Shades of Earl Grey

by Laura Childs

  “By capacity, you mean profits,” she said.

  “Of course I mean profits. Profits are the lifeblood of a business,” said Drayton, ever mindful of the bottom line.

  “What would we need to do?” she asked. “File something with the city for a permit?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Maybe your friend, Jory Davis, could look into it.”

  “Good idea,” replied Theodosia, then added, “or is it too late in the year? We could get a cold snap any day now.”

  “Then we’ll be well prepared for spring,” Drayton assured her.

  By two o’clock things had settled down to normal.

  Haley was rattling dishes in the kitchen, clearing away lunch, and had already put a couple pans of gingerbread in the oven in anticipation of the afternoon tea crowd. Drayton was seated at the table nearest the counter, munching his prawns and doing a highly adequate job of snaring the slippery Japanese soba noodles with his pair of wooden chopsticks. Theodosia was arranging antique teacups and muffin plates on the high shelf behind the counter where their old brass cash register sat.

  She had collected dozens of teacups over the years, a hard-to-find Shelley Apple Blossom, several Limoges, and a pretty fan-handle Russian teacup from the Popov Porcelain Factory, to name just a few. And she’d decided it was a shame to keep so many stored away in boxes. Better to bring them downstairs and create a fanciful display.

  “That’s a lovely Shelley,” called Drayton from his table.

  Theodosia held up the Shelley Apple Blossom for him to admire. It was creamy white bone china covered in a riot of pink apple blossoms. It was also one of the cups and saucers that was most prized among the many avid Shelley collectors throughout the world.

  “As you probably know,” Drayton told her, “I’ve got the Shelley Dainty White in the Queen Anne style. Setting for eight. Hudgins Antiques offered me fifteen hundred for it just last year.”

  “Did you consider selling?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not, it’s worth twice that. Besides, I love those dishes. They were passed down to me by my dear Aunt Cecily.”

  When the front door fluttered open a few minutes later, it wasn’t the first wave of afternoon customers come for tea. Instead, Detective Burt Tidwell strode forcefully into the room.

  Burt Tidwell wasn’t exactly one of Theodosia’s favorite people. But then again, Burt Tidwell wasn’t anyone’s favorite person. An ex-FBI agent, Burt Tidwell lived in Charleston in what he considered a state of semiretirement. Which, for the driven, results-oriented, obsessive-compulsive man that he was, meant he was employed full-time, working a sixty-hour week as lead homicide detective for the Charleston Police Department.

  Brash, bordering on boorish, Tidwell’s physical being projected his inner personality. What you saw was what you got. A tall man, way beyond heavyset, Tidwell had a strange bullet-shaped head that seemed to rest directly upon his shoulders. Worse yet, Tidwell was a bulldog with steel jaws, tenacious, slightly ill-tempered, perpetually dubious.

  Yet Burt Tidwell did have a certain way about him. When he chose to be, Tidwell could border on courtly, particularly in discussions with women. He was an avid reader and a keen admirer of Sartre, Hemingway, and Octavio Paz. Many years ago, back when FBI agents were also required to have law degrees, Tidwell had attended Harvard and so still had a keen sense of the written word.

  Theodosia seated Tidwell at the table with Drayton, then quickly ferried over cups, saucers, a pot of tea, plates, napkins, silverware, and a tray of assorted goodies.

  When she finally sat down next to Tidwell, Theodosia didn’t mince words.

  “What do you know about cat burglars?” she asked him.

  But Tidwell wasn’t about to let her slip into a prosecutorial mode quite so easily. He took a sip of tea, allowed his eyes to rove across the tray of baked goods. “Pray tell, what is this delightful-looking bread?” he asked with an inquisitive air as he hooked the plate with his index finger and pulled it toward him.

  Realizing Tidwell wasn’t going to be as forthcoming as she wished, Theodosia slid the butter plate toward Tidwell. “Persimmon bread,” she told him.

  “And the tea is . . .”

  “Assam. Taste the sweetness?”

  “I do. As well as a slightly malty flavor.”

  “Why, Detective Tidwell, I do believe you’re becoming a tea connoisseur,” said Theodosia as Drayton looked on, pleased.

  Tidwell picked up the cloth napkin and daubed at his lips. “You never know, dear lady, you never know.”

  “Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “you received my e-mail and my slightly abbreviated account of the two thefts.”

  “The wedding ring and the gems at the Heritage Society. Yes, I did,” he said. “Additionally, I spoke with the two investigators, Jacob Gallier and Peter Delehanty, who are currently working both cases. They’re not convinced the two incidents are at all related.”

  This was surprising news to Theodosia. “How could they not look at them in the same context?”

  Tidwell shifted his eyes from the persimmon bread to Theodosia’s face. “What is your interest in this?” he inquired.

  “My friends are involved,” she said. “I’m worried about them.”

  “Ah,” he said, “assuming the worries of the world again, are we?” Tidwell shook his great head slowly. “Oh, to be young and burning with such inner fire.”

  “You were saying,” prompted Theodosia, “that Mr. Gallier and Delehanty do not think the two thefts are related?”

  Tidwell chewed thoughtfully. “From their perspective, the first incident at the Lady Goodwood Inn seems more like an unfortunate accident.”

  “And the second incident?” asked Drayton, suddenly deciding to join the conversation. “The missing necklace at the Heritage Society?”

  “That is a clear-cut robbery,” said Tidwell. “No one’s disputing that.” He swiveled his head toward Theodosia and bore into her with small, intense eyes. “But according to the rather rambling e-mail you forwarded to me, you believe there is some mysterious cat burglar prowling the historic district.”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Theodosia said. “And I do think the two cases are related.” She looked at Drayton, who hovered nearby, for confirmation.

  “We both do,” he said.

  Tidwell sat back in his chair with an air of finality. “And you’d like me to expound on what I know concerning the phenomenon known as the cat burglar,” he said with a sigh.

  “Could you?” asked Theodosia with an encouraging smile.

  Tidwell reached one paw up, absently brushed stray bread crumbs from the lapels of his tweed jacket. “Closest thing you can compare it to is a great white shark,” he said.

  “What a strange analogy,” Theodosia said, looking perplexed.

  Tidwell grimaced. “In my experience, which admittedly is quite limited, a cat burglar tends to be a territorial creature. If the feeding is plentiful in one place, he will tend to stay put.”

  “And the feeding should be mighty plentiful in Charleston,” murmured Theodosia. “Think of all the estate jewelry that’s here. Or the priceless antiques and oil paintings that grace so many of the homes in the historic district.”

  Tidwell nodded. “A tasty treasure trove, indeed. Old families, old money. There is a lovely synchronicity at work.”

  “So we have to just sit around and wait for this cat burglar to strike again?” asked Drayton somewhat peevishly.

  Tidwell reached for a second slice of persimmon bread, took a large bite, chewed with great enthusiasm, swallowed. “If he strikes at all,” said Tidwell. “Let me again emphasize that my experience is limited. However . . .”

  “However what?” asked Drayton.

  “There is another breed of cat burglar,” said Tidwell. “And that is the migratory kind.”

  “Versus the territorial kind,” said Drayton. Now his lined face betrayed a fair amount of skepticism.

  “Exactly
,” said Tidwell. “This migratory version follows the goods.”

  Theodosia and Drayton exchanged puzzled looks. “Which means . . .” prompted Theodosia.

  Tidwell rocked back in his chair and the ancient wood creaked in protest. “For openers, there’s the summer social season in the Hamptons, opera season in New York, then a long stretch of charity balls in Palm Beach.”

  Drayton’s mouth opened then closed. “Oh,” he finally said. “I see what you mean.”

  Theodosia deftly slid the plate of baked goods closer to Tidwell. “If you had a gut feeling, how would you characterize our fellow?” she asked.

  “If I listened to my gut, I wouldn’t help myself to a third pastry,” said Tidwell with a rueful smile. He reached for a croissant, slid it onto his plate. “Alas, dear girl, I can offer you no great insight.”

  Drayton and Theodosia sat there looking slightly deflated.

  Tidwell saw their distress. “What I may be able to parcel out,” he added, “is a small amount of information. The robbery division is working up a guest list from both functions. If something strange rears its head, I’ll let you know. How would that be?”

  “Good enough,” said Theodosia. “Thank you.”

  Tidwell raised a furry eyebrow and cast a warning glance at her. “You can keep your eyes open,” he told her, “but I warn you right now, do not make any attempt whatsoever to track, trail, or apprehend anyone you deem a potential suspect.” He continued to gaze steadily at Theodosia. “Is that clear?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Of course,” Tidwell repeated. “Miss Browning, your voice carries such a tone of innocence. But why do I sense a certain degree of insincerity in your promise?”

  “No, I’ll be careful,” Theodosia assured him. “Really I will.”

  “When are we going to talk about the open house?” asked Haley. She’d emerged from the kitchen and now stood hands-on-hips, staring at Theodosia.

  Theodosia, standing up on tiptoes with her right arm extended, stopped in mid-stretch. She’d almost finished arranging her display of teacups.

  The finished T-Bath products had all arrived, the shipping cartons stacked so high in her office it made it almost impossible to navigate her way to her desk. And the invitations for this Thursday’s afternoon reception had been mailed out well over two weeks ago. So far almost three dozen people had responded with RSVPs and she was confident quite a few more people would just spontaneously drop by. But drop by for what? Their big event was now three days away and it still needed to be finalized!

  “I’m sure nobody feels like planning this thing,” continued Haley in a somewhat plaintive tone of voice, “but it is on our schedule.”

  “You’re right,” said Theodosia. “And it’s not that we don’t want to plan it, we’ve just been caught up in other things.” She glanced across the room at Drayton. “Drayton?” she called.

  He looked up from where he was pouring a warm-up cup of tea for two women seated near the front door and held up a finger. “Be there in a sec,” he answered back.

  “What I thought,” said Haley moving into her take-charge mode, “was that we’d try for a kind of Zen-like atmosphere. Try to capture the feeling of relaxation and renewal that the T-Bath products are supposed to impart.”

  Theodosia nodded. “That sounds like a great idea. We could use a stress-free zone around here.”

  “And if we brought in some of Drayton’s Japanese bonsai trees, they’d make cute accent pieces for all of the tables.”

  “You think he’ll let us?” asked Theodosia. “He’s awfully protective of those trees of his.”

  Drayton had joined them now and was nodding enthusiastically. “Only the Fukien tea plant and the jade tree stay at home. They’re the most sensitive. As for the others, the maples, junipers, and larches . . . well, you know I never miss a chance to show off my bonsai,” he added with a modest grin.

  “Great,” continued Haley. “Then, what if on the main table, the buffet table, we have a real knockout floral arrangement. Something very Asian looking. I don’t know what you call those arrangements, but they’re quite artsy and contemporary looking. I was thinking we could do something with orchids surrounded by stalks of bamboo?”

  “I believe the correct term is ikebana,” said Drayton. “It’s Japanese flower arranging at its most fanciful. In fact, ikebana literally translated means ‘fresh flower.’ You might call it the bonsai of flower arranging.”

  “Okay,” said Haley. “Great.”

  “We’ll ask Hattie Boatwright over at Floradora to design something for us,” suggested Drayton. “She took an ikebana workshop with me a few years ago and her arrangements turned out far better than mine.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “But then, she’s a professional.”

  Haley continued ticking off ideas in rapid-fire succession. “And the refreshments at our main table should include Japanese green tea, some sushi, nothing too exotic, maybe some California rolls, and some of those little kushiyaki sticks. You know grilled chicken and vegetables with teriyaki sauce?”

  “Can you make the California rolls?” asked Theodosia, “or should we ask Miyako’s Sushi to do the catering?”

  “I can do it,” said Haley. “Once I cook the rice and season it properly with wine vinegar, the rest should be a snap.”

  “Listen to her,” said Drayton. “She doesn’t even need us.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” said Haley. “You two have to figure out where to display all our nifty products. Then you should probably make up some gift baskets for sale, probably using those extra sweetgrass baskets we have in back. And—” she looked around “—oh yeah, dig out those tiny little Japanese cups we’ve got stored around here somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 8

  IN 1929, WITH an eye to the future and their collective hearts set squarely in the past, Charleston’s city council passed the nation’s very first zoning ordinance to protect many of their city’s historic buildings. Two years later, they went a step further and set aside a full twenty-three square blocks of the peninsula—what is known today as the historic district—containing a rich assortment of historic homes as well as significant commercial, religious, and civic buildings.

  The result is a breathtaking architectural preserve. The historic district is replete with Colonial, Georgian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal-style buildings, as well as many examples of the ubiquitous Charleston single house, that have remained unchanged for well over a century. And even though the occasional hurricane blows in to rearrange things (such as Hurricane Hugo did in 1989), the streets are still lined with graceful live oaks, enormous mulberry bushes, and flowering magnolias, and the hundreds of hidden, backyard private gardens are nothing short of breathtaking.

  As Theodosia stepped across the patio of the Heritage Society, she was delighted to see that some craftsperson had pieced together the beginnings of what would probably be a splendid-looking wrought iron bench.

  Based on the design of a Victorian love seat, the bench was fashioned in a graceful S-curve, with one seat facing one way and another seat facing the opposite way.

  Theodosia noted the sections where additional scroll-work would be added and decided the new bench was pretty and whimsical and would be a perfect addition to the patio outside the Heritage Society, since so many of their parties seemed to spill outside anyway.

  “That’s going to be a lovely bench,” she told Claire Kitridge, one of the Heritage Society secretaries, who was seated at the massive wood reception desk. Claire had worked at the Heritage Society for several years and always seemed extremely dedicated.

  Claire nodded her frizz of grayish hair. “Isn’t it?” she responded. “I’m just crazy over anything that’s wrought iron?” she said, allowing her voice to rise at the end of her sentence, making her statement sound like a question.

  Sitting at the desk with her blue oxford shirt tucked into a plain navy skirt, Claire looked busy and efficient. She wore nary a speck of makeup a
nd had her glasses strung around her neck on a practical silver chain. Theodosia had always thought Claire to be a straightforward, no-nonsense type of woman. But she also knew that Claire was a devotee of antique linens and had amassed a spectacular collection.

  “Still sorting through flea markets, Claire?” Theodosia asked.

  Claire fixed her with an eager gaze. “You wouldn’t believe the luck I’ve had. I just stumbled upon some spectacular linen napkins? Damask, woven back in the twenties for the ocean liner, the Queen Mary? Wonderful,” she declared. “So crisp and smart. They certainly don’t make them like that anymore.” Claire paused expectantly. “I found some old tea towels, too, if you’re interested?”

  “I am, but I’m going to have to find a bigger house,” bemoaned Theodosia. Tea towels were another one of her passions. Just like her collection of teacups.

  “Tell me about it,” laughed Claire. “Between my linens, eiderdowns, and antique lace, it’s really getting out of hand. My house looks like a Victorian parlor run amuck. Think I can stop, though? Hah!” She suddenly spun her chair a half-turn, snatched up the phone. “You’re here to see Timothy?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, would you see if he can spare a few moments?” Theodosia asked.

  “Of course,” said Claire. She punched a couple buttons. “Mr. Neville? Miss Theodosia Browning is here at the front desk? Could you . . . of course, I’ll tell her.” Claire hung up the phone and smiled at Theodosia. “Mr. Neville said to come right in. You know which office is his?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Theodosia.

  “Let me know about those tea towels,” called Claire as Theodosia started down the hall.

  “What do you think?” Timothy asked Theodosia as she stepped into his office. “An authentic Sully or a very good copy?” His arm made a sweeping gesture to indicate a portrait of a woman framed in gilt.

  Theodosia took a few steps forward and studied the portrait that lay on Timothy’s desk. She knew that Thomas Sully was a distinguished painter who had lived and worked in Charleston for many years. He had produced a fairly large body of work, but he’d had his imitators, too. Then again, what successful artist didn’t?