Ming Tea Murder (16 page)

“You want some poached salmon?” Haley asked him. “We have a few servings left. And sauce, too.”

“I'd love some,” said Drayton. “But what I need first is a bracing cup of tea.”

“We should be able to manage that,” said Theodosia. “In fact, why don't we brew a pot of that Castleton Estate that you like so much? Haven't we been saving it for a special occasion? A special triumph?”

“Let's do it,” said Drayton.

“Go ahead,” said Haley. “I'll fix a couple plates for you guys.”

They walked out into the tea room.

“You okay?” Theodosia asked.

“Just a little tired,” said Drayton.

“It's been a long day.”

“Tell me about it,” said Drayton as he reached up and grabbed a tin of tea.

“Is that the . . . ?” began Theodosia.

Her words were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

“Now what?” said Drayton. “Oh dear, I suppose one of our guests left something behind.”

Theodosia tiptoed to the door and peered out. “It's not a guest. It's Tidwell.”

“Drat,” said Drayton.

Theodosia pulled the door open a crack. “You're too late,” she told him. “Dinner's over and done. Everyone's gone home.”

“Ha,” said Tidwell. He pushed the door open with a chubby paw. “I didn't come for dinner. I want to ask your friend a couple of questions.”

Drayton took a step back. “What? You mean me?”

“Hardly,” said Tidwell. “No, I meant Miss Browning's gentleman friend. Max Scofield.”

“How did you know he was here?” said Theodosia.

Tidwell's mouth twitched. “Please.”

When Max came out from the kitchen, he didn't look happy. “What now?” he asked.

“May we sit down?” asked Tidwell.

“I suppose,” said Theodosia. She was curious as to what this was all about.

Tidwell wasted no time. “You know that Miss Cecily Conrad was attacked last night?”

Max's nod was imperceptible.

“What does that have to do with Max?” Theodosia asked.

Tidwell held up a hand. “Please.” His large head swiveled toward Max. “I take it you have an alibi?”

“I was with Theodosia, and then I stopped at a cigar bar,” said Max.

“Which one?” said Tidwell.

“DG Stogies. Over on Wentworth.”

“And you were there from when to when?”

Max half closed his eyes, thinking. “Probably from about ten thirty to midnight.”

“And you were not alone?”

“There were maybe a half dozen guys there. There was a rebroadcast of the Carolina Panthers game. We were watching it.”

“And all of your football cronies would vouch for you?”

“Sure,” said Max. “Why wouldn't they?”

“That's all I need to know,” said Tidwell.

“That's it?” said Theodosia. She felt like they'd gotten off easy.

“That's it,” said Tidwell. He gave a small smile. “Pro forma.”

“Well, then . . . would you like a bite of poached salmon?” Theodosia asked him.

Tidwell looked suddenly delighted. His nose twitched, his eyes lit up, and he said, “Really?”

“I'll get an order,” said Max. “Now that I know I'm not going to be burned at the stake.” He jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Theodosia looked over at Drayton, who was suddenly busy fixing his pot of tea.

“I met someone very interesting tonight,” said Theodosia, leading Tidwell to a table that had been cleared.

“Pray tell,” said Tidwell as they both sat down.

“Dolly Greaves, the wife of Roger Greaves.”

“He of the murdered partner.”

“Yes,” said Theodosia. “Dolly is . . . well, she seems to be following the financial dealings of her husband's company rather closely.”

“Meaning?”

“Dolly has a charming, jovial way about her,” said Theodosia. “But she's extremely sharp, in a business sense.”

“Most women are,” said Tidwell.

“Still, Dolly seemed to take real pleasure in the fact that the Datrex IPO, the one Edgar Webster managed to postpone, is probably going to be happening now.”

Tidwell held up a chubby hand. “Stop. What you're really saying is that Mrs. Greaves is a suspect. In your book, anyway.”

“Yes,” said Theodosia. “I guess I am. It's possible that Dolly could have been the one who killed Webster. After all, she knew him fairly well and she was at the event Thursday night.”

“Interesting,” said Tidwell, though the way he said it indicated he wasn't the least bit interested.

“Anyway,” said Theodosia, “I'm just saying.” She rose and grabbed a napkin, knife, fork, and spoon off the counter for Tidwell and arranged it in front of him.

Not thirty seconds later, Max set a dish of poached salmon in front of Tidwell. The dish was accompanied by Haley's cream sauce and a side of leftover asparagus vinaigrette.

Tidwell tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and dug in with relish.

“Mmn,” he said at the first bite. “Good.”

“I think the salmon turned out of be everyone's favorite,” said Theodosia.

Tidwell took a second bite. “Really good. In fact, I am fairly trembling with pleasure.”

“I'm not sure I've ever encountered
that
kind of reaction before,” said Theodosia.

Tidwell glanced around as he continued eating. “What type of event took place here?” he asked.

“Our
Titanic
Tea,” said Theodosia.

“
Titanic
? As in the ship? Really?” said Tidwell, never missing a beat.

“Think of it as a classy Halloween event,” put in Drayton.

Tidwell inclined his head toward Theodosia. “And did you hire an orchestra to play ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee?'”

“No,” said Theodosia. “I'm afraid that would have been a little over the top.”

“I'd have thought it highly appropriate,” said Tidwell. “Considering that the one thing on your mind is murder.”

Church Street would
never have been called Church Street if it weren't for St. Philip's Episcopal Church. Founded in 1681, constructed in 1836, the elegant-looking church with the circular front proudly extended out into the middle of Church Street for all to see.

Surrounded on three sides by centuries-old graveyards, St. Philip's seemed uniquely appropriate for Edgar Webster's funeral Monday morning. The choir sang a somber version of “How Great Thou Art” as the mourners quietly filed in. Theodosia, sitting in one of the back pews, recognized Roger Greaves and his wife, Dolly, and what was probably a contingent of Datrex employees crowded around them. There was also a bunch of Webster relatives.

Theodosia also noted that Elliot Kern was present and accounted for, as well as a number of curators and board members from the museum.

Stands to reason
, she thought, since poor Webster had met his maker there. Too bad it hadn't happened in a picturesque garden or gallery. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Edgar to have gasped out his dying breath in a chrome yellow photo booth. The kind people rented for fairs or sweet sixteen parties. The kind Max had unfortunately rented. And it was too bad that Webster hadn't had the presence of mind to push the button and take a photo. Then his death—and his killer's identity—would have been recorded for posterity.

Squirming around in her seat, Theodosia noted that Tidwell was hunched in the very last pew. He seemed intent on ignoring everyone around him, though he was probably observing them like a hawk. And there was Bill Glass, skulking in with a load of cameras strung around his neck. He was here to capture the moment, she thought. But not for posterity. Any images he captured today would exist only for a day or two in his rag of a tabloid, then get tossed out with the next day's garbage.

As the choir finished their dirge and the organ music slowly died in the still air, there was a disturbance at the back of the church. The sound of doors opening, loud whispers, a hum of activity, and the
click-clack
of rolling metal wheels.

Theodosia swiveled around and saw that Edgar Webster's casket had been loaded onto a casket roller. Covered with the official state flag of South Carolina—bright blue with a white palmetto and crescent—that draped the casket and was topped with an enormous spray of white lilies.

Interesting, she thought. They were the same type of flowers used at the
Titanic
Tea last night. Only these lilies were larger and the presentation far more grand.

A hush came over the congregation, and the organ started up again as Charlotte Webster, hanging on the arm of Harlan Duke, came walking down the aisle. Charlotte wore a black jacket with a perky, stand-up collar, a ruffled skirt, and a black hat that was somewhere between a stovepipe and
The Cat in the Hat.
They were followed closely by Edgar Webster's casket. Flanked by six grim-faced pallbearers and an honor guard of four more men in black suits, it creaked noisily down the aisle.

In their dark suits, the men looked like a chorus of crows, Theodosia thought to herself. Although that might not have been the correct term for it. Maybe crows were a muster? Or a murder? She'd have to look that up.

But right now, she continued to watch Charlotte sniffle and shuffle her way to the front of the church.

When had Charlotte gotten so friendly with Harlan Duke, Theodosia wondered? And then she remembered that Duke had been the one who'd located the Chinese tea house in Shanghai, the tea house Edgar Webster had financed so heavily.

Once the casket had been rolled to the front and seesawed into place, once the mourners had all taken their seats, the service began in earnest.

It was quite lovely, as funeral services go. Prayers, songs, moments of contemplation, and fine testimonials. Roger Greaves stood at the front of the church, gripping the podium as he delivered a rousing speech about Webster's amazing contributions at Datrex. Then another man—Theodosia thought it was their CEO—gave a shorter speech that was also filled with platitudes.

The Lord's Prayer ensued, and then everyone was asked to stand for a final blessing and what was to be the concluding hymn.

With the choir's last sad notes still hanging in the air, Theodosia slipped out the door and hurried down Church Street to the Indigo Tea Shop. She knew she had about five or ten minutes before they'd be besieged by mourners—after that much solemnity, she figured everyone would be hungry for lunch. And she wanted to make sure everything was set up and the tea shop was looking sharp.

But when Theodosia came crashing through the front door, she was greeted not by a frantic Drayton, but by a placid-looking Drayton.

“Hello,” said Drayton. “How was the funeral?” He lounged casually behind the counter, sipping a cup of tea. In his brown tweed jacket and yellow bow tie, he looked like a gentleman of leisure, except for the half dozen tea tins that lined the counter. It would appear he was still mulling over his final choices.

“It was good,” Theodosia responded. “Well, not
good
good. Really kind of sad.” She blinked. “Is everything ready to go for the funeral luncheon?”

“See for yourself.”

Theodosia glanced around. Tea lights flickered in small glass holders, the tables were set with their Royal Albert Old Country Roses china, and the floral bouquets from last night had been repurposed into smaller, more sedate arrangements set in simple milk glass vases.

“It looks lovely,” said Theodosia.

Drayton smiled. “Thank you. Well, you can thank Haley, too. She did a lot of fine-tuning.”

“I take it you didn't run into too much trouble with people showing up this morning to find us closed?”

“It was nothing we couldn't deal with,” said Drayton.

“Well . . . okay. Then I guess we really are ready.” Theodosia grabbed a long black apron off a peg, pointed to an easel that hadn't been there before, and said, “What's that?”

“One of the Datrex minions dropped it off right before the funeral,” said Drayton.

“Okay,” said Theodosia. She draped the apron around her neck and peered at the poster on the easel, which had obviously been created to memorialize Edgar Webster's life. There were photos of Webster playing golf with his buddies at Coosaw Creek, photos of Webster posing in a sunny garden with a smiling Charlotte, and photos of Webster looking large and in charge behind an enormous desk, a photo she assumed had been taken in his executive office at Datrex.

But no photos of Webster with Cecily. No, there wouldn't be, would there?

Of course not, since Charlotte had probably micromanaged this entire tribute and selected only the most flattering and appropriate shots.

Dozens of cards and condolence notes had been tacked beneath the photos. All seemed to profess extreme sympathy and grief for Webster's passing. Many of the notes were from Datrex employees, one was from the museum's board of directors, and one note was even from a Shanghai art dealer. Probably, Theodosia decided, it was the overseas dealer who'd helped arrange the purchase and shipment of the tea house.

“Hey,” said Haley as she slipped out through the celadon green curtains, “how'd it go?”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “How are you managing with the tea sandwiches? I really appreciate your doing a big event right on the heels of last night.”

“No problem,” said Haley. “Today's luncheon isn't that much different from any other Monday morning.”

“Except we might be a little more busy,” said Drayton.

Haley walked to one of the front windows and pulled a chintz curtain aside. “Yeah, and I'm starting to see people heading this way. Probably coming from the funeral.”

Drayton glanced at Theodosia. “Do you know, is this luncheon by invitation only? Do I have to collect cards or something?”

Theodosia thought for a moment. “I don't think the guests will be carrying formal invitations. I think there was just a kind of blanket announcement at the end of the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” said Haley.

“Um . . . funeral service,” said Theodosia.

“So I should just let everyone in?” said Drayton.

“Until every seat is filled, I suppose,” said Theodosia.

“And give preferential seating to all the people dressed in black?” said Drayton.

“They're all dressed in black,” said Haley.

• • •

It was pretty
much the same rogue's gallery that Theodosia had seen at the funeral service twenty minutes ago: Charlotte and a handful of Webster relatives. Roger and Dolly Greaves, accompanied by several Datrex employees. Elliot Kern with Harlan Duke and a couple of museum board members. And a bunch of people from the Historic District who Theodosia knew or vaguely knew.

Drayton gave Charlotte and her party preferential seating at the large round table, then seated the rest of the mourners as best he could. When there were maybe only three or four seats left, Delaine and Aunt Acid came straggling through the door.

“Were you at the funeral?” Theodosia asked Delaine. “Because I didn't see you there.” She didn't think they were crashing. Then again . . .

“Yes, I was there,” said Delaine, frowning. “You must have come in late. Were you late?”

“Not particularly.” Theodosia regarded Aunt Acid. “Nice to see you again.”

“Hello,” said Aunt Acid, throwing her a slightly sour look.

“I see you still have your guest,” said Theodosia, though she really wanted to say,
I see you're still stuck with the old bat.

“Don't I know it,” said Delaine.

“I can seat the two of you by the window if you'd like,” said Theodosia.

“Thank you,” said Delaine. She walked a few steps, pointed to a captain's chair, and said, “Sit,” to Aunt Acid. The old lady plopped down.

“How are things at Cotton Duck?” Theodosia asked. “Now that the weather's cooled down some, are you selling tons of fall and winter merchandise?”

“It's been crazy good,” said Delaine as she spread a napkin in her lap. “Any shipment of cotton sweaters comes in, they just completely blow out the door. Same with slacks.” She made a
ka-pow
sound. “We can't keep those in stock, either.”

“A good problem to have,” said Theodosia.

“Mmn. Theo, speaking of sales and merchandise, I hope you haven't forgotten about your participation in the Hunt and Gather Market.”

“No, of course I haven't. When is that again?”

“Tuesday.”

“
This
Tuesday?” said Theodosia. “You mean tomorrow?”

Delaine shook her head. “I knew it. You did forget.”

“I didn't really forget. It just slipped my . . .”

“I have an eight-foot table
reserved
for you,” said Delaine. “So you
have to
show up. Fifty percent of the sales go to charity, you know. To three different, very worthwhile animal organizations!”

“I'll be there,” said Theodosia. “You can count on me.” But what she was really thinking was,
Holy crap, how am I going to pull a rabbit out of a hat?

“Theodosia?” Drayton was standing directly behind her.

Theodosia turned. She knew she'd kind of checked out for a few moments.

“Time to serve our fruit salads.”

“I'm on it,” said Theodosia.

She tucked the Hunt and Gather Market issue into the back of her brain for the time being and focused on getting the food out to their guests. Haley had prepared gorgeous little salads—field greens with slices of mandarin oranges, apples, and pears—for the first course. To accompany the salads, Haley's fresh-baked honey scones were stacked on plates, one plate for each table, and passed around to be enjoyed with Devonshire cream.

Drayton had finally settled on Nilgiri and Moroccan mint tea, so Theodosia made the rounds, a teapot in each hand. She filled teacups, refilled teacups, and accepted compliments on the salad and scones.

“I can't believe how well this is going,” Theodosia said to Drayton when she circled back for refills on her tea. “And I was kind of jittery about pulling it off.”

“Piece of cake,” said Drayton. “And the tea sandwiches will be just as easy. Haley is going to arrange them on tiered tea trays, so our guests can just help themselves.”

“I think I'll go check on the sandwiches,” said Theodosia. “So . . . maybe you could handle the refills?”

“Consider it done,” said Drayton.

Haley had everything under control in the kitchen as well.

“Just place the large trays on the larger tables and the smaller trays on the smaller tables,” Haley instructed. “That way everybody can help themselves. And, if we need more, I made up a few dozen extra sandwiches just in case.”

Haley's tea-sandwich repertoire consisted of chicken salad on whole wheat bread, cream cheese and crushed walnuts on pumpkin swirl bread, and roast beef and Cheddar cheese on dark bread. She'd made her sandwiches assembly-line style, then sliced off all the crusts and cut the sandwiches into triangles. Now, arranged on the tiered tea trays with a few bright red strawberries and some edible flowers sprinkled in, they looked elegant and appealing. Perfect enough to be photographed for a magazine spread.