian with the mental faculties and spryness of someone forty years younger. His skin stretched tightly over his compact skull, his dark eyes were pools of intensity, and he was lean and angular. He sat (in a special chair raised to make him appear taller) behind an enormous rosewood desk littered with antique magazines and anchored by a fine old Cartier pen set in a solid gold holder. A bronze dog made by the French artist Emmanuel Frémiet held a large stack of papers in place.

  Timothy himself was impeccably dressed in a gray pinstripe suit. His pocket square was red Chinese silk and his Church brogues were buffed to a high-gloss shine. His office looked just as buffed. High, varnished shelves held all manner of antiquities that included rare coins, Greek statues, American pottery, and even a jeweled crown that had once belonged to some long-exiled Russian prince.