The Jasmine Moon Murder Read online

  Tea Shop Mystery #5

  The Jasmine Moon Murder

  Laura Childs

  Copyright © 2004 by Gerry Schmitt

  This book is dedicated to Maximillian.

  I miss you so much, dear flower dog.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt thanks to some very special people: Gary, who lent me an office at Mill City Marketing/Survey Value, Lillian in North Charleston, for all her wonderful news clippings, my agent, Sam Pinkus, my editor, Kim: all the very talented folks at Berkley Prime Crime¯publicists, artists, designers, line editors, my mother, who still loves everything I write, my sister, Jennie, my husband, Bob, who always believes in me, all the wonderful and very hard-working tea shop owners who recommend and retail my books, all the writers, reviewers, and columnists who have written such kind words, and all the tea-drinkers and mystery-lovers who have sent me their personal messages and good wishes. Thanks to you all!

  1

  Theodosia Browning rested her steaming cup of tea atop a marble gravestone and gazed at the ghostly tableau unfolding before her. Tendrils of fog swirled across dry, brittle ground. Lights flickered and dimmed from towering monuments and obelisks. Shimmering figures in Civil War-era costumes slid silently out from behind ancient tombstones that tipped and canted in all directions.

  It was all quite shivery and atmospheric, Theodosia decided, this first-ever Ghost Crawl in Charleston’s famed jasmine Cemetery. Of course, the fog was man-made, the klieg lights powered by sputtering generators, and the ethereal-looking “ghosts” were actually amateur actors and good-natured volunteers lit with pale blue lights

  Theodosia grinned as Drayton Conneley, posturing grandly and looking rather gallant as General P. G. T. Beauregard, recited his lines in a scene that was meant to commemorate the Battle of Fort Wagner. It seemed a far cry from his role as genial host and master tea blender at the Indigo Tea Shop. There, Drayton was arbiter of all things tea, conducting tea tastings, creating new blends, and hobnobbing with customers. Theodosia, on the other hand, was the shop’s owner and sole proprietor. Which meant she had the pure joy of fretting over payroll, negotiating leases, promoting her shop, and worrying about on-time deliveries and Internet tea orders. Plus she did her fair share of waiting on tables, planning menus and events for their catering accounts, and devising new tea blends with Drayton.

  Glancing at her watch, Theodosia noted that the hour was getting late and the one-act play was about ready to conclude. She also knew that once this tableau was over, the good-sized crowd that had come here tonight for an enjoyable dash of history and an October evening’s ramble would soon descend upon her tea table en masse.

  With fair English skin inherited from her mother’s side of the family and her father’s curly auburn hair, Theodosia looked like she should be one of the actors in the play. Her blue eyes sparkled with barely contained energy, her face, with its high cheekbones and full mouth, was highly expressive. Theodosia wasn’t a woman who kept a tight rein on her feelings. Her passion, her drive, and any discontent she might feel were generally out there for everyone to see.

  “Haley,” whispered Theodosia as she approached the large folding table they’d set up among the gravestones, “How are the pumpkin muffins holding out?”

  Haley Parker gave a quick smile and touched her thumb to her forefinger, giving the OK sign. There were four different tableaus being performed by four different sets of actors in jasmine Cemetery tonight. And Theodosia’s tea table was located at the third stop. The only stop where refreshments were being served.

  And even though the costumed guides had been working valiantly all night to lead their audiences on to the fourth and final tableau, many of the folks who’d turned out seemed to want to hang around here. Nibbling at Haley’s baked goods, sipping cups of steaming jasmine tea, talking excitedly about their trip through jasmine Cemetery, where costumed guides carrying flickering lanterns had given them a fascinating overview of the historic old cemetery and some of its more famous residents.

  In order to amass enough baked goods for tonight, Haley had virtually barricaded herself in the Indigo Tea Shop’s tiny, aromatic kitchen for the past two days, whipping up countless batches of pumpkin muffins and apple fritters, as well as the shortbread cookies they’d playfully dubbed ghostly shortbread.

  Served up in red and white cardboard containers, like those often used for french fries at county fairs, Haley’s baked goods were the perfect walk-around treat.

  Except, Theodosia had noted with a certain degree of consternation, people still weren’t eager to move on to the next tableau. They seemed to prefer hanging around here. Helping themselves to even more tea and muffins.

  Theodosia slid behind the table next to Haley just as a burst of applause erupted from the audience.

  “Oh boy, here comes the next wave,” murmured Haley. “Better brace yourself.” Theodosia grabbed for a teapot and began pouring tea into indigo blue paper cups. She didn’t really mind that the crowd was heading for her table like a herd of stampeding elephants. Because the Ghost Crawl, sponsored by Charleston’s Medical Triad, was an extremely worthwhile cause. In fact, all the money collected from ticket sales tonight would be donated to various charities.

  Likewise, Theodosia was happy to donate her tea and baked goods as well as her time. She was a big believer in volunteering and also welcomed the opportunity to showcase the tastes and talents of the Indigo Tea Shop. Maybe even turn a few more people on to tea. And, praise the lord, tea drinking seemed to be gaining a stronger foothold with every passing day!

  It hadn’t taken Theodosia long to realize that, when she left her job in marketing and signed the lease on a dusty, long-abandoned tea shop in Charleston’s historic district, she had also found herself swept along by a veritable tsunami wave of tea. Women, and men, too, were re-discovering and embracing the gentle art of tea. And they were doing it in droves and with a single-minded passion. Seemingly overnight, a silent majority of tea drinkers had become enthusiastic and highly verbal tea connoisseurs. The lowly teapot that had been stashed in kitchen cupboards for so long was rediscovered, and people were flocking to tea specialty stores for thermometers, tea infusers, tea cozies, and tea warmers. Boxes of orange pekoe were being replaced with tins of fresh Darjeeling, robust oolong, malty Assam, toasty Japanese green tea, and everything in between.

  Now, hardly a week passed that Theodosia didn’t receive a request to cater an engagement tea, garden tea, luncheon tea, high tea, or cream tea. And women were once again sporting elegant broad-brimmed hats and even wearing gloves when they attended these special event teas.

  “As usual, your baked goods are a major hit,” Theodosia told Haley as she continued to pass out cups of tea to the eager Ghost Crawl visitors who crowded their table.

  “Proof’s in the pudding,” declared Haley, happily placing muffins onto little paper trays and pressing them into outstretched hands.

  Haley Parker was twenty-three years old and Theodosia’s baker extraordinaire at the Indigo Tea Shop. You could lock Haley in a room with nothing more than butter, eggs, flour, and sugar and she’d emerge with an amazing repertoire of scones, muffins, tea breads, and desserts that would literally bring tears to your eyes. Drayton had once accused Haley of being a kitchen alchemist, and he hadn’t been far off in his playful assessment. Haley was a remarkably gifted baker with a flair for creating scrumptious pastries and desserts that truly rivaled the offerings in some of the great Parisian patisseries.

  “Were you able to get a quick peek at the play?” Drayton asked Theodosia as he came up behind her, looking very ripped-from-the pages-of-history in his gray and gold-fringed costume.

  Theodosia’s eyes danced with amusement as
she pushed a voluminous pouf of auburn hair behind one ear. “Of course, Drayton. And you were absolutely wonderful.” Her broad, intelligent face with its cheery smile seemed to echo her sentiment.

  “Extremely professional,” responded Haley. Drayton, who was in his mid-sixties and beginning to look slightly gray and grizzled, pulled himself to his full height of six feet and looked pleased. “Our little one-act really is first rate, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I keep telling you,” said Theodosia. “You missed your calling. You’re a natural on stage.” Her elbow touched Haley with a gentle nudge.

  “Sir Drayton Conneley,” chimed in Haley. “Star of stage, screen, and Jasmine Cemetery.”

  “All right, you two.” Drayton slid the plumed cap off his head and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I guess I know when my leg is being pulled.”

  “More like getting yanked,” muttered Haley as she ducked down under the table to grab yet another picnic hamper stuffed with muffins and shortbread. “Hey there, Drayton, oh great one,” she said. “Pitch in and give us a hand, will you?”

  “But of course,” said Drayton in his slightly over-the-top theatrical manner. “Why should this be any different from medieval times when the poor actors had to charge from village to village doing absolutely everything. Huckstering folks in for shows, selling tickets, and setting up the stage. Only then could they perform their magnificent comedies and tragedies for the enjoyment of their audience. So of course, once the curtain fell, the poor, overworked actors had to pack everything up and do it all over again the next day.”

  “Packing up?” said Haley. “That’s when we’re especially going to need your help. For sure.” So many people had crowded their makeshift tea table that it was a good ten minutes before Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had a moment to breathe. But by then, most of the Ghost Crawl audience had been served and was being coaxed along by guides to the final tableau that was set up just over the hill.

  “Have Jory and his uncle stopped by yet?” Drayton asked Theodosia.

  Theodosia straightened up and gazed about.

  “Not yet. Although I’m expecting them any minute.” Jory Davis, the man Theodosia had been dating for the past year and a half, had asked her to cater this event as a favor to his Uncle Jasper. Uncle Jasper Davis was a medical doctor who was also vice president in charge of research and development at Cardiotech, a medical products company in Charleston. Theodosia liked Jory’s Uncle Jasper immensely and was glad to help him out. She and Jory had stayed at his condo over on Kiawah Island this past summer and had played golf with him on several occasions. Since then, however, she hadn’t seen him as often as she’d have liked. Uncle Jasper was one of the developers of a device known as the Novalaser and had been secreted in the laboratories at Cardiotech for the past few months.

  The Novalaser was an intercoronary device that utilized a nonthermal laser beam. Transmitted through fiber optics, the Novalaser would allow surgeons to perform a new, less invasive type of angioplasty. The doctors and scientists at Cardiotech had high hopes that the Novalaser would someday replace traditional balloon angioplasties altogether. The device had already gone through preliminary laboratory trials, and Cardiotech had put the Novalaser into the hands of surgeons at various universities and teaching hospitals in the area, allowing them to use it experimentally.

  “Isn’t this a lovely evening,” declared Drayton. He was still ebullient from his play-acting and eager to perform one more time for the final group of visitors who’d be ankling by in another five or ten minutes.

  Indeed, the evening was dry and relatively cool, with a big fat yellow moon rising overhead like a giant wheel of cheddar.

  “Look at that moon,” Drayton rhapsodized. “I believe that, according to the Farmer’s Almanac, this is technically called the hunter’s moon. But my dear old mother always referred to it as a jasmine moon.”

  Haley cocked her head inquisitively at Drayton. “That’s very poetic. But why a jasmine moon?”

  A smile played at the corner of Drayton’s mouth as he answered. “I suppose because it’s so buttery yellow. Like the fragrant jasmine blossoms that are so often blended with Chinese black or green tea.” He gazed up at the moon again. “And, of course, it’s very dreamy looking.”

  “Let’s get a picture,” said Theodosia as she pulled her camera from the pocket of her suede jacket.

  Drayton and Haley immediately threw their arms around each other and smiled widely. Theodosia aimed, tilted up a notch to hopefully catch the moon, then snapped the picture. “For our Indigo Tea Shop scrapbook,” she told them.

  “Say now,” said Drayton, blinking from the flash and peering at her quizzically. “Is that the camera you told me I could use?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Theodosia, turning the compact device over to him.

  Drayton fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell half glasses, and put them on. They promptly slid down his aquiline nose, giving him a slightly owlish look. He studied the camera for a few seconds, obviously liking its small size and sleek design. Then he tapped at the viewfinder. “Just look through here and push … what?”

  “That tiny silver button,” said Theodosia, pointing. “See it? Easy as pie.”

  Drayton studied the camera for another few moments, reassured that he had the exact button he wanted. “I really want to get a picture of Tom Wigley in his brigadier general costume,” he told Theodosia gleefully. “The old fellow looks like he just stepped out of one of the oil paintings at the Heritage Society.” Drayton was a big gun with Charleston’s Heritage Society and served on the board of directors as parliamentarian. Over the past couple of years he had also smoothed the way for Theodosia and Timothy Neville, the octogenarian president of the Heritage Society, to become friends. In fact, Theodosia was house-sitting for Timothy Neville right now. Instead of residing in her cozy apartment above the Indigo Tea Shop, she and her dog, Earl Grey, were living in grand style in Timothy’s magnificent Italianate mansion on Archdale Street just a stone’s throw from Charleston’s historic Battery.

  Haley watched Drayton hurry off, Theodosia’s camera in hand. “He’s using your camera,” she said. A doubtful look creased her young face and she tossed her head, shrugging her stickstraight, long blonde hair back behind her shoulders.

  Theodosia nodded agreeably. “Sure. No problem.”

  “You’re too much,” said Haley, waggling a finger at Theodosia. “You just gave Drayton your digital camera to use. And you know Drayton detests anything that smacks remotely of technology.” Haley was really warming up now. “We’re talking about a man who doesn’t believe in cable TV. A man who still plays vinyl records on an old-fashioned stereo.” Now Haley was positively chortling. “Drayton’s probably the only person in Charleston who still calibrates his turntable and buys phonograph needles.”

  “I hear you,” responded Theodosia with a grin. “Which is why I didn’t complicate matters by telling him it was a digital camera.”

  Haley widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You lied to Drayton?”

  Theodosia considered the question. “Not exactly. I just told Drayton it was a point-and-click camera. Which it is. Technically.”

  Haley, who loved a harmless prank or joke, especially when it was at Drayton’s expense, cackled in agreement. “I don’t see any great moral dilemma either.”

  “For sure,” said Theodosia as she pried open another tin of shortbread cookies.

  “Oh, Theodosia dear!” called a lilting, slightly demanding voice. “Hello there!”

  Clearly recognizing the owner of that voice, Haley rolled her eyes in an elaborate gesture. “Delaine,” she said with an air of resignation.

  Delaine Dish, owner of Cotton Duck Clothing Shop, was not on Haley’s top ten list of favorite people. Delaine projected an air of entitlement and a superior attitude that could often be quite maddening. And, of course, Delaine was also a ferocious gossip. If you didn’t want everyone from North Charleston to t
he Isle of Palms gabbing about something you’d said or even thought about saying, then it would behoove you not to confide in Ms. Delaine Dish.

  On the other hand, Delaine was a whirling dervish when it came to volunteering and raising funds for the likes of the Heritage Society, the Garden Club, and the Lamplighter Tour. If you needed someone to sell overpriced raffle tickets, wheedle a donation from a well-heeled curmudgeon, or browbeat a flock of volunteers into working a few extra hours, Delaine was your woman. She might look like a sweet-talking Southern belle, but beneath that frothy exterior beat the heart of a pit bull.

  Delaine chugged up to the table, looking adorable as always, with her heart-shaped face perfectly made up and her dark hair pulled into a low knot at the back of her head. Wearing a cornflower yellow cashmere twinset and elegant taupe silk slacks, Delaine radiated casual confidence. She also looked slightly preppy, like she was about to dash off to the country club. Theodosia noted that Delaine’s hobo bag, slung so casually over one shoulder, perfectly matched the burnished leather Tod’s loafers she wore. Gold, real uptown, eighteen-karat yellow gold, shone at her ears, her wrists, and on several fingers. In her khaki slacks and wheat-colored suede jacket, Theodosia suddenly felt slightly wrenish and underdressed.

  “Looking good there, Delaine,” said Haley, who still dressed student-style and tonight was turned out in a short nubby sweater, long paisley skirt, and low boots.

  “Hello, dear,” said Delaine, barely entertaining a glance toward Haley. “Theodosia,” she cooed, “could there be a more lovely evening for this little soiree?” Delaine surveyed the entire area with the aplomb of a grand duchess, noting the clutch of costumed actors in their leathers, boots and spurs, velvet coats, and shimmering silk gowns, who seemed to be regrouping for their final tableau.

  “It’s a perfect evening,” agreed Theodosia.