Shades of Earl Grey

“You’re thinking of the funeral,” she said, noting the suddenly somber look on his face.

“Yes,” he said, “aren’t you?”

“Here you are, Drayton,” said Haley as she came through the curtains and delivered a plate of golden pastries into Drayton’s waiting arms. “And some pain au chocolat, too. I had extra dough so I sweetened things up a bit.” Haley suddenly paused, registering the looks on their faces. “Oh, gosh,” she said, “the funeral’s today, isn’t it? I wonder how they-all are doing down in Savannah.”

“Probably awful,” said Drayton.

“That’s what I figured, too,” said Haley. “I mean, I only met Camille that one time but I really liked her a lot. She was a hoot. Well, you know what I mean.”

“Of course, we do, dear,” said Theodosia. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“You called Tidwell, right?” said Drayton.

“You’re going to talk to him?” said Haley. She didn’t care for Tidwell, thought him to be a boor and a brute.

“I sent him an e-mail last night,” said Theodosia.

“Technology,” Drayton said derisively. “It’s going to be the downfall of Western civilization.”

“You didn’t think so the other day when you guys set up those tracker beams,” said Haley.

“And they didn’t work, did they!” argued Drayton.

“Hold everything,” said Theodosia. “We all know the motion sensors didn’t work because someone cut the power. It had nothing to do with a technological meltdown.”

“Drayton, don’t you have a table full of customers waiting for those?” Haley indicated the plate of baked goods in his hand.

“Don’t you have today’s luncheon to figure out?” he asked her.

“Tea-marinated prawns on Japanese noodles,” she told him. “But I don’t anticipate there’ll be any leftovers.”

“Tea-marinated prawns?” he said, suddenly perking up. “My, that does sound lovely. May I ask which tea you’ve chosen as a marinade base?”

Haley grinned. “You may not. But if any of our customers are interested, you may tell them it is Lapsang Souchong.”

“Mmnn,” said Drayton, considering. “Nice, rich, black tea from southern China. Smoky flavor. Should be highly complementary with seafood.”

“Maybe there’ll be a nibble left over,” she told him.

“Let’s hope so,” he said.

Haley’s tea-marinated prawns were an enormous hit. Theodosia wasn’t sure exactly what seemed to be bringing the customers in these days—the cool, sunny weather, the hint of autumn in the air, or a sudden jump in the number of tourists—but they were packed for lunch once again. Standing room only, in fact. Giselle and Cleo, two regulars from Parsifal, a gift shop down the street, ended up getting their lunches packed to go in one of the Indigo Tea Shop’s indigo blue boxes, rather than stand around and wait for a table.

“Maybe we should be putting tables on the sidewalk,” Theodosia lamented to Drayton.

“We’ve talked about outside tables before and never done it,” he said. “It would mean a little more work, but it would certainly increase our capacity as well.”

“By capacity, you mean profits,” she said.

“Of course I mean profits. Profits are the lifeblood of a business,” said Drayton, ever mindful of the bottom line.

“What would we need to do?” she asked. “File something with the city for a permit?”

“I think so,” he said. “Maybe your friend, Jory Davis, could look into it.”

“Good idea,” replied Theodosia, then added, “or is it too late in the year? We could get a cold snap any day now.”

“Then we’ll be well prepared for spring,” Drayton assured her.

By two o’clock things had settled down to normal. Haley was rattling dishes in the kitchen, clearing away lunch, and had already put a couple pans of gingerbread in the oven in anticipation of the afternoon tea crowd. Dray-ton was seated at the table nearest the counter, munching his prawns and doing a highly adequate job of snaring the slippery Japanese soba noodles with his pair of wooden chopsticks. Theodosia was arranging antique teacups and muffin plates on the high shelf behind the counter where their old brass cash register sat.

She had collected dozens of teacups over the years, a hard-to-find Shelley Apple Blossom, several Limoges, and a pretty fan-handle Russian teacup from the Popov Porcelain Factory, to name just a few. And she’d decided it was a shame to keep so many stored away in boxes. Better to bring them downstairs and create a fanciful display.

“That’s a lovely Shelley,” called Drayton from his table.

Theodosia held up the Shelley Apple Blossom for him to admire. It was creamy white bone china covered in a riot of pink apple blossoms. It was also one of the cups and saucers that was most prized among the many avid Shelley collectors throughout the world.

“As you probably know,” Drayton told her, “I’ve got the Shelley Dainty White in the Queen Anne style. Setting for eight. Hudgins Antiques offered me fifteen hundred for it just last year.”

“Did you consider selling?” she asked.

“Absolutely not, it’s worth twice that. Besides, I love those dishes. They were passed down to me by my dear Aunt Cecily.”

When the front door fluttered open a few minutes later, it wasn’t the first wave of afternoon customers come for tea. Instead, Detective Burt Tidwell strode forcefully into the room.

Burt Tidwell wasn’t exactly one of Theodosia’s favorite people. But then again, Burt Tidwell wasn’t anyone’s favorite person. An ex-FBI agent, Burt Tidwell lived in Charleston in what he considered a state of semiretirement. Which, for the driven, results-oriented, obsessive-compulsive man that he was, meant he was employed full-time, working a sixty-hour week as lead homicide detective for the Charleston Police Department.

Brash, bordering on boorish, Tidwell’s physical being projected his inner personality. What you saw was what you got. A tall man, way beyond heavyset, Tidwell had a strange bullet-shaped head that seemed to rest directly upon his shoulders. Worse yet, Tidwell was a bulldog with steel jaws, tenacious, slightly ill-tempered, perpetually dubious.

Yet Burt Tidwell did have a certain way about him. When he chose to be, Tidwell could border on courtly, particularly in discussions with women. He was an avid reader and a keen admirer of Sartre, Hemingway, and Octavio Paz. Many years ago, back when FBI agents were also required to have law degrees, Tidwell had attended Harvard and so still had a keen sense of the written word.

Theodosia seated Tidwell at the table with Drayton, then quickly ferried over cups, saucers, a pot of tea, plates, napkins, silverware, and a tray of assorted goodies.

When she finally sat down next to Tidwell, Theodosia didn’t mince words.

“What do you know about cat burglars?” she asked him.

But Tidwell wasn’t about to let her slip into a prosecutorial mode quite so easily. He took a sip of tea, allowed his eyes to rove across the tray of baked goods. “Pray tell, what is this delightful-looking bread?” he asked with an inquisitive air as he hooked the plate with his index finger and pulled it toward him.

Realizing Tidwell wasn’t going to be as forthcoming as she wished, Theodosia slid the butter plate toward Tidwell. “Persimmon bread,” she told him.

“And the tea is . . .”

“Assam. Taste the sweetness?”

“I do. As well as a slightly malty flavor.”

“Why, Detective Tidwell, I do believe you’re becoming a tea connoisseur,” said Theodosia as Drayton looked on, pleased.

Tidwell picked up the cloth napkin and daubed at his lips. “You never know, dear lady, you never know.”

“Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “you received my e-mail and my slightly abbreviated account of the