Twisted Tea Christmas Read online

  “I take it you’ve told Haley about our ill-fated catering event last night?” Theodosia said. Her voice carried a little louder than she’d intended.

  They both turned to look at her.

  “Hi,” Haley said, giving a quick wave while Drayton nodded in response.

  Haley gazed at Theodosia with earnest puppy-dog eyes and pushed a hank of silky blond hair off her youthful face. “That must have been some awful Christmas party,” she said.

  “It didn’t start out that way,” Theodosia said. “It was all quite festive and lovely—until it wasn’t. One minute it was ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,’ and the next minute we were treated to blaring police sirens and the heartrending zip of a black plastic body bag.”

  Drayton shivered. “A ghastly end to a Christmas gala.”

  “Drayton was telling me about the crazy killer who snuck in and strangled Miss Drucilla, then stole all her diamond rings,” Haley said.

  “And plucked a painting off the wall.” Theodosia pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with them.

  “Was it really a Renoir?” Now Haley looked slightly more curious than scared.

  Theodosia shrugged. “We don’t know for sure. One man thought it was a Renoir, but nobody knows if the painting was authentic.”

  “Knowing Miss Drucilla’s taste in art, I doubt it was a reproduction,” Drayton said.

  “I remember when Miss Drucilla came here for our Sherlock Holmes Tea last Halloween,” Haley said. “She was really sweet, really nice. Went out of her way to thank everyone.”

  “She was a lovely woman,” Drayton said. “Pretty much the last of Charleston’s old-guard grande dames. And so charitable and civic-minded. She donated funds to countless arts organizations and nonprofit groups.”

  “She had a lot of money?” Haley asked.

  “She was well-off,” Drayton said.

  “She was loaded,” Theodosia said.

  “So Miss Drucilla’s murder was all about the Benjamins?” Haley asked. “I mean, do you think whoever stole her diamond rings and painting intends to sell them?”

  Looking morose, Drayton rested his chin in a cupped hand. “I suppose.”

  Theodosia thought for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure that’s necessarily true.”

  Drayton and Haley both looked at her in surprise.

  “What other reason could there be, besides unmitigated greed and a total disregard for life?” Drayton asked. He was of the opinion that a nasty cat burglar had infiltrated the old mansion, been spotted by Miss Drucilla, then killed her for her trouble. After which he snuck off with the loot.

  “It’s entirely possible that Miss Drucilla knew her killer,” Theodosia said.

  “What!” Drayton cried.

  “He—I’m assuming it’s a he—might have had an issue with her,” Theodosia said.

  “What do you mean?” Haley asked.

  “Well, it could have been an unsavory relative, a business associate who felt scorned, or even someone who’d asked her for money but was turned down,” Theodosia said.

  “So you don’t think her killing was random?” Haley asked. “A break-in gone bad.”

  “I think it was messy but somewhat orchestrated,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton frowned and shook his head. “Explain please.”

  “Think of it as the perfect storm. There were caterers, decorators, florists, delivery people, and house cleaners going in and out of her home all day long. You can even count us among those folks. Then evening comes and the house fills up with a new batch of people—the party guests. They’re drinking, talking, mingling, wandering about. Many of the guests don’t know one another.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect one of Miss Drucilla’s guests,” Drayton said. He looked unsettled. To impugn one of last night’s party guests felt like heresy to him.

  “What I’m saying is . . . someone could have slipped in under the guise of being a guest or making a delivery,” Theodosia said.

  “So you’re saying that somebody had a backstage pass,” Drayton said. “But I don’t remember seeing anyone like that.”

  “Neither do I,” Theodosia said. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In an enormous house with multiple entrances and exits, with lights blazing and music playing . . . someone could have snuck in or even buffaloed their way in.”

  “Taking advantage of the situation,” Haley said slowly. Then she shivered. “The way you describe it, kind of cold and opportunistic, gives me chills. You make it sound so simple, as if we’re all vulnerable if we’re not careful.”

  “Maybe we are,” Drayton said.

  “Okay, now you two have managed to totally creep me out,” Haley said. “When what we really need to do is make plans for our upcoming week.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pink floral notebook and matching pink pen.

  “To business,” Drayton sighed. He still looked unsettled as he straightened up in his chair. “This would have to happen the week before Christmas.”

  “There’s never a good time for murder,” Theodosia said.

  Haley tapped her pen against the table to get their attention. “Tomorrow, Tuesday,” she said, “we’ve got our Nutcracker Tea. Are we pretty much squared away on that?”

  “The menu you drew up is fabulous, the decorations are sitting in my office, and Miss Dimple will be coming in to help serve,” Theodosia said. “So yes, I think we’re good to go.”

  “Then we have another event on Wednesday,” Drayton said.

  “It’ll be a quick turnaround for our White Christmas Tea,” Theodosia said. “And then we’ve got . . .”

  “Our Old-Fashioned Southern Tea on Friday,” Drayton said. “Can we please let those plans slide for the time being? The murder, Christmas week, it’s all a bit much to digest.”

  “No problema, Drayton.” Haley stood up, grabbed her notebook, and headed for the kitchen. Then, in a low voice, she said, “Just don’t forget about our Victorian Christmas Tea and your fancy Grand Illumination.”

  “I heard that,” Drayton called after her.

  “I meant you to,” Haley said as she ducked into her kitchen.

  Drayton turned to Theodosia. “It’s going to be difficult to keep our heads in the game today.”

  “After last night, everything feels shaky and up in the air,” Theodosia agreed, “especially with a stone-cold killer running around out there.”

  “Still . . .” Drayton stood up and brushed an invisible speck of lint off the sleeve of his Harris Tweed jacket. “We must try our best.” He scooped up the cups and saucers from the table, placed them in a gray plastic tub, and retreated to his domain behind the front counter.

  Theodosia watched Drayton as he got busy. First off, he selected his teas for the day. Yes, their guests generally specified which tea they preferred to sip with their scones and tea breads, but Drayton always had a few pots of brewed tea at the ready.

  This morning, Drayton seemed to be favoring oolong teas, pulling down colorful tins of tea from his floor-to-ceiling shelves that held more than three hundred different varieties of tea. Often fruity and floral, oolongs were also smooth, light, and refreshing. A perfect morning libation.

  Theodosia turned to gaze at her tea room and then at the clock on the wall. Time to get cracking, she decided. In less than twenty minutes, they’d have customers knock-knocking at their front door. Shop owners from up and down Church Street would be dropping by for their morning cuppa. She also knew there’d be spillover from Historic District hotels and bed-and-breakfasts that were full up for Christmas. And with plenty of tourists in town for the Holiday Tour of Homes, church spirituals concerts, the Holiday Market, the Holiday Parade of Boats in Charleston Harbor, the Festival of Lights in James Island County Park, and various productions of Handel’s Messiah, some of them would find their way
to the Indigo Tea Shop as well.

  First things first, Theodosia covered her tables with white damask tablecloths, then added red place mats. Red and white candles in silver holders and sugar bowls and cream pitchers went on next.

  Now for the china. What better than her Christmas Rose pattern by Spode? Very festive, very cute.

  Theodosia set out small plates, cups, and saucers and stepped back. Okay, what else?

  Well, Floradora Florists had delivered several bundles of red and white carnations as well as small pine boughs this morning, so Theodosia arranged the blooms and greenery in tall glass vases and placed one on each table.

  Even though Theodosia’s heart was heavy this morning, working in the tea shop she’d built brought her enormous joy. A few years earlier, when she’d first purchased the little cottage on Charleston’s famed Church Street, she’d kept the wavy leaded windows, pegged pine floors that squeaked underfoot, and small stone fireplace—and lovingly refurbished the rest. She’d hunted through antiques shops and tag sales to find vintage teacups, teapots, goblets, and silverware. A French chandelier hung overhead lent a warm glow; antique highboys were stuffed with retail items such as tea towels, tea cozies, tins of tea, jars of honey and lemon curd, and Theodosia’s proprietary T-Bath products.

  The tea shop had become a veritable jewel box, with Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley working together as a well-oiled team to delight visitors, friends, and neighbors with baked-from-scratch scones and muffins, a dazzling array of fine teas, and their ever-popular special-event teas.

  Theodosia had just finished folding white linen napkins into a showy bishop’s-hat arrangement when she heard the telltale DA-DING of the bell over the front door.

  “Guests,” Drayton murmured as Theodosia flew to the door to welcome the first customers of the day with a smile.

  From then on business never let up. Every few minutes the front door opened and a whoosh of chill air swept in along with a clutch of guests. Theodosia ran to the kitchen to grab orders of cream scones, strawberry muffins, and lemon tea bread. Then she swooped over to the counter to grab small pots of fresh-brewed tea.

  “Got you hopping today,” Drayton said as he pushed a blue-and-white Chinese teapot filled with Madoorie Estate across the counter to her.

  “It’s probably going to be like this all Christmas week,” Theodosia said.

  “Fine with me. I’m the last to complain when business is good.” Drayton peered at her over his tortoiseshell half-glasses. “Is anyone talking about . . . ? You know.”

  “The murder? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s all they’re talking about.”

  “Well, I hate to hear that because an untimely death is definitely not proper conversation for a tea room.”

  “I guess you didn’t catch the front page of this morning’s Post and Courier.”

  “Mmn . . . glanced at it.”

  “Then you know Miss Drucilla’s murder was the main story. You remember the old newspaper adage, don’t you?” Theodosia said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If it bleeds, it leads.”

  “Awful,” Drayton snorted.

  At ten o’clock, Detective Burt Tidwell walked in. He stood in the entryway, hands stuck deep into the pockets of a battered and abominable-looking khaki trench coat, as he gazed out over the tea room. His eyes were sharp but the rest of him looked tired and worn out. Probably, it had been a long night for him.

  “Good morning,” Theodosia said to him in a semicheery voice. “Is this a drive-by inquisition, or are you here for tea and scones?”

  “A little of both,” Tidwell rumbled.

  “In that case . . .” Theodosia led him to a small table next to the stone fireplace, where a crackling fire gave off pine-scented warmth.

  Tidwell eased his bulk into a padded captain’s chair as the wood creaked in protest. Theodosia held her breath. Everything okay? Chair still intact? Yes, it appeared to be.

  “We have cream scones, strawberry muffins, and . . .” Theodosia began.

  “A cream scone please,” Tidwell said. “No, actually, I’d prefer two scones. And might Drayton have some of that excellent Formosan oolong?”

  “I’ll ask him to brew a pot straightaway.”

  Theodosia whispered the order to Drayton, then went into the kitchen, plated the cream scones, and added small glass ramekins filled with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam. When she came back, the tea was already steeping in a small brown Yi-shing teapot. She carried everything to Tidwell’s table, arranged it carefully, and waited.

  Tidwell wasted no time in tucking into his scones. Cutting one in half, slathering it with Devonshire cream, popping a huge bite into his mouth.

  Theodosia stood there, waiting patiently.

  After he took a second bite, she said, “So . . . ?”

  His beady eyes flicked to her. “Yes?”

  “Any more thoughts on last night?”

  “Probably too many.”

  Theodosia decided that perhaps she should try a more direct approach.

  “Has the medical examiner had a chance to look at Miss Drucilla?” She lifted the teapot and poured out a cup of tea for Tidwell. The oolong had probably steeped long enough. It should be nice and strong. Strong enough to carry them both through a cause-of-death report.

  “There are preliminary findings, yes.” Tidwell gazed up at her. “I suppose you may as well sit down. I have a few questions.”

  Theodosia sat. This was the game they played of course. Their own version of cat and mouse. Only sometimes, it was difficult to know who was the cat and who was the mouse.

  “The ME’s report,” Theodosia prompted again.

  Tidwell chewed and swallowed. “It appears Miss Drucilla was grabbed from the back and partially strangled. Bruising indicates the intruder put an arm around her neck and a knee in the center of her back. Then he pulled. Hard.”

  “Grisly. And the syringe?”

  “The coup de grâce. Lab rats tell me she was heavily injected with fentanyl. So that might indicate our killer is also a drug user.”

  “Fentanyl,” Theodosia murmured, disliking the sound of the word. “That particular drug’s been in the news lately, but I’m not sure I know much about it.”

  “Fentanyl is heroin’s synthetic little cousin. Powerful enough to take down an elephant. Probably even a woolly mammoth if scientists could thaw one. Where thirty milligrams of heroin cause death in a human, only three milligrams of fentanyl are required.”

  “Wow.” Theodosia sat back in her chair. Then, “What about the syringe itself?”

  “A single-use disposable syringe.”

  “Is it traceable?”

  “You can buy a bag of one hundred at any pharmacy for twenty dollars,” Tidwell said.

  “Who uses them?”

  “Anyone who administers a subcutaneous injection to themselves. Diabetics, people with rheumatoid arthritis, gym rats using anabolic steroids, whatever.”

  “Did the lab find prints on the syringe?”

  Tidwell took a loud slurp of tea and shook his head. “None. Did you think they would?”

  “I suppose not. So the killer wore gloves?”

  Tidwell shrugged. “Probably. Now, on the various doorknobs and such, we found entire galaxies of prints.” He aimed a sharp look at her. “Yours are undoubtedly among them.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Theodosia said. “But I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Of course not,” Tidwell said. “Still, we’re going to spin all the prints through AFIS, see if anything clicks.” He focused on her intently. “What we have is a diabolical weasel sneaking into the proverbial henhouse. In this case, a rather expensive henhouse.”

  “Who have you questioned so far?”

  “Obviously the first person we interviewed was Pauline Stauber, the personal
assistant. She was basically Miss Drucilla’s constant companion. Spent almost ten hours a day with her. Knew her business dealings, friends, her comings and goings.”

  “And what did you find out from Pauline?”

  Tidwell heaved a deep sigh. “Our girl Friday cried nonstop through two separate interviews. It was difficult to elicit even the simplest response without her completely breaking down.”

  “If she’s that upset, it probably means she’s innocent.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who else did you question?”

  “We talked to the former housekeeper, Mrs. Fruth. She’d been with Miss Drucilla for almost twenty years.”

  “Do you suspect her?”

  “Not particularly. I was mostly trying to pry loose some ideas.” Tidwell popped another bite of scone into his mouth. “Then there’s the neighbor Donny Bragg. Aptly named, I’d say. Although once you get past the hale-and-hearty good-old-boy facade, he seems decent enough. For a lawyer, that is.”

  “Anyone else on your radar?”

  “Basically most of the party guests are suspects at this point, so we’re trying to work our way through the guest list. But we’re busy. Crime never takes a holiday. We’ve got missing people, two carjackings, a shooting, and a woman who beaned her husband with a crepe pan. We’re waiting to see if the husband recovers consciousness before we file charges.” Tidwell cocked an eye at Theodosia. “I do wish a certain detective hadn’t decided to take this entire week off to go visiting in the godforsaken tundra.”

  “Vermont is not the tundra,” Theodosia said. “And besides, Riley hasn’t seen his parents in ten months.”

  Riley, Pete Riley, was Theodosia’s boyfriend du jour, fellow sailor, food-and-wine compadre, jogging buddy, and one of Detective Tidwell’s up-and-coming detectives.

  “And besides,” she added, “it’s Christmas.”

  Unimpressed, Tidwell let loose a Scrooge-like “Hmph.”

  Theodosia decided to shift the conversation away from that particular subject.

  “What about the faulty alarm?”