Shades of Earl Grey Page 11

  Chai was black tea with a blend of spices, usually cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger, steeped in milk, then sweetened and served hot.

  “I can get Drayton to blend the spices, the rest is a snap,” enthused Haley. “Well, we might have to get a small cappuccino machine to steam and froth the milk—but that would be it.”

  “Haley,” laughed Theodosia, “this is the Indigo Tea Shop, not the International Food Corporation. Let’s go with the tea smoothies for now and see what happens, okay?”

  “Okay,” Haley agreed. “Hey, is that from Miss Dimple?” She’d just noticed the wrought iron tea trivet that sat on Theodosia’s desk.

  “She brought it back from Florida for me,” said Theodosia. “Wasn’t that sweet.”

  “She’s a neat old gal,” said Haley as a low buzz suddenly issued from the kitchen next door. “Oops! There goes the oven timer. Gotta check my quiche.” And Haley zipped out the door like a jackrabbit.

  Theodosia took a few more sips of her tea smoothie with the intention of sorting through the stack of papers on her desk. Besides being a compulsive hoarder of junk mail, she found it difficult to toss out the various tea and tea ware catalogs that found their way to her on an almost daily basis. What if, at some point in time, she just had to have some of those pedestal mugs to sell in the tea shop? Or some of those neat wooden honey dippers. After all, they sold a tremendous amount of honey along with their packaged teas. And then there was this wonderful little biscotti company in North Carolina that offered dreamy flavors such as chocolate raspberry and lemon almond.

  Better save these catalogs, she told herself. And as she gathered them up, her eyes fell once again on the wrought iron trivet Miss Dimple had brought her from Florida. She stared at the black wrought iron that had been heated then formed into a rounded teapot outline.

  So Miss Dimple had known of another strange robbery that had a cat-burglar-like MO. Have there been other robberies of valuables? She’d have to check with the police.

  Deep inside her a warning bell sounded.

  She tried to push her unsettled feelings into the back of her mind, but couldn’t.

  There’ll be more robberies to come, she told herself. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  CHAPTER 11

  HALEY PULLED OPEN the door of the large institutional oven and peered at her quiche. She had three pans of the stuff baking away inside the oven. And right now all of them were bubbling like crazy and turning a nice golden brown on top.

  Looking good, Haley murmured to herself as she eased the oven door closed, then slipped the oven mitt off her hand.

  The three pans of quiche would hopefully serve today’s luncheon crowd. Hopefully. They were all double pans, but then again, their luncheon business had been increasing at an alarming rate.

  Haley hummed to herself as she moved a stack of mismatched salad plates onto the serving counter. Plates that she and Theodosia had picked up at flea markets and estate sales. The fact that none of them matched seemed to contribute to the general feeling of cozy and chaos that reigned at the Indigo Tea Shop.

  She remembered very well the day Theodosia had first opened her doors. They’d served fifteen customers that first day. Fifteen inquisitive souls who’d made their way down Church Street and ventured into the tea shop, intrigued by the sights, sounds, and smells.

  That had been almost three years ago and business had grown in decisive spits and spurts ever since.

  Haley turned back to the oven and flipped open the door. Perfect. She quickly pulled all three pans from the oven and set them on top of the large, institutional stove.

  The aroma wafting from the quiche was heavenly, she decided. But then, her bacon and red pepper quiche was always a thing of pure joy. How did she know? Haley smiled contentedly to herself. Because lots of folks, oodles of folks, had told her so. And because she used a secret ingredient—almost a half-pound of cream cheese in every pan—to guarantee that her quiche would turn out extra smooth and creamy.

  Why, just this morning, Brooke Carter Crockett had urged her to put together a recipe book. And Brooke hadn’t been the first one to make that suggestion, either. Lots of folks, including Drayton and Theodosia, had brought up the idea.

  Haley slid a knife through the first pan of steaming quiche, cutting it into even squares. The idea of a recipe book appealed to her. Heck, she decided, restaurants and church groups all over Charleston had put together recipe books. Some featured gorgeous four-color photos and were professionally printed and bound, others were typed on computers, laser-printed at home, then hand-punched and tied with ribbon.

  What would mine look like? Hmm. Have to think about that.

  “Haley,” said Drayton as he stuck his head around the corner. “Our luncheon crowd awaits today’s offering with bated breath.”

  “Then don’t just stand there being erudite, Drayton, kindly help me. Nestle a small bunch of green grapes on each plate and let’s get going.” Haley saw him hesitate for a split-second. “Yes, those grapes,” she snapped. “Right there in the basket.” She shook her head good-naturedly, knowing she was a perfectionist and sometimes a little too hard-driving for her own good. For anyone’s good. “What would you guys do around here without me to keep up my constant barrage of browbeating?” she added.

  “Haley,” said Drayton, who was now scrambling to place grapes on plates and slide plates onto trays, “I don’t mind saying that sometimes you employ the iron-fisted tactics of a Prussian general.”

  She grinned as she topped each square of quiche with a bright sliver of roasted red pepper. “Why, thank you, Drayton. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Like hotcakes,” marveled Theodosia. “Your quiche just went like hotcakes. How many pans did you bake?” she asked Haley.

  “Three,” said Haley, who was standing behind the counter, ringing up a final take-out order.

  “So there were, what? A dozen servings in each pan?” asked Drayton.

  “Yup,” said Haley as she handed change across the counter. “Thank you so much,” she told her customer. “Come back and see us again.”

  “Three dozen lunches in the course of an hour or so,” said Theodosia. “And that’s not counting the tea and scone orders. We don’t usually do that many.”

  “Better get that permit for outside tables,” chided Drayton.

  “You’re right,” said Theodosia. “I’m definitely liking the way business is shaping up.”

  “Wait until the T-Bath products go on sale,” warned Haley. “Business will be bonkers.”

  “You really think so?” asked Theodosia. She was hopeful the T-Bath products would take off, but then again, you never know. Business could be a real crap shoot.

  “I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised,” said Haley. She stretched her arms high above her head, bent slightly to the left. In her rust-colored long-sleeve T-shirt and long, filmy skirt of rust and blue, Haley looked like a ballet dancer, lithe and limber.

  “In case you guys haven’t noticed, tea is big business these days,” pronounced Haley. “Look at all the green tea candles and tea-scented perfumes and lotions out there on the market. And every time you go into a gourmet shop or kitchen boutique, you find tons of teapots and tea infusers and boxed teas.”

  “She’s right,” said Drayton. “And while we may not always like some of the bottled teas or premixed jars of chai in the supermarket, someone is buying them. Which I guess is good for us.”

  “Speaking of business and products flying off the shelf,” said Theodosia, “how exactly are we going to display the T-Bath products when we launch on Thursday?”

  “I’ve got that covered,” replied Drayton. “I found a marvelous old secretary at Tom Wigley’s antique shop. Wooden, a little scuffed, but it still retains most of its original shelves. Not too deep, either. I believe it will fit flush to the wall over near the fireplace and work perfectly as a display case.”

  “Kind of like the wooden cabinet Delaine h
as in her store,” said Theodosia. “The one holding scarves and purses and such.”

  Drayton furrowed his brow, trying to recall what was in Delaine’s shop. “Something like that, yes. Tom said he’d bring the piece round tomorrow.”

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Brooke Carter Crockett and her associate, Aerin Linley, were back in the tea shop that afternoon.

  “Bet you didn’t think you’d see me again so soon,” laughed Brooke. “But we just had to come by for another cuppa.”

  “Dear lady, twice in one day is an absolute delight,” assured Drayton. “Now let me share with you a Castleton estate tea. Still an Indian black tea, just not as buttery as your beloved Goomtee. This one is slightly fruity, but kindly reserve judgment until you’ve given it a fair shake.”

  “Who’s minding the store?” asked Theodosia, as Drayton went off to prepare the pot of tea.

  Aerin waved a hand. “Oh, business was slow, so we just hung a sign on the door. You know, one of those hand-scrawled notes that says, Back in twenty minutes.”

  Theodosia nodded. It wasn’t unusual to see signs like that up and down Church Street and at the little shops throughout the historic district. People were always running out for tea or coffee or a quick visit. It was one of the little quirks that made the neighborhood so charming and fun to be part of.

  She was also glad that Brooke and Aerin had just casually dropped by. As Theodosia well knew, repeat customers are the bread and butter of any small business.

  The importance of generating repeat business was also one of the main reasons Theodosia tried to maintain a database of all her regular customers’ names and addresses. If you mailed out postcards on luncheon specials or invited folks to promotional events like the T-Bath open house they were staging Thursday, customers would continue to return.

  “Say, Theo,” began Brooke. “I was telling Aerin about our little talk this morning. You know, when you asked about people just dropping by Heart’s Desire and offering items for sale? She remembered someone acted somewhat strangely while I was away in New York.”

  “That’s right,” said Aerin. “It was a woman who came in a few weeks ago with a very pretty brooch.”

  “There was something unusual about her behavior?” asked Theodosia.

  Aerin Linley paused. “She just seemed nervous, a little on edge. I remember thinking it was odd at the time, but then I dismissed it.”

  “Did you buy the piece from her?” asked Theodosia.

  “Yes, we did,” said Aerin. “I knew our inventory was low and it was a rather lovely piece. An emerald cut citrine surrounded by ten small diamonds. Not a huge piece, mind you, but fairly tasty. Fine craftsmanship and it definitely had some age on it.” She hesitated. “Now, thinking back, I guess I’m a little nervous about the entire transaction.”

  Brooke leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I think you even know the seller, Theo. Claire Kitridge?”

  “Claire from the Heritage Society?” asked Theodosia.

  Claire? Theodosia thought to herself. The Claire that always seems so buttoned up and straitlaced? The same Claire that collects antique linens?

  “Ladies,” said Haley, arriving with their tea. “May I present Drayton’s fabled Castleton estate tea. And one of my blackberry scones for each of you. The blackberries, I might add, are from a recent crop grown on nearby Saint John’s Island.”

  There were oohs and aahs from the two ladies as Haley set teacups, teapot, and accouterments on the table and they began helping themselves.

  “Enjoy your teatime,” said Theodosia as she slipped away. “I’ll chat with you again later.” Slightly unnerved, she went to the display shelves and began rearranging the antique teacups she had placed there just yesterday. In her heart, she knew Brooke and Aerin had to be mistaken. Claire Kitridge was above reproach. She’d worked at the Heritage Society for three or four years now. She’d even heard Timothy Neville, in one of his rare instances of magnanimity, praise Claire for her hard work and dedication.

  “Oh no,” said Haley under her breath. “Not him.”

  Burt Tidwell had just pushed his way through the door and seated himself at one of the smaller tables.

  Theodosia squinted across the room at him. Tidwell didn’t usually just show up unannounced unless he had something on his mind. The question was, What was on the old boy’s mind today?

  “Detective Tidwell,” said Theodosia, trying her best to manage a lighthearted greeting. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

  Tidwell arranged his mouth in a reasonable facsimile of a smile, but the vibes weren’t particularly warm. “Tea and the prospect of polite conversation have drawn me to your little establishment today.”

  What a maddening oblique manner he has, she thought to herself. Studied, slightly formal, but still with that cat-and-mouse attitude he was so famous for. Very well, she decided, I’ll play along for now.

  Hastily brewing a pot of uva tea, a delicate, slightly lemony Ceylonese tea, she put a stack of madelaines on a plate and carried everything back to Tidwell’s table.

  “Sit a moment, will you?” he invited. “Join me?”

  She turned back to the counter, grabbed the first teacup she could lay her hands on, a Delvaux porcelain. She balanced it atop a Spode muffin plate, another antique piece from her collection, and went back to join Tidwell at his table. Sliding into the chair across from him, she watched as Tidwell poured out a stream of the pale amber tea into her teacup first, then his.

  “This is nice,” he said with another quick twitch of a smile.

  She wasn’t sure if Tidwell was referring to her company or the tea. It didn’t really matter. The sentiment didn’t feel genuine.

  “You’ve been busy,” Tidwell began. His large fingers skittered across the plate of madelaines, stopped on one, gathered it up.

  This time she knew exactly what he was referring to. And it had nothing to do with the increase in business at her tea shop.

  “Saint Anne’s Hospital the other night. Not a smart thing to do,” he told her. Tidwell cocked a furry eyebrow, waited for a response.

  That man can convey reproach with just the quiver of an eyebrow, Theodosia marveled to herself. How must a true criminal feel when Tidwell focuses his beady-eyed gaze upon them? Nervous, probably. That’s when they know the jig is up.

  “I wasn’t aware I had to obtain your permission in order to visit people in the hospital,” Theodosia told him, her manner deliberately cool.

  “Visitation is not what I was referring to,” said Tidwell. “Far be it from me to criticize you and your canine friend from bringing cheer to small, needful children. I was referring to the fact that you gave chase to someone.” Tidwell took a sip of tea, then gave her yet another look of stern reproach. “I warned you not to get involved.”

  “I wasn’t involved,” said Theodosia. “I went into a hospital room to pay a visit. It wasn’t my fault someone was lurking there. I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

  Now Tidwell fixed her with a steady gaze. “I get the feeling, Miss Browning, that you don’t ever go looking for trouble. It comes calling on you.” His eyes bore into her. Then, just as quickly, flicked down to scan the plate. His fingers convulsed, but he did not reach for a second madelaine.

  “Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia began, “have you been able to look into the incident at the Lady Goodwood Inn? The break-in that led to the death of poor Captain Buchanan?”

  “Ah, change of subject,” said Tidwell. “Very well, it was done politely. Not the most graceful segue in the world, but adequate.” He leaned back in his chair, hunched his shoulders, and crooked his head to the left, as though trying to dislodge a kink from his thick neck.

  “I carefully reviewed the investigation report that Officers Gallier and Delehanty filed on the so-called break-in at the Lady Goodwood Inn. They did, in fact, check the roof and the various access points to it for fingerprints as well as signs of a disturbance. None were found.” He paused. “I stand c
orrected—on one of the remaining panes of glass in the ceiling, they found fingerprints belonging to one of the maintenance men. A Mr. Harry Kreider.”

  Harry Kreider, thought Theodosia. That was the man she’d spoken with that awful night, the one who’d lent her the ladder. He certainly wasn’t a viable suspect in her mind.

  “So it’s a dead end,” said Theodosia. Frowning slightly, she reached for one of the madelaines, took a bite, chewed absently.

  “It was never going anywhere to begin with,” said Tidwell. He gazed at her, saw her apparent distress. “I’m sorry,” he added, tempering his tone. “I don’t mean to be so rude. It was a game try, you made a good guess.”

  Theodosia exhaled slowly. No, she decided, it was more than a guess on her part. It was a . . . what was it, exactly? A feeling? A visceral intuition that the two incidents were connected?

  Tidwell was watching her closely, trying to get a read on her by using his natural instincts. She dropped her voice so Brooke and Aerin, sitting at the nearby table, wouldn’t hear her. “Let me ask you about something,” said Theodosia. She picked up her teacup, took a deliberate sip.

  Tidwell continued to watch her expectantly.

  “Other thefts in the historic district,” she said as she balanced her cup on the muffin plate. “Have you heard of any?”

  “Nearly half a dozen.”

  A loud crash sounded at her feet. Startled, Theodosia looked down to see the teacup and plate she’d been holding just moments earlier lying in smithereens on the floor. Without thinking, she bent down to pick up one of the pieces, immediately came away with a cut.

  “Miss Browning,” said Tidwell, reaching for her arm, gently pulling it back. “Do be careful.” He looked into her eyes, saw what he took to be bewilderment and confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle or upset you in any way. Please do believe me.”

  In that same instant, Brooke Carter Crockett had jumped up from her seat at the table and now stood next to Theodosia, surveying the damage. “Oh, no,” she mourned, gazing down at the shattered china. “Were they good pieces?”