Dragonwell Dead, page 3
part #8 of A Tea Shop Mystery Series
Drayton adjusted his bow tie, then picked up a linen napkin, shook it out, and refolded it.
“You already did that,” Delaine pointed out to him.
He frowned. “You’re quite correct. In fact I’m so addled, I haven’t even selected today’s teas yet.”
“What a day,” sighed Haley Parker as she came rushing out of the kitchen, carrying a silver tray filled with cut-glass sugar bowls and tiny pitchers of fresh cream. “Our doors open in ten minutes and all we can think about is poor Mark Congdon.” Haley paused. She was their head chef and baker extraordinaire, a young woman with enthusiasm to spare, a smiling face, stick-straight long blond hair, and what could be a dangerously caustic wit. Each day Haley whipped up the most amazing scones, muffins, breads, and biscuits. To say nothing of the delicious quiches, chowders, salads, and tea sandwiches that the Indigo Tea Shop served at lunch.
“What exactly was Mark doing when he suffered his heart attack?” asked Haley. “Or myocardial infarction or whatever it was.”
“He was sipping a glass of sweet tea,” said Drayton. “And celebrating his orchid purchase.”
“Do you think the intense cold from the ice could have caused cardiac arrhythmia?” wondered Theodosia.
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” said Delaine. “There wasn’t that much ice, remember?”
“Or bradycardia,” said Haley, edging over to join them. “That’s when the heart beats a little too slowly.”
“Maybe,” said Drayton. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for a final medical report.”
Delaine sat there squirming. “Goodness, I could use a cigarette,” she murmured. “This is all so upsetting.”
“Not very healthy,” chided Drayton. “Especially for your heart.”
“Are you going to open your shop today?” Theodosia asked Delaine. She decided it might be time to gently oust her friend from the tea shop so they could all get to work.
Delaine glanced at her watch, an elegant Chopard, and sighed. “Oh, I suppose so. Although I called earlier and told Janine I’d probably be a tad late this morning. I was planning to stop by the Featherbed House to see how Angie is doing.”
“I’m sure she’s utterly bereft,” said Drayton, who looked fairly bereft himself.
“Poor Angie,” said Haley. “She’s such a dear soul. And she’s been so successful at making a go of the Featherbed House all by herself. I hope Mark’s death doesn’t put her in a tailspin.”
“Being a small business owner is tough work,” said Theodosia. She understood firsthand how difficult it was. When she left her marketing job to open the Indigo Tea Shop she’d had to figure out a laundry list of tasks. Like dealing with leases, payroll, quarterly taxes, inventory, and cash flow. And then there was the day-to-day worry of pleasing customers, staging events, and constantly testing and updating menus. Theodosia knew that even though Angie had hired Teddy Vickers as her assistant, keeping the Featherbed House going would still be a difficult task.
As if reading Theodosia’s mind, Haley asked, “What about Teddy Vickers? Won’t he still be a help?”
“For Angie’s sake I hope so,” said Delaine as she finally got up and started moving slowly toward the front door. “But Mark was the one with the real business smarts. That’s what I’ve always heard anyway.”
“Bye-bye,” waved Drayton, hoping to move Delaine along. “See you later.”
Once Delaine had made her reluctant exit, Theodosia joined Drayton behind the counter where he fussed about, pulling down colorful tins of tea. “What’s on the docket for today?” she asked him.
“I feel the need for a somewhat strong cup of tea,” Drayton told her. “So I’m considering serving the Ching Wo black tea from Fujian Province. Oh, and probably a nice oolong, too.”
“Which oolong?” asked Theodosia, hoping their customers were also in the mood for a bracing cup of tea. Although Drayton was always happy to brew whatever kind of tea they requested.
“The Ti Kuan Yin,” said Drayton.
“Ah, the monkey tea,” replied Theodosia. “Love that amber color and earthy flavor.” She had hoped to cajole a smile out of Drayton, but no luck.
Haley finished lighting several small tea candles and came over to join them. “I’ve got sweet potato scones, apple muffins, and raisin spice bars about to come out of the oven,” she told them. “So my breakfast breads should be the perfect compliment to your tea choices.”
“Thank you, Haley,” said Drayton, still looking upset.
“Gosh, Drayton, you look awful,” said Haley, who sometimes spoke her mind a little too plainly.
“Exactly what I need this morning,” responded Drayton in a cranky tone. “Moral support.” He peeled off his dove-gray jacket, hung it on a nearby peg, and carefully rolled up his shirtsleeves so they both corresponded to the millimeter.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Haley, backing off.
“Of course you didn’t,” said Theodosia. “You were just trying to be solicitous, weren’t you?”
“I sure was,” said Haley, nodding in the affirmative. “Really.”
“Then pardon my prickly nature,” said Drayton, softening his words a bit. “I just wish there was something we could do to help Angie.”
“What if I fixed a nice tea basket for her?” offered Haley. “You know, put in some tins of tea, a dozen scones, some honey, and a jar of Devonshire cream. Maybe include some of that lavender-peppermint tea, too, that’s supposed to be such a stress buster. You guys could run it down to Angie’s place after lunch. We usually have a bit of a lull then.”
“It’s a start.” Drayton shrugged.
“I think it’s a superb idea,” said Theodosia as the door to the tea shop flew open and a half dozen eager customers pushed their way in.
Business was as brisk as Drayton’s teas this Monday morning. Theodosia and Drayton, clad in long, black Parisian waiter’s aprons, found themselves rushing about the tea shop, pouring tea, delivering scones and muffins, bringing extra dollops of Devonshire cream, strawberry jam, and lemon curd to their customers.
At ten o’clock Harlan Noble shuffled into the tea shop and glanced around imperiously.
“Mr. Noble?” said Theodosia, eyebrows slightly raised. He was the last person she expected to see here this morning. Dressed in a black sport coat and black shirt, Harlan Noble looked both stern and austere. A fragment of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Raven” suddenly floated into Theodosia’s head. Probably, she decided, because Harlan looked so much like a raven. Then, shaking her head to clear away that strange thought, Theodosia said, “May I help you?”
Instead of answering, Harlan Noble lifted his chin and gazed past her.
“May I help you?” Theodosia asked, a little more insistently this time. “Are you here to pick up a take-out order? Or perhaps I could show you to a table? We have one left.”
Harlan Noble finally focused dark eyes on Theodosia. “I need to talk with Drayton,” he told her. His voice seemed as brusque as his manner.
Theodosia put a hand on Harlan’s arm, hoping to impart a little courtesy by osmosis. “Drayton’s busy with customers at the moment, but if you’d like to be seated, I’ll send him over as soon as he’s free.”
“I suppose,” said Harlan, rather ungraciously.
“Right this way,” said Theodosia. She guided him to a small table next to the stone fireplace, normally one of their coziest tables. Today it was elegantly laid out with a cream-colored damask napkin, a flickering tea candle, polished silverware, and a floral cup and saucer.
Just as Theodosia was pouring a cup of Darjeeling for Harlan Noble, Drayton ambled over. “Mr. Noble,” he said, an inquisitive look on his face.
Harlan Noble wasted no time. “Drayton,” he said, suddenly looking more than a little sheepish. “I wanted to apologize for my harsh words yesterday. Especially in light of what’s happened . . .” Harlan’s voice trailed off and he shook his head. “Such a tragedy about Mark Congdon.”
“Indeed it is,” agreed Drayton.
“We’re all rather heartsick,” added Theodosia, who’d stuck around to see exactly what Harlan Noble had on his agenda.
“Mark was a lovely person. So talented,” said Harlan. “We were actually in a book discussion group together . . . Greek classics.”
“He will be greatly missed,” intoned Drayton.
“What . . . uh . . . do you know what happened to Mark’s orchid?” Harlan asked. He’d stumbled over his words, but his eyes glowed clear and bright.
Theodosia stared at Harlan Noble for a few long seconds, then decided the man was a lout of the first magnitude. Here he was, nosing around on the pretense of feeling bad, but really trying to figure out what happened to Mark’s monkey-face orchid!
“I have it,” said Drayton, his tone just this side of frosty.
“Good, good,” said Harlan, hunching his thin shoulders up, his dark eyes darting between the two of them. “I was just concerned . . .”
Quoth the raven, nevermore, thought Theodosia.
“In fact I’m going to take it to Angie this afternoon,” said Drayton. “So you need not concern yourself.”
3
“Two entrées today,” Haley told Theodosia as she darted about her small kitchen, stirring and tasting. “Lavender-infused egg salad on croissants and roast chicken breasts stuffed with root vegetables.”
“Wonderful,” declared Theodosia. “Honestly, Haley, I don’t know how you come up with such inventive recipes.”
“Just one of the tricks of the trade,” responded Haley, clearly pleased. “Oh, and I’m baking several pans of madeleines as well. You’ll be able to take some over to Angie this afternoon.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate your efforts,” said Theodosia, knowing that Angie might very well be numb for the next week or so and not have any idea what she’s eating or even tasting. Still, Haley’s extra efforts were both admirable and heartwarming.
“Madeleines are the new muffins,” declared Haley as she carefully sliced fresh-baked croissants, slathered them with butter, then topped them with dollops of lavender egg salad. “They’re a little more futsy to make, what with the shallow pans and the delicate little shell shapes. But in the long run, I think madeleines are incredibly versatile. Because they’re such petite cakelike cookies, you can serve them with jelly and Devonshire cream, or top them with chocolate or butterscotch sauce, or just serve two on a plate with a nice scoop of sorbet.”
Theodosia leaned against the doorway and listened to Haley’s friendly chatter, watched her spin and pirouette from oven to counter, doing her intricate little chef’s ballet. As heavy as Theodosia’s heart was over Mark Congdon’s death, it was reassuring to be in the place she loved most— her beloved Indigo Tea Shop.
Theodosia knew she’d made the smartest move of her life when she’d bid sayonara to her job in marketing and gambled her savings on establishing the Indigo Tea Shop. What had started out as a dusty little diamond in the rough had become one of the most popular spots on Charleston’s Church Street. Pegged wooden floors, brick walls, and a beamed ceiling made for a cozy, cottagelike atmosphere. Antique wooden tables and chairs, fine china, and sparkling silver lent an upscale, Old World feel. Antique breakfronts and bookcases, crammed with teacups, tiny spoons, tea cozies, jars of lemon curd, tea books, and packaged teas, lined the walls and completed the picture.
Of course, this was Drayton’s domain, too. One wall was floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves lined with shiny tea tins filled with the finest, freshest, and most aromatic teas available. As a master tea taster and tea blender, Drayton demanded perfection. Which was why the Indigo Tea Shop always stocked the best Formosan oolong, first-flush Darjeeling, smoky Lapsang souchong from China, rare Japanese Sencha, and exotic Kenyan teas.
And when the teacups were rattling, the teapots chirping, and customers filled the small shop with their excited hum, Theodosia knew she was clearly at home.
“Say now,” said Drayton as he came up behind Theodosia, rousing her from her reverie. “We have some very hungry customers waiting out here.”
“Isn’t it good, then, that we’ve got some marvelous luncheons ready to serve,” Haley answered blithely.
Drayton peered over his tortoiseshell half-glasses and consulted his order pad. “I require fourteen egg salads and twelve chicken breasts,” he told Haley.
“Coming up,” sang Haley.
But Drayton wasn’t finished. “For now,” he told her. “As you probably know, we’re expecting two rather large groups in another forty-five minutes. Red-hat ladies, I believe.”
“We’re amazingly busy for a Monday,” commented Haley as she pulled a pan of perfectly golden chicken breasts from the oven and set it atop the stove.
“Can you believe how busy?” asked Dayton, making a wry face. Then he glanced toward Theodosia to hurriedly explain. “Not that I’m displeased we’re making such a go of things. It’s just that . . .”
“I know what you’re saying,” said Theodosia, nodding. “I feel exactly the same way.”
“We all do,” said Haley. “We may carry on as usual, but Mark’s untimely death is hanging directly over our heads.”
“We’re still planning to run over and see Angie, aren’t we?” asked Drayton. He watched as Haley carefully placed each plump chicken breast atop a mound of baby field greens, then added a spoonful of honeyed white wine sauce.
“Count on it,” said Theodosia.
A stiff breeze off the Atlantic had chased the last wisps of clouds from the azure skies above Charleston. The afternoon sun sparkled down, highlighting the enormous grand and graceful mansions of the historic district. There were Italianate-style homes with low pitched roofs and wide verandas, Victorian-style homes with fanciful turrets and gingerbread trim, and here and there a few of the old shotgun-style homes, too. And everywhere, a riot of foliage. Gnarled live oaks arched over cobblestone streets, dogwood and box ivy lined cobblestone drives, magnolias, pansies, and English daisies exploded with color in every yard.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” said Drayton as he and Theodosia strolled down Murray Street on their way to the Featherbed House.
“Agreed,” said Theodosia. “There’ll probably be friends and relatives jostling about. So it’s the least we can do.”
“Help fortify them,” added Drayton, trying to put his game face on.
But when Theodosia and Drayton climbed the front stairs of the Featherbed House Bed & Breakfast and let themselves into the spacious lobby with its cypress paneling and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceiling, the place seemed deserted. Angie’s collection of ceramic, plush, and needlepoint geese were the only inhabitants, tucked as they were in cabinets and nestled on couches. An antique grand-father clock ticked loudly in the silent room.
“Nobody’s here,” said Drayton, looking puzzled.
“Hello,” Theodosia called out. “Anybody home?”
“Hold on,” said Drayton, listening intently. “Somebody is coming. Must be . . . Teddy?”
Theodosia paused, focusing on the sound of approaching footsteps.
Teddy Vickers, Angie’s assistant, suddenly loomed in the doorway. He looked both subdued and a little surprised at seeing them.
“Drayton. Theodosia,” said Teddy. “Nice to see you even under these sad circumstances.” Teddy Vickers was one of those men who was of an indeterminate age. He could have been thirty-three, he could have been forty-five. He was boyish-looking with a crooked grin and a shock of dark blond hair combed to one side. It gave him a distinctly East Coast preppy look, like he might be an assistant headmaster at some exclusive school. Except Teddy worked for Angie.
“We brought tea and sandwiches,” said Drayton, holding up a large basket.
“And scones and madeleines,” added Theodosia. She winced inwardly, thinking her voice probably sounded overly cheerful. “And Mark’s orchid from yesterday.” She indicated the little plant she’d tucked carefully in a box and surrounded with tissue paper.
“I thought there’d be more people around,” said Drayton. “Friends, relatives . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Guests,” said Theodosia, suddenly struck by the emptiness of the normally thriving B and B. Or maybe it was just a sadness that had settled over the old mansion.
Teddy Vickers shook his head. “Angie’s sister and a few other relatives will be arriving from Chicago later this afternoon. As for the Featherbed House, it’s closed for now. We found space for all our bookings at other nearby B and Bs and won’t be accepting any new reservations.” He shrugged. “Basically, we’ve taken the phone off the hook.”
