Sweat Tea Revenge

by Laura Childs

  Max set his glass on the counter and opened his arms. Which was Theodosia’s cue to toss her pot holder aside and help herself to another kiss and a hug.

  “Really,” she said. “You’ve been great about this.” And he had. Max had been sympathetic and solicitous to her all weekend. In fact, he’d dropped by last night, on his way to a donor’s dinner, to offer comfort and kisses.

  “That pizza’s not going to catch fire in there, is it?” Max asked, suddenly worried about his dinner.

  No, Theodosia thought. But I might.

  * * *

  Theodosia waited until she’d served Max a second slice of pizza and poured another half glass of wine. Then she said, “How do you feel about ghosts?”

  Max had been feeding Earl Grey a tidbit of golden crust. When he heard her question, he paused and looked slightly bemused. “Is this a theoretical question, or have you heard chains rattling in your attic?”

  “I don’t have an attic,” said Theodosia. “Just a crawl space. And I’m asking your opinion because I don’t know if ghosts are whimsical entities or if there’s the possibility they really do exist.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Max. “Sounds like the beginning of an existential ectoplasm discussion.”

  “It’s not funny,” said Theodosia. “I really want your opinion on this.”

  Max squinted across the table at her. “Why do I have the feeling this somehow relates to Mr. Granville’s recent passing?”

  “Because it does,” said Theodosia.

  “In that case, you better give me some context. Fill me in a little more so I can better answer your question.”

  So Theodosia told Max about how Bill Glass, with complete sincerity, had told her that Ravencrest Inn was reputedly haunted. And then she explained to him how two amateur ghost hunters, surprise, surprise, had suddenly come galloping into her tea shop this morning.

  “Ghost hunters,” said Max. He looked skeptical.

  “Yes, but fairly legitimate ones,” said Theodosia. “The Beckman brothers are producing a reality show. Something called Southern Hauntings.”

  “Of course, they are,” said Max. “Which makes them perfectly legitimate. And they want to rope you in . . . how? To conduct some sort of interview?”

  “Actually, it goes a little beyond that,” said Theodosia. “The brothers are determined to get permission from the Rattlings to actually go inside Ravencrest Inn and—”

  “Do what?” Max cut in. Suddenly, he didn’t look happy. Suddenly, he wasn’t all that interested in another bite of pizza.

  “I suppose they want to use an infrared video camera,” said Theodosia. “To record any possible images or sounds.”

  “Eh,” said Max. “You mean like a séance? Or fooling around with a Ouija board?”

  “Nothing that spooky,” said Theodosia. “The way they explained everything, it was more scientific.”

  “Right,” said Max. “And what else are the Bothersome Beckman Boys up to?” He sensed there was something else she wasn’t telling him.

  “They asked me to go with them,” said Theodosia. There, she’d spelled it all out. Now he could sit back and enjoy an insanely good laugh.

  But he didn’t. He remained quite serious.

  “Run that by me again,” said Max. “Why exactly were you invited to join the party?”

  Theodosia drew a deep breath. This was the tricky part: making her explanation sound plausible. “Because I was the person closest to Granville when he died. As the ghost hunters explained it to me, I was nearest to him when his spirit left his body.”

  “Of course,” Max said smoothly. “Now it’s all crystal clear to me.” He cocked his head to one side and assumed a serious expression. “Actually, the person closest to Granville when he died was the man who murdered him.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Theodosia. “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Well, maybe you should. Because this isn’t something you should fool around with. You’d be treading on a murder investigation.”

  “But I’m not hunting for a murderer,” said Theodosia. “It’s more like, um, a parlor trick.”

  “But what if the murderer is still around? What if there’s something in that guest room that he’s still after?” Max stared at her with utter seriousness. “What if you stumble on something that impacts the investigation?”

  “Okay,” Theodosia said slowly. “You could have a point.”

  Then, like a storm that had suddenly blown itself out, Max’s face broke into a grin. “Theo, are you kidding me? You want to go on a ghost-hunting expedition? That’s what kids do at summer camp. They send their bunkmates out on a snipe hunt and toss in a ghost hunt for good measure.” He was rolling now. “You drape a bedsheet over your head and scare the poop out of the little kids.”

  “When you put it that way . . . it does sound a little foolish.”

  “Because it is foolish,” said Max.

  “Still,” said Theodosia, “Charleston is supposed to be one of the most haunted cities in America. Right up there with New Orleans.”

  “Come on,” said Max. “You don’t really believe in ghosts and witches and haunts, do you?”

  Theodosia had to think about that. She’d been born and bred in the low country where tales of headless horsemen, pirate ghosts, and dead Confederate soldiers were everyday legends. Where kids were admonished to watch out for boo hags when they ventured out at night.

  “You know,” she finally told him, “I’m not entirely sure.”

  8

  Theodosia strolled down King Street, enjoying the warm weather and bountiful sunshine that had finally been bestowed upon Charleston. Tall redbrick buildings with narrow white shutters caught the sun’s rays and bounced them back at her, making her feel warm and relaxed. Palm trees bobbed their shaggy heads as gentle sea breezes ruffled their fronds.

  Outside Gold Nugget Antiques, Theodosia pulled out her cell phone and called the Indigo Tea Shop. Drayton picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” he asked in a brusque tone. It was unusual for her not to be there helping with their morning setup.

  “I’m basking in the sun on King Street,” said Theodosia.

  “Why are you not here slaving away with Haley and me?”

  “Because Delaine asked me to have a little chat with Simone Asher, Granville’s former girlfriend. And her shop is in this part of town.”

  “I take it Delaine believes that hard-hearted Simone is the one who murdered Dougan Granville?” said Drayton.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I met Simone the day of the wedding,” said Drayton. “She seemed a lot more interested in getting photographed for Shooting Star than she was in Granville. So trust me when I say she probably had nothing to do with it. This is just one of Delaine’s strange delusions coupled with some sort of revenge fantasy.”

  “You’re probably right. And even though your diagnosis is right out of Psych 101, I’m going to indulge Delaine’s paranoia anyway.”

  “You say this ex-girlfriend owns an antique shop?” asked Drayton.

  “Vintage shop,” said Theodosia.

  “Well, if you should happen to come across a Royale Garden Amari Chintz teapot, kindly grab it for me, will you? Mine has a nasty chip on the spout.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Theodosia promised.

  * * *

  Archangel turned out to be both glamorous and lovely. The shop was a small jewel box of a space with whitewashed walls, Oriental carpets on a polished wood floor, and a twinkling crystal chandelier overhead. The walls were decorated with vintage shawls and fans, and there were racks packed tightly with vintage gowns and dresses. Small glass cases with pinpoint spotlights were filled with treasures that included antique cameos, Bakelite bracelets, gold compacts from the thirties and forties, elega
nt rings, and screw-back earrings. Theodosia even spotted what she thought might be a genuine Verdura cuff. Amazing!

  “Can I help you?” Simone Asher looked up from a small round display table where she was arranging a pair of hot-pink Schiaparelli shoes, a black silk evening bag encrusted with rhinestones, a pair of gloves, a bottle of My Sin perfume, and a strand of pearls.

  “Those are gorgeous pearls,” said Theodosia. They were a dreamy pistachio-green color with an amazing luster.

  “Tahitians,” said Simone. “Natural, not cultured.” She picked up the choker-length strand and fingered them like worry beads. “From the twenties. Back when pearls were truly matched for perfection.” She smiled tightly and added, “You’re Theodosia, aren’t you? Delaine’s friend.” She straightened up and smoothed the white silk sheath dress she was wearing.

  “That’s right,” said Theodosia. She took her time studying Simone, since she’d never observed the woman in her natural habitat before. She’d caught glimpses of Simone here and there, dashing through shops and restaurants. And she’d seen her at Ravencrest Inn this past Saturday. But she’d never carried on an actual conversation with her. Now Theodosia saw that Simone was everything Delaine had raged about. The woman was tall, thin, leggy, and a sun-kissed blond. Simone was probably in her late thirties but could easily pass for a few years younger. She had the polished air of a fashion model who’d come to the end of her career in front of the camera but had easily segued into another line of work where her beauty and fashion know-how would serve her well. Basically, Simone had an attractiveness quotient that most women would kill for.

  “Are you a fan of vintage pieces?” Simone asked. Her languid way of speaking, a soft, melodic drawl, corresponded perfectly to the sensuous way she moved.

  “I am,” said Theodosia. She pointed at a black taffeta ankle-length dress draped on a mannequin. “Especially when we’re talking about a dress as gorgeous at that one.”

  Simone smiled in agreement. “Lovely, isn’t it? That’s a nineteen fifty-one Christian Dior dress. What was termed The New Look.”

  “And I love the skirt you have on display in your front window. The ankle-length pale green?”

  “That one’s a Balmain,” said Simone. “A rather rare piece at that.”

  “Lovely,” breathed Theodosia. And it was. That was the thing about fashion: Whether it was vintage or au courant, if a piece was beautifully designed and constructed, it just worked. Theodosia knew that if she paired a silk tank top with that long Balmain skirt, she could skip off to the opera and look stunning. Well, perhaps not stunning, but she knew she’d look awfully darned good.

  “We have more recent items, too,” said Simone, indicating the racks of clothing that were packed into her small shop. “A few Yves Saint Laurent pieces from the early seventies that are in surprisingly top-notch condition. And some Claude Montana and Versace from the mid-eighties.” She pushed a hank of blond hair off her face and said, in her soft drawl, “Let me guess. Delaine thinks I murdered Dougan.”

  Theodosia wasn’t prepared for such a straightforward statement.

  Simone seemed to savor Theodosia’s sudden discomfort for a moment or two. Then she said, “Let me save you some time. I’ve already been questioned at length by two different detectives. The fact of the matter is, I was there. At the wedding.” She smirked. “I was an invited guest at the oh-so-swanky Ravencrest Inn. But did I creep up the back stairs and murder poor Dougan? Hardly.”

  “Do you know how he was killed?”

  “I understand it was a lethal blow to the head.”

  “How do you feel about that?” asked Theodosia.

  “Sad. Heartbroken, of course.” But Simone didn’t appear sad or heartbroken. Mostly she just looked bored with their conversation.

  Theodosia decided to put her manners aside and play a little hardball. “When you and Granville were together, did the two of you do a lot of coke?”

  “Coke?” said Simone. “As in cocaine?” She fought to arrange her lovely face into an expression of stunned amazement. “No, of course not. Never in a million years! I don’t do drugs, I don’t even like to take aspirin.” She shook her head, as if a swarm of hornets had suddenly attacked her. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Theodosia, as she glanced around the shop. “Really, it was just an innocent question.”

  “I certainly hope so,” said an indignant Simone. “Because I wouldn’t want you thinking that I—”

  “What’s that?” Theodosia asked, interrupting her. She pointed at a small wicker stand tucked behind a rack of colorful clothing.

  “Vintage Pucci dresses.”

  “No, behind them,” said Theodosia. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her, she was pretty sure the shelf held a small collection of glass paperweights.

  Simone took a step forward. “Oh. Some vintage opera glasses and a couple of paperweights.”

  “Paperweights,” Theodosia repeated.

  “Yes,” said Simone. “Interesting enough, they’re what’s left of a collection I sold to the people who own Ravencrest Inn.”

  Theodosia was utterly floored. “You realize, Simone, that Granville was probably struck on the head by a glass paperweight.”

  Simone threw her hands in the air. “For goodness’ sake, now you really are accusing me of murder.”

  “You’re the one who said it, not me.”

  Simone’s face turned lobster-red and her eyes narrowed to Kabuki mask slits. She balled her hands into fists and leaned forward until she was just inches from Theodosia, invading her personal space. “Don’t play games with me!” she snarled.

  Theodosia fought to maintain a neutral tone. “And don’t you play games with me!”

  “I think,” said Simone, taking a step back, “that you’d better leave.”

  And I think, Theodosia told herself, as she fled out the door, that you’ve got a nasty temper.

  * * *

  Theodosia parked her Jeep in the narrow brick alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop, buzzed through the back door into her office, and dropped her bag on top of her perpetually messy desk. Then she flew into the tea room to find it practically filled with customers. Though Drayton appeared to be more harried than usual, he relaxed visibly once he spotted Theodosia.

  “There you are,” said Drayton. “Thank goodness.”

  “Sorry to be late,” said Theodosia. She slipped a long black Parisian waiter’s apron over her head and tied it in back. “I see we’re busy already.”

  “Now that the sunshine and warm weather have moved in, everyone seems to be out in full force! We’ve had tourists, neighbors, and tea clubs clamoring for tables. We might even have to put our wrought-iron tables and chairs out on the sidewalk.”

  “Good,” said Theodosia. “I’m glad we’re busy.” She didn’t fret unduly about business or about the tea shop being profitable. But the specter of a slowed economy was always in the back of her mind. For some reason, maybe it was their dedicated customer base or the fact that they worked weekends and evenings catering teas, the Indigo Tea Shop continued to hum along rather nicely. And Theodosia, with her business and marketing background, knew that the difference between making a living and making a profit was vast indeed. And her beloved little tea shop, knock on wood, continued to churn out a profit.

  Drayton pulled a floral Spode teapot off the shelf, swished it out with warm water, and added three scoops of Yunnan black tea. “Well, did Simone Asher confess to the murder?”

  “No,” said Theodosia. “But she knew exactly why I was there.”

  “She knew Delaine sent you in to do reconnaissance at the enemy camp? To give her the third degree?”

  “She sure did. Simone’s not stupid.”

  “Neither are you,” said Drayton. He placed the teapot on a silver tray, then added two silver-rimmed
bone china teacups and a small plate of paper-thin lemon slices. “Did you pick up any vibes from her at all?”

  “Only that Simone acted like she’d been poked with a hot wire when I mentioned cocaine.”

  “Meaning she denied knowing anything about it.”

  “Let me put it this way,” said Theodosia. “If we’d been doing a scene at an improv class, Simone would have received a gold star.”

  “Huh,” said Drayton.

  “The weird thing is,” said Theodosia, “I went to meet Simone just as a kind of pro forma favor to Delaine. Not really believing she had anything to do with Granville’s death.”

  “Yes?”

  “And now I’m not so sure about her. There’s a sneaky, snarky side to Simone. The woman’s a little . . . nasty.”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Drayton. “You don’t really think she could have murdered Granville, do you?”

  “I don’t know. But Simone certainly likes to push people’s buttons.”

  Drayton snatched up his tray. “But does she also push drugs?”

  Theodosia stood at the counter pondering this for a moment, until a friendly voice called out, “Hey, Theo.”

  Theodosia spun around. “Leigh!” she called out. Leigh Caroll owned the Cabbage Patch Gift Shop down the street. She was an African American woman with beautifully burnished skin, sepia-toned hair, and almond eyes that turned up slightly at the corners, giving her an upbeat mischievous look.

  “I see you’re busy as usual,” said Leigh. “Why don’t you send your customers down to my place when they’re finished here?”

  “Why don’t you give me a stack of business cards and I will,” said Theodosia, delighted to see her friend. “Can I offer you a scone and a cuppa? We could brew your favorite peach tea if you’d like.”

  Leigh gave an airy wave. “Just give me whatever’s handy.” She leaned across the counter. “Did I hear right? That you were at a wedding where some fellow got killed?”

  “Delaine’s wedding,” said Theodosia. “Her fiancé.”

  Leigh clapped a hand to her chest. “No!”