Plum Tea Crazy Page 7

  A man in work clothes—olive green slacks and a light green shirt—stood near the front counter. He had a leather tool belt slung low around his hips and was holding up a handful of pamphlets. Waving them around, actually, as he yelled at Drayton!

  “I’ve asked you people nicely,” the man shouted. “And you still won’t listen to me. Very well, I’ve written out all my reasons—good reasons, I might add—right here. And I demand that you read them.” He pulled a pamphlet from his stack and slapped it down hard on the counter.

  “Excuse me,” Drayton began, but the man ignored him as he continued his tirade.

  “This isn’t just an idle whim on my part,” the man continued. “It’s a huge concern, which is why I feel the need to enlighten you.” His voice rose higher, causing customers to turn in their chairs to see what was going on.

  “Stop it!” Theodosia said. “If you don’t stop shouting this instant I’m going to call the police.” She stepped closer to the man and put a hand on his arm to restrain him. “Just who do you think you are?”

  The man turned around to face her. He had a long, thin face, a mottled gray beard, and slightly protruding brown eyes that had the gleam of a crazy, zealous true believer. With his hair pulled back in a scruffy ponytail, he gave the impression of an old stoner.

  “Go ahead and call the police,” the man said. “But I still have a right to free speech.”

  Theodosia shook her head even as she stood her ground. “Not in my tea shop, you don’t. Not when you come barging in here and disturb my customers.”

  Startled now, the man looked around, saw a half dozen faces staring at him with genuine curiosity, and made a quick decision to take his rant down a notch. “I just wanted to pass out my—”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Theodosia demanded.

  “I’m Jud Harker,” the man said. He raised a fist and gestured at Drayton again. “I’m the one who’s trying to—”

  “Shut down the Rare Weapons Show,” Theodosia finished for him, somewhat breathlessly. Then her heart did an extra blip inside her chest. This was the man who’d been threatening many of the Heritage Society board members. Now he was standing right here, in her tea shop, chattering like a rabid chipmunk. It was no wonder Timothy had pointed a finger at this man as a possible suspect in Carson Lanier’s murder. Harker was brash, angry, and obviously had no impulse control.

  “We need to shut down that show,” Harker shouted again, thrusting a pamphlet into Theodosia’s hands.

  Theodosia grabbed the pamphlet without looking at it and stuffed it into the pocket of her slacks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” she said in an even voice. No way was she backing down. She just wasn’t engineered that way.

  “Leave?” Harker said, shuffling a step closer so he could loom over her. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re creating a disturbance.”

  Harker’s eyes gleamed. “I haven’t even started—”

  “Hey man,” said a quiet voice at Harker’s elbow. “Crank it down a notch, will you?”

  Theodosia blinked. Jamie was suddenly right there, talking to Harker. But he was doing it in a low-key, nonthreatening manner. Now, wasn’t this interesting? Was Jamie mature enough to take care of this? Or would she have to get tough and run this jerk off?

  “Don’t just come in here and start yammering at everyone,” Jamie said. “That’s no way to make your point.”

  “What?” Harker was staring at Jamie, as if he were just emerging from a trance.

  “There are some nice ladies in here who are trying to enjoy their lunch,” Jamie said, a boyish grin lighting his face. “So be a gentleman and leave quietly, okay?”

  Harker looked as if the wind had been taken out of his sails. “Can I give you one of my pamphlets?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” Jamie said. He had a good four inches of height on Harker, and now his hand was on Harker’s upper arm, steering him toward the front door, giving him a friendly but firm bum’s rush. Seconds later, Harker was outside on the sidewalk with Jamie nodding a polite good-bye. And when Jamie stepped back inside the tea shop, he made a big point of closing the door and locking it.

  For a few seconds, nobody uttered a word. In fact, you could’ve heard a pin drop until Drayton said, “I’d say you just earned a few brownie points, young man.”

  Jamie nodded solemnly at Drayton. “Mr. D.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Five minutes later, Theodosia was busy greeting a dozen new customers, taking their orders, serving luncheon plates, and ferrying steaming pots of tea to various tables. Behind the counter, teakettles whistled and chirped their merry birdsongs as Drayton eased back into the swing of things. (Yes, his precise and somewhat controlling nature had taken a slight hit, but he did seem to be recovering.)

  As Theodosia bustled about, Jud Harker’s pop-up appearance was still very much top of mind. Had Detective Riley had a conversation with Harker, just as he’d promised he would? Had it turned into a confrontation that set Harker off on this tangent? Or had Tidwell gotten hold of Harker and threatened him? Tidwell could be confrontational bordering on outright intimidating. Whatever had happened with the police must have gotten Harker all wound up. Theodosia decided that, as soon as she had a free moment, she’d call Pete Riley and get the full story.

  And, all the while, Theodosia pondered the fact that Harker had seemed more than a little unstable. If he was a rabid anti-gun crusader—and it sure looked like he was—could he have murdered Lanier the banker? Maybe he hadn’t wanted to kill him, exactly; maybe he just meant to fire a warning shot and it all went horribly wrong.

  Theodosia furrowed her brow, thinking. Or maybe Harker was just the neighborhood fruitcake. A guy who was lonely, disenfranchised, not fully employed, and had found a cause to wrap his mind and arms around. Maybe Harker was simply a nuisance—a disconcerting presence, to be sure, but nothing more than that.

  “Theo?” Drayton said.

  Theodosia looked up from the counter where she was cutting a lemon into thin, almost translucent slices. “Yes?”

  “Would you accompany me to the Heritage Society’s board meeting tonight?”

  “Why would you want me to do that?” Theodosia asked. This was an unusual request that had come shooting out of the blue. “If I remember correctly, I’m not on the board, you’re on the board.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Drayton said. “First off, Timothy asked if I might persuade you to attend.”

  “Okay, that alone sounds fairly mysterious. Does Timothy have a reason for wanting me there?”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “But you don’t know what it is?”

  Drayton shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  “So what’s the second thing?” Theodosia asked. “Wait—is there a second thing?”

  “Yes. Apparently there’s a prospective new board member who’s ready to step in and take Carson Lanier’s place.”

  “So soon? Just like that?” She was surprised by Timothy’s haste in filling the vacant slot. “Isn’t that somewhat unorthodox? Don’t potential board members have to be vetted?”

  “It’s unusual, yes,” Drayton said. “But Lanier was a man who liked everything signed, sealed, notarized, and wrapped up in a nice tight bundle. So I’m guessing this successor is probably a like-minded chap. And Timothy is willing to meet with this potential successor in light of what’s transpired. Obviously I’m referring to the, uh . . .”

  “Murder,” Theodosia said.

  “Yes.” Drayton licked his lips nervously. “Anyway, in light of the circumstances, Timothy feels voting in a colleague of Lanier’s might be a nice way to honor him for his years of service to the Heritage Society. Which obviously means this new potential board member will be attending tonight’s meeting.”

  “And what’s my role in all th
is?” Theodosia asked. “You want me to do a psychic reading? Deal out the tarot cards and see if this new guy is the King of Wands and destined to be an effective board member?”

  “No supernatural trickery is needed,” Drayton said with a chuckle. “Timothy and I just want you to come and be your usual charming self.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And be an excellent judge of character as well.” Drayton paused. “Can you help us? Will you help us?”

  “Yes, Drayton, I’ll come with you tonight.” Because now you’ve got me more than a little curious.

  9

  Once lunch was over and afternoon teatime well under way, Theodosia ran into her office and called Pete Riley. But he wasn’t in his office and, for whatever reason, wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  So, okay. When his voice mail came on, she said, “Hey, it’s me. Jud Harker came bombing into my tea shop this morning, ranting and raving his head off like a gibbering capuchin monkey. What I want to know is—what on earth did you guys do or say that sent him spinning into my orbit? So call me, okay?”

  Theodosia hung up her phone and thought for a few moments. Hurrying into the tea shop, she whispered a few words to Drayton, and waited for his approving nod. Then she slipped out the back door and drove the few blocks to the Lady Goodwood Inn.

  Theodosia hadn’t planned on going to the sample sale, but then she thought about the charity ball this Friday night. The one Delaine had slyly christened the Fur Ball. If she was going to attend—and she knew Pete Riley was already on board with it—there was the question of a ball gown. Or, at the very least, a long skirt she could pair with a sparkly top.

  So the die was cast.

  As Theodosia strode through the lobby with its overstuffed chairs and potted palms, it looked as though the sample sale were being held right here. Tables were set up everywhere, smiling young faces looked to greet her. But no. When she approached one of the tables, she was told that this was registration for a pharmaceutical trade show. The sample sale was being held down the hall in the Magnolia Room.

  Two skinny teenage girls sat at a table, essentially blocking the entrance to the Magnolia Room. One was blond, the other dark-haired. Both were studying their cell phones intently, their fingers poking furiously at the screens. Texting.

  “This is the sample sale?” Theodosia asked politely. She figured they must be gatekeepers. Or gatekeepers-in-training.

  The skinny blonde’s fingers continued to work her keyboard until finally she looked up. “You’re here for the sample sale?” She couldn’t have sounded more bored.

  “No, I thought the G7 summit was being held here,” Theodosia said.

  “What?” the blonde said.

  “We’re the official greeters,” the dark-haired girl said. She was chewing gum and snapping it every few seconds.

  “Mindy’s cousins,” the blonde said.

  The dark-haired girl went back to studying her phone. “From Savannah.”

  “Well, bless your little hearts,” Theodosia said as she pushed her way past them and entered a room that had been turned into fashion mayhem, or what some might call Dante’s First Circle of Retail Hell. Giant metal racks, stuffed with colorful clothing, were parked everywhere, creating a zigzag maze that didn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason. There were no tidy rows with sizes clearly marked, no racks set judiciously around the perimeter. In fact, it looked as if worker bees had just shoved a couple dozen racks into the Magnolia Room and then run for their lives.

  Theodosia decided she had to start somewhere, so she dug into the first rack she saw.

  Skirts. She could definitely go for a long, fancy skirt. But no, this rack was all wool dresses. Theodosia moved on. Nobody in their right mind wanted a wool dress just as Charleston was heading into a summer of industrial-strength heat and humidity. Yes, that heat helped keep your skin soft and hydrated, but on the flip side, it frizzed your hair so bad that, by July, it looked like frayed tufts of twine.

  Glancing around the room, Theodosia noticed dozens of teensy, tiny women, all poring through the racks. They were wasp-waisted, slim-hipped women who must have barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. She knew this event was billed as a sample sale, which meant it featured smaller sizes. But, dear Lord, what on earth did these women exist on? Rarefied air? A new kind of hybrid low-cal kale? Bibb lettuce shooters? Somehow they’d become miniaturized with hardly any figures at all.

  Just as Theodosia decided to turn tail and leave Munchkinland, Delaine popped out from behind a rack of clothes, looking like a stylish jack-in-the-box. “Theo!” she cried. “Here you are!” Delaine grabbed her by the arm and dug in her bloodred nails. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Did you find anything that fits?”

  Theodosia shook her head and pulled her arm back. “I just got here.”

  Delaine grimaced. “Hopefully the really nice things aren’t gone already.”

  “Gone? There have to be thirty racks of clothes here.”

  “But so many pieces are from last season,” Delaine whispered.

  “That’s bad?”

  Delaine managed to grip her arm again and pull her along. “It’s not good. Come over here. You mentioned you needed a long skirt?”

  “I guess.” Somehow, Theodosia wasn’t feeling the moment. Actually, she was feeling a little sick.

  Delaine began ripping through a rack of clothing, pulling out skirts, muttering to herself in some kind of crazy fashion lingo. “Black silk, too McQueen. Panne velvet . . . winter collection. Maybe this chiffon?” She held it up to herself, then shook her head. “No, it’s too Antigua. We can do better.”

  “Delaine,” Theodosia said, “I’m perfectly capable of picking something out by myself.”

  Delaine looked pained, as if she’d suddenly developed a chronic case of indigestion. “No, honey, you should let me do what I do best.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Function as your stylist, of course. Someone has to make a measured, tasteful decision here.”

  “Excuse me, are you saying I have no personal style? No taste?” It wasn’t often Theodosia got an opportunity to needle Delaine right back. She was enjoying it immensely.

  “Not at all,” Delaine purred. “It’s just that I’m a retail professional and you’re basically a civilian.” She threw an impassioned look at Theodosia. “Theo, if you could see the women, the poor little lambs, who stumble into my shop. Most are in dire need of a total fashion makeover.” Delaine’s eyes took on a slightly evangelical look as her hands gracefully carved the air. “They need a carefully nipped and tailored jacket. Blouses that show off what the good Lord gave them. And accessories . . .” At this Delaine threw up her hands in despair. “Don’t get me started on accessories.”

  “I won’t,” Theodosia said.

  “Handbags,” Delaine blurted out. She was jacked up and ready to rhapsodize about accessories no matter what. “Absolutely essential to every outfit.” She shook an index finger at Theodosia. “Yet nobody seems to understand the appropriateness of carrying a frame bag as opposed to a more casual shoulder bag.”

  “Sounds like there’s a bag crisis brewing.”

  “And there isn’t a woman alive who couldn’t benefit from a strand of pearls, a colorful silk scarf, and a great pair of sunglasses.” Delaine took a reverent pause. “Those are the key pieces that make or break an outfit.”

  “I never realized you were so passionate about accessories,” Theodosia said. She was keenly aware that she’d been carrying the same Fendi shoulder bag for two years now—maybe she was due for a change? Or, considering the price of designer bags these days, maybe not.

  Delaine picked out three different skirts, led Theodosia to a dressing room, and pushed her inside. When Theodosia emerged, wearing a silver crepe skirt, Delaine said, “I love it. That fabric really helps camouflage the hips.
”

  Theodosia peered hesitantly into the three-way mirror. “You mean my hips?”

  “Anybody’s hips. I’m a big believer in camouflage no matter what size the body part.”

  “If we’re into camouflage, maybe I should just throw on an army jacket.”

  Delaine tittered. “The military look was popular last year, dear.” She turned to grab another skirt, then her hand shot into the air and she yelled, “Sissy!” at the top of her lungs. At which point a tall, flamboyant-looking blonde in a bright red leather jacket came crashing toward them.

  “Delaine!” the woman yelped back.

  “Theo,” Delaine said, as Sissy practically smashed up against them, “this is my dear friend Sissy Lanier.”

  “Pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you,” Sissy chortled. She stuck out her hand and shook Theodosia’s hand as she managed a lopsided, manic grin.

  As Sissy continued to pump her arm in greeting, Theodosia realized that this lady was the soon-to-be ex-wife of Carson Lanier. Also known as the wife of the dead guy.

  “Nice to meet you,” Theodosia said as she gave Sissy an appraising glance. Besides her leather jacket, Sissy was wearing black leather slacks and carrying a black handbag covered in silver studs. Sissy also wore tons of makeup, had medically enhanced trout-pout lips and an enormous swirl of hair. Seriously, her cloud of hair was so massive it could probably generate its own atmospheric conditions.

  When Theodosia finally pulled her hand back from Sissy’s grasp, she said, in what she hoped was a serious voice, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Sissy drawled. She shrugged and pushed at her hair to give it an extra plumping. “Turns out my loss is also my gain.”

  “That’s for sure,” Delaine said.

  “Excuse me?” Theodosia wasn’t sure she’d heard Sissy quite right. What was she referring to?