Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) (15 page)
Read Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Laura Childs
Theodosia studied it and felt something stir within her. She liked it. Correction, she liked it
very
much.
Turner was smiling at her, studying her face and body language. “So what do you think? What’s the verdict?”
“It’s got a red dot stuck down in the corner,” said Theodosia, suddenly worried. “Does that mean this painting’s already been sold? Or spoken for?”
“Not in this case. I was holding it for you, just in case you changed your mind.”
“I am changing my mind,” said Theodosia. “In fact, I’m loving this more and more.”
“Wonderful,” said Turner. “And I’m sorry the light’s so bad in here. Maybe we should—”
Cynthia was suddenly hovering in the doorway. “Andrew? Can you . . . That couple who was so interested in the Jackson Nestor painting just came back and made an offer on it.” She gave him a questioning look.
“One moment,” Turner said to her.
Theodosia waved a hand. “Go ahead,” she urged him. “Business always comes first. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you,” Turner breathed as he dashed back out into the gallery.
Which left Theodosia face-to-face with her oil painting. Then she stretched her arms wide and picked it up. She turned it this way and that, wondering how it would look over her fireplace or in her dining room.
Probably pretty good
, she decided.
Correction, probably pretty gr
eat.
She carried the painting over to a nearby desk, rested it against a stack of books, and turned on a tensor lamp.
Even better. Now the colors fairly glowed, as if they had been infused from within.
“I see you found some better light,” said Turner’s voice right behind her.
“I want it,” said Theodosia, suddenly making up her mind.
“I thought it had your name written on it,” said Turner. “I mean besides the artist’s signature.”
“But could I . . . I have to move a little money around.”
“No problem,” said Turner. “I’ll keep it in storage if you want and you can pay me whenever. Or you can take it now and pay me over time. I know you’re good for it.” He grinned. “Better yet, I know where you live.”
“It’s no problem,” said Theodosia. “I have the money.” She was a cash-and-carry girl and prided herself on it. She liked to pay bills promptly and didn’t believe in maxing out her Visa card. In fact, she hardly ever used it. Some people believed in building a nest egg; others blithely put their lattes on a credit card. She was firmly in the nest egg camp.
Turner took the painting from her. “I’m glad this one’s going to a good home.” He carried it over to a cubbyhole that was labeled
SOLD
and stuck it in there. “There. All safe and sound.”
“I was wondering,” said Theodosia, “do you have any of Drew Knight’s work on display? Or is there something back here that I could look at?”
Turner’s face lit up. “Yes, I should have something.” He opened the drawer in a large metal flat file and absently shuffled through a stack of prints and serigraphs. “Hmm . . . not here.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe back in my office?” he said, half to himself.
He turned and disappeared into a small, crowded office. Theodosia followed on his heels.
“I’m sorry things are so messy in here,” said Turner as he continued to hunt for the prints.
“You should see my office,” said Theodosia. “This looks good by comparison.”
“Here they are.” He pulled out a small landscape sketch and handed it to her. “This is one of Drew’s more recent pieces.”
Theodosia studied the sketch. It had been done in pen and ink and depicted the familiar hip-roofed barn at Knighthall Vineyard. In the background were undulating rows of grapevines. The sketch felt as if it had been lovingly rendered by the artist’s keen eye. “This is very good.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I think Drew might have had a future as an illustrator,” said Theodosia. She’d certainly worked with graphic artists and illustrators who were less talented.
“I’ve got another half-dozen landscape sketches that are similar to this,” said Turner. “And a couple of his watercolors, too.” He took the sketch back from Theodosia, made a motion to slide it back in the drawer, and moved a couple of other prints out of the way.
As Turner rearranged his drawer of matted sketches and prints, Theodosia’s eyes roved his office and landed on two bottles of wine that were displayed prominently on his desk. A bottle of Château Margaux and a bottle of Château Latour. She pointed to them. “I had no idea you were such a wine connoisseur. Those are very fine wines.” She knew each bottle sold for well over one hundred dollars. And that was for a recent vintage. Add on a few years and the decimal point slid dramatically sideways.
Turner glanced up, looking a little confused. “What?” Then he saw what she was referring to. “Oh those.” He chuckled slightly. “I must confess, I really do adore a fine wine. Though my pocketbook groans at the thought of buying them.”
“But you shelled out a fair amount of money for those two bottles,” Theodosia said, grinning.
“Unfortunately,” said Turner, “I won’t get a chance to indulge. I purchased those two bottles with the express intent of donating them to the Art Crawl Ball’s silent auction.” He wiggled his eyebrows comically and said in a slightly theatrical voice, “Donated by the very upscale Turner Art Gallery. Have to keep up appearances, don’t you know?”
“Which is terrific for the Art Crawl,” said Theodosia. “But too bad for you.”
• • •
A few minutes
later, back on the crowded street, Theodosia was talking enthusiastically to Max about her painting.
“I think you’re smart,” said Max. “A good piece of art always appreciates. The stock market goes up and down, real estate can get sliced and diced, but art always holds its value.”
“Always?” said Theodosia.
“Well . . . okay. I suppose a few things have gone sideways in recent years—maybe Japanese prints and English porcelains—but for the most part, art is usually a savvy investment.”
“But I’m buying the painting because I really like it,” she told him. “Not because I want to sell it in ten years or donate it to a museum and take a big tax deduction.”
“If you’re going to go the museum route,” said Max, “don’t wait too long. The feds might close that loophole any day now.”
“No, it’s definitely meant to hang in my dining room,” said Theodosia.
“I just had a brainstorm.” Max pointed toward a big white food truck with
SIR SEAFOOD
written on the side and colorful, loopy artwork that featured smiling, dancing fish. “How about a cup of chowder to top off the evening?”
But Theodosia had just seen someone else she thought she recognized. He had been a blur in the crowd, a fleeting image of a white jacket and a familiar profile. She tried to scroll back through recent memories, trying to figure out what had suddenly pinged an alert inside her brain.
Then she remembered.
Was it the Japanese man, Mr. Tanaka?
Was he still in Charleston? Yes, she was pretty sure that Jordan had told her he was. So what was he doing here? Enjoying the Art Crawl? Hanging out with Pandora?
Or spying on me?
No
, she told herself. That couldn’t be it, could it? Because that would just be way too weird. In fact, that would be terrifying.
Theodosia struck a
match and lit the last of the tiny votive candles that sat in the center of their just-set tables. White linen tablecloths gleamed, glasses sparkled, and the pale-pink-and-green Limoges Florale china they’d set out this morning lent an extra air of elegance.
“This is the time I like best,” said Drayton. He stood ramrod-straight, like a fencing instructor, gazing out over the tables. “When everything is lovely and fresh and set for the day.”
“And then our customers come rushing in and ruin it all?” said Theodosia. She hoped that wasn’t where Drayton was heading with his statement.
“No no,” said Drayton. “Not at all. It’s just that in the morning, before we open our doors, the tea shop seems to be filled with such promise. You know that when our guests arrive, feeling a little stressed or tightly wound, all the care we’ve taken in setting up will help them relax and take a good deep breath.”
“And don’t forget the aromatherapy factor,” said Theodosia. She knew that the very act of inhaling tea—the essence of a lemony gunpowder green tea, earthy golden Yunnan, or malty Assam—helped people to pause, unwind, and de-stress.
“We create a refuge of sorts,” Drayton agreed. “An
intermezzo
from the pressures of everyday life.”
“Hey, you guys!” called Haley. “How come you’re just standing around when there’s so much work to be done?”
Drayton turned to look at her. “Is there?”
Haley seemed to back off a little. “Well . . . yeah. I think so. I mean, don’t you have tea to brew or something like that?”
“You realize,” said Drayton, “we’re not all Type A’s like you are.”
“Me a Type A?” said Haley, making a face. “You’re kidding, right?” She glanced toward Theodosia. “He’s kidding, right?”
“I’m sure he is,” Theodosia said blandly.
“Well, good,” said Haley, “because I stopped at the flower market this morning and I’ve got a bunch of irises that need to be arranged in vases. And I was thinking we should use those blue-and-white Chinese-looking ones.”
“Yes, Haley,” said Drayton, a barely suppressed grin on his face.
“Oh, and besides the candied fruit scones and poppy seed bread, I decided to bake a triple batch of white chocolate chip muffins.” Haley shrugged. “We’ve been crazy busy with takeout all this week—a little surprising, but a good thing, too—so it couldn’t hurt to have extra baked goods hanging around.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” agreed Theodosia.
Just then the back door opened and a voice called out, “It’s me! I’m here!”
“There’s Miss Dimple,” said Haley. “Gotta dash. I want her to lend a hand whipping up some frosting while I work on my chicken soup. Hey, guys, don’t forget about those flowers now.” And with that, she was gone.
• • •
Midmorning found Theodosia
in her office, once again going over the guest list that Jordan Knight had given Drayton.
“Knock knock,” said Drayton.
“Come on in,” said Theodosia.
“I brought you a cup of tea.”
Theodosia leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Fantastic. I could use a pick-me-up.”
“It’s that Formosan oolong that you like.” He set down a small tray that held a single small teapot and a cup and saucer. “Better allow it to steep for another minute to bring out that nice bold taste. Oh, and I have something to show you.” He pulled what looked like a roll of dark blue flannel from his jacket pocket and slowly unwound it.
“What have you got there?” Theodosia asked.
“A set of strawberry forks,” said Drayton. He held them up to show her a neat row of six small forks, tucked into a roll of tarnish-proof cloth.
“Wow,” said Theodosia.
“Victorian in design,” said Drayton, “though it’s more likely that this particular set is from the twenties.” He laid them on her desk.
“They’re gorgeous.”
“Six inches in length, quite narrow and linear, and only three tines,” Drayton said. He described them as if he were an announcer on
The Price Is Right,
trying to tantalize an audience with a prize offering.
“Why such long tines?” Theodosia asked, even though she pretty much knew the answer.
“Ah,” said Drayton, pleased that she’d asked. “That’s for the express purpose of spearing your succulent little strawberry and dipping it in cream or sugar.” He smiled. “Or even a tasty chocolate sauce.”
“You’re quite the collector,” said Theodosia. “Always on the hunt.”
“Me? What about you and your constant scavenging for old hotel-era silver?”
“I do have a penchant for that stuff,” Theodosia agreed. She’d just bought a vintage silver teapot that had been used in the early 1900s at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco. Maybe it had even gone through the earthquake.
Drayton nodded at the list she’d been going over. “So . . . does anyone pop out at you? Even though you’ve looked at it before?”
Theodosia shook her head. “There’s nothing here. Not that I can see anyway. Nobody in particular jumps out at me, and none of the names match up with even tertiary suspects that Jordan and Pandora have mentioned.”
“You know what?” said Drayton. “There’s nothing anywhere. I’m starting to lose hope.”
“In me?” Theodosia asked.
“No, never!” Then Drayton hastened to explain. “Theo, you’ve done everything humanly possible. You’ve turned this mess upside down and inside out and still nothing seems to shake loose.”
Theodosia took a sip of tea and looked thoughtful. “I suppose there are some murders that never get solved. What do the police call them? Cold cases.”
“This murder isn’t cold yet,” said Drayton. “It’s still warm. Well, lukewarm anyway.”
“You know what?” said Theodosia. “We still haven’t talked to Jordan and Pandora Knight’s silent partner.”
“The liquor distributor,” said Drayton, holding up an index finger. “You think it would be worthwhile?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” said Theodosia. “Nothing else has panned out so far.”
“Well, let me give Jordan a call and see if we can track this fellow down. His name was Alec something?”
“Maybe Alex?”
“I think that’s it,” said Drayton.
“Drayton?” Miss Dimple’s tentative voice suddenly called out to him.
Drayton spun on his heels, eyebrows arched. “Yes?”
Miss Dimple appeared in the doorway. “You have a visitor. Actually you both do.” She smiled and stepped back. “It’s Miss Josette!”
Drayton was suddenly upbeat. “Miss Josette! Come in, dear lady.”
Miss Josette was an African-American woman, probably in her late seventies, but who could easily pass for early sixties. She had intelligent, almond-shaped eyes, smooth skin the color of rich mahogany, and the skillful, facile hands of an artist. She was a particular favorite of Drayton’s because they both shared an interest in English poetry.
Miss Josette greeted them both, then shoved the sweetgrass basket she’d brought along with her into Drayton’s hands. “That’s the style you wanted, correct? A cross-handle basket with a pedestal base?”
“It is?” said Drayton. Sweetgrass baskets had become celebrated pieces of art in the low country. They were elegant and utilitarian baskets, woven from long bunches of sweetgrass, pine needles, and bulrush, then bound together by strips of native palmetto trees. The skill to weave one, and it was formidable, was usually passed down from generation to generation.
“I asked her to bring that particular basket in,” said Theodosia.
“You just need the one?” said Miss Josette, turning her attention to Theodosia. “Because I’ve got a stack of baskets in my car if you want a few more. A couple of fruit baskets and some bread baskets, too.”
“Just the one for now,” said Theodosia. She gestured over her shoulder where a few sweetgrass baskets were stacked. “As you can see, we still have a good stash of your baskets. But I wanted one of your larger, handled baskets so I can assemble a special tea basket for a silent auction.”
“Which silent auction is that?” asked Miss Josette.
“You know that Art Crawl that started last night?” said Theodosia.
Miss Josette nodded. “I’ve heard about it, sure.”
“Well, there’s also a fancy party on Saturday night for all the gallery owners and some of the people from the different museums,” Theodosia said.
“And corporate sponsors, too,” said Drayton.
“Anyway,” said Theodosia, “they’re asking businesses in particular to donate merchandise for a silent auction.”
“To help raise money for the arts,” said Drayton.
“So that’s what you two are up to?” Miss Josette asked.
“Pretty much,” said Theodosia.
Miss Josette let her sharp gaze wander from Theodosia to Drayton and then back to Theodosia. “Somehow I don’t quite believe that. You both look a little unsettled.” She moved a step closer to Drayton. “You in particular have a perplexed look on your face.”
“I do?” said Drayton. Even though he tried to look impassive, he scrunched up his face.
Miss Josette studied Theodosia. “And I’m guessing that you’re working on another one of your mysteries.”
Drayton was flabbergasted. “How on earth did you know that?”
“My dear fellow,” Miss Josette said in a patient voice, “my granny Alisa Mae was a
gris gris
lady. And I happen to be the one in the family who inherited a tiny bit of her sparkle.”
“Sparkle,” Drayton repeated slowly. Now he really looked puzzled.
“You know what I’m talking about,” said Miss Josette. She lifted a hand halfway to her face. “The ability to see.”
“See,” said Drayton.
“The future,” said Miss Josette. This time she almost but not quite rolled her eyes at him.
“Oh my, I am being dense,” said Drayton. “See into the future? Really? You certainly never mentioned
that
particular gift before.” He sounded more than a little doubtful.
But Theodosia was more than willing to jump on board. “Well, there you go,” she said. “That’s exactly the kind of outside help we’ve been looking for.”
“Really?” said Drayton. He glanced at Miss Josette, who cowed him with a serious look. Then he turned his eyes to Theodosia. “I guess I’d be willing to give it a try. But does it really work?” Doubt still colored his voice.
Miss Josette continued to gaze at him with hooded eyes.
“Okay then,” said Drayton, obviously unsettled. “How exactly do we tap into this rather remarkable gift of yours? Can we lay out some playing cards? Or read some tea leaves? Maybe you . . . um . . .
do
have the ability to see what we more distracted mortals can’t.”
“Tea leaves,” said Miss Josette. “That should work just fine.”
“Any particular type of tea?” asked Drayton.
“
Strong
tea,” said Miss Josette.
Drayton was back a few minutes later. He had a teapot filled with Ceylon black tea along with three cups and saucers. He set the tray on Theodosia’s desk and said, “Shall I do the honors?”
“Just one cup,” said Miss Josette.
“That’s all you need?”
“That’s all
you
need,” said Miss Josette.
“All right, fine,” said Drayton. He picked up the floral teapot and poured a stream of golden tea into one of the teacups. “No tea strainer,” he said. “Isn’t that how it works? We just let the tea leaves burble and swish around in the cup?”
Miss Josette nodded. “That’s right.”
“Now what?” Theodosia said.
“You must drink some of the tea,” Miss Josette instructed.
“Me?” said Theodosia.
Miss Josette nodded. “You’re the one seeking an answer, correct?”
So Theodosia took a few sips, and then slowly drank the rest of it down to the last inch or so.
“Now we take a look,” said Miss Josette. She bent over the teacup and studied it carefully as Theodosia and Drayton moved in tentatively, the better to see. “Okay,” she said finally.
“Everything’s going to be okay?” asked Drayton.
“Not okay,” said Miss Josette.
“Then what?” Theodosia asked. “Is there trouble on the horizon?”