Sweat Tea Revenge (13 page)

There was a loud sniffle, then a honk. Someone blowing their nose. Then a faint voice said, “No, this is Nadine.”

“Oh, Nadine, hello. How are you doing?”

“Terrible!” Nadine wailed. “This tragedy with Dougan has severely impacted the both of us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Nadine. Can you put Delaine on?”

Another honk and then whispered voices. Finally Delaine came on and said, “Theo? Is that you?”

“It’s me. Sounds like I might have interrupted something.”

“Not really,” said Delaine. “Nadine’s just indulging herself in another round of hysterics.” Her voice was suddenly harsh. “Which seem to occur like clockwork around here! Old Faithful, I’m starting to call her.”

A background voice, presumably Nadine’s, said, “You don’t have to be so cruel!”

“And you don’t have to have a nonstop case of the vapors!” came Delaine’s sharp retort. Then she was back on the phone. “Anyway,” said Delaine. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a couple of questions,” said Theodosia. “That pertain to my investigation.”

“Yes,” said Delaine eagerly. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you choose Ravencrest Inn for your wedding?”

“Oh, gosh,” said Delaine, and now she sounded a little drifty. “Mostly because Dougan suggested it. In a way, he came to the rescue after every place I called was already booked and I was pretty much ripping my hair out, trying to find a suitable venue.”

“So Ravencrest Inn was really Dougan’s idea?”

“I’d have to say so, yes.” Delaine paused. “Really, Theo, do you think
I
would have chosen a rat trap like that? You know me. My taste in clothing and décor is impeccable.”

“I have another question,” said Theodosia. “I know I mentioned this to you yesterday, but do you know anything at all about Bobby St. Cloud? Now that you’ve had a chance to think about it, do you have any recollection at all?”

“Nooooo,” said Delaine. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s an ATF agent looking for him,” said Theodosia.
And looking at me. Actually, more like flirting with me.

“I don’t know a thing about St. Cloud,” said Delaine. “Sorry. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“Okay, it was a shot in the dark. Maybe I’ll stop by DG Stogies and see if anyone there knows anything.”

“Listen, Theo,” said Delaine. “Can you meet me at Dougan’s tonight so we can go over our plans for the Garden Tour?”

“Ah . . . I suppose I could.” Theodosia had planned to meet Max for a concert tonight at the Gibbes Museum, but she could probably change her plans.

“That would be wonderful, dear. I’ll knock on your back door around sevenish, okay?”

“Okay, see you then,” said Theodosia.

The minute she hung up on Delaine, Theodosia dialed Max’s phone. He snatched it up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Max, it’s Theo.”

“Hey, cutie. What’s up?”

“Would you be real disappointed if I canceled tonight?”

“Not unless you’re dumping me to go on a date with someone else.”

“I would never do that,” said Theodosia.

“Whew,” said Max. “Glad we got that cleared up. So . . . yeah, if something else came up . . . something more important.”

“Truth be told, I got roped into helping Delaine with the Summer Garden Tour.”

“Delaine?” He sounded surprised. “Wait a minute, isn’t she supposed to be in mourning? Isn’t she supposed to be wearing a black veil and saying the rosary or something?”

“Not quite,” said Theodosia.

“What’s her involvement with this garden tour?”

Theodosia explained about Dougan Granville’s place being one of six private homes in the lineup.

“Can’t Delaine just mumble a polite excuse-me and get out of it?” asked Max. “I mean, the owner of the house is
dead
. That’s a crackerjack excuse right there.”

“You’d think so,” said Theodosia. “But it turns out Granville’s home has already been advertised as being on the tour.”

“Oh, sure,” said Max, chuckling. “If it’s been
advertised
, then it’s carved in stone. Advertising being so essential to our well-being and way of life.”

“Hey,” said Theodosia. “I gave her the same talk.”

“I’m also guessing,” said Max, “that you’re the convenient next-door neighbor.”

“And the go-to caterer,” said Theodosia.

“Ouch,” said Max. “Okay, I’m convinced. I guess prepping for the Summer Garden Tour takes precedence over sitting next to me tonight and listening to a flute concerto by Carter.”

“Mmm,” said Theodosia. “Carter. I can’t say he’s one of my all-time favorite composers.”

“Me neither,” said Max. “But I work here, so what can I do?”

15

“Knock, knock,” came
Drayton’s voice.

Theodosia looked up from her desk. She’d been skimming through a tea catalog, debating between the merits of ordering the bumblebee mugs or the floral mugs. “Come on in,” she told him, giving a casual wave.

Drayton sidled in and parked himself on a big, overstuffed chair, the one they’d dubbed the tuffet. “I was wondering if we could go over my summer tea blends,” said Drayton. He put on his glasses and opened a small black leather notebook.

“Love to,” said Theodosia. “But aren’t you starting a little late this year?”

“What can I say,” said Drayton. “It’s a late summer.” He gave a nervous smile as he fidgeted with his bow tie.

“But I’m sure our customers will love whatever you come up with.” Case in point, she already had several requests for what customers referred to as “Drayton’s summer teas that can be served hot or cold.”

“My first blend,” said Drayton, “is one I call Plantation Pekoe. Flowery orange pekoe with a little bit of lemongrass and blackberry.”

“I love it,” said Theodosia. “It’s a kind of tribute to all the plantations out on Highway 61.”

“Exactly.”

Theodosia picked up a pen and tapped it against the catalog, suddenly deciding on the bumblebees. “What else?”

“Low-country Lapsang. Lapsang souchong blended with mango and hibiscus. Rich and deep with some sparkling notes.”

“That one will fly off the shelves,” said Theodosia. “Anything else?”

“One more,” said Drayton, peering at her through tortoiseshell half-glasses and looking like a wise old owl. “Kiawah Island Cooler.”

“So it’s specifically an iced tea?”

“Yes. A black tea base with subtle hints of bergamot, orange, and lemon.”

“Sounds delicious,” said Theodosia. “Then again, your blends are always a huge hit. Which is why we usually have a tough time keeping them in stock.”

“That’s not a bad problem to have,” said Drayton. “Considering these turbulent times.”

“Agreed.” Theodosia turned the page on her catalog, wondering in the back of her mind if she should also order some bamboo trivets.

Drayton stabbed the air with his Montblanc pen. “And we also have a tea party to plan.”

Theodosia looked up and squinted at him. “Which one is that?”

“Our Scottish tea on Friday. For the Highlanders’ Club.” Drayton swiveled in his chair and called out, “Haley!”

Two seconds later, Haley popped into the office. “You rang, sir?”

“We still need to work out a menu for Friday’s Scottish tea,” Drayton told her.

“Yup, I’m on top of that,” said Haley.

“Any initial thoughts?” asked Drayton. Like Haley, he was a stickler for nailing down details.

“Well,” said Haley, “certainly not haggis. I don’t think my culinary skills are up to something like that.”

“How about the cock-a-leekie soup we talked about?” asked Drayton.

“The
what
?” said Theodosia. They’d just sprung a strange new dish on her.

“Cock-a-leekie,” said Drayton. “It’s a traditional Scottish soup made with chicken, leeks, potatoes, and celery.”

“I can manage that okay,” said Haley. “As long as you source a good recipe for me.”

“Consider it done,” said Drayton.

“So what else?” asked Theodosia.

Haley thought for a minute. “Smoked salmon tea sandwiches garnished with capers, cucumber slices, and crème fraîche.”

“Love it,” said Drayton. He was jotting all this down.

“Along with a Cheddar and chutney tea sandwich,” said Haley.

“And shortbread,” said Drayton. “We can’t forget the shortbread.”

“And maybe scones or oatcakes,” said Haley.

“Either would be fine,” said Drayton. He hesitated, as if wanting to add something more.

“What, Drayton?” asked Theodosia.

“What I’d really love to do,” said Drayton, “is decorate cupcakes with tartan designs.”

Haley considered the idea for a few moments, then nodded. “Yeah, we could do that. I’d just need to whip up a bunch of different-colored frostings. Then put ’em in my decorating pens and icing bags and layer them on.” She squinted at Drayton. “Do you, by any chance, have a sample of the tartans you’d like me to do?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” said Drayton. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two small swatches of cloth. “Right now I’m favoring the Stewart tartan and the Black Watch tartan.”

“These are very cool,” said Haley, fingering the two fabrics. “But which is which?”

“The Stewart tartan is the red and green on a white background,” said Drayton.

Haley studied it. “This should be simple enough to do with colored frosting. And this other one, the Black Watch . . . blue and green. Hmm.”

“What’s hmm?” asked Drayton. “Trickier?”

“In a way.” Haley wiggled her hand left, then right. “But not impossible. I just have to figure out the warp and weft.”

Drayton smiled broadly at Theodosia. “I knew our Haley could do this.”

*   *   *

The late Dougan
Granville’s sideline business, DG Stogies, was located on Wentworth Street sandwiched in between a wine shop and a men’s shoe store. It was a narrow, two-story shop with colorful neon signs in the front window, wooden shutters painted a British racing green, and an awning to match.

A C
LOSED
sign hung in the window, but the lights were still on and Theodosia thought she could see a shadow moving around in back. She rapped on the door sharply, feeling the window vibrate in its frame. When a man finally appeared at the front door, he shook his head, and mouthed,
We’re closed
.

Theodosia shook her head back at him. “Open up,” she mouthed back. “I need to talk to you about Granville’s murder.”

With a resigned look on his face now, the man unlatched the door and pulled it open.

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. She stepped into a small shop where the aroma of cigars and cigar smoke practically overpowered her. “Goodness. It certainly is . . . aromatic in here.”

The man was staring intently at her. “You’re here because of Mr. Granville?” he asked. “Are you working with the police? Because I’ve already talked to them twice already.” He was midfifties with an apologetic expression and watery blue eyes. He looked tired, sad, and wary, like an old bloodhound.

“I’m conducting a private investigation,” said Theodosia. “On behalf of Miss Delaine Dish, Mr. Granville’s fiancé.”

“Terrible thing,” said the man, and he looked like he meant it. “And on the day of their wedding.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Corky,” said the man. “Corky Rhodes.”

“You’re the manager of DG Stogies?”

Corky bobbed his head. “Yup. Manager, sales consultant, stock boy, and anything else that needs doing around here.”

“And you’ve been keeping the store open,” said Theodosia. “Who told you to do that?”

“Mr. Granville’s son,” said Corky.

“Stepson,” Theodosia corrected.

“I guess he wants this place to remain a going concern,” said Corky. “At least until he can find a buyer for it.”

Theodosia considered Corky’s words. This was another thing Charles Horton had stuck his fat fingers into without being asked. And, again, she wondered who the legal owner of DG Stogies might be. Did DG Stogies now belong to Horton, or had Granville bequeathed it to Delaine? She’d have to get a look at that elusive will in order to know for sure.

“This is a very impressive shop,” Theodosia said, making polite conversation. She scanned the bookcase-style humidors packed with cigars that had interesting names such as Gurkha, Macanuda, Arturo Fuente, and Davidoff. Then she noted the half circle of leather lounge chairs and the fifty-inch flat-screen TV that hung on the wall. This place had obviously been a cigar smoker’s hangout.

“If you’d come a little earlier, I’d still have Turkish coffee to offer you,” said Corky. “Of course, we always have brandy and wine.”

“But you reserve that for your regular customers,” said Theodosia. “Not just casual walk-ins.”

“Correct,” said Corky.

“Tell me about your imported cigars,” said Theodosia.

“They’re all imported,” said Corky. “From Nicaragua, El Salvador . . .”

“What about Cuba?”

“Those are illegal,” Corky said hastily. “Because of the trade embargo.”

“I know that.” Theodosia held up a hand. “Please, spare me the innocent routine. I happen to know for a fact that Dougan Granville had a seemingly endless supply of Cuban cigars. So what I’m wondering is, do you know who his supplier is?”

Corky gave a reasonable facsimile of looking puzzled. “Like I told the police, I have no idea.”

“Does the name Bobby St. Cloud ring a bell?”

Corky’s watery eyes slid sideways.

“I see that it does,” said Theodosia.

Corky tried to remain cool. “Mr. Granville might have mentioned him once or twice.”

“Really,” said Theodosia. “And Jack Alston from the ATF asked about him, too?”

Corky shifted from one foot to the other. “He might have.”

“Do you have any Cuban cigars on the premises right now?”

“Nope.”

“But you were expecting some?” Theodosia made a wild guess. “There was another shipment coming in?”

Corky looked a little less sure of himself. “Supposedly. But Mr. Granville handled all that. I don’t know anything about his connections or how he took receipt of the cigars or where they were delivered.” Now there was a pleading note in his voice.

“The cigars never came here?” Theodosia asked.

“Only a handful at a time.”

“No bulky packages wrapped in anonymous brown paper?”

Corky shook his head again. “No.”

“I take it the police have been through your records?”

“Absolutely,” said Corky. “We have nothing to hide.”

“Except a shipment of Cuban cigars.”

Corky ducked his head. “Well . . . maybe.”

*   *   *

Theodosia was speeding
down King Street, heading for home, when suddenly, on a whim, she cranked her steering wheel hard and sped around the block. She zigged and zagged through the Historic District, finally finding her way back to Ravencrest Inn.

As she sat in her Jeep, staring at the decrepit building, she wondered about the Cuban cigars and the mysterious Bobby St. Cloud. Obviously, Corky knew about him, though he claimed he didn’t know how to contact him. Had Granville’s murder been about Cuban cigars? Was it something that stupid?

Theodosia continued to ponder these questions as she walked around the side of Ravencrest Inn and stared at the ruined garden.

And what about the Rattlings? How did they fit into all of this? Or did they even have a role? Were they just unlucky bystanders?

Theodosia climbed the two crumbling steps that led up to the back door and let herself in. She was in the hallway at the rear of the building now, where three bags of trash kept company with a broken desk chair and a stack of newspapers.

Voices floated back to her, and she cocked her head to listen. After about ten seconds she picked up the gist of the conversation. Amazingly, a couple was actually checking in, and Frank Rattling was giving them his innkeeper’s welcome speech. She wondered how he felt about that. Did it make him sad that his tenure was almost at an end? Or was he happy to be rid of a white elephant that hadn’t turned a profit?

Did it matter? Not to her, it didn’t.

Quietly, Theodosia crept up the back stairs. For some reason she was curiously drawn to this place. Not that she thought she’d find another clue here. She just thought . . . what?

What do I think? That I can drink in the atmosphere and intuit what really happened here? No, I can’t do that. Nobody can.

She settled for the realization that she was just naturally curious. And, of course, she’d promised Delaine that she’d look into things. So . . . this was looking into things. Sort of.

When Theodosia reached the third-floor landing, she stopped and glanced around. One dark hallway led straight toward the suite of rooms Delaine had occupied. The other went off to the right and led to where Granville’s suite had been.

It was so dark up here that Theodosia figured none of these rooms were occupied. In fact, the only bit of real light came from the small window on the landing. She turned around and peered out that window. Craning her neck, she looked down and saw that she was just to the left of the little fish pond. The fish pond where she’d discovered the glass paperweight.

And she wondered—had someone killed Granville, then popped open this window and tossed the murder weapon into the pond? With the thunder booming and the lightning crackling, nobody would have heard it hit. You could have dropped a dozen bowling balls from this window and nobody would have heard them hit the ground. Or land in the pond.

Hmm. Interesting.

Theodosia glanced around again. And, for the first time, she wondered about the floor above her. The stairs continued up, although they were narrower again by half.

So what’s up there? The attic?

There was only one way to find out.

Theodosia crept up the narrow stairs, mindful of the dust on the handrail, the creaking of each step. Arriving at a cramped landing, she found a small window and a narrow door. She tried the door immediately and found it locked tight.

It probably leads into the attic. Which is filled with more junk.

Losing interest now, she turned to the window and saw that it was dirty and smeared with dust. No wonder the Rattlings hadn’t made a go of this place, she decided. Everything about Ravencrest Inn smacked of lackadaisical care. She touched an index finger to the window and rubbed. Her finger came away grimy. Shaking her head, Theodosia hunched forward to look out. Interestingly enough, she was now positioned directly over the small fish pond.

Her heart gave a little blip, like a trout flipping over lazily in a sun-dappled stream.

Could someone have dropped the paperweight from up here? More importantly, could someone have even opened this window? Or was it glued shut from years of grime and lack of use?

There was only one way to find out.

This was an old-fashioned kind of window, Theodosia noted. A two-parter. The top part remained fixed, while the lower part slid up. Flipping open the latch, Theodosia put her hands against the window sash and pushed.