Steeped in Evil (A Tea Shop Mystery) (8 page)

Noontime rolled around
and the tea shop got even busier.

“Where are the salads? Where are the salads?” Drayton cried. “I’ve got tables waiting!”

Theodosia came hurrying out of the kitchen, carrying a large silver tray that held a half-dozen beautifully plated salads.

“They’re right here,” she said. “A mix of summer greens with honey Dijon dressing. Just as Haley promised.”

Drayton poked a finger at one of the salads. “What on earth is that leafy little garnish?”

“A sprig of thyme,” said Theodosia.

“Looks like Haley paid a visit to the farmer’s market again.”

“I think she does every morning,” said Theodosia. “She’s such a stickler for fresh ingredients.”

Drayton grabbed the tray from Theodosia. “Just as long as she doesn’t try to make us over into one of those trendy California farm-to-table restaurants where they serve thistle salads and wheat juice shooters.”

Theodosia grinned at him. “You know, that doesn’t sound all that bad.”

“Oh please,” said Drayton, darting away.

But the rest of Haley’s menu was traditional tea shop fare. Tea sandwiches of mozzarella cheese and tomato spread, as well as a prosciutto and roasted red pepper sandwich. Then there was her white Cheddar cheese
croque monsieur,
which was really just French for grilled cheese sandwich, and a luscious maple-flavored French toast casserole for dessert.

Theodosia delivered luncheons, poured tea, chatted with a few of their regulars, and helped Drayton pack up their takeout orders. And just as she was returning to the counter, a teapot in each hand, Max came rushing in.

“Hey there,” Max said to Theodosia. “Got time for a five-minute break?”

Theodosia raised a single eyebrow and glanced at the crowded tea room. “Uh . . . not really.”

He edged closer to the counter. “I guess you’re kind of busy, huh? Well, can you talk while you work?”

“For you . . . yes.” She grabbed a cookie from a plate and slid it across the counter to him. “Your buddy Andrew Turner was just in here an hour or so ago.”

“He was?” said Max. He took a bite of cookie then threw her a funny look, half questioning, half expectant. “Um . . . he didn’t ask you for a date or anything like that, did he?”

For the second time that morning, Theodosia blushed. “No, of course not. He just came in for tea and scones.” She shrugged. “It was all perfectly neighborly.”

“Well good,” said Max, taking another bite. “He’s a nice-looking guy so I’d hate to . . . I don’t know . . . have to beat him off with a tube of cadmium red or something.”

“Very funny,” said Theodosia. “In fact, I kind of set him up with a realtor. Maggie Twining.”

“For a date?” said Max.

“For a house,” said Theodosia. “That big one next to me.”

“The one Dougan Granville owned?”

“That’s right. It’s finally up for sale.”

“Then I guess Turner is pretty serious about buying a big place,” said Max.

Theodosia scanned the takeout boxes that were packed and piled on the front counter. “You’re here to pick up your order, right?”

Max gave a slow wink. “Unless you have something better in mind.”

“And the order’s under your name?”

“Oh, I see,” said Max. “We’re going to pretend we’re not really snuggle bunnies. Instead we’re going to act very proper and businesslike. Okay, yes. Yes, it’s under my name.”

“How many box lunches?” Theodosia was searching the counter, checking labels that were taped to a dozen or so boxes.

“Six.”

“Here they are,” said Theodosia. She bent down, grabbed a large indigo blue shopping bag, and stacked the boxes inside. “Put it on your tab or on the museum’s tab?”

Max cocked his head. “Please.”

“Okay then, the museum’s tab,” said Theodosia, making a notation. She looked up, smiled at him because he was giving her one of his trademark crooked smiles, and said, “Hey, cutie, can I fix you a cuppa to go?”

“Why not,” said Max.

He leaned forward as Theodosia grabbed a teapot and poured a generous amount of Keemun tea into an indigo blue cup.

“Hey,” he said.

She snapped the lid on the cup and handed it to him. “Hey what?”

“How much are you getting involved in this winery thing?”

Uh-oh.
“I’m just helping Drayton out. Asking around.”

“That’s a nice noncommittal answer, but what is your role really?” said Max. “Just helping Drayton out? Which I don’t believe for one minute. Or investigating a brutal murder?”

“Last I heard” said Theodosia, “Sheriff Anson was the one who was tracking down suspects and asking the hard questions.”

Max stared at her. “And you’re sure he’s the only one doing that?”

She gave him a cagey smile. “Call the good sheriff himself if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I’m sure Sheriff Anson is up to his hips in crime fighting,” said Max. “What I’m not so sure about is how involved
you
are.”

“Like I said, I’m just asking a few questions, keeping my eyes and ears open.”

“I worry about you,” said Max. “You’ve got this crazy headstrong instinct that compels you to get involved in sticky situations.”

“You think I rush into things?” said Theodosia.

Max nodded slowly. “Where angels fear to tread.”

Theodosia reached out and touched his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“I want to believe you.”

Theodosia decided it was time to change the subject. “We’re still on for the Art Crawl tomorrow night?”

“Count on it,” said Max.

“Great, because I still need something to hang in my dining room. A nice painting or print. Something splashy.”

“Aren’t you lucky that you have your own personal art consultant going along with you?”

Theodosia gathered up Max’s bag and handed it to him. Then she gave him a slow wink. “Luck had nothing to do with it, cutie.”

• • •

When lunch had
finally dwindled to a dull roar, Theodosia ducked into her office to change. She knew Delaine would have a conniption if she showed up in a T-shirt, slacks, and ballet flats. So, against her personal rules that governed comfort, convenience, and basic happiness, she changed into a black sheath dress and shucked her feet into a pair of high-heeled sandals. Then she plopped down at her desk and dug out a sliver of a cracked mirror from the top drawer. She added a smidge of Chanel’s Rose Sand lip gloss and a touch of black mascara.

There, that should meet the minimum daily requirement of glam.

Her cell phone shrilled abruptly and Theodosia grabbed it, hoping against hope that it was Delaine calling to offer some sort of pardon.

But it was Angie Congdon, proprietor of the Featherbed House B and B, which was located a few blocks away.

“Angie, hi!” said Theodosia.

“I’m just calling to see if you’re still coming Friday night,” said Angie. “I know I sent you an invitation for our open house, but I thought a personal call might be in order, too.”

“It’s on my calendar,” said Theodosia. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good,” said Angie. “I’m anxious for you to see all the changes we made here.”

“I hear a major addition.”

“That’s right,” said Angie. “A reboot.”

“Featherbed House 3.0.” Theodosia laughed. “But you kept all the geese, didn’t you? I mean, everybody
loves
your geese!” Angie had an enormous collection of ceramic, stuffed, and wooden geese.

“I’d never let my little darlings go,” said Angie. “This is their home!”

“See you Friday,” said Theodosia as she clicked off.

Okay, where was I?

Oh.
My hair.

Theodosia’s auburn hair, always full to begin with, had poufed out heroically today. Heat, humidity, and the constant steam from chirping, burbling tea kettles had contributed to an angelic halo that most women would kill for.

All except Theodosia.

Always a little self-conscious about her hair, she ran a brush through it, trying to tame the curls and waves and puffs. Then she gave a sigh, patted it down, and hoped for the best. Dashing out the back door, she fired up her Jeep and headed for Cotton Duck.

So, of course, when she pulled up in front of Delaine’s boutique, there were two youthful valets who were busy parking cars. One had just hopped into a white Mercedes and pulled away, while the other was handing a ticket to a woman who’d just climbed out of an enormous BMW that could have doubled for a Sherman tank.

And then there’s my Jeep
, thought Theodosia. A few bumps and dings, not the most glamorous mode of transportation. But she loved the crazy thing. It took her off road, roaring and rollicking deep into the woods of her aunt Libby’s farm to search for morels in spring and to gather tender dandelion shoots, clover, and wild watercress in high summer.

She pulled up to the front door, climbed out, and smiled at the young valet.

“Boss ride,” he murmured as he handed her a ticket.

“I think so,” she answered back. And then Theodosia ratcheted up her courage and pushed her way into Cotton Duck.

The first thing that greeted her was the thump-bump-thump of eardrum-busting techno music. The next thing was the enormous jostling crowd. There was, quite literally, a sea of well-dressed women who, by some mysterious circumstance, all seemed to know one another. They jabbered away, grabbed for programs, and exchanged air kisses. As Theodosia stood there, a little nonplussed and looking around, she couldn’t help but notice that the shop looked fantastic. Delaine had pushed her racks of dresses, slacks, tunics, and tops to one side of the store to make room for an actual runway. It was approximately a foot high and covered in shiny white Mylar. A string of miniature klieg lights had been suspended above it. On either side of the runway were rows of pristine white wooden folding chairs. There was a champagne bar set up just to Theodosia’s left, and of course, enormous baskets of flowers graced every available surface.

“Theo!” called Delaine. She glided to Theodosia’s side like a predatory cat. “What do you think of my décor?” She gave a little toss of her head, and her gold chandelier earrings tinkled like wind chimes.

“Gorgeous,” Theodosia told her. “Very impressive.” Delaine herself was decked out in a long black column of crepe de chine. One bare arm and shoulder were exposed as well as her pink lacquered toenails peeping out from a pair of cage booties.

“You see?” Delaine purred. “I’ve arranged my runway the same way my favorite couture houses do it—you know, Chanel, Dior, Lanvin. With the front row reserved for my absolute best customers and friends!”

Theodosia glanced around at all the well-heeled customers in their designer dresses and skirt suits and took a gulp. She was thankful she’d done her little presto-chango act and worn a presentable dress.

“You’d better grab a flute of champagne from the bar and find your seat,” Delaine instructed. “The show is set to kick off in just a couple of minutes.” Then she placed a hand on Theodosia’s forearm and squeezed gently. “I think you’ll be delighted to find yourself seated in the front row!”

“I’m thrilled,” Theodosia responded. Really, she didn’t care where she sat, but she was happy to go along with this front row business for Delaine’s sake. This entire afternoon—an amalgam of fashion, music, drinks, and craziness—was an elaborate package deal. And she not only had to buy into it, but was expected to bid—generously at that—on some of the clothes.

Oh well.

Theodosia made her way to the bar and grabbed a glass of champagne from a young, hunky-looking bartender. Just as she was headed for the front row, her cell phone rang. Dipping a hand into her bag, she scooped it out and checked her screen.
Indigo Tea Shop.
Uh-oh, a problem?

“Hello?”

“Theo, it’s Haley.”

“Is everything okay?”
Please tell me the tea shop didn’t blow up.

“Just peachy,” said Haley. “But I checked on that thing for you.”

“Thing,” said Theodosia.