by Laura Childs
“You’re being discharged so soon? Do you think that’s wise?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the best news I’ve had in days.”
Theodosia tried to reboot her thinking into more positive territory. “Of course it is. But to be extra safe, I think you should move in with me for a while. You know, just as a precautionary measure.”
“Hey, I got shot. I didn’t exactly have open-heart surgery. And while I appreciate your offer, I don’t want to play the role of sick boyfriend who’s also a housebound bother.”
“You wouldn’t be a bother.”
“And, honestly, I don’t mind chilling out at my own place. In fact, I think I’d feel better being around my own stuff. Besides, they’re sending a whole cadre of medical personnel to visit me. You know, techs to monitor my pulse and blood pressure, some more of those occupational therapists to beat me on the head, that sort of thing. It’s one of the bennies of our health insurance and disability package.”
“Then I could drop by to fluff your pillows or put cucumbers on your eyes.”
“Or better yet, use the cucumbers to spin me a salad. But, no, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? It worries me to think you’ll be alone.”
“That’s exactly my point. I won’t be alone. Besides, there are a few things I want to work on.”
“You’re talking about the case.”
“Of course I’m talking about the case. I need to review all the DD5s, the detective division reports.”
“I’ll come and pick you up then, give you a ride home,” Theodosia said.
“Already got one.”
16
The informal pumpkin and spice luncheon at the Indigo Tea Shop proved to be hugely popular. Instead of their usual posters and e-mail, Haley had basically just carried flyers around to the B and Bs in the neighborhood. That, and word of mouth, had been enough to bring in at least two dozen guests plus several of their regulars.
“The tables look great,” Theodosia said to Miss Dimple as they seated guests and poured Drayton’s special cinnamon spice tea.
Miss Dimple had put yesterday’s flowers into ceramic pots, added yellow candles in brass candlesticks, and punched up the arrangement with an assortment of miniature orange and white gourds.
“Where did you find the cute little gourds?” Theodosia asked.
“Haley brought them in,” Miss Dimple said. “She found them at the Marion Square farmers market this morning when she was shopping for veggies.”
“She’s just full of surprises, isn’t she? Including her menu?”
“Oh, I guess you want to know what we’re serving?”
“It might help,” Theodosia laughed.
“For starters we’ve got cinnamon scones and pumpkin bisque soup with crème fraîche and slivered almonds. Then tea sandwiches with chicken salad on pumpkin bread and turkey and cranberries on potato bread. Oh, and there’s also thin-sliced radishes with herbed chèvre butter on crostini. But not the spicy sharp radishes; these are tender and buttery.”
“And for dessert?” Theodosia said.
“Cinnamon ice cream and Haley’s special pecan tassies.”
“Goodness.”
“Exactly my thoughts!” Miss Dimple said.
For some reason, the phone kept ringing with requests for take-out orders, so Theodosia was behind the counter for most of the luncheon, brewing tea, jotting down orders, and then packaging everything to go.
At one thirty she was finally able to take a breath and look around. And discovered that the tea shop had practically emptied out. Only two tables were still occupied.
“Where’d everyone go?” Theodosia asked Miss Dimple.
Miss Dimple waggled her fingers. “Off to do whatever,” she said. “But the luncheon went well, don’t you think? I mean in terms of customers enjoying all the cinnamon and spice goodies?”
“It was a hit,” Theodosia said as she glanced at her watch. “Good heavens, I’ve got to grab those baskets of scones and tea sandwiches and take them over to Drayton at the Heritage Society.”
“Then go. Go,” Miss Dimple urged. “Haley and I can take care of things for the rest of the afternoon. We’re happy to.”
“Okay then. I’m outa here!”
* * *
* * *
Theodosia parked in the small back lot of the Heritage Society, trundled her baskets through a storage room that was jam-packed with cartons and boxes, and finally found Drayton bustling about in the small service kitchen that was adjacent to the large meeting hall.
“You’re here. Good,” Drayton proclaimed when he saw her. Grabbing one of the wicker baskets from Theodosia’s hand, he flipped open the top, peered in, and said, “Love it.”
“When’s the afternoon tea break scheduled?” Theodosia asked.
“Not for another half hour. But I prefer to set everything up early.”
“Sure. Were you able to sit in on any of the panel discussions?” Theodosia asked.
“Yes, and it was fascinating. One was a discussion on Poe’s addiction to alcohol and drugs.”
“It sounds . . . enthralling.”
“Go ahead and laugh, but there are dozens of people out there who’d kill to hear a serious treatise on what drove Poe’s mania,” Drayton said as he opened the other basket. “Mm, and what do we have here? Scones?”
“All in all Haley packed six dozen sea salt caramel scones and another twelve dozen assorted tea sandwiches.”
Drayton glanced up at her. “Assorted meaning . . . ?”
“Ham and cheddar, chicken salad with chutney, and crab salad with Bibb lettuce.”
“Tasty. So let’s carry the food across the hallway and lay it out on the tables in the Palmetto Gallery. The cups and saucers are already there along with my tea urn. One of the interns helped me set everything up.”
“What tea are you serving?” Theodosia asked as they walked across the hall, past a lovely display of old leather-bound books that sat in an antique case with wavy glass panels.
“I’m brewing a red oolong. As you know, the large twisted leaves from this partially oxidized tea yield a nectar that’s naturally sweet and has a toasty aftertaste.”
“Can I help you with that?” a voice asked.
Drayton whirled around to find Sybil Spalding standing there, looking more than eager to lend a hand.
“There’s my helper,” Drayton said with a smile. “Theo, you’re well acquainted with Sybil, right?”
“I certainly am,” Theodosia said. “And it’s wonderful to see you again, Sybil. Thanks so much for giving Drayton a hand.”
“No problem,” Sybil said. “Happy to help out.”
“You’re not attending the symposium?” Theodosia asked.
“I caught a couple of the talks this morning, but now I’m supposed to, like, assist with the guests and refreshments.” She glanced at Drayton again. “So I should put out these scones and stuff?”
“Yes, but let’s arrange the food as artfully as possible.”
“Natch,” said Sybil.
* * *
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the doors to the great hall opened and the seminar guests spilled out. Sybil ushered them across the hallway, and afternoon teatime, such as it was, was quickly underway.
Theodosia decided it was more expedient (and sanitary) for her to use a pair of tongs to serve the guests their scones and tea sandwiches while, at the far end of the table, Drayton and Sybil poured cups of tea.
There was an initial rush, of course, and then some ten minutes later, things started to settle down. That’s when Timothy, Claire Waltho, Elisha Summers, and another dozen or so curators came through the line.
“The seminar is going well?” Drayton asked Timothy, who was looking a trifle frazzled.
“Yes, yes, seems t
o be,” Timothy said as he picked up a plate. He held up a hand to Theodosia and said, “No scone, just a sandwich for me please.”
“Here you go,” Theodosia said, placing a single chicken salad sandwich on Timothy’s plate, worrying that he probably wasn’t eating enough. He was elderly and awfully thin. Her worry was cut short, however, as a few more guests wandered by for refreshments and then, surprise, surprise, Ellis Bouchard was standing there looking at her with sharp, appraising eyes.
“We meet again,” Bouchard said to Theodosia.
“Hello,” she said cautiously. Then, because she was polite to a fault, raised to be a true Southern lady, she said, “Would you care for a sea salt caramel scone?”
“That sounds delicious,” Bouchard said.
“With a dab of Devonshire cream?”
“Thank you.” Bouchard glanced at her again and said, “Timothy tells me you’re investigating the recent murder at my ancestor’s home.”
Actually, it belongs to the Heritage Society now.
But Theodosia didn’t voice her opinion. Instead, she decided a noncommittal answer might be in order. “Looking into it anyway.”
“So that’s why all the questions?”
“That’s why,” she said.
Bouchard dropped his voice. “Did you know that old mansion was once a funeral home?”
Theodosia studied Bouchard carefully to see if he was serious or not. Maybe he was trying to jerk her chain? Or trying to spook her? But when he maintained his somber, earnest look, she said, “I did not know that. When was this?”
“A long time ago, at the turn of the century. And I’m referring to the century before this one when undertakers still transported caskets to the cemetery in horse-drawn carriages.”
“And you’re telling me about this—why?” Theodosia asked.
“Mostly as a historical anecdote. And because you seem so fascinated by the mansion. You know, I even believe the architect donated his original plans to the Heritage Society’s library.”
“Interesting,” Theodosia said. She studied Bouchard. “Mr. Bouchard, do you actually live here in Charleston?”
“Temporarily, yes. But only until the affairs concerning my mansion are straightened out.”
But the surprises didn’t end there. Allan Barnaby also stopped by to sample their scones and tea sandwiches. And then, two minutes later, practically licking his chops, he was back for more.
“I’m impressed,” Barnaby said to Theodosia. “The food you’re serving is first-rate. Is the food this good at your tea shop?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever considered doing an Indigo Tea Shop cookbook?”
“I’ve been asked that before,” Theodosia told him.
“And what was your answer?” Barnaby nibbled at his scone.
“That I never seem to find time to sit down and give it serious consideration.”
“Well, you should definitely think about a cookbook. You know, I’m always trolling for new authors with a fresh voice.”
“I’m not sure my voice is all that fresh,” Theodosia said. “And, truth be told, so many of the recipes are Haley’s. She’s . . .”
“Excuse me,” Drayton said, suddenly moving in to interrupt them. He stared pointedly at Barnaby and said, “Did I hear a rumor that you might be publishing a history of the Heritage Society?”
“It was just something I batted around with a few of the curators,” Barnaby said with a wave of his hand, as though it were unimportant.
“But it’s not an actual project?” Drayton’s voice remained crisp and inquisitive. “Nothing’s been written?”
“Not a word,” Barnaby assured him. “It exists only as a concept.”
Barnaby grabbed another scone and sped away as Drayton glowered after him.
“Doesn’t the man realize that a project such as a documented history would have to be approved by the board of directors?” Drayton asked.
“I don’t know that he meant to step on any toes,” Theodosia said. “I think he’s just a little . . . eager.”
“Indeed he is.”
“But listen,” Theodosia said. “Did you hear the tale Ellis Bouchard was trying to spin?”
“What was that?”
Theodosia hastily told Drayton about Bouchard’s funeral home story.
Drayton lifted a single eyebrow. “How quaint.”
“Bouchard even told me the plans might have been donated to the Heritage Society library,” Theodosia said. “Although he could have concocted this fantasy just to make the mansion less appealing. Or to scare me off.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Drayton said. “Of course there’s only one way to know for certain.”
“What’s that?”
Drayton poured himself a cup of tea and took a sip. “Research. Especially if the answer you seek is right here in this building.”
* * *
* * *
Twenty minutes later, with Sybil offering to clear the table and pack up the leftover scones and sandwiches, Theodosia and Drayton were seated in the Heritage Society library.
“This really is one of my favorite places,” Drayton said. He gazed happily about at the enormous wooden library tables, the lamps with green glass shades, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the sliding ladder, and the faded Oriental carpets that helped dampen any sound.
“Like you, I think I could curl up in a comfy chair and spend a lifetime in this place,” Theodosia said.
“It would take you a lifetime to read all these books. Do you know this library contains something like ten thousand volumes? They’ve even squirreled away some of the battle plans from the Revolutionary War!”
“But do they have the plans for the Bouchard Mansion?”
Drayton held up a finger. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
Turned out, they did. The librarian had to do some serious digging, but ten minutes later, Theodosia and Drayton were seated at a table poring over several faded sketches that had been drawn on thick, crinkly paper.
“It’s hard to figure these out,” Theodosia said. She wore the thin cotton gloves that the librarian had given them so they could handle the valuable old paper. “There seem to be two sets of plans.”
“Perhaps revisions were made to the old house?” Drayton wondered.
They passed the plans back and forth, studying them and commenting on them. Then both looked up as Timothy strode into the room carrying a stack of folders under one arm. He was rubbing his eyes, looking tired.
“What’s that you’re doing?” he asked.
“Looking at the architectural renderings for the Bouchard Mansion,” Theodosia said.
“Looking for clues?” Timothy wore a half smile on his lined face.
“Something like that.”
“Besides looking at plans, is there anything new in your investigation?” Timothy asked Theodosia.
“I’m still pursuing a few different angles,” Theodosia said. Her heart ached for Timothy. He was a dear soul who clearly felt responsible for his grandniece’s death.
“I know you’ve interviewed many of our staff members already, but I brought along our personnel files.” Timothy dumped a series of folders on the table in front of Theodosia. “Have a look if you think they might help.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Theodosia said.
“Thank you,” Timothy said. “I’ll probably see you tonight at the visitation. Let me know if . . .” His voice faded to nothing as he turned and walked away.
Theodosia knew she had to come up with something fairly quick. Timothy was getting so dispirited, and the police didn’t seem to be making any headway at all.
“Do you see anything at all in these plans?” Theodosia asked Drayton.
“Not really,” Drayton said. “I could probably manage
a more contemporary blueprint, one of those large blue sheets with white lines that indicate foundations, boundaries, electrical, and various rooms. But old plans such as these are awfully tricky. I mean, look at the various sheets, like something Thomas Jefferson might have drawn. All sketchy pencil lines and cryptic notations written in . . . what is this . . . French?”
“Can you read it?”
“I haven’t studied French since my university days. I can manage hello and goodbye in French, and I can order a bottle of decent wine, but that’s about it,” Drayton said. “My parlez-vousing is severely limited.” He set one of the sheets down and pursed his lips. “These must have been drawn by a French architect.”
“I’m not surprised. There were so many French aristocrats who settled in Charleston back in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds,” Theodosia said.
“And their descendants still reside here.”
Theodosia squinted at one of the documents, then pointed to a signature at the bottom of the page. “You see this? I think you’re right. The architect was someone named Anton Géroux.”
“Which explains why all the notations are in French.”
Theodosia turned the drawing around and studied it. “Now take a look right here.” She tapped her finger against faint ink that indicated a small rectangle. “Tell me what you see.”
Drayton cocked his head. “Could that indicate a fireplace?” Then he answered his own question. “No, that couldn’t be right. A fireplace would’ve been situated in the main salon with another one in the kitchen or dining room.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and stared at Theodosia. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that’s supposed to represent. Perhaps it was a service entrance at one time? From when there were various tradespeople who came to call. You know, the butcher, the baker . . .” He smiled. “The candlestick maker.”
“What does this sheet say at the top? Sous-sol. What does that mean?” Theodosia asked.
“Not sure. Best we consult a French-English dictionary.”
