Sweat Tea Revenge (7 page)

“You know,” she finally told him, “I’m not entirely sure.”

8

Theodosia strolled down
King Street, enjoying the warm weather and bountiful sunshine that had finally been bestowed upon Charleston. Tall redbrick buildings with narrow white shutters caught the sun’s rays and bounced them back at her, making her feel warm and relaxed. Palm trees bobbed their shaggy heads as gentle sea breezes ruffled their fronds.

Outside Gold Nugget Antiques, Theodosia pulled out her cell phone and called the Indigo Tea Shop. Drayton picked up on the first ring.

“Where are you?” he asked in a brusque tone. It was unusual for her not to be there helping with their morning setup.

“I’m basking in the sun on King Street,” said Theodosia.

“Why are you not here slaving away with Haley and me?”

“Because Delaine asked me to have a little chat with Simone Asher, Granville’s former girlfriend. And her shop is in this part of town.”

“I take it Delaine believes that hard-hearted Simone is the one who murdered Dougan Granville?” said Drayton.

“Something like that, yes.”

“I met Simone the day of the wedding,” said Drayton. “She seemed a lot more interested in getting photographed for
Shooting Star
than she was in Granville. So trust me when I say she probably had nothing to do with it. This is just one of Delaine’s strange delusions coupled with some sort of revenge fantasy.”

“You’re probably right. And even though your diagnosis is right out of Psych 101, I’m going to indulge Delaine’s paranoia anyway.”

“You say this ex-girlfriend owns an antique shop?” asked Drayton.

“Vintage shop,” said Theodosia.

“Well, if you should happen to come across a Royale Garden Amari Chintz teapot, kindly grab it for me, will you? Mine has a nasty chip on the spout.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Theodosia promised.

*   *   *

Archangel turned out
to be both glamorous and lovely. The shop was a small jewel box of a space with whitewashed walls, Oriental carpets on a polished wood floor, and a twinkling crystal chandelier overhead. The walls were decorated with vintage shawls and fans, and there were racks packed tightly with vintage gowns and dresses. Small glass cases with pinpoint spotlights were filled with treasures that included antique cameos, Bakelite bracelets, gold compacts from the thirties and forties, elegant rings, and screw-back earrings. Theodosia even spotted what she thought might be a genuine Verdura cuff. Amazing!

“Can I help you?” Simone Asher looked up from a small round display table where she was arranging a pair of hot-pink Schiaparelli shoes, a black silk evening bag encrusted with rhinestones, a pair of gloves, a bottle of My Sin perfume, and a strand of pearls.

“Those are gorgeous pearls,” said Theodosia. They were a dreamy pistachio-green color with an amazing luster.

“Tahitians,” said Simone. “Natural, not cultured.” She picked up the choker-length strand and fingered them like worry beads. “From the twenties. Back when pearls were truly matched for perfection.” She smiled tightly and added, “You’re Theodosia, aren’t you? Delaine’s friend.” She straightened up and smoothed the white silk sheath dress she was wearing.

“That’s right,” said Theodosia. She took her time studying Simone, since she’d never observed the woman in her natural habitat before. She’d caught glimpses of Simone here and there, dashing through shops and restaurants. And she’d seen her at Ravencrest Inn this past Saturday. But she’d never carried on an actual conversation with her. Now Theodosia saw that Simone was everything Delaine had raged about. The woman was tall, thin, leggy, and a sun-kissed blond. Simone was probably in her late thirties but could easily pass for a few years younger. She had the polished air of a fashion model who’d come to the end of her career in front of the camera but had easily segued into another line of work where her beauty and fashion know-how would serve her well. Basically, Simone had an attractiveness quotient that most women would kill for.

“Are you a fan of vintage pieces?” Simone asked. Her languid way of speaking, a soft, melodic drawl, corresponded perfectly to the sensuous way she moved.

“I am,” said Theodosia. She pointed at a black taffeta ankle-length dress draped on a mannequin. “Especially when we’re talking about a dress as gorgeous at that one.”

Simone smiled in agreement. “Lovely, isn’t it? That’s a nineteen fifty-one Christian Dior dress. What was termed
The
New Look
.”

“And I love the skirt you have on display in your front window. The ankle-length pale green?”

“That one’s a Balmain,” said Simone. “A rather rare piece at that.”

“Lovely,” breathed Theodosia. And it was. That was the thing about fashion: Whether it was vintage or au courant, if a piece was beautifully designed and constructed, it just worked. Theodosia knew that if she paired a silk tank top with that long Balmain skirt, she could skip off to the opera and look stunning. Well, perhaps not
stunning
, but she knew she’d look awfully darned good.

“We have more recent items, too,” said Simone, indicating the racks of clothing that were packed into her small shop. “A few Yves Saint Laurent pieces from the early seventies that are in surprisingly top-notch condition. And some Claude Montana and Versace from the mid-eighties.” She pushed a hank of blond hair off her face and said, in her soft drawl, “Let me guess. Delaine thinks I murdered Dougan.”

Theodosia wasn’t prepared for such a straightforward statement.

Simone seemed to savor Theodosia’s sudden discomfort for a moment or two. Then she said, “Let me save you some time. I’ve already been questioned at length by two different detectives. The fact of the matter is, I was there. At the wedding.” She smirked. “I was an invited guest at the oh-so-swanky Ravencrest Inn. But did I creep up the back stairs and murder poor Dougan? Hardly.”

“Do you know how he was killed?”

“I understand it was a lethal blow to the head.”

“How do you feel about that?” asked Theodosia.

“Sad. Heartbroken, of course.” But Simone didn’t appear sad or heartbroken. Mostly she just looked bored with their conversation.

Theodosia decided to put her manners aside and play a little hardball. “When you and Granville were together, did the two of you do a lot of coke?”

“Coke?” said Simone. “As in cocaine?” She fought to arrange her lovely face into an expression of stunned amazement. “No, of course not. Never in a million years! I don’t do drugs, I don’t even like to take aspirin.” She shook her head, as if a swarm of hornets had suddenly attacked her. “Why would you even
ask
such a thing?”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Theodosia, as she glanced around the shop. “Really, it was just an innocent question.”

“I certainly hope so,” said an indignant Simone. “Because I wouldn’t want you thinking that I—”

“What’s that?” Theodosia asked, interrupting her. She pointed at a small wicker stand tucked behind a rack of colorful clothing.

“Vintage Pucci dresses.”

“No, behind them,” said Theodosia. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her, she was pretty sure the shelf held a small collection of glass paperweights.

Simone took a step forward. “Oh. Some vintage opera glasses and a couple of paperweights.”

“Paperweights,” Theodosia repeated.

“Yes,” said Simone. “Interesting enough, they’re what’s left of a collection I sold to the people who own Ravencrest Inn.”

Theodosia was utterly floored. “You realize, Simone, that Granville was probably struck on the head by a glass paperweight.”

Simone threw her hands in the air. “For goodness’ sake, now you really
are
accusing me of murder.”

“You’re the one who said it, not me.”

Simone’s face turned lobster-red and her eyes narrowed to Kabuki mask slits. She balled her hands into fists and leaned forward until she was just inches from Theodosia, invading her personal space. “Don’t play games with me!” she snarled.

Theodosia fought to maintain a neutral tone. “And don’t you play games with me!”

“I think,” said Simone, taking a step back, “that you’d better leave.”

And I think
, Theodosia told herself, as she fled out the door,
that you’ve got a nasty temper
.

*   *   *

Theodosia parked her
Jeep in the narrow brick alley behind the Indigo Tea Shop, buzzed through the back door into her office, and dropped her bag on top of her perpetually messy desk. Then she flew into the tea room to find it practically filled with customers. Though Drayton appeared to be more harried than usual, he relaxed visibly once he spotted Theodosia.

“There you are,” said Drayton. “Thank goodness.”

“Sorry to be late,” said Theodosia. She slipped a long black Parisian waiter’s apron over her head and tied it in back. “I see we’re busy already.”

“Now that the sunshine and warm weather have moved in, everyone seems to be out in full force! We’ve had tourists, neighbors, and tea clubs clamoring for tables. We might even have to put our wrought-iron tables and chairs out on the sidewalk.”

“Good,” said Theodosia. “I’m glad we’re busy.” She didn’t fret unduly about business or about the tea shop being profitable. But the specter of a slowed economy was always in the back of her mind. For some reason, maybe it was their dedicated customer base or the fact that they worked weekends and evenings catering teas, the Indigo Tea Shop continued to hum along rather nicely. And Theodosia, with her business and marketing background, knew that the difference between making a living and making a profit was vast indeed. And her beloved little tea shop, knock on wood, continued to churn out a profit.

Drayton pulled a floral Spode teapot off the shelf, swished it out with warm water, and added three scoops of Yunnan black tea. “Well, did Simone Asher confess to the murder?”

“No,” said Theodosia. “But she knew exactly why I was there.”

“She knew Delaine sent you in to do reconnaissance at the enemy camp? To give her the third degree?”

“She sure did. Simone’s not stupid.”

“Neither are you,” said Drayton. He placed the teapot on a silver tray, then added two silver-rimmed bone china teacups and a small plate of paper-thin lemon slices. “Did you pick up any vibes from her at all?”

“Only that Simone acted like she’d been poked with a hot wire when I mentioned cocaine.”

“Meaning she denied knowing anything about it.”

“Let me put it this way,” said Theodosia. “If we’d been doing a scene at an improv class, Simone would have received a gold star.”

“Huh,” said Drayton.

“The weird thing is,” said Theodosia, “I went to meet Simone just as a kind of pro forma favor to Delaine. Not really believing she had anything to do with Granville’s death.”

“Yes?”

“And now I’m not so sure about her. There’s a sneaky, snarky side to Simone. The woman’s a little . . . nasty.”

“Wait just a minute,” said Drayton. “You don’t really think she could have murdered Granville, do you?”

“I don’t know. But Simone certainly likes to push people’s buttons.”

Drayton snatched up his tray. “But does she also push drugs?”

Theodosia stood at the counter pondering this for a moment, until a friendly voice called out, “Hey, Theo.”

Theodosia spun around. “Leigh!” she called out. Leigh Caroll owned the Cabbage Patch Gift Shop down the street. She was an African American woman with beautifully burnished skin, sepia-toned hair, and almond eyes that turned up slightly at the corners, giving her an upbeat mischievous look.

“I see you’re busy as usual,” said Leigh. “Why don’t you send your customers down to my place when they’re finished here?”

“Why don’t you give me a stack of business cards and I will,” said Theodosia, delighted to see her friend. “Can I offer you a scone and a cuppa? We could brew your favorite peach tea if you’d like.”

Leigh gave an airy wave. “Just give me whatever’s handy.” She leaned across the counter. “Did I hear right? That you were at a wedding where some fellow got killed?”

“Delaine’s wedding,” said Theodosia. “Her fiancé.”

Leigh clapped a hand to her chest. “No!”

“It was awful,” said Theodosia.

“And you were some kind of witness?” asked Leigh, curious now.

“I was the one who discovered the victim.”

“Poor Delaine,” said Leigh. “She must be beside herself. And on her wedding day like that.” Leigh’s face crumpled and she shook her head sadly. “How could something like that happen?” she asked. “If you’re not safe at your own
wedding
, then where are you safe?”

*   *   *

Just when Theodosia
was delivering a plate of black currant scones and a pot of vanilla spice tea, the ghost hunters came charging into her shop. They spotted her, gave an enthusiastic wave, then trooped over to the same table they’d occupied yesterday.

A few minutes later, her customers all taken care of and Drayton’s watchful eyes surveying the shop, Theodosia went over and joined them.

“Okay,” she said, as she slid into a chair. “I’m in.”

“That’s terrific,” Jed enthused. “We were hoping you’d say yes.”

“Wonderful,” said Tim, grinning. “And we’ve obtained the full consent of the Rattlings. In the form of a written release, I might add.”

Theodosia held up a hand. “Just a second. My yes comes with a rather large codicil. I had to run your request past Delaine Dish, of course.”

“Mr. Granville’s ex-bride,” said Jed.

“Uh . . .” Theodosia hesitated. Was that the correct term? Ex-bride? Or was Delaine Granville’s former bride? How
would
you describe Delaine’s current status? Bride in mourning? Goodness, that sounded awful!

“You were saying?” said Tim.

“Yes,” said Theodosia, plugging back into the conversation. “I ran your ghost-hunting expedition past Delaine and she basically approved. In fact, she expressed a strong desire to come along.”

“She can come,” said Jed. “In fact, her presence might be very helpful. If Mr. Granville’s spirit is lingering, she’s the one person who might be able to draw him out.”

Or Delaine might freak out,
thought Theodosia.