by Laura Childs
“What about the tea?” Drayton asked.
Brenda pointed to a large silver urn.
“Better taste it,” Theodosia said.
Drayton poured a cup and took a taste.
“Well?”
“Harney & Sons Silver Needle,” Drayton said. “Highly drinkable.”
* * *
* * *
Meredith and Bill Jacoby were the first ones through the line. Meredith was still leaking tears like mad, but Theodosia noticed it didn’t stop her from helping herself to an assortment of tea sandwiches and desserts. Jacoby also piled up his plate.
Theodosia and Drayton smiled, answered questions, and poured tea as more people filed through: Alex and a couple of his friends. Guy Thorne and a contingent from Trollope’s Restaurant. The Celantis people. Then Jack Grimes and, at the very tail end, Carl Clewis.
Theodosia sidled over to Drayton. “You see the guy with the high fade haircut and glasses? That’s Carl Clewis.”
“He’s the neighbor? The one who dammed up Axson Creek?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia lifted her shoulders. “He claims he improved the creek.”
“Did he?”
“Darned if I know.”
A thought formed on Drayton’s face as he glanced around. “Just think,” he said. “All your suspects are gathered together in one place.”
Theodosia nodded. “It’s slightly reminiscent of a locked-room murder mystery, yes?”
Drayton gave a faint smile. “Agatha Christie.”
Just when everything was running smoothly—most of the funeral guests had filed through the line, the food had been greatly appreciated—two loud, quarrelsome voices rose above the gentle hum of conversation.
Theodosia stood up on tiptoes, wondering what was going on. And saw Jack Grimes tap a finger hard against Carl Clewis’s chest.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Grimes said loudly. “Why are you even here? Did you come to gloat over the poor man’s death?”
Clewis bristled at his words. “I’m allowed to pay my respects just as much as the next person!”
“You know what I think?” Grimes shouted back. “I think you’re the one who killed him.”
Clewis sneered as he made an angry shooing motion. “Get out of my face, you troglodyte.”
“You think you’ll get away scot-free?” Grimes cried. “You won’t! People are onto you. I’m onto you.”
Heads turned. Conversation in the room came to a screeching halt as the men continued to rail loudly at each other. Meredith looked like she was going to faint.
“Oh no,” Theodosia said. She was about to go over and shush the two men up when Guy Thorne suddenly bulled his way through the crowd and stuck himself right in the middle of the fray.
“He’s right,” Thorne thundered at Clewis. “There’s no way you’re going to get away with this.” He shook a finger directly in Clewis’s face. “You’re a murdering scum!”
“Shut up!” Clewis shouted. He was red-faced and angry, losing his composure.
But Guy Thorne was wound up and eager to get his licks in. “You think you’re so smart when you’re really a simpleton.”
Theodosia wondered why Thorne was going after Clewis, then decided that maybe Thorne was trying to throw up a hellacious smoke screen. If Thorne had really gambled much of Trollope’s proceeds away, and Reginald Doyle had found out, then maybe Thorne was the guilty party!
“Should I do something?” Drayton asked. “Go over and try to intercede?” He looked as if it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Theodosia shook her head. “Let them squabble and have their hissy fit. They’ll poop out sooner or later.”
And they did. Eventually.
Clewis stormed out. Thorne stormed out. Grimes just stood there and flapped his arms helplessly.
Theodosia went over to talk to him. Grimes looked beyond defeated, as if he’d just lost everything. And the soft spot in Theodosia’s heart thought that maybe he had.
“Are you okay?” Theodosia asked.
“Oh . . . not really,” Grimes said.
“What are you . . . What will you do now?” Even though Grimes was still a suspect in Theodosia’s book, she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.
“I’m leaving town, for one thing.”
“Where will you go?”
“My brother, Keith, owns a game farm in Clinch County, Georgia, where he raises Bluefaces, White Kelsos, and Lacy Roundheads.”
“Those are fancy chickens?” The only chickens Theodosia knew were the ones she generally counted before they were hatched.
“Yup, chickens. I’ll go there and help out for a while.”
“Good luck,” Theodosia said, meaning it.
20
But that still wasn’t the conclusion of the memorial service from hell.
In a burst of frantic pomp and pageantry, Meredith had hired a number of what could only be called attractions to accompany her dead husband to his final resting place in St. Philip’s Graveyard.
The first inkling anyone had of this was the mournful sound of bagpipes. As everyone crowded into the hallway, curious as to what was going on, two bagpipers in tartan kilts and sashes stood there playing a slow Scottish tune.
“Please.” Meredith’s voice rose as she clapped her hands together. “Everyone, come this way.”
And they did.
The pallbearers had reassembled and were now wheeling Reginald Doyle’s casket to the front door of the Heritage Society. And there, waiting on the street, was an old-fashioned horse-drawn caisson. Four black horses tossed their heads, anxious to get going, stomping and clopping their shiny hooves.
“Meredith has really gone all out,” Theodosia said as the pallbearers loaded the casket onto the horse-drawn caisson.
“Tasteful and elegant has been kicked to the curb,” Drayton said, “in favor of a full-blown Barnum and Bailey spectacle. What’s next? A court jester? Fire-eaters?”
“Please follow along, everyone. We need to proceed to the graveside service,” Meredith urged. She hurried over and took her place behind the caisson and in front of the bagpipers.
“Now what?” Drayton asked.
“I guess we’re going to the graveside service?” Theodosia said.
“What about our dishes and teapots?”
“I’ll ask the intern to pack everything up for us.”
* * *
* * *
The procession—because that’s what it truly was—wound its way down Gateway Walk. They passed through the Governor Aiken Gates, walked around the Gibbes Museum of Art, crossed Meeting Street, and continued along. Gateway Walk was one of Charleston’s hidden gems, a ramble through four churchyards that was both contemplative and charming. And with plenty of towering hedges, gardens, marble statues, and memorial plaques along the way, it was also secretive and seductive.
“St. Philip’s Graveyard,” Theodosia said as the procession halted and the mourners fanned out among dozens of ancient moss-covered grave markers. “Looks like Reginald’s going to be buried right here.” After the riot of greenery on Gateway Walk, the cemetery felt a little dark, a little too dank.
“I have to say I’m grudgingly impressed,” Drayton said. “You have to be a big muckety-muck to have a resting place here. You have to have important family members buried here.”
Theodosia nodded in agreement. “Old money.”
“On the other hand . . .” Drayton cast a watchful eye at the tilting gravestones shaded by oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. “This place . . .”
“. . . is supposedly haunted,” Theodosia said, thinking about all the legends she’d heard over the years, about the strange sightings that were still whispered about.
“Or so the story goes,” Drayton said.
“But you don’t believe . . .”
“That’s the funny thing about legends,” Drayton said. “There’s often a kernel of truth somewhere.”
* * *
More prayers were said, another eulogy given, and bagpipes played. Afterward, there was a sort of reception line where all the guests crowded around Meredith and Alex to express their final sympathies.
When Theodosia and Drayton eventually reached the two of them, Drayton gave a respectful nod to Meredith and said, “Tell me, how are you holding up?”
Meredith’s face was white as a sheet.
“I don’t think I am,” Meredith said. She took a half stutter step toward Drayton and curled a trembling hand around his upper arm. “The memorial service . . . that terrible argument . . .”
Drayton gazed at her with deep concern. “Perhaps a spot of tea might help revive you? The Indigo Tea Shop is a mere two doors away, so maybe you could walk back there with Theodosia and me and . . .”
“Have a fortifying cup?” Meredith asked, her voice filling with gratitude. “That would be wonderful.” She glanced over at Alex, gave him an offhand wave, and said, “I’m going to the tea shop with Drayton and Theodosia. I’ll see you later.”
* * *
* * *
Theodosia had walked a few steps ahead of Drayton and Meredith. So when she arrived at the Indigo Tea Shop and saw Haley standing behind the counter, her first words were, “The Sugar Arts Show. Is your dessert ready to go?”
“No problemo,” Haley said. “I put the finishing touches on it this morning. The tea shop’s been relatively quiet, too. Only a few takeouts. Miss Dimple and I handled everything with ease.”
“Is she still here?” Theodosia asked.
“Just left.”
“What time does your entry need to be there?”
Haley consulted her watch. “One o’clock. Then judging starts at two.”
“So you’ve got an hour before you have to leave, and then I’ll come join you a little later.”
“Wonderful. I can use the moral support.”
“You’ll do fine. And now I’m going to close the tea shop for the afternoon,” Theodosia said just as Drayton escorted Meredith through the door, hung up her coat, and settled her at the nearest table.
“Works for me,” Haley said. “I’ll even put out the ‘Closed’ sign.”
Haley hung the sign and went back into the kitchen while Drayton busied himself behind the counter, happy to be back where he was reigning king of his domain.
Theodosia picked up a yellow floral teapot and held it out to him. “Chamomile tea?” she asked. She figured Drayton’s number one priority was to calm Meredith down.
Drayton shook his head. “I’m going to whip up a London fog tea latte for Meredith.”
“Really.” Theodosia watched as Drayton brewed a pot of Earl Grey, heated up some milk and frothed it, then poured the tea and milk into a tall latte glass and added a half teaspoon of vanilla extract.
“You want one, too?” he asked.
“Why not.” Theodosia went into the kitchen, assembled a plate of scones, and carried it back to Meredith’s table.
Meredith sipped her London fog tea latte in a self-induced teary haze. She was obviously upset and feeling sorry for herself.
“How is your tea?” Drayton asked.
“Hot and delicious,” Meredith said. “This is so kind of you. I feel like I’ve really been through the ringer. First Reginald and then . . .” She made a choking sound. “Fawn.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” Theodosia said. She was enjoying her tea latte as well.
“I’m so fearful that Fawn’s poor body will come bobbing to the surface and she’ll get snagged in some fisherman’s net,” Meredith sobbed.
“I think that only happens in B movies,” Theodosia said under her breath.
“But perhaps . . .” Drayton started to say. Then he was interrupted by—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Meredith clutched a hand to her chest, eyes rolling, practically having a brain spasm. “What was that?” she cried. She was a rabbit afraid of its own shadow.
And another BANG! BANG! Someone was pounding loudly and insistently at the front door.
“Honestly,” Drayton said. “The ‘Closed’ sign is out, so who on earth could be that rude and insistent?”
Theodosia walked over and peered out the window.
“It’s Delaine,” she said. “We may as well let her in, or she’ll just keep pounding away until she wears off the paint.” Theodosia knew by now that Delaine didn’t have an “off” switch.
Theodosia opened the door, and with a triumphant smile on her face, Delaine Dish crowed, “I knew it. I just knew you were in there.”
“That’s me, hiding in plain sight,” Theodosia said as Delaine bustled past her, leaving behind a whiff of Dior perfume (or was that brimstone?). She wore a cream-colored sheath dress with a mandarin orange wool jacket over it. Her supple leather handbag matched her jacket perfectly.
“What I want to know,” Delaine demanded, “is why the Indigo Tea Shop is locked up tighter than a drum. In the middle of the day, for goodness’ sake. When you know that customers like myself are dying for a light lunch and a spot of tea.”
Then Delaine caught sight of Meredith sitting at a table and her face fell. “Oh. Oh no,” she said in a plaintive voice. “You poor, poor dear.” She touched two fingers to the side of her head. “Silly, ditsy me. I just realized the funeral was this morning!”
Meredith nodded wordlessly.
“Oh, sweetie!” Delaine tottered to Meredith’s side, taking tiny tight steps in her four-inch stilettos. Then she began cooing and patting Meredith’s hands and face, insisting that everything was going to be just fine. Which of course it wasn’t.
Meredith pretty much lapped up Delaine’s soothing touch and words of comfort. Much like Delaine, she was inner-directed and self-absorbed.
Not really the best traits to guide one through life, Theodosia thought as she watched the two women try to outdo each other in spilling their emotional baggage.
“And I suppose you also know that our dear Fawn is missing?” Meredith cried to Delaine.
“Yes, I did hear that. And about the sailboat being found.” Delaine studied her French manicure. Whenever the conversation didn’t center directly on her, she tended to drift away.
“We’re holding a vigil for Fawn tonight at White Point Garden,” Meredith said. “Can I count on you to attend?”
“Well . . . perhaps,” Delaine hedged. “Though sea air does tend to give me a dreadful case of sniffles.”
This was the first Theodosia had heard of a harborside vigil, and she thought it sounded strange. Better that Meredith and Alex should cooperate a little more with law enforcement. Unless, of course, they were hoping that Fawn would somehow come surfing in on a great wave tonight, surrounded by pink lights and dancing unicorns.
Delaine patted Meredith’s hand. “You know, dear, I thought the world of Fawn. She was such a lovely girl. And one of my very best customers.”
Meredith blinked back tears. “Was she really?”
“Oh my, yes,” Delaine said. To Delaine, a good customer was one who spent oodles of money.
“I’m sure Fawn will come back to us,” Drayton said, adding his two cents to the conversation. “Somehow.”
“Do you really think so?” Meredith almost pleaded.
“He just said so, didn’t he?” Delaine said. She studied Meredith’s tea latte and said, “Say, I wouldn’t mind having one of those myself.”
“Coming right up,” Drayton said as he headed back to his counter.
Meredith focused intently on Delaine. “Let me ask you something. I’ve been thinking about having a séance. To, you know, see if we could somehow contact Fawn. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s a monumental idea,” Delaine enthused. “Maybe you could contact your dead husband as well. He might still be close by, spinning around in the netherworld.”
That was enough for Theodosia. She stood up and walked over to the counter to join Drayton.
“What was Mer
edith saying?” Drayton asked. He was wiping out a Chinese famille rose teapot. “Something about finances?”
“She was talking about séances,” Theodosia said, enunciating carefully. “Meredith is all wound up about holding a séance so she can try to communicate with Fawn. And maybe even Reginald.”
“Oh my,” Drayton said. “I don’t like the idea of anything so . . . paranormal.”
Delaine overheard him. “It seems perfectly normal to me,” she shot back.
Theodosia waited for Drayton to finish making Delaine’s tea latte, then carried it over to her. The two women were still batting around the merits of a séance.
“There are so many unanswered questions,” Meredith was saying. “Who killed Reginald? Did Fawn really fling herself into Charleston Harbor? Or is the poor girl just missing—maybe kidnapped? Or perhaps she simply fell and hit her head and is wandering around with a dreadful case of amnesia.”
Delaine pointed at Meredith. “I think I’ve seen that exact movie on Lifetime.”
“Really?”
But Delaine’s eyes were lit up like a pinball machine. “I think your idea of holding a séance is fabulous! It would help find answers to all those pesky questions that are troubling you.”
“No, it really wouldn’t,” Drayton said, sotto voce.
But Delaine was not to be dissuaded. “I know the absolutely perfect psychic for the job. Her name is Madame Emilia. The woman is all knowing, all-seeing—she can part the veil on the universe, just like that.” Delaine snapped her fingers for added emphasis. Then she glanced around and dropped her voice, as if Soviet spies might be listening in. “Don’t you dare tell a soul, but Madame Emilia helped my friend Kitty make an absolute killing in the stock market.”
Theodosia frowned. Somehow, consulting a psychic, even a Wall Street wizard of a psychic, didn’t seem like a particularly smart idea at this point in time. Meredith was too unstable, too vulnerable.