Laura Childs - [Tea Shop Mystery 06]

  Tea Shop Mysteries 6

  Chamomile Mourning

  Laura Childs

  Copyright © 2005 by Gerry Schmitt

  This book is dedicated to Mom. Sure do miss you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks go out to some very special people: Samantha, my editor, who helps make my books ever more readable; my agent, Sam Pinkus, who has made all the difference in the world for me; all the extremely talented folks in publicity, design, editing, and sales at Berkley Prime Crime; my sister, Jennie, who encourages me; my husband, Bob, who has always believed in me; all my friends who actually go out and buy my books; all the wonderful booksellers and mystery bookstores who carry my books (thank you, thank you, thank you!); all the delightful tea shop owners who also carry my books and continue to foster the gentle art of tea; all the reviewers, writers, and columnists who have written such kind words; all the tea and mystery aficionados who continue to e-mail me with personal messages and good wishes. Thanks to you all!

  Chapter 1

  Since the weatherman at Channel 8 had predicted a glorious evening, that's exactly what Theodosia Browning was expecting. Temperature in the mid seventies, light breeze off Charleston Harbor, threads of wispy pink clouds etched against deepening azure-blue skies.

  But was the weather cooperating? Had that upbeat forecast been remotely accurate?

  "Not in this universe," muttered Theodosia as she grabbed for a Crown Dorset teapot that threatened to go tumbling off, Wizard-of-Oz-style, into the nearby garden. Safely tucking the teapot into a wicker hamper, Theodosia flashed another quick glance at surly, dark clouds that roiled overhead. It was just her luck, she noted, that gigantic raindrops were beginning to spatter down upon her elegantly set tea table.

  "We'll have to move everything inside immediately," cried Drayton as Theodosia struggled against the building wind, trying to salvage her cake and tea sandwiches by draping them with plastic wrap.

  "It almost feels like a hurricane," replied Theodosia, her voice rising to compensate for the noise of the storm. "Even though it's a little early for hurricane season. Oh, good heavens!" she cried, as a string of lights came swinging toward her. "Even the twinkle lights are blowing out of the trees." Theodosia's mirthful blue eyes and normally placid face had taken on a harried, worried look, and her auburn hair, always full to begin with, billowed out from under her straw hat. Usually the picture of high enthusiasm tempered by Southern grace, Theodosia's good humor was being sorely tested tonight.

  Impeccably attired in a wheat-colored linen jacket, navy slacks, starched white shirt, and trademark bow tie, Drayton Conneley, Theodosia's sixty-something master tea blender, also had disappointment written on his grizzled face. He dashed about frantically, struggling to repack silver candlesticks, creamers, and sugar bowls.

  This first-ever Poet's Tea at the Heritage Society had been Drayton's brainchild, a way for the organization to participate in Spoleto, Charleston's beloved arts and music festival. And now this sudden spate of horrible weather that had blown in off the mercurial Atlantic was threatening to ruin tonight's festivities. At least the outdoor portion, anyway.

  Theodosia clapped a hand atop her floppy broad-brimmed hat as the ever-increasing winds swooped and swirled and threatened to send it flying, too. "Some garden party," she cried as she tried to rescue crisp linens that were turning soggy and a collection of Spode and Limoge teacups that were slowly filling with rain. "In ten minutes flat we went from brewing tea to a brewing storm."

  "Grab this, will you?" cried Drayton as he thrust a silver platter laden with tea sandwiches into her hands. "Haley and I are just going to drag the entire table inside."

  Theodosia Browning scampered for the safety of the Heritage Society's limestone building and joined the crowd that had taken refuge in its large cypress-paneled gallery. A few guests were already seated and waiting for the poetry readings to begin. But a good-sized group of die-hards milled about, obviously disappointed. They'd come dressed for a garden party and now that event looked like a total washout.

  "We're scheduled to begin the poetry readings in ten minutes," hissed Timothy Neville. The silver-haired patriarch of the Heritage Society stood at Theodosia's elbow and favored her with his famously stern gaze. "With this abrupt change in plans, the last thing we want is for our guests to get restless."

  Daubing a linen hanky to her rain-streaked face, Theodosia nodded in agreement. "Just give us a few minutes to rearrange things at the back of the room." Her bright eyes roved about the great hall, taking in the u-shaped balcony that served as a kind of choir loft overhead, and confirmed her snap decision. Yes, she thought, the best place to set up the tea table is directly behind the chairs. The little kitchen's back there and we'll be out of the way, but still accessible. "We'll start serving as soon as the program's finished," she promised Timothy.

  Timothy splayed out all ten fingers. "Ten minutes," he told her again. "You'll have everything in place by then?" His raspy voice carried a distinct edge. Timothy was more advanced in years than he appeared, just past eighty now, and didn't always cope gracefully with stress.

  "No problem," Theodosia assured him. She spun on her heels and swooped toward the double doors, pressing them open so Drayton and Haley Parker could gently edge their way in. "Watch your fingers," she cautioned her two assistants as they struggled with the sturdy wooden table. "This doorway's awfully narrow." Theodosia watched nervously as the cake tottered and stacks of teacups rattled precariously, but finally they maneuvered the table inside.

  "This weather is insane," grumped Drayton, as he brushed dampness from his jacket. "All our guests came dressed in their summer finery and now this bad cloud has everyone looking bedraggled."

  "Come on, Drayton," said Theodosia, helping them carry the table to the back of the room. "We've haven't got much time. Timothy is chomping at the bit to start the program."

  But Drayton seemed to be relishing his cranky mood. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he said, frowning and pointing toward their cake. "Some of the frosting's melted away. Look at those divots!"

  "Someone left the cake out in the rain," quipped Haley as she pushed her stick-straight blond hair behind her ears and flashed a mischievous, lopsided grin.

  Theodosia couldn't help but giggle. A slightly damaged cake was no laughing matter, but Haley's quirky comment appealed to her sense of the absurd. Unfortunately, Drayton didn't seem to be taking any of this in stride.

  "Such a pity," he lamented, shaking his head and adjusting his bow tie for the umpteenth time. "Our newly renovated patio would have been such an ideal venue."

  "We'll be fine," said Theodosia, trying to remain positive while knowing full well that Drayton was heartsick. The newly installed patio set amidst the Heritage Society's for mal gardens featured a lovely, cascading waterfall and fish pond, patio stones formed from the distinctive red-yellow clay found in South Carolina's Piedmont region, and stands of Japanese maples and Italian cypress trees. The patio area was further highlighted by wrought-iron benches, large terra-cotta urns stuffed with palmetto trees, and giant boulders trucked in from the picturesque Chattooga River region, where the movie Deliverance was filmed.

  The plan had been to seat all the guests in the Heritage Society's great hall for the poetry reading, then, in a final grand gesture, throw open the three sets of side doors to re veal the new patio and invite everyone outside for a sophisticated soiree under the stars. A relaxing, informal party where guests would be lulled by warm weather, a string quartet, and, of course, flutes of champagne, dainty teacups of excellent South Carolina black tea, tasty tea sandwiches, and slivers of sweet almond cake.

  And now that simply wasn't going
to happen. The agenda had changed big time.

  But Theodosia was a small business owner. Proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop and a fledgling entrepreneur. Which meant she'd long since learned how to resuscitate disastrous situations, change proverbial horses in midstream, and, in general, fake it. Recovery was her stock in trade, whether it meant brewing pots of Darjeeling and Assam for last minute customers, staging impromptu tea tastings, or sweet-talking traditionally tough tea vendors into emergency overnight shipments. The real trick, of course, was flexibility. Adaptive behavior scientists tell us we can all learn, though some of us seem to learn at very different rates.

  It had been almost three years since Theodosia quit her job in the dog-eat-dog world of advertising and launched the Indigo Tea Shop. Converting a dusty little space on Church Street into a cozy tearoom where the world's finest loose leaf teas were brewed and served alongside light lunches, tea savories, and luscious desserts worthy of a Parisian patisserie. It had been a monumental struggle, this birthing of a small business, but Theodosia had triumphed. Her flair for marketing and fearless risk taking, Drayton's innate charm and vast tea knowledge, and Haley's youthful exuberance and skill in the kitchen had won out. Their formidable talent, forceful personalities, and joie de vie were the glue that held it all together. In no time at all, the Indigo Tea Shop quickly earned its rightful place among the elegant tapestry of quaint shops, historic homes, charming courtyard gardens, and cozy B and B's that made up Charleston's historic district.

  Theodosia glanced up, surprised to find a tall, hawkish-looking man staring intently at her.

  "I'm sorry," she said as she gazed into the man's dark eyes. "We're not set up to serve yet." She gave a slightly helpless shrug. "Obviously the rain caused a few delays. But once the poetry reading-"

  "I require a word with Drayton," interrupted the man. I Ic seemed both aloof and oblivious to the furor of cup wiping and table straightening they were frantically engaged in. "I'm Jester Moody," he added, enunciating carefully, as though his name carried a great deal of importance.

  The art dealer, Theodosia thought to herself, suddenly focusing on this tall, dark-haired man who fairly crackled with intensity. She'd heard about Jester Moody. Slightly enigmatic, recently awarded some special honor by the People's Republic of China, Jester was a high-end dealer who specialized in Asian antiquities. In a town where most antique dealers focused on oil paintings, furniture, collectible porcelains, and estate jewelry, Jester Moody dealt in rare Shang Dynasty bronzes, Han Dynasty ceramics, and Ming vases. At least that's what was on display in the glittering front window of Passports, his small jewel box of a shop down on King Street.

  "Jester!" exclaimed Drayton, as he pushed his way through the swinging door that led from the Heritage Society's small kitchen. "Sorry, but we're not serving yet."

  "Forget the tea," Jester Moody snapped. "My interest here is strictly business."

  From out of nowhere Drayton produced a white tea towel and proceeded to wipe a seemingly invisible speck of dust from inside a teacup. "Just what is it you want, Jester?" he asked. Now his tone had assumed a harder edge.

  "I understand the committee chairman has finalized the list," said Jester Moody as he focused piercing eyes on Drayton, "for next Saturday's auction."

  "I believe so," Drayton responded lightly. The Heritage Society's Spring Art Auction was one week away and so many local galleries had offered to donate works that Roger Crispin, the chairman of the auction committee, had struggled mightily to finalize the list. Much as the Heritage Society greatly appreciated the generous donations of sculptures, paintings, and antiques, they didn't want to overwhelm their auction attendees with a barrage of objects either. So, after considerable deliberation, they'd decided to accept only fifty items. The very best fifty items.

  "But I haven't been contacted yet," continued Jester through clenched teeth.

  "My apologies," said Drayton, "that the notification process has come right down to the wire. I understand from Roger there are only a few galleries who haven't been contacted yet. And they'll be receiving word soon, certainly by tomorrow night's board meeting."

  "But some galleries were turned down?" persisted Jester, hanging on to the subject like a rat terrier to a bone. Drayton let loose an audible sigh. "As I understand it, yes. I know Roger Crispin had concerns with a few pieces."

  "Tell me," snarled Jester. "Did that effete snob have issues with my Chinese sword?" Jester's voice dripped with venom, his face a dark cloud. "Not that he'd notice, but it's a spectacular piece. Early Warring States to be exact."

  "Roger didn't mention any specific pieces," said Drayton, who was beginning to look visibly tired from this little go-round with Jester. "And I think you should hold on until tomorrow to see if your Chinese sword is included."

  Jester Moody continued to glower at Drayton. "This is important to me, Drayton," he snarled. "This Spring Auction is a major event! A once-a-year chance to showcase a piece in front of important collectors. For heaven's sake, man, the Post and Courier will probably even do a feature!" And with that, Jester Moody whirled suddenly and stalked off, a dark blur melting into the crowd.

  "Jester, please," Drayton called after him. "Be reasonable . . ."

  "Well isn't he a barrel of laughs," declared Haley Parker once Jester Moody was out of earshot. "I just adore a man who comes cowboying in, trying to strong-arm everyone."

  Drayton shook his head. "He's normally a fairly decent fellow."

  "Uh huh," smirked Haley. "I'll just bet he is."

  "Your cake's lookin' a little disheveled," drawled a leisurely female voice. "As does your hat, Theo dawlin'."

  "Hello, Delaine," said Theodosia, smiling at her friend's slightly left-handed greeting. Delaine Dish was outspoken, brash, and always opinionated. She was also the proprietor of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston's premiere boutiques specializing in elegant silks, filmy cottons, and rich velvets. Which pretty much guaranteed that Delaine was always beautifully dressed, amazingly coifed, and accessorized to the max. And tonight was no exception. Delaine looked stunning and stylish in a plunging black sheath dress edged with black lace. Coils of highly polished eighteen-karat gold wound around her slender wrists, and her sleek dark hair was pulled under a jaunty bowler-style hat that set off her heart-shaped face to perfection.

  "Do you see that lovely man over there?" Delaine asked Theodosia in her best throaty purr.

  Theodosia's mouth twitched slightly. Delaine was obviously in prowl mode tonight. "Mm hm," replied Theodosia, glancing toward the front of the hall where a gaggle of good-looking men seemed to be milling about. Her eyes searched the crowd for one man in particular. Her man. Ah, there he is, Jory Davis. Looking very handsome and dapper as he helped welcome guests to the Poet's Tea.

  Jory was the man Theodosia spent most of her waking moments with these days. When Jory wasn't busy lawyering and she wasn't busy serving tea, that is.

  As if reading her mind, Jory suddenly turned toward the back of the hall, caught sight of Theodosia, and gave a wave. Pleased, she lifted a hand and waved back, noting that his curly brown hair and square-jawed, slightly rugged looks never failed to set her heart pounding.

  "No, no," said Delaine, frantically trying to redirect Theodosia's gaze, "That one. The fellow with the medal pinned to his lapel. That's Jester Moody. Interesting man, no?"

  Theodosia was tempted to answer with a resounding no. Instead she mustered up a dollop of restraint and replied, "We've only met briefly, Delaine." Giving Jester the benefit of the doubt, Theodosia figured she might be a little nuts, too, if she was waiting to see if the Heritage Society would be showcasing her art in what was one of the premier fundraising events of the year. Business was tough these days, and Theodosia was acutely aware of how critical it was to garner every bit of publicity and media attention possible. And get your merchandise featured in front of customers who were big-time spenders and collectors.

  But Delaine was still gazing at Jester Moody with a dreamy loo
k on her face. "I'm going to date him," she declared. She said it with fervent, passionate zeal as though she'd just announced, "I'm going to conquer France." And she said it with great finality, as though it were a done deal.

  "Are you serious?" asked Theodosia, stunned by Delaine's pronouncement. The rather mercurial Delaine Dish dating the sharp-tongued Jester Moody? Never happen. "You know," began Theodosia, "Jester was just over here, badgering Drayton about-"

  "Hey, Delaine," sang out Haley as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a silver three-tiered tray that showcased a dizzying array of chocolate truffles. "Great hat."

  One of Delaine's hands fluttered to her hat even as her eyes remained on her prey. "Like it, dear? Gracie Venable over at Bow Geste created it exclusively for me. Of course, Gracie's not officially open yet, won't be for another five days, but I talked her into doing a custom order."

  Bow Geste was a new millinery shop just down the block from the Indigo Tea Shop. Theodosia had recently established a friendly, bantering acquaintance with the shop's owner, Gracie Venable. Gracie had dashed in more than a few times over the past couple weeks to chatter about her grand opening plans and grab a cup of tea for takeout. Theodosia wasn't sure just how profitable a millinery shop was going to be, but Gracie was bubbling over with enthusiasm and obviously intended to give it her very best shot. And, Theodosia had to admit, the enormous resurgence in tea shops, tea parties, and special event teas seemed to have ushered in a whole new era where women were, once again, happily sporting white gloves and beautifully decorated hats.

  Haley's eyes danced merrily as she regarded Delaine's hat, a black straw bowler with a froth of flowers bunched on one side. "Gracie told me she'd been working on a hat for you."

  "Did she now?" said Delaine in a disinterested tone. Her eyes were still lasered on Jester Moody.