Death by Darjeeling Page 9

  “I like it.” Theodosia nodded.

  “Okay,” said Drayton, pleased. “Now for the tricky part. I’ve come up with four suggested holiday blends.”

  Theodosia inclined her head toward Drayton’s notebook, following along as he read aloud his notations. For the moment, all thoughts of the disastrous events at the Lamplighter Tour were pushed from her head.

  “Apple,” said Drayton, tapping his notebook. “Apple pies, cider, and dried potpourris are a holiday staple, so let’s add it to our black tea as well. The aroma will impart a sweet, crisp fragrance and make a delightful beverage for holiday parties. More sophisticated than apple cider, but still warming and flavorful.”

  “Have you got a name for it?” asked Theodosia.

  “That’s your province, isn’t it?” Drayton grinned. “Or have you left your advertising and marketing days behind?”

  “I don’t think you ever stray far from that,” said Theodosia. “Seems like most decisions made in business these days are marketing-related.”

  “Including naming these teas and creating labels.” Drayton smiled slyly.

  “You come up with the blends, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Deal,” said Drayton. “Okay, then. Next holiday blend, black currant. This should be a big, fruity berry flavor. Great for afternoon holiday teas, pleasing with desserts.”

  Theodosia smiled. Dear Drayton. He had thrown himself headlong into this project and, like everything he attempted in the realm of tea, wine, or the culinary arts, it would be a rousing success.

  “Next,” said Drayton, “I want to do an Indian spice. Overtones of cardamom with various spices to be determined. We’ll aim for a slightly heady, intoxicating fragrance.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” said Theodosia.

  “For my final tea, I pulled out all the stops. A cranberry blend. Heavy on the cranberry with an accent of dried oranges and a nip of orange flavoring. Tangy, tart, perfect for the crisp days ahead. Very complementary with holiday dinners.”

  “You were thinking of getting your dried cranberries from the Belvedere Plantation in the low-country?” asked Theodosia.

  Drayton tapped his black Mont Blanc pen against the page. “They’re the best.”

  Theodosia retired to her office where she brainstormed on names for Drayton’s tea blends for the rest of the afternoon. By the time long shadows dappled her windows and Earl Grey rose from his rug and stretched, ready for his late afternoon walk, she had devised quite a few names.

  Drawing upon her advertising background, she had come up with a list she thought might intrigue holiday shoppers. For the apple tea blend she liked the name Applejack. It was casual and fun. She had pondered the name Black Magic for the black currant tea, but finally settled on Au Currant. It sounded punchier and a little more elegant.

  On the Indian spice blend, Theodosia decided to be straightforward and name it exactly that, Indian Spice. She knew from past experience that a good, descriptive name would usually outshine an overly clever one.

  And for the cranberry orange tea, she went with Cooper River Cranberry, a tribute to the nearby Cooper River that contributed to the vast, wet cranberry bogs.

  Pleased with her efforts, Theodosia’s thoughts turned toward the visual elements: packaging and labels. Because these were holiday teas, she decided to purchase gold-colored tea tins. They were festive looking and easily obtained from several manufacturers.

  That left the labels. She would have to devise colorful labels for each of Drayton’s blends.

  Her first thought was to call Todd & Lambeau, the group that was working on the graphics for her Web site. They were good commercial designers, but somehow their brand of design felt a little too slick. Wouldn’t it be nicer to convey a more intimate, boutique feel for these holiday tea blends?

  She had a friend, Julia, who was a highly skilled calligrapher. Julia did posters for the Charleston Museum, the symphony, wedding invitations, all manner of other things. Julia’s calligraphy might be well suited for this project. But, she still needed a talented illustrator to convey the essence of the holiday teas on a label.

  Then she remembered the paintings she’d seen that morning at the Shorebird headquarters. The free-spirited, slightly whimsical illustrations Tanner Joseph had created also somehow embodied an Eastern spirit. Would that style work for her tea labels? The thought intrigued her and began to grow on her.

  Most tea labels were what Drayton called “flowers and bowers.” They were fussy and floral. But Tanner Joseph’s drawings had an elegance to them. The style was slightly Asian, which would be perfect. And, if her memory served her correctly, Tanner Joseph also did lovely brush-stroke calligraphy!

  The notion excited Theodosia, and she vowed to call Tanner Joseph first thing the next day. She hoped he’d take on the project. Even though the tea shop didn’t have a huge budget for graphics, Tanner Joseph might view this commercial assignment as a welcome windfall.

  The light flickered on and off above her head.

  “Time to lock up,” called Haley. She stood in the doorway, a book bag slung over one shoulder. “You’ve been hard at it all afternoon. Did you get lots done? Drayton said you were working on the holiday teas.”

  Theodosia stretched both arms over her head and groaned. “I think so. You’re off to class?”

  “Literature in contemporary society. Tonight we’re studying Cormac McCarthy.”

  But still Haley stood there, quietly looking at Theodosia.

  “What?” said Theodosia. She knew something was brewing behind the girl’s furrowed brow. She beckoned to Haley. “Come.”

  Haley stepped closer to Theodosia’s desk. “It’s Bethany,” she said, her face flushed pink with embarrassment. “Without her job, with nothing to do, she’s . . .” Haley left her sentence unfinished, dropped her head shyly.

  “What if . . .” said Theodosia slowly, “what if Bethany came and helped out for a while? Poor Drayton’s going to be awfully busy supervising the blending of the holiday teas. You’ll have extra baking to do . . .” Theodosia looked at Haley as though the thought had just occurred to her. “Do you think Bethany would come back and lend a hand in the tea shop again? Of course, you’ll have to give her a refresher course in brewing tea. And that old cash register is a bear to use—”

  Haley’s face broke into a wide grin. “It’s not a problem. She can do it, I know she can. But are you sure that . . . ?”

  “Am I sure we need help?” Theodosia threw her arms up in mock despair. “Thanksgiving is three weeks away, and Christmas and New Year’s will be upon us in no time.” She placed her palm on her chest. “I still haven’t gone out and found those extra sweetgrass baskets. And the Web site . . . Well, the delay on that project is decidedly my fault. I haven’t made the necessary decisions on graphics and Web architecture. Yes, Haley. To answer your question, I’m sure, in a matter of days, we’ll be swamped!”

  CHAPTER 18

  THEODOSIA PULLED THE head off the ceramic Scooby-Doo cookie jar and measured out two cups of dried kibbles for Earl Grey. She poured it into his metal dish, topped it with a tablespoon of olive oil for his coat, and set it down on the yellow rug next to his water dish.

  Earl Grey responded as he always did. He gave Theodosia a look that somehow conveyed his doggy thank you, then went facedown into his dinner.

  Theodosia did not go facedown. Rather, she stood in front of the open refrigerator, pondering supper. An oatmeal and raisin cookie, eaten at four o’clock, had left her relatively satisfied. Still, if she didn’t eat now, she’d be hungry later on.

  She stuck her head farther inside the refrigerator, investigating. There was some leftover pasta, a couple pieces of cold chicken, fresh hamburger. Nope, nothing tripped her trigger yet. She knew the freezer compartment contained lamb chops and maybe some frozen shrimp that could be quickly steamed and put on top of rice.

  No, she thought, that would be fussy, and fussy was the last thing she needed right now.
Now that decisions had been made regarding holiday teas, the conversation she’d had with Delaine earlier in the afternoon came back in her mind. Delaine was a dear, gentle soul who had shockingly good taste when it came to merchandising her clothing store, Cotton Duck. But Delaine also thrived on gossip and excitement and didn’t always get her facts straight.

  Theodosia pulled a small carton of cottage cheese from the refrigerator shelf. She dumped half of it onto a plate and grabbed a fork from the drawer and two bagel crisps from a glass jar on the counter.

  Wandering into her living room, she eased herself down onto the couch, suddenly feeling a wave of relaxation flow over her. It was this apartment that ultimately contributed to her happiness and sense of well-being. Though small, it contained all the essential elements for a proper and genteel Charleston home. Fireplace, cove ceilings, bow windows, tiny balcony, French doors leading to a small but elegant dining room, and a cozy bedroom with a surprisingly ample closet for her many clothes.

  She had decorated the place in what had become her own brand of Charleston shabby chic. The philosophy behind shabby chic appealed to her. It held that an item had to be both beautiful and functional. So that was what she strove for. Elegance married with practicality. It was a concept that worked well with the antique furniture and accessories she’d always been so passionate about, and which were easy to come by in Charleston antique shops and flea markets. Charleston was the mother lode when it came to English furniture, vintage fabrics, antique chandeliers, old prints, and silverware.

  Aunt Libby had been amazingly generous, too, in helping to furnish her cozy abode, gifting her with a lawyer’s bookcase, rocking chair, oriental rug, silver tea service, antique quilt, and some terrific old oil paintings. The paintings were dark, brooding seascapes in wonderfully ornate, gilded frames. Everyone who saw them tried to buy them from her.

  Before she’d purchased the Indigo Tea Shop, she had lived in a sleek, modern building. Lots of squared-off angles, floor-to-ceiling windows, black countertops, white walls. Very contemporary, very boring.

  This was infinitely better.

  Theodosia finished her cottage cheese and offered Earl Grey the last morsel of bagel crisp. He chewed thoughtfully, gazing at her with brown, intelligent eyes.

  “Want to go for a ride?” she asked him.

  Earl Grey’s ears pricked forward, and his tail beat a syncopated rhythm on the pegged floor boards.

  King Street, between Beaufain and Queen Streets, is often referred to as Charleston’s antiques district. Here antiques aficionados will discover such shops as English Patina, with their fine collection of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture, Perry’s Estate Jewelry, and Helen S. Martin Antique Weapons. Down a narrow walkway at 190 King Street is Gates of Charleston, an eclectic little garden shop with wrought-iron planters, statuary, and quirky sundials.

  It was 208 King Street that Theodosia was searching for as she cruised the picturesque street with its palm trees, white turreted buildings, and black wrought-iron touches. Since it was early evening, traffic was light, and she was able to drive slowly, scanning the numbers above the tall, narrow doorways as Earl Grey sat serenely in the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee.

  208 King Street was where Griffon Antiques was located. The Griffon Antiques where Cordette Jordan had supposedly overheard an argument between Hughes Barron and his partner, Lleveret Dante, of Goose Creek Holdings. Of course, Jory Davis had told her that the two partners had their office at 415 Harper Street.

  Okay, Theodosia told herself, in about two minutes we’re going to find out exactly who was right.

  She saw the sign for Griffon Antiques even before she could read the street address. A large, ornate, wooden sign with a griffon, that strange mythical eagle-cum-lion, painted in gold and black, hung out over the sidewalk from what appeared to be a four-story building. Theodosia took her foot off the accelerator, let the Jeep glide over to the curb, and studied the shop.

  The large front windows were filled with English and French antique furniture. All genuine pieces, no reproductions. A hand-lettered sign hanging in the glass door said Sorry We Missed You, Please Return Tomorrow.

  There was no Harper Street nearby. In fact, she wasn’t even familiar with Harper Street. To the best of her knowledge, the next street up was Market Street. Sure, that had to be the sign for Market Street just ahead. Without bothering to pull into traffic, Theodosia eased the Jeep along the curb, up to the corner. She gazed up at the street sign.

  It read Harper Street!

  What?

  She checked for traffic, then took the Jeep into a slow right turn. She found Harper Street wasn’t really a street at all, just a narrow lane that seemed to lead to a small garden. She could venture in with the Jeep maybe twenty feet, then she’d have to back out.

  Well, wasn’t this interesting. There really was a Harper Street. And the reason it didn’t sound at all familiar was because it wasn’t really a through street. Harper Street was one of the myriad little lanes that snaked through the historic district and the antiques district, lanes that often didn’t have names. Sometimes they were private and therefore not on official city maps. They could have their names changed at the whim of the property owner. These streets had probably been little passages that led to carriage houses at one time. Now they appeared on tourist walking guides that gift shops and B and Bs handed out.

  “Sit tight,” she told Earl Grey as she hopped out of the Jeep. Rounded cobblestones poked at the soft leather soles of her Todd loafers as she ambled down the little lane toward an arched doorway flanked by a pair of stone lions. She stopped in her tracks and looked up. Over the arched doorway was a sign that read Hayward Professional Building, 415 Harper.

  A tingle of excitement ignited within her. So 208 King Street and 415 Harper were one and the same! The city might not be aware of it, but, knowing the tangled bureaucracy that ministered over Charleston, chances were the postal service did. That meant that the offices of Goose Creek Holdings were here, after all. And that maybe, just maybe, Delaine’s secondhand story had been correct!

  CHAPTER 19

  THERE WERE TWO Jory Davises listed in the phone book, but one lived over in West Ashley. So Theodosia figured the one she wanted had to be the one on Halsey, near the marina. Anyway, it certainly sounded like an area where the Jory Davis she’d spoken with this morning might reside.

  “Hello?”

  Same voice, same Jory Davis. Theodosia breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Mr. Davis? Hello, this is Theodosia Browning. Sorry to bother you at home, but you were so helpful this morning, and I have just a quick question for you.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the voice, sounding slightly discombobulated and not at all the calm, efficient, buttoned-up lawyer he’d come across as earlier.

  “I know this is out of the blue, but does buying-selling mean anything to you?” Theodosia asked.

  There was a loud clunk on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Davis? Are you all right?”

  In a moment, Jory Davis was back on the line. “Sorry, I dropped the phone. I’m in the kitchen trying to whip together a vinaigrette. I know it sounds kind of dorky, but I’ve got this bachelor’s group coming to my place tonight. Four of us, all lawyers, who get together once a month for dinner. Kind of a boy’s night out. Two of the fellows are divorced, so this is probably the only decent meal they get for a while. Anyway, long story short, tonight’s my turn, and I’m hysterical. I was stuck at the office writing a legal brief until almost six-thirty, and now I’m halfway through this recipe and just found out I don’t have any prepared English mustard. So, my question to you is this: Can I use plain old yellow mustard? Hot dog mustard?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Theodosia as she thought to herself, Bachelor’s group. Interesting.

  “And chives. It doesn’t look good in the chives department, either. Problem?”

  “Maybe you could pinch hit with a flavored olive oil. That would give your
vinaigrette a little extra snap.”

  “Flavored olive oil,” he muttered. “Yeah, I got some of that. Basil, I think. Awright, we’re good to go.”

  Now there was the sound of a wire whisk swooshing against the sides of a glass bowl.

  “What did you want to know about a buy-sell?” Jory Davis asked.

  Theodosia inhaled sharply.

  “Miss Browning?” said Jory. “You still there?”

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Theodosia. “A buy-sell. It’s a kind of agreement, right?”

  “A buy-sell agreement, correct,” said Jory Davis matter-of-factly.

  “Two partners would have this type of agreement?”

  “They should. Although many don’t plan ahead all that well.”

  “And one partner might want to rescind at some point in time?”

  “Sure, it happens. But I still don’t see where you’re going.”

  “I didn’t either,” said Theodosia. “But I think I just arrived there anyway. Mr. Davis, thank you! Good luck with your dinner.”

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said Theodosia, “you’re still bringing those papers by, right?”

  CHAPTER 20

  KEEMAN,” SAID HALEY, her hand resting on a glass jar filled with small black leaves. “From Anhui province in central China. See the leaves? Tiny but powerful. They yield a brilliant red liquor. Slightly sweet, so you don’t need sugar. Gives off a delicious aroma, reminiscent of ripe orchids.”

  Bethany nodded. She’d shown up bright and early, eager to learn, ready to be put to work. Now she stood behind the counter, hair wound atop her head in a casual knot, small, oval, wire-rim glasses perched on her nose, looking every inch the career-minded young woman.

  Haley pointed to another jar. “This one’s Dimbulla from Ceylon. Also brews into a bright reddish, amber color. But it doesn’t have quite the wake-up punch of the other, so we generally recommend it for midmorning or with afternoon snacks.”