Scones and bones, p.13
Scones & Bones, page 13
Glass lowered his camera. "Whaddya mean? What's tomorrow night? A better party? An A-list party?"
"We're hosting a tea and cheese tasting," said Theodosia. "The Indigo Tea Shop is one of the Food and Wine Festival venues.”
Glass chuckled. "Don't you mean wine and cheese?"
"No, we really don't," said Drayton, but Glass was already glancing about, looking bored.
"Still," said Theodosia, trying to get Glass's attention, "the Food and Wine Festival can always use a little publicity." Suddenly, Glass did a double take and said, "There's that fat detective! The one who kept needling Nadine!”
“Tidwell," said Theodosia. Oh, no, they're not going to mix it up here, are they?
"Ooh, I just hate him," said Nadine, practically baring her teeth. Which immediately sent Glass careening toward Tidwell.
They are going to mix it up. Great.
"I hope you're happy with yourself," Glass said, his voice loud and strident as he railed at Tidwell.
Tidwell tilted his large head and gazed down his nose at Glass. One part of his upper lip curled in abject scorn. "You're talking to me?" he asked, in a voice that could flashfreeze a pan of sizzling bacon.
"You better not pester my girlfriend again," said Glass. He tried to look menacing but was starting to look more and more uncomfortable. He'd started something he didn't quite know how to finish.
"Are you threatening an officer of the law?" Tidwell asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "If that's the case, we can easily resolve this matter." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone, looking as if he were about to summon cadres of screaming squad cars.
Tidwell's pudgy finger was poised above the Send button when Dougan Granville stepped in with a casual swagger. "Care for a cigar?" He didn't wait for an answer, but stuck a stogie into Tidwell's other hand. "It's a Cohiba. One of Fidel's faves."
Nonplussed, Tidwell stared at the cigar for a few moments, then said, "Seriously?"
"By way of Freeport, Bahamas, by way of Montreal, Quebec," said Granville. He let loose a conspiratorial snicker. "But you don't have to mention that to ATF."
Amazingly, Tidwell looked intrigued. "I wouldn't mind trying this," he said, rolling the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, looking like a true cigar aficionado. His harsh words with Bill Glass seemed suddenly forgotten.
Delaine, who hadn't said a word but was watching like a wary cat, suddenly stepped forward and said to Granville, "Would you ever offer a cigar to a lady?"
Granville grinned broadly and said, "For you, babe. Absolutely."
"That's one way to defuse a sticky situation," Max remarked. "And clear out a room," said Theodosia. She turned to face him, grinned, and said, "You don't have a party drink.”
“Probably because I don't party," said Max. "Or drink.”
“Not even wine? Or champagne?" She'd laid in a large supply of both.
Max shrugged. “Alcohol just never interested me that much.”
“Well ... I have other things to drink."
"Such as?" said Max.
"What about tea?"
"When I'm eating moo goo gal pan at the local greasy chopstick," said Max, "I've been know to amuse myself with a cup or two of oolong."
"But restaurant tea's not always the best or the freshest," said Theodosia. "Most of the time they use tea bags."
"Bags aren't good?" asked Max.
"They're generally just the dregs of what's left over after the leaves have been processed and packaged. Bits of leaves and stems. Why not let me brew a cup of something that's really top quality?" Theodosia offered.
"Sure," said Max. "I'm up for pretty much anything."
Theodosia glanced out the window and saw the glowing red tips of three cigars. "Then I'll fix you up," she told him. "Be right back." Turning, she pushed open the door to the kitchen and slid inside.
"Nice kitchen," Max said, directly behind her.
Theodosia spun around, startled. She hadn't realized that Max had followed so closely on her heels. "Please go back and join the party," Theodosia urged. "I'll bring the tea out to you. It'll only take a minute."
"It's okay," said Max. "It's nice in here. Nice and quiet."
Nice and intriguing. And maybe a little dangerous if Delaine decides to abandon her cigar and saunter back in.
"So," said Theodosia, as she waited for her teakettle to boil, "as the new PR director for the Gibbes Museum, I'm guessing you have a degree in journalism or mass media?" Max shook his head. "Unh-uh. Museology.”
“No kidding. Where'd you go to school?"
"Right after I returned from the Gulf War, I did a double major in Greek art and journalism at NYU. Then I got a master's in museology at the University of Chicago."
Theodosia did a little mental arithmetic. Max was a little older than she'd first thought.
"So you've worked in other museums, too?" Theodosia asked. She stared at the kettle. Nothing seemed to be happening. No rattle, no bubbles. Except, of course, she was fidgeting like crazy. Such an attractive man, such a small kitchen.
"I've worked here and there," Max told her. "Did some contract archaeology for the state of Washington, worked in salvage archaeology for a while near Boston, and then did publicity and event planning at the de Young Museum in San Francisco."
"An eclectic career," Theodosia remarked, measuring scoops of tea into a Brown Betty teapot, keenly aware that Max seemed to be inching his way closer to her.
"I know a little about a lot of things," said Max.
"A Renaissance man," Theodosia remarked. "We need more of those in this day and age."
Max smiled at her.
"Is the Gibbes Museum involved in the Food and Wine Festival?" she asked. It was another neutral subject and all she could come up with at the moment.
Max leaned in closer. "No, but I'd like to take in a few of the food venues. Got any suggestions?"
The words slipped like butter off Theodosia's tongue. "We're having a cheese and tea pairing at my tea shop tomorrow night." She regretted her casual invitation the minute she said it.
But Max was appropriately intrigued. "Sounds like fun."
Toenails scratched against fabric, and then Earl Grey pulled himself up from his dog bed and emerged from his temporary cave. He stretched languidly, then gave a good shake that started at the tip of his nose and ended with his whip tail. "My dog," she said. "Earl Grey."
Earl Grey wagged his tail and clicked his way slowly across the tile floor toward Max. When the dog was a few inches away, he gazed at Max intently. Then, very slowly, Earl Grey nudged his muzzle into Max's hand.
"He likes you," said Theodosia.
Max cupped his hand gently around Earl Grey's muzzle, then reached out with his other arm and pulled Theodosia close to him. He was tall, strong, smelled of something spicy, and was infinitely hard to resist. "And I like you," he said, his breath tickly and hot against her bare neck. Then his lips touched her neck and, as Theodosia gasped, traveled upward. His mouth lingered a millimeter from hers, then closed gently over it.
Theodosia put her hands on his shoulders and tried to push him away. She couldn't, she shouldn't ...
But when Max didn't budge, when their kiss continued, warmer and more intense, Theodosia felt her knees begin to buckle and, like ladies of yore, definitely felt a swoon coming on.
That was when Theodosia reversed her efforts. Grasping the lapels of Max's jacket, she used all her strength to pull him closer.
16
Jasmine Cemetery was a place of indescribable beauty and infinite sadness. Elegant live oak trees, swathed in gray-green strands of Spanish moss, stood like sentinels amid graves that dated back two hundred years. Down in a dip, a small pond shimmered with dappled sunlight. And up the rolling hills of the ancient cemetery, statuary and graves, monuments and mausoleums littered every square meter. Here heroic brigadier generals and common citizens were entombed side by side, jasmine Cemetery being the great equalizer for those souls who'd crossed over to the other side.
Theodosia and Drayton arrived at the cemetery some ten minutes before the memorial service for Rob Commers was supposed to begin. After stopping at the gatehouse to locate the appropriate section of graves, they reached the rather large graveside conclave and found they had to settle for seats in the last row of wobbly black metal folding chairs.
"Uncomfortable," murmured Drayton, as he settled gingerly on his tippy chair.
Theodosia didn't know if Drayton meant the chair or this final graveside service. Either way, she pretty much had to agree with him. They weren't exactly close friends of Rob Commers. In fact, they'd met him only once, for about five minutes, right before he was murdered. Theodosia didn't know if that counted for anything, but she hoped it legitimized their presence here today.
Drayton balanced precariously on his chair as Theodosia fidgeted with her skirt and worried about ruining her Bruno Magli shoes in the damp grass. Finally, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to last night.
The housewarming party had been grand, of course. All her friends (and some not so friendly) dropping by to celebrate her lovely new home.
And that stolen kiss in her kitchen? Unforgettable.
The big problem, of course, was Delaine.
No, that isn't quite right. There's another problem, too. Parker Scully.
Because, oh my goodness and double oops, she'd almost forgotten about Parker! Had almost relegated him to the back burner of her harvest gold seventies-style stove.
So that gave Theodosia one more thing to worry about and a nice sack of guilt to tote around.
And what should she do to relieve her guilty conscience? Confess all to Parker and try to start over? Dump Parker for Max? Or simply do nothing at all?
Theodosia knew that the thing to do, of course, was to carefully sift through her feelings. Figure out exactly what conclusion she wanted to take place, before she did anything extremely crazy or rash.
Putting a hand to her mouth, Theodosia stifled a nervous hiccup. Truth be told, she pretty much knew she'd already done something rash. She'd returned Max's kiss. His insistent, all-enveloping kiss that had left her dazed, dreamy, and craving more.
And when was the last time she'd felt like that! Honestly? Not for a long time.
Because Max's kiss had been good. No. She checked herself. It had been better than good. It had been shootingstars-and-pinwheels great.
Drayton leaned toward her and pressed his shoulder against hers.
"Camilla," he said, in a low voice.
Theodosia slowly drifted back to the here and now. She lifted her head, looked around, and spotted Camilla. Limping slowly across the grass, using a cane, Camilla was being guided by a solicitous-looking Timothy Neville. Camilla wore a black dress that hung well past her knees and large, oval sunglasses to shield her eyes. A white bandage still covered part of her forehead. Almost moving in slow motion, the two of them headed for the front row where two more chairs had magically materialized, thanks to an attentive funeral director.
Then a salt-and-pepper-haired minister in his requisite black suit appeared, and the service was under way.
There were songs, prayers, and fine tributes given, but Theodosia didn't hear a word of it. She was pretty much fixated on scanning the mourners' faces looking for something, anything, that didn't feel right. And she wasn't the only one. Out of the corner of her left eye, she could see Detective Tidwell doing the very same thing.
Great minds think alike? More like suspicious minds in sync.
At the end of the service all the mourners raised their voices in an a cappella version of "Amazing Grace." But without a trained choir, without any musical accompaniment, their song just sounded sad and lonely, drifting away on the morning breeze like so many scattered ashes.
"We should go talk to Camilla," Drayton whispered. Theodosia was already clambering to her feet. "Let's do it."
Negotiating an end run around the other mourners, they were the first to reach Camilla.
"How are you doing?" Theodosia asked Camilla, putting an arm around her. Camilla seemed to slump against her, then steeled herself and gracefully pulled it back together.
"My head may be on the mend," said Camilla, "but my heart is still broken."
"You poor dear," said Drayton, his eyes sad and sparkling. "It's been a difficult couple of days," Camilla admitted. She touched a hand to the bandage on her head. "But I'll be okay ... eventually." She dug into her black handbag, found a white hanky, and pressed it to her mouth. "But poor Rob," she whispered. "He was such a good boy."
"Timothy spoke very highly of him," said Drayton, trying to offer some comfort.
"I know he did," said Camilla. "Timothy doesn't always show it, but he can be quite caring."
"And we've been. . ." Theodosia glanced around to make sure nobody was listening in, especially Tidwell. "Drayton and I have been looking into things. Unofficially, of course, but at Timothy's express request."
"Aren't you a dear," said Camilla, daubing at her redrimmed eyes. Then she reached a hand out, grasping for Drayton. "You, too, Drayton, you're a love. You sometimes play at being a curmudgeon, but you're really a great big sweetie."
"Nice of you," said Drayton, his voice catching in his throat.
"I realize this is awkward," Theodosia continued, "and I truly hate to impose . . ." She fidgeted for a few moments. "But I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Questions that pertain to . . ."
"It's okay," Camilla replied in a whisper. "Ask."
"The skull cup," said Theodosia. "Timothy said you were the one who polished it up?"
Camilla nodded.
"The cup had some words engraved on the underside," said Theodosia. She paused once again. "Do you remember what they were?"
"The bottom was quite corroded," said Camilla, struggling to remember, "but I saw the engraving. I know what you're asking. Unfortunately, nothing really registered with me at the time." She blinked against bright morning sunlight that streamed through tendrils of Spanish moss, creating moving, illusory patterns on white marble tombstones. "You know what I mean?"
"Kind of," said Theodosia, unwilling to let it go. She hated to push Camilla, but if the poor dear could remember anything at all ...
"I mean, there were letters there," said Camilla, "but I didn't pay particular attention to them." She looked both sad and perplexed. "I'm not much help, am I?"
'Just take your time and think back," Theodosia urged. "Because anything you remember might be useful." Theodosia knew she'd find out about the inscription when the jpegs arrived. Still, she wanted to prod Camilla a bit and see what her recollection was.
Camilla thought again, then said, "I can't say for sure, but I don't think the words were in English."
"What language do you think?" asked Theodosia. "Maybe French?"
Camilla bit her lower lip as tears sprang to her eyes. "It's awfully hard to recall."
Theodosia put both arms around Camilla. "I know it is, and I apologize for getting you all upset."
"You're very brave," Drayton told Camilla.
"One more thing," said Theodosia, releasing Camilla. "Do you know if anybody else at the Heritage Society might have looked at the words on the skull cup?"
"A few people, yes," said Camilla.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Theodosia and Drayton arrived back at the Indigo Tea Shop.
"How was the memorial service?" asked Haley, leaning over the counter to greet them. Dressed in a long filmy skirt and a pink cotton crop-top sweater, she was the perfect image of a bubbly, friendly hostess-a distinct contrast to Theodosia's sedate black suit and her equally sedate mood.
"A sad event," said Theodosia.
"Sobering," agreed Drayton. "Funerals always drive home a keen sense of one's own mortality." He grimaced. "We have to remember we're only on this earth for a finite period of time."
Haley put a hand on one hip and turned a circumspect gaze on Theodosia. "Drayton's doing it again. He's talking old.”
“He does that sometimes," said Theodosia. She slipped off her jacket and replaced it with a long, black Parisian waiter's apron. Then she glanced quickly about the tea room. Almost every table was filled, but capable, pinch-hitting Miss Dimple seemed to be handing things with ease. Theodosia decided she'd have to do something extra special to thank Miss Dimple for all her help. Especially for her able assistance last night, today, and probably again tonight.
"I for one wish Drayton wouldn't toss out the “oldster' card," Haley said to Theodosia. "Because I don't think of him as being old. Seems to me he's got some good years left in him."
"You're talking about me like I'm an eighty-six Pontiac Fiero," said Drayton. "My engine's still reliable, but I'm pebbled and pocked and my tires are worn clear through."
"That wasn't much of a car," remarked Haley.
"Has the shop been busy?" Theodosia asked, deftly changing the subject.
"Not so bad," said Haley, grabbing a red-and-yellow paisley teapot. "I've been brewing tea and schlepping food to Miss Dimple, and she's been skittering between tables, delivering orders. Our customers are quite in love with her, you realize." She wrinkled her nose and flashed a lopsided grin at Drayton. “Almost as much as they love you."
"Be still my heart," said Drayton, one eyebrow raised and slightly quivering.
"And I made those tea cakes everyone seems to like," said Haley. "Although I think Miss Dimple has eaten as many as she's served."
"Then they must be tasty," said Theodosia.
"Oh, hey," said Haley. She checked herself as she headed back to her kitchen. "I almost forgot to tell you, Theo. There's some guy here to see you. Peter Grace? He said you'd know who he was."
Theodosia gazed out across the tea room, inspecting the tables more carefully this time. Sure enough, there was Peter Grace, sitting at one of the smaller tables, reading a book while he sipped a cup of tea and nibbled a scone.
"He's a real cutie," said Haley, in a conspiratorial purr. "Where'd you find him?"
"He's Professor Muncie's grad student," said Drayton. “And it looks as though he's brought us some additional pirate data.'
