Ming Tea Murder (14 page)

“And we can attend the funeral,” said Theodosia.

“
You
can attend the funeral,” said Drayton. “I'll remain here to make sure everything is prepped and readied.”

“And beat off any morning customers.”

“Well . . . maybe we could accommodate our regulars with a scone and a cuppa to go?”

“I figured that's what you'd do,” said Theodosia.

“What kind of tea does Charlotte want served to her guests tomorrow?”

“She said she'd leave the choice up to you.”

“A wise decision.” Drayton gazed at his floor-to-ceiling wall of tea tins and squinted. “I'm almost thinking the Sewpur Estate Assam. And perhaps an English breakfast tea. Both are a trifle bracing, which might be just the thing for a post-funeral luncheon. But I do want to noodle my choices around.”

Bang, bang, bang.

Theodosia and Drayton turned toward the front door.

“Door,” said Drayton.

“I hope it isn't an early guest,” said Theodosia. She crossed the tearoom and peered through a sliver of wavering glass. It was Bill Glass.

“Glass,” she said.

“Don't let him in,” said Drayton. “Just ignore him.”

But Theodosia was already unlatching the door. “The thing is, he might know something.”

“What's up?” she asked, as Glass came crashing into the tea room. With his bulky photojournalist vest and cameras strung around his neck, he really was the proverbial bull in a china shop.

“Can you believe this latest turn of events?” asked Glass. He was practically chortling with excitement. “First Webster is killed, then his ex-girlfriend is attacked! This is shaking out to be a very crazy scenario.”

“I don't think it's crazy at all,” said Theodosia. “In fact, the scary thing is, it sounds like there's a master plan.”

“Sure, but who's the mastermind?”

Theodosia shrugged. “There's the clincher. That's what we're all trying to figure out.”

“So you guys
haven't heard anything new?” asked Glass.

Drayton leaned forward, an inquisitive look on his face. “No. Have you?”

“Ah . . . I've been trying to pry some details out of a few cops I know,” said Glass. “But they've been fairly closemouthed about this whole thing.” He peered at Theodosia. “You haven't spoken to Cecily, have you?”

“Not today, no,” said Theodosia. She didn't feel like telling Glass that she'd talked to Cecily just after the attack, that she'd actually
rushed
to the scene of the crime.

“What I'm gonna do,” said Glass, “is maybe snoop around the museum some more.”

“You know Max is on leave,” said Theodosia.

“Yeah,” said Glass, “because he's a suspect.”

“But he's innocent,” Theodosia said hastily, her voice carrying a little bit of a tone.

“Of course he is,” Drayton echoed.

Glass gazed at them mildly, as if he didn't want to interrupt his thought process. “And then I'm gonna circle back here and get a few snaps of your big shindig tonight.”

“You want to photograph our
Titanic
Tea?” said Drayton. He sounded almost horrified.

“Yeah, sure,” said Glass “Why not? You guys got something against a little free publicity?”

“I suppose not,” said Theodosia. She hadn't figured on Glass trying to interject himself into the event. On the other hand, his presence, if she could keep a tight rein on him, might lend some excitement and media buzz, which was never a bad thing. “Okay, but don't show up until at least five thirty, okay? Let us at least get our guests settled.”

Glass grinned and made a cheesy thumbs-up gesture. “Five thirty. You got it.”

When they'd finally closed the door on him and turned the latch firmly, Drayton said, “Do you think you can control him?”

“I don't know,” said Theodosia. “I wonder where I could buy a cattle prod.”

“Very funny, but I still don't see why you're letting him attend our event.”

“Because, like us, Glass has been nosing around about Webster's death. And he might just stumble onto something.” She cocked an index finger at Drayton. “Hey, pal, you're the one who wanted a shadow investigation.”

“Yes,” said Drayton, “but I didn't think the shadow would be
Glass.
”

“Well, he's what we've got. What we're stuck with for now.”

“Just so long as Glass doesn't gum up the works,” said Drayton. He glanced at his perpetually slow-running watch, and said, “I'd say we're just about set to go. With more than a little time to spare.”

“Good,” said Theodosia, “because your nemesis, Glass, just gave me an idea.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I'm going to call Cecily and see if I can drop by her place.”

“That's fairly gutsy.”

“Maybe so, but is it smart?”

“I don't know,” said Drayton. “Since she may or may not be a killer, the question is really up in the air.”

• • •

“Cecily,” Theodosia burbled
into the phone, “I just wanted to call and wish you well. See how you're feeling.”

“How do you
think
I'm feeling?” Cecily shot back. “I'm terrible. I'm battered and bruised and . . .”

“You know, I'd love to stop by for a quick visit,” Theodosia said, cutting her off mid-rant. “Drop off a small care package for you.”

“I'm not really in the mood for company. I prefer to be left alone.”

“I can understand that,” Theodosia said in her gentlest voice. “But I promise I won't take hardly any time at all.”

“Seriously, Theodosia? Do you have any idea how absolutely
traumatized
I am?”

“I'll see you in ten minutes,” said Theodosia, unwilling to take no for an answer.

For the third
time in three days, Haley's scones paved the way for Theodosia's investigation (some might call it meddling).

“I can't believe you came by anyway,” Cecily said rather ungraciously as she opened the door to let Theodosia in. She lived in a small garden apartment that was part of a larger mansion on Legare Street. Her address was definitely upscale, but her entrance was down a crumbing brick path on the side of the home.

Theodosia handed her a small wicker basket. “Cranberry scones and English breakfast tea, guaranteed to brighten your day and help take your mind off last night.”

Cecily let loose a snort. “That's fairly doubtful.” But she led Theodosia down a narrow hallway and into a small room that was pleasantly furnished with two floral love seats and a few potted palms. French doors led out to a small garden, and with the late October sun lasering down full force, all the foliage looked golden and sun-kissed.

“How are you feeling?” Theodosia asked. She settled on one of the love seats while Cecily eased herself down on the one across from her.

“I feel like I got hit by a two-ton truck, that's how I feel. I keep gobbling aspirin and pain meds, and nothing seems to help.”

“I'm sure a lot of your trauma is psychological, too,” said Theodosia.

“No kidding, Sherlock. Have
you
ever been attacked by a maniac? Been run roughshod over and then hurled to the ground?” Cecily's brows knit together as her voice erupted in anger. “No, I just bet you haven't.”

As a matter of fact, Theodosia
had
been attacked. She'd even been shot at. But this wasn't the time or place to dredge that up. Instead she said, “And you're sure it was a man who came after you?”

“Absolutely,” said Cecily. “He was a big, strong brute who tackled me like he was some kind of football player—I'm lucky I didn't break a few bones.” She massaged her shoulder gingerly. “My collarbone or even my ribs.”

“Were you able to give a decent description to the police?”

Cecily shrugged. “It was pitch-dark so I couldn't see much of anything. I especially didn't see his face.”

So no description.
Theodosia leaned forward. “What was your general impression of him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he angry and out of control, or was he cool and calculating? Was he trying to really hurt you, or do you think he was just trying to scare you?”

Cecily's upper teeth worried her lower lip. “He was big and strong, that's for sure. And you're right, he did seem a little . . . I know this is going to sound strange . . . detached. Oh, and his breath smelled bad, like he'd been eating onions or garlic.”

“Did you share this with the police?”

“The police,” Cecily spat out. “They were perfectly horrible! They didn't care about me in the least. What's that stupid phrase? It's like déjà
vu all over again.”

“You're referring to their handling of the stabbing at the museum?”

“Yes,” said Cecily. “I thought the police were bumbling incompetents then. Now they're just . . . Well, it's like they don't give a crap what happened to me!”

“I'm sure that's not the case at all,” Theodosia said mildly. “I'm sure law enforcement is working hard to apprehend Edgar Webster's killer and find whoever attacked you.”

Theodosia was secretly pleased that Cecily had brought up Webster's murder. It opened the door for a few more questions.

“Do you think your attack is somehow related to Webster's murder?” Theodosia asked.

Cecily dropped her head in her hands, and said, “I don't know. I really couldn't say.”

“Considering the two of you were, um, close, your encounter last night doesn't exactly strike me as a coincidence.”

“You know what?” said Cecily, giving her a baleful look. “I wish I'd never met Edgar Webster. Let alone gotten involved with him.”

“Except you
were
involved with him.”

“Biggest mistake of my life.”

“But the man bankrolled your shop. You must feel some sense of gratitude.”

“You don't know the Websters very well, do you? It wasn't like there was any long-term commitment. And you know what?” Cecily snapped her fingers. “About two minutes after we broke up, Edgar was demanding his money back. Said he needed it to help finance that stupid tea house at the museum. And now that he's gone, his witchy
wife
is coming after me. She wants all the money repaid and has threatened to sic her mad-dog attorneys on me if I don't cough it up!”

“I can't imagine Charlotte's topmost concern right now is money,” said Theodosia. “After all, she's got her husband's funeral to deal with tomorrow. That's going to be fairly traumatic.”

“Oh yeah? That's what you think. Would you care to hear the voice mail Charlotte left me this morning?”

Theodosia hesitated. “Yes, I would.”

Is there really a voice mail?

Cecily dug frantically in her Prada handbag. A wallet and keys were dumped out. A pack of tissues and a bottle of bloodred nail polish went flying by. Finally, she retrieved her cell phone. “Listen to this. Just
listen
to this.” She manipulated a button.

Charlotte Webster's voice suddenly burst from the phone's speaker in a crackly, tinny tirade. “Cecily!” she shrieked. “I'm dead serious about getting that loan paid back! You'd better start making arrangements immediately or there's going to be hell to pay!”

“You see,” said Cecily, “the woman's like a crazed rottweiler. Somebody should throw her a chew bone.”

“She did sound rather . . . emotional,” said Theodosia.

Cecily stared at Theodosia, mouth open, eyes wide, looking slightly deranged. “It's like Edgar is coming at me from the grave. Only now it's his crone of a wife!”

• • •

On her way
back to the tea shop, a million questions buzzed inside Theodosia's head. Could it have been Charlotte Webster who'd attacked Cecily last night? With her mind clouded by shock and fear, could Cecily have been mistaken about the size of her attacker? After all, the angry voice mail Charlotte had left positively dripped with malicious intent. Which indicated that Charlotte could have easily had a moment—or moments—of madness.

Or had Charlotte persuaded Roger Greaves to throw a scare into Cecily. And if so, why?

Or could Greaves have acted purely on his own? Trying to clean up some unfinished business?

On the other hand, the attacker could have been someone else entirely. The question was—who?

Was Elliot Kern, the museum director, involved?

Theodosia shook her head to try to dispel her imaginary swarm of angry hornets. There were so many questions, a roster of serious suspects, but not a whole lot of answers. The whole situation left her feeling queasy and nervous.

Still, she wasn't about to give up the hunt.

• • •

Leave it to
Drayton to come up with the perfect costumes for the
Titanic
Tea.

“Come look at Drayton,” Haley called as Theodosia slipped in the back door. “He's all decked out for our tea.”

“He's what?” Theodosia dumped her bag on her desk, tossed her leather jacket on a chair, and headed into the tea room, where she skidded to a sudden stop. “Oh my.”

“What do you think?” said Drayton. He extended his arms outward and did a half pivot so Theodosia could enjoy the full effect of his costume.

“Aren't you a vision in white,” said Theodosia. Drayton wore a white jacket that had been duded up with a couple of shoulder epaulets, some gold braid, an eagle insignia, and a scattering of gold stars. He also wore matching white slacks and a jaunty-looking captain's hat.

“He's the epitome of the doomed captain on the
Titanic
,” said Haley. “Don't you think?”

Theodosia couldn't help but chuckle, because Drayton really did look like he'd just stepped out of a wheelhouse. “I think he looks like he's about to meet up with Doc and Gopher on the Lido deck.”

Haley doubled over with laughter. “
The Love Boat!
Ha, good one.”

“Go ahead and laugh if you want,” said Drayton, “but I did take it upon myself to procure costumes for everyone.”

Haley stopped laughing immediately. “Wait.” Now she looked wary. “By
everyone
, do you mean me, too?”

“Both of us?” said Theodosia. She hadn't counted on wearing a
costume.

“That's right.” Drayton held up two white frilly lace aprons and matching lace headpieces. “What do you think?”

Haley gaped at the costumes. “Are you sure these aren't naughty French maid costumes?” she asked suspiciously.

Drayton pursed his lips. “Please. I would
never.
”

Theodosia couldn't help but giggle. If they weren't going to wear those aprons over black slacks and white blouses, the costumes might have indeed exuded a certain Victoria's Secret vibe.

Haley gingerly accepted her apron and held it up in front of her. “And you're
sure
this is what the first-class waitresses wore?”

“No, Haley,” said Drayton. “It's what the waitresses in steerage wore.
Of course
, I'm sure. I promise you these costumes are one hundred percent accurate.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Do you not trust that my research was exemplary?”

“What kind of research?” said Haley.

“We appreciate you going all out like this,” said Theodosia, suppressing a smile. “And I'm sure our guests will, too.”

“Historical accuracy is always important,” said Drayton. He clapped his hands together. “Okay then, it's full speed ahead into that iceberg.”

“Huh,” said Haley. “More like iceberg lettuce.”

• • •

Ten minutes later,
with everyone looking like they'd just been beamed in from the year 1912, Max showed up.

“Hi,” he said, glancing around the tea shop almost furtively. “Oh, great costumes.” He stopped in his tracks. “Is it okay to come in? Am I welcome here?”

“Of course, you are,” Theodosia assured him. “But you realize we're completely sold out. Have been for a week. We don't have a single extra seat available.”

“Oh no,” said Max. “I didn't mean I was expecting dinner. I thought maybe I could help out in the kitchen or something.”

Theodosia thought for a moment. “Maybe . . .”

“Get back here!” Haley screeched. “If you know how to zest a lemon, I'll put you to work as my sous chef.”

“There you go,” said Theodosia. “You are now gainfully employed in the kitchen.”

Haley did put Max to work. He peeled and sliced asparagus, zested lemons, laid out plates for the appetizers, and generally did all of Haley's bidding. And when the customers began to show up just before five, the Indigo Tea Shop, if you closed your eyes in the flickering candlelight and drew upon your imagination, looked just like the first-class dining room on A deck of the RMS
Titanic
.

• • •

It took Theodosia
and Drayton a good thirty minutes to greet all of their guests, lead them to their proper tables (as you would on any fine ocean liner), and then quickly serve steaming cups of Taiwanese Jing Shuan oolong tea and glasses of dry sherry.

At five fifteen, Drayton rang a brass bell that he'd borrowed from a yachting shop down the street. Having gained everyone's attention, he pulled himself up to his full height, ready to begin his welcoming speech. Just as she'd been cued, Theodosia dimmed the lights so the twinkling candles in glass hurricane lamps would enhance the mood.

“Welcome,” Drayton intoned, “to our first annual
Titanic
Tea at the Indigo Tea Shop.”

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause.

Drayton continued. “On the evening of April fifteenth, in the year 1912, the first-class passengers of RMS
Titanic
, of the now-infamous and sadly defunct White Star Line, feasted on a sumptuous ten-course dinner. Only a few hours later, their ship struck an iceberg and, within the span of three hours, sank to the bottom of the Atlantic. Though tragically gone, the two thousand two hundred twenty-four passengers and crew are certainly not forgotten. They have been memorialized in movies, literature, and various documentaries.” He paused. “And tonight we are going to partake of some of the very same gastronomic delights that the first-class passengers enjoyed at their historic and doomed ‘last supper.'”

Theodosia stepped in now. “For your appetizer, we shall be serving chilled asparagus vinaigrette. Your second course will consist of sautéed chicken lyonnaise. Your rather lovely entrée will be poached salmon with cucumbers on a bed of rice. And, once dinner is concluded, gentlemen will
not
be required to retreat to the smoking lounge. Instead, you are invited to remain seated and enjoyed a rather ravishing desert of Waldorf pudding and chocolate éclairs.” She paused dramatically. “And I can assure you all that, this evening, we are in no danger of sinking!”