Laura Childs: Shades of Earl Grey

“It would have to be someone very skillful and limber,” he said, gazing upward. “There are only those struts for support, everything else is glass.”

“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But it can be done. A case in point: the man who cleans my air conditioner does it every spring in my attic.”

“Walks across the narrow wooden struts,” said Drayton.

“Yes,” said Theodosia. “But maybe tonight this person, whoever he was, got caught off balance. The storm, the pouring rain, a nearby lightning strike spooked him or unnerved him. Or maybe it was just terribly treacherous up there. Anyway, somewhere along the way, his foot just happened to slip.”

They both gazed up at the gaping hole.

“And he came crashing through into the Garden Room,” said Drayton.

Theodosia pointed to the remains of an elaborate pulley system that hung from the ceiling. “You see that chain and pulley right there? This roof was meant to crank open. It was designed that way back when it was a working greenhouse, before they pulled out the old wooden tables and sprinkler system and turned it into the Garden Room. But I imagine the system still works. You could still open the roof...”

“Someone scampered across the roof,” said Drayton, still trying out the idea. “With the idea of making off with the ring and maybe even the silver. But instead, this person came crashing down on top of poor Captain Buchanan.”

“Yes,” said Theodosia, “that might explain the first crash we heard.”

“And the second crash?” asked Drayton.

Theodosia hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure. But if someone crashed through the roof, wouldn’t they have to go back up through it?”

“How?” he sputtered.

“I have no clue.”

“Folks?” called the janitor. “Is one of you a The-odosia?” He pronounced the name slowly and phonetically.

“That’s me,” said Theodosia.

“Phone call,” said the janitor.

Theodosia and Drayton hurried out to the lobby, where Mr. Welborne was talking excitedly with two staff members.

“I have a phone call?” she said.

The woman behind the front desk indicated a small, private phone booth just down the hallway.

Theodosia seated herself on a small round stool that was covered with a needlepoint cushion and picked up the receiver.

It was Cooper Hobcaw calling from the hospital. He spoke clearly but rapidly for a few minutes and Theodosia listened carefully. Afterward, she thanked him, then hung up the phone.

She stood, drew a deep sigh, and turned to Drayton. “He’s dead,” she told him sadly. “Captain Buchanan is dead.”

Friday morning at 9:00 A.M., the Indigo Tea Shop was packed. Besides their Church Street regulars, a tour group led by Dindy Moore, one of Drayton’s friends from the Heritage Society, had decided to begin their walking tour of the historic district with a breakfast tea. And now the group easily filled four of the dozen or so tables.

Drayton hustled back and forth, a teapot in each hand, pouring steaming cups of Munnar black tea and English breakfast tea. Haley had come in early, even though she’d been deeply upset by the news of Captain Corey Buchanan’s death, and still managed to bake a full complement of pastries. This morning the customers at the Indigo Tea Shop were enjoying steaming apple-ginger muffins, blueberry scones, and cream muffins, which in any other part of the country would rightly be called popovers.

Standing behind the counter, Theodosia busied herself by handling take-out orders, always in big demand first thing in the morning.

After the horror of last night, she felt reassured and armed by the atmosphere of the tea shop. A fire crackled in the tiny stone fireplace as copper teapots chirped and whistled. The scent of orange, cinnamon, and ginger perfumed the air around her.

Teas were like aromatherapy, Theodosia had long since decided. The ripe orchid aroma of Keemun tea from Anhui Province in China was always slightly heady and uplifting, the bright, brisk smell of Indian Nilgiri seemed to calm and stabilize, the scent of jasmine always soothed.

Finally, when the morning rush seemed to settle into a more manageable pace, Theodosia slipped through the dark green velvet curtains and into her office at the back of the shop.

This was her private oasis. Big roll-top desk wedged into a small space, wall filled with framed mementos that included photos, opera programs, and tea labels. A cushy green velvet guest chair faced her desk, a chair that Dray-ton had dubbed “the tuffet.”

Sitting at her desk, Theodosia thought about the hellish events of last night. Did someone actually crash through the roof and steal the antique wedding ring or am I just trying to rationalize a terrible event? When bad things happen to good people, that sort of thing?

She thought about it, tried to dismiss her somewhat strange theory.

But it wouldn’t go away. Stuck in her mind like a burr.

All right, she thought to herself, then I’ve got to tell someone. Who, though? The police? Hmm, seems a little alarmist. No, she decided, Delaine will come by. She always does. I’ll run it by Delaine and then, if it still holds water, Delaine can take it to the police.

She wasn’t about to get pulled into this, was she? No, of course not.

Haley was always kidding her that she liked nothing better than a good mystery to poke her nose into. Well, she was going to leave this incident well enough alone, wasn’t she?

Wasn’t she?

Theodosia sighed. On the other hand... from the moment she’d climbed that ladder last night, she’d felt as if she was being pulled slowly and inexorably into what appeared to be a web of intrigue.

What was this strange fascination she had with murder? Why did she have this dark side?

Enough, she decided as she flipped open her weekly planner and studied her calendar. This weekend looked relatively quiet. Tomorrow, Saturday night, was the members-only party at the Heritage Society to celebrate the opening of next week’s big Treasures Show. And then her calendar was fairly clear until the following Thursday afternoon when they were scheduled to have an open house at the tea shop.

The open house. She had to start thinking seriously about that. The Indigo Tea Shop was about to kick off its new line of tea-inspired bath and beauty products and she had to decide exactly what refreshments they’d be serving, what theme this little launch party should follow.

Theodosia had experienced a brainstorm not too long ago about packaging green teas, dried lavender, chamomile, calendula petals, and other tea and herb mixtures into oversized tea bags for use in the bath. She had commissioned a small batch to be manufactured by a highly reputable cosmetics firm and then tested the feasibility of those products on her web site. Much to her delight, the T-Bath products, as she had named them, had sold remarkably well, so she expanded the line to include lotions and oils as well. This coming Thursday, their open house would serve as the official product launch for the new T-Bath line. She’d already been interviewed by the Charleston Post & Courier and a fairly in-depth article about her new bath products would be running in their

Style Section sometime next week.

“Theodosia?”

Theodosia looked up to find Haley standing in her doorway. She wiggled her fingers, gesturing for Haley to come in.

“Delaine’s here,” Haley told her. “She’d like to talk to you.”

“How is she?” asked Theodosia.

“Sniffly. Subdued,” said Haley. “Same as us.”

“You’re a real trooper for coming in,” Theodosia told her. “Last night was pretty rough.”