Laura Childs - [Tea Shop Mystery 06] Read online

  "You know, Delaine," said Haley, "I helped write the business plan for Gracie's new shop." There was pride in Haley's voice.

  Haley's statement finally managed to capture Delaine's attention. "You?" she said, her nostrils flaring delicately as she regarded Haley as one might confront a science project. "I thought you were a baker by trade."

  "Well, I am," said Haley, slightly unsure of herself now. "But I'm a part-time college student, too. Helping Gracie with her business plan was one of the final requirements for my business internship."

  "Haley's studying business administration," explained Drayton as he joined them, carrying another tray lined with sparkling teacups. "She'll probably end up as a hard-charging CEO for some Fortune 500 company. With an enormous salary and stock options to boot."

  "Well, don't give up your day job just yet," was Delaine's parting shot to Haley as she scurried off.

  Haley looked stung. "Delaine never gives me any credit," she complained. "She treats me like a kid. A nobody."

  Drayton peered at Haley over tortoiseshell half-glasses that gave him the look of a learned owl. "Be serious," he told her. "In the scheme of things, does it really matter? You know you're a smart, talented young woman. Theo and I value you enormously."

  Theodosia slung an arm around Haley's shoulder in a gesture of support. "Delaine means well," she told her young helper. "But she often falls short in the diplomacy department."

  "Her taste can be a little questionable, too," said Drayton in a loud whisper. "If you ask me, I'd say that dress is completely over the top. I believe Delaine's confused black-tie with black widow spider."

  "Oh, Drayton," laughed Haley, bouncing back to her usual good humor. "If you had your way we'd all be parading around in corsets and button boots."

  Drayton rocked back on his heels. "Don't knock tradition, young lady," he said in a serious, thoughtful tone. "I certainly don't advocate a return to the eighteenth century, but there was a time when genteel people displayed intelligence and taste in their mode of dress." He sniffed. "Nowadays, people go out to dinner wearing Bermuda shorts and trucker caps!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Can you believe it? Trucker caps!"

  "The real problem," said Haley, squinting at the cake that sat center stage on their tea table, "is how are we going to perk up Theodosia's cake?" She poked a finger at one of the bare spots and wrinkled her nose. "Figure out how to camouflage those melty spots."

  Theodosia had long been content to be the brewer of tea, greeter of customers, and master planner of events. But this afternoon she'd actually stepped out of character for a few hours and barricaded herself in the Indigo Tea Shop's tiny kitchen to bake an almond cake for tonight. Six layers of almond cake to be exact. Haley had coached her on the recipe, slipping in an extra egg or two, and helped with the butter cream frosting. But Theodosia had definitely honchoed the baking of the cake. And now, although the cake would still taste delicious, there were a few surface dimples and bare spots, casualties of the rain.

  "You worked so hard on this," continued Haley, as she assessed the cake. "We've got to come up with a plan to salvage its former grandeur!" She scrunched up her face and thought for a moment. "Maybe if I ran back to the tea shop and whipped up another batch of frosting? We could throw on some well-placed squiggles and swirls."

  "Squiggles would probably work like a charm, but I've got another idea," said Theodosia. She snatched a bouquet of blush-pink tea roses from a crystal vase at the end of the table. "Let's try a little freestyle decoration." Snapping a stem off one of the roses, she stuck the flower onto the side of the cake.

  Haley nodded her approval as Theodosia continued to plant a line of blossoms in a graceful s-curve. In no time at all the parts that had resembled the moon's surface were skillfully hidden.

  "Fantastic," declared Haley. "Now your cake looks even more fancy and festive. Much better than just frosting alone, I think. Gâteau aux amandes. Doesn't that sound classier than just calling it almond cake?" Haley suddenly raised an arm in an exuberant wave. "Hey, Gracie! Over here!"

  Gracie Venable, proprietor of the soon-to-be-opened Bow Geste, came plowing through the crowd. With her mop of curly blond hair, green eyes, and short button nose, she looked every inch a Gracie.

  "What's this?" asked Haley as Gracie thrust a round hat into her hands.

  "Just my way of saying thanks," said Gracie. "For all your help with the business plan." She smiled at Theodosia and the newly refurbished cake. "Nice cake. I love that you incorporated roses into the decor." She winked. "You just might have a future as a hat decorator, too."

  "I love it!" squealed Haley, as she pawed open the hatbox and plopped a white straw hat strewn with yellow daisies on her head. "It's gorgeous!" She spun toward Theodosia. "How do I look?"

  "Adorable," pronounced Theodosia. "Like you should be languidly sprawled in an antique wicker chair amidst one of Charleston's gorgeous courtyard gardens, posing for an oil painting."

  "Drayton?" asked Haley, trying for another opinion. Standing off to the side, frowning and mumbling to himself, Drayton was rehearsing the poem he was scheduled to read later in the program.

  "Charming," he muttered, his eyes still darting across his book page.

  "You didn't even look at it!" howled Haley.

  Drayton glanced up and favored Haley with a perfunctory inspection. "Ah yes, quite lovely. Happy now?"

  "Yes!" cried Haley.

  "You," Gracie said to Theodosia, "will be receiving a hat as well. As soon as I find a spare fifteen minutes to breathe!"

  "Not necessary," protested Theodosia. "You've got more important things to do."

  "Are you kidding?" cried Gracie. "Honey, after all those free scones and complimentary cups of tea, I owe you big time!"

  "You're our neighbor now," Theodosia assured her. "Part of the Church Street retail gang."

  Theodosia knew it was important for all the small businesses that lined Church Street-including her own tea shop, Pinckney's Gift Shop, the Chowder House, and the Antiquarian Booksellers-to stick together. For moral support as well as from a business point of view. What was it Benjamin Franklin had espoused to his fellow revolutionaries? Something to the effect that we'd better hang together or we shall all hang separately.

  But Gracie was adamant about creating a special hat for Theodosia. "What's your favorite flower?" she probed. "Roses? Lilies?"

  "Crepe myrtle," said Theodosia, thinking about the twisting vines that grew out at Cane Ridge, the old rice plantation where her parents were buried. "And dogwood."

  "You got it, sweetie!" exclaimed Gracie as she blew a series of air kisses at Theodosia and Haley, then dashed off.

  "Don't you just love her?" asked Haley. "She's like the perfect sister you always wanted."

  Theodosia, who'd been an only child, who'd lost her mother when she was just six, her father when she was in college, nodded in agreement. There had been times in her life when she'd have given her left arm for any sister, not just a perfect one.

  "Time to look sharp," said Drayton, snapping his book closed. Even though he was scheduled to be the last person to read tonight, Drayton always prided himself on being well-prepared. As Haley often joked, Drayton was a prudent man. The kind of man who wore a belt and suspenders. "Roger Crispin's all set to run the slide show?" Theodosia asked Drayton. She had helped put together some special background effects that would be projected on a screen behind Drayton when he did his poetry reading. And Roger Crispin, the managing partner at Crispin and Weller Auction House and one of Drayton's fellow board members, had been tapped to man the projector.

  "Roger should be standing by upstairs," replied Drayton. "We did a quick run-through an hour ago, before anyone arrived, and everything went smoothly."

  "Roger's not upstairs," said Haley, glancing into the crowd. "He's been running around schmoozing people like crazy. And now he's over there, talking to Gracie."

  "Good grief," exclaimed a flustered Drayton. "Here I thought we were all set
to go."

  "What a control freak," laughed Haley.

  But just as Drayton was about to rush over, Gracie placed a hand on Roger Crispin's arm and the two of them bent their heads together in a conspiratorial gesture. A split second later, Timothy Neville stepped to the podium and his voice boomed out across the hall.

  Looking larger than life for such a wiry little man, Timothy welcomed the audience to the Heritage Society's first ever Poet's Tea. As if on cue, Roger Crispin and Gracie parted company and Roger dashed across the room and disappeared up the side stairway that led to the balcony.

  After a round of applause for his short but rousing welcoming speech, Timothy quickly introduced the program's first reader. Sheldon Tibbets, who wrote the arts column for the Post and Courier, was going to read Angel of the Church, by William Gilmore Simms, one of South Carolina's former poet laureates.

  Still trying to adjust to the change in plans, Theodosia remained standing behind the tea table, fussing with the final arrangement. Drayton scurried up front while Haley wandered off to take a seat in the audience.

  As Theodosia listened to the soothing, uplifting words written by Simms, she suddenly had an urge for a cup of tea. Slipping into the small kitchen, Theodosia poured a cup of freshly brewed Egyptian chamomile. Mild and naturally sweet, with a slight apple flavor, chamomile was a delightful tea. Taking a sip, Theodosia breathed a sigh of sublime contentment. Truly, there was nothing more rewarding than a good cup of tea. It nourished the spirit, soothed jangled nerves, let you savor a quiet moment.

  Then she suddenly wondered ... should she take a cup of tea up to Roger Crispin?

  Should I? Well, why not? He's a friend of Drayton's and the poor man is stuck up there all by himself. In fact, he's probably huddled in back at that old desk where they keep all the audio-video gear.

  The rear staircase just to the left of the kitchen was steep and dark. Not the kind of place a woman in a frilly summer dress, straw hat, and high heels should be trying to maneuver. Especially when she was balancing a steaming cup of hot tea. But Roger Crispin was up there in the balcony, or peanut gallery, as Drayton always called it, being a hardworking volunteer and running the projector. So Theodosia figured he certainly deserved a little consideration.

  "Mr. Crispin?" Theodosia called in a low whisper when she was a few steps from the top. "It's Theodosia Browning. I brought you a cup of tea."

  She stopped, blinked, searched the darkness. "Mr. Crispin?" she called again, her voice suddenly not as confident as before.

  There was a rustle in the corner and, as Theodosia's eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark, she saw that Roger Crispin was hunched at a small desk, whispering into his cell phone. AV equipment was stacked on shelves behind him, a thick black cord ran to the projector that sat perched on a shelf at the front of the balcony.

  No wonder Roger didn't hear me,

  When Roger Crispin looked up and saw her coming, he smiled and nodded with a look of appreciation. Then, still on the phone, he hastily cleared away a spot on the table for Theodosia to place the teacup.

  Thank you, he mouthed silently.

  You're welcome, she mouthed back.

  Roger's a real sport, Theodosia told herself as she descended the narrow stairway, taking care to be as quiet as possible. Here he is, squatting upstairs in a dusty balcony, running the slide projector for Drayton when he could have remained downstairs, hobnobbing with the rest of the guests and drumming up business for his auction house. Nice guy.

  The second reading, a poem by Archibald Rutledge, was well under way by the time Theodosia got back downstairs. Busying herself in the kitchen, Theodosia readied the fancy Sevres, Spode, and Fitz and Floyd teapots they'd brought along and measured out additional scoops of chamomile, Formosan Oolong, and Assam tea. Then, after another twenty minutes or so, confident that everything was prepped and ready, Theodosia emerged to find it was Drayton's turn at the podium. Time for the grand finale.

  Taking his position in front of the large movie screen that had been hastily set up just for him, Drayton paused dramatically. One of the volunteers up front rotated the dimmer switch and the room slowly sank into darkness just as the first slide, a sepia-toned engraving of Charleston Harbor, flashed on the oversized screen behind him.

  There was a ripple of applause, a few hushed murmurs, then the crowd fell silent. Their attention was riveted on this dramatically offbeat final presentation.

  As a tribute to his beloved city of Charleston, Drayton had chosen to recite Edgar Allen Poe's poem, Annabel Lee. The ill-fated yet enormously talented Poe had spent a year in Charleston and, as his biographers all seem to agree, had been deeply moved by the storm-tossed seas, lonely windswept shoreline, and highly atmospheric landscape. Poe had been stationed at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island from November of 1827 to December of the following year. And it was a long-accepted notion that Poe's residence in the Charleston area had inspired his poem, Annabel Lee. In fact, "a kingdom by the sea" was Poe's lyrical reference to the city of Charleston.

  In creating the slide show for Drayton's reading, Theodosia had drawn upon her old advertising and marketing skills and put together a series of photos, newspaper clippings, seascape paintings, and slides from the Heritage Society's archives. All had been carefully chosen to help illustrate Poe's poem as well as convey the highly charged atmosphere that had existed in Charleston some one hundred and eighty years ago.

  As the slides flashed by at a fast-paced tempo, the audience's complete and rapt attention was focused on Drayton as he launched into his heartfelt reading of Poe's wildly romantic, yet sorrowful poem:

  It was many and many a year ago,

  In a kingdom by the sea

  That a maiden there lived whom you may know

  By the name of Annabel Lee;

  Drayton's voice was well-modulated, his oratorical prowess honed from countless speeches and readings. Theodosia felt chills run down her spine as she stood alone in the back of the great hall, listening to Drayton utter those mournful words. The dramatic, highly atmospheric visuals she had chosen continued to flash on the enormous screen behind Drayton, adding extra dimension to his reading.

  Ominously, almost perfectly, just as Drayton arrived at the emotion-laden midpoint of the poem, the heavens seemed to open up. Torrential rains pounded down upon the roof of the Heritage Society. Deep rumbles of surround-sound thunder shook the wooden rafters. Lightning bolts shot through the skies, winking in through the great hall's clerestory windows.

  What perfect theatrical sound effects, marveled Theodosia. Along with a light show from the heavens!

  Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,

  In this kingdom by the sea)

  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

  Rain continued to pelt the windows as Drayton held sway over his audience as he read verse after verse. Then Drayton launched into the final stanza. Lifting his head from the small leather book clutched in his gnarled hands, Drayton let his voice soar with heartfelt emotion, delivering the final lines he'd committed to memory:

  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

  Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,

  In the sepulcher there by the sea

  In her tomb by the sounding sea.

  A sharp crack of thunder echoed from above. And, as if on cue, another sound rang out. A loud pop.

  Theodosia jumped at the explosion that sounded above her, then the rest of the audience reacted a split-second later. The ripple of applause that had begun to swell died out immediately.

  Was it a sound effect? Theodosia suddenly wondered as she heard a faint sound of footsteps overhead. Or is this for real?

  Nervous and flustered, a final slide of Edgar Allan Poe projected behind him, Drayton put a hand to his eyes and peered up into the balcony.

  And then, as if to answer the question in everyone's mind, a fluttering shadow suddenly appeare
d directly in front of Poe's twenty-foot-high image. A body falling from the balcony!

  Theodosia watched in disbelief as the body seemed almost to descend in slow motion. Cartwheeling downward, arms and legs akimbo. Where one would expect a bloodcurdling scream, there was only a strange hiss, like air escaping a dying balloon.

  And then all action seemed to speed up before Theodosia's eyes, like film footage suddenly switching from slowmo to fast forward. The audience rose, almost turning in concert, and emitted a collective ooh. And finally, finally, Jory Davis had the presence of mind to race to a light switch up front and throw on the overhead lights, just as the flailing body of Roger Crispin slammed down on top of Theodosia's cake with a terrible, bone-shattering thud!

  Chapter 2

  Water burbled, tea kettles chirped, and the intoxicating aroma of fresh-baked muffins and scones filled the air of the Indigo Tea Shop. Tiny white candles flickered in glass tea warmers, silver spoons were laid out, linen napkins were folded just so on all the tables.

  Even though Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley were hard at work this Monday morning, they were still stunned by the events of the night before. Drayton, in particular, seemed subdued as he measured out spoonfuls of Nilgiri tea into a blue willow-pattern teapot.

  "What a disaster," he moaned. "Timothy Neville is absolutely beside himself with worry. Here he's just returned from England to host the first of several major events at the Heritage Society, and what happens? Roger Crispin, poor soul, is shot to death! Execution style at that!"

  "Was it really execution style?" shivered Haley. "That sounds so mafioso."

  "I wouldn't characterize it as a mob hit," said Theodosia, "but Roger Crispin must have been shot at fairly close range. The police kept mumbling terms like shell casings and powder burns."