by Laura Childs
“Tea shop 101?” asked Theodosia as she breezed in and smiled at the two girls who looked like elegant butterflies, dressed almost alike in colorful cotton sweaters and long, gauzy, print skirts. She was pleased to see that silver teakettles had been filled with water and were beginning to steam atop their burners, fresh linens and silverware had been laid out, and all the tables sported freshly mounded sugar bowls and pitchers of cream.
Bethany pulled off her glasses and turned to Theodosia with merriment in her eyes. “It’s all so fascinating. But complicated, too. And I still can’t believe how many varieties of tea there are. Assam, Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Sencha, gunpowder, the list goes on and on. It’s amazing! Plus, the tea is literally from every corner of the globe. China, Ceylon, India, Nepal, Japan, even Africa.”
“Don’t forget Turkey, Indonesia, and Russia. And, of course, our own wonderful South Carolina tea from the Charleston Tea Plantation,” added Theodosia. “Their American Classic tea is a luxurious black tea that’s descended from the original tea plants brought to America after the Revolutionary War.”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Bethany. “But I think Chinese teas are my hands down favorites because of their names. How quirky and creative to name a tea White Peony or Precious Eyebrows. Or even Temple of Heaven!”
“The Chinese have always had a profound and enduring passion for tea,” declared Drayton as he arrived and caught the tail end of Bethany’s remarks. “Good morning, good morning all.” He bowed deeply to Haley and Bethany. “I hope our new apprentice is appropriately memorizing all our precious loose teas. Perhaps we shall plan a pop quiz for this afternoon.”
“Don’t you dare,” Bethany said grinning. She turned toward Theodosia and lowered her voice slightly. “I can’t thank you enough for having me here.” Her brow furrowed, and her eyes suddenly glistened. “You don’t know what it’s been like.” Bethany shook her head in confusion. “First everyone at the Heritage Society was so nice to me. It seemed like a perfect position. Then Mr. Neville . . .” Her throat constricted, and she was unable to finish for a few moments. “You just don’t know,” she managed to choke out.
“Perhaps I do,” said Theodosia, patting her arm gently.
“But keep in mind the Chinese proverb: ‘There is no wave without wind.’”
“That’s lovely,” said Bethany. She gazed at Theodosia with something akin to hero worship. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you? You’re very confident about making your place in the world.”
“Sometimes I think the hard part is finding your place,” said Theodosia as the bell over the front door tinkled merrily. “Now, why don’t you put an apron on. . . . That’s right.” She smiled encouragingly at Bethany. “That white linen is lovely against your apricot sweater. . . . Go wait on our first customers.”
Enthused, Bethany fairly scampered across the room.
“It’s good to see Bethany with a smile on her face,” said Drayton.
“Can you keep an eye on her?” asked Theodosia. “Give her a subtle assist if she gets stuck?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Drayton. “I’ve got a group from the Christie Inn coming in for a tea tasting at ten, but until then, I shall kibbitz to my heart’s content.”
Theodosia retreated to her back office, plopped herself down in her swivel chair, and gazed at the catastrophe that was her desktop.
While she had been out and about, getting dressed down by Timothy Neville, snooping at Edgewater Estates, and cruising King Street for a fix on Goose Creek Holdings, life had gone on. Mail had arrived. Messages had piled up. The Web site story boards she was supposed to make a decision on still sat staring up at her. And, of course, there were bills to be paid, paychecks to be written, overseas orders to be untangled.
But there was something else that took precedence, that had to be done. Let’s see . . . Oh, yes! She had to phone Tanner Joseph.
After greeting him on the phone, Theodosia launched directly into her proposal. “I have what could be an intriguing project,” she told him.
Tanner Joseph’s voice conveyed both amusement and interest. “I’m already on the edge of my chair.”
“I need some labels for small canisters of holiday tea that will be for sale in my shop. Your drawings came to mind. They’re very good.”
There was a long pause. “You really think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you’re serious? This isn’t just a crank call?” Tanner Joseph laughed. “You’re actually asking if I want to design your tea labels?”
“Yes, but only if you have time. Unfortunately, we’re in kind of a hurry-up mode. I’d need to get a finished product from you relatively fast.”
“What’s your idea of fast?”
“First we meet,” said Theodosia. “I fill you in on the project, share a few ideas. If you agree to do the illustrations, then you have maybe three or four working days to do a few pencils. You know, black-and-white sketches. We meet again to go over them. If I like what I see, you proceed to color illustrations. You’d have another few days for that.”
“You’re on.” Tanner Joseph fairly lunged at the offer. “Hey, I’m really flattered. For a guy with a degree in ecology, which is actually a very left-brain kind of thing, this is a dream come true. But, Miss Browning, I should come to your place. Your tea shop. Get a feel for what it’s all about, what your customers might expect.”
“How about this afternoon, say three o’clock?”
“Perfect,” agreed Tanner Joseph.
Theodosia leaned back in her chair and took stock of things. Okay. One down, about forty more to go. She gazed in disgust at her desk. Make that fifty. Hmm.
“Excuse me.” There was a soft knock at the door. “I’m serving tea to a bunch of divorced lawyers and was wondering what would be most suitable.”
Theodosia glanced over, pleasantly surprised to find a tall, attractive man in a three-piece suit gracing her doorway. One of her eyebrows raised imperceptibly.
“You are the distinguished colleague from Ligget, Hume, Hartwell, I presume?”
Jory Davis flashed a crooked grin. “Guilty as charged.”
“In that case, I highly recommend a Chinese varietal called Iron Goddess of Mercy.”
The man in the doorway threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rich, easy laugh that gave Theodosia the perfect few moments to study him.
Jory Davis wasn’t quite what she’d expected. He was attractive, yes, but in a slightly rugged and reckless way. Square jaw, curly brown hair, piercing blue eyes, probably midthirties. He was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a tiny maze of lines at the corners of his eyes that probably meant he spent much of his free time out of doors. He also moved as though he was completely at ease with himself and wore his three-piece Brooks Brothers suit as if it had been cut just for him. Theodosia noted that Jory Davis wasn’t exactly slick, but he was certainly downtown. She could picture him in a dark, clubby restaurant with leather booths, clinking glasses with other lawyers, celebrating a win. What she was having trouble picturing was Jory Davis in a kitchen with a wire whisk.
“Please come in, Mr. Davis.” Theodosia stood and indicated the chair across from her. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Call me Jory. And, no, I can only stay a moment.” He remained standing and dug into his briefcase. “I’m due in court in fifteen minutes, but I wanted to drop off the rest of the information we ferreted out on Hughes Barron.” He glanced up at her. “I hope you still want it.”
“Of course.”
He searched intently through the massive amount of papers in his oversized leather briefcase. Finally he grabbed a sheaf of papers and plopped it on her desk. “Here you go.” His smile was dazzling, and his blue eyes sparkled.
Tinted contacts? she wondered. Or were his eyes really that blue?
“Thanks,” she said. “How did your vinaigrette turn out?”
“Good. Great. Thanks to you.” He stood gazing at her f
or a moment, then said, “Hey, this is a fun office. Lots of interesting eye catchers.” His hand ever so gently touched a bronze head from a Thai temple that sat atop her desk, then moved on to an antique Spode teapot.
Funny, she thought, how very gently he ran his hand over that delicate china teapot.
“I meant it about the tea,” said Jory Davis. “And that Iron Goddess sounded interesting. I admire strong women.” He turned to study the framed opera programs and photos on her wall. “Hey, you sail! I keep a J-24 at the marina.” He glanced back at Theodosia over his shoulder. “I’m decorating her this year for the Festival of Lights. You ought to sail with us.”
Every Christmas, a fleet of fifty or so boats was decked out in holiday lights and set sail from Patriots Point. From there the colorful flotilla paraded around the tip of the peninsula, much to the delight of thousands of onlookers, and ended up at the Charleston Yacht Club.
“Let me think about it,” said Theodosia, oddly pleased. “I sailed in the festival four years ago on Tom and Evie Woodrow’s boat. It was a lot of fun.”
“Well, then, you’ve just got to sail on my boat,” said Jory Davis. “Woodrow’s boat is a tub, compared to my J- 24.” He gathered up his briefcase and stuck out his hand. “Gotta go. Great meeting you.”
“Nice meeting you,” called Theodosia as Jory Davis disappeared through the doorway.
“Who was that?” asked Haley. She stood in the doorway wearing an expectant look on her face.
“A lawyer friend,” replied Theodosia.
“I know that. He told me that earlier, when I showed him back here. I meant who is he to you?”
“Haley, did you need something?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. You’ve got a phone call.”
“It’s not Delaine, is it?”
“It’s Burt Tidwell,” whispered Haley. She put a finger to her mouth. Since Bethany was working out front, Haley obviously wanted to keep this phone call hush-hush. “Line two. Shall I close the door?” she asked.
Theodosia nodded to Haley as she picked up the phone and vowed not to let Burt Tidwell spoil her good mood.
“Mr. Tidwell,” she said brightly.
“Miss Browning,” he acknowledged gruffly.
“And how is your investigation proceeding?” She tossed him a leading question in hopes of getting a little feedback.
“Extremely well,” Tidwell answered.
Theodosia slipped out of her loafers and wiggled her toes in the sunlight that spilled in through the leaded panes. He has nothing, she thought. Diddly-squat, to use an inelegant term. But she would humor him. Oh, yes, she would humor him and keep going with her own investigation. And she would surely play to what seemed to be a sense of vanity on his part concerning professional prowess.
“I trust you’ve gotten your lab results back,” said Theodosia.
“I have indeed.”
Damn, she thought. This fellow is maddening. “And . . .” she said.
“Exactly what I suspected. A toxic substance.”
“A toxic substance,” repeated Theodosia. “In the teacup.”
“Yes.”
“But not in the teapot.” She could hear him breathing loudly at the other end of the line. Short, almost wheezy breaths. “Mr. Tidwell?” she said with more force.
“After forensic investigation by the state toxicology lab, it was determined that the teapot did not contain any toxic substance. Only the teacup.”
“Would you care to share with me the nature of that substance?”
“It’s still being analyzed.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Miss Browning,” said Tidwell, “did you know that Hughes Barron was looking at a property on your block?”
“The Peregrine Building,” she replied.
“So you were aware of this?”
“I heard a rumor to that effect.”
“His purchase could have impacted you, don’t you think?”
“In what way?”
“Oh, a commercial development could change the character of your block. Might possibly affect business.”
Theodosia caught her breath. “Mr. Tidwell, are you trying to imply that I’m a suspect?”
Now Burt Tidwell let go a deep, hearty laugh. “Madam, until I conclude an investigation, I consider everyone a suspect.”
“Surely that can’t be efficient.”
“It is merely the way I work, madam. Good day.”
Theodosia slammed down the phone. Of all the nerve! First he let it be known that Bethany was a suspect! Then to imply she might be! A cad. The man was truly a cad. Any grudging respect she had felt earlier had just flown out the window.
She stared at her desktop angrily. Then, with both hands, she pushed everything off to the left. Files began to topple, and she let them. One of the story boards slipped to the floor. Pink message slips that had been stacked in order of date and time were suddenly jumbled.
But she had just given herself a good expanse of wood on which to work. A place to start fresh, to think fresh. She set a piece of plain white paper in front of her. At the top of it she wrote the name, “Hughes Barron.” Under that she wrote “Poison?”
Like the beginnings of a family tree, she jotted two names underneath. “Timothy Neville” and “Lleveret Dante.” Because she didn’t have another suspect, she put a third mark, a question mark, alongside the two names. Somehow it felt right.
She ruminated and read through the papers Jory Davis had brought her until Drayton poked his head in some forty minutes later.
“Getting a lot done?”
“Yes,” she lied. Then thought better of it. “No. Sit. Please.” She indicated the tufted chair across from her desk.
Drayton sat down, crossed his legs, and gazed at her expectantly.
She fixed him with an intense stare. “How well do you know Timothy Neville?”
CHAPTER 21
MISS DIMPLE SMILED broadly at Theodosia. “Mr. Dauphine will just be a moment,” she said. “He’s on the phone. Long distance.”
“Thank you,” murmured Theodosia as she wondered why people always tended to be more patient when the person they’re waiting for is talking long distance versus a local call. Strange that distance makes us polite, and nearness makes us impatient.
After her conversation with Drayton, she had made her way up four flights of stairs in the Peregrine Building to the office of Mr. Harold Dauphine, the owner. Theodosia knew the man had to be at least seventy-five years old. His plump secretary, Miss Dimple, couldn’t be that much younger. Did they scoot up and down these stairs all day? she wondered. Could that be the key to longevity? Or, once they arrived for work in the morning, did they just perch up here, recovering from the effort?
“Miss Browning?” Miss Dimple was smiling at her. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Theodosia sat and marveled at the decor of the office.
The whole thing was like a throwback to the fifties. Gray metal filing cabinets, venetian blinds, an honest-to-goodness Underwood upright typewriter. You could film an old Perry Mason episode right here. She half expected to see Miss Dimple don a green eyeshade.
Theodosia thumbed through a dog-eared copy of Reader’s Digest, skimming the “Quotable Quotes” section. She stared out the window and wondered about Hughes Barron’s partner, Lleveret Dante, and she thought about Drayton’s reaction to her suspicions about Timothy Neville.
As much as the look on Drayton’s face had betrayed his skepticism about Timothy Neville, he’d still listened carefully to her.
“Well,” Drayton had said after hearing her out, “it’s interesting speculation, but it’d be another thing to prove. I certainly don’t discount the fact that Timothy Neville has an abominable temper and is capable of causing harm. Most people have a dark side. And I certainly think you should find out more about this man, Lleveret Dante. Tell you what, why don’t you come along with me tomorrow night? Timothy Neville is havi
ng a small concert at his home. One of the string quartets he plays in for fun. There will be people from the Heritage Society as well as people from the neighborhood that you undoubtedly know. You can listen to some good music, then have a jolly snoop in his medicine cabinet, if you like.”
If Drayton had been pulling her leg, his serious demeanor hadn’t betrayed the fact. So she’d agreed. She had to harness her enthusiasm, in fact, because tomorrow night would be, just as Drayton had said, the perfect opportunity to snoop. And she had a sneaking suspicion Timothy Neville wasn’t the righteous pillar of the community that most people thought he was.
“Mr. Dauphine can see you now, Miss Browning.”
Theodosia stood and smiled at Miss Dimple. The woman was aptly named, she thought. Even looked like a dimple. Round, sweet, slightly pink.
“Always nice to see a neighbor, Miss Browning.” Mr. Dauphine struggled to his feet and shook her hand weakly.
“Nice to see you again,” said Theodosia. She noted that Mr. Dauphine’s office was just as antiquated as the reception area, right down to a rotary phone and an archaic dictation machine, what they used to call a steno.
“Of course,” said Mr. Dauphine, “I don’t come in every day like I used to. Been taking it a little slower.” What should have been easy laughter segued into a hacking cough.
“Are you all right, Mr. Dauphine?” said Theodosia. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
Mr. Dauphine waved her off with one hand. “Fine, fine,” he choked. Pulling a plastic inhaler from his jacket pocket, he shook it rapidly, depressed the button, and inhaled as best he could.
“Emphysema,” Mr. Dauphine explained, tapping his chest. “Used to smoke.” He helped himself to another puff from his inhaler. “You ever smoke?”
“No,” she replied.
“Good girl. I’d advise you never to start.” He looked at her and smiled. Despite his obvious frailties, Mr. Dauphine’s eyes shone brightly, and his mind seemed quick. “Now,” he said, “have you come to make an offer on my property as well?”
Theodosia tried not to betray her surprise. She’d come looking for information about Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante, and Mr. Dauphine had just nicely opened up that conversational front.
