Ming Tea Murder (18 page)

“Yes?” Theodosia said again.

“Well, you've heard of the Bloody Mary Crawl and the Haunted Hayride?”

“Sure,” said Theodosia. “It's the spooky walk and hayride that take place Halloween night.” She was getting a good sense of what might be coming.

“Only it's so much more than just that,” Charlotte enthused. “Historic homes will be all decorated and open to the public, and volunteers will be serving Bloody Marys, cider, and donuts. Then there are guided trips through the cemetery, and of course, a hayride with real live horses.”

“I've never taken part in any of those events,” said Theodosia. “But they sound like fun.” She was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Only now,” said Charlotte, “my participation feels . . . well, rather unseemly. I mean, coming on the heels of poor Edgar's death”—she gave a dry cough that sounded a little phony—“and his subsequent burial.”

That would be the usual order of things
, Theodosia thought.

“Anyway,” Charlotte continued, “long story short, I was wondering if
you
would agree to take over my duties as chairperson.”

“What exactly would I have to do?” Theodosia felt sorry for Charlotte; she really did. A dead husband and Halloween didn't exactly go well together. At the same time, she was nervous about taking on an additional project. And a fairly big one at that.

“That's the beauty of it,” said Charlotte. “You don't have to do much of anything. I mean . . . everything's been planned out, down to the last detail. Oh, sure, you'd have to be at the rallying point when the Bloody Mary Crawl kicks off and kind of ride herd on the volunteers. Then you'd have to make sure the open houses go off without a hitch, and that guides take visitors along Gateway Walk and through the cemeteries.”

“How many volunteers do you have?”

Charlotte closed her eyes, thinking. Then they popped open. “We've signed up at least thirty.”

“Oh, so a lot of volunteers.”

“And the horses and hay wagons are all donated,” said Charlotte. “From Equinox Equestrian Center.”

“I don't have to worry about the horses, too?” said Theodosia.

“Not really. The hay wagon drivers will take care of trailering them in . . . and the hayride routes are all predetermined.” Charlotte bobbed her head eagerly. “So you'll step in and do it?”

“Yes, I will,” said Theodosia. “But I'd still need to get together with you and go over all the various aspects. Would that be possible?”

“Absolutely, it would. Maybe you could drop by my house tonight around seven. I could go over my notes with you—everything's organized in a binder. You should be able to pick up on the high points in about two seconds.”

“Okay, I'll see you then,” said Theodosia.

Charlotte reached out and grasped Theodosia's hand. “Thank you so much.” She stood up, and said, “Oh, and some good news, too. I've been elected a board member at the museum.” On this note she fairly beamed.

“You're taking your husband's place,” Theodosia said slowly. “That's really quite . . . interesting.”

“Interesting, yes,” said Charlotte. “In fact, we have our very first meeting tomorrow night.”

• • •

Ten minutes later,
it was all over. The guests had departed, Theodosia had cleared away the debris, and Drayton had set up the tables for afternoon tea. Only Bill Glass lingered at his table, wolfing down a scone and slurping his third cup of tea.

“Are you just about done there?” Theodosia asked him. She worried that he might become a permanent fixture.

But Glass wasn't really listening. He was tuned in to his own wavelength.

“I am seriously suspicious of Harlan Duke,” said Glass. “Did you see how he was making moves on Charlotte Webster?”

“Sitting next to her, being kind and comforting her. That's making moves?”

“If you could have seen them right after the funeral. He was escorting her out of the church, and she was positively leaning into him.”

“Maybe because she was upset?”

“Or maybe because he was coming on to her.”

“I don't know,” said Theodosia. Although she was curious about their developing relationship herself.

“What if Harlan Duke killed Webster?” Glass blurted out.

“What?”

“I think you heard me just fine,” said Glass.

Theodosia put a hand on her hip and regarded him. “Okay, smart guy, I'll bite: Why on earth would Duke kill Edgar Webster? What possible motive could he have had?”

Glass gave a nasty grin. “Duh . . . to get to the grieving widow? To get in line so he can be her next husband and heir to the throne?”

“The throne?”

“Well, all that money she's got squirreled away.”

“That's an awful lot of speculation,” said Theodosia. “But, okay, just for the sake of argument, let's just say Duke
did
kill Edgar Webster. Then does it follow that he also attacked Cecily Conrad?”

“He could have.”

“But why? For what possible reason?”

Glass had an answer for this, too. “Maybe because Charlotte asked him to?”

“Then you're saying they're in collusion,” said Theodosia.

“That's a possibility.”

“And I think maybe you're completely off base.”
Was he really?

“Let's just say I haven't
rounded
the bases yet,” said Glass. “But I think I might have hit a decent line drive.”

“You're crazy, you know that?” said Theodosia.

“Admit it,” said Glass. “There's something going on.”

“Something, yes. We just don't know what.”

Glass held up a finger. “But we will. I know we'll figure it out.”

“They left their
easel behind,” said Theodosia. She glanced around as if she expected it to toddle off by itself. “Drayton?”

Drayton looked up from where he was fixing a pot of Earl Grey. Afternoon tea was in full swing and almost half the tables were occupied. Haley had baked a batch of orange scones, and those were being enjoyed along with cups of chocolate hazelnut and ginger peach tea.

“The easel,” said Drayton. “Yes, I guess it is still here. I suppose Charlotte was supposed to take it. Or the Datrex people.”

Theodosia grabbed the tag board with the photos and notes stuck to it and propped it behind the counter. Then she gathered up the wooden easel and carried it into her office. “We don't need people tripping over this,” she muttered.

She shoved the easel up against a wall, struck her toe on the corner of a cardboard box filled with straw hats, and clambered over to her desk. Yes, her office was messy. She was the first one to admit it. But only because it was jam-packed with boxes of tea, honey, Tea Shirts, and her trademark indigo-blue shopping bags. To say nothing of the stacks of sweetgrass baskets, wreaths, and red hats.

Sitting at her desk now, she leaned back, and thought,
Why did I come in here again?
She let her mind wander for a few moments.
Oh, yes. I need to focus on
Delaine's Hunt and Gather Market.

She really had forgotten all about it. Forgotten that she'd promised Delaine months ago that she'd take part. That, along with forty or so other merchants who Delaine had coerced, she'd sell some of her tea or T-Bath products at the one-day street market.

Delaine was certainly flamboyant and a little maddening, but she was a whirling dervish when it came to fund-raising. The Heritage Society, the Charleston Opera, and especially animal-welfare organizations benefitted from her fiendish ways. When it came to opening doors, prying open checkbooks, and garnering substantial pledges, nobody could hold a candle to Delaine.

Theodosia picked up a tea catalog, flipped through a few pages, and then, feeling restless, tossed it aside. She still had to figure something out for the Hunt and Gather Market. She supposed she could sell some of their proprietary blended tea. They still had beaucoup bags of their Housewarming Blend, a Chinese black tea blended with a hint of citrus and ginger. And there was a good stock of Honey Hibiscus tea, too, a mild black tea blended with hibiscus blossoms, rosehips, and a touch of honey.

Sure, that should work.

“You look puzzled,” said Drayton. “Are you deep in thought?” He was standing in the doorway, smiling.

“I have to come up with something to sell at tomorrow's Hunt and Gather Market,” said Theodosia.

“Yes, I heard Delaine banging away about that.”

“It slipped my mind.”

“You've had a lot going on.” Drayton took a step forward. “You know, I've just worked up a new tea blend.”

“Another one?” Drayton came up with the most wonderful proprietary blends. And they were all good sellers, too.

“If Haley and I put in an extra half hour or so this afternoon, we could probably package up a few bags for you.”

“To sell at Delaine's market?” said Theodosia. “That would be super. And thanks for the rescue, I owe you one.”

“Don't you even want to taste the tea?” asked Drayton.

“Well . . . sure.”

He held up a finger. “I shall return.”

Theodosia was halfway through the afternoon mail—mostly junk—when Drayton came back with a small pot of tea. “It's ready,” he told her. “Perfectly steeped.” He poured out a cup and handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Better you should try it first.”

So Theodosia did.

“This is delicious,” she said. “It tastes like . . .” She smiled. “The outdoors.” Taking another sip, she let the warm liquid roll across her tongue. “What do you call this?”

“This is my English Hedgerow tea,” said Drayton. “A rich black tea with chamomile, lemongrass, cornflower, and rose petals. It's basically a floral and grassy blend that I find reminiscent of the English countryside and its hedgerows.”

“This is magnificent,” said Theodosia. “No wonder you're the tea blender and I'm the tea taster.”

“We'll package up . . . what? Maybe four dozen bags for you?”

“That should do it.” Theodosia stood up and came around her desk, feeling like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She nodded toward the tea room. “Do you need me out there?”

“Couldn't hurt,” said Drayton.

Together they strolled out into the tea room, Theodosia still enjoying her cup of tea. “You know I'm going to pay a visit to Datrex later on today.”

“For what reason?”

“I still get a weird feeling about Roger Greaves,” said Theodosia. “I thought if I saw the company, talked to him a little more, that something might pop.”

“This whole thing is a skull cracker, isn't it?” said Drayton.

“Yes, and there's something I need to ask you,” said Theodosia. “You know about the Bloody Mary Crawl and Haunted Hayride?”

“The events taking place on All Hallows Eve,” said Drayton.

“Well, Charlotte asked me to take over her role as chairperson.”

“That sounds like an awfully big job. Isn't her request coming a trifle late?”

“It is, but I still told her yes anyway. The thing is, I'm going to drop by her house tonight and go over the final plans.” Theodosia hesitated. “I was wondering if you'd come along with me.”

Drayton looked pained. “You're not going to ask me to dress up as a ghoul or a ghost are you?”

“No, no, you'd be coming along strictly as moral support. And because you're smart and because I'm still a tiny bit suspicious of Charlotte.”
Especially after Bill Glass got done spinning all his wild theories.

“I see,” said Drayton.

“So. Will you? Come along, I mean?”

“You know I will.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia.

Drayton cocked his head to one side and peered around Theodosia. “Exactly what are you doing, Haley?”

“Oh,” said Haley. She was struggling with an enormous cardboard box. “I dug out our Halloween decorations. I thought I'd put them up.”

“Now?” said Theodosia.

“We couldn't do it any earlier,” said Haley, sounding a little defensive. “I mean, how would it have looked? The tea room festooned with ghosts and skeletons while a funeral luncheon was taking place? That would have been way too macabre. But now . . .”

“I suppose it's okay,” said Drayton, looking pained. “At least our lovely tea room will only resemble Dante's
Inferno
for three days.” He turned to pluck a tea tin from one of the shelves. “Though it will
feel
like an eternity,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” said Haley.

• • •

Theodosia was just
about to leave when Detective Tidwell came striding in. He was accompanied by another detective in a worn-looking brown leather jacket, a man he introduced as Detective Tuck Samuels. She recognized Samuels as one of the men who'd been at the scene of Cecily's attack on Saturday night.

“Miss Browning,” said Tidwell. A grin stretched across his wide face. “It looks as if we almost missed you. Are you dashing off somewhere?”

“Just running errands,” said Theodosia. No way was she going to tell him that she was headed for a meeting with Roger Greaves.

“I have a few questions,” said Tidwell. He glanced at Samuels. “Actually,
we
have a few questions. Could you spare a moment of your time?”

“A moment,” said Theodosia. She turned to Drayton. “Drayton, could you . . . ?”

“My pleasure,” said Drayton.

Theodosia led the men to a table, and said, “Won't you sit down? Drayton is going to bring you some tea and scones. Unfortunately, I can't join you. My schedule . . .”

“Wonderful,” said Samuels. He'd been sniffing the air like an overeager bird dog, obviously entranced by the aroma of tea and muffins and scones.

“Detective Samuels means it's wonderful that you're offering us some refreshments,” said Tidwell. “Don't you, Detective?”

Samuels nodded. “That's right.”

“And I believe you had some questions for Miss Browning?” said Tidwell.

“I thought
you
had the questions,” Theodosia said to Tidwell. What was this, anyway? A rehashed version of good cop, bad cop?

“Kindly bear with us,” said Tidwell as Samuels dug a spiral notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

Samuels cleared his throat. “How long have you known Max Scofield?” he asked.

“Why are you asking?” said Theodosia.

“We're trying to clear him,” Samuels said matter-of-factly.

Theodosia focused a level gaze at Tidwell. “I thought Max was already cleared.”

“The board of directors at the museum has asked us to take a more careful look at everyone involved,” said Tidwell.

“Everyone?” said Theodosia. “Does that mean everyone who was at the grand opening party for the Chinese tea house?”

“Almost everyone,” said Samuels.

“You care to tell me who else you're talking to?” said Theodosia.

“No,” said Tidwell.

“That's not how it's done,” said Samuels just as Drayton showed up with a pot of tea and a plate of scones.

“Now, we also have some blueberry muffins if you'd prefer,” said Drayton.

“No,” said Theodosia. “This is just fine. This is all these gentlemen have time for.” When she saw disappointment register on Tidwell's face, she added, “They're extremely busy. They have a lot more people to question.”

• • •

Theodosia was still
miffed as she drove down Calhoun Street heading for Datrex.

The nerve of Tidwell. Didn't he know her better than that? Did he really think she'd have anything to do with Max if she'd caught even a
whiff
that he'd been involved in Webster's murder?

As if to reinforce her indignation, Theodosia pulled out her cell phone and called Max. He answered right away.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” she said. “Me. What are you doing?”

“Working on my résumé,” said Max.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. It feels like I'm going to be persona non grata around here for quite some time.”

“So you're really going to look at other jobs?” She felt unsettled by the news. “Um . . . where?”

“Well,” said Max. “I did have that offer from Savannah a couple of months ago. At the College of Art and Design.”

Theodosia's heart caught in her throat. “So what does that mean?” she asked. What she really meant was,
What does that mean for us? Living almost one hundred miles apart?

“It means I'm actively looking,” said Max. He fell silent for a few moments, and then said, “How did your luncheon go?”

“It was fine.” It really hadn't been fine at all, but she didn't feel like rehashing the Cecily-Charlotte grudge match with him. “Okay, I just wanted to check in and say hi.”

“You still want to go for that jog? Get one last good workout in before you run the five-K tomorrow night?”

“Sure, but it's going to have to be later tonight. Maybe nine-ish?”

“I'll see you then.”

• • •

The corporate headquarters
for Datrex looked like it had been conceived by an architecture student who was torn between the Bauhaus and Buck Rogers. A three-story trapezoid of shimmering blue glass, Theodosia thought the building stuck out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood that offered Ivy League–style buildings as well as cute little Charleston single houses. But there was guest parking, a friendly receptionist, and a respectable-looking Aubusson carpet on the floor of the lobby.

Theodosia had barely cracked the pages of the new
Fortune
magazine when she was greeted and led to Roger Greaves's rather comfortable office.

“We meet again,” said Greaves. He came around the side of his large desk to shake hands with her.

“Thanks for taking time out of your busy day,” she told him. “Although, with the funeral this morning, I doubt you got much work done today.”

Greaves indicated a leather chair embellished with old-fashioned hobnails, and she sat down in it. Greaves settled in behind his desk. While the Datrex headquarters may have looked ultramodern, Greaves' office was furnished fairly traditionally. Touches of wood, some large green plants, and a few paintings and what appeared to be several shadow boxes hung on the walls.

“You seemed so anxious to talk to me before,” said Greaves. He offered a pleasant smile. “What's so important that it warrants a special visit?”

“As I mentioned before,” said Theodosia, “Charlotte asked me to look into things.”