Shades of Earl Grey (14 page)

“Miss Dimple,” said Theodosia, popping up from her chair. “How was your vacation in Coral Gables?”

Miss Dimple toddled over to her in a pair of too-tight shoes and grasped Theodosia's arm. “Wonderful,” she gushed. “Do you know they
still
have those water skiers? I saw them back in 1958 and they're still doing amazing stunts, standing on each other's shoulders and skiing backwards.”

“Guess you're not a Six Flags kind of gal, huh, Miss Dimple?” said Haley with a mischievous grin.

“You're a wicked girl, Haley Parker,” scolded Miss Dimple. “You know my brain would be in an absolute spin if I went on one of those topsy-turvy rides. No, just
watching
water skiers is excitement enough when you get to be my age,” she said as she followed Theodosia into the back of the shop.

When they had passed through the green velvet curtains and were in Theodosia's private office, Miss Dimple said in a loud whisper, “I hear you've had some excitement around here again.” Her old eyes sparkled. “That theft at the Heritage Society must have put Drayton in a dreadful state. Timothy Neville, too. Neither one has what you'd call a tranquil personality.”

“They were both pretty upset,” agreed Theodosia. “Still are.” She rummaged through the stack of papers that had somehow accumulated with amazing speed on top of her desk, searching for the previous week's receipts so Miss Dimple could bring their books up to date.

“I was so sorry to hear about the death of Delaine's niece's fiancé, too.” Miss Dimple paused. “That's a mouthful, now isn't it?”

“It was a tragedy,” said Theodosia. “His death and the missing ring have us all on edge.”

“Missing ring?” asked Miss Dimple, suddenly perking up. “I didn't hear about that.”

Theodosia gave up looking for the receipts for a moment. “Camille's heirloom wedding ring is still unaccounted for. But keep that under your hat, will you? The fact that the ring might be related to the disappearance of that sapphire necklace at the Heritage Society is really just a theory we're going on.”

“The theory being . . .” said Miss Dimple.

“Well . . . that the two incidents are related,” said Theodosia.

Miss Dimple gazed at her with eyes big as saucers. “Do you know Chessie Calvert?” she asked suddenly.

Theodosia shook her head.

“Two weeks ago, just before I went on vacation, somebody broke into Chessie's house and stole her collection of Tiffany Favrile vases,” said Miss Dimple. Favrile vases were among the early efforts of Louis Tiffany. Highly colorful and often fancifully shaped like flowers, Tiffany vases were renowned for their jewel-like brilliance.

“No kidding,” said Theodosia. This
was
a bit of a bombshell.

“Now when I say collection, I mean a total of three vases,” said Miss Dimple. “Still, they were gorgeous pieces. Inherited from her Grand-Aunt Polly and worth a pretty penny. Chessie was heartbroken.”

“So there
have
been thefts before,” said Theodosia. “Camille's ring wasn't the first.”

“Could be a nasty trend,” said Miss Dimple.

“Did your friend, Chessie, report this theft to the police?” asked Theodosia.

“Oh yes,” said Miss Dimple. “And they sent a—what-do-you-call-it? —an e-mail to the folks at that Art Theft Association in New York. The police theorized that Chessie's pieces might show up at auction somewhere. Apparently there's a huge demand for Tiffany collectibles.”

Theodosia drummed her fingers on her desk. “This isn't good.”

“No, it's not,” said Miss Dimple. She studied Theodosia with a cool, appraising look. “Let me guess,” she said, her old eyes narrowing. “In light of the rather bizarre occurrences with Camille's ring and the necklace at the Heritage Society, you've decided to launch your own investigation.” She tossed the word
investigation
out as though she were Watson chatting it up with Sherlock Holmes.

“It's more just looking into things than anything,” said Theodosia, offering a hasty explanation. “Delaine was awfully upset. And Timothy's worried sick about losing his job.”

“Yes, but bully for you, dear,” said Miss Dimple. “Besides jumping in to help, you show a real
intuition
for this line of work.” She nodded approvingly at Theodosia. “If I were to place a bet, I'd put my money on you instead of the police.”

“Thanks for your confidence, Miss Dimple, but like I said, I'm really . . . oh, here they are!” Theodosia grabbed the packet of receipts that had been clipped together and then somehow buried under a mound of tea catalogs, invitations, recipes, and marketing ideas.

Miss Dimple took the receipts from Theodosia and opened her purse to put them in. “I don't know if what I told you about Chessie Calvert's Tiffany vases has helped or hurt,” she said.

“Definitely helped,” said Theodosia. “It means there's been a pattern. That's not great news, of course, but it means my theory has credence.”

“So you're going to keep investigating?” asked Miss Dimple.

“Absolutely,” said Theodosia.
Three instances of valuables stolen, maybe more? You better believe I'm going to keep going.

“Oh!” Miss Dimple suddenly exclaimed. “What's wrong with me? I almost forgot.” She plunked herself down in the chair across from Theodosia and rifled through her handbag. “I found this in a darling little shop in Key Largo and thought it would be absolutely
perfect
for you!” Miss Dimple pulled out a gift wrapped in pink tissue paper and handed it to her.

Theodosia accepted the gift, peeled back the paper. It was a wrought iron trivet in the shape of a teapot.

“Thank you,” said Theodosia as a smile lit her face. She was touched by Miss Dimple's thoughtfulness. “It's lovely. Perfect for the tea shop, too. We keep setting hot pots down and scorching our nice wooden counter.”

“It's you who deserves the thanks,” said Miss Dimple. “If you hadn't pushed me into this freelance gig, I'd be just another old gal sitting alone in her house conversing with fifty cats.”

“You don't really have fifty cats, do you?” asked Theodosia in mock horror.

“No, just the two. Sampson and Delilah. But loneliness can drive a person to do strange things.”

 

“Here,” said Haley after Miss Dimple had left. She placed a tall, frosty glass filled with cinnamon-scented froth in front of Theodosia. “Try this.” Pulling a postcard advertising the historic district's upcoming Lamplighter Tour from the mound of papers on Theodosia's desk, she added, “Use this as a coaster.”

“And what is this?” asked Theodosia, intrigued by the interesting concoction that now sat before her.

“A tea smoothie,” said Haley proudly.

Theodosia couldn't help but grin. Any smoothie she'd ever had usually consisted of fruit, low-fat milk, and yogurt. Trust Haley to come up with a smoothie using tea. “Okay, what's in it?”

“Take a sip and find out,” said Haley. She was fairly dancing on the balls of her feet, waiting for Theodosia to taste her new recipe.

Obediently, Theodosia took a sip. “Mmn,” she said. “Apples and cinnamon for sure . . .”

“That's Drayton's blend of apple-cinnamon tea,” said Haley in a rush. “I whipped it in a blender with some frozen yogurt then added an extra dash of cinnamon.” Her dark eyes sparkled as she gazed at Theodosia. “Like it?”

“It's terrific,” said Theodosia. “I'll bet we could even sell these at lunchtime. Or as afternoon pick-me-ups.” She took another sip, feeling pleased. This was what running a small business was all about. Everyone pitching in, everyone contributing new ideas. And doing it in an atmosphere that was fun, fluid, and not a bit stuffy or inhibiting.

“Actually,” said Haley. “I
was
hoping to add a couple smoothie offerings to our menu. I've got an idea for a Moroccan mint tea smoothie and one with green tea and mango.”

“They're a far cry from a little Victorian teapot filled with English breakfast tea, but I love the idea of showing people how versatile tea can be. After all, people all over the world have been improvising with tea for centuries, frothing it with milk, blending it with spices, adding dried fruits and herbs.” Theodosia took another sip. “Plus, we'd be extending our product line.”

“Kind of like what we're doing with the T-Bath products,” said Haley.

“Exactly,” agreed Theodosia. “When I worked in marketing, we called it brand extension.”

“Okay then,” said Haley, “what about chai?”

Chai was black tea with a blend of spices, usually cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, and ginger, steeped in milk, then sweetened and served hot.

“I can get Drayton to blend the spices, the rest is a snap,” enthused Haley. “Well, we might have to get a small cappuccino machine to steam and froth the milk—but that would be it.”

“Haley,” laughed Theodosia, “this is the Indigo Tea Shop, not the International Food Corporation. Let's go with the tea smoothies for now and see what happens, okay?”

“Okay,” Haley agreed. “Hey, is that from Miss Dimple?” She'd just noticed the wrought iron tea trivet that sat on Theodosia's desk.

“She brought it back from Florida for me,” said Theodosia. “Wasn't that sweet.”

“She's a neat old gal,” said Haley as a low buzz suddenly issued from the kitchen next door. “Oops! There goes the oven timer. Gotta check my quiche.” And Haley zipped out the door like a jackrabbit.

Theodosia took a few more sips of her tea smoothie with the intention of sorting through the stack of papers on her desk. Besides being a compulsive hoarder of junk mail, she found it difficult to toss out the various tea and tea ware catalogs that found their way to her on an almost daily basis. What if, at some point in time, she just
had
to have some of those pedestal mugs to sell in the tea shop? Or some of those neat wooden honey dippers. After all, they sold a tremendous amount of honey along with their packaged teas. And then there was this wonderful little biscotti company in North Carolina that offered dreamy flavors such as chocolate raspberry and lemon almond.

Better save these catalogs, she told herself. And as she gathered them up, her eyes fell once again on the wrought iron trivet Miss Dimple had brought her from Florida. She stared at the black wrought iron that had been heated then formed into a rounded teapot outline.

So Miss Dimple had known of another strange robbery that had a cat-burglar-like MO.
Have there been other robberies of valuables?
She'd have to check with the police.

Deep inside her a warning bell sounded.

She tried to push her unsettled feelings into the back of her mind, but couldn't.

There'll be more robberies to come,
she told herself.
This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

HALEY PULLED OPEN
the door of the large institutional oven and peered at her quiche. She had three pans of the stuff baking away inside the oven. And right now all of them were bubbling like crazy and turning a nice golden brown on top.

Looking good,
Haley murmured to herself as she eased the oven door closed, then slipped the oven mitt off her hand.

The three pans of quiche would hopefully serve today's luncheon crowd. Hopefully. They were all double pans, but then again, their luncheon business had been increasing at an alarming rate.

Haley hummed to herself as she moved a stack of mismatched salad plates onto the serving counter. Plates that she and Theodosia had picked up at flea markets and estate sales. The fact that none of them matched seemed to contribute to the general feeling of cozy and chaos that reigned at the Indigo Tea Shop.

She remembered very well the day Theodosia had first opened her doors. They'd served fifteen customers that first day. Fifteen inquisitive souls who'd made their way down Church Street and ventured into the tea shop, intrigued by the sights, sounds, and smells.

That had been almost three years ago and business had grown in decisive spits and spurts ever since.

Haley turned back to the oven and flipped open the door.
Perfect.
She quickly pulled all three pans from the oven and set them on top of the large, institutional stove.

The aroma wafting from the quiche was heavenly, she decided. But then, her bacon and red pepper quiche was always a thing of pure joy. How did she know? Haley smiled contentedly to herself. Because lots of folks, oodles of folks, had
told
her so. And because she used a secret ingredient—almost a half-pound of cream cheese in every pan—to guarantee that her quiche would turn out extra smooth and creamy.

Why, just this morning, Brooke Carter Crockett had urged her to put together a recipe book. And Brooke hadn't been the first one to make that suggestion, either. Lots of folks, including Drayton and Theodosia, had brought up the idea.

Haley slid a knife through the first pan of steaming quiche, cutting it into even squares. The idea of a recipe book appealed to her. Heck, she decided, restaurants and church groups all over Charleston had put together recipe books. Some featured gorgeous four-color photos and were professionally printed and bound, others were typed on computers, laser-printed at home, then hand-punched and tied with ribbon.

“Haley,” said Drayton as he stuck his head around the corner. “Our luncheon crowd awaits today's offering with bated breath.”

“Then don't just stand there being erudite, Drayton, kindly
help
me. Nestle a small bunch of green grapes on each plate and let's get going.” Haley saw him hesitate for a split-second. “Yes,
those
grapes,” she snapped. “Right there in the basket.” She shook her head good-naturedly, knowing she was a perfectionist and sometimes a little too hard-driving for her own good. For
anyone's
good. “What would you guys do around here without me to keep up my constant barrage of browbeating?” she added.