“Oh, yeah,” said Tanner Joseph with great enthusiasm. “You have no idea what a fun project this is versus the tedium of waging constant war against environmental robbers and plunderers.”
Theodosia sat with Bethany and Tanner Joseph for ten more minutes, expressing her thoughts on the holiday blends and what she called the “look and feel” of the label design. Tanner Joseph, in turn, shared his few quick sketches with her, and Theodosia saw that he’d grasped the concept immediately.
They went over timing and budget for a few minutes more, then Theodosia and Bethany walked Tanner Joseph to the door and bade him good-bye.
“I had no idea you knew so much about the holiday blends,” said Theodosia as Bethany closed and locked the double doors. She was pleased but a little taken aback, wondering how Bethany had gleaned so much information.
“Drayton told me all about the holiday blends this morning while we were putting together boxes of tea samplers. He really loves to share his knowledge of tea.”
“To anyone who will listen,” Theodosia agreed with a laugh. “But I daresay, he’s taken
“It’s such a rare talent to know which teas combine with different spices and fruits. And Drayton really seems to come up with some wonderful blends.”
“Bethany,” said Theodosia, thoroughly pleased, “you’re an amazingly quick study.”
Bethany blushed. “But tea is such a fun subject. And something Drayton is so obviously passionate about.”
“It’s been his life,” agreed Theodosia.
“I didn’t mean that
“It’s just that I haven’t been around much lately,” finished Theodosia. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m passionate about a lot of subjects.”
“Like finding out what killed Hughes Barron?” Bethany asked in a quiet voice.
“Well . . . yes,” said Theodosia, a little surprised by the quick change of subject. “It
“And you love mysteries,” said Bethany, her eyes twinkling. “I mean, getting
“I guess I do,” said Theodosia. She was somewhat taken aback by Bethany’s insight. Although she loved nothing better than curling up in front of the fireplace with a good mystery, a P. D. James or a Mary Higgins Clark, she’d never consciously considered the fact that she was itching to get entangled in a real-life mystery. A
She sighed. Well, like it or not, she was hip deep in one now.
Chapter 26
Gateway Walk is a hidden pathway that begins on Church Street, near Saint Philip’s graveyard, and meanders four blocks through quiet gardens. Visitors who venture in are led past the Gibbes Museum of Art, the Charleston Library Society, and various fountains and sculptures to Saint John’s Church on Archdale Street. The picturesque Gateway Walk, named for the wrought-iron Governor Aiken Gates along the way, enchants visitors with its plaque that reads:
Theodosia had always found the Gateway Walk a lovely, contemplative spot, conducive to deep thought and relaxation. But tonight, with darkness already fallen, she hurried along the brick path, pointedly ignoring the marble tablets and gravestones that loomed on either side of her.
She had spent the entire morning and afternoon at the Indigo Tea Shop waiting tables, focusing on tea shop business, going over the Web site designs, trying to get back in touch. She knew she hadn’t really given careful attention to her business since the night of Hughes Barron’s murder; she knew her priorities were slightly out of whack. The Indigo Tea Shop was her bread and butter. Her life. And nosing about the County Morgue shouldn’t have taken precedence over her meeting with Tanner Joseph on label illustrations. That had been thoughtless.
Of course, sleuthing was exciting, she told herself as she passed by a marble statue of a weeping angel, a silent, solitary inhabitant of the graveyard. And trying to solve a murder did set one’s blood to racing.
Feeling her guilt slightly absolved, for the time being, Theodosia’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved quickly along the dark path as it wound behind the Charleston Library Society.
She realized full well that she was headed for Timothy Neville’s home not just for an evening of music. Her ulterior motive was to spy.
In a patch of crape myrtle there was a whir of cicadas, the rustle of some small, nocturnal creature, claiming the darkness as its domain.
Six blocks had seemed too short to drive, so Theodosia had walked, taking this shortcut through the cemetery and various gardens. Now, ducking through a crumbling arch with trumpet vine twining at her feet, the Gateway Walk suddenly seemed too dark, too secret, too secluded.
Stepping up her pace, she emerged two minutes later into soft, dreamy light cast by the old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps that lined Archdale Street.
Drayton had said he’d meet her at eight o’clock, just outside the gates of Timothy Neville’s Georgian-style mansion. And from the looks of things, she had only moments to spare.
Cars were parked bumper to bumper up and down Arch-dale, and lights blazed from every window of Timothy Neville’s enormous, sprawling home. As Theodosia hurried up the walk, she was suddenly reminded of the Avis Melbourne Home the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Its lamps had also been lit festively. Swarms of visitors had crowded the walks and piazzas.
She fervently hoped that an evening at this grand home would yield far better consequences.
“Right on time.” Drayton emerged from the shadows and offered her his arm. He was dressed in black tie and looked more at ease in formal attire than most mere mortals could ever hope for. When an invitation specified black tie, Drayton always complied with elegance and polish.
Theodosia had worn a floor-length, pale blue sleeveless dress, shimmery as moonlight. As an afterthought, she’d tossed a silver gray pashmina shawl over her shoulders. With her hair long and flowing and a dab of mascara and lipstick to highlight her expressive eyes and full lips, she looked like an elegant lady out for a night on the town.
They nodded to familiar faces standing in groups on the piazza, passed through elegant cathedral doors and were greeted inside by Henry, Timothy Neville’s butler.
Henry was dressed in full liveried regalia, and rumor held that Henry had been employed by Timothy Neville for almost forty years. There weren’t many people Theodosia knew who had live-in help or had help that stayed with them for so long.
“Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” Henry announced solemnly. He had the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle and the ramrod backbone of an English Beefeater. “Or feel free to join Mr. Neville’s other guests in the salon, where Mr. Calhoun is playing a piece from Scarlatti.” Henry gestured slowly toward a gilded archway through which harpsichord notes flowed freely.
Theodosia noted that the venerable Henry seemed to move in slow motion. It was like watching a Japanese
