Laura Childs - Gunpowder Green

“Knock, knock,” announced Drayton as he pushed his way into her office, tea tray in hand. “Thought you might like to try a cup of this new Japanese Sencha. It’s first flush, you know, and really quite rare,” he said as he set the lacquer tray down on her desk.

Theodosia nodded expectantly. Any time you were able to get the first picking of a tea, you were in for a special treat. The new, young shoots were always so tender and flavorful.

Drayton perched on the overstuffed chair across from her desk, the one they’d dubbed “the tuffet,” and fussed with the tetsubin, or traditional iron teapot. Moments earlier, he’d used a bamboo whisk to whip the powdered green tea, along with a dollop of hot water, into a gentle froth. Then he’d poured more hot water over the mixture, water that had been heated until it was just this side of boiling.

Now Drayton poured a small amount of the bright green tea into two teacups. Like the tea, the teacups were Japanese, tiny ceramic cups with a decorative crackle glaze that held about two ounces.

Savoring the heavenly aroma, Theodosia took a sip and let the tea work its way across her tongue. It was full-bodied and fresh, with a soothing aftertaste. Green tea was usually an acquired taste, although once a tea drinker became captivated by it, green tea soon found a place in his tea-drinking lexicon. It was a tea rich in fluoride and was reputed to boost the immune system. In a pinch, green tea could also be used on a compress to soothe insect bites or bee stings.

“Splendid,” exclaimed Theodosia. “How much of this tea did we order?”

Drayton favored her with a lopsided grin. “Just the one tin. It’s priced sky high, a lot more than most of our customers are used to paying. What say we keep it for our own private little stash?”

“Okay by me,” agreed Theodosia. “Now, what’s up with this mystery tea?” Drayton had worked out the concept on his own, distributed posters up and down Church Street and in many of the bed-and-breakfasts. But, so far, no one at the tea shop had been privy to his exact agenda.

Drayton whipped out his black notebook and balanced his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. “Twelve customers have signed up so far, and we have room for, oh, maybe ten more. We’ll begin with caviar on toast points and serve Indian chai with a twist of lemon in oversized martini glasses. Then, as the program proceeds, we shall . . .” He glanced up to find a look of delight on Theodosia’s face. “Oh,” he said. “You like?”

“I like it very much,” she replied. “What else?”

Drayton snapped his notebook shut. “No, all I really wanted was to gauge your initial reaction. And I’m extremely heartened by what I just saw. Now you’ll have to wait until Saturday night to find out the rest.”

“Drayton!” Theodosia protested with a laugh. “That’s not fair!”

He shrugged. “I guess that’s why they call it a mystery tea.”

“But it sounds so charming,” she argued. “At least the snippet you shared with me is. And you certainly can’t do it...I mean, you shouldn’t do it all by yourself. You’ll need help.”

Drayton shook his head firmly as a Cheshire cat grin creased his face. “Nice try,” he told her. “Now I’ve got to get back out there and give Haley a hand.” He took a final sip of tea and set his teacup back down. “Oh, and Theodosia, can you figure out what to do with the leftovers from yesterday? They’re absolutely jamming the refrigerator, and I’m going to need space for my . . .” He dropped his voice. “. . . mystery goodies.”

After he had gone, Theodosia leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing at her lips. All right, Drayton, she thought, I’ll go along with your little game. We’ll just wait and see what excitement you’ve cooked up for Saturday night.

She took another sip of Sencha tea and thought for a moment about the dilemma inside the refrigerator. Drayton was certainly correct; there were packages of finger sandwiches that had been in the hamper from yesterday, and now they’d been crammed into the refrigerator. What could she do, aside from tossing them out and wasting perfectly good food?

I know, she decided, I’ll pack everything up and take it to the senior citizen home with me. After all, I’m going there tonight with Earl Grey.

Her heart melted at the thought of Earl Grey, the dog she’d dubbed her Dalbrador. Part dalmatian, part Labrador, Theodosia had found the dog cowering in her back alley two years ago. Hungry and lost, the poor creature had been rummaging through trash cans in the midst of a rainstorm, trying to find a morsel of food. Theodosia had taken the pup in, cared for him, and opened her heart to him.

And Earl Grey had returned her kindness in so many ways. He’d turned out to be a remarkable companion animal. One who was personable and gentle and a perfect roommate for her in the little apartment upstairs. Earl Grey had taken to obedience training extremely well, delighted to learn the essentials of being a well-mannered pooch. He’d also shown a keen aptitude for work as a therapy dog.

Attending special therapy dog classes, Earl Grey had learned how to walk beside a wheelchair, how to gently greet people, and to graciously accept old hands patting him with exuberance. When one elderly woman, with tears streaming down her face and a mumbled story about a long-remembered pet dog, threw her frail arms about Earl Grey’s neck, he calmly allowed her to sob her heart out on his strong, furry shoulder.

Upon graduation from therapy dog classes, Earl Grey had received his Therapy Dog International certification and was awarded a spiffy blue nylon vest that sported his official TDI patch and allowed him entry to the O’Doud Senior Home two nights every month.

“Hey.” Haley stood in the doorway. “What’s the joke between you and Drayton? He looks like a cat that just swallowed a canary.”

Theodosia waved a hand. “It’s the mystery tea thing.”

“Oh, that,” said Haley. “He’s driving me crazy, too. Gosh, I almost forgot why I came in here. You’ve got a phone call. Jory Davis. Line two.”

Theodosia grabbed for the phone. “Hello?”

“Theodosia?” came a familiar voice.

“What happened?” she asked. “Where were you? Your boat never finished the race.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Jory Davis. “When we got out of the shelter of the harbor, just past Sullivan’s Island, the wind was so strong it blew out our genoa sail. We had to scrub the race and pull in at the Isle of Palms. By the time we found a place to moor the boat and hitched a ride back to Charleston, it was after ten. But we did hear all about Oliver Dixon. Poor fellow, what a terrible way to go. Kind of shakes you up. One day he’s glad-handing at the clubhouse, and the next day he’s gone. Do they have a handle yet on how the accident happened? Anybody examined that old pistol? I mean, it was an accident, right?”

That’s funny, thought Theodosia. Jory Davis was the second person she’d spoken with who’d made a casual, questioning remark about whether it had been an accident or not. Correction, make that the third person. She, herself, had implied the same thing to Tidwell yesterday.

“Apparently, the pistol just exploded,” said Theodosia.

“Wow,” breathed Jory Davis. “Talk about a bad day at Black Rock for the Dixons.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her radar suddenly perking up.

“Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid, were supposed to be in the race with us, but they got disqualified.”

“Why was that?” asked Theodosia.

“They had an illegal rudder on their boat. They’re claiming that Billy Manolo, the guy who does maintenance on some of the boats at the yacht club, tampered with it. Frankly, I think those guys probably sanded the rudder down themselves in an attempt to streamline it. Anyway,” continued Jory, “I don’t want to trash those guys after their father just died so tragically.”