Lavender Blue Murder

by Laura Childs

Fawn took a single step closer, looking flustered, and said, “I think I might owe you an apology.”

  “For what?” Theodosia asked. She knew darned well what Fawn was referring to, but those were the first words that popped out of her mouth.

  Fawn looked down at her shoes in embarrassment.

  “I think I might have been overly dramatic at your tea shop this afternoon. And then, that argument I had with Jack Grimes . . . well, I apologize if I caused you any distress.”

  “Fawn, you seemed like the one who was in distress.”

  Fawn shook her head. “Oh, not really.”

  Theodosia brushed aside Fawn’s words. Clearly, the girl was downplaying the entire episode.

  “Fawn, if you’re in trouble—and I’m referring to the problem between you and Alex that you shared with me earlier today—then we need to get you some professional help.”

  Fawn just stared straight ahead at Theodosia. She seemed a little dazed, a little out of it.

  “I shouldn’t have brought any of that up. I was wrong to unburden myself on you.” Fawn picked at an invisible piece of lint on her sweater.

  “Fawn, are you feeling okay? Because what you told me about Alex was very upsetting. And the way you reacted to Jack Grimes . . .”

  Fawn pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Really. I shouldn’t have said a word to you. Shouldn’t have bothered you at all.”

  “It’s no bother. And everything you divulged seemed quite serious.”

  Theodosia focused carefully on Fawn. The girl seemed changed tonight. Perhaps because her attitude now seemed more indifferent? Theodosia wasn’t sure she and Fawn were even communicating on the same frequency.

  “You know what? I can handle it,” Fawn said. “All I really want to do is get out of my marriage unscathed, be done with the whole thing. Because that family . . .” She stopped and shook her head.

  “Fawn, what did you mean when you told Jack Grimes that he didn’t have an inkling of what was going on?”

  “Nothing,” Fawn said. She started to walk away. “I meant nothing by it.”

  “Fawn . . .” Theodosia called after her. But Fawn was already gone. Melted into the gathering mist.

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time Theodosia got to Drayton’s house, she felt hopelessly confused by Fawn’s mixed messages. Did Fawn genuinely need help? Or had the girl been overly theatrical—as she’d claimed?

  Standing on Drayton’s side piazza, ringing his doorbell, Theodosia decided that she’d better tell Drayton about . . .

  “There you are! And precisely on time!” Drayton exclaimed as he pulled open the door. He was still wearing a coat and tie—his self-imposed dress code—as a sharp volley of barks erupted directly behind him. Earl Grey suddenly lunged past Theodosia, slipping through the doorway and practically knocking Drayton head over teakettle. Then Earl Grey’s barks joined Honey Bee’s in a rising canine chorus of excited yips and yipes.

  “At least they’re happy to see each other,” Drayton said, as he led Theodosia into his kitchen.

  “Maybe we should put them in the backyard? Let them run wild and burn off some of that energy?”

  “Good idea,” Drayton said. He opened another door, and the two dogs surged out into his fenced backyard.

  “Will your bonsai be okay?” Theodosia asked. Drayton had a small patio and a thin ribbon of green lawn. The rest of the yard was taken up by a Japanese pavilion, fishpond, groves of tall bamboo, winding gravel paths, and all manner of benches and pedestals where his prize Japanese bonsai were on display.

  “As long as the dogs don’t chew any plants down to their nubbins, we’ll be fine,” Drayton said. He stepped over to his stove, where two pots bubbled enticingly.

  “Whatcha got going there?” Theodosia asked. She was suddenly hungry. It had been a long, trying day.

  “I’m making pasta with a cream sauce of sun-dried tomatoes and country ham.”

  “Sounds delish.” Theodosia gazed about Drayton’s elegant little kitchen. The stove was a six-burner Wolf gas range, the sink was custom hammered copper, and the cupboards were all faced with glass, the better to show off his collection of teapots and Chinese blue-and-white vases.

  “Is that new?” Theodosia pointed to a tall blue-and-white vase decorated with clouds and fanciful dragons.

  “Just got it last week, as a matter of fact. Like it?”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Ever since the Empress of China arrived in New York Harbor in 1785 with her hold full of blue-and-white pots, collectors have been in love with these beauties.” Drayton smiled, nodded, and grabbed a wooden spoon.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Theodosia asked.

  “Actually, yes.” Drayton handed her a pair of oven mitts. “You can drain the pasta while I finish off my sauce. I need to add a touch more cream.”

  Theodosia ferried the pan of pasta to the sink and dumped it into a waiting colander.

  “It’s also critical to add my strips of ham at the very last moment,” Drayton said as he fiddled away, “because I don’t really want to cook them, just warm them ever so slightly.”

  “Okay, pasta’s drained. Now what?” Theodosia asked.

  “I’ll take it from here.” Drayton mounded pasta in two majolica bowls and topped each nest with generous amounts of his finished ham and sun-dried tomato cream sauce. They carried their bowls into an adjoining dining room, where candles flickered on the table, a nice Barollo wine chilled in a wine bucket, and a loaf of warm, crusty French bread was nestled in a sweetgrass basket.

  “This is so formal,” Theodosia said as she sat down.

  “Formal is good,” Drayton said. “Most people today are too informal. They’ve forgotten or forgone some of the little niceties when it comes to dining.”

  “I think that’s what brings folks to our tea shop.”

  Drayton nodded. “You’re exactly right. There’s a genuine hunger for the graciousness of a tea experience. The white linen tablecloths, the polished silver, the good china . . . people love it. You might even say they crave it.”

  “To say nothing of our food.”

  “And our tea,” Drayton said. “With our international selection of fresh, whole-leaf teas, there isn’t another tea or coffee shop in town that even comes close.”

  Drayton poured out glasses of red wine, and they enjoyed their pasta then, talking easily, chatting about friends, about the upcoming Ghosts & Galleons boat parade for Halloween. They did not mention the very dead Reginald Doyle, nor did they talk about possible suspects. That would all come later. For now, it was enough to sit on velvet-tufted chairs and enjoy fine food and wine in Drayton’s lovely and sophisticated dining room with its crystal chandeliers, damask draperies, and Sheraton sideboard.

  “Music,” Drayton said, suddenly springing up from his chair and heading for his stereo. “We’ve been so busy talking and eating that I forgot all about it.”

  He dropped a needle on a record, and lovely music from a suite of violins immediately filled the house.

  “What is that, Mantovani?” Theodosia joked.

  “I’ll have you know it’s one of the Mystery Sonatas by Biber.”

  “Mystery,” Theodosia said. “As in murder mystery.”

  “We haven’t talked about that yet,” Drayton said as he returned to the table.

  “Maybe we should.” Suddenly, the events of the past three days came flooding back to Theodosia.

  “Let me clear first. Then we can enjoy some cookies and dessert tea in the library,” Drayton said.

  “Let me help.”

  They carried their dishes into the kitchen, dumped them into the dishwasher (Drayton’s one concession to all-out modernity), and brought the two dogs inside. Drayton brewed a pot of black currant tea, and they carried that, along with a small plate of ginger-cardamom cookies, into the library.

  “I sure do love this room,” Theodosia said as she flopped into one o
f the cushy leather chairs that faced his marble fireplace. “It must be heavenly to laze around here on rainy days.” Her eyes took in his walls of leather-bound books, a painting of an English countryside, and a few antique tea caddies.

  “I lucked out with this house,” Drayton said. “Even though it’s well over one hundred sixty years old, it’s solidly built and has everything I could want, and then some. Even the library shelves are original built-ins, so I didn’t have to endure endless days of sawdust and shuffling workmen.”

  “Like I am now?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it quite that way,” Drayton said.

  “I know you didn’t.” Theodosia took a sip of her tea and said, “I ran into Fawn Doyle on my way over here.”

  “Where was she running off to?”

  “That’s the strange thing. She seemed to be out wandering.”

  “Trying to clear her head?”

  “I suppose, though she acted rather strangely.”

  “I think it runs in the family,” Drayton said. “You’ve obviously noticed how needy Meredith is.”

  “High-maintenance,” Theodosia said.

  “Still, it’s greatly appreciated by everyone that you’ve agreed to look into Reginald’s murder.”

  “Even though I haven’t turned up much of anything so far.”

  “Say now.” Drayton bent forward and plucked a magazine off a small round table. “Have you seen the new issue of Southern Interiors Magazine?”

  “Is it the one featuring your house? No, I haven’t seen it yet.” Theodosia curled a hand. “Gimme, gimme.” She’d given Drayton styling advice during the photo shoot and was eager to see the final result.

  Drayton handed Theodosia the magazine and watched, almost shyly, as she eagerly thumbed through it.

  When Theodosia got to the middle section, she said, “OMG, Drayton. They gave you the center spread!”

  Drayton looked pleased as he fingered his bow tie. “Yes, I believe they did.”

  Theodosia studied the photographs. They were rich and warm, showcasing his rooms to perfection.

  “The photos came out beautifully,” Theodosia said. “Just look at this shot of your dining room. It’s gorgeous. And the one of you posing in front of the fireplace. You’re the epitome of a perfectly dapper Southern gentleman.” She lowered the magazine. “You could get an agent, do some modeling.”

  “I hardly think so,” Drayton said, trying to downplay her praise. “As you well know, I had major reservations about opening up my home to such a large readership. Now I have to admit I was wrong. This entire spread has exceeded my expectations.”

  Theodosia was delighted that the photos captured the Southern aristocratic elegance of Drayton’s home yet still managed to make it look cozy and homey.

  “The text is beautifully written, too,” she said. “Descriptive and filled with details, but not overly flowery. You see, not every magazine is as tacky as Shooting Star.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  Theodosia set the copy of Southern Interiors Magazine back on the small table and picked up a copy of Charlestonian Magazine. “Since when do you subscribe to this one?”

  Drayton shrugged. “I don’t. It just started appearing one day.”

  “You must be on some sort of comp list,” Theodosia said as she flipped through the colorful city magazine. “Kind of interesting, though.” She paused at the restaurant section and looked at the listings. Turned the page to the New Restaurant Feature section. Scanned the article, blinked, and stared again at what she was reading.

  “What?” Drayton asked.

  “Holy cats!”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever hear of Mr. Toad’s Restaurant?” Theodosia asked.

  “No, why?”

  “It’s brand-new. Apparently, just opened. And you’ll never guess who the owner is.”

  “Clearly, I haven’t a clue.”

  “It’s that Carl Clewis person that Reginald Doyle was at war with.”

  Drayton leaned forward in his chair. “You’re not serious.”

  Theodosia thumped two fingers against the page. “I can’t make this stuff up.”

  “Let me see.”

  Theodosia passed the magazine to Drayton and watched as he pulled his tortoiseshell half-glasses from a jacket pocket.

  “How very strange,” he said, as he skimmed the article.

  “Now I ask you,” Theodosia said, “what motive would Carl Clewis possibly have had for getting rid of Reginald Doyle?”

  Drayton glanced up at her, looking slightly owlish in his glasses. “Besides making the Axson Creek thing go away?”

  “That’s right.”

  “By the facetious tone in your voice, I imagine you’re hinting that perhaps Clewis tried to make a competing restaurant go away, too?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Theodosia said. She thought for a moment and said, “But the thing is, Charleston’s become such a foodie town, what with all the new restaurants, bistros, and craft breweries. So how exactly would Carl Clewis benefit from making just one single restaurant disappear?”

  “Where is this Toadies located?” Drayton asked.

  “Mr. Toad’s.”

  “Whatever,” Drayton said as he searched the article. “Oh, here it is. The place is on King Street.”

  “Same street as Trollope’s Restaurant,” Theodosia said.

  “Which is strangely interesting.”

  “Maybe it’s time I talked to Carl Clewis in person.”

  “Do you really think that’s wise?” Drayton asked.

  Theodosia gave a wry smile. “Probably not. But it’s time somebody got his side of the story.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia returned home with a very tired, played-out Earl Grey, a list of suspects surrounded by question marks, and a hunger to finally meet the elusive Carl Clewis.

  It seemed to Theodosia that almost everyone had a motive, almost everyone carried a deep, dark secret. There were lots of moving parts just like . . . well, just like in an official police investigation.

  But any more investigating and theorizing would have to wait until tomorrow, though she wasn’t sure when or how she could work it into her busy schedule. Right now it was time to retire upstairs to her reading nook, immerse herself in a few chapters, and slip off to bed.

  “C’mon,” she said to Earl Grey as he followed her upstairs. “Time to hit the hay.”

  Theodosia kicked off her shoes and padded into her tower room. She loved it here. There was always the warm, familiar aroma of tea and fresh flowers along with an undertone of her Chanel No. 5.

  She was also well aware of the hygge trend that was still sweeping the country. Hygge was the Nordic notion of creating a space that fostered a feeling of coziness and contentment. In fact, she’d been way ahead of the curve when she designed her combination upstairs bedroom, reading nook, and walk-in closet. She’d long been a fan of soy candles, cashmere blankets, feather beds, fresh flowers, and drinking tea out of china cups. Add to that vintage French fabrics, colors of pale peach, alabaster, and light blue, a few antique quilts, and loads of pillows . . . and presto, instant Southern-style hygge.

  Theodosia took off her gold hoop earrings and dropped them onto a Florentine tray. Then she settled into her easy chair to read. Two minutes in, she heard the throaty rumble of a sports car in the alley down below. Earl Grey barely lifted his head, but she stood up and peered out her window.

  Headlights strobed brightly, then a sleek, dark shape shot down the driveway that bordered her yard. It was her neighbor coming home. The hedge fund guy who lived in the rather opulent Granville Mansion directly adjacent to her much smaller (and more tastefully appointed, she thought) Charleston cottage.

  Yes, Robert Steele, owner of the somewhat questionable Angel Oak Venture Capital Fund, was pulling into his driveway in his brand-new Porsche 911 Carrera.

  Theodosia sat back down. Steele was a bachelor—a very man-abou
t-town bachelor. And his frequent comings and goings were an obvious testament to his popularity with Charleston’s single ladies.

  13

  Theodosia propped open the front door of the Indigo Tea Shop, the better to welcome in the shafts of sunlight that filtered down through puffy, pink clouds and lit up the whole of Church Street. Cars buzzed by, a bright-yellow horse-drawn jitney clip-clopped past, and goldfinches and chickadees pecked at the handful of crumbs that Haley had tossed out onto the sidewalk.

  It was Wednesday, midweek, and Theodosia was feeling surprisingly upbeat and optimistic. Yes, she still had a mystery to unravel, but she was confident that she would soon be able to put some of the pieces together. That’s if Sheriff Burney and his investigators didn’t get there first.

  Drayton stuck his head out the door and smiled at her. “Lovely day, isn’t it? Lower humidity and much cooler this morning. You can feel a snap in the air. One season melting into another.”

  “There’s no beating Charleston in the springtime when the blooms are popping like crazy,” Theodosia said. “But autumn is awfully special, too.”

  “Which brings to mind a few verses by the English poet James Rigg.”

  “And those are?”

  Drayton, never one to miss a chance for a poetic recitation, began:

  Now Nature dons her tawny gown,

  And to her rest doth creep:

  She’s laid aside her Summer crown,

  And sadly slinks to sleep.

  “Lovely,” Theodosia said. She was always amazed by Drayton’s encyclopedic knowledge of English poetry.

  “So maybe it’s time to spice up our tea offerings?” Drayton said. “Toss some cranberry-orange black tea into the mix? And perhaps Keemun tea with bits of black currant and also some cardamom tea?”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  Theodosia trusted Drayton’s judgment implicitly. When he declared that an extra fancy Formosan oolong was the perfect complement to Haley’s chai and chocolate scones, there was no disputing it. Or when he paired gunpowder green with spicy Asian food. Exquisite. Or Assam tea with custard or lemon. Drayton knew his teas, and he knew exactly how each one could subtly enhance whatever food it was served with.