Plum Tea Crazy Page 4

“Nothing that obvious,” Timothy said smoothly. “I want you to do what you do best. Charm them and disarm them.”

  Theodosia’s brows pinched together. “I see.”

  “Holy cats,” Drayton said. “You really do want us involved.”

  “Of course,” Timothy said. He pursed his lips. “There’s more. Information, I mean. I happen to know someone who vehemently disliked Carson Lanier. Someone who’s not on this guest list.”

  “Who’s that?” Theodosia asked. She was taken aback by Timothy’s request, but had to admit she was intrigued. A random murder, a chase through an old inn . . . it all added up to pretty heady stuff.

  “Have you ever heard of Jud Harker?” Timothy asked.

  Theodosia shook her head. “No. Who is he, please?”

  Timothy pulled his face into a grimace. “I’ve never met him personally, but he’s a busybody who’s been lobbying my board of directors to kill the Rare Weapons Show.”

  “Ah,” Drayton said. “I do remember Harker, our lone protester. He’s been sending us angry messages and threats.”

  “This Harker person,” Theodosia said. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  “He’s been trying to kill the weapons show,” Timothy said. His eyes were pinpricks of intensity. “So why wouldn’t he want to kill a well-known gun collector like Carson Lanier?”

  5

  “What did Timothy want?” Haley asked. She was standing at her stove, adding a half stick of butter to her simmering pot of tomato bisque. Haley always added butter to a soup or sauce at the very last minute to help pull all the flavors together.

  “He just wanted Drayton and me to go over his guest list,” Theodosia said. She was placing slivers of ham and Cheddar cheese onto slices of buttered bread. Once the sandwiches were cut and quartered, and their crusts sliced off, they’d join Haley’s luncheon menu of soup, chicken salad on croissants, and citrus salad.

  “So you are getting involved.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Hah,” Haley said. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I know you, Theo. You’re the proverbial curious cat.”

  Theodosia positioned a final slice of cheese. “I should go check on Drayton. See which teas he’s going to offer for lunch. And the shop is starting to fill up. Is it okay if I start taking luncheon orders?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Haley said. She grabbed a large soupspoon, tapped it on the counter, and then shook it at Theodosia. “You. I want you to be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” Theodosia said, trying to feign casual.

  “No, you’re not. You’re the poster child for rushing in where angels fear to tread.”

  “Haley, I really don’t.”

  “You do!”

  Theodosia made her escape into the tea room, where Drayton had just placed three steaming pots of tea on the counter.

  “You’re just in time,” Drayton said. “The silver tips in the Brown Betty teapot goes to table two, the Lapsang souchong in the Chinese blue and white goes to table five, and . . . let’s see . . . oh yes, the Formosan oolong in the small white teapot should go to table seven.”

  Theodosia did her tea room ballet then. Delivering pots of tea, whirling back around to greet guests and lead them to a table, taking luncheon orders, and then spinning into the kitchen to deliver them to Haley.

  It all worked like clockwork because they’d done it so many times before. Drayton brewed tea and handled takeout orders, Haley kept the luncheon entrées coming, and Theodosia . . . well, she simply immersed herself in the goings-on. The Indigo Tea Shop was her baby, after all. And, aside from her dog, Earl Grey, her Aunt Libby, and her dear cohorts Drayton and Haley, this was the thing she cared most about in all the world. Even when she’d been working as a marketing executive, she’d dreamed about creating this sort of tea room. A cozy little shop, a bit English, a modicum of Victorian, with a pegged wooden floor, beamed ceiling, fireplace, leaded pane windows, chintz curtains, and sturdy tables and chairs. Oh, and add in a couple of antique wooden highboys stacked with tea tins, jars of honey, tea strainers, cups and saucers, tea cozies, teapots, and sweetgrass baskets.

  And glory be, she’d somehow made it happen. Her dream had come true.

  “Theodosia. Theodosia . . .”

  Drayton was saying something to her.

  “Yes?” Theodosia said, shaking her head to clear it and then hurrying over to the counter.

  “Be a sweetheart and grab me a handful of blue bags from your office, will you? The Library Society down the street just called in an order for scones. I guess they’re having an impromptu afternoon soiree.”

  “Did they ask for tea as well?”

  “Yes, a tin of citron-flavored green tea. They’re going to brew their own.”

  “Good for them.”

  Drayton did a semi–eye roll. “But I’m going to write out proper instructions. No sense having them oversteep it and interfere with that tea’s delicate flavor.”

  “You tell ’em, Drayton.”

  * * *

  • • •

  An hour later, Theodosia paused to take a breath. Actually, a couple of breaths. She was sitting in her back office, sipping a cup of gunpowder green and nibbling a cream scone. Besides paging through her vendor catalogs, writing up orders for tea and tea accoutrements, she was perusing Timothy Neville’s guest list. It was a short list, just two dozen people, but it held the names of more than a few heavy hitters. That is, people with old names, founding fathers’ names, who lived in the BIG HOMES in the Historic District. Names like Aiken, Manigault, and Rutledge, with addresses on Meeting, Church, and East Bay streets.

  I’m going to go knocking on the doors of these folks? Hardly. Their staff would send me around to the service entrance and then not bother to answer the bell.

  “How are you doing?” Drayton asked. He was posed in the doorway of Theodosia’s office, posture ramrod stiff, eyebrows raised, looking like some sort of etiquette instructor.

  “Just going over Timothy’s list right now,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton left his post in the doorway and moved closer to her desk. “May I see?”

  She slid the paper around. “Be my guest.”

  Drayton scanned the list. “This is a veritable who’s who.”

  “Which is going to make any kind of inquiry or investigation on our part a whole lot tougher.”

  “Not tougher,” Drayton said. “Nigh on impossible.”

  “Okay, I’m glad we agree on that.” Theodosia took a breath. “If Timothy wants us to look into things, and I’m not saying we should . . . but if we do, then we need a more focused way of going about it.”

  “In other words, we need actual suspects to investigate,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia nodded. “We need to figure out exactly who in Carson Lanier’s circle of acquaintances might have wanted him dead.”

  “That could be a big circle.”

  “Then we’ll tighten the noose.”

  “Delaine said Lanier was in the throes of a nasty divorce,” Drayton said. “And Timothy seemed to think that man, Jud Harker, hated Lanier because of his interest in weapons.”

  “So maybe that’s where we start,” Theodosia said. “And go from there, if that’s what we want to do.” She studied Drayton carefully. “Is that what we want to do?”

  “I for one certainly want to give an assist to Timothy,” Drayton said. “But we don’t want to step on Detective Tidwell’s toes, either.”

  “Drayton, we don’t want to venture anywhere near his magnetic field nor breathe a word of this to Tidwell.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Knock knock,” Haley called out. Then, “Hey, guys?”

  Theodosia and Drayton glanced at the doorway. Haley was standing there, a quizzical look on her normally sweet and plac
id face.

  “Who’s minding the store?” Drayton asked.

  Haley flapped a hand. “I was. But don’t worry, everything’s cool. I made the rounds, pouring tea and serving up a few more scones. Listen, this won’t take but a minute.”

  “What won’t take but a minute?” Drayton asked.

  “Here’s the thing,” Haley said, nervously stuffing her hands into the pockets of her blue checkered apron. “My cousin Jamie Weston was coming to visit my Aunt LaBelle over in Goose Creek, but now Aunt LaBelle has to go into the hospital to have her feet scraped.” She let out a long breath and stared at them.

  “Um . . . that’s a medical thing?” Drayton asked. “Feet scraping?”

  Haley shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it is.”

  Drayton winced. “Sounds painful.”

  “Excuse me, Haley,” Theodosia said. “What are you trying to say, here?”

  “Since Jamie’s going to be staying with me now . . . upstairs,” Haley said, “I wondered if we could put him to work for a couple of days. You know, as a kind of busboy, helping out around the tea shop.”

  “Wait a minute,” Drayton said, a look of suspicion creasing his face. “This is all coming back to me like one of the bad dreams you have after ingesting too many ghost peppers. We’re talking about your cousin Jamie?”

  “That’s the one,” Haley said.

  “The young man who saunters around without a care in the world and his nose in the air?”

  “The one Drayton took to calling Little Lord Fauntleroy?” Theodosia asked, looking slightly amused. “The last time he visited us?”

  “Jamie can be somewhat aloof,” Haley admitted. “But it’s probably because of all those years spent in private boarding schools.”

  “And we know he’s been booted from some of the best,” Drayton said. “Exeter, Choate . . . I could go on.”

  “Jamie’s a whole lot calmer now,” Haley said. “He’s been studying art and taking his meds.”

  “Aren’t we lucky,” Drayton said. “And you say he’ll be staying upstairs in your apartment? Theo’s old apartment?”

  “Well, yeah,” Haley said. “That’s the plan. But I know Jamie would love to help out around here. In fact, I think he’d be good at it.”

  “That would be just fine, Haley,” Theodosia said. “Jamie’s more than welcome to help out in the tea shop.” She figured that Haley, always a martinet in the kitchen, would ride herd on Jamie. At least she hoped Haley would.

  “When will Little Lord Fauntleroy be gracing us with his presence?” Drayton asked.

  “Jamie’s coming in tonight, so I could put him to work first thing tomorrow,” Haley said.

  “Drat, Haley,” Drayton said. “You really know how to put a crimp in my workweek, don’t you?”

  “I promise he won’t be any trouble.”

  Drayton held up an index finger as he spun on the heels of his highly polished brogues. “We shall wait and see.”

  6

  But still Theodosia didn’t get around to writing up her orders. Five minutes later, Detective Tidwell sauntered into her office, clutching a half-eaten scone in one hand, gripping a cup of tea in the other. Obviously he’d stopped by the front counter for some much-needed fortification.

  “May I come in?” Tidwell asked. “Or are you in the throes of something extraordinary?”

  “Come in,” Theodosia said, indicating the stuffed chair across from her desk.

  Tidwell sat down heavily and Theodosia could mentally hear the springs creak and groan.

  “I see Drayton’s already arranged your afternoon tea,” she said.

  Tidwell took a bite out of his scone and nodded happily as crumbs cascaded down the front of his too-tight jacket. “Delicious,” he said. Only it came out dulishush because his mouth was full.

  “How can I help you?” Theodosia asked pleasantly. All the while telling herself, Be careful, be careful of this man. He’s so very clever.

  Tidwell chewed noisily, swallowed hard, and said, “What’s that you’re looking at?”

  Theodosia moved a magazine to cover Timothy’s list. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t know where I’d get such a silly idea,” Tidwell said in a sour tone. “Perhaps I’ve suddenly gone to a higher plane and developed mind-reading skills, but something tells me you’re poking your pert little nose into my investigation.”

  “Not really,” she hedged.

  “Then why exactly were you creeping around the Stagwood Inn last night?”

  “I explained that to you already. Besides, I wasn’t creeping, I was running like a frightened rabbit.”

  Tidwell tilted his head toward her. “You were meddling. Something you’re inclined to do.”

  “Is there something important you wanted to tell me?” Theodosia asked. “Aside from delivering your rather cryptic warning?” She leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps you’d like to share your list of suspects?”

  “You probably know that Timothy Neville has already pointed a finger at someone.”

  “Yes, a man named Harker, Timothy mentioned that. I take it you’ve spoken to this Harker? Interviewed him?”

  “We will when we locate him, yes,” Tidwell said.

  “You haven’t found him?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “What’s going on with the third floor of the Stagwood Inn? Have your crime scene guys been over it?”

  “With a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Did they find anything?” Theodosia asked.

  “You mean in the evidentiary realm? We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  Theodosia tried not to let herself get frustrated by Tidwell’s dips and dodges. It was just the nature of the beast. “What about the guests that were staying in those third floor suites?”

  Tidwell gave a half smirk. “Mitchel Cooper, the manager, informs me those two rooms were unoccupied last night.”

  “That may be so, but somebody was up there.”

  “So you say.”

  “No, there was someone,” Theodosia said with certainty. “I wasn’t chasing up and down staircases for the fun of it. There’s no reason I’d indulge in a real-life game of Chutes and Ladders.”

  “We’re still in the initial stages of the investigation,” Tidwell said. “And we have any number of avenues to pursue.”

  “That sounds awfully vague.”

  Tidwell’s beady eyes sparkled. “Purposefully so.”

  “You know I’m going to keep looking into things.”

  He pursed his lips and his jowls shook. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Because I have a stake in this,” Theodosia said. “Because I witnessed Lanier’s terrible fall, because I found him impaled on that dreadful wrought-iron fence.” She drew a quick breath and continued. “And because I’m positive I saw someone’s shadow moving across that curtain.”

  Tidwell made a motion with his mouth that was somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “And because Detective Riley is involved?”

  “He has nothing to do with my interest in this case,” Theodosia said.

  “You realize that Riley is one of my finest detectives, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you’ve thoroughly bewitched him.”

  “Excuse me?” Did he really just say bewitched? Really? Theodosia wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or insulted.

  “Please don’t be coy. I know you’ve been dating Detective Riley. And since he will be working this case with me, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.” Tidwell hoisted himself to his feet, moving quickly for such a large man. “Do consider my words fair warning.” And with that he disappeared out the door.

  * * *

  • • •

  Tidwell’s fair warning had a shelf life o
f about ten minutes.

  By three o’clock, business in the tea shop had begun to wind down, so Theodosia slipped out the back door and hurried down the alley with one thing in mind—pay a daytime visit to the Stagwood Inn. She figured that the crime scene team would be finished by now, so she could poke around freely and have a careful look. What she was looking for, she wasn’t sure. Maybe just reassurance that something had occurred there?

  Mitchel Cooper, the inn’s manager, was tall, bespectacled, and slightly stoop-shouldered. Though he was probably midforties, he seemed older than his years and had a desultory air about him, as though every issue he dealt with was burdensome. Which was a strange attitude for an innkeeper to have, especially since he worked in one of Charleston’s most popular tourist neighborhoods.

  After introducing herself and explaining her small part in last night’s drama, Theodosia asked Cooper if she could go upstairs and look around.

  “I don’t see why not,” Cooper said. His eyes and mouth drooped like the figure in the famous Munch painting as he sat behind his desk in his small office tucked beneath the main staircase. “The police and their CSI-type people finished several hours ago.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing. That man falling from Mr. Neville’s widow’s walk.”

  “Did the police explain to you that Mr. Lanier had probably been shot with an arrow? That that’s what caused him to fall?”

  “Yes, one police officer mentioned it. But I still don’t believe anyone at the Stagwood Inn could have been his killer. The police didn’t seem all that convinced, either.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that the Stagwood Inn has a sort of hunting lodge theme,” Theodosia said. “Do you have any weapons on display? Antique guns? Dueling pistols? Crossbows of any kind?”

  “No, we don’t. We used to have a dueling pistol hung in the breakfast room, but someone stole it a few years ago.”

  “Mr. Cooper, I’m guessing that you weren’t here last night?” Theodosia asked.

  “I most certainly was on the premises,” Cooper said in a slightly petulant tone. “I have a small apartment near the garage.”