Shades of Earl Grey (18 page)

Theodosia nodded.

“Now I am convinced that you were right.” Delaine peered at Theodosia, her green eyes sparkling with intensity.

“What changed your mind?” asked Theodosia. She was curious whether Delaine was having an emotional reaction after the funeral or if she'd actually obtained some useful information.

“If there isn't a cat burglar at work, why would everyone be talking about it? And why would Detective Tidwell have been at my shop this morning?”
There,
thought Delaine with satisfaction,
that will certainly throw open this whole mess now.

“Tidwell came to your shop?” said Theodosia. This
was
an interesting turn of events.

“Indeed, he did,” cooed Delaine. “And, I daresay, the ordeal was quite upsetting.”

“Why was that, Delaine?” Theodosia tried to manage a note of sympathy even though her curiosity was at a fever pitch.

“Well, Tidwell played it very close to the vest, of course,” replied Delaine. “You know how absolutely maddening the man is. He said he wasn't investigating
per se,
merely poking around, looking at things. But I got the very distinct impression that Detective Tidwell shares
your
sentiment. He does
not
view Captain Buchanan's death at the Lady Goodwood as an accident!”

Fascinated, Theodosia waited for Delaine to continue.

“You see,” said Delaine, “he inquired about the
waiters.
”

So Tidwell has taken me seriously,
thought Theodosia.
But the waiters, that was an angle I hadn't considered.

“Delaine, what did Detective Tidwell want to know about waiters?” said Theodosia.

“Oh, he wanted to know who I'd hired to work at the reception, serving champagne and such. But of course, I told him the folks at the Lady Goodwood had taken care of all that. They'd hired the waiters.”

“Did he ask about specific waiters, Delaine?”

“Not really. He just rattled off some names.” Delaine dug in her purse. “I wrote down their names, though. It seemed like the right thing to do.” She pulled out a scrawled list on a sheet of Cotton Duck stationery. “I guess not all of the waiters were working at the engagement party, but they were all on the premises that night. There was another function going on in the dining room. A sales meeting or something. For some computer company.”

Theodosia scanned the list of names. There wasn't one she recognized.

“Can I keep this list, Delaine?”

“Well . . . I don't suppose it would hurt if you made a
copy
of it.”

“Great,” said Theodosia. “Be right back.”

At the counter she literally bumped into Drayton, who had just let himself into the tea shop via the back door.

“I've got Hattie Boatwright working on the most delightful centerpiece for tomorrow,” he told her excitedly. “It's part Japanese ikebana, part Southern luxe. That lady really has exceptional talent. Now if I could just convince her to join our bonsai group, I think she'd be a natural.”

“I thought the whole idea of bonsai was that they
weren't
natural,” quipped Haley as she emerged from the kitchen. “Stunted trees twisted into bizarre shapes and forced to live in tiny pots. What's natural about that?”

“It's a highly evolved art form,” argued Drayton. “One that's been around for more than a thousand years. The style and context of bonsai are highly representational.”

“Well, they're cute little things anyway,” allowed Haley. She paused to watch Theodosia slide Delaine's list into the fax machine. “Are you trying to make a copy?” she asked.

Theodosia nodded.

“You have to hit the
function
button first, then press
copy.
Here, I'll do it.” Haley's slim fingers flew over the keys and the piece of paper began to feed through.

“Tidwell asked Delaine about the waiters who worked at the Lady Goodwood the night of the engagement party,” explained Theodosia. “Apparently he shared this list of names with her in the hope that something might pop out.”

“You don't say,” said Drayton as he watched a grayish page emerge from the bottom of the fax machine and slide into the waiting tray. But as he glanced at the list, his look of mild interest suddenly changed to one of alarm.

“
I
recognize a name on this list,” he said quietly so Delaine wouldn't overhear.

“No way,” said Haley.

Drayton slid his finger halfway down the list as Theodosia and Haley crowded in closer. “There. Graham Carmody. I think he might have been a waiter at the Heritage Society that night.”

“
That
night?” asked Haley excitedly. “You mean last Saturday night when that fancy necklace disappeared?”

Drayton nodded gravely.

“You really think so?” said Theodosia. She was a little surprised that something had even come of Tidwell's list.

“I'm positive it was this fellow,” said Drayton. “In fact, I think he was the one I asked to fetch a drink for Delaine.”

“Did she ever get her drink?” asked Theodosia.

Drayton scratched his head. “I honestly don't recall.”

 

Lunch was a rush again. They had a full house, then a gaggle of tourists who'd just been dropped off by one of the sightseeing jitneys came pouring in right in the middle of things. Because there weren't enough tables available, Haley had to pack up box lunches for the dozen or so tourists to carry to nearby White Point Gardens.

Delaine hung around for a while, looking alternately morose and sweetly sad, then finally wandered off after consuming a luncheon plate of chicken salad and marinated cucumbers.

And all the while Theodosia fretted. As if Cooper Hobcaw and Claire Kitridge didn't look suspicious enough, what about this waiter, Graham Carmody? He'd attended both functions! The engagement party and the Heritage Society's member's-only party. Well, not
attended
as a guest, but he'd been working there. Which gave him far more freedom and latitude than an ordinary guest. After all, a waiter could slip in and out and no one would really pay him any undue attention. Waiters were even
supposed
to be a trifle surreptitious, she decided.

In the early afternoon, the antique secretary that Drayton had ordered from Tom Wigley's antique shop was delivered and everyone crowded around to ooh and aah. It was a handsome piece, just as Drayton had promised. Hand-crafted of a lovely burled walnut with a fine array of shelves, nooks, and cubby holes. Theodosia decided it
would
make a perfect display case for the T-Bath products.

“And it doesn't take up a lot of space,” said Haley, pleased with their new acquisition. “I won't be bumping my keester every time I lug a tray of tea to somebody's table.”

“Haley,” said Drayton, “if your attitude is such that you're merely
lugging
trays of tea, perhaps the time has come to investigate a new career path.”

“All right, smarty, you know what I mean,” she shot back. “I just meant that the secretary was an
economical
piece of furniture. It doesn't stick way out into the room.” She gave an exaggerated frown and shook her finger at Drayton. She knew that
he
knew
exactly
what she meant.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Miss Dimple as she arrived with an armload of ledger books. “Every time I stop by, you folks have something new going on.”

“Hey there, Miss Dimple,” called Haley. “I've got one plate of chicken salad left. It's got your name on it.”

“Thank you, Haley,” said the small, rotund woman. “Chicken salad sounds delightful.”

“And maybe a muffin to go along?” tempted Haley. “We've got cranberry and orange blossom today.”

“Orange blossom,” announced Miss Dimple.

“Oh, Miss Dimple,” said Theodosia, “you're going to have to sit out here today. My office is not only crammed with boxes, we're going to have to start unpacking and hauling things out.”

“That's right,” said Miss Dimple, settling herself down at a vacant table. “Your T-Bath products. I've heard so much about these products, I can't wait to try them for myself. There's nothing more rewarding for the soul than a good soak.”

“You're coming tomorrow, right?” asked Haley as she set the chicken salad and muffin down in front of her.

“Wouldn't miss it,” she said. “Jessica Sheldon from Pinckney's Gifts is planning to stop by, too.”

“Good,” said Theodosia. She gazed at the ledgers. “So everything's tallied and balanced?”

Miss Dimple put a chubby hand on one of the ledgers as she chewed a bite of chicken salad. She swallowed, cleared her throat, was suddenly all business. “Shipshape,” she told Theodosia. “Profits are up and the only debt you're carrying is for the manufacture and production of the T-Bath products. As we've seen, they did extremely well when you test-marketed them on your web site, so there's no reason to believe they won't do just as well in a retail setting.” And with that bit of good news delivered, Miss Dimple dove back into her chicken salad.

“Hey, guys,” said Theodosia to Haley and Drayton. “Can you unpack those boxes without me? I've got to make a phone call, then step out for a bit.”

Drayton glanced about the tea shop. Besides Miss Dimple, only one other table was occupied at the moment. “I don't know why not,” he said.

“So . . . just stick the T-Bath products on shelves and stuff a few baskets?” asked Haley.

“Haley,” said Drayton, “you make it sound so
artless.
”

“In that case, my dear Drayton,” said Haley, laying on her best boarding school accent, “we shall
artfully
stack products on shelves and
artfully
stuff baskets. How does that sound?”

“Much better, Haley, much better.”

Theodosia looked up the number for St. Anne's Hospital, dialed the phone.

“St. Anne's, how may I direct your call?” came the receptionist's voice.

“I'm trying to get ahold of Cecile Randolph, one of the nurses who works on your second floor,” said Theodosia.

“One minute,” said the voice. There was a click and a buzz and Theodosia was on hold.

“This is Cecile,” said a pleasant voice.

“Cecile? This is Theodosia Browning. We met the other night when my dog and I chased the intruder from Mr. Wilson's room?”

“Oh, yes,” said Cecile, recognition dawning in her voice. “How are you?”

“Fine,” said Theodosia, “but I'm more concerned about Mr. Wilson.”

“He's been released,” said Cecile.

“That's very good news,” said Theodosia. “So he's at home now?”

There was a pause. “I think he's staying with a relative for now,” said Cecile. “I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to say, but since you were directly involved in the incident of the other night, I think it's okay to tell you that the police suggested Mr. Wilson not go home for a while.”

“But he's feeling better?” asked Theodosia.
This is interesting. Now Harlan Wilson is in hiding. Well, maybe not in hiding, but certainly incognito.

“He was fine when he walked out,” said Cecile. “Just fine.”

THE LADY GOODWOOD
Inn was operating at about half-capacity. The hotel staff was at the ready, with desk clerks and concierge ready to check guests in, bell hops and chamber maids all available to tend to their needs. And in the kitchen, cooks, sous-chefs, prep workers, and waiters were ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. The two women who handled bookings for parties and event catering were waiting for the phone to ring. But it didn't. Business had slowed considerably since that fateful evening when the glass ceiling of the Lady Goodwood's Garden Room had collapsed atop Captain Corey Buchanan.

Frederick Welborne, the man who'd proudly served as general manager at the Lady Goodwood Inn for the better part of two decades, gazed about the empty lobby and sighed. This was not the venerable old inn's finest hour.

Tall and angular, balding and long of face, Frederick Welborne, a man who already appeared slightly burdened, now bore a look of perpetual sadness. The Lady Goodwood Inn was in a state of disrepair. And when the good lady was ailing,
he
was ailing, too.

In the past few days, yards of wet carpeting had been hauled from the ruined Garden Room. And despite the scented candles that had been burned, air fresheners that had been sprayed, windows left open, and contract cleaners who'd been brought in to work their magic with potions and sprays and ion machines, there still remained the unmistakable trace of mildewy odor.

Guests had grimaced at the sight of the wreckage. Two large dumpsters were hunkered down in the parking lot, the repository for all that ruined carpet and glass.

And the question still remained: what would be done about the old greenhouse, the Garden Room? The owners, descendants of the original Goodwoods who didn't even live in the area anymore, wanted it repaired. The inn was, after all, a continuing source of revenue for them, what with the many wedding receptions, business meetings, club functions, and private parties that were booked there, to say nothing of the tourists who stayed in the guest rooms.

One of the contractors who'd been brought in to survey the damage had just shaken his head and recommended the Garden Room be torn down completely.

Now a second contractor had been brought in at the specific request of the absentee owners.

Frederick Welborne wouldn't be a bit surprised if that contractor recommended patching it up.