by Laura Childs
“In fact,” Doreen said slowly, “would you mind stopping at the spa later today? Like . . . maybe on your way home? I have an envelope that needs to go to Starla.” She pulled an envelope out of her pocket and gave a helpless shrug.
Theodosia recognized Doreen’s shrug as a gesture she used a lot. Whenever she didn’t want to do something herself.
“I mean,” Doreen continued, “if it’s not too much out of your way.”
“I’d be happy to help,” Theodosia said, taking the envelope. But not feeling one bit happy about it.
• • •
“What was that all about?” Drayton asked. He’d just refilled the basket of scones and put out a fresh pan of quiche.
“Doreen wants me to drop off an envelope at Gilded Magnolia Spa.”
“Now? I’d say we’re a little busy for her to be asking you to run errands.”
“No, I can do it later. What do you need from me? How can I help?”
“Well, we’re in the final countdown, probably not that many more guests will be coming through the buffet line, so we’ll need to clear and pack up pretty soon.”
“What if I started packing up in the kitchen?” Theodosia asked.
“Bless you,” Drayton said.
Back in the kitchen, Theodosia began stacking empty plastic containers into one of her baskets. Then, just as she was about to carry the basket outside, where she was parked in the back alley, she heard a faint tapping at the kitchen window.
What?
She peered out, only to find Bill Glass’s face peering in at her.
Theodosia eased open the back door. “What are you doing out there?” she hissed.
“Trying to talk to you,” Glass said. “I saw you at the funeral and then you suddenly disappeared down the rabbit hole.”
“And you followed me here?”
“Yeah. Why not? What’s wrong with that?”
“Get out of here, Glass. There’s a cop at the front door who’ll run you out of town if I give the word.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Try me.”
Glass edged toward her. “Tell me about the murder last night.”
Theodosia was taken aback. “What!” Then, “How would you know about that?”
“It’s my business to know the sordid things that go on in Charleston. That’s how my little magazine stays in business.”
“Little scummy magazine, you mean.” Theodosia turned to duck back inside, but Glass caught her by the arm.
“I have a police scanner in my car.”
“Aren’t those illegal?”
Glass smirked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Theodosia sighed. “What is it you want to know?” She figured he’d get all the details sooner or later. It may as well be sooner. “Marcus Covey, one of the waiters at Doreen’s rat tea, was found hanged inside his home.”
Glass stared at her intently. “Yeah, I know all that. What do the police think?”
“At first they said suicide, now they’re not so sure.”
“Do you think old lady Briggs offed her own husband? Do you think she could have hanged that Covey kid?”
“I think there are a number of people who could have wanted Briggs and then Covey out of the way.”
“Yeah,” Glass said. “Obviously. But what’s your personal theory?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“If you ask me,” Glass said, “I’d put my money squarely on the business partner. Reggie Huston.”
“You know,” Theodosia said, “I might be persuaded to put some coin on him, too.”
• • •
“You’re back,” Haley said when Theodosia and Drayton trooped in the back door of the Indigo Tea Shop. “How was the funeral?”
“Sad,” said Theodosia, handing Haley a basket piled with empty plastic containers.
“Silly question,” Haley said. “Funerals are always depressing. So let me rephrase that. How was the luncheon?”
“Top-notch,” Drayton said, dropping two more wicker baskets on the floor. “Your tea sandwiches and quiche were a huge hit. Doreen was delighted with the food, and her guests pretty much picked everything clean. There wasn’t a single crust left over.”
“Probably because I cut off all the crusts?” Haley said.
Drayton shrugged. “I think you know what I mean.”
“How were things here at the tea shop?” Theodosia asked. Truth be told, she’d been a little anxious about leaving Haley and Miss Dimple in charge, even though they only had to handle an abbreviated menu.
“Morning tea service and lunch couldn’t have gone smoother,” Haley said. “Since I made everything ahead of time, all we had to do was throw a couple of sandwiches on a plate and add a bowl of soup.” She grinned as she pushed a hank of blond hair out of her eyes. “You guys were hardly even missed.”
Drayton raised an eyebrow. “Hardly?”
Miss Dimple saw them all talking and came toddling over on her tiny size-five feet. She was a plump little lady, an octogenarian who still worked as their twice-a-month bookkeeper. With her halo of silver-white hair and rounded features, she bore more than a slight resemblance to a Cabbage Patch doll.
“Haley and I had so much fun,” Miss Dimple enthused. “It’s always a thrill to work here.” She gave a delighted little shiver. “Kind of like playing tea party.”
“We’re happy to have you,” Theodosia said, giving her a hug. “It’s always good luck for us when you’re able to fill in.”
“You didn’t encounter any problems in brewing the tea?” Drayton asked Miss Dimple. He sounded almost hopeful.
“Nary a one,” Miss Dimple said. “You had everything laid out so nicely. And with your precise notes for measuring and steeping times, it was practically child’s play. I didn’t even have trouble with that Fujian white tea that you said was so tricky.”
Drayton tucked his chin down. “Indeed. But of course we still have afternoon tea to worry about, and those guests can sometimes be a bit more picky. So I’d better make sure we’re properly prepared.” He took off, still mumbling to himself.
“I think his nose is out of joint because everything went so well,” Haley said.
“Drayton’s just being fastidious,” Miss Dimple said. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.
“Can you work for a few more hours?” Theodosia asked. “You know we’d love to have you.”
Miss Dimple’s eyes sparkled. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
19
Theodosia spent the next twenty minutes stowing away baskets and teakettles and grabbing a quick bite of lunch herself. Then, just as the clock was ticking toward two thirty and the tea shop was practically full, Honey and Michael Whitley sauntered in.
“Helloooo,” Honey called out in a high-pitched singsong voice. “Are you folks still serving tea?”
Theodosia turned, frowned when she saw who it was, then quickly put a pleasant smile on her face. The Whitleys weren’t exactly her dream team, but they’d shown up for afternoon tea so what could she do? Basically nothing.
“Come in,” Theodosia said. “And, yes, we’re still serving tea.”
The Whitleys crowded in eagerly.
“We missed the luncheon at Doreen’s,” Michael Whitley explained. “So we thought we’d stop by your tea shop and have ourselves a bite.”
“I’m not sure we have any tea sandwiches left,” Theodosia said.
“Oh, that’s okay, dear,” Honey said. “Just a pot of tea and some scones would be fine.”
Theodosia led them to a table, where they plopped down happily.
“We were invited to Doreen’s for lunch,” Honey said, “but we had some pressing business to take care of.” She was dressed casually now, in a white blouse and flouncy navy skirt.
&
nbsp; “Of course we attended the funeral this morning,” Michael said. He had a mint-green sweater draped around his neck in a fey-preppie-Southern manner. Theodosia snuck a look at his socks. Mint green also.
“You saw that Michael gave one of the homilies,” Honey gushed. “And what a lovely service it was. I’ve never seen more gorgeous flowers. And the music . . .”
“Quite a coup to have the media covering it,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “That’s big-time.”
“That PR lady that Doreen employs is really a whiz, isn’t she?” Honey said. She frowned slightly. “What’s her name again?”
“Starla Crane,” Theodosia said, finally managing to get a word in edgewise. “So. What kind of tea may I bring you? Maybe a fragrant Darjeeling? Or a full-bodied Assam? Or perhaps you’d like a flavored black tea—with black currants or passion fruit?”
“Do you have anything with a little spice to it?” Honey asked.
“We have a lovely Indian spice tea. Assam with cardamom, orange peel, and cloves.”
“Perfect,” Honey said. Theodosia was taken aback at how friendly Honey was acting. Every time she’d encountered her thus far, Honey had been condescending, bordering on rude. Was she suddenly up to something?
“And scones,” Michael said. “We have to have scones.”
“Those we have,” Theodosia said. “Poppy seed scones, I think.”
She put in an order for spiced tea with Drayton, then strolled into the kitchen and grabbed four scones. She placed them on a floral plate and then plopped a couple of puffs of Devonshire cream into a small glass bowl. Everything went onto a silver tray along with napkins, teacups, silverware, and a small container of fruit jam. She picked up a pot of spice tea from Drayton on the way to the Whitleys’ table.
“This looks spectacular,” Honey said as Theodosia set cups and saucers and plated scones in front of them.
“Really delish,” Michael echoed.
“Enjoy,” Theodosia told them, then went off to check on her other guests. Of course, Miss Dimple was three steps ahead of her, ferrying out refills and treating everyone like royalty. Which was just fine with Theodosia since she wanted to check in with Haley about tomorrow’s event tea.
Twenty minutes later, when Theodosia circled back through the tea room, Michael Whitley was standing at the counter, chatting with Drayton, while Honey was sipping her second, or maybe even third, cup of tea.
“We had some of your B and B customers in here the other day,” Theodosia said to her, just to be friendly. Or was she testing the waters? Whatever.
“I’ll bet you did,” Honey said. “We’ve been full up with guests lately and have tons of reservations pending. In fact, that relates directly to the business we had to take care of over lunch. We were meeting with our Realtor to discuss buying a second property.”
“Do you still have your eye on Doreen’s home?” Theodosia asked.
“Oh my, yes,” Honey said. “Do we ever. Her place is my absolute first choice. If and when she’s willing to sell, we’d go ahead and physically connect the two properties. Build a breezeway between them. That way we could carve out another six to eight suites in the Scarborough Inn and then have another eight suites in the Calhoun Mansion. Then we could use Doreen’s much larger kitchen, dining room, and two parlors for all our guest events. Not just breakfast, but mini concerts, wine and cheese parties, bridal showers, that sort of thing. And Doreen’s place even has a three-car garage and nice cement apron for additional parking!”
“It sounds like you’ve got it all planned out,” Theodosia said. There was something unsettling about the bullheaded assumptions Honey Whitley was making.
“Oh, we have a definite plan,” Honey said. “There’s just one teensy little problem.”
“The fact that Doreen doesn’t want to sell?” Theodosia said.
Honey’s brows puckered together. “She doesn’t right now. But we’ll keep chipping away at her. I’m positive she’ll eventually see the light.”
“Are you ready?” Michael Whitley asked. He was back at their table, a tin of tea clutched in his right hand. “Bought this from Drayton.” He held it up. “A tin of strawberry sencha.”
“You’ll enjoy that tea,” Theodosia said.
“Say,” Michael said. “I saw a poster for a Candlelight Tea you’re having here tomorrow night?”
“That’s right,” Theodosia said.
“Honey,” he said, “would you like to attend?”
Honey stared at Theodosia. “Do you have room for two more?”
“I’m sure we could squeeze you in,” Theodosia said. She knew for a fact they had four places open yet.
“Good,” Michael said. “Count us in.”
• • •
“You don’t mind if I scoot out of here a little early, do you?” Theodosia asked.
Drayton glanced up from his tea magazine. “Of course not. You’re the boss, aren’t you?” He’d just hung a CLOSED sign on the front door and was sitting at a table, sipping a cup of Irish breakfast tea and reading an article on the tea salons of Quebec.
“I’m not the boss, I’m one of a triumvirate,” Theodosia said.
“Mighty big word for our small shop,” Drayton replied.
“Okay, then, what if I said we’re the Three Musketeers?”
“Much better. It sounds quite . . . traditional.”
• • •
Standing at the reception desk at Gilded Magnolia Spa, Theodosia said, “I have an envelope for Starla Crane and I was told she’d be here this afternoon?”
“Oh yes,” the receptionist said. “They’re all set up in the Cypress Room. Do you know where that is or should I ring for someone to take you back?”
“I think I can find it.”
Ambling through the spa, Theodosia worked her way past the juice bar, where blenders whirled fruit and yogurt into frothy concoctions, and past a workout room where a bunch of women were dancing about and waving colorful ribbons in the air. Or maybe they were flexible rubber tubes. Whatever. To Theodosia it looked like a Chinese video she’d seen where kids waved brightly colored ribbons in front of Chairman Mao’s portrait.
Theodosia heard Starla, her voice raised raw and hectoring, before she saw her.
“Is anyone listening to me?” Starla screamed.
Theodosia hesitated in the doorway of the Cypress Room and peeked inside. There appeared to be a fashion shoot going on. A cameraman held a large video camera, while lighting and sound guys clustered around him. Three attractive-looking young women—models, presumably—were dressed in colorful yoga pants and crop tops. And then there was Starla, waving her arms and shrieking, her face gone bright pink.
“Didn’t I tell you to dial back the fog machine?” she screamed at one of the crew
“I did,” the man said. “I have.”
“Then pull it back some more. We’re trying to shoot a spa video here, in case you haven’t noticed. Not re-create the misty London back alleys of Jack the Ripper.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the man, making another quick adjustment to the fog machine.
Starla turned and glared at the models, who were whispering among themselves and tittering at some shared joke.
“You there,” Starla said. She walked over and grabbed the arm of a long-limbed blond model. “Try to look like you’re having fun, will you? Try to show some enthusiasm.” She turned to the dark-haired model. “And you, suck in your stomach, for goodness’ sakes. Do I have to remind you people for the hundredth time that this video is for a spa? Can’t you at least try to project an air of health and fitness?”
Starla moved on to the lighting guy. “Why didn’t you put a pink filter on that overhead key light like I asked?”
“We tried that,” the lighting guy said, with all sincerity. “But it looked weird. Interfered with the flesh tones
. If you look through the lens you can see what . . .”
“I don’t want to hear your opinion,” Starla screamed, cutting him off. “Just do it. And do it now, not next Tuesday.” She backed away and shook her head angrily. “Don’t you people understand that time is money?”
“Starla,” Theodosia called out, but in a normal tone of voice.
Starla whirled around. “What!”
“I have something for you,” Theodosia said.
Starla seemed to make a slight attitude adjustment as she moved toward Theodosia. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.” She reached out a hand and accepted the envelope. “Doreen told me you were going to bring this by.”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Theodosia said, partly in jest.
“No, no, we’re just in the middle of trying to tighten up our production values. Actually the shoot is going rather well.”
“You’re shooting a TV spot?”
“More like a corporate video. A fast-paced introduction to Gilded Magnolia Spa that we’ll show at the grand opening Saturday night.” She bobbled her head back and forth. “I realize it’s all very last-minute, but what can you do? The situation has changed dramatically.”
“I suppose it has,” Theodosia said, unsure as to what Starla was referring. Beau’s death? Doreen’s craziness? Starla stepping in to take over? Or something else entirely?
Starla turned and cast a dour look at the cast and crew. “Anyway, it is what it is.”
“Right,” Theodosia said. “Well, I’d better let you get back to your shoot.” She took a step backward, wondering how to extricate herself from what looked like a messy situation. Then she smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “By the way, great funeral this morning.”
“Thank you,” Starla said. “I’m thrilled we had such a great turnout. From the media, I mean.”
20
Theodosia stared at the large sheet of paper that sat on her dining room table. She’d come home, fixed a quick pasta dinner for herself and a bowl of kibble for Earl Grey, and was hard at work on . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure what it was.