Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “Angie asked Theo for help. Not you, not us,” Drayton said, but his voice was kind.

  “But if Theodosia’s involved, aren’t we all involved?” Haley asked. “Aren’t we a team?”

  “I don’t think . . .” Theodosia began.

  But Drayton interrupted her. “I’m afraid Haley’s got you there, Theo. On second thought, she’s quite right. We are a team.”

  “And you’ve already done a little snooping,” Haley prompted. “I know you took that basket of scones over to Tawney Kingsley. So you must have asked her a bunch of questions. I mean, you did, didn’t you?”

  Drayton made a noise somewhere in the back of his throat. A tentative note of agreement.

  Theodosia put an elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand, and said, “Oh dear.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia wondered and worried as she readied the tea shop. She checked the highboy and straightened out the dozens of jars of jam, honey, and Devonshire cream that were on display and available for sale. There were also teacups, teapots, wooden honey dippers, tea cozies, and a few tea books.

  She studied the wall where sweetgrass baskets, made by their favorite artisan Miss Josette, hung alongside homemade grapevine wreaths that she’d woven with gold gossamer ribbon and hung with teacups.

  Looks almost . . . perfect.

  But her brain was still in a whirl about helping Angie as she went into the kitchen, grabbed the luncheon menu from Haley, and brought it out to Drayton.

  “Maple cream scones and almond muffins,” Theodosia said, gazing at him across the counter. “Which tea would you like to pair them with?”

  “Let’s suggest a chai masala black tea to our guests,” Drayton said. “Obviously, they can order anything they’d like, but I think this particular tea will go well with Haley’s baked goods.”

  “I was also thinking of a nice Tippy Yunnan China black tea.”

  “That also makes an excellent pairing,” Drayton said. “I say, you’re getting as good at this as I am.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Did you make up your mind about helping Angie?” Drayton asked.

  “Still working on it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As soon as Theodosia hung the OPEN sign on the front door, Delaine Dish careened in like a grand duchess driving an Indy car. Dressed to the nines in a nipped-in purple skirt suit with a matching purple fur boa, she bounced off the front counter, caromed off a nearby table, and ended up at a small table next to the window.

  Theodosia approached Delaine’s table with a friendly “Nice to see you, Delaine.”

  Delaine waved a hand in front of her face as if she didn’t have time for pleasantries. “Isn’t this weather dreadful! Couldn’t you just die for all this nasty wind and rain? And the thunder. I tell you, it’s driving my poor cats insane!” That’s how Delaine talked. In italics and exclamation points.

  “Has the storm hurt your business?” Delaine was the proprietor of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston’s premier boutiques. If you were in the market for a silk blouse, leather slacks, a pashmina, sparkly jewelry, or a formal evening dress, Cotton Duck was the place to go.

  Delaine gazed at Theodosia. “Business has been steady. But it’s just about impossible to get around town. Do you know the storm sewers over on Bay Street actually backed up? And that my invitation to an outdoor luncheon at Linden Gardens was cancelled!”

  “Life’s tough,” Theodosia said.

  “I’ll say.” Delaine pulled a compact out of her Fendi bag and carefully studied her heart-shaped face. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and had (Theodosia thought) the tiniest bits of Botox injected to smooth the lines in her forehead and plump up her lips. Delaine was also silly, frivolous, gossipy, and a tad indiscreet. She was the Scarlett O’Hara of her day.

  “Are you meeting someone here for tea?” Theodosia asked.

  “No, it’s just little old me today, popping in to say how do,” Delaine said as she dug into her voluminous bag, scratching around for a lipstick. “I’ve got Janine watching the store with strict instructions to call me if anything major occurs.”

  “You mean like a hurricane or a hot-air balloon crash?”

  Delaine blinked. Now she was busy applying her Jezebel-red lipstick. “What did you say, dear?” She snapped the cap back on her lipstick with a hard click.

  “Never mind. What can I get you?” Two more parties had just come into the tea shop so Theodosia decided she’d better hurry Delaine along.

  “I’d love a pot of your delicious peaches and ginger blend along with a small snack. But nothing with carbs. You know me, I’m seriously into brothing so I try to avoid carbs at any cost.”

  “So no tea sandwiches? No scones?” Theodosia asked.

  “Oh, I’ll have a scone.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia waited on the other two tables and seated another group of four that had wandered in. She took orders, gave the tea requests to Drayton, and went into the kitchen to give Haley the food orders.

  “Is there such a thing as a no-carb scone?” Theodosia asked.

  Haley looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you asking me to mash up some chickpeas and carrots and bake them into scones?”

  “It was just a question. Although chickpeas and carrots are carbohydrates, are they not?”

  “This is about Delaine, isn’t it?” Haley said. “She’s sitting out there. Being her usual difficult self.”

  “Yup.”

  Haley just shook her head and went back to plating orders.

  When Theodosia delivered Delaine’s tea and scone (fully carbed) to her table, she decided to broach the subject of Tod Slawson.

  “Delaine, are you aware that your antiques dealer friend Tod Slawson was angling to purchase a famous flag that just went missing?”

  Delaine responded with a dazzling smile. “I don’t know anything about a flag, but I’m thrilled that you know my sweet Toddy.” She touched an index finger to her cheek. “I didn’t think I’d introduced the two of you yet. I was saving that for a special occasion.”

  “Tod Slawson came stumbling in here yesterday, asking Drayton and I about the hot-air balloon crash where Donald Kingsley was killed.”

  Delaine wrinkled her nose. “Such a nasty business, that crash.”

  Theodosia decided to give it a second try and reframe her question. “Did Tod Slawson mention anything to you about trying to buy a Revolutionary War flag?”

  Delaine broke off a piece of her scone and slathered on some strawberry jam. “He might have mentioned something about it. But I rarely pay attention to other people’s business dealings.”

  Theodosia nearly choked to death. That’s all Delaine did was poke her nose into other people’s business! It was her main reason for living, her driving force.

  Now Delaine had a dreamy look on her face. “Toddy is really quite a wonderful man . . . so kind and considerate. I know it’s a little premature to say this, but . . . he might even be husband material.”

  “Delaine. Seriously?”

  Theodosia was gobsmacked. The last time Delaine had gotten divorced, she’d sworn on a stack of designer bags that she’d never walk down a church aisle again. And, truth be told, Delaine didn’t have the best track record when it came to choosing dateable men. If you lined up nine perfectly respectable gentlemen and stuck a single heel-cad-stinker-rat-reprobate in among them, she’d unerringly pick the rotten egg.

  “You know, a girl can’t play the field all her life,” Delaine giggled. “Tod Slawson is really quite dreamy. You might say I’m head over heels.”

  All Theodosia could manage to stammer out was, “Lots of luck with that, Delaine.”

  10

  They were smack-dab in the middle of a surprisingly busy lun
ch service. Thankfully, the rain had abated somewhat, allowing regulars and visitors to make their way to the Indigo Tea Shop. There was even a tour group of eight that had just completed a fascinating (though somewhat damp) ramble down Gateway Walk.

  Theodosia was delivering a pot of Puerh black tea and a three-tiered tray filled with scones and tea sandwiches to their table when the front door flew open and Brooklyn Vance walked in.

  Theodosia recognized Brooklyn immediately. This was definitely the same woman she’d seen leaving Tawney Kingsley’s house yesterday afternoon.

  Though Brooklyn had been hunched and huddled against the wind yesterday, Theodosia’s impression today was that she moved like a cat. Quiet, contained, and graceful. Her second impression was that Brooklyn looked like a fairly smart cookie. And it wasn’t just because she had a PhD attached to her name. She carried herself well and projected an air of confidence.

  Theodosia immediately headed over to greet her.

  “Welcome to the Indigo Tea Shop,” Theodosia said, and then added, in a friendly aside, “I think we might have passed each other yesterday morning, on the sidewalk outside Tawney Kingsley’s place.”

  Brooklyn gave her a look of keen interest. “We could have. I was completely lost in thought and feeling somewhat upset, so if I was rude to you, I apologize.”

  “No need for that, we don’t know each other and I thought you did look somewhat preoccupied.”

  “It’s this awful hot-air balloon crash . . . and missing flag.” Brooklyn made a distracted hand gesture.

  “Yes, I spoke to Tawney about some of that right after your visit with her,” Theodosia said.

  “She’s a lovely person. But . . .”

  “Yes?” Theodosia said. Brooklyn was looking at her somewhat strangely.

  “I’m afraid she wasn’t much help.” Brooklyn gave a nervous laugh. “That’s why I came here today. I understand that you were an eyewitness.”

  When Theodosia hesitated for a moment, Brooklyn said, “I also spoke with the police and then contacted the Charleston Historical Society, where you came highly recommended by Timothy Neville, their executive director. As did your tea master, Drayton Conneley.”

  At the mention of Timothy’s name, Theodosia gave a warm smile. “Timothy,” she said. “He’s a dear soul.”

  “Well, I didn’t get that impression from him,” Brooklyn laughed. “But Mr. Neville was quite polite and amenable to all my questions. And he did mention that you were . . . let’s see, how did he phrase it? The friendly neighborhood sleuth.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Tawney grinned. “His words, not mine.”

  “May I ask what your interest in this is?” Theodosia said, though she already knew. Tawney had mentioned that Brooklyn Vance represented a museum somewhere in North Carolina.

  Brooklyn nodded. “I’m looking to purchase the Navy Jack flag, of course. Still hoping to track it down.”

  “The word on the street is it was stolen,” Theodosia said. “During or right after the hot-air balloon crash.”

  “Yes, but there’s stolen and then there’s missing.”

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it,” Theodosia said.

  “The thing is, I represent a private collector in Wilmington, North Carolina,” Brooklyn said, handing Theodosia a crisp, creamy business card. “This collector is in the initial stages of opening the Keystone Museum and wants to add the Navy Jack flag to his collection.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around. Wanting dibs on the flag, I mean.”

  “Of course there is, because the flag has such immense historical significance. But my client doesn’t want it for his personal pleasure. He’s working to build a museum collection, yes, but not one for public gazing. The Keystone Museum will be geared to serious scholars only. It will be a place where students, professors, and other museum and historical society educators can come to do research on the American Revolution as well as early American history in general.”

  “That does sound rather academic and worthwhile,” Theodosia said.

  “It’s a longtime dream of my client.”

  “So you also reside in Wilmington?”

  “I do now. But I’m originally from Bluffton. My father is Joshua Vance.”

  Drayton glanced up from behind the counter. “Colonel Joshua Vance?”

  Brooklyn smiled warmly. “You know him?”

  “Only by reputation,” Drayton said. He looked at Theodosia and raised his eyebrows, a subtle signal that Vance was some kind of big deal VIP.

  “I wish I could be of help,” Theodosia said. “Unfortunately, Drayton and I only witnessed the drone fly into the hot-air balloon and cause it to explode. We’ve never seen the flag and actually don’t know Don Kingsley except by reputation.”

  “Ah,” Brooklyn said. She looked disappointed. “You were my last hope.”

  “I’m sorry we’re such a dead end,” Theodosia said.

  Brooklyn waved a hand. “That’s okay. I’m not about to give up.”

  “You say you’ve spoken with the police?”

  “I have and they appear to be quite stumped,” Brooklyn said. “Which surprises me.”

  Then, because Brooklyn seemed to be at loose ends, Theodosia said, “What did you do before you worked for this private museum?”

  “After I got my PhD at NYU, I interned at the Gardner Museum in Boston.”

  “Where the Rembrandt and Vermeer were stolen.”

  “Yes, but not on my watch, thank goodness. After the Gardner, I worked as a sales agent for The Neufelt Gallery in Zurich, Switzerland, where I had a kind of hit list of international clients . . .” Brooklyn shrugged. “It was an awful lot of fun but I’m glad to be back home again.”

  “You’ve had an intriguing career so far,” Theodosia said.

  “I’m passionate about working in the art world. No matter what I’m dealing with—paintings, decorative arts, sculpture, photography, antiquities—they all nourish my soul.” As she spoke, Brooklyn glanced about, taking in her surroundings, obviously charmed by the tea shop. “It looks as if you’ve found a rewarding career, too. I mean, this place is just too cute for words. And the aromas . . .” Brooklyn rolled her eyes. “. . . are basically to die for.”

  “Then you should probably sit down and enjoy a cup of tea and a scone,” Theodosia said.

  Brooklyn glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, I only have time for takeout today. But I do want to come back later for a proper tea.”

  “Tomorrow,” Drayton murmured.

  Brooklyn turned toward him. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Drayton and I are hoping you can come back tomorrow,” Theodosia said, jumping in to second his suggestion. “It might sound kind of funny to you, but we’re having a Nancy Drew Tea, a special luncheon tea.”

  Brooklyn’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning. “You’re not serious,” she gasped. “Nancy Drew was my hero. Those mysteries were some of the first books I fell in love with.” She grinned and ducked her head. “Reading under the covers with a flashlight . . . The Sign of the Twisted Candles, The Mystery of the Tolling Bell . . . well, I could rhapsodize about those books forever.”

  “Better that you just come here tomorrow,” Theodosia laughed. “And enjoy yourself. Indulge in a little Nancy Drew nostalgia.”

  “I will!” Brooklyn clapped her hands together. “This has to be kismet. Tell me, what shall I bring?”

  “Just yourself and a love for Nancy Drew are all that’s required.”

  “Thank you, Theodosia.” She gave a little wave in Drayton’s direction. “And thank you, Drayton!”

  “You’re quite welcome, dear lady,” Drayton said. “And this is for you.” He pushed a take-out cup across the counter to her. “Gratis.”

  “Thank you again.” Brooklyn grinned. She picked up her t
ea and then turned and grasped Theodosia’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. You, too, Drayton. And I’d be ever so grateful if you kept me in the loop.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Theodosia said. But her words felt slightly hollow. This whole murder and missing flag business was so confusing, Theodosia wondered if even she was in the loop.

  * * *

  * * *

  “So tell me,” Theodosia said to Drayton. “Who is Colonel Joshua Vance?”

  “He’s a West Point graduate who, for a while, served as a state representative.”

  “Is Colonel an honorary title or is he ex-military?”

  “He’s an ex-military man who became a bird colonel the hard way. He was in the Tet Offensive in the early days of the Vietnam War. Story is he rallied his men and held off a huge attacking force in Khe Sanh. Now Colonel Vance is retired and lives on his horse farm. Raises Morgans, I believe. Trotting horses. Shows them at events all around the country.”

  “So Brooklyn’s from a good family,” Theodosia said.

  “In the South breeding always counts, be it horses, dogs, or people,” Drayton said. He cocked his head and looked past Theodosia’s shoulder. “Aren’t you running a little behind schedule?”

  Theodosia whirled about to find Miss Dimple, their twice-monthly bookkeeper and occasional server, hurrying toward them. Before the front door swung closed behind her, she was frantically pulling off a pink chiffon scarf and shucking off her raincoat.

  “Apologies!” Miss Dimple cried. She flung her coat toward the coatrack, missed, and then had to try again. This time she made it. “The buses were running late and I couldn’t get a cab.”

  “Probably because there aren’t any cabs anymore,” Drayton said. “Now everyone calls that Yuper thing.”

  “Uber,” Theodosia said. Then to Miss Dimple, “You’re here now, so no problem.” Because it wasn’t. Miss Dimple was an incredible sweetie and had a heart as big as all outdoors. Barely five feet-one tall, pleasingly plump, and with a cap of silver-white curls, Miss Dimple had edged up into her early eighties but was still a capable little dynamo.