by Laura Childs
“Many thanks,” Julie said as she rushed back out the door to finish her route.
“Here you go.” Drayton handed the stack of mail to Theodosia, who suddenly pinched her brows together when she noticed what was sitting on top.
“Problem?” Drayton asked. “From your expression, it looks as if you just received a nasty notice from the IRS. Which I know you didn’t, since you’re phobic about paying quarterly taxes.”
“It’s worse than that,” Theodosia said. Her stomach had started to churn all over again. Stop that flip-flopping, she told herself. But to no avail.
“What?” Drayton was suddenly concerned. When Theodosia was feeling at odds and ends, so was he.
“Our copy of Tea Faire just arrived.” Theodosia held up the magazine with its shiny cover featuring a silver tea set on a paisley tablecloth.
“It’s only the tea magazine that . . . Oh, sweet Fanny Adams!” The teaspoon Drayton had been holding clattered to the counter. “Is that the issue with the review of our Beaux Arts Tea?”
Theodosia nodded. She tried to smile but her mouth felt numb. Actually, her whole face felt numb.
“Do you think the review might be, um, concerning?” Drayton couldn’t bring himself to utter the word terrible.
“I don’t know. I’m petrified to look.”
“We must have faith.” Drayton pulled his glasses from his jacket pocket and plucked the magazine from Theodosia’s hands. “Let us see now . . .” He was hastily turning pages.
“This could be a disaster,” Theodosia said. She knew that a bad review, or even a mediocre one, could negatively affect business.
“Of epic proportions,” Drayton said, both agreeing with her and trying to pacify her. He was still thumbing through pages like mad. “But I don’t think—”
“Hurry up!” Theodosia was on pins and needles.
“Okay, here we are.” Drayton opened the magazine wide and laid it on the counter. “Mmn, lovely photo of our tea shop.”
“Is it?” Theodosia quavered. She was almost afraid to look.
“Now let’s see what they . . . Oh. Oh my.”
“Bad?”
“The review kicks off, and I quote, ‘On a quaint street in Charleston’s famed Historic District, a lovely little tea shop occupies space in a renovated carriage house. Step through the front door of the Indigo Tea Shop and you are immediately transported to a cozy world filled with chintz and china, tea and treasures.’”
“That’s good, that’s good!” Theodosia squealed. “Is there more?”
“Lots more.” Drayton pushed the magazine toward her. “And it’s verrry complimentary.”
Theodosia’s eyes lit up as they fairly danced across the words.
“This is more of an article than a review,” she said. “They go on to talk about the Beaux Arts Tea. And it’s wonderful. They like us! They really do!”
Drayton was already back at work, measuring out scoops of black tea with plum and quince and dumping them into a Royal Crown Derby teapot. “I’m not the least bit surprised,” he said. “Our tea and scones are beyond compare, and our themed teas are always superlative.”
Theodosia gazed at him. “Don’t act so blasé. A minute ago you were worried to death. You might as well admit it.”
Drayton gave a small mousy smile. “Perhaps just a tiny bit.”
Once Theodosia had finished reading the article, she went back to work with a happy heart, practically gliding across the tea room floor and singing out greetings to customers. She powered through the morning, then began clearing tables so she could ready the shop for lunch. Because Theodosia was good at her job—she was a huge believer in planning and preplanning—she ended up with an extra ten minutes to spare.
Perfect. I can sit in my office and skim through the rest of today’s mail.
And that’s exactly what she did.
Sitting at her desk, Theodosia put the bills in one stack, the junk mail in another. As she was sorting through everything, she noticed a familiar return address on one of the envelopes.
“What’s this?”
Her curiosity turned to confusion as she slit open the envelope and pulled out an invoice from Huntley’s Ltd.
“This can’t be right. Because I prepaid for Drayton’s shooting vest. Didn’t I?”
Theodosia was already reaching for the phone to call the haberdashery. This invoice had to be a mistake; she was sure of it. Seconds later, when she got George Huntley on the phone, she explained her dilemma.
“Let me check on this,” Huntley said. He sounded busy but professional at the same time.
Theodosia waited a minute or so, and then he came back on the line.
“Well, yes,” Huntley said. “You ordered a Continental shooting vest in the classic estate style, with the suede shoulder pads and cartridge pockets.”
“That’s correct.”
There was a rustle of paper, and Huntley said, “And our records do indicate that your item was paid for and delivered.”
“Right,” Theodosia said. “So what is this invoice for?”
“At the moment, I’m not sure,” Huntley said. “But please do ignore it for now, because I’m positive it’s a mistake on our part. What probably happened was a mix-up in our billing department.”
“Okay, thank you. But let me know when you figure it out, will you?”
“Of course.”
* * *
* * *
“I’m calling this our Autumn Harvest Menu,” Haley said.
Theodosia was standing in their small, overheated kitchen as Haley ticked off their luncheon offerings.
“Pear and fig scones, pumpkin cream soup, pecan salad, and tea sandwiches with roast beef and cheddar,” Haley said. “Plus we’ve still got plenty of raspberry scones, and I baked a cinnamon-apple Dobos torte.”
“This is a spectacular menu, Haley,” Theodosia said. “Everything sounds delicious.”
“And fresh. I hit up the farmers market first thing this morning and sourced all sorts of good stuff. All the growers must have had bumper crops this year.”
“What about the menu for our Lavender Lady Tea tomorrow?” Theodosia asked.
“Lavender scones, of course. And an edible flower salad. The rest I’m still noodling around, though I am tending to lean toward serving a puff baby for our entrée.”
“I leave everything in your capable hands, then.”
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Somebody was pounding on the back door.
“A delivery?” Haley said. “I wasn’t expecting anything else.”
“You want me to . . . ?”
“No, it’s okay, I got it,” Haley said, disappearing out the door and around the corner.
Theodosia listened as Haley ran through her office, then pulled open the back door. She returned in a flash, dwarfed by the enormous cardboard box she was carrying.
“What’s in that?” Theodosia asked.
“You tell me.” Haley plopped the box down on the floor and flipped open the lid. “Oh wow. It looks like Susan Monday sent us more lavender for tomorrow.”
“Fantastic.” The scent of lavender was suddenly wafting everywhere.
Haley gave the box a sideways kick and sent it spinning underneath her butcher block table. She dusted her hands together and said, “This place is going to look like a purple palace by the time we get done.”
* * *
* * *
Back at the front counter, Drayton was grumbling about the séance that was scheduled to take place this afternoon.
“We’ll have to make sure all our regular customers are finished and out the door. Otherwise this could prove to be highly embarrassing,” he said.
“Were you embarrassed when we invited a psychic to our Nancy Drew Tea a couple of months ago?”
“Not really, because that was for amusement purposes only,” Drayton said. “According to Delaine, this séance is intended to part the curtains on the universe.” He let loose a snort. “As if that
could actually happen.”
“You don’t think this is worthwhile even if it helps to ease Meredith’s mind?”
“I don’t believe gazing into the future is even remotely possible. I prefer to let future events unfold in their own time and pace.”
“If it’s worth anything, I agree with you,” Theodosia said, just as the front door flew open and the first of their luncheon guests spilled in.
Not only were they frantically busy for lunch, but Haley’s menu proved to be enormously popular. The pumpkin cream soup and raspberry scones were huge hits, followed closely by the pecan salad.
For dessert Haley had made a chai-spiced fruit compote that she served over vanilla yogurt. It was so popular that the last couple of guests who ordered it were out of luck. They had to be told there was no more compote left.
“But let me package up a few scones for you to take home,” Theodosia told them. “As a kind of consolation prize.”
When the last bowl of soup had been devoured, Bill Jacoby walked through the front door. Dressed in a three-piece dove gray suit, looking like he’d just come from a business meeting, he glanced around. When he saw Theodosia standing at the counter, he lifted a big hand in greeting.
She sped over to him and said, “Can I get you a table? Are you here for lunch?”
Jacoby shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. Had a luncheon over at the Lattice Inn.”
“Are they still serving those wonderful pecan-breaded oysters?” Theodosia asked.
“They were on the menu, yes,” Jacoby said. Then, “I wanted to thank you for all the help you’ve been giving Meredith.”
“I’m not sure I’ve been much help at all,” Theodosia said. “After all, there’s still a killer walking around out there.”
But Jacoby was insistent. “No, you’ve been a rock through all of this. You’ve inspired Meredith, been a shoulder for her to cry on, and lent her some of your own strength. As you probably noticed, Meredith can be flighty. And somewhat unstable. But you’ve managed to help keep her on a fairly even keel, and for that I am truly grateful.”
“Did Meredith tell you about the séance we’re having this afternoon?”
Jacoby’s jaw clenched reflexively. “She did. I’m afraid the poor dear is grasping at straws. But it’s very kind of you to indulge her.”
“Would you like to stay and be part of it?” Drayton called from behind the counter. He was half-serious, half-kidding.
“Unfortunately, I have to get back to the office. But if you’ve got a take-out cup of tea . . .”
Drayton was already pouring an amber stream into one of their signature indigo blue cups.
“Assam tea good for you?” Drayton asked.
Jacoby nodded. “As long as it’s hot and strong.”
“Here you go,” Drayton said, handing him the cup. “Nice threads, by the way.”
25
Theodosia was sweeping a few errant crumbs from the floor when a red-haired woman in a dark-blue cape rushed into the tea room. It was midafternoon and all her customers had departed. So this had to be . . .
“Hello?” the woman called out in a melodic voice. With her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, dangly gold earrings, and slightly prominent nose, she looked like central casting’s answer to the perfect psychic.
“Madame Emilia?” Theodosia asked. She wanted to make sure this wasn’t just an exotic visitor looking for her tea fix.
The woman nodded. “That’s right. I was invited here to conduct a séance?”
“Of course you were. Welcome to the Indigo Tea Shop. I’m Theodosia, the owner.”
“Hello, Theodosia, thank you for inviting me.”
At that very same moment, Drayton wandered back from the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks, hitched down his vest, and said, “By George, I’ll bet you’re the fortune-teller.”
“Medium,” said Madame Emilia. She let loose a warm, throaty laugh. “But that’s perfectly okay. I’ve been called a great many things in my career.”
“This is our tea sommelier, Drayton, by the way,” Theodosia said. “Now. How can we help you get comfortable?”
“I’ll need a table,” Madame Emilia said. “And can we darken the room?”
Theodosia glanced at the pleasant afternoon sunshine that streamed through her windows, at the chintz curtains that were tied back. “I suppose.”
“Excellent. And then I have to smudge the room.”
“Pardon?” Drayton said.
“I’m going to burn a stick of sage and smudge the room,” Madame Emilia said casually, as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Drayton brushed at his lapel. “For what purpose?”
“Burning sage is a spiritual room cleansing, if you will. A technique I use to cleanse a room’s aura. Sage helps absorb conflict, deflect anger, and chase away evil.”
“It wards off evil? Then smudge away to your heart’s content,” Drayton said. “By all means. And while you’re perfuming the room with sage, do you mind if I continue brewing tea? There won’t be any kind of aromatic conflict, will there?”
“Not at all,” Madame Emilia said. “In fact, the two may be quite complementary.”
Madame Emilia set her large velvet tote bag on the table and pulled out a small stick of sage. She touched a lighter to it and began waving it around. Then she broke into a low chanting.
“Too bad she can’t use lavender instead,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia. “We’ve got buckets.”
While Madame Emilia continued her smudging and chanting ritual, Theodosia set out teacups, napkins, silverware, and plates. She had decided to sit in with Meredith and Delaine, while Drayton, who was séance averse, preferred to keep his distance.
Then, just as Theodosia brought out a tray of scones from the kitchen, Delaine came bustling in.
“What is that weird aroma?” Delaine demanded in her usual bossy manner. She took a sniff and twisted her nose. “It smells like there’s a commune of hippies smoking weed in here. Like the second coming of Woodstock.”
“It’s smudge,” Drayton said with a knowing smile.
Delaine’s face took on a slightly addled expression. “Fudge?”
“Madame Emilia just finished smudging the tea room,” Theodosia explained. “She burned a stick of sage. To cleanse it.”
“Oh.” That explanation stopped Delaine dead in her tracks. She peered around the darkened tea room until she finally spotted Madame Emilia. “There you are!” Delaine hustled toward her table, her black pencil skirt hindering progress and forcing her to take tiny, mincing steps. “I’m Delaine. Remember me from Kitty Roper’s party?”
“Of course,” Madame Emilia said.
Theodosia smiled. She doubted that Madame Emilia had any residual psychic remembrance of Delaine, but she was pretty sure the good madame knew darn well which side her bread was buttered on.
Meredith arrived in a flurry some five minutes later.
“Theodosia, this is extremely kind of you to allow our séance to take place in your tea room. I’m so grateful!” Meredith burbled.
“Not a problem,” Theodosia said. To be honest, she was curious about what sort of questions Meredith planned to ask. And whether they might reveal something critical—such as, did Meredith know more than she was admitting to?
Meredith was introduced to Madame Emilia amid much squealing and fawning. Then, when they were finally all seated, Drayton stepped to the table with a steaming teapot.
“I brewed a special tea for this most interesting occasion. An oolong tea from Nepal. It has a lovely silky texture with sweet honey notes.” He moved around the table, filling everyone’s teacup. “Please do enjoy.”
The ladies took a sip of tea and murmured their approval. All except Meredith. She was anxiously perched on the edge of her chair, obviously waiting for some type of supernatural manifestation.
When nothing magically appeared out of thin air, Meredith said, “I can hardly wait to get started.” Her b
right, inquisitive eyes were focused squarely on Madame Emilia. “How exactly does this work? Do you use a crystal ball or read the tarot cards? Or just free your mind to mentally engage with the spirit world?”
Madame Emilia nodded pleasantly. Then she reached into her velvet bag and drew out a Ouija board.
“Oh,” Meredith said. She looked stunned.
Delaine just looked dismayed. “Eyew,” she said, making a lemon face. “I thought those silly things were only used for Halloween parties at sorority houses.”
Unfazed by Delaine’s negativity, Madame Emilia said, “One can learn a great deal through the Ouija board. It can help divine the truth, peer into the future, administer critical advice, find lost objects . . .”
“And lost people?” Meredith asked. “Can it help with that?”
“We can certainly make an attempt,” Madame Emilia said.
“Because my daughter-in-law is missing and . . .”
Madame Emilia inclined her head toward Meredith. “Yes, Delaine told me all about your circumstances.”
“And . . . and you know that my husband was murdered, too,” Meredith said. Now she leaned back in her chair and dug into her pocketbook for a hankie. “Can you believe the dreadful luck I’ve had?” Tears clung to the tips of her false eyelashes, then dribbled down her cheeks. “It’s enough to drive a person completely bonkers.”
“What would you like to try first?” Madame Emilia asked in a kindly voice. “Perhaps we could attempt to connect with your missing daughter-in-law?”
“Yes . . . absolutely,” Meredith said. “My son is . . .” She waved a hand. “He’s beside himself with grief.”
Theodosia’s brows might have raised a half inch at that last statement.
“Will everyone please lean forward and touch their fingers to the planchette?” Madame Emilia asked.
“Really?” Delaine said.
“Please,” Madame Emilia said.
“I suppose,” Delaine huffed. “But this Ouija stuff has never worked for me.” She poked an index finger at the planchette as if it were a dead rat. “I’m more of a tarot card kind of girl.”