Ming Tea Murder (22 page)

There were food stands, too. In fact, Theodosia could smell the mingled aromas of fried shrimp, fresh-baked muffins, and fresh-roasted coffee.

And just as Theodosia was wondering if any shoppers would show up, if maybe the whole thing would turn out to be a bust, the proverbial floodgates opened and crowds descended upon them.

Theodosia sold tea like it was going out of style. Forty-five minutes into the event, she'd sold out more than half her merchandise.
Now what?
Well, she could call Drayton and ask him to grab some bags of tea and tea accoutrements off the shelf and pack them up.

She did exactly that. And, some twenty minutes later, Haley showed up, red-faced and lugging an enormous cardboard box.

“The cavalry to the rescue,” announced Haley. She thumped her box down on Theodosia's table and scrambled to help unpack.

“I'm sorry you had to drop everything and rush this over,” said Theodosia. She was delighted to see that Drayton had packed thirty more bags of tea, as well as teacups and saucers, jars of honey, and a few T-Bath products.

“Don't be,” said Haley. “It's no trouble. We weren't all that busy.” She looked around. “I guess everybody's over here.”

“So you can hang around for a while?”

“Well . . . maybe I ought to get back. I hate for Drayton to be the lone wolf.”

“Thank you, Haley,” said Theodosia, “for bringing this over. And thank Dayton for packing all this up at the last minute.”

Theodosia got busy again, arranging her merchandise, selling tea, and chatting with the women who had tables on either side of her. Finally, she caught a glimpse of Delaine.

“Theodosia!” said Delaine as she careened toward her. She held a clipboard in her hand and had two harried-looking interns following her like a pair of ducklings. “How's it going?”

“Very well,” said Theodosia. “I already had to restock.”

“We've had a fantastic turnout,” said Delaine. She looked about distractedly. “I can't quite believe it. The animal groups are going to be so thrilled.” And with that she dashed off.

Theodosia wrapped a teacup and saucer in tissue paper for one buyer and explained to another how to heat water just so for brewing the perfect cup of tea. When she finally dared to draw a relaxing breath and look around, she saw Elliot Kern standing at her table. He had picked up a bag of tea and was studying the label.

“Can I help you?” said Theodosia. She was a little surprised that he'd even stopped at her table. Her meeting with him had reeked of hostility.

Kern looked up when he heard Theodosia's voice. Suddenly recognizing her, he looked so startled one would have thought he'd just been doused in hot oil.

“Oh . . . h-hello,” Kern stuttered. Then he looked down at the packages of tea again and glanced back at Theodosia, reluctantly making the connection. “I should have guessed you'd be the one selling tea,” he said in a flat tone of voice.

“Yes, well, I'm sure there are other sellers here if you'd prefer,” Theodosia replied.

“No, no,” said Kern, backpedaling slightly and trying to cover his unease. “This looks like lovely tea. It's your special blend, I take it?”

Theodosia gave a tight nod. “It's one of our proprietary blends, yes.”

Kern stared at her, a look that was both imperious and challenging. “You really don't like me, do you?”

The first thought that popped into Theodosia's head was,
No, I really don't.
Instead, she bit her tongue and reminded herself of the old adage about catching more flies with honey. And maybe more information, too.

“I really don't know you,” said Theodosia.

“But you're still upset about Max being put on leave.”

“Max is upset about Max being put on leave.”

“I understand he's already been approached by another museum,” said Kern.

Theodosia ignored his somewhat probing remark. Instead she said, “When do you intend to invite him back?”

“That's hard to say,” said Kern.

“I can't imagine it's that difficult. You're the museum's director, after all. It's your job to weigh the various options and make tough decisions.” Her smile was a half snarl. “It's why they pay you the big bucks.”

Kern cleared his throat, clearly uneasy.

“By the way,” Theodosia continued, “I hope you're excited to have Charlotte Webster on your board of directors. Especially in light of the firebombing at her home last night. You did hear about that, didn't you?”

Kern gave a sober nod. “I did. It sounded awful.”

“If you ask me,” said Theodosia, “someone doesn't want Charlotte around. Kind of like someone didn't want her husband around.” She realized that her resolve to catch more flies with honey had been kicked to the curb. But she was angry and rolling now.

Kern's brows pinched together and he scowled. “If you're implying that I had something to do with either of those things . . .”

“I don't know,” said Theodosia. “Did you? Someone clearly didn't want Edgar Webster poking his nose into museum business. And now someone might feel the same way about Charlotte.” She glared daggers at him.

“I don't need to take this,” Kern snarled. He tossed the bag of tea down on the table and spun away from her. He disappeared into the crowd.

Theodosia watched him go and wondered. Was Elliot Kern the man who'd been orchestrating all this mayhem? Was he a killer and a madman? Or was someone else to blame? Someone she hadn't yet tumbled to. Someone
nobody
had tumbled to?

Feeling tired and
a little worn out, Theodosia arrived back at the Indigo Tea Shop just after five o'clock.

The place was closed, and the curtains were drawn. Drayton had long since gone home for the day, and she could hear the rafters creaking as Haley rattled around upstairs.

That was good, Theodosia decided. She thought she could use a little peace and quiet to help her get her head back together. Meeting with Harlan Duke this morning and realizing he was a potential suspect—and then running into Elliot Kern—had rattled her. She now understood that either of those men might have had an ax to grind against Edgar Webster. And that either of them could have harassed Charlotte last night. Duke, to send her running in his direction, and Kern, to frighten her away.

As Theodosia walked out into the tea room, the lingering aromas of gunpowder green and Indian spice teas made her decide to fix herself a cuppa. She was running a 5K in a matter of hours, and a convenient hit of caffeine would definitely help spike her energy level.

But as she pulled a tin of Assam down from the shelf, her eyes landed on the Edgar Webster tribute poster that she'd stuck behind the counter. And the note from the Shanghai art dealer that was still tacked to it.

Theodosia plucked the note from the poster and stared at it. And wondered—what time was it in Shanghai?

She knew that, because of the international date line, it was already tomorrow in China. That meant it would be first thing Wednesday morning in Shanghai, seeing as how that city was something like thirteen or fourteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.

Should she call the art dealer, whose name was . . . ? Her eyes traveled to the bottom of the note.

MR
.
FANG
LIU
OF
MANDARIN
ART
AND
ANTIQUES
.

Should she venture a few questions to Mr. Liu about the Chinese tea house? Theodosia put a hand up and massaged the back of her neck. And decided . . . yes. Yes, she would.

Sitting at her computer, feeling like she was about to sail into uncharted waters, she Googled Mandarin Art and Antiques. There it was, located on Moganshan Road in Shanghai, with a phone number listed and everything. She flipped through a phone directory and located the country code. From there it was a small matter of dialing the number.

After a few clicks and clacks, a crisp male voice answered on the other end.

“Ni hao,”
said the voice.

“Hello?” said Theodosia. The connection sounded hollow, and there was a time delay of a couple seconds.

The man's voice changed to cultured English. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” said Theodosia. “I'm trying to get hold of Mr. Liu.”

“Speaking.”

“Oh, Mr. Liu, this is Theodosia Browning calling from Charleston. In the United States?”

“Yes?” Now he sounded slightly wary.

“I just wanted to tell you how thrilled we all are with the Chinese tea house,” Theodosia burbled. She was making things up as she went along. “It's absolutely gorgeous.”

That warmed him up.

“I'm so very glad,” said Mr. Liu.

“It's almost hard to believe that it's . . . authentic,” said Theodosia.

Mr. Liu chuckled. “I can assure you that it's perfectly legitimate, right down to the floorboards.”

“That's what Mr. Harlan Duke told us, too.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Duke. He has a discerning eye for Chinese antiquities. It was a pleasure to work with him.”

“I imagine a Chinese tea house is not that easy to come by anymore,” said Theodosia.
Please,
please, please, take the hint and follow my lead.

“Luckily, the city of Shanghai is still blessed with a number of such structures,” said Mr. Liu. “However, with the current building explosion that's going on here . . .” A note of regret crept into his voice. “Well, we are gratified to see these tea houses go to public institutions, where they will be honored and appreciated.”

“Our museum in Charleston really
loves
it,” Theodosia assured him. “It's very popular.”

“Right now there is another museum that is also looking to secure one,” said Mr. Liu.

Theodosia's ears perked up. “Oh really? Which museum is that?”

“The Crenshaw Museum,” said Mr. Liu. “In Upstate New York. They are in the process of raising funds to complete their purchase.”

“Well, thank you so much,” said Theodosia. “It was very nice talking to you.”

As she hung up the phone, Theodosia wondered if it was too late to call the Crenshaw Museum. Yes, she decided, it probably was. But first thing tomorrow, she would make that call. Because if Shanghai tea houses were somehow tied to these recent crimes, she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

• • •

“You look adorable,
you know that?” Theodosia was back home in her kitchen, smiling at Earl Grey, trying to cajole him with the upbeat sound of her voice.

The dog wasn't buying it.

Standing there in his lion costume, Earl Grey was a very reluctant participant. His tail was down and his shoulders slumped. He looked . . . embarrassed.

“You know,” said Theodosia, trying her best to pump up some enthusiasm, “I hand stitched that costume just for you. Went to the fabric store, found that nice shaggy orange fun fur, and created your cool lion's mane.”

Earl Grey let loose a delicate sigh.

Theodosia decided to approach it from a different angle. “You only have to wear your costume for an hour or so. We're going to jog over to White Point Gardens, run in the Big Paw five-K, and then blow that pop stand.”

This time Earl Grey rolled his eyes.

“And look,” Theodosia continued, “I'm going to wear a costume, too.” She put on her witch's hat. “See?” She gazed at him hopefully, and then said, “I still haven't convinced you, have I? You know what? I understand how you feel. I get that dogs hate Halloween because it's the worst holiday of the year. It's one long litany of ringing doorbells, kids in scary costumes, and chocolate that's bad for you. And I'm sorry about that, I truly am. But what we're doing tonight is going to benefit a lot of people and dogs.”

He lifted his muzzle and gazed at her.

“That's right, it's a
good
thing. We're trying to raise money so we can train more service dogs.”

Earl Grey took a step toward her and touched his nose to her hand. Gave her a nudge.

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. “I see we're finally on the same wavelength. Okay, let me put on my cape and slip into my running shoes. Then we're outta here.”

• • •

Strings of purple
and orange lights glowed in the dark. An enormous circle of carved pumpkins with flickering candles gave the impression of a witches' convocation. And rumbling fog machines pumped out great gluts of ethereal white vapor, making White Point Gardens look very much like a haunted theme park.

Theodosia and Earl Grey picked their way through throngs of costumed people and dogs, heading for the registration table that was staffed by Big Paw volunteers.

“Hey there,” Theodosia said to Helen, one of the volunteers and race organizers. “We're here to pick up our numbers.”

Helen consulted her list and then shuffled through a dozen or so cardboard tags. “Let's see, Theodosia and Earl Grey. Here you go. You're team number forty-five.”

Theodosia pinned her number to her sleeve and grinned. “Everything looks so nice and spooky tonight.”

“Can you believe it?” said Helen. She was short and cute with curly dark hair, the owner of a wonderful white poodle named Shawn. “We didn't really need to rent a fog machine.” She waved an arm. “The Atlantic Ocean seems to be providing us with a good supply of the real thing.”

“It certainly adds to the moodiness,” agreed Theodosia. “Oh, do you have Max's number, too? He'll be running with us.”

“He's already picked it up,” said Helen.

“Max is here?”

“Somewhere,” said Helen as she went on to help the next runner, a man with an exuberant boxer in a red devil costume.

“Okay, thanks,” said Theodosia.

She found Max snarfing down a funnel cake. “Aren't you afraid that glop of sugar and grease is going to slow you down?” she asked.

Max had just taken a huge bite of his funnel cake, so he had to chew and swallow hard before answering. “Uh-uh. The carbs are guaranteed to give me an extra shot of energy.”

“In other words, you skipped dinner?”

“Afraid so.”

“Me, too.”

“We're both running on empty, then,” said Max. He reached down and scratched Earl Grey behind the ears. “Hey there.”

“At least it's a short race,” said Theodosia. She took in his Lycra pants and nylon hoodie. “I see you didn't wear a costume.”

“No time,” said Max. He turned his attention back to Earl Grey. “But hey, buddy,
your
costume looks great.”

“He hates it,” said Theodosia.

“Nooo,” said Max as he continued to rub Earl Grey's ears. “I bet you feel like a big, tough lion in that costume, don't you?”

Earl Grey stared at Max as if he'd just committed a major faux pas (or would that be faux paw?).

“I see the costume is kind of a sore point,” said Max. “Like you already said, good thing it's a short race.” He sidled closer to Theodosia. “You look cute tonight. Very witchy and mysterious.”

“Max,” said Theodosia, turning serious, “I have to tell you something.”

He tilted his head toward her. “What?”

She pulled him away from the crowd and into a quiet area. “I stopped by Harlan Duke's antique shop this morning.”

“Okay.”

“He wasn't there, but I was able to catch up with him at the Equinox Equestrian Center.”

“Is this your way of telling me you bought a horse? Or that you're going to run away and join the rodeo?”

“No, but . . .” Theodosia drew a deep breath, and then proceeded to tell Max about Duke, his horses, and his casual handling of the dangerous looking hoof pick.

As she talked, Max's expression changed from one of mild interest to one of great concern. “Whoa. Time out. Are you implying that Duke might have used a hoof pick to dispatch Edgar Webster?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“The saga of Webster's murder just keeps getting stranger and stranger.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Theo, did you tell Detective Tidwell about the hoof pick?”

“I was going to,” said Theodosia. “Drayton said I should. But I haven't yet.” When Max gave her a troubled look, she added, “Mostly because I was so darned busy today with lunch and then running off to the Hunt and Gather Market.”

“I think you have to tell him.”

They stood there as a pair of Jack Russell terriers romped by, barking and spinning happily.

“Here's the problem,” said Theodosia. “Whenever I bring up a random suggestion or share a bit of information, Tidwell goes all law enforcement on me and accuses me of meddling.”

“But a razor-sharp hoof pick isn't exactly random,” said Max. “Especially when it's connected to the art dealer who located the Chinese tea house and who's also connected to the murdered man who helped fund it.”

“But it's still not direct evidence,” said Theodosia. “It's circumstantial at best.”

Max took her arm and slowly led her toward the starting line, where the runners—both humans and dogs—were beginning to line up. “I'd like to come to the Indigo Tea Shop tomorrow and help out if I could.”

“Wait a minute. Why the sudden change of subject? You . . . you want to help with our Tower of London Tea?”

“Actually,” said Max, “I want to be there so I can keep you safe and sound.”

Theodosia adjusted Earl Grey's lion's mane. “I'm sure I'll be perfectly fine.”

“That's probably what Edgar Webster thought, too,” said Max. “As well as Cecily and Charlotte just before they were attacked.”

“But I'll be surrounded by lots of people.”

“Kind of like Edgar Webster was at the museum?” They stepped over a trio of dachshunds and a tangle of leashes.

“Tell you what,” said Theodosia. “We've got Miss Dimple coming in to help serve tea. But what if you lent a hand tomorrow night at the Bloody Mary Crawl and Haunted Hayride?”

“I think that might be a smart idea,” said Max. There was a long pause as he gave her a curious look.

“Now what?” said Theodosia.

“Nothing.”

“Something.” She knew him better than that. Something was brewing and it wasn't a pot of tea.

“I got a job offer today,” said Max.

“Seriously?”