Ming Tea Murder (3 page)

A Brown Betty
teapot rested on the small wooden table where Theodosia and Drayton sat. Bone china teacups were filled with freshly brewed Assam. Haley, the Indigo Tea Shop's young chef and baker extraordinaire, hovered nearby. It was a half hour before the Indigo Tea Shop was slated to open, and the three of them were still mulling over the ill-fated events of last night.

Theodosia took a fortifying sip of tea, and said, “I think Max feels partially responsible for everything that happened.”

“Nonsense,” said Drayton. Dressed in his customary tweed jacket with a starched white shirt and red bow tie, he looked just this side of imposing. “Max had nothing remotely to do with that murder.”

“It was his idea to bring in the photo booth,” offered Haley. She was in her early twenties, with stick-straight blond hair and a waifish figure. Even though she favored T-shirts and flowing, mid-length skirts, the ethereal looking Haley was, in reality, a stiff-backed martinet. She ran the kitchen as if it were a military operation. Even now, cream scones, apple muffins, and cranberry nut bread baked in the oven, each pan of goodies timed out precisely. Luncheon ingredients had already been prepped, and woe to the deliveryman who showed up late for his allotted time.

“Still,” said Theodosia, “Max feels just awful.”

“As do we all,” said Drayton. “It's a crying shame to import that lovely tea house all the way from China only to have the opening reception ruined.”

“It wasn't just the reception that was ruined,” said Haley. “It was people's lives.”

Drayton pursed his lips. “Well, I certainly didn't mean to make
light
of that.”

“We know you didn't,” said Theodosia. She was the peacemaker in the group, always ready to smooth things over or offer a quick suggestion. Unless, of course, her own feathers got ruffled. Then, as Drayton was wont to say,
Hell hath no fury . . .

But this morning Theodosia was in a thoughtful mood. Edgar Webster's murder simply made no sense to her. Webster was a businessman who'd served on the board of directors at the museum and was well regarded in the community. He'd also done a wonderful service for the art-loving public in helping to spearhead the importation of that treasure of a tea house.

And, what really bothered Theodosia was that Webster and his wife, Charlotte, had been in the seemingly safe company of friends. Though most of the crowd had been made up of Charleston's old-money families or newly crowned titans of industry, they were, for the most part, well-mannered titans.

Except for one.

But which one?

Theodosia knew that beneath the old-world gentility of Charleston there ran a few undercurrents of greed, anger, and hatred. But from what she'd observed at the museum, everyone had been in a congenial, almost hale-hearty mood. They'd been drinking Chinese tea and French champagne. They'd snacked on wonderful little dim sum treats. And they'd genially patted one another on the back, congratulating themselves on how civic-minded they'd been in donating funds to help purchase the tea house.

But one of them had murder in his heart.

Theodosia shook her head. It was almost incomprehensible. If you weren't safe in a museum, with people you knew and trusted, where were you safe?

Drayton pushed back from the table and stood up abruptly. “We need to ready the tea shop.” Consulting the antique Patek-Philippe watch that was wrapped around his wrist, he nodded as if to underscore his words. “Yes, it's definitely time to get moving.”

“I'm all set,” said Haley. She prided herself on always having it together.

“We know that,” Drayton said, smiling slightly. He was secretly pleased that Haley was such a stickler for punctuality and planning. He greatly admired those traits in a person.

“You're right,” said Theodosia, pulling herself up from the table. “This is Friday, so it's likely to be busy.”

“Fridays are always busy,” said Drayton. He was starting to bustle about, unfurling white linen tablecloths and draping them across tables. “It's the end of the work week, so people tend to slack off.”

“You mean relax,” said Theodosia. “There's a difference.”

She was following in his footsteps now, setting out small plates along with cups and saucers. They were lovely mismatched pieces of Shelley Chintz, Aynsley, and Spode that she'd picked up at various Charleston antique shops and tag sales.

“That's what the Indigo Tea Shop is all about, don't you think?” said Theodosia. “Relaxing?” She loved the notion that the tea shop served as a little oasis of calm for their work-weary customers.

With its brick fireplace, battered hickory tables, and leaded-glass windows, the Indigo Tea Shop exuded a cozy ambiance. Since it was autumn again, the pegged wooden floors had just gotten their annual red-tea wash, and the highboys were crammed with candles, tea towels, tea cozies, and antique silverware. A new crop of dried grapevine wreaths hung on the walls alongside antique prints that were also for sale.

And once the tables were set, the candles lit, and the faint strains of Vivaldi playing over the stereo system, the Indigo Tea Shop pretty much oozed its own blend of British and Victorian charm.

“I'm going to make a pot of that Grand Pouchong from Taiwan,” Drayton announced. He was bustling about at the front counter, where floor-to-ceiling cupboards were stacked with tins that held the world's most exotic teas. Everything from delicately fruited Nilgiris to malty Assams to rich, dark oolongs.

“Sounds like a fabulous idea,” said Theodosia. After Webster's demise she was craving a little fabulosity in her life.

Drayton carefully measured in the leaves and added a tiny bit extra. “And a pinch for the pot,” he told her.

“That always makes it better,” Theodosia agreed. Between Haley's baked goods and Drayton's tea offerings, the Indigo Tea Shop was redolent with the most amazing aromas.

“Uh-oh,” said Drayton. He was gazing past the filmy curtains that framed the front window. “Here come our first customers of the morning.”

• • •

The tea shop
was half-filled and bustling when Delaine Dish burst through the front door around ten o'clock. Dressed in a bright fuchsia-colored skirt suit and matching jaunty hat and wearing great flashes of gleaming gold jewelry, she looked like (and was) a miniature volcano.

“Hello!” Delaine cried out to anyone who was even remotely in her vicinity. “Good morning!”

Theodosia hurried over to greet Delaine, who was the proprietor of Cotton Duck, one of Charleston's premier clothing boutiques. Loud, gossipy, and self-centered, Delaine was not only a handful, she was certified mad as a hatter.

And this morning Delaine wasn't alone.

“Theo,” Delaine said in a slightly grudging tone of voice, “I'd like you to meet my great aunt Astra.” She nodded in an offhand way at the tiny lady who accompanied her. “She's here for a short visit. Well, hopefully it's short.” She focused an intense gaze on Aunt Astra, who was dressed in a sedate gray dress and wearing what Theodosia always thought of as “old lady shoes.” That is, they were black leather lace-ups with clunky, low heels. Although now that Theodosia thought about it, maybe they were the latest in hipster fashion.

As Drayton ambled over to greet Delaine, she felt obliged to mumble another hasty introduction. Which prompted Drayton, always the proper gentleman, to give a formal half bow and lead Aunt Astra to a table.

Delaine rolled her eyes as she watched him being so solicitous.

“That woman on his arm is barely even a blood relative,” Delaine confided to Theodosia. “She's, like, my great aunt once removed. And she's about a hundred years old.” Delaine's head whipped around. “But, Theo, she's no doddering old fool. She's still got all her buttons, and her tongue is sharp as a razor blade. That old bat will cut you to the quick if you don't watch out.”

“Then I'll be sure to watch out,” Theodosia said with some amusement. Surely Delaine had to be embroidering her words?

“And she's constantly harping at me,” said Delaine. “Criticizing me.” She snuck a quick peak Aunt Astra's way to make sure she couldn't be overheard. “I've nicknamed her Aunt Acid because of all her bile and bitterness.”

“How long is she staying with you?”

“Too long,” said Delaine. She frowned, and then pressed an index finger against the frown lines forming between her brows, as if willing them to disappear. “I'm going to try to ship her off to my cousin in Goose Creek as soon as I can make suitable arrangements.”

“Come on,” said Theodosia, leading Delaine to her table. “You need to sit down and relax. Have yourself a nice cup of tea.” She settled Delaine alongside Aunt Astra and gave them a quick summary of the day's specials.

When Theodosia returned with a plate of cream scones and a pot of English breakfast tea, Delaine shot a nervous glance at Aunt Astra, and said, “I'm sorry I missed all the excitement last night.”

“Don't be,” said Theodosia. “It was pretty brutal.”

“You're talking about the actual murder?” said Delaine.

“I'm talking about everything,” said Theodosia. Fresh in her mind was the furor that had ensued.

“Hmm,” said Delaine, savoring that little bit of excitement. “There was a delicious article about the murder in this morning's
Post and Courier.
But they didn't elaborate on what poor Edgar Webster was stabbed with. The reporter just kind of danced around it.” She paused. “Didn't mention where or how he was stabbed, either.”

Theodosia dropped her voice. “He was stabbed with some sort of long, thin blade.” She hesitated. “Inserted in his ear.”

“Oh my,” said Delaine, fully relishing the details. “You mean like an ice pick?”

“I suppose it was something like that,” said Theodosia. “But the police haven't revealed any specific details. I suppose they want to conduct a thorough autopsy first.”

“It would be fairly easy to conceal a weapon like that,” said Delaine.

“That's exactly the problem,” Theodosia agreed. “A small weapon the size of an ice pick could have easily disappeared into someone's pocket or handbag.” And disappear it had, she thought, since so many people had been stampeding their way out the door as the police and EMTs were rushing in. The weapon could have gone out the door in that first mad scramble of people. It could have just disappeared—poof!—into the dark of the night.

Aunt Astra's eyes got progressively larger as she listened and methodically chewed her scone.

Delaine gave a faint smile. “I can just picture all of Charleston's blue bloods positively
fighting
to get out of the way of a murder investigation. Nobody wants their family name dragged through the mud or attached to something as sordid as
murder
.” She took a demure sip of tea and the feather atop her hat bobbed. “You know, Edgar Webster may have moved in the upper echelons of Charleston society, but he wasn't very well liked.”

Theodosia leaned forward. “Why would you say something like that?”

Delaine waved a hand. “No reason, really.”

“No, there has to be
some
thing,” said Theodosia. “You started to let the cat out of the bag, so now I'd like to hear exactly what you have to say.”

“So would I,” said Aunt Astra, touching a napkin to her lips as she finally spoke up.

Delaine made an unhappy face. “Well, you know about the trouble between him and his little wifey, Charlotte, right?”

“No, I certainly don't,” said Theodosia. “What about him and Charlotte?”

Now Aunt Astra looked seriously interested. “There were problems in their marriage?” she asked.

Delaine pursed her lips. “I would have to say they had what might be termed an
open
marriage.”

“Ah,” said Aunt Astra, relishing this juicy tidbit.

“Okay,” said Theodosia. She was surprised but not startled. Both Charlotte and Edgar had larger-than-life personalities and were involved in charities and major social functions all over town. So they were independent people. And, of course, temptation lurked everywhere.

“Their marriage was open on one side, anyway,” Delaine said, selecting her words carefully.

“I'm assuming you meant on Edgar Webster's side,” said Theodosia. She pondered this for a moment. “Charlotte must have been awfully upset about him stepping out on her.”

“Believe it,” said Delaine. “Why . . . up until a couple of weeks ago, Edgar was carrying on like a madman with Cecily Conrad.”

“What do you mean by ‘up until a couple of weeks ago?'” Theodosia asked.

“Webster and Cecily recently broke up,” said Delaine. “Of course, they chose to conduct their big brouhaha in front of about a million people at the Valhalla Country Club. And from what I understand, the fur flew like crazy.”