The Diva Serves High Tea

by Krista Davis

  “A girl can change her mind, can’t she?”

  She certainly could. But this was a huge departure for Natasha. Still, whatever had happened between her and Mars, they both seemed to be happy to move on. Maybe their split wouldn’t be the big drama I had feared.

  “Load that one! It’s my contribution to the auction.” Natasha grimaced. “Ugh. Have you ever seen anything so scary? I couldn’t have that in my house.”

  It didn’t seem so scary to me. It was an old sideboard painted cream. The guys shifted their hold on it and turned it around. The front had three carved sections. Two of them were of gorgeous fruit. Very pretty for a dining room. But the middle section featured a gargoyle face that made me shudder. Who would have carved such an evil visage on a sideboard? For once, I was in full agreement with Natasha. “What possessed you to buy it?”

  She flapped her hand. “I needed something to donate to the auction. It’s certainly unusual.”

  “In other words, you got a deal on it.”

  “You like old stuff. Will you buy it at the auction?”

  “I’m all for supporting literacy, especially for kids, but I don’t think I would like that particular piece in my home.”

  Natasha frowned at me as though I had alarmed her. “What if no one buys it?”

  There was a pretty good chance of that happening. “Then I guess it’s yours.”

  “Ugh. I just never have understood—”

  She stopped midsentence. Aha! She still disliked antiques. Something was up with her.

  Bernie latched the door on the truck, and Mars climbed inside. Just before Bernie hopped in the driver’s seat he said, “See you at the antiques store, Natasha.” The truck pulled out.

  Natasha fluffed her hair. “That wasn’t so bad.” She looked at her watch. “Now I can have lunch and relax for a few hours. See you later.” She started toward her house.

  I spun around and grabbed her arm. “You’re kidding, right? Those guys are going to dump everything in a big pile if you’re not there.”

  “But I have a lunch date.”

  A date? Wow! Mars hadn’t needed to agonize over leaving Natasha. She’d been planning the same thing all along. “Then you’d better cancel it.”

  She tilted her head and whined. “Sophie . . .”

  “No way. This is not my gig. You made promises, and I am not filling in for you. Pull yourself together and get going. They’ll be arriving at the store any minute. And I’d suggest wearing clothes that can get dusty.”

  “Sophie! When did you become so selfish? Can’t you do me this teensy little favor?”

  I walked away—fast! Maybe Natasha could wheedle other people into doing everything for her, but I had had enough of it. Of course, when I turned the corner in front of her house, I felt a little guilty. After all, she had been attacked the night before. But then I saw a curtain move in her living room window and the vague outline of a man drifted away.

  I knew one thing. It was not Mars.

  I spent the next few hours working on the upcoming Halloween ball at the Kennedy Center and trying to put Natasha and her tea auction out of my mind. It wasn’t my responsibility to fix it, I kept telling myself.

  Besides, one thousand family lawyers were about to descend on Old Town for their annual meeting and they were my responsibility. They had taken care of their own agenda but I had been hired for a few special events like the banquet on their closing night, and special trips around Washington, DC, to entertain their families while the lawyers attended sessions.

  Just before two o’clock, I walked Daisy and came home to shower and dress for the Tea, Brie, and Skeleton Key auction and tea. The announcement had said something about Victorian apparel. I located an outrageously fancy cream-colored hat adorned with lush peonies, faux pearls, and a dramatic fluffy faux feather that I had worn for an event years ago. I pulled it out of the hatbox and sought an appropriate dress to go with it. A sleeveless dress of faint pink lace over cream picked up the colors of the hat nicely, even if it wasn’t exactly right for early fall. The skirt flared to mid-calf, which seemed appropriate to me. I added dangling pearl earrings and a plain pearl necklace. I wasn’t sure why, but pearls seemed both Victorian and appropriate for tea.

  Shortly before three, I walked across the street and knocked on the front door of my best friend, Nina Reid Norwood.

  She opened the door, ready to go in a floral dress and a glamorous hat that tilted forward over her face.

  We walked along the streets of Old Town, feeling wildly overdressed. I filled her in on the developments between Natasha and Mars.

  “The only part that surprises me is that it took him so long,” Nina said. “No one could ever say he didn’t give that relationship his best shot.”

  “You don’t think it’s peculiar that she’s already dating?”

  “There is nothing that Natasha values more than saving face. She would do anything to make it seem as though the split was her decision, and we should pity Mars.”

  We approached the tearoom, where clusters of people were gathered on the sidewalk.

  The Parlour had opened during the summer. Located on King Street at the end of a block, it had taken over the space of two shops. Large windows allowed for sidewalk gazing—both in and out. The owner and brainchild behind The Parlour, Martha Carter, had decorated it like an upscale European tearoom. While there were a few small dining tables where one could sit, most of the tearoom was arranged in little parlor-type groupings. Sofas and comfy chairs clustered around coffee tables where tea and goodies were served. Antique accents imparted elegance. It was comfortable while maintaining a hint of formality. I had only been there once before so I looked forward to an afternoon of tea and pastries.

  I pulled the door open and stepped into a different world. A string quartet played soothing classical music. I smiled when I saw them, pleased that they had made it.

  The room was already filled with patrons, many of whom had dressed in the Victorian spirit that Natasha requested. Ladies wore hats of every imaginable color and a couple of the gentlemen wore top hats. I heard my name being called and looked around. My neighbor Francie had already snagged one of the best tables by the window.

  “Over here, Sophie.” With a wrinkled and age-spotted hand, Francie patted the loveseat where she sat. “I’ll share my sofa. Nina, you take the chair.”

  Opinionated and outspoken, Francie had lived in Old Town for most of her adult life. Widowed many years before, she spent her days gardening and bird watching. She wore a high-necked lacy beige blouse with a large cameo at her throat. She hadn’t bothered with a hat to cover her straw-yellow hair. “Do you girls know Velma Klontz?”

  A woman in her late sixties who could have stepped out of a Victorian photograph nodded at me. “Francie has told me so much about you, Sophie. And I know Nina from the shelter.”

  Nina chimed in. “Velma is always saving homeless cats.”

  Like us, Velma wore an extravagant hat. But hers was sky blue and matched her Victorian gown. It sat on teased silver hair that had surely been sprayed in place by a beautician. Wide blue eyes regarded me with curiosity.

  Francie didn’t have a stitch of makeup on but Velma wore it artfully, like so many Southern women. I wasn’t sure about the blue-gray eye shadow, but her foundation was thick enough to cover any blemishes.

  “Velma and I met at a book club a hundred years ago,” Francie said. “She’s a wonderful cook, just like you.”

  Velma clearly enjoyed the flattery but flapped her hand modestly. “I don’t cook as much anymore since my husband passed, but you can tell by looking at me that I cannot pass up good fried chicken or apple fritters, though they’re not easy to find these days. Seems like all the restaurants shy away from traditional Southern food.”

  Francie nudged me. “What’s Robert doing with Natasha?”

 
I looked toward the entrance where Natasha chatted with a tall man whom I put in his mid-sixties. He wore his salt-and-pepper beard short, and his silver hair neatly trimmed. I wasn’t sure whether it was the rectangular wire-framed glasses that he wore or his general demeanor that gave the impression of a studious, thoughtful man. He could have easily been a professor but I knew he owned the Robert Johnson Antiques store across the street.

  “Natasha is in charge of the tea and the auction,” I said. “They’re probably discussing how to bring the auction items over here.”

  “That’s a relief! I can’t compete with a beauty queen like Natasha.” Francie surprised me. She had to be a bit older than Robert.

  Velma laughed. “He was married to my sister Livy,” she said, evidently for my benefit. “Trust me, Francie. I loved my sister, but she was no beauty queen.” Velma gazed out the window at the antiques store. “That shop was Livy’s dream. Pity that she never saw it come to fruition.”

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” asked Francie.

  I did my best not to show my amusement. “Why Francine Vanderhoosen! I believe you have a little crush on Robert.”

  “Me and every woman in Old Town over the age of sixty,” she grumbled. “Will you look at Patty Conklin over there, squeezed into a girdle? That thing’s so tight she’s popping out on both ends and doesn’t need a bustle under her dress. It’s a wonder she can breathe. And Beverly Hazelwonder must have had Botox this week. Her wrinkles are puffed up bigger than a soufflé.”

  Velma roared. “He’s always had that sort of effect on women. I can’t tell you how many of our friends have called to pump me for information about him. I think it’s still too soon after Livy’s death for him to date, but I suppose I’ll always feel that way. He’s a dear, so it’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “If it hasn’t already,” murmured Nina.

  I gazed around the tearoom and realized that a considerable number of the ladies taking tea were over sixty. That was probably normal for a weekday afternoon tea. They were most likely retired and had the time to enjoy a tea. I recognized a couple of other antiques dealers in the crowd. One lone gentleman wore a blazer with khakis and appeared to be working on his laptop.

  My musing came to an abrupt halt when the owner of The Parlour, Martha Carter, arrived with a silver tea service and delicate teacups. As she set the tray on the table, she said, “I selected these just for you, Francie. The cups are antique. They’re Royal Doulton bone china.”

  Velma picked up one of the cups and examined it. It was cream on the outside but alternating panels of cream and pink laced with delicate tracings of gold lined the interior. A gold band flowed around the scalloped edge and the handle was gold as well. I was almost afraid to pick one up and drink from it.

  “These are stunning, Martha,” Francie said. “I bet Queen Elizabeth doesn’t drink from anything prettier.”

  I glanced around. “Do you use a different pattern for every group of diners?”

  Martha smiled. “I confess to being a ravenous china collector. I just love them all. Some of our guests like to choose their own favorites, which I think adds to the fun and the ambiance. By the way, Sophie, I wanted to thank you for contributing your painting to the auction.”

  We had only met once before. I was surprised that she remembered me. “It was my pleasure. I bought it ages ago and never had the right place for it. I’m happy to see it go to a home where it will be displayed.”

  “Where’s Callie?” asked Francie. “You don’t usually do the serving.”

  Martha straightened up. She always held herself very erect. Rumor had it that Martha had lived around the world with her husband, who was some sort of big shot in the military. Although she was still very attractive, crepey eyelids gave away her age. Her eyebrows had little worry hooks in them near her long, straight nose. I had only seen her with her hair pulled back in a flawless French twist that emphasized her features. I suspected she had been very beautiful when she was younger. She gave the impression of someone who had been through a lot. Maybe it was her nose, or the way her lips pulled together in a vaguely disapproving pout, but she made me feel like I should sit up straight and behave.

  Martha smiled when she said, “Seems like people are always off their stride when it comes to special events like this.” She lowered her voice. “Callie was running late today. I think she might have had a date last night.”

  Velma appeared perplexed. “I didn’t see her with anyone.”

  It did not escape my attention that Francie nudged Velma’s foot with her own.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dear Natasha,

  I threw a tea party and my know-it-all neighbor said it was inappropriate to serve tea without proper tea knives. I’ve heard of teaspoons. Are there tea forks and tea knives?

  —Uncouth in Knife River, Minnesota

  Dear Uncouth,

  Indeed there are such things as tea knives. The dessert fork may be used as a tea fork. Every properly equipped household should have tea knives. They are approximately seven to eight inches long and may also double as breakfast knives.

  —Natasha

  “Maybe she went out with Hunter,” said Francie.

  “Who’s Hunter?” asked Nina.

  “He’s almost as handsome as Robert but in a different way,” said Francie. “He’s adorable. Sophie, I had my eye on him for you, but he’s simply taken with Callie. The way he looks at her! Oh my. I’d have made sure you met him, Sophie, if you didn’t have Alex.”

  “I know exactly who you’re talking about. I didn’t think he would show today because of the auction but he’s here.” Martha nodded toward the back and winked at Velma and Francie. “Callie deserves a nice man in her life. But poor Natasha! Small wonder she’s not very capable today. Robert had to set up the auction preview for her over at his shop. Natasha is so agitated she hasn’t been able to concentrate on the auction or the tea at all. Sophie, it was kind of you to take her in last night. Imagine almost being killed by someone in your own home!”

  Almost killed? That story had grown a little bit.

  “And you didn’t tell me about this?” demanded Francie. “I live right next door to you. That could have been me.”

  Martha excused herself and hurried off.

  I filled Francie in on the events of the night, trying to make it sound a little less disturbing. Evidently my sanitized version didn’t work because Francie declared, “As soon as I get home, I have to look for my husband’s old shotgun.”

  Nina’s eyes widened in alarm. I knew why. All we needed was Francie running around the neighborhood with an old shotgun.

  I patted her hand. “Don’t you worry. We’ll all look out for you, Francie.” Hurrying to change the subject, I said, “Martha has created an amazing place here.”

  Nina whispered, “I hear she runs it like she thinks she’s still a military wife.”

  “Her husband might be retired from the military, but I think some habits die hard,” Velma said.

  Francie sipped her tea. “I don’t care how she does it. I’m just glad she opened The Parlour.”

  “Do you come here often?” I asked.

  “Every day. This is our regular table, so we can watch Robert’s shop across the street. Now I don’t want you girls making a big deal out of it but I have a birthday coming up day after tomorrow, and I’d like to have a little afternoon tea here. Would you do me the honor of coming?”

  “Of course we will!”

  Nina nodded eagerly. “And how old will the birthday girl be?”

  “Thirty-nine.” Francie said it with a straight face.

  Nina nearly spewed tea. “You might as well tell us. Otherwise we’ll be forced to sneak a peek at your driver’s license.”

  “Won’t do you a bit of good,” said Velma. “I’ve looked. She marked off the date with indelible ink.” />
  “That’s probably illegal!” Nina wiped the saucer of her cup.

  “That’s what I told her,” said Velma. “She’s just lucky a cop hasn’t stopped her yet.”

  Francie smiled smugly. “I don’t want any silliness. No presents or funny hats or strippers. Just a lovely afternoon with tea and friends. Okay?”

  Strippers? Nina and I exchanged grins. The two older ladies were just too cute.

  Before long, a woman about Martha’s age brought plates and a stunning three-tiered silver server to our table. I spied watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off, pink petit fours, macarons, tiny toasts with caviar, miniature éclairs, little cakes filled with lemon curd, fruit tarts, and pink-iced strawberry cakes. My mouth watered at the mere sight of the assortment.

  The woman chatted eagerly with Velma and Francie. They introduced her as Callie. She was so slender that her cheeks sank in, making her large eyes seem even bigger. Dark red lipstick covered thin lips. She wore her long brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. A shorter section in front created a high wave off her forehead that was reminiscent of the big hair popular in the eighties. I couldn’t tell if she had teased it or if it was naturally curly and unruly. She wore a ruffled white apron with the name The Parlour embroidered on it in light blue. She bent forward and whispered, “I brought you extra macarons because I know how you love them.”

  “Should we make room for Robert?” asked Velma.

  “I think he needs to stay up front during the auction to make sure it goes well,” Callie said. “I overheard him and Martha complaining about Natasha. Apparently she was attacked last night! In her own home. Can you even imagine? We’re all pitching in for her. She’s not pulling her weight but who can blame her?”

  Nina’s eyes met mine. Natasha was lucky Martha and Robert hadn’t known her very long. It was typical of Natasha to expect others to do her work. Unless she didn’t feel well today. Didn’t people sometimes get achy the day after a car accident? Maybe she was beginning to feel the pain.