“Was she even present last night?” asked Drayton. He thought it was a stretch, too.
Jordan and Pandora Knight gazed at each other for an uncomfortably long time. Then Jordan shook his head and said, “No, I don’t believe so.”
“She could have been,” said Pandora defensively. “We don’t know that she wasn’t there. It was a bit of a mob scene. A lot of the guests brought guests and I’m positive there were a few crashers.”
“I can’t believe Georgette had anything to do with this,” said Jordan. “She’s an aggressive woman, yes, but I doubt she’s a killer.”
“I beg to differ,” said Pandora. “Georgette Kroft’s got a mean streak a mile wide. And she’s desperate to put her winery on the map. She’s in a terrible lather over the competition we’re starting to put up against her.”
“One more question,” said Theodosia, hoping to obtain some concrete information rather than angry innuendos. “The ownership of Knighthall Winery is what? Corporation? Limited partnership?”
“Limited partnership,” said Jordan. “That’s correct.”
“And the partners are?” said Theodosia.
“Myself, of course,” said Jordan. “As well as Pandora, Drew, and a private investor.”
“The private investor being . . . who?” said Theodosia.
“Alex Burgoyne,” said Jordan. “He’s a fairly well-known liquor distributor.”
“And you all hold equal shares?” said Theodosia.
“Not exactly,” said Jordan. “Drew and Burgoyne were in for twenty percent, and Pandora and I each hold thirty percent.”
“What’s going to happen to Drew’s share now?” asked Theodosia. “Is there a provision for that? A buy-sell agreement in place?”
“I have an option to buy those shares,” said Pandora.
“I see,” said Theodosia. She thought for a minute. “Can either of you think of any other person who might have a grudge against your family?”
Pandora shook her head.
Jordan Knight looked thoughtful. “There’s a reporter. A freelance food writer, really, who contributes articles to that awful gossip rag, Shooting Star. He seemed to take particular delight in savaging our wine.”
“That’s a good thought,” said Pandora. “I wouldn’t put it past him, either.”
“Okay,” said Theodosia. “You’ve given me a few things to think about.”
• • •
While Drayton walked Jordan and Pandora Knight out to their car, Theodosia sat in the garden, contemplating all the information the Knights had given her. As she gazed at Drayton’s collection of bonsai, she noted that several of the small trees still had bits of copper wire wound around their twisted branches—bonsai in training.
When Drayton returned, he gave Theodosia a perfunctory smile and said, “Well, that went well.”
Theodosia was still pretty much lost in thought. “Did it?” she murmured, half to Drayton, half to herself.
Drayton cocked his head and peered at her over his tortoiseshell half-glasses. “Excuse me, but is there a problem? Did I miss something?”
“Maybe,” said Theodosia. “Possibly.”
“What on earth are you mumbling about?” said Drayton.
“Pandora is Drew’s stepmother, correct?”
“That’s right. She’s Jordan’s third wife.”
“The thing is,” said Theodosia, “when I asked Jordan who stood to gain from Drew’s death, he failed to mention Pandora.”
“And you think that’s significant?”
“I think it’s significant that Pandora can now seize majority control of the winery if she feels like it,” said Theodosia.
“Do you think she’d do that? I mean, she has to be terribly upset over Drew’s death, right?”
“I don’t know,” said Theodosia. “If you ask me . . . Pandora didn’t seem particularly upset at all.”
3
Teakettles chirped and whistled while fragrant aromas perfumed the air this Monday morning. As soon as the clock struck nine, the doors of the Indigo Tea Shop had been unlocked and early bird customers came pouring in. Most were shopkeepers from up and down Church Street and a few were tourists, but all their guests were anxious to kick-start their morning with a fresh-baked scone and a nice hot cuppa.
“It’s shaping up to be a very busy week,” said Drayton. He was standing behind the front counter, a long black apron draped around his neck, filling teapots with hot water. When the teapots were sufficiently warmed, he dumped out the water and added heaping scoops of loose-leaf tea.
“Mondays are always busy,” said Theodosia, glancing around the already half-filled tea shop. “Used to be our week would start out nice and leisurely, slowly building to a crescendo by Saturday. Now we always seem to kick off in high gear.”
“That’s good, huh?” asked Haley. She’d just dashed out of the kitchen carrying a tray stacked with fresh-baked strawberry scones. “It’s because so many more people have discovered tea, right?”
“Or they’ve discovered us,” said Drayton, taking the tray from her.
“Careful when you plate those scones,” Haley cautioned. “They’re all hot and steamy from the oven.” She brushed a hank of stick-straight blond hair from her eager blue eyes and gazed at Theodosia and Drayton. Haley Parker was their young chef and baker exceptionale. She was a waif of a martinet who ran her kitchen with cutting-edge precision. Nobody was allowed into the postage stamp–sized kitchen except to pick up an order. And nobody was ever permitted to divulge her recipes to a customer. No matter how hard they begged and pleaded.
Knowing a good thing when they saw it, Theodosia and Drayton were smart enough to take a hands-off approach, stay out of Haley’s way, and respect her quirky work demands. Which made their little three-person operation amazingly successful.
“Let’s see,” said Drayton. “Table two ordered a pot of Darjeeling and scones with Devonshire cream. Table four wants a pot of Assam and, oh dear, is your apple bread ready yet?”
“It’ll be out of the oven in two shakes,” said Haley. She spun on the heels of her ballet flats and dashed back into the kitchen.
Theodosia grabbed a stack of small floral plates and laid them out on the counter. Drayton quickly placed a scone on each of the plates, along with a tiny silver spoon and a small glass bowl mounded with Devonshire cream.
“Lovely,” said Theodosia. She grabbed two of the finished plates and danced her way across the teashop. Drayton followed on her heels carrying steaming pots of tea.
With the mingled aromas of Assam, Darjeeling, oolong, and Lapsang souchong hanging redolent in the air, Theodosia was of the opinion that taking tea at the Indigo Tea Shop was akin to a marvelous aromatherapy treatment at a first-rate spa. The inhalation of the various teas just seemed to tickle the senses and impart a feeling of profound relaxation and well-being.
Of course, the tea shop was a feast for the eyes, as well. Small tables were graced with white linen tablecloths and matching napkins. Tiny white tea light candles flickered in glass votive holders. Antique sugar bowls, gleaming bone china teacups and saucers, and silver spoons and butter knives were carefully arranged on each table. A single brick wall held antique prints and grapevine wreaths, while tea tins and tea accoutrements were displayed on antique highboys and wooden shelving.
On her way in to work this morning, Theodosia had stopped at the Church Street Farmer’s Market and purchased several bunches of purple chrysanthemums. Now those cheery flowers bobbed their shaggy heads in cut-crystal vases.
“I have the guest list from Sunday night,” Drayton told Theodosia when they were back at the counter. “Jordan messengered it to me first thing this morning.” He reached up and plucked a red Chinese teapot from one of the upper shelves. “I think he’s expecting us to sort through the various guests and perhaps talk to some of them.”
“If we talk to them,” said Theodosia, “they’re going to figure out that they’re suspects.”
That
idea brought Drayton up short. He thought for a moment, then said, “Well, isn’t that how the police routinely conduct an investigation?”
“Sure it is,” said Theodosia. “But the police have actual authority. So most people are nervous about withholding information from them. Besides, if the police don’t get the answers they want, they’re free to haul people into jail and work them over with a rubber hose.”
“They don’t really do that,” Drayton snorted. “Do they?”
Theodosia smiled faintly. “No. But still. Law enforcement professionals tend to be rather . . . persuasive. They have fairly well-honed skill sets that can often make people drop their guard and cough up pertinent information.”
“So do you,” said Drayton. “You just go about it in a different manner.”
Startled, Theodosia did a kind of double take. “I do? Really? Because I’m not aware of . . . excuse me, how do I persuade them?”
Drayton gave her a cryptic smile. “You charm them.”
• • •
At ten thirty, just when Theodosia was looking out across the tea shop and noticing that there was a single empty table left, Max burst through the front door. And wonder of wonders, he had Andrew Turner, the art dealer, in tow.
“What are you two doing here this fine Monday morning?” Theodosia asked as she led the two men over to the small table by the stone fireplace. She was thrilled to see Max and pleased that he’d seemingly hooked up with Andrew Turner.
“Believe it or not,” said Turner, “we’re busy putting the final touches on this weekend’s Paint and Palette Art Crawl.”
“As well as the Art Crawl Ball on Saturday night,” said Max. He hooked a thumb and pointed at Turner. “Turns out we’re both on that committee.”
“That’s very generous,” said Theodosia. “I mean that you’re both giving your time like that.”
Turner shrugged. “Ah, we both got roped in.”
“I still think it’s lovely that the museums and art galleries have put their collective heads together on this,” said Theodosia. “It’s about time we had something fun like an art crawl. Demystify the whole gallery thing and make art more casual and approachable.”
“That’s exactly the plan,” said Turner. “We’ve got three museums and twenty galleries who’ve agreed to throw open their doors, as well as another ninety-five street vendors who’ll be participating.”
“And that’s not even counting the local bars, restaurants, and food trucks,” said Max, “who’ll contribute to the whole festival atmosphere.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Theodosia.
But when she returned with tea, scones, and apple bread for both of them, Max said to her, “You should have a food truck.”
“Oh no,” said Theodosia. She set the tea and goodies in front of them. “That’s the absolute last thing I need. Between the tea shop, catering gigs, and a fairly bustling takeout business, we already work a long enough day.” She didn’t mention that she had to juggle a social life on top of that, as well as enjoy much-needed down time that included jogging, reading, and hanging out with Earl Grey!
“Yeah,” said Turner, spreading a dollop of lemon curd onto his scone. “I know the feeling. Overworked, overstressed, and over it totally. Besides being on the committee for the Art Crawl, I’m up to my eyeballs in work at the gallery, and trying to manage a kind of halfhearted search for a new home.”
“He’s on the lookout for one of the big, historical ones,” said Max, sounding more than a little impressed. “Preferably something with Italianate or Georgian architecture.”
“The problem is,” said Turner, “there’s not much inventory available right now.”
“That’s the thing of it,” said Theodosia as she poured a stream of rich English breakfast tea into their teacups. “There never is. Most of the really grand old homes in Charleston hardly ever show up on the commercial market. They’re sold by word of mouth, quietly and discreetly, to friends or relatives.”
“Well, if you ever hear of anything,” said Turner. He took a quick sip of tea and gave her a curious glance. “That was some bizarre scene Saturday night, huh?”
Theodosia figured that he’d mention the murder eventually. After all, he’d been one of the horrified bystanders.
“It was awful,” said Theodosia. “And poor Drayton’s been in a tizzy ever since. He’s good friends with Jordan Knight.”
“According to the story in this morning’s Post and Courier,” said Max, “there don’t seem to be any suspects.”
For some reason, this prickled at Theodosia’s sense of fair play. “You know what?” she said. “There are always suspects. You just have to know where to look.”
“She’s right,” said Turner. He took a bite of scone and chewed thoughtfully. “If I were an investigator, you know where I’d look?”
Theodosia and Max eyed him with curiosity.
“Where?” Theodosia asked. She noted that Drayton, who was pouring refills at the next table, seemed to be listening closely to their conversation. She wondered who else was, too.
“Those golf course people just down the road from the winery,” said Turner. “What’s that place called? Plantation Wilds, I think. Anyway, the scuttlebutt on the street is that they’ve been trying to buy the vineyard property for almost two years. Only Jordan Knight doesn’t want to sell.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Drayton, joining the conversation now. “Because he’s dedicated to cultivating his vineyard.” He seemed offended. “Honestly, must every part and parcel of fine property be turned into an overly manicured piece of lawn on which to chase a silly little white ball? Is there that much of a demand?”
“You know,” said Turner, “I think there might be.”
• • •
“The lunch menu,” said Drayton, tapping a forefinger against the counter. “Do you have it?”
Theodosia reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the small index card Haley had handed her a few minutes earlier. “I do.”
“Care to share it with me?”
“Let’s see,” said Theodosia, scanning the menu. “We’ve got chilled mango soup, citrus salad, and three kinds of tea sandwiches—chicken salad with chutney, vegetable medley, and Black Forest ham with Cheddar cheese. Oh, and brownie bites and lemon bars for dessert.”
“Excellent,” said Drayton. He reached beneath the counter and grabbed a handful of indigo blue bags. “Do you know we’ve got something like twenty-two takeout orders for today?”
Theodosia nodded. “That’s why Haley’s doing three different tea sandwiches along with the brownies and lemon bars. So everything’s finger food as well as quick and easy to pack.”
“And I’m the one who has to pack it,” muttered Drayton. He straightened up and, with a serious expression on his face, said, “Someday you might have to have to think seriously about expanding.”
“There isn’t any more space,” said Theodosia, looking startled. “This is it. The Indigo Tea Shop is a finite space.”
“Well . . .” said Drayton.
“No,” said Theodosia. “We’re not going to move. We’re never going to move. It would break my heart to leave this space.” Indeed, the little tea shop, a former carriage house with leaded windows, stone fireplace, and pegged wood floors, was a second home to Theodosia. In fact, it had been her home—literally. She’d lived in the upstairs apartment for several years until she’d finally bought her dream cottage. Now Haley was cozily ensconced in the loft upstairs.
“It was just . . . a suggestion,” said Drayton.
“What I might consider someday,” said Theodosia, “is a second shop.”
Now it was Drayton’s turn to look horrified. “Are you serious? You working in one shop and me in another? That would rip the heart and soul out of our operation. We’d lose our purpose, our sense of . . . collegiality.”
“Drayton,” said Theodosia. “We’re just fine right here. We always make a living and quite often a n
ice profit. Do you really want to break your back for a few more dollars and additional square footage?”
“Not really,” said Drayton. “It’s just that with so many little tables and our antique cupboards stuffed with jams, jellies, teas, and teacups for sale, we sometimes feel a little bit constrained.” He glanced sideways at her. “To say nothing of all the grapevine wreaths hanging on the walls.”
Theodosia smiled. “Most of our customers consider that cozy.”
• • •
Just when lunchtime was as its busiest, Delaine Dish breezed in like a majestic ship under full sail.
“Theo!” she cried. She gave an imperious wave of a wrist that was loaded with jangling gold bangles and tipped her aristocratic nose into the air.
“Delaine,” Theodosia replied. Delaine might be her friend, but the woman had the personality disorder of the Mad Hatter. You never knew when she’d show up for tea. And when she did, everything was thrown into a tizzy and their nice sedate tea shop turned into a complete madhouse.
“I’ve got barely twenty minutes,” Delaine announced. “Maybe fifteen. So please please please squeeze me in as fast as you can.” Delaine tilted her heart-shaped face toward Theodosia, and her violet eyes blinked rapidly. Smudges of pink colored her cheeks, and her long dark hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon.
“Do you mind sitting at the table by the window?” asked Theodosia.
“Perfect,” said Delaine. She was wearing a daffodil yellow skirt suit, the jacket nipped tightly at the waist, and matching stiletto sandals and white gloves. As she pulled her gloves off, she dimpled and said, “I read all about your merry adventures in the newspaper this morning.”
“Oh,” said Theodosia. “You mean the murder at Knighthall.” She was hoping Delaine wouldn’t bring that up. Then again, Delaine was a ferocious gossip and social gadabout. So why wouldn’t she? Decorum wasn’t really her strong suit.
“Sounds like that wine tasting turned rather nasty,” said Delaine, settling herself into a chair. “With a dead body and all.”
“It was beyond awful,” said Theodosia, lingering at her table. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And Drayton’s a good friend of Jordan Knight, so he’s particularly upset.”
Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Page 3
