Ming Tea Murder (23 page)

“No,” said Max. “They're probably just yanking my chain.”

“I'm sorry,” said Theodosia. “It's just that . . . well, I'm a little bit shocked. But a genuine job offer . . . I suppose that really is good news.”

“I thought so,” said Max.

“Was your offer from the Savannah College of Art and Design?”

“That's right.”

“Hmm. A long ways away.”

“Just ninety miles, give or take,” said Max. “Seems to me you never mind breezing down to Savannah when you need to pick up tea and supplies.”

Theodosia thought for a minute. “So we'd do long distance?”

“I don't see why not.”

“And there's no possible chance of your returning to your old job here?”

“Kern doesn't want me and I don't want him.”

“What if Kern left the museum? What if he was fired or something?” Tucked in the back of Theodosia's mind was the notion that Kern was also a viable suspect. If it was proved that
he
was the one who'd murdered Edgar Webster, then everything could be set right again.

“Excuse me,” said Max. “Do you know something I don't?”

Theodosia sighed. “No, probably not.”

“Okay,” said Max. As he did a couple of slow knee bends to warm up, his knee joints popped audibly. “Jeez, I hope we're not in the greyhound division.”

• • •

When the race
started—there was no starter's gun because it would have spooked the dogs—the entire group took off in a mad rush. Dogs barked, tails wagged, and collars jingled as they dashed across the park. The group thundered past a plaque commemorating the hanging of Stede Bonnet and his pirates, following a path that had been clearly marked by orange lanterns and glittering arrows. It took them around Oyster Point and past a group of cannons. Just as they ran past the bandstand, the course suddenly split into two separate race courses. One was the 5K, the other a much shorter course, designed especially for non-runners as well as smaller dogs.

Because Theodosia, Earl Grey, and Max were all seasoned runners, they headed down the 5K track and soon found themselves out front, pacing the pack. Now the marked course took them down South Battery, past dozens of enormous mansions. In daylight, these mansions, painted in the French palette of pink, eggshell, and pastel blue, were as delightful as a plate of macarons. Now, in the spirit of Halloween, many were decorated.

There were action-figure witches sitting on side piazzas and stirring cauldrons, ghosts hanging from finials and balustrades, and skeletons standing guard on both sides of driveways. One home even had a full-scale headless horseman on its front lawn.

“I had no idea these homes would be so lavishly decorated,” said Max.

“Some of them must be taking part in the Bloody Mary Crawl tomorrow night,” said Theodosia.

“And the Haunted Hayride,” said Max. “Don't forget the hayride.”

They huffed their way down King Street, then turned down Ladson.

“Looks like this route is taking us past the museum,” said Max. He didn't sound particularly happy, but Earl Grey wagged his tail.

“Buck up, mister,” said Theodosia. “You've got an ace in the hole now. You just scored a serious job offer.” She wasn't crazy about Max moving to Savannah, but she knew his career and self-esteem were definitely at stake.

Rounding a corner, they chugged down Meeting, headed toward the museum. As they approached, they saw that a small crowd had gathered outside. They clapped and cheered mightily when Theodosia, Earl Grey, and Max came into view and continued their raucous cheers as more runners came pounding down the street.

“See,” said Theodosia once they'd breezed past. “That wasn't so bad. I think I even saw a couple of your friends out there waving to us.” She was pretty sure she'd caught sight of Sumner Motte and his wild, flyaway hair, as well as Percy Capers. But there'd been no sign of Elliot Kern.

They blew down Atlantic Street, a few more runners closer on their heels now, and then followed the markers until they were sent down Church Street.

“We're running right past the Indigo Tea Shop,” said Max.

“The home stretch,” said Theodosia.

From there it was just a few more blocks until they hit White Point Gardens again. As they spun across the finish line, there were cheers, shouts, and barks from the waiting crowd. Then everyone who finished was awarded an orange ribbon, and all dogs were presented with bowls of water.

“Come and get your picture taken,” urged Helen. She was waving at Theodosia and company as well as several other race finishers.

So Theodosia led her gang of three over to the bandstand, where cameras clicked and strobe lights flashed.

And, wouldn't you know it, Bill Glass was also there taking pictures.

“What are you doing here?” Theodosia asked him as he aimed his camera at an enormous harlequin Great Dane. “You're not the official race photographer, are you?” She didn't think Big Paw had hired him. At least, she hoped they hadn't, since he was such a squirrel to deal with.

“Oh, heck no,” said Glass. “I'm just hanging around, taking a few snaps of these mutts and their people. Hoping to catch something interesting.”

“And have you?”

“Not here.” But Glass suddenly pursed his lips and looked smug.

“What?” said Theodosia.

He started to smile. “You never know. I might have stumbled onto a couple leads concerning the Webster murder.”

“What are you talking about?” said Theodosia, as Earl Grey pulled Max over to a bunch of dogs and people.

Glass waggled a finger at her. “No, you don't, Nancy Drew. I'm not about to share any information with you. You'd try to scoop me.”

“No, I wouldn't.”
Yes, I would.
“C'mon, what are you talking about? Who are you looking at?”

“I've got my sources.”

“You'd better be careful,” said Theodosia. Max's warning was still echoing in her head. “Somebody fairly close to us wants to shut this investigation down completely.”

“Yeah, yeah, don't go worrying about me,” said Glass. “I'm one slippery guy. I can take care of myself.” And, with that, he dashed off into a swirl of fog and purple lights.

“Happy Halloween!” cried
Haley. Theodosia had just ducked in the back door this Wednesday morning as Haley popped out of her kitchen. She was suited up in a biker-chick costume, complete with studded black leather jacket, miniskirt, and boots.

“Haley,” said Theodosia, a little taken aback. “You're wearing a costume. Wait a minute, weren't you going to wear an Anne Boleyn costume?”

Haley grinned. “She got kicked to the curb. This is way more cool.”

Theodosia glanced toward the front of the tea shop, looking puzzled.

“I . . . wait a minute. Was I supposed to wear a costume, too? Did I not get the memo?”

“Naw, I'm all dressed up because I felt like it. I tried to talk Drayton into wearing his captain's outfit again, but he said once was enough. And he
hated
the idea of wearing a Beefeater costume. You know, in honor of our Tower of London Tea? I thought it'd be neat if he wore a costume like all the fancy pants guards at Buckingham Palace wear. But he said no way.” She looked downright sad. “What a party pooper.”

Theodosia chuckled as they walked out into the tea room together. “Face it, Haley, Drayton's not exactly a costume-wearing, popper-popping, streamer-tossing kind of guy.”

Haley considered Theodosia's words for a moment. “I suppose you're right. That type of wild and crazy guy I can find in any . . .”

“Local gin joint,” said Drayton. He stood behind the counter looking askance at both of them. “Is Haley still whining pitifully because I won't wear a costume?”

“Would you consider a simple werewolf mask?” asked Haley.

“No, thank you,” said Drayton. “I'm grouchy enough as it is today.” He reached up, grabbed a tin of tea, and a black plastic spider tumbled down onto the counter. “Haley!” he cried. But she'd already disappeared into her kitchen amid a riot of giggles.

• • •

Because it was
Halloween, there seemed to be an extra dollop of excitement thrumming in the air. Customers rushed in and grabbed tables. Yellow-and-red horse-drawn jitneys pulled up outside and disgorged more customers. Local shopkeepers, many wearing costumes, ducked in for their morning takeaway of a cuppa and scones.

Haley's cherry banana bread and maple scones were a huge hit. Along with Drayton's choice of teas.

“I'm calling them my daily brews,” Drayton told Theodosia. “In honor of Halloween.”

“And what teas are you featuring this morning?”

Drayton held up a Chinese teapot with a sacred bird-and-butterfly motif. “A blend called Jasmine Mountain. Chinese black tea with a hint of jasmine blossoms and strawberries. And my own proprietary blend, Autumn Cornucopia.”

“The one with black cherries and currants,” said Theodosia. “I love that tea blend.”

“Though I tend to be more of a purist,” said Drayton, “I must say the aroma in our tea room today is extraordinary.”

“Tea aromatherapy,” Theodosia agreed. “Nothing better. And you're ready with your Lady Jane Grey tea and your War of the Roses tea?”

Drayton smiled. “All set to go.”

• • •

“Helloooo! Toodles all!”
a familiar voice sang out.

Theodosia couldn't help but chuckle. Miss Dimple, their friendly tea-drinking octogenarian bookkeeper, had just arrived in a flurry of silver hair, pink cheeks, and layers of ruffles.

“Miss Dimple,” said Drayton. “Thank goodness. You're just the woman I was looking for.”

Miss Dimple toddled over to the counter on short, plump legs. “What can I do for you, Drayton?” Though she was here to help serve tea, Miss Dimple always made it a point to be extra sweet to Drayton. In her mind, he was the one who really ran the tea shop. He was the major domo who could spout volumes of tea lore. And that was just fine with Theodosia. As long as all the work got done and their customers were happy, why worry about who was in charge?

“I want you to taste this tea,” said Drayton. He poured a steaming serving of tea into a small handmade Japanese teacup. “I need you to render your expert opinion.”

Miss Dimple chuckled. She loved nothing better than to render an opinion.

“Now I must warn you,” said Drayton, “this tea is a Formosan Lung Ching green tea. It's quite different than your usual preference for Japanese Genmaicha.”

Game for anything, Miss Dimple took a sip. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them wide. “Lovely. This tea is bright but not too brisk.”

“Very good,” said Drayton. “You've become a real connoisseur.”

“I have?” she said, pleased. “Really?”

“Our customers rely on you to help them select the best teas,” said Theodosia, stepping in.

“I knew there was a reason I loved working here,” said Miss Dimple. She spun around and finally noticed Haley's decorations. “Oh my. I see we've had a small infestation of witches and ghosts. Is that Haley's doing?”

“No, the decorations were Drayton's idea,” said Theodosia, laughing as she said it.

“Oh, you two!” said Miss Dimple. She let loose another chuckle and then got serious. “Say, I was so sorry I wasn't able to help out with your
Titanic
Tea. But my cousins from Murrells Inlet were visiting.”

“We would have loved to have you,” said Theodosia. “But we made out just fine.”

“Still, I would have given anything to see Drayton in his captain's uniform.”

Drayton lifted an eyebrow. “Who told you about that?”

“Haley,” said Miss Dimple. “Who else?”

“She would,” said Drayton.

“I bet it was quite a sight,” said Miss Dimple. “I mean, who doesn't love a man in uniform?”

• • •

With Miss Dimple
serving morning tea, Theodosia took time out to put in a call to the Crenshaw Museum in New York. She was curious about them buying a Chinese tea house. And wondered if they were being guided by Harlan Duke, as well.

When she reached the museum, she was told she needed to speak with a Mr. Allan Abrams. But when she was connected, she was bumped over to his voice mail. Theodosia waited for the beep, then said, “Please call me as soon as possible. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Chinese tea house you're thinking of purchasing.” She left her name and number. And, as an afterword, said, “Please call any time. It's really quite urgent.”

Theodosia was still thinking about Chinese tea houses and Harlan Duke's connection, when her phone rang. She picked it up, figuring it was someone hoping to grab a late reservation for the Tower of London Tea.

It wasn't.

“Theodosia?” said a crackly voice. It was a voice she knew but for some reason couldn't quite place.

She clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “Who is this? Speak up, please.”

“It's me, Glass.”

“
Bill
Glass?”
What does he want?
“What do you want?” she said. “What's up?”

“I'll tell you what's up,” Glass suddenly spat out. “I'm in the hospital!”

Was this a joke?

“What?” she said. “Are you trying to be funny? Because if you are, it's not work—”

“This is about as funny as a crutch, which I'm going to be needing for the next couple of days!”

“You're really in the hospital?” said Theodosia.

“Yes!”

“What happened?”
Oh my goodness
, she thought. Another attack, another injury, maybe another attempted murder? What was going on?

“Can you come over here?” Glass asked.

“What? You mean now?”

“Yes, now. I'm at Mercy Medical Center. I need to talk to you. There's something fishy going on.”

“You think?” said Theodosia.

“I don't need sarcasm,” said Glass. “I need sympathy.”

“You know what?” said Theodosia. “You're probably going to have to settle for the sarcasm.”

“But you'll still come?”

Theodosia sighed. “I'm on my way.”

She flew out into the tea room, almost colliding with Miss Dimple.

“Oh dear,” Miss Dimple exclaimed. “I almost poured my pot of English breakfast tea all over you. We wouldn't want that, would we?”

Drayton glanced up. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“I have to duck out for a short while.”

“Now?” He frowned and consulted his watch. “You're aware our Tower of London Tea starts in less than two hours?”

“Bill Glass was attacked late night,” said Theodosia. “He's in the hospital.”

Drayton did a slow blink. “Dear lord.”

“Bill Glass, that silly photographer?” said Miss Dimple.

“That's right,” said Theodosia. “I want to run over and see him, but I'll be back in plenty of time for the luncheon, I promise.”

Miss Dimple patted her on the shoulder. “Don't worry, dear. We'll take care of things.”

But can I?
Theodosia wondered.

• • •

The heels of
Theodosia's Coach loafers drummed a staccato beat on the marble floor of the hospital lobby. She glanced around, saw two wheelchairs sitting empty, a cart full of flowers trundling by, and a receptionist sitting at the front desk.

Definitely need to start at the front desk
, she told herself. She approached quickly and smiled at a stern-looking woman with curly red hair. She wore a badge that said
LAILA, MMC VOLUNTEER
.

“Excuse me,” Theodosia said. “Can you tell me which room Bill Glass is in?”

The woman's eyes squeezed shut at the sound of Glass's name, and then she focused a cool, appraising look at Theodosia.

“Are you another one of Mr. Glass's
girl
friends?” the woman asked. Her tone was just short of unfriendly. “We've had a couple of ladies call for him already.”

“What?” said Theodosia. She reared back, a little unsettled by the question. “No, I'm not a girlfriend. Certainly not. I'm just . . . look, could you please just give me his room number? I'm in kind of a hurry.”

“Four six seven,” said the woman. She seemed to take pleasure in carefully enunciating each and every syllable.

Theodosia hurried toward the elevators, wondering just how many girlfriends Bill Glass might have? And had they really been calling him? She'd never thought of the man as a devil-may-care bachelor. Now there appeared to be another side to Glass, a side she really didn't want to know too much about.

Stepping out of the elevator on the fourth floor, Theodosia was almost mowed down by a linen cart. She pressed her back against the wall, vowing not to be involved in a hit-and-run with a stack of starched hospital sheets. She glanced at the signage on the wall, decided she needed to hang a left, and struck off down the corridor.

She still had to dodge busy nurses, rattling carts, and a couple of concerned-looking visitors, but she managed to find Glass's room.

“Four six seven,” Theodosia murmured to herself as she knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” Glass called out in a loud, caustic bray. “Door's open. Come on in.”

Theodosia pushed her way into Bill Glass's room. He was sitting up in bed in a perfectly ordinary hospital room that had a sliver of a view of the Ashley River. There was a white bandage wrapped around his head that caused his dark hair to stick up wildly. His right eye was badly bruised and ringed in colors of purple and black. He looked as if someone had used him as a personal punching bag.

“Look at this dump of a room,” Glass suddenly shouted, waving an arm at her in protest. “It's just short of a
charity
ward. The sheets are scratchy and the entire place reeks of disinfectant. There aren't any RNs to plump my pillows, not even a lousy candy striper!”

“It looks fine to me,” Theodosia said. Because it really did look fine. Crisp and clean and antiseptic. Although he was right about the odor of disinfectant. That was downright nasty.

“You know what else?” said Glass. “I was lying in bed this morning, barely able to twitch a single sore and battered muscle, when some idiot barges into my room with a breakfast tray.”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. She took a few steps forward and eased herself down into a vinyl-covered chair. She decided to let him ramble, because it seemed like he needed to blow off steam.

“So, anyway,” said Glass, “this idiot yells out, ‘Dietary!' and then slams down my breakfast tray on the cupboard over there. You see?” He flailed an arm out. “My breakfast is
still
sitting over there, because I'm unable to
limp
over and get it,” he sputtered. “Now I ask you, what good is breakfast if it's not
served
to you properly?”

Theodosia was suddenly having trouble keeping a straight face.

“How are you feeling?” Theodosia asked.

“Terrible,” said Glass. “Never felt worse in my entire life.”