by Laura Childs
Fatcatscones.com—Frozen, ready-to-bake scones.
Kingarthurflour.com—One of the best flours for baking. This is what many professional pastry chefs use.
Teagw.com—Visit this website and click on Products to find dreamy tea pillows filled with jasmine, rose, lavender, and green tea.
Californiateahouse.com—Order Machu’s Blend, a special herbal tea for dogs that promotes healthy skin, lowers stress, and aids digestion.
Vintageteaworks.com—This company offers six unique wine-flavored tea blends that celebrate wine and respect the tea.
Downtonabbeycooks.com—A Downton Abbey blog with news and recipes. You can also order their book, Abbey Cooks.
Auntannie.com—Crafting site that will teach you how to make your own petal envelopes, pillow boxes, gift bags, etc.
Victorianhousescones.com—Scone, biscuit, and cookie mixes for both retail and wholesale orders. Plus baking and scone making tips.
Englishteastore.com—Buy a jar of English Double Devon Cream here as well as British foods and candies.
Stickyfingersbakeries.com—Scone mixes and English curds.
Teasipperssociety.com—Join this international tea community of tea sippers, growers, and educators. A terrific newsletter!
Teabox.com—Wonderful international webzine about all aspects of tea.
Serendipitea.com—They sell an organic tea named Plum Crazy. Also check out their recipe for Plum Crazy Punch.
PURVEYORS OF FINE TEA
Adagio.com
Harney.com
Stashtea.com
Serendipitea.com
Bingleysteas.com
Marktwendell.com
Globalteamart.com
Republicoftea.com
Teazaanti.com
Bigelowtea.com
Celestialseasonings.com
Goldenmoontea.com
Uptontea.com
Svtea.com (Simpson & Vail)
Gracetea.com
VISITING CHARLESTON
Charleston.com—Travel and hotel guide.
Charlestoncvb.com—The official Charleston convention and visitor bureau.
Charlestontour.wordpress.com—Private tours of homes and gardens, some including lunch or tea.
Charlestonplace.com—Charleston Place Hotel serves an excellent afternoon tea, Thursday through Saturday, 1 to 3 PM.
Culinarytoursofcharleston.com—Sample specialties from Charleston’s local eateries, markets, and bakeries.
Poogansporch.com—This restored Victorian house serves traditional low-country cuisine. Be sure to ask about Poogan!
Preservationsociety.org—Hosts Charleston’s annual Fall Candlelight Tour.
www.Palmettocarriage.com—Horse-drawn carriage rides.
www.Charlestonharbortours.com—Boat tours and harbor cruises.
Ghostwalk.net—Stroll into Charleston’s haunted history. Ask them about the “original” Theodosia!
wwww.Charlestontours.net—Ghost tours plus tours of plantations and historic homes.
www.Follybeach.com—Official guide to Folly Beach activities, hotels, rentals, restaurants, and events.
KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF LAURA CHILDS’S NEXT NEW ORLEANS SCRAPBOOKING MYSTERY . . .
Mumbo Gumbo Murder
AVAILABLE SOON FROM BERKLEY PRIME CRIME!
Monsters were out tonight. As well as two girls who’d definitely come to party.
“Jeepers!” Ava cried. “That skull puppet is a spooky devil.”
Malevolent dark eyes peered from the hollow sockets of a bleached white skull. Shrouded in purple velvet, the creature’s jagged teeth protruded rudely while its spidery, skeletal fingers reached out to stroke the arms of unsuspecting visitors along the parade route.
“You’ve never been up close and personal with the Beastmaster Puppets before?” Carmela asked her friend. They were standing on a crowded sidewalk in front of Zebarz Cocktail and Cordial House in the French Quarter of New Orleans, watching the kickoff parade for Jazz Fest.
“I’ve seen these puppets at Mardi Gras, sure, but never like this.” Ava took a step back as a scabrous wolf head leaned in and tried to nuzzle her ear. “Keep walking, big guy,” she muttered.
“Take a look at the skeleton puppet,” Carmela said as a brass band blared out raucous foot-stompin’ music, a gigantic float glided past, and a dozen Beastmaster Puppets mingled with the crowd to thrill and chill.
“The skeleton does kind of bother me,” Ava said.
“Interesting, since you have an entire retinue of skeletons dangling from the rafters of your voodoo shop,” Carmela said. She was the proprietor of Memory Mine Scrapbooking Shop over on Governor Nicholls Street; Ava Grieux owned Juju Voodoo a few blocks away on Conti Street.
“But those skeletons are under my control.”
“The giant puppets remind me of the bulbous heads on some of the Mardi Gras floats,” Carmela said. As a New Orleans native and diehard parade fanatic, she was loving this, taking it all in practically by osmosis. Fact is, you could toss a string of colored lights onto a goat cart, roll it down Bourbon Street, and Carmela would stand on the curb and cheer. She was addicted to New Orleans mirth and merriment that much.
Ava Grieux, on the other hand, was a different type of party girl. Slightly loose in her ways, she was a free spirit open to trying just about anything. And while Carmela was a jeans and T-shirt gal, Ava favored tight leather pants, skanky tops, and peekaboo lingerie. Of course, they both adored hot music and cold beer.
“The thing that amazes me the most is that real people are working their buns off inside those puppet costumes,” Carmela said.
The Beastmaster Puppets were indeed manned by a myriad of people who were dressed head to toe in black ninja-style clothing with black gauze masking their faces. They were the beating heart of the puppets and controlled the bobbing and weaving as well as the puppets’ arms. On the really large puppets, outlier puppeteers, also dressed in black, manipulated long sticks attached to the puppets’ limbs and faces. Sticks, that when worked carefully, made the puppets look both ethereal and peculiarly animated.
“Check this one out,” Carmela cried as a banshee puppet flitted past, its bug-eyed, witchy face poking forward as a trail of diaphanous garments fluttered behind it.
“Crazy,” Ava said.
Carmela was smiling at the puppets, grooving with the mood and the music. In the flickering light from the antique streetlamps, her face fairly glowed with excitement, her nearly flawless complexion enhanced by the high humidity that seemed to hold the Crescent City in a perpetual cocoon-like embrace. Carmela’s honey-blond hair was a tousled, choppy mop and her eyes an inscrutable blue-gray that often mirrored the flat shimmer of the Gulf of Mexico.
Ava shook back the long mane of dark hair that framed her exotic face. “Witches and banshees I can handle, no problem,” she said. “It’s when the puppets become this . . . active, when they take on human dimensions, then I get creeped out.”
“I guess that’s what makes these giant puppets so popular,” Carmela said. She took a quick sip of red wine from her geaux-cup and said, “Uh oh, take a look at what’s coming next.”
A hush fell over the crowd as the final parade unit appeared. It was a contingent of black-caped, chalk-faced vampires that seemed to crawl stealthily out of the darkness.
“The Vampire Society,” someone behind them said in quiet, almost reverent tones.
Four masked riders sat astride coal-black horses, the horses’ coats glistening like an oil slick and reflecting the purple-and-red neon signs from the nearby bars.
The vampires marched behind the riders in precise formation. Most of the men (and women) were tall and thin, and appeared to glide almost soundlessly.
Ava wrinkled her nose. “With that funky white makeup they look like a doomsd
ay cult.”
Carmela studied the vampires, whose faces were painted a ghostly white. Their eyes were kohl-rimmed orbs, their mouths a glistening bloodred that sported glowing white fangs. It was a look that definitely gave her pause.
Not so nice. Not that friendly.
“I guess it’s just playacting,” Carmela said finally, lifting her shoulders as if to shrug off any sort of malevolent vibe that might hover in the night air. “Perfectly harmless.” Then, “Come on, let’s follow along behind. We’ll head over to Royal Street and check out the food booths.”
Ava fluttered a hand. “You just uttered the magic words—food booths. You think they’ll have barbecued shrimp, andouille gumbo, and fried crawfish?”
“Gotta go find out.”
New Orleans was, of course, a foodie paradise. New restaurants, food halls, cocktail lounges, delis, and bakeries were opening at a dizzying rate. Here’s where those uninitiated to the dining delights of the Big Easy routinely lost their minds over gumbo, beignets, po’boys, red beans and rice, plump Gulf oysters, muffulettas, and bread pudding. To say nothing of creamy, rich crawfish étouffée, which was practically a New Orleans obsession.
Linking arms, Carmela and Ava trailed along behind the Vampire Society.
They turned the corner at Dumaine Street, walked past the Praline Factory and Toups’s Italian Bakeshop, and then turned again onto Royal Street.
“Will ya look at this!” Ava cried. “Royal Street’s been turned into a gigantic street fair.”
And she was right. All up and down Royal Street, for a good half dozen blocks, were food booths, food trucks, fortune-tellers, musicians, booths selling beads and T-shirts, and street artists. Revelers were cheek to jowl everywhere you looked—a mob of eating, drinking, dancing, good-time folks that formed a bobbling, jostling sea.
“This is what I need right here,” Ava said, diving toward a frozen daiquiri stand. “We need two in . . . what flavors do you have?” She scanned the rainbow-hued liquors lined up on the counter.
“Piña colada, amaretto, pineapple, blueberry, mudslide, and strawberry shortcake,” the bartender said, rubbing his hands on his red and white striped apron.
“What’s a mudslide?” Ava asked.
The bartender shrugged. “Chocolaty rum?”
Ava turned to Carmela. “Cher?”
“Amaretto,” Carmela said.
“Two amaretto daiquiris, please,” Ava said.
The bartender nodded, tipped a bottle into a slurry of ice, and sent it whirring through his daiquiri machine.
Once they’d grabbed their frozen concoctions, Carmela and Ava strolled along the sidewalk past several antiques shops. Royal Street was where the absolute primo shops and galleries were located, where even the locals shopped for that perfect crackle-glazed oil painting, mantel clock, or piece of antique silver to grace their dining table.
“What a perfect night,” Carmela said, as they allowed themselves to be swept along by the surging crowd. “Nice and warm . . .” She tilted her head back and smiled at the view over the Mississippi. “With a crescent moon dangling in an indigo-blue sky.”
“A fitting salute to our Crescent City,” Ava said. “Plus everything you want to eat and drink. It really is a fabulous . . .”
BANG! CRASH!
Like a clap of thunder, the noise rolled down Royal Street, crackling and booming out. Revelers paused, heads turned, and a woman gave a high-pitched scream.
There was a pregnant pause. And then it came again . . .
CRASH! SMASH!
. . . jolting everyone out of their musical-sugary-deep-fat-fried reverie.
“Somebody’s shop window just stove in,” Ava said. “When this many people are boogying together, something crazy’s bound to happen.” She sounded a little shaky, a little philosophical.
But Carmela was instantly on alert. “That wasn’t just any window.” She raised up on tiptoes and gazed down the street, not unlike a prairie dog who’d just sensed impending danger. “I think it was the front window at Dulcimer Antiques! At Devon Dowling’s shop!” She peered down the street again, deeply concerned for her friend. “Yes, that’s where the crowd’s starting to gather. Come on!”
Together, Carmela and Ava weaved and dodged their way along the crowded sidewalk, angling toward Dulcimer Antiques. “Scuse me, scuse me,” Carmela said breathlessly as she stepped on toes and caused several revelers to spill their drinks as she flew past, practically towing Ava along after her.
When they finally got to Dulcimer Antiques, the street in front was a madhouse. People milled about, screaming and pointing. The large plate glass window that fronted the store had been completely shattered. Glass lay everywhere.
“Was it terrorists?” one woman shrieked.
Another woman had blood trickling down her face and was starting to weep. She’d obviously been hit by a shard of flying glass.
“Something got tossed hard against Devon’s shop window,” Carmela said, making a hurried assessment. “Maybe from inside?” There was a gigantic hole in the center of the window, surrounded by jagged pieces of glass, as sharp and dangerous as shark’s teeth.
“This is terrible!” Ava cried. “People are hurt!”
“Where’s Devon?” Carmela wondered out loud. Worry engulfed her as she shoved her way to the front door. She put a hand on the brass knob, twisted it forcefully, and . . . got nowhere.
“Locked,” Carmela said. She knew Devon had to be inside because she could hear his pug, Mimi, barking frantically.
“Devon!” Ava cried out. Now she looked even more frightened.
More gawkers gathered as Carmela pushed her way back to the broken window. She peered through the break into the dark interior of Devon’s shop, trying to fathom what had gone on here. Sterling silver teapots, priceless Chinese vases, and antique clocks lay smashed in pieces. Lamps had been toppled. But it was difficult to see . . . very far back in the shadows.
“Devon?” Carmela called out in a strangled voice. Was he in there? Could he hear her?
She looked about frantically, saw a man wearing a giant foam baseball mitt on one arm, and snatched it from him.
“Hey!” he cried.
Carmela didn’t stop to apologize or explain. She pulled the foam mitt onto her own arm and batted aside shards of glass as she lifted a leg and stuck it through the shattered window. She had to find Devon, she had to see if he was okay. Had he possibly sustained some sort of cardiac incident and collapsed against the front window? Was someone in there with him? Had there been a knockdown, drag-out fight? Was Devon in dire trouble?
Carmela swatted another nasty shard aside and stepped all the way through the window, her shoes immediately crunching hard upon broken glass.
“Devon?” Carmela called out, louder this time. “Mimi, sweetheart?” The little pug danced toward her, eyes rolling in fear, still barking frantically.
Crunching her way forward, Carmela stepped carefully into the darkened shop. Two steps in, then three. She stopped and drew a shaky breath. The place carried the scent of old canvases, dusty furniture, and something else . . .
Carmela shook off the mitt and reached around blindly, finally touching a lamp. She fumbled with the switch, feeling grateful when it came on with a tiny click, spilling its warm yellow glow.
“Devon?” Carmela said again.
Then her eyes were drawn downward by Mimi’s terrified bark. And there, sprawled on a Persian carpet, eyes drooped shut, head in a puddle of dark crimson blood, was Devon Dowling!
WATCH FOR LAURA CHILDS’S NEXT TEA SHOP MYSTERY
Lavender Blue Murder
A British-themed hunt ends in a blast of buckshot and sends Theodosia scrambling for answers.
AND ALSO THE NEXT CACKLEBERRY CLUB MYSTERY FROM LAURA CHILDS
Battered Eggs
Between a truck heist,
missing person, and gruesome killing, Suzanne hopes the “something borrowed, something blue” at her wedding doesn’t turn out to be bloody blue murder.
Find out more about the author and her mysteries at laurachilds.com or become a Facebook friend @LauraChildsAuthor.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Childs is the New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. In her previous life she was CEO of her own marketing firm, authored several screenplays, and produced a reality TV show.
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