Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

“We were all very sorry to hear about Mr. Dauphine,” volunteered Haley. “He was such a nice man. He parked his car in the alley outside our apartment. He was always worried that he’d disturb us or something. Of course, he never did.”

“I came to tell you all,” said Miss Dimple, “that there will be a memorial service for Mr. Dauphine. Day after tomorrow.”

“At Saint Philip’s?” asked Drayton.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dimple squeaked, and a few more tears slid down her cheeks. “He loved Saint Philip’s,” she said tremulously.

“As do we all,” murmured Drayton.

Thirty minutes later, when Theodosia walked in, Dray-ton was back at his table working on his article, while Haley and Bethany were waiting on customers. Even though almost all the tables were filled, the mood in the tea shop seemed somber and quiet.

“Who died?” asked Theodosia, sitting down across from Drayton. Then she remembered. Mr. Dauphine had. “Oh, dear,” she said contritely, “how could I have even said that! How thoughtless of me. Forgive me, Drayton.” She went to pour a cup of tea and spilled it, so flustered was she by her inappropriate remark.

Drayton waved a hand. “Not to worry. I think the stress is getting to all of us. And of course it didn’t help that poor Miss Dimple stopped in here a while ago. She’s going around to all the shops. Well, the ones up and down Church Street anyway. Telling folks that Mr. Dauphine’s funeral will be held day after tomorrow.”

Theodosia nodded. “You picked up the artwork?” Drayton pointed his pen toward her attaché case. “Already dropped it by the printer. They’re probably making color plates even as we speak.” “No problems out there?” he asked, a pointed reference to Tanner Joseph.

“None at all.”

“Excellent. FedEx delivered the tea tins while you were out. There are ten cartons in back stacked floor to ceiling. Your office now resembles a warehouse. All you need is a hard hat and forklift.”

“Let me get you a fresh cup, Theodosia.” Bethany reached over and carefully retrieved Theodosia’s cup and saucer with its overflow of tea.

“Thank you, Bethany,” murmured Theodosia.

Bethany transferred the cup and saucer to her silver serving tray. She hesitated. “Everything was fine with the artwork?”

Theodosia nodded. “Bethany, you wouldn’t go out on a date with Tanner Joseph again, would you?” Theodosia asked the question as gently as possible.

“No chance of that,” declared Bethany.

“I’m glad,” said Theodosia, “because there is something decidedly unsettling about his—”

“I think so, too,” whispered Bethany as she hurriedly slipped away to the kitchen.

“Theodosia. Telephone!” Haley called from the counter.

Theodosia hurried to the counter and picked up the phone. “This is Theodosia.”

“Hi, it’s Jory Davis,” said the voice on the other end.

“Oh, hello.”

“I just wanted to tell you that your private security guard has reported no unusual incidents over the last two days.” “He’s been watching us for two days? Are you sure? Because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone.” Jory Davis chuckled. “You’re not supposed to. That’s the whole point.”

Theodosia considered his remark. “You’re probably right. I certainly appreciate your arranging for this. I’m not entirely convinced it’s necessary, but still it feels comforting.”

“Again,” said Jory, “that is the point.” He hesitated. “Theodosia, I have two tickets for the opera tomorrow evening. Madame Bovary, to be exact.”

She smiled, her first genuine, heartfelt smile in days.

“Realizing this is a rather late invitation, I offer, by way of explanation, that they are my mother’s season tickets, actually quite excellent seats, and she is just now unable to attend. But I would love it if you’d accompany me.”

“As it so happens, Mr. Davis, I am free.”

“Wonderful. Black tie, of course. There’s a cocktail party preceding the performance and afterwards a number of small parties to choose from. I shall call for you at precisely six-thirty P.M.”

“I look forward to it.”

Theodosia hung up the phone and whirled about to face the tea shop. So genuine was the smile that graced her face that two elderly ladies seated near the door smiled back at her.

What a delight! she told herself. A date with Jory Davis. And to the opera, which was always fabulous. With parties before and after!

“You look energized, Theodosia,” commented Haley. “Your face is absolutely glowing.”

“Drayton.” Theodosia fairly skipped over to where he was sitting. “Why don’t we start filling the tea tins with the holiday blends? Get a jump on the whole process?”

“Today? Now?” he asked, surprised by her shift in mood.

“As soon as the customers leave. I’ve been dragging everybody down with my snooping and sleuthing, and all it’s done is put us farther and farther behind. Jeopardize business.”

He was still staring at her.

“Where’s the tea?” she asked. “Over at Gallagher’s?”

“Of course.”

Drayton always used the extensive food-prep facilities at nearby Gallagher’s Food Service to blend his teas. Now they were stored there as well, all four of the holiday blends, in their twenty-gallon airtight canisters.

“Can they deliver today?”

“With their fleet of delivery trucks, they can probably have the tea here in thirty minutes.”

“Perfect,” said Theodosia.

Tables pushed together , empty gold tins laid out upon them, glinting under overhead lights, the group was ready to begin.

“Okay,” began Drayton, “this is going to be assembly-line style. Haley and I will begin at opposite ends. She’ll measure out the black currant blend, and I’ll do the Indian spice. You two—” he nodded at Theodosia and Bethany— “have to keep tabs and let each of us know when we’ve filled two hundred fifty tins. Then we’ll put covers on and restack the filled tins back in their original cartons to await the labels.”

Bethany looked at the daunting task that loomed ahead. “Machines can’t do this?” she asked.

Drayton snorted disdainfully. “Can machines create the perfect blend? Can machines add just the right touch of bergamot oil? Can machines impart care and love into each tin? I hardly think so.” Drayton dipped a glass scoop into the twenty-gallon canister, filled it to equal approximately six ounces of tea, and began pouring tea into tins at his end of the table.

“Trust me, dear,” said Theodosia. “It won’t feel like love an hour from now. It will just feel like a sore back.”

“You got that right,” agreed Haley, who’d done this chore for the last two years.

“And remember,” warned Drayton, “when you close up the filled tins and put them back into the cartons, mark each carton carefully as to the blend. We don’t want to mix them up!”

“Yes, Drayton,” said Theodosia obediently, and the two girls chuckled.

They worked quickly and efficiently. Soon the aroma of the spicy teas filled the air, and bits of loose tea clung to their clothing.

“This is like working in an aromatherapy factory,” joked Haley. “There are so many different essences and aromas swirling around, I don’t know whether to feel relaxed or invigorated.”

“Just feel diligent,” said Drayton. His personality was so task-oriented that, once he started a project, he doggedly kept at it until he finished.

“My back is killing me,” complained Haley. She had just added a fourth layer of filled tins to one of the cartons and was bending over it, about to close it up.