A Dark and Stormy Tea Read online

  Titles by Laura Childs

  Tea Shop Mysteries

  death by darjeeling

  gunpowder green

  shades of earl grey

  the english breakfast murder

  the jasmine moon murder

  chamomile mourning

  blood orange brewing

  dragonwell dead

  the silver needle murder

  oolong dead

  the teaberry strangler

  scones & bones

  agony of the leaves

  sweet tea revenge

  steeped in evil

  ming tea murder

  devonshire scream

  pekoe most poison

  plum tea crazy

  broken bone china

  lavender blue murder

  haunted hibiscus

  twisted tea christmas

  a dark and stormy tea

  Scrapbooking Mysteries

  keepsake crimes

  photo finished

  bound for murder

  motif for murder

  frill kill

  death swatch

  tragic magic

  fiber & brimstone

  skeleton letters

  postcards from the dead

  gilt trip

  gossamer ghost

  parchment and old lace

  crepe factor

  glitter bomb

  mumbo gumbo murder

  Cackleberry Club Mysteries

  eggs in purgatory

  eggs benedict arnold

  bedeviled eggs

  stake & eggs

  eggs in a casket

  scorched eggs

  egg drop dead

  eggs on ice

  egg shooters

  Anthologies

  death by design

  tea for three

  Afton Tangler Thrillers

  writing as Gerry Schmitt

  little girl gone

  shadow girl

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

  Excerpt from Lemon Curd Killer copyright © 2022 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Childs, Laura, author.

  Title: A dark and stormy tea / Laura Childs.

  Description: New York: Berkley Prime Crime, [2022] | Series: Tea shop mystery; #24

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021061891 (print) | LCCN 2021061892 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593200896 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593200902 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 D37 2022 (print) | LCC PS3603.H56 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061891

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061892

  Cover art by Scott Zelazny

  Adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  pid_prh_6.0_140628072_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Titles by Laura Childs

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Favorite Recipes

  Tea Time Tips

  Tea Resources

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Lemon Curd Killer

  About the Author

  1

  At five thirty on a Monday afternoon, it was full-on dark when Theodosia Browning, proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop, stepped out the back door of the Heritage Society. Pushing back a lock of curly auburn hair, she scanned the western sky, hoping for a faint smudge of orange to light the way home. When she didn’t find it, she set off at a fast clip, chiding herself for staying so late.

  Still, Charleston’s venerable Heritage Society was sponsoring a Maritime History Seminar this Wednesday, and as luck would have it, Theodosia and her team had been tapped to cater an afternoon tea for visiting scholars.

  Gotta hurry back. Drayton will be waiting, Theodosia told herself as she snugged her coat collar up against a cold wind. Overhead, trees thrashed as rain began to pelt down, stinging her face like icy needles.

  Awful weather for early March. Especially when Charleston should be bursting with azaleas and pink camellias.

  Now thunder rumbled overhead, low and slow, as if pin after pin were being knocked down in a cosmic bowling alley.

  Theodosia hurried across King Street and hesitated. She glanced around at enormous two-hundred-year-old homes that sat on their haunches like nervous cats, then shivered as sheets of rain slashed down. Because the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, she knew a shortcut down Gateway Walk, a tangled trail that wound through the back side of the Historic District, would save her an entire block of slopping through puddles. And with this weather system blowing in so hard and strong, the decision was a no-brainer.

  Of course, Gateway Walk was probably deserted right now, Theodosia told herself as she hurried through a pair of ancient wrought-iron gates and headed down a narrow, winding path. With this foul, unseasonable weather, there’d be no tourists snapping photos, none of the usual ghost-walk tours with guides spinning eerie tales about haunted graves and wafting white specters.

  Tall boxwood hedges closed in as Theodosia skimmed along slippery cobblestones. Great gray wisps of fog rolled across her path like ghostly ocean waves, driven in by the wind of
f Charleston Harbor a few blocks away. Charleston, a city that was already slightly ethereal due to high humidity, salt-laden sea air, and antique glowing streetlamps, became positively spooky when the fog swirled in.

  Of course it’s spooky, Theodosia told herself. Even this pathway is purported to be a prime viewing area for ghostly phenomena. Which, by the way, I don’t happen to subscribe to.

  Theodosia had traveled these hidden paths and walkways dozens of times, always reveling in their sumptuous gardens, Greek statuary, hidden grape arbors, and pattering fountains. But tonight she had to admit the atmosphere did feel slightly different.

  And for good reason.

  Always a gracious and posh dowager, Charleston was on edge right now. A dangerous killer the local press had dubbed Fogheel Jack had been skulking down its hidden lanes and alleys. After a seven-year hiatus, this madman had suddenly reappeared in Charleston to strangle an unsuspecting young woman with a twist of sharp wire.

  Now residents hurried home from work in a wash of blue twilight and locked their doors before total darkness descended. Visitors who’d come to languish in luxury at Charleston’s historic inns and feast at four-star restaurants that specialized in grilled redfish, blue crab, and fresh oysters were warned not to wander too far from the relatively safe confines of the Historic District. Around the City Market, Waterfront Park, and White Point Gardens, the Charleston police had stepped up patrols and officers rode two to a cruiser.

  No. Theodosia shook her head to dispel the notion of danger and told herself she’d be fine. Better than fine. Even though she was surrounded by live oaks, palmettos, and crumbling stone walls, she was only three blocks away—actually, make that two and a half—from busy Church Street and the welcoming warmth of her tea shop. And once she reached the front door of that cozy little establishment, she’d be perfectly safe. Drayton Conneley, her dear friend and tea sommelier, would be waiting with a fresh-brewed pot of Darjeeling, eager to hear final details about their catering job. Haley, her young chef extraordinaire, would probably be tucked upstairs in her apartment along with Teacake, her little orange-and-brown RagaMuffin cat.

  Theodosia could almost feel the warmth of the Indigo Tea Shop settle around her shoulders like a cashmere blanket, could practically inhale its rich aromas. So nothing to worry about, right?

  Then why do I feel so unsettled?

  Theodosia knew the practical, rational answer. It was because of Fogheel Jack. He was the mysterious unknown killer who’d murdered two women some seven years ago and was apparently back for a return engagement. Even her customers, sipping tea and nibbling fresh-baked scones at her quasi-British, slightly French-inspired tea shop, furtively whispered his name.

  Who was he?

  Where was he?

  When would he strike next?

  The Post and Courier had made no bones about last week’s murder, a headline boldly declaring “Fogheel Jack Is Back!” That murder had taken place in a small park over near the university, the strangling an almost exact reenactment of the two seven-year-old, still-unsolved crimes.

  Fogheel Jack. That’s what rabid journalists had called him back then. And the name had stuck. Obviously.

  Some of the TV stations had gone so far as to speculate that this brutal killer had been roaming the country and returned to Charleston because he found it to be more to his liking, a kind of preferred hunting ground.

  Enough of that nonsense, Theodosia told herself as she chugged along. Last week’s murder had happened miles from here. So there was no way . . .

  A faint sound up ahead. The scrape of shoe leather on pavement?

  Theodosia slowed, listened carefully, then stopped dead in her tracks. Cocked her head and listened harder.

  But the only thing she heard was the constant pounding of rain and the occasional whoosh of cars over on Archdale Street.

  I’m being silly. Acting like a fraidy-cat.

  Resuming her pace, Theodosia headed down the final passageway. This was normally a gorgeous place to sit and watch sunlight play on palmetto trees and purple wisteria. To watch butterflies and honeybees cavort. Not happening today. Instead, she hurried past fog-strangled clumps of azaleas as thunder rumbled overhead and rain pelted down. Blinking, wiping her eyes, she found it difficult to navigate the narrow path let alone avoid its deepening puddles.

  Theodosia cautioned herself to hold steady. After all, St. Philip’s Graveyard was just ahead. After that she’d be home free.

  Unfortunately, she had to contend with this blinding rain and doggone fog.

  Theodosia ducked her head and continued on as damp vines clutched at her ankles. Finally, through a scrim of shifting fog, a moldering tomb came into view. Then another seemed to pop up. And even though this was most definitely a creepy graveyard (ghost hunters claimed they’d seen glowing orbs here), Theodosia had never been so happy to see it.

  The brick path doglegged left and Theodosia followed it around a square marble tomb with a kneeling angel on top. Cold, wet, feeling like a drowned rat, she couldn’t wait to . . .

  Another noise.

  Theodosia’s shoulders hunched reflexively as she came to an abrupt stop.

  Is someone besides me wandering around in this miserable weather? A graveyard visitor or lost tourist?

  She waited nervously as electricity seemed to thrum the air like so many high-tension wires.

  What to do?

  An answering slash of lightning lit the boiling clouds overhead. And illuminated a strange tableau taking place some thirty feet in front of her.

  Two figures. Locked in some kind of unholy embrace. As if caught and buffeted in the eye of a hurricane.

  Then utter darkness enveloped the scene and rain drummed down even harder.

  Her heart practically blipping out of her chest, Theodosia wondered what she’d just witnessed. Lovers’ quarrel? Crazy horseplay? Someone being attacked?

  Lightning strobed and crackled again, yielding a startling revelation. One of the figures was now stretched out atop a low tomb.

  Behavioral experts say that faced with imminent danger, most everyone has an immediate fight-or-flight reaction. Theodosia didn’t opt for either of these. Instead, she shouted, “Hey there!” Tried to make her voice sound loud and authoritative.

  A hooded figure in a long black shiny coat rose slowly and turned to face her. The image suddenly struck her as somber and frightening, like a creature out of a horror film. Or the Headless Horseman character from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” She stared, trying desperately to make out the man’s face—she thought it was a man—but was only able to discern dark hollows for eyes and a horizontal slash of thin lips.

  “What are you . . . ?” she shouted again, even though it was difficult to make herself heard above the onslaught of the storm.

  Then Theodosia was struck silent as the man lifted a gleaming blade and tilted it in her direction. It was a strange gesture. He could have been threatening her; he could have been offering a benediction.

  The air felt charged with danger as Theodosia slowly spread her arms wide, as if in surrender, and took a step backward.

  That’s when the man turned and slipped away into the shadows.

  Unnerved, Theodosia waited a few moments and then crept forward. Really, what had just happened? What had she witnessed?

  Slowly, cautiously, her heart beating like the wings of a frightened dove, Theodosia advanced on the small dark figure that had been flung carelessly across the tomb. It looked . . . almost like a bundle of rags. Was it a person? She thought so.

  Peering at the crumpled figure, she said, “Hello? Do you need help?”

  There was no answer.

  She took another step forward.

  That’s when it all changed for Theodosia. That’s when she saw streaming rivulets of blood mingled with rain as it hammered down.

  2 r />
  Flustered and trying to fight off the blind panic that threatened to engulf her, Theodosia fumbled for her phone and managed to punch in 911. When a dispatcher came on the line, her words poured out in a torrent.

  “There’s been a murder! At least I think it’s a murder. In St. Philip’s Graveyard. I need help!”

  “Where are you?” the dispatcher asked. A male voice, all business but concerned-sounding, too.

  “I just told you. St. Philip’s Graveyard.”

  She heard mumbling in the background, several voices all merged together, and someone saying ten-fifty-three and a possible one-eighty-seven. Police codes, she guessed. Then the dispatcher was right back with her.

  “An alert’s been sent; help is on the way,” he said. “But you must remain on the line, do you understand?”

  “Okay . . . okay,” Theodosia said. She was trying to stay calm, to sound as if she was in control of her faculties, but it was difficult. Rain continued to pour down, seeping under her collar and running down the back of her neck, chilling her to the bone. She was also standing in total darkness, surrounded by ancient, crumbling statuary and tombstones. A carved skull stared at her with hollow eyes. A lamb with a missing head stood guard just to her left. And of course there was that poor body. With so much blood leaking out.

  “Are you still there?” the dispatcher asked. “Talk to me. I need to know that you’re okay.”

  “I’m here, I’m okay,” Theodosia said as she clutched her phone with a cold, deathlike grip.

  “There’s a cruiser two minutes out, so you need to hang in there as best you can.” Against the constant drip, drip, drip of rain he sounded worried.

  Theodosia nodded, even though she knew the dispatcher couldn’t see her.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m still here.”

  “Are you in any physical danger?”

  Theodosia looked around. “Right now? I don’t think so. But . . .”

  She ground her teeth together as her curiosity reared up hard and fast, getting the better of her. Clouding her judgment.

  She crept forward, the heels of her loafers sinking into soft, dark moss as she edged across soggy ground. Then she stopped and peered speculatively at the woman. She’d been flung haphazardly across a low pockmarked marble tombstone, almost as if she’d been put there on display. As if her killer wanted to say, Look what I did.