Ming Tea Murder Read online

  “Did you miss me?” said Bill Glass. He dumped a heavy canvas bag filled with camera gear onto the counter. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up.” He pointed his camera into the crowd and clicked off a half dozen shots. “But I’m here now.” He leaned forward and stared into his viewfinder. “Oh, here’s a good one,” he muttered. “That’s not bad, either.” He glanced up at Theodosia and gave a perfunctory grin. “How ya doin’, sweetheart?”

  “I’m not your sweetheart,” said Theodosia.

  “But you could be,” said Glass.

  “And please don’t disturb my guests. You can circulate on the periphery of the room, but don’t go blundering up to any of the tables. And please ask before you take any close-up shots. Okay?”

  “You really like to lay down the law, don’t you, lady?”

  “Really,” said Theodosia, “it’s just a matter of simple etiquette.”

  • • •

  Theodosia circled the tables, pouring tea, chatting with guests, watching them tuck into the chocolate éclairs and Waldorf pudding that Drayton and Haley had just delivered.

  “Would you like a cup of gunpowder green tea?” she asked Roger Greaves. Dolly Greaves had jumped up earlier and was exploring the tea shop, looking at all the gift items.

  “Please,” he said, sliding his cup toward her. “These éclairs are delicious, by the way.”

  “Then you must be a chocolate lover,” said Theodosia.

  “I think it’s all the theobromine,” said Greaves. “The chemical that hits the feel-good receptor in your brain. Now Dolly . . . Dolly’s not much for chocolate.” He glanced over. “Shopping’s her thing. She’s gaga for shopping.”

  Theodosia followed his gaze. Dolly Greaves had grabbed one of their sweetgrass baskets and was filling it with jars of DuBose Bees Honey and some of Theodosia’s own T-Bath products.

  When Dolly saw the two of them looking at her, she grinned and gestured for Theodosia to come over and join her.

  “You husband tells me you like to shop,” said Theodosia.

  “I do when the products are this intriguing,” said Dolly. “Really, is this your proprietary bath oil?”

  “It sure is. In fact, it’s part of my T-Bath line, bath and skin-care products that are infused with various blends of tea. For example, there’s Chamomile Calming Lotion, Lemon Verbena Hand Lotion, my new Hibiscus and Honey Butter, and a dozen or so more.”

  “I’m going to take one of each,” said Dolly.

  “Okay.” Wow. This is going to ring up as quite a hefty sale.

  As Dolly piled more products into her basket, she turned suddenly serious. “My husband tells me you’re a bit of an amateur investigator.”

  “Oh, not really. I’m more of a crime-show fan. You know, CSI or Criminal Minds.”

  “He told me that Charlotte Webster pretty much asked for your help.”

  “I think she really wanted moral support.”

  “Charlotte’s a fairly smart lady,” said Dolly. “She wouldn’t have voted against the IPO for Datrex like her husband did.”

  “You think not?” said Theodosia. This conversation was suddenly veering into strange territory.

  “An IPO can often raise millions of dollars and send the company’s valuation into the billions,” said Dolly. “Why, just look at all those West Coast tech companies with their mega-rich shareholders! I mean . . . Paul Allen and his yacht with a helicopter and a submarine? Just incredible. And to think that Edgar Webster didn’t want any part of that.” She sniffed. “He just wanted to wobble along like they always had. Ridiculous!”

  “But things are about to change, aren’t they,” said Theodosia. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Oh,” said Dolly with a touch of smugness, “I’m fairly sure the IPO will move ahead now.” The tip of her tongue flicked out and licked her lips, not unlike the tongues of the cottonmouths that moved silently but deadly outside the perimeter of Theodosia’s aunt Libby’s plantation out on Rutledge Road.

  Theodosia gazed at Dolly Greaves with her two-tone hair and her self-satisfied look. And suddenly, Roger’s ditzy wife didn’t seem quite so ditzy after all. “It sounds like you’re privy to quite a few details.”

  Dolly nodded. “With seventy-five thousand shares of common stock at an initial public offering of twelve and a quarter . . . why, that’s a hair over nine million dollars right there.”

  “And that would just be for openers,” said Theodosia.

  “Right,” said Dolly with a vigorous bob of her head. She suddenly looked like she should be wearing a green eyeshade and peering at a computer spreadsheet. “I expect there’d be a nice, tasty run-up on the stock price, too.”

  “So who knows how high those shares could go?” said Theodosia.

  “The sky’s the limit,” said Dolly.

  “Interesting,” Theodosia said in what she hoped was a neutral tone, though her heart was beating a little faster. After all, murdering Edgar Webster would definitely have been a strategy to move the IPO forward. And Dolly, charming little Dolly who just loved to shop, had been present the night Webster was killed.

  • • •

  Theodosia tried to put Dolly’s talk of IPOs and yachts with helicopters out of her head for the time being. Tried to forget that Dolly seemed to have her finger on the pulse of Datrex’s financial dealings. Instead, after shunting Glass out the front door, Theodosia stood there with Drayton, shaking hands and bidding farewells and saying multiple thank-you’s to the guests who were slowly beginning to depart.

  It was a long good-bye, replete with hugs and air kisses. But finally, everyone had gone.

  “That’s it,” said Drayton. “Lock the door, pull up the drawbridge, and release the killer crocodiles.”

  Haley emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at Drayton, whose hat was canted at an odd angle, and grinned. “I feel like we should be playing the closing theme song from The Love Boat.”

  “You think Drayton would get it?” Theodosia chuckled. “Do you think he’s ever heard it?”

  “Who cares?” said Haley. “It would be hysterical.” She started to warble the song in a high-pitched voice: “Love, exciting and new. Come aboard, we’re expecting you.”

  Drayton gazed at her. “Excuse me?” He was not amused.

  Haley broke off her singing and turned away, pulling Theodosia along with her. “Come on back to the kitchen, we saved some food for you guys. You must be starving to death.”

  The kitchen didn’t look half as bad as it had before. Dirty dishes had been stacked neatly in the commercial dishwasher, the stove wasn’t steaming like Mount Vesuvius anymore, and Max was perched on a stool at the counter calmly eating a piece of salmon.

  “How’d it go?” Max asked.

  “Good. Actually, great,” said Theodosia. “Percy Capers and a couple of the other curators were here. Said they came to show the flag. Solidarity and all that.”

  “I saw them,” said Max. “I peeked around the corner right after you served the main course. Everybody seemed to be chowing down with great gusto.”

  “Absolutely they were,” said Theodosia.

  “Though chowing down is a rather inelegant way to phrase it,” said Drayton as he suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “You want some poached salmon?” Haley asked him. “We have a few servings left. And sauce, too.”

  “I’d love some,” said Drayton. “But what I need first is a bracing cup of tea.”

  “We should be able to manage that,” said Theodosia. “In fact, why don’t we brew a pot of that Castleton Estate that you like so much? Haven’t we been saving it for a special occasion? A special triumph?”

  “Let’s do it,” said Drayton.

  “Go ahead,” said Haley. “I’ll fix a couple plates for you guys.”

  They walked out into
the tea room.

  “You okay?” Theodosia asked.

  “Just a little tired,” said Drayton.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Drayton as he reached up and grabbed a tin of tea.

  “Is that the . . . ?” began Theodosia.

  Her words were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

  “Now what?” said Drayton. “Oh dear, I suppose one of our guests left something behind.”

  Theodosia tiptoed to the door and peered out. “It’s not a guest. It’s Tidwell.”

  “Drat,” said Drayton.

  Theodosia pulled the door open a crack. “You’re too late,” she told him. “Dinner’s over and done. Everyone’s gone home.”

  “Ha,” said Tidwell. He pushed the door open with a chubby paw. “I didn’t come for dinner. I want to ask your friend a couple of questions.”

  Drayton took a step back. “What? You mean me?”

  “Hardly,” said Tidwell. “No, I meant Miss Browning’s gentleman friend. Max Scofield.”

  “How did you know he was here?” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell’s mouth twitched. “Please.”

  When Max came out from the kitchen, he didn’t look happy. “What now?” he asked.

  “May we sit down?” asked Tidwell.

  “I suppose,” said Theodosia. She was curious as to what this was all about.

  Tidwell wasted no time. “You know that Miss Cecily Conrad was attacked last night?”

  Max’s nod was imperceptible.

  “What does that have to do with Max?” Theodosia asked.

  Tidwell held up a hand. “Please.” His large head swiveled toward Max. “I take it you have an alibi?”

  “I was with Theodosia, and then I stopped at a cigar bar,” said Max.

  “Which one?” said Tidwell.

  “DG Stogies. Over on Wentworth.”

  “And you were there from when to when?”

  Max half closed his eyes, thinking. “Probably from about ten thirty to midnight.”

  “And you were not alone?”

  “There were maybe a half dozen guys there. There was a rebroadcast of the Carolina Panthers game. We were watching it.”

  “And all of your football cronies would vouch for you?”

  “Sure,” said Max. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “That’s all I need to know,” said Tidwell.

  “That’s it?” said Theodosia. She felt like they’d gotten off easy.

  “That’s it,” said Tidwell. He gave a small smile. “Pro forma.”

  “Well, then . . . would you like a bite of poached salmon?” Theodosia asked him.

  Tidwell looked suddenly delighted. His nose twitched, his eyes lit up, and he said, “Really?”

  “I’ll get an order,” said Max. “Now that I know I’m not going to be burned at the stake.” He jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Theodosia looked over at Drayton, who was suddenly busy fixing his pot of tea.

  “I met someone very interesting tonight,” said Theodosia, leading Tidwell to a table that had been cleared.

  “Pray tell,” said Tidwell as they both sat down.

  “Dolly Greaves, the wife of Roger Greaves.”

  “He of the murdered partner.”

  “Yes,” said Theodosia. “Dolly is . . . well, she seems to be following the financial dealings of her husband’s company rather closely.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Dolly has a charming, jovial way about her,” said Theodosia. “But she’s extremely sharp, in a business sense.”

  “Most women are,” said Tidwell.

  “Still, Dolly seemed to take real pleasure in the fact that the Datrex IPO, the one Edgar Webster managed to postpone, is probably going to be happening now.”

  Tidwell held up a chubby hand. “Stop. What you’re really saying is that Mrs. Greaves is a suspect. In your book, anyway.”

  “Yes,” said Theodosia. “I guess I am. It’s possible that Dolly could have been the one who killed Webster. After all, she knew him fairly well and she was at the event Thursday night.”

  “Interesting,” said Tidwell, though the way he said it indicated he wasn’t the least bit interested.

  “Anyway,” said Theodosia, “I’m just saying.” She rose and grabbed a napkin, knife, fork, and spoon off the counter for Tidwell and arranged it in front of him.

  Not thirty seconds later, Max set a dish of poached salmon in front of Tidwell. The dish was accompanied by Haley’s cream sauce and a side of leftover asparagus vinaigrette.

  Tidwell tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and dug in with relish.

  “Mmn,” he said at the first bite. “Good.”

  “I think the salmon turned out of be everyone’s favorite,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell took a second bite. “Really good. In fact, I am fairly trembling with pleasure.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered that kind of reaction before,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell glanced around as he continued eating. “What type of event took place here?” he asked.

  “Our Titanic Tea,” said Theodosia.

  “Titanic? As in the ship? Really?” said Tidwell, never missing a beat.

  “Think of it as a classy Halloween event,” put in Drayton.

  Tidwell inclined his head toward Theodosia. “And did you hire an orchestra to play ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee?’”

  “No,” said Theodosia. “I’m afraid that would have been a little over the top.”

  “I’d have thought it highly appropriate,” said Tidwell. “Considering that the one thing on your mind is murder.”

  16

  Church Street would never have been called Church Street if it weren’t for St. Philip’s Episcopal Church. Founded in 1681, constructed in 1836, the elegant-looking church with the circular front proudly extended out into the middle of Church Street for all to see.

  Surrounded on three sides by centuries-old graveyards, St. Philip’s seemed uniquely appropriate for Edgar Webster’s funeral Monday morning. The choir sang a somber version of “How Great Thou Art” as the mourners quietly filed in. Theodosia, sitting in one of the back pews, recognized Roger Greaves and his wife, Dolly, and what was probably a contingent of Datrex employees crowded around them. There was also a bunch of Webster relatives.

  Theodosia also noted that Elliot Kern was present and accounted for, as well as a number of curators and board members from the museum.

  Stands to reason, she thought, since poor Webster had met his maker there. Too bad it hadn’t happened in a picturesque garden or gallery. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Edgar to have gasped out his dying breath in a chrome yellow photo booth. The kind people rented for fairs or sweet sixteen parties. The kind Max had unfortunately rented. And it was too bad that Webster hadn’t had the presence of mind to push the button and take a photo. Then his death—and his killer’s identity—would have been recorded for posterity.

  Squirming around in her seat, Theodosia noted that Tidwell was hunched in the very last pew. He seemed intent on ignoring everyone around him, though he was probably observing them like a hawk. And there was Bill Glass, skulking in with a load of cameras strung around his neck. He was here to capture the moment, she thought. But not for posterity. Any images he captured today would exist only for a day or two in his rag of a tabloid, then get tossed out with the next day’s garbage.

  As the choir finished their dirge and the organ music slowly died in the still air, there was a disturbance at the back of the church. The sound of doors opening, loud whispers, a hum of activity, and the click-clack of rolling metal wheels.

  Theodosia swiveled around and saw that Edgar Webster’s casket had been loaded onto a casket roller. Covered
with the official state flag of South Carolina—bright blue with a white palmetto and crescent—that draped the casket and was topped with an enormous spray of white lilies.

  Interesting, she thought. They were the same type of flowers used at the Titanic Tea last night. Only these lilies were larger and the presentation far more grand.

  A hush came over the congregation, and the organ started up again as Charlotte Webster, hanging on the arm of Harlan Duke, came walking down the aisle. Charlotte wore a black jacket with a perky, stand-up collar, a ruffled skirt, and a black hat that was somewhere between a stovepipe and The Cat in the Hat. They were followed closely by Edgar Webster’s casket. Flanked by six grim-faced pallbearers and an honor guard of four more men in black suits, it creaked noisily down the aisle.

  In their dark suits, the men looked like a chorus of crows, Theodosia thought to herself. Although that might not have been the correct term for it. Maybe crows were a muster? Or a murder? She’d have to look that up.

  But right now, she continued to watch Charlotte sniffle and shuffle her way to the front of the church.

  When had Charlotte gotten so friendly with Harlan Duke, Theodosia wondered? And then she remembered that Duke had been the one who’d located the Chinese tea house in Shanghai, the tea house Edgar Webster had financed so heavily.

  Once the casket had been rolled to the front and seesawed into place, once the mourners had all taken their seats, the service began in earnest.

  It was quite lovely, as funeral services go. Prayers, songs, moments of contemplation, and fine testimonials. Roger Greaves stood at the front of the church, gripping the podium as he delivered a rousing speech about Webster’s amazing contributions at Datrex. Then another man—Theodosia thought it was their CEO—gave a shorter speech that was also filled with platitudes.

  The Lord’s Prayer ensued, and then everyone was asked to stand for a final blessing and what was to be the concluding hymn.

  With the choir’s last sad notes still hanging in the air, Theodosia slipped out the door and hurried down Church Street to the Indigo Tea Shop. She knew she had about five or ten minutes before they’d be besieged by mourners—after that much solemnity, she figured everyone would be hungry for lunch. And she wanted to make sure everything was set up and the tea shop was looking sharp.