Broken Bone China

by Laura Childs

  “But I was supposed to be here at eleven,” Miss Dimple lamented. “I missed lunch service.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Theodosia assured her. “You can start now and work through afternoon tea.”

  Miss Dimple touched a hand to her ample chest, said, “Really? Oh goody.” That was the way she really talked. Used quaint words and phrases like goody goody gumdrop, kinfolk, and persnickety, which endeared her to Theodosia even more.

  “How are the cats?” Drayton asked. Miss Dimple was completely over the moon about her two cats, Sampson and Delilah.

  “In this weather? They’re permanently curled up on the sofa. Sleeping,” Miss Dimple said.

  “Which isn’t a completely horrible idea,” Drayton said.

  “You’re still going to help us with the Nancy Drew Tea tomorrow, aren’t you?” Theodosia asked.

  “Honey, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Miss Dimple said. “Even though I started out as a Trixie Belden fan, dear old Nancy eventually won my heart.”

  “Then you’re going to love our décor,” Theodosia said.

  Miss Dimple’s eyes sparkled. “Whatcha gonna do for decorations and centerpieces?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Drayton said. “Or so I’ve been told by Theo and Haley.”

  “Come on, you can tell me,” Miss Dimple said.

  “Mum’s the word,” Theodosia said.

  “You see?” Drayton said as the phone rang. “You’ll just have to wait and see like the rest of us poor souls.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” He listened for a hot moment and then passed it to Theodosia. “For you.”

  Theodosia grabbed the phone. “This is Theodosia.”

  “Miss Theodosia Browning?” said a friendly sounding woman on the other end.

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand your tea shop is hosting a Beaux Arts Tea this Saturday?”

  “Yes, we are,” Theodosia said. “Do you need a ticket? We still have some seats available.”

  “We’ve already purchased tickets,” said the woman. “I’m just calling to give you a heads-up. Tea Faire Magazine is sending a secret sipper to your tea.”

  Theodosia’s knuckles turned white on the phone. This was a big deal. Tea Faire Magazine was a big deal. “You’re what?” She’d heard her, but she wanted to hear it again.

  “If all goes well, there’ll be a favorable review in our magazine sometime in the next three months.”

  “And if it doesn’t go well?” Theodosia asked.

  There was a warm chuckle. “The Indigo Tea Shop has an impeccable reputation. I can’t imagine anything could go wrong.”

  Theodosia’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. But I can.

  11

  Miss Dimple draped a black Parisian waiter’s apron around her neck, grabbed two pots of tea, and bustled her way through the small maze of tables. As she poured refills she chatted amiably with their guests.

  “She’s a gem,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia was still feeling astounded. “That phone call I just took?” she said to Drayton. “It was from Tea Faire Magazine. They’re sending a secret sipper to our Beaux Arts Tea this Saturday.”

  “Good gracious,” Drayton said. “For real? A secret sipper? Is that anything like a secret shopper?”

  “It must be.”

  “This changes everything, doesn’t it? We’ll have to make sure that every aspect of our event is pure perfection. Menu, tea selections, service, décor, the whole ball of wax.”

  “That’s for sure,” Theodosia said. She watched as Drayton picked a tin of orchid plum tea off the shelf.

  “And I’ll have to . . .” The phone rang again before Drayton was able to finish his sentence.

  “Maybe that’s Tea Faire Magazine calling to cancel,” Theodosia said.

  “Bite your tongue!” Drayton snatched up the phone, listened for a few moments, and passed it to Theodosia. “Someone else for you.”

  Theodosia took the phone with some trepidation. “Hello?”

  It was Alicia Kellig, from KTSC-TV, Channel 8.

  “You remember me?” Alicia asked. “I used to be a production associate, now I’m a producer.”

  “That’s terrific, Alicia, congratulations on your promotion,” Theodosia said.

  “Thank you, I’m really having fun with it.” Alicia cleared her throat, ready to get down to business. “As you know, we’re right in the middle of our Action Auction where we raise funds for a select number of charities. And since the Indigo Tea Shop donated . . .”

  “Some tea and teapots,” Theodosia said.

  “Yes,” Alicia said. “Which got me to thinking—wouldn’t it be fun if you were the one to talk about the tea and tea accoutrements and help us get the bidding started!”

  “Was that a question?”

  Alicia laughed. “Actually, it was. Would you do it? We’d need you for, like, five or ten minutes.”

  “When would this be?” Theodosia asked.

  “This Friday afternoon?” Alicia said. “If you could be here around four o’clock, we’ll just slide you in. I know this is last minute and I apologize. But does that give you enough time to prepare?”

  Theodosia did a mental calculation. No special events on Friday, just business as usual, so . . . “That should work fine.”

  “Wonderful. You just saved my life,” Alicia said. “We had the herbal lady cancel on us. Something about drowned marjoram.”

  “I’ll be there,” Theodosia said. Then she hesitated. “Now, just to be clear, this is really about tea, right? Not the hot-air balloon crash?”

  “Tea, that’s right,” Alicia said. “And you can mention the Indigo Tea Shop if you want to.”

  Theodosia was pleased. “I definitely want to.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At one thirty, just as lunch ended and afternoon tea was ramping up, Detective Burt Tidwell sauntered in. He was wearing the same weird raincoat he had on yesterday. Only this time he didn’t bother hanging it up. He just stood there silently, dripping, shoulders drooped, waiting for Theodosia.

  Deciding she wanted to talk to him in confidence, Theodosia led Tidwell to the small table next to the stone fireplace. Once he’d eased himself into a captain’s chair—no small feat at his size—Theodosia said, “Well, is there anything new in the investigation?”

  Tidwell gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Oh, you’re going to be like that, are you?

  “Perhaps you need a cup of tea to warm you up.” And get you talking.

  Tidwell gave a brusque nod.

  Theodosia brought him a pot of Darjeeling and two chocolate chip scones on a plate.

  Tidwell’s brows went into full beetle mode. “What are these?” he asked as he peered at the scones.

  “Chocolate chip scones,” Theodosia said.

  “But you usually serve fruit scones. Apple, strawberry, blueberry.”

  “Haley baked something different today. Have a taste. I think you’ll like them.”

  Tidwell still looked disconcerted. “Do I put jam and Devonshire cream on these?”

  Theodosia sighed. “Whichever you prefer.”

  “Actually, I prefer apple scones.”

  “I know you do but Haley didn’t bake those today. So. The investigation?”

  Tidwell took a tiny bite of scone and chewed slowly. “It’s proceeding. Not as quickly as I’d like, unfortunately. As you might guess, I’m anxious to get Detective Riley back in town.”

  So am I.

  “Here, let me pour your tea.” Theodosia picked up the Chinese blue-and-white teapot and poured him a cup. “This Darjeeling is from the Margaret’s Hope Estate. Full-flavored and smooth with just a hint of crispness.”

  “Thank you.” Tidwell had taken a bigger bite of his scone and seemed
relatively content as he chewed. “Perhaps this tea could use a lump or two of sugar?”

  “Perhaps.” Theodosia knew the tea didn’t really need sweetening. She also knew Tidwell was stalling and it was beginning to royally bug her. If he didn’t want to share information, then why was he here? Yes, he was a sugar fanatic, never averse to stuffing his face. But you could find cake, brownies, muffins, and scones all over Charleston. All over Charleston County.

  After several minutes of frustrating, one-sided conversation, Theodosia said, “I have an idea. Why don’t we engage in a little quid pro quo?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Cute. Now he’s getting cute.

  “I’m talking about a fair and equitable exchange of information.”

  Tidwell had been stirring sugar into his tea, his silver spoon hitting the edge of his Balleek teacup repeatedly. Incessantly. Clink, clink, clink. It was driving Theodosia crazy. Now Tidwell stopped and cocked his head like an interested magpie. “What information might you have?”

  “You first.”

  “Alright.” As Tidwell shifted his weight, his wooden chair let out a loud groan. He didn’t seem to notice. “We are currently investigating all persons who have purchased drones in the last eighteen months.”

  “And what have you found? Besides receipts on drone sales.”

  “I think you know. Your friend at the Featherbed House . . .”

  “Angie Congdon.”

  “Her paramour is apparently in possession of a drone. When we checked with Blue Sky Flying Machines, Mr. Affolter’s name magically appeared on their customer list. The FAA is beginning to tighten up ownership on drones, you see, and sellers are required to keep careful records.” Tidwell took a sip of tea. “But the connection I find most troubling is that Harold Affolter is an employee of SyncSoft.”

  “So you really are investigating Harold?” Theodosia had been holding out hope that Angie had misread the situation. Or that the police had talked to Harold and then discounted him.

  “This is a murder investigation. Of course we’re going to look at him. We have to look at him.”

  “It’s a dead end. You’re wasting your time. Harold didn’t do it.”

  “That, Miss Browning, is your personal opinion. I base my conclusions on evidentiary findings.”

  “I can’t believe you have any evidence at all,” Theodosia said.

  “Mr. Affolter was a disgruntled whistle-blower at SyncSoft.”

  “Not really whistle-blowing, more like acting as a friendly watchdog. I’m positive Harold thought he was doing the right thing for his company.”

  “That was obviously not the company’s opinion.” Tidwell’s lips curled into the smile of a hungry wolverine. “Your turn.”

  “There’s a group of local men who call themselves the Americana Club.”

  “What?”

  She’d caught Tidwell off guard.

  “There’s a group of local men who . . .”

  “No, I heard you just fine.” He waved his hand. “Continue with your narration.”

  “These men are collectors . . . possibly underground collectors . . . of rare and antique Americana,” Theodosia said.

  “I’ve not heard of any such organization.”

  “Drayton tells me they’re rather secretive.”

  “And based on what they collect, I’d imagine quite wealthy, too.”

  “That goes without saying,” Theodosia said.

  “Do you have a list? Does Drayton have a list?” Tidwell asked.

  “No list, only rumors.”

  “That doesn’t help much,” Tidwell said.

  “You didn’t give me much of anything, either,” Theodosia said.

  “Are there . . . ?”

  Theodosia leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “Any more of those scones?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Theodosia was feeling frustrated. Tawney Kingsley didn’t know anything, Angie was frightened to death, Tod Slawson and Brooklyn Vance had been counting on her for help, and Tidwell wasn’t exactly a fountain of knowledge.

  “You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” Drayton said. “Here, try this.” He slid a cup of tea across the counter to her.

  “What is it?”

  “You tell me. Have a taste.”

  Theodosia took a sip. “Mmm, a black tea, maybe from India? But with a bit of mint?”

  “Well done. I added peppermint, licorice, and anise to give the black tea its velvety taste. Consider it one of my new house blends.”

  “The tea’s delightful. Do you have a name for it?”

  “Black Velvet,” Drayton said. “Are you still nervous about the secret sipper?”

  “More like concerned. This week has suddenly turned into a sticky hodgepodge of concerns.”

  “Some might call them problems,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia thought about the terrible crash she’d witnessed, the fear that Angie had expressed over Harold being arrested. She took another fortifying sip as a kernel of an idea began to form in her head. Was it a good idea? Maybe. All she could do was give it a shot and try to shake something loose.

  “You know, since everyone keeps coming in here, asking about the hot-air balloon crash, it might be high time we pay Charles Townsend a visit,” Theodosia said.

  “You mean the associate professor or curator or whatever he is?” Drayton asked.

  “Probably more like Donald Kingsley’s personal assistant, also known in some companies as a gopher.”

  “Interviewing Townsend is an intriguing thought, but how are we going to pull it off?” Drayton’s fingers nervously touched his polka dot bow tie. “We don’t know Townsend. In fact, we only saw him flitting about in a blind panic that terrible afternoon.”

  “You’re going to call Townsend and ask him for an appointment,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton reared back, stunned. “Me?”

  “You’re just as capable of spinning a fanciful story as I am. Besides, as a board member at the Heritage Society you’ve got impeccable credentials.”

  “To talk about what with Mr. Townsend?”

  “About the flag,” Theodosia said. “About its history. Whatever. Our ultimate goal is to get him talking and hope he divulges a few crucial details. Like when did he know the Navy Jack flag was missing? And was there an actual, physical break-in at Kingsley’s home?”

  “So you have decided to investigate,” Drayton said.

  “For Angie’s sake.”

  “When would we want to meet with Townsend?”

  Theodosia picked up the phone and handed it to Drayton. “How about right now? We can kill two birds with one stone. Talk to Charles Townsend and then pop over and take a second look at the Portman Mansion, which is just a few doors down from Kingsley’s place. Haley’s been bugging me about the Portman’s kitchen facilities and we need to eyeball the dining room. Make sure we don’t have to rent any additional tables and chairs.”

  “How many people do we need to accommodate for our Beaux Arts Tea this Saturday?”

  “We have fifty-seven reservations so far with a secret sipper embedded in there somewhere. But I expect a few more guests will call at the last minute so I want to be ready.”

  “My goodness, aren’t we just a rousing success,” Drayton said.

  “Trying to be.” Theodosia smiled sweetly. “Make the call?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Drayton called Townsend and immediately ran up against some strong opposition. He sputtered for a few moments and then lowered the phone to his chest and hissed, “Theo, you talk to him.”

  Theodosia squared her shoulders and took the phone. “Mr. Townsend,” she said brightly. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you ever since our hasty meeting this past Sunday. I felt so
bad that Mr. Kingsley was killed in such an unfortunate manner. It must have been a terrible shock to you . . . well, it was to all of us, I assure you. And, of course, you and I only exchanged a few brief words that terrible day so I was unable to fully express to you my deepest sympathies.”

  Drayton raised his eyebrows as Theodosia rattled on for another few minutes. Sweet-talking young Mr. Townsend, working her Southern charm and magic on him until he couldn’t help but agree to see them.

  “That’s it,” Theodosia said, hanging up the phone. “We’re in.”

  “When?” Drayton asked.

  “Right now. Grab your raincoat and let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Two twenty-one Lamboll Street,” Theodosia said. “It’s only a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Ah, the old Darrow Mansion,” Drayton said, ever the historian.

  12

  Any walk in Charleston is a scenic, practically cinematic walk. There are block after block of elegant mansions, walled gardens, historical markers, old churches, fountains surrounded by riots of greenery, and narrow, cobblestone alleys. Theodosia and Drayton were taking a shortcut down one of those alleys right now—Price’s Alley.

  “Every time I stroll through here I feel like I’m on a treasure hunt,” Theodosia said.

  “Indeed you are because there’s so much to see,” Drayton said. He stopped and pointed to a metal plaque embedded in stone. It read PRICE’S ALLEY. “Amazing, isn’t it? A narrow alley that can barely accommodate a single horse-drawn carriage, a wall of red bricks that were probably used as ballast in some old sailing frigate, and a peek into hidden gardens and the occasional undraped window.”

  “Like falling down the rabbit hole,” Theodosia said. The slow drip-drip of falling raindrops and swirling tendrils of Atlantic fog gave the alley an ethereal feel.

  “Look here,” Drayton said, pointing. “Copper lanterns and hitching posts. It isn’t often a city has the fortitude and strength of will to fight change for over three hundred years.”