Plum Tea Crazy Read online

  “We must break it to her gently,” Drayton said, plucking at an invisible piece of lint on his tweed jacket. “You know what a sensitive soul Haley is.”

  “She can be a tough enough cookie when she wants to be,” Theodosia said. Haley Parker was their chef, baker, and the third leg in their tea shop troika. Though she was still in her early twenties, Haley ran the kitchen like a marine drill sergeant. Thus, suppliers delivered orders on time, vegetables were always just-picked fresh, and nobody (nobody!) ever got away with passing off mushy strawberries or peaches.

  “You’re the boss,” Drayton said to Theodosia. “So it falls upon your capable shoulders to break the awful news to her.”

  “Break the news?” Haley said. She strolled out of the kitchen rattling the main section of the Charleston Post and Courier. “You’re too late. I already know what happened at Timothy’s place last night.” She shook her head and her long blond hair swished around her shoulders like a golden curtain while her pert nose pulled into a wrinkle. “And from the gist of this lead story, it wasn’t exactly an accident. It was murder.”

  “You don’t have to make it sound so salacious,” Drayton said.

  “But wasn’t it?” Haley replied. “I mean, a rich fat-cat banker shot right through the heart?”

  “It wasn’t his heart,” Theodosia said.

  “Oh,” Haley said. “I guess bankers don’t have hearts, then.”

  “This is nothing to joke about,” Drayton said. “It was really quite horrible.”

  Haley nodded. “The paper mentioned the part about landing on the fence, too. And even named the man who constructed the fence.”

  “Philip Simmons,” Drayton said. “Who was a very famous artisan around these parts.”

  “You two are making a name for yourselves as well,” Haley said. “You’re forever getting tangled up in these unsavory crimes.”

  “We certainly are not,” Drayton said. He glanced at Theodosia, who was giving him a questioning look, and abruptly changed direction. “Well, we’re not involved in this one, that’s for sure.”

  Theodosia rolled her eyes. They’d been plenty involved last night when they were charging through the Stagwood Inn, looking for the shooter.

  “Good to know,” Haley said. “Because I get worried when you two crime stoppers chase all over Charleston trying to solve the latest murder.”

  “Haley, we don’t do that,” Theodosia said. “And we certainly won’t get tangled up in this one.” She gave Haley her warmest smile, all the while thinking, Then again, you never know.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, the tables were draped with white linen tablecloths, Drayton had set out their Royal Doulton teacups and saucers in the Arcadia pattern, the silver gleamed, and a fire crackled in the small stone fireplace in the corner. The walls were festooned with Theodosia’s handmade grapevine wreaths decorated with teacups, and antique plates were propped on wooden shelves along with collectible cup and saucer sets. Haley had brought out a tray of fresh-baked cinnamon scones and banana muffins, and now those tasty treats were displayed in the glass pie saver that sat on the front counter.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” Theodosia said to Drayton, “we’ve got a fairly busy week ahead of us.”

  Drayton reached up and grabbed a tin of silver tips tea from his floor-to-ceiling shelf of teas. “Not so bad,” he said. “We’ve got . . . what? Delaine’s Silk Road Fashion Show luncheon on Wednesday, the Tea Trolley stopping by Thursday, and then our Plum Blossom Tea on Friday.”

  “If the plum blossoms last that long,” Theodosia said.

  “That could be an issue,” Drayton said. “Most of the Japanese plum trees are in full bloom right now, so we may have to pinch-hit with silk flowers.”

  “Then we should order from Floradora. They could get some in, no problem.”

  “Or,” Drayton said, “the plum trees at the Featherbed House might not have blossomed yet, so Angie would probably let us take some cuttings.”

  BAM. BAM. BAM.

  Drayton glanced toward the front door. “Sounds as if someone is overly anxious for their morning cuppa.”

  Theodosia hurried to the door, peered through a wavering glass pane and said, “It’s Delaine.” Delaine Dish was the colorful, quixotic owner of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston’s most elite boutiques.

  “Uh oh,” Drayton said. He generally found Delaine to be both a trial and a tribulation. She was one of those women that most men—and some women, too—considered difficult. Which, of course, was code for crazy as a loon.

  “Come in, Delaine,” Theodosia said, turning the lock and pulling open the door.

  Delaine came barreling in as if a group of angry villagers were nipping at her heels, shaking torches and wielding pitchforks.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I was to miss all that horrid excitement last night!” she blurted out.

  “Heavens,” Drayton said, wiping out the interior of one of his prize blue-and-white teapots. “Does everyone know about the accident at Timothy’s place?”

  “Huh,” Delaine snorted. “That was no accident. According to the Post and Courier, CNN, Good Morning Charleston, my Facebook news feed, and my Twitter feed, it was murder. Bloody blue murder.” For some reason she looked rather pleased with herself. Then she turned and pointed a finger at Drayton. “And you were there.” Her finger wavered until it refocused on Theodosia. “And so were you.”

  Drayton sighed. “And I suppose you want to hear all about it.”

  “Oh my, no,” Delaine said. She was wearing a bright purple skirt suit with an enormous jeweled bumblebee pin. “I intend to get my information from another source.”

  “Excuse me?” Theodosia said.

  Delaine dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I happen to be very well acquainted with the murdered man’s wife.”

  “Carson Lanier’s wife?” Theodosia said. “Someone mentioned her last night. After poor Mr. Lanier had fallen, someone in the crowd muttered something about her.” Theodosia’s brows pinched together. “As I recall, there was an accusation of her being the killer.”

  “Probably because the Laniers are . . . well, they were . . . in the throes of a really nasty divorce,” Delaine said.

  Drayton looked suddenly interested. “A divorce? Are you sure?”

  “My dear Drayton,” Delaine said. “Sissy Lanier happens to be one of my very best customers. The woman is head over heels in love with my long, flowy skirts, and quite gaga for my French lingerie.” Delaine’s jewel box of a boutique sold elegant cashmeres and silks and supple leather bags, as well as imported sandals, French perfumes, and over-the-top costume jewelry.

  “Wait . . . her name is Sissy?” Theodosia asked.

  “Well, her given name is Susan, but Sissy was her sorority name. Which she prefers to use and so do I.”

  “Have you talked to your friend Sissy this morning?” Drayton asked. “She must be upset. I mean, if she was married to Carson, you’d think there’d still be some sort of bond.”

  “I haven’t talked to her yet,” Delaine said. “But I know there isn’t any bond left between them, and I doubt she’s been hanging crepe on her mirrors. She and Carson have been living apart for several months now and were this close to having their divorce finalized.” She held her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart to demonstrate.

  “But Sissy is still technically his wife,” Theodosia said.

  “Well, yes,” Delaine said, bobbing her head. “I suppose she is.”

  “Legally she is,” Theodosia said. A dark thought bubbled up in her brain. A woman in the throes of a nasty divorce . . . hoping she wouldn’t have to settle for half? Or maybe less than half if Carson Lanier had engaged a really cutthroat lawyer? Could Sissy have had a hand in last night’s murder? Could she have been the shooter? Or hired
the shooter? Theodosia frowned and shook her head. Gracious, she was really letting her imagination run wild today. She tried to focus on what Delaine was chattering about now. Namely her Silk Road Fashion Show.

  “Are you folks going to be ready to cater my luncheon on Wednesday?” Delaine asked. “Last time we talked, the menu was still somewhat iffy.”

  “Right,” Theodosia said. “The menu.”

  “I have it,” Drayton said. He pulled a card from the pocket of his apron and handed it to Theodosia, where it was immediately snatched away by Delaine.

  “Let’s see, now,” Delaine said, squinting at the index card. “Oh yes, this all sounds quite lovely. Shrimp toast, egg rolls, blah blah blah.” She looked up and said, “So the fashion show is slated to begin at eleven thirty and should run for about thirty minutes. Afterward, my salesladies and I need time to take orders from our guests and allow them to shop for a while. Which means you have to have the buffet table set up and ready to go no later than one o’clock.”

  “Not a problem,” Theodosia said.

  “It should be a fabulous event,” Delaine said. “I’m bringing in professional models to show off my silk dresses to perfection. Plus, my event planner is working on some wonderful décor. We’re going to make the shop and runway look very Chinese. You know, á la the Silk Road?”

  “If you want to add a touch of Asia, you should talk to the woman who opened that new gallery just down the street from us,” Drayton said.

  Delaine’s brows arched into twin question marks. “What new gallery would that be? And why haven’t I heard of it?” Delaine considered herself the arbiter of all things fashionable and artistic in Charleston.

  “The gallery’s called Haiku Gallery,” Drayton told her. “You know, after the type of Japanese poetry. Although now that I think about it, a name like that pretty much indicates their art and antiques are Japanese rather than Chinese.”

  Delaine fluttered a hand. “Doesn’t matter. They grow those squiggly little silkworms in both China and Japan, don’t they? Yes, I’m quite positive they do.”

  “Haiku Gallery is actually having their grand opening party tonight,” Theodosia said. She was back behind the counter now, setting up a half dozen teapots for Drayton. “The owner, Alexis something, sent us an invitation last week.”

  Delaine did a double take followed by an exaggerated head bob. “A gallery opening? Of Asian art? Theo, I simply must attend.”

  “It’s probably just a small party,” Drayton said. “A few shop owners from the neighborhood. Brooke from Heart’s Desire, Leigh from Cabbage Patch . . .”

  But Delaine wasn’t about to take no for an answer. If there were a League of Pushy Women, Delaine would be a designated chapter head. “Drayton, you don’t seem to understand,” she said. “I have to go. You know how much I adore Asian art.”

  “Fine,” Theodosia shrugged. “Tag along with us, then.” She figured one more guest at the party wouldn’t make or break the evening.

  Delaine pulled a bright red lipstick from her Chanel bag, smeared the tip across her enhanced and plumped lips, and said, “You know what? I believe I’ll meet you there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Five minutes,” Drayton said as he smoothed his long apron and adjusted his bow tie. “We have to open our door in five minutes.”

  Theodosia glanced around the tea room. Everything looked lovely and serene and she could hear Haley singing in the kitchen as she rattled pans, prepping for lunch already. Well, good.

  “So, you think you can handle Delaine’s tea by yourself?” Drayton asked.

  “The tea isn’t the problem,” Theodosia said, giving him a slow wink. “Delaine’s the tricky one.”

  “She is that.”

  “But if Haley has all the appetizers packed and ready to go and you pick out the perfect teas, then I think I can manage solo.”

  “So all we have to worry about is our Plum Blossom Tea on Friday,” Drayton said.

  Along with our day-to-day operations and the ugly murder that’s hanging over our heads, Theodosia thought.

  “I’m still thinking about décor for Friday,” Drayton said slowly. Then, “You know, depending on how friendly the gallery people are tonight, perhaps we could borrow a few Japanese artifacts to give our tea shop a nice, authentic feel.”

  Theodosia smiled at him. “I think that’s a lovely idea. I’ll leave it to you to ingratiate yourself.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Business was brisk this Monday morning. Local shopkeepers dashed in and out, grabbing cups of tea to go, along with scones and muffins. A gang of tourists who had been poking around the supposedly haunted graveyard behind St. Phillip’s Church came tumbling in for tea, and so did a dozen other folks. Theodosia moved efficiently among the tables, distributing small pots of tea, explaining brewing times, talking with her regulars, and delivering baked treats. Once Haley pulled a loaf of apple bread from the oven, that was also served piping hot with homemade honey butter.

  In the midst of all these fine aromas and conversational buzz, Timothy Neville came strolling in. He was dressed in a navy jacket with splendid gold buttons, dove gray slacks, and a yellow Hermès tie that featured miniature keys. And though his outfit may have looked spiffy, his face betrayed deep sadness. His skin, stretched tight across his aging face, made every bone look like a knife blade.

  “Timothy,” Drayton said, glancing up from behind the counter.

  Theodosia hurried to greet Timothy as well. “Would you like a table?” she asked. “Do you have a guest joining you?”

  Timothy waved a hand. “No, no. No time for that. But it’s most important I speak with both you and Drayton.”

  “Okaaaay,” Theodosia said. They were right in the middle of morning tea, but Timothy looked awfully upset. Not as bad as last night, but still hovering on the edge of frayed nerves.

  “What is it?” Drayton asked as Timothy leaned his elbows heavily on the wooden counter and Theodosia crowded in close.

  “Concerning last night,” Timothy said. “I sorely need your help.” Now he was staring directly at Theodosia.

  “You already have Detective Tidwell hot on the case,” Theodosia said. She sensed a request in the making and wanted to cut it off. “He’s tenacious and as good as it gets. For heaven’s sake, the man heads the entire Robbery-Homicide Division at Charleston PD, he’s ex-FBI . . . what more could you ask for?”

  “But you were the one who spotted that open window last night,” Timothy said. “You were the one who chased after Carson’s assassin.”

  Theodosia shook her head. “I don’t know if I did or not. I chased after somebody, but it might not have been Mr. Lanier’s attacker. It could have been a goofball guest playing a stupid trick on us. Or someone who was hanging around where they shouldn’t be.”

  “But you saw someone,” Timothy insisted.

  “I thought I did.” Theodosia glanced over at Drayton. “We thought we did.”

  “It almost had to be the killer,” Timothy insisted. “And you were the only ones to catch a whiff of him.”

  “Please don’t say that,” Theodosia said. If it had been the assassin, the man might have seen her charging after him. And now he could have a wary eye out. Theodosia didn’t relish the idea of a silent archer keeping tabs on her every move.

  “You realize, don’t you, that Carson Lanier was one of our board members at the Heritage Society?” Timothy said. “He’s the one who donated most of his antique firearms collection to us. Several pieces from his collection will be featured at our Rare Weapons Show that opens this Saturday night.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Theodosia said. “That Lanier had been a weapons collector, I mean.”

  “Antique weapons,” Drayton said.

  “You think there’s some sort of connection?” Theodosia a
sked. She glanced out at the tables in the tea room. Everyone seemed to be doing just fine. Her services weren’t needed quite yet.

  Drayton shrugged.

  “You know, Timothy, the killer could have been one of your guests,” Theodosia said.

  “That would be my worst nightmare,” Timothy said.

  Theodosia continued. “Because we don’t know for sure that the offending arrow came from the Stagwood Inn.”

  Timothy shifted from one elegant Church’s shoe to the other. “You really think one of my guests could be the killer?”

  “It’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Theodosia said.

  Timothy gave them both a long, searching look, then reached into his jacket pocket. “The thought had occurred to me, too. Which is why I brought along my guest list.”

  “Oh no,” Theodosia said, practically backing away from him. “You need to turn that list over to Detective Tidwell immediately.”

  “I already have,” Timothy said as he set the list on the counter and smoothed it out. “I assured Tidwell that he’d have my complete cooperation.”

  “Of course you’ll cooperate,” Drayton murmured.

  Timothy took a deep breath and continued. “But I’d like Theodosia to go over this list, too.”

  “Why on earth?” Drayton asked.

  Timothy leaned forward across the counter again. “Because she’s clever. Because she brings a different perspective to things.”

  “Oh, not really,” Theodosia said.

  Now Timothy studied her carefully. “You’re also resourceful and skilled at drawing information out of people.”

  “You want me to talk to the people on your list?” Theodosia asked. “Try to browbeat information out of them?” No, she couldn’t do that. Timothy was asking too much of her.