by Laura Childs
Drayton handled the front counter with great efficiency, brewing more tea and readying take-out orders of tea and scones.
“We’re certainly scrambling for a Monday morning,” Theodosia said, a little breathlessly, as she grabbed a Brown Betty teapot of Formosan oolong for one of her tables.
“Either you run the day or the day runs you,” Drayton said.
“Aren’t you the one with the silver tongue and clever quips,” Haley said. She’d suddenly appeared with a glass cake saver filled to the brim with poppy seed muffins and apple pie scones.
“What perfect timing,” Theodosia said. “My ladies at table six were just asking about scones.”
“These babies are steamin’ hot from the oven,” Haley said. “And don’t you just love the heavenly aroma of Sri Lankan cinnamon?” She gave a quick wave, then disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.
Theodosia got busy with her tea shop ballet, dipping and swaying as she took and filled orders. Then, she gracefully twirled about, grabbing fresh pots of tea and refilling cup after cup for her guests.
When it looked as if they couldn’t squeeze one more person into the Indigo Tea Shop, the front door flew open and whapped hard against the wall, as if an ill wind had suddenly blown into town.
Theodosia’s brows puckered at hearing this nasty disturbance, and she glanced up, wondering who or what had caused such an awful racket. Then her eyes fell upon Meredith Doyle. Framed in the doorway, Meredith stood there unmoving, eyes hard as marbles, wearing a severely tailored black jacket and slacks. With her fine hair slicked tightly against her skull, she looked like a religious zealot who’d arrived to pass out tracts and preach about the fires of hell.
Only Meredith’s sad, downturned mouth said otherwise. Because her expression wasn’t just intense; this was a woman who looked completely devastated.
“Meredith!” Theodosia exclaimed. Without hesitation, she flew to the front door, wrapped her arms around Meredith’s small form, and pulled her into a gentle embrace. Theodosia didn’t know Meredith all that well, but the poor woman had just endured the tragic loss of her husband as well as the fiery demise of her home. So, kindhearted Theodosia understood that Meredith deserved as much care and sympathy as she could give.
“May I come in?” Meredith asked in a small voice once Theodosia had released her from her grasp. “Or are you frantically busy?”
“Please do come in,” Theodosia urged. “In fact, we happen to have a cozy little table just for you. Right next to the fireplace.”
Thank goodness Mrs. Hawley and her sister just left!
“You are too kind,” Meredith said. She allowed Theodosia to lead her to the table, then sank gratefully into a cushioned captain’s chair that was parked there.
“And I’ll have Drayton bring you a pot of tea as well.”
Meredith reached out and grasped Theodosia’s wrist. “Just so you know, I came here to ask for your help.”
“Oh, Meredith.” Now Theodosia wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, she glanced at the front counter, where Drayton gave a quick, knowing nod. He understood that these circumstances called for a pot of strong, bracing tea.
“Please,” Meredith said. “Can you spare a few minutes?”
Theodosia did a quick check of the tea shop. Everyone was sipping tea and enjoying their scones and Devonshire cream. So yes, she did have a couple of minutes.
“You want my help . . . with what exactly?” Theodosia asked.
Meredith furrowed her brow as she fought to gather her words. “After everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I feel like I’m in way over my head. As if I’m drowning. Unable to . . .” She hesitated, struggling to organize her thoughts, then said, “Losing my beloved Reginald . . . and then that horrible fire last night.”
“Awful,” Theodosia murmured. “I’m sure you must be heartsick.”
“I am. The only thing, the single thing, that’s sustained me is that Creekmore Plantation is still standing. It wasn’t a case of total devastation. In fact, I’ve got a meeting with my insurance agent this very afternoon to talk about major repairs that need to be done.”
“So at least you have a . . . home base.” Theodosia was practically at a loss for words herself.
“Actually, Creekmore is a disaster zone. Windows smashed, the sunroom incinerated, a chimney partially crumbled. Of course there’s extensive smoke and water damage everywhere.” Meredith touched a hand to her cheek. “And my woodwork . . . all my beautiful Carolina pine! Do you know some of that wood was logged over a hundred years ago?”
“It sounds as if Creekmore Plantation will require considerable restoration,” Theodosia said.
“Yes, and thank goodness Alex has stepped in to spearhead that,” Meredith said. “In the meantime, I’ve taken a suite at the Lady Goodwood Inn so I can catch my breath and get a much-needed respite from all this . . . tragedy.”
“That’s probably a smart idea,” Theodosia said.
“I also have a funeral to plan.” Now a tear dribbled down Meredith’s pale cheek. “Then, afterward, I intend to spend more time at Divine Design. Getting back to work, designing interiors for some new clients, will help take my mind off . . . well, you know.”
“Dear lady,” Drayton said, suddenly appearing at Meredith’s table with a carefully arranged tea tray. “I’ve prepared a pot of Darjeeling tea for you. A flavorful tea with some serious body and briskness.”
“Thank you,” Meredith murmured, as Drayton poured a stream of amber tea into her teacup.
“And an apple pie scone,” Drayton said.
“Meredith was just telling me that she’ll be staying in town at the Lady Goodwood Inn,” Theodosia said.
“That sounds like a fine idea. And what about Alex and his wife, Fawn? Where will they be staying?” Drayton asked.
“They own a home just a few blocks from here. A small cottage on Tradd Street.”
“Such a lovely area,” Drayton said. “Smack-dab in the middle of the Historic District.” Drayton lived in that same part of town himself. So did Theodosia.
Meredith took a quick sip of tea. “Delicious.” Then her eyes sought out Theodosia’s. “So. Will you help me?” Then, before Theodosia could manage an answer, Meredith said, “You realize, your aunt Libby is forever telling everyone what a complete genius you are when it comes to unraveling problems and ferreting out clues and . . .” She hesitated. “And dealing with unusual murders.”
Theodosia waved a hand in the air as if trying to dispel Meredith’s words.
“Oh no. Not really.”
“Libby Bertrand doesn’t lie,” Meredith said. Her words were sharp and clipped. Just this side of being a pronouncement.
“Theodosia is rather skilled at crime solving,” Drayton offered. “You could say she’s Charleston’s very own Nancy Drew.”
Theodosia’s eyelids dropped a notch. She didn’t need Drayton lobbying her as well. “I believe, Drayton, that you have a customer waiting at the front counter?”
“Oh my,” he said, rushing off.
“You asked so many good questions yesterday,” Meredith said. “But I can see I’ve sprung my request on you way too fast . . . and I apologize.” She favored Theodosia with a self-deprecating smile. “But I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you and Drayton join me for dinner tonight at Trollope’s?”
“The restaurant your husband owns.”
“My late husband.” Meredith looked like she was about to cry again. “Oh, how I despise that term.” She blinked rapidly and managed to recover some of her poise. “If the two of you would come for dinner, maybe we could discuss some of these, um, issues. Perhaps bring Guy into the conversation as well.”
Theodosia stared at her. “Guy . . . ?”
“Guy Thorne, Reginald’s partner in the restaurant. You met him yesterday, probably even talked to him. Remember? The red-haired fellow?”
Right, Theodosia thought. The man who was so hot to move Reginald Doyle’s body.
Meredith took a few more quick sips of tea and then stood up. “You’ve been terribly kind, but now I’m afraid I must rush off. I need to deal with all of this aftermath.”
“Of course,” Theodosia said as she walked Meredith to the door. “And Drayton and I would be delighted to join you for dinner tonight.”
“Thank you, dear,” Meredith said. She turned, about to favor Drayton with a finger wave, when she suddenly spotted a colorful poster hanging on the wall. Curiosity lit her face. “What’s this?”
Theodosia touched a hand to the poster she’d created for their Gone with the Wind Tea. She’d used the image of a distraught Scarlett O’Hara silhouetted against a bright-red sunset.
“It’s a poster to advertise the Gone with the Wind Tea we’re hosting tomorrow.”
“Would you believe that’s one of my absolute favorite books?” Meredith exclaimed. “And I adore the movie, too. Always so thrilling. I’ve probably seen it at least twenty times.”
“Then perhaps you should come to our tea. I know seating is still available,” Theodosia said.
For the first time, Meredith’s mood seemed to brighten.
“I think I’d like that. And maybe I could bring Fawn along.”
“Do that.”
Meredith nodded. “This tea party sounds like a welcome diversion. Something that might help cheer us up.”
“Then we look forward to seeing both of you,” Theodosia said. She watched Meredith go, her heart feeling sad and heavy for everything poor Meredith had recently endured. Then she went back to the front counter, where Drayton and Haley were whispering to each other.
Haley straightened up. “That was Meredith?”
Theodosia nodded.
“She’s so pale and skinny. What does she live on?”
“Probably kale smoothies,” Theodosia said.
“Do you think there’s such a thing as kale tea?” Haley asked.
“Bite your tongue,” Drayton said.
5
Drayton dumped two heaping scoops of Assam into a blue-and-white Chinese teapot, added a pinch for the pot, and said, “Are you going to help Meredith?”
It was late morning, and Theodosia was busy clearing her tables and setting them for lunch.
“I don’t know. I’d like to, but the whole situation does feel a bit . . . odd.”
“Because we were right there, front and center? Because you were the one who discovered Reginald’s body?”
Theodosia lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
Drayton studied his floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with tea tins. Then he reached up and grabbed a tin of Nilgiri. “I think you should help Meredith.”
“I imagine you do, seeing as how you were such good friends with Reginald. And because the two of you served together on the board of directors at the Heritage Society.”
“There’s that. And it also feels as if something bizarre is going on.”
“The murder and the fire.”
Drayton stared at her over his tortoiseshell half-glasses. “Two horrific events that occurred within hours of each other. I mean, what are the chances?”
“Practically zero to nil. Which is why you’re about to get dragged into this pretty little mess as well.”
Drayton measured Assam tea into a second teapot. “What are you talking about?”
“Meredith invited us to have dinner with her tonight at Trollope’s. I think she wants to get our take on everything that’s happened and noodle around some ideas.”
“Ideas about suspects?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“What did you tell her?” Drayton asked.
“I said we’d love to come.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to figure it out as we go along.”
* * *
* * *
In the kitchen, Haley added a judicious shake of black pepper to a bubbling pot of crab chowder as she went over the day’s menu with Theodosia.
“I’m also baking eggnog scones,” Haley said. “Our customers always go gaga over those. Especially when we serve them with gobs of strawberry jam. And for lunch, I’ve got Hawaiian tea sandwiches, Greek salad with black olives and feta cheese, red pepper quiche, and my fabulous crab chowder. The crabmeat, I’m happy to say, was freshly picked from blue crabs just this morning.”
“It all sounds delicious,” Theodosia said. “Especially your chowder.”
Haley gave her chowder a final stir, then banged her wooden spoon against the side of the pot as if playing a timpani drum. “Now that the weather’s starting to cool, I’m going to add lots more chowders and stews to our menu.”
“Frogmore stew?” It was one of Theodosia’s absolute favorites and a low-country staple.
Haley grinned, reached a hand out, and bumped knuckles with Theodosia. “That’s a given, girlfriend.”
“How are we set for tomorrow?” Theodosia asked. “For our Gone with the Wind Tea?”
Haley took a step backward, held a hand to her forehead, and said, with as much drama as she could muster, “I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”
“Very funny.”
Then she snapped back into go-getter Haley mode. “Didn’t Drayton share the menu with you? I gave it to him, like, two hours ago.”
“He’s in one of his busy-tizzy moods. I’ll check with him later.”
But Drayton wasn’t the only one who was busy. When the big hand and the little hand both struck twelve, a whole gang of anxious customers began streaming into the tea shop.
Theodosia seated guests, recited the menu, took orders, poured tea, and generally hustled her buns off, all the while feeling a pang of regret that she hadn’t asked Miss Dimple, their bookkeeper and occasional server, to come in and help.
Oh well, at least she’ll be here tomorrow.
Drayton saw Theodosia’s plight and, in between bagging up take-out orders and brewing tea, did the honor of stepping in to refill teacups. Of course, being a dedicated tea sommelier, he couldn’t resist dispensing a few choice words of tea lore as well. But lunch went off without a hitch, and thankfully, by the time one thirty rolled around, things at the tea shop had settled down to a dull roar.
“What a crazy day so far,” Theodosia said. She rested her elbows on the counter, leaned forward, and arched her back. For some reason, she had a knot in her right shoulder. From the recoil of her gun yesterday? Or was it just garden-variety tension?
“I’ve been going slightly batty myself,” Drayton said. “Between sit-down customers and take-out orders, it’s been . . .” His words suddenly trailed off as he gazed past Theodosia. Then he said, “Bless my stars, it’s Timothy.”
Theodosia spun around to find Timothy Neville, the executive director of the Heritage Society, shrugging out of his Burberry trench coat and hanging it on their brass coatrack. Though Timothy was an octogenarian, he had the mental faculties and spryness of someone thirty years younger.
“He wants something,” Drayton said under his breath.
“I wonder what?” Theodosia said.
They found out about two seconds later when Timothy crooked a gnarled finger and suggested (ordered?) that they sit down with him. Besides being elderly, Timothy was fussy, imperious, and demanding, which meant he rarely minced words.
“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Timothy said, once they’d all settled at a table near the window. His dark eyes were pools of intensity as he leaned forward, spare and angular in his bearing.
“You’re talking about Reginald . . .” Drayton began.
“Yes, I’m talking about Reginald,” Timothy said with a staccato burst. “What else would have me this upset?”
Theodosia smiled. She knew that beneath Timothy’s crusty, cranky exterior there beat the kind and generous heart of a true Southern gentleman. He just kept it carefully hidden most of the time.
“What can you tell me about the circumstances?” Timothy asked
. “Kindly enlighten me. I know you were both guests at Creekmore Plantation yesterday.”
So Theodosia and Drayton quickly sketched a detailed version of Reginald Doyle’s getting shot during the bird hunt, as well as a description of the fire that engulfed the plantation house later that night.
“You don’t find these back-to-back disasters suspicious?” Timothy asked.
“Are you kidding? We find them beaucoup suspicious,” Theodosia said.
Timothy’s spindly fingers beat a nervous rhythm against the table.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Do?” Drayton asked, fingering his bow tie. He was suddenly at a loss for words.
“Let the sheriff’s investigation take its course,” Theodosia said.
Timothy was already shaking his head.
“Not good enough,” he said. “Realize, please, that Reginald Doyle was a dear personal friend of mine. He was also a former board member and major contributor to the Heritage Society. Reginald practically underwrote the entire Audubon Show this past June.”
“I know you two are close,” Drayton said. “Were close.”
“Reginald sat on our board of directors for a dozen years,” Timothy said. “Almost as long as you have, Drayton. When Reginald finally resigned last year, his CFO, Bill Jacoby, was kind enough to take his place.”
“Where exactly are you going with this?” Theodosia asked. Reginald Doyle’s curriculum vitae was no doubt interesting, but it wasn’t advancing their conversation. And Theodosia figured—no, she knew—that Timothy had come with an agenda.
Timothy tilted his head and cocked an eye at Theodosia, giving the faint impression of a wily magpie.
“Reginald Doyle confided in me that he planned to bequeath Creekmore Plantation to the Heritage Society,” Timothy said.
That little bombshell definitely made Theodosia and Drayton sit up straight and take notice.
“Bequeath?” Drayton stammered. “You mean give it to the Heritage Society as a gift? Wait, are you saying that Reginald wrote this bequest into his last will and testament?”