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“Hah, I see where you’re going with that,” Haley said, pointing a finger at him.
They all got to work then. Drayton selecting his teas for the day and lining up an armada of colorful teapots, Theodosia setting the tables and choosing a fun mix of antique floral teacups and saucers from makers that included Belleek, Haviland, and Pickard.
The Indigo Tea Shop, to put it bluntly, was Theodosia’s pride and joy. She’d scrimped and saved for a down payment on the small English-style brick building with its high-pitched roof, leaded windows, hunter green awnings, and rounded-at-the-top door that looked like it belonged on a Hobbit house. Then she’d tackled the inside and imbued it with a slightly British, quasi-French charm. This included artfully swagged blue toile curtains, faded Oriental carpets on pegged floors, and a small wood-burning fireplace in one corner. Hanging overhead, a French chandelier imparted a warm, almost hazy glow (Drayton referred to it as Rembrandt lighting) and in the far corner antique highboys held retail items that included tea towels, tea cozies, tins of tea, Theodosia’s proprietary T-Bath lotions and moisturizers, and jars of DuBose Bees Honey. A velvet celadon green curtain separated the café from the back half and brick walls were hung with antique prints and Theodosia’s handmade grapevine wreaths that were decorated with miniature teacups.
Drayton had been the first to come on board as tea sommelier. And Haley, casually answering a want ad, had found her baking skills and her grandma’s recipes—also known as receipts—in high demand.
The rest of the tea accoutrements had come about organically, with Theodosia sifting through flea markets, antique shops, and tag sales to find the perfect vintage teacups, teapots, goblets, and silverware.
After a half dozen years together, Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had become a well-coordinated team that took pride in delighting visitors and neighbors with their baked-from-scratch scones and muffins, dazzling array of fine teas, extraordinary catering, and ever-popular special event teas. They’d also come to realize that family didn’t always have to mean blood relatives.
“Here come the customers,” Drayton sang out from behind the counter as the front door banged open and a foursome hustled inside. Theodosia quickly seated them, then returned to greet a young couple and then a group of six women. She was kept busy as she took orders, recommended teas, and ran food orders in to Haley and tea orders to Drayton. And all the while, neighboring shopkeepers dropped in for their de rigueur cuppas, while multiple groups of tourists found their way in, drawn by the charm of the shop. Thank goodness for Haley’s cousin, Beth Ann, who showed up in the nick of time.
Hours flew by and just as Theodosia was thinking about lunchtime, the front door whapped open and a virtual stampede came coursing in. But these were not customers—or even regulars from down the block. It was—wait for it, folks—a TV crew.
Theodosia glanced at Drayton, who was doing his almighty best to ignore them and decided he wasn’t going to be much help dealing with this.
“Theodosia,” said a slick-looking man with carefully gelled hair. “You’re Theodosia Browning, right?” He was thirty-something and a minor on-air personality at one of the TV stations, though she couldn’t remember which one.
Theodosia sighed. “Guilty as charged.”
“Ken Lotter from W-BAM. I’d love to do a quick one-on-one with you,” he said. “You know, about the murder at Brittlebank Manor.”
“W-BAM?” Theodosia raised a single brow.
“We used to be WOXT but upper management thought W-BAM sounded punchier.”
“Ken, this is not a good time. As you can see, we’re rather busy.”
“This won’t take but a minute.” Ken motioned for his cameraman to roll videotape and his lighting guy to turn on his flood lamp. Then Ken held a microphone up to his mouth and said, “We’re talking to Miss Theodosia Browning, the owner of the Indigo Tea Shop. Miss Browning, I understand you witnessed the murder of director Josh Morro yesterday.”
Theodosia held up a hand. “Stop shooting, please.”
Lotter motioned for his cameraman to lower his camera. Then said, “But you were a witness, yes?”
“No,” Theodosia said. “I was there, but I’m afraid I didn’t see what happened.”
“You don’t know who hot-wired that chair?” Lotter asked.
“How do you know it was hot-wired?”
Lotter grinned. “I have my sources.”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer your questions,” Theodosia said. “You’ll have to talk to Detective Tidwell. He’s the one in charge of the investigation.”
“We tried that,” Lotter said. “He turned us down flat.”
“Maybe you should try to interview the cast and crew, then.”
“Not sure where they’re hanging out,” Lotter said.
The cameramen piped up and said, “I heard a rumor that the screenwriter is holed up at a nearby B and B.”
“Do you know which one?” Theodosia asked.
“Something Featherbed,” the cameraman said.
Theodosia winced. Her dear friend Angie Congdon owned the Featherbed House B and B. If that’s where Craig Cole was staying, then Angie would no doubt have to contend with this same TV crew showing up on her doorstep.
