Twisted Tea Christmas Page 8

  “Well, this happened in Alabama, so your buddy Smokey was given the option of serving a yearlong jail sentence or going into the army.”

  “I didn’t know they did that anymore.”

  “They don’t,” Riley said. “That’s old-school sentencing. Now the judges just give felons a slap on the wrist so they can get back out there and keep harassing the citizenry.”

  “Aren’t you just the law-and-order martinet,” Theodosia said.

  “When you’ve arrested as many criminals as I have, then watched them get a negligible or suspended sentence, you tend to be a little jaded.”

  “I suppose. Anything on Donny Bragg?”

  “Looked clean to me.”

  “Thanks so much for . . . Ohmygosh! My dancers just walked in!”

  “Dancers?” Riley said. But she’d already hung up.

  Theodosia shepherded the three young dancers into her office so they could change into their costumes and toe shoes; then she ran out to do a final inspection of the tea room. And with toy soldiers standing at attention, candles flickering, Christmas lights gleaming, and a decidedly pinkish sugarplum atmosphere, the place really did look adorable.

  * * *

  * * *

  As the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker echoed through the tea room, Theodosia’s guests began to arrive. She checked them off her list, showed them to their seats, then ran back to the front door to greet a spill of even more excited guests.

  Angie Congdon from the Featherbed House arrived with Brooke Carter Crocket, proprietor of Hearts Desire. Then Lois Chamberlain from Antiquarian Books and Leigh Caroll from the Cabbage Patch Gift Shop found their way in. Hugs and air-kisses were exchanged, Drayton finger-waved from behind the front counter, and then Jill, Kristen, Linda, Judi, and Jessica came piling in, too.

  And dear Delaine Dish came rushing in at the last minute, a little breathless and hanging on the arm of Majel Mercer, the woman who served as executive director of the nonprofit Justice Initiative.

  “Look who I found loitering outside,” Delaine squealed. “The lovely Majel Mercer!”

  “My first time at your tea shop,” Majel exclaimed, gripping Theodosia’s hand. “I can’t wait!” Majel was a cool blonde in a navy blue suit who wore her hair in a slightly retro chignon. Majel also spoke with a distinct throaty voice. Not exactly sexy but certainly enticing. Theodosia could just imagine Majel dealing with prosecuting attorneys. Cracking their hard outer shells and pulling them in with her magnetism.

  “Glad you ladies could make it,” Theodosia said as she led them to the last two available seats. But before she was able to make a clean getaway, Delaine grabbed her arm and hissed, “Don’t forget. I’ve got tickets for the ballet tonight.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to . . . ?”

  “Invite a date?” Delaine stage-whispered. “No, dear, consider this a BFF moment. I want to take you.”

  “Sure. Fine.” Theodosia wasn’t all that excited about going with Delaine, but it was only one night. What could it hurt?

  When all the luncheon guests were seated, Drayton rang a tinkling bell to get everyone’s attention. As the chatter died down to a low hum, Theodosia walked to the center of the tea room, smiled at her guests, and drew a deep breath. This was the part that scared her the most; this was also the part she liked best.

  “Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and welcome to the Indigo Tea Shop,” Theodosia began. There was a spatter of applause and a few cries of “Happy holidays to you!” Then she continued. “Because this is our special Nutcracker Tea, there are a few treats in store for you as well as a very special menu. We’ll kick off today’s luncheon with fresh-baked cranberry-orange scones served with Devonshire cream.” She held up a finger. “There are seconds on the scones if you’d like, but just know that your next course will consist of sweet potato soup topped with crème fraîche and accompanied by a cashew chicken salad tea sandwich. Your main entrée is Black Forest ham and Swiss cheese quiche with an apple, almond, and Bibb lettuce side salad. Dessert—that’s if you still have room—will be Haley’s special sugarplum cake topped with a pouf of whipped cream.”

  Now Drayton joined Theodosia in the center of the room. “For your sipping pleasure, you have your choice of three teas in special holiday flavors,” he said. “Crème brûlée, cranberry cream, and sugarplum spiced.”

  “Wow!” one of the guests exclaimed just as Haley and Miss Dimple magically appeared bearing silver trays stacked high with scones.

  From there it was a slam dunk as far as Theodosia was concerned. The scones were served piping hot and she and Drayton made the rounds filling teacups with the various spiced teas. When it was time for the second course, Miss Dimple cleared and Haley ferried out the soup and tea sandwiches. Making everything look . . . easy as pie.

  “Having a good time?” Theodosia asked Susan Monday, the owner of the newly opened Lavender and Lace Boutique, as she slipped past tables, checking on her guests.

  “This is fabulous,” Susan replied. “If this is just a luncheon tea, I can’t wait to see what you do for your Victorian Christmas Tea.”

  “It promises to be quite the extravaganza,” Theodosia said. They’d gotten so many reservations that she’d had to move their big Christmas tea to the larger and much grander Dove Cote Inn.

  “Well, I’m coming to your Victorian Christmas Tea and I can’t wait,” another one of the guests enthused.

  As Miss Dimple and Haley served the entrées and Drayton poured another round of tea, Theodosia snuck back behind the counter and clicked the CD player ahead to the “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy.” Once that familiar piece of music started burbling out of the speakers, she pushed back the green velvet curtain that separated the back of the tea shop from the front, and her three dancers came bounding out in time to the music.

  They were an instant hit.

  “Delightful!”

  “Can you believe we’re watching actual ballet dancers?”

  “How perfect!” came another excited cry.

  Everyone pretty much turned in their chairs to follow the three adorable girls—they were all of fourteen, leggy, and clad in perfect pink leotards and tutus—as they danced and twirled their way through the tea room. They swirled around tables, arabesqued past the front counter, then turned and, dancing en pointe, did a perfect dip and leap as the music continued to build.

  “This is going so well,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia. They were both standing at the front counter watching the dancers.

  “It couldn’t get any better,” Theodosia agreed.

  But the words hadn’t died on her lips before the front door crashed open and an angry shout rang out. Then a man in a black leather jacket rushed in, waving his arms and clomping his boots.

  The dancers stopped midstride, terrified.

  A few guests uttered surprised cries and shrieks.

  Others were struck dumb.

  Teacups were dropped hastily into saucers; silverware clattered to the table.

  Only one sound stood out above the rest, the intruder shouting Theodosia’s name over and over at the top of his lungs. Screaming at her in a thunderous voice that rose in pitch like steel wheels grinding against rusty rails.

  Theodosia put a hand to her chest to stop her galloping heart, then gazed at the man who’d brought her perfectly lovely tea luncheon to such a rude and abrasive halt.

  Smokey Pruitt stared back at her with smoldering dark eyes.

  9

  “Smokey!” Theodosia cried. She didn’t exactly shout his name but her voice wasn’t overly soft. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Indeed,” came Drayton’s indignant grunt.

  Smokey reached a hand out and pointed a gnarled finger directly at Theodosia. “You,” he said in a voice dripping with anger. “You put the cops on me.”

  “I
did nothing of the sort,” Theodosia said, then quickly wondered, Did Riley make a call to Tidwell? Did he urge Tidwell to check this guy out?

  But no, Riley couldn’t have cared less, she decided. He’d run those checks only because she’d asked him to. Begged him to, really. And this morning, when Riley had called with the information, he’d actually sounded bored.

  So what else is going on?

  Theodosia hurried around the counter, blocked Smokey’s path, and hustled him right back out the front door.

  They stood facing each other on the sidewalk outside the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia looking puzzled, Smokey fizzing with anger.

  “You came crashing in and interrupted my tea,” Theodosia said. “Scared the living daylights out of all my guests, to say nothing of those little girls who were dancing their hearts out.”

  That seemed to tamp Smokey down and put him in his place.

  “Okay,” Smokey said. “I’m sorry about frightening people, but I’m real upset. The cops came by to see me this morning. . . .”

  “I didn’t send them.”

  “No?” He looked as if he didn’t quite believe her.

  “No,” Theodosia said.

  Smokey shook his head. “I don’t like cops. They always act like I’m guilty before I really am.”

  “Well, you do have a past. Or at least a semipast.”

  “What are you . . . ?” Smokey looked befuddled. “Oh, you mean the car? You know about that?”

  Theodosia nodded. “I have a few sources.”

  “That happened a long time ago. I fell in with a bunch of jerks and did some stupid stuff I shouldn’t have. But things are different now. I’m a changed man. I fix things for people in the neighborhood and I’m good at it. I found a trade.”

  “You fixed things at Miss Drucilla’s house,” Theodosia said.

  “Sure did.”

  “Such as?”

  “I fixed her garage door when she accidentally backed her Volvo into it.”

  “You also hung some paintings for her.”

  Smokey’s eyes blazed again and he held up a hand. “But not that one. I don’t know nothin’ about that missing painting!”

  “Did you know it was a Renoir?”

  “I know who Renoir was,” Smokey shot back. “I’m not stupid. But I didn’t steal it. I wouldn’t steal anything from Miss Drucilla. She was always nice to me. Always paid me right on time, too. And a fair wage, not like some people.”

  Theodosia gazed at him. “Okay, let’s say I believe you. You’re innocent on all counts. But somebody snuck in Sunday night and murdered her. Stole a valuable painting as well.”

  Smokey’s eyes burned into hers. “I wish I knew who.”

  Theodosia decided to take a gamble. What did she have to lose? “Maybe you have some ideas about that?”

  “I don’t know. I think that’s a little above my pay grade,” Smokey said.

  “But if you were to hazard a guess, it could be helpful.”

  “Helpful to you or to the police?” Smokey asked.

  “Just me for now.”

  Smokey looked down and scraped the toe of one battered brown cowboy boot against the pavement. “Maybe there is somebody you should look at,” he mumbled.

  “Who would that be?” Theodosia asked.

  Smokey’s eyes shifted nervously from side to side. “You were with him last night.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re talking about Mr. Bragg? Donny Bragg?”

  “I probably shouldn’t say anything ’cause he lets me live in his carriage house.”

  “But not for free,” Theodosia said.

  “No, he makes me do work around his place. A lot of work.”

  “Why should we be looking at him?” Theodosia asked.

  “Because Mr. Bragg’s a big-time art guy.”

  “By ‘art guy,’ you mean he collects art. And serves on the board of directors at the Gibbes Museum. I’ve already figured that out. I’m already there.”

  “He’s also a tricky devil. I know some paintings that the Gibbes curators were trying to buy for the museum ended up in his collection instead.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  Smokey’s head bobbed. “I do.”

  “Okay, that’s something to think about,” Theodosia said, “and look into as well. If you have any more ideas about suspects, come to me directly, will you?”

  Smokey thought for a few moments. “I guess I could do that.”

  “But no more crash landings in the middle of my tea parties.”

  Smokey gave a grudging nod. “Yeah. Got it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When Theodosia returned to the tea shop, things were back to normal. Guests were eating dessert; a few were strolling around, looking at the holiday displays and selecting gifts.

  “No harm done,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia as she slipped behind the counter.

  Theodosia did a mock swipe of her brow and mouthed a silent “Thank goodness.” Then she asked, “Are the girls okay?”

  “Finished their sugarplum ballet and are right now sitting in your office, noshing scones and drinking copious amounts of milk under Haley’s watchful eye.” He picked up a teapot, ready to make the rounds and top off a few teacups. “So all’s well that ends well?”

  But that wasn’t really the end of it.

  Delaine lingered, telling anyone who’d listen about the marvelous new pashminas she’d gotten in at Cotton Duck. Miss Dimple began clearing tables. Haley peeped out and looked bored. And Theodosia was kept busy apologizing for the interruption, ringing up sales, then bidding goodbye to guests and apologizing yet again.

  By two thirty it was over.

  Drayton dropped into a chair and said, “Foof. To think we’re going to do this all over again tomorrow.”

  “I know,” Miss Dimple said as she swept past him. “I can hardly wait.”

  “So what did the cantankerous cowboy want?” Drayton asked.

  “You mean Smokey?”

  Drayton looked around. “I don’t see anyone else dressed like a movie stand-in for a remake of Gunsmoke.”

  “He thought I sent the cops after him.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, Tidwell probably took it upon himself to question Smokey. After all, the guy’s kind of a perfect suspect. A down-on-his-luck-loner-lost-soul type if you know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed,” Drayton said.

  “Funny thing is, Smokey knew the stolen painting was a Renoir,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton cocked his head at her. “Smokey doesn’t strike me as being a student of art history.”

  “No, but he’s not stupid, either.” Theodosia paused. “I wish Pauline hadn’t given all the Renoir paperwork to Tidwell. I wish I knew more about it.”

  “About the painting or the painter?” Drayton asked.

  “Both.”

  “Why don’t you run down the street and talk to Tom Ritter?” Drayton suggested. Ritter owned the Dolce Gallery a half block down from them.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Tell you what.” Drayton stood up, went to the counter, and poured a cup of tea into one of their blue take-out cups. He snapped on a lid and said, “Here. Take Mr. Ritter a fresh cup of tea. It’ll help get you in his good graces.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Mr. Ritter,” Theodosia called out as she pushed her way through the front door of the Dolce Gallery. “It’s Theodosia. From the tea shop?”

  She dodged around an enormous easel that held an oil painting of Charleston Harbor and gazed around the small shop. The pristine white walls were a mosaic of paintings, lots of impressionism as well as more contemporary art. Smaller paintings were displayed everywhere—on table easels and hung on half walls that made
the small shop resemble a Chinese puzzle. Dozens more paintings stood upright in white wooden crates.

  Ritter came to the door of his office, peeped out, and said, “I thought I heard someone come in.” He had short, spiky white-blond hair and was dressed all in black. Black sweater, black slacks, black Prada tennis shoes. Like a refugee from a hotshot New York gallery.

  Theodosia handed him the cup of tea. “I brought this for you.”

  Ritter accepted the cup and unsnapped the lid. “Bless you. I’ve been crazy busy all day and could use a pick-me-up. I hope there’s a copious amount of caffeine in this.”

  “There is and the tea’s actually a bribe,” Theodosia said, “in exchange for a bit of information.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Ritter said as he took a sip of tea.

  “By now you’ve heard about the murder of Drucilla Heyward.”

  Ritter nodded. “It’s been all over the news. Such an awful thing. For a woman of her repute to be murdered in her own home is a blight on the civility of Charleston.”

  “I was wondering if you’d sold any paintings to her.”

  Ritter frowned and tapped an index finger against his lower lip. “No, but I sure wish I had. I understand the woman had impeccable taste. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t believe Miss Drucilla was a fan of contemporary art, which is predominantly the type of art and artist that I represent.”

  “But it sounds as if you’re somewhat familiar with her collection,” Theodosia said.

  “I’ve never actually seen it, only heard about it. But I understand she had a couple of tasty pieces. A John Singer Sargent and a few Picasso ceramics.”

  “She also owned a small Renoir, which went missing Sunday night the same time as her murder. Or maybe it was the reason for her murder.”

  “I did hear about that. So how can I help?” Ritter asked.

  “Do you know how many Renoirs there are? I mean, that exist in the entire world?”

  “Oh, I’d have to say at least a couple of thousand,” Ritter said.