young men who claim to be ghost hunters,” said Haley. “Jed and Tim Beckman.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Delaine, as Haley suddenly retreated, leaving Theodosia by her lonesome to sputter out some sort of explanation.
“They stopped by because they’re filming a documentary on Southern ghosts,” said Theodosia. She figured
documentary
sounded much more palatable than
reality show
. “And . . . well . . . they intend to explore Ravencrest Inn.”
Delaine’s eyes got wide and her every muscle seemed to tense. “What?” she said in a low whisper. “What did you just say?”
6
Oh, dear, now I have to go into the whole thing with her
, Theodosia thought to herself. “Okay, Delaine, here’s the thing.
The Beckman brothers came across an obscure legend that says Ravencrest Inn may be haunted.” She took another gulp of tea. “And they feel they have a better chance of contacting the spirit world since . . .” She paused. “Well, because . . .”
“Because Dougan died there,” said Delaine. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes pinpricks of intensity.
Theodosia swallowed hard. Delaine had a way of tossing harsh realities out on the table. “Well, yes.”
“And what exactly do these ghost hunters wish to do?”
asked Delaine. “How do they intend to contact the spirit world?”
“I imagine they’ll want to go inside room three-thirteen,” Theodosia said with some hesitation. “They’ll probably want to use infrared film and magnetometers and such to see if they can, um, make contact.”
Delaine peered at Theodosia. “That’s it?” She tapped manicured fingers on the table as if she were considering something. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“They asked me to accompany them,” said Theodosia. There, she’d said it. She’d laid out the whole foolish scheme. Indiana Jones and the Haunted House. Now Delaine could feel free to shed a few more tears and act highly offended, or toss the whole thing off as a stupid would-be parlor trick.
Instead, Delaine leaned forward and said, “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“You do?” Theodosia was stunned. Maybe Delaine hadn’t heard her correctly. Sure, that had to be it. Delaine was still in deep, dark shock and not absorbing the full impact of her words.
“The only thing I ask,” Delaine continued, “is that I go along!”
* * *
The rest of
lunch was crazy busy. Theodosia ferried luncheon plates while Drayton brewed pot after pot of tea. Then one table requested a tea tasting of three different Japanese green teas, so Drayton had to pull down his tins of Sencha, Gyokuro, and Bancha and tend to that.
As lunchtime morphed into afternoon tea time, Theodosia was able to relax a little bit. The pace grew slower, their guests a little less harried and demanding. Mostly, the folks who came in for afternoon tea were looking for a genteel respite in the middle of their day. They wanted to slowly sip a cup of oolong or Lapsang souchong and savor their scones and jam.
Still, the phone continued to ring off the hook, and Theodosia found herself booking two tea parties and, depending on the bid she came up with, a catering gig for the Charleston Opera Society.
“That’s it,” said Theodosia, leaning over the counter as Drayton measured out scoops of Formosan oolong, “I’m not taking any more calls.”
So, of course, the phone shrilled yet again.
Sighing, Theodosia picked up the receiver and said, “Indigo Tea Shop. How may I help?”
“Theo?” came a rich, baritone voice.
“Max!” said Theodosia. Note to all: This was one call she definitely wanted to take. In fact, she could just picture Max sitting in his office at the museum, feet up on his desk, looking more like a grad student than the PR director. Tall and thin, with a tousle of dark hair, he had an olive complexion and generally wore a slightly sardonic grin. Theodosia had decided that you needed a
“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Delaine, as Haley suddenly retreated, leaving Theodosia by her lonesome to sputter out some sort of explanation.
“They stopped by because they’re filming a documentary on Southern ghosts,” said Theodosia. She figured
documentary
sounded much more palatable than
reality show
. “And . . . well . . . they intend to explore Ravencrest Inn.”
Delaine’s eyes got wide and her every muscle seemed to tense. “What?” she said in a low whisper. “What did you just say?”
6
Oh, dear, now I have to go into the whole thing with her
, Theodosia thought to herself. “Okay, Delaine, here’s the thing.
The Beckman brothers came across an obscure legend that says Ravencrest Inn may be haunted.” She took another gulp of tea. “And they feel they have a better chance of contacting the spirit world since . . .” She paused. “Well, because . . .”
“Because Dougan died there,” said Delaine. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes pinpricks of intensity.
Theodosia swallowed hard. Delaine had a way of tossing harsh realities out on the table. “Well, yes.”
“And what exactly do these ghost hunters wish to do?”
asked Delaine. “How do they intend to contact the spirit world?”
“I imagine they’ll want to go inside room three-thirteen,” Theodosia said with some hesitation. “They’ll probably want to use infrared film and magnetometers and such to see if they can, um, make contact.”
Delaine peered at Theodosia. “That’s it?” She tapped manicured fingers on the table as if she were considering something. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“They asked me to accompany them,” said Theodosia. There, she’d said it. She’d laid out the whole foolish scheme. Indiana Jones and the Haunted House. Now Delaine could feel free to shed a few more tears and act highly offended, or toss the whole thing off as a stupid would-be parlor trick.
Instead, Delaine leaned forward and said, “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“You do?” Theodosia was stunned. Maybe Delaine hadn’t heard her correctly. Sure, that had to be it. Delaine was still in deep, dark shock and not absorbing the full impact of her words.
“The only thing I ask,” Delaine continued, “is that I go along!”
* * *
The rest of
lunch was crazy busy. Theodosia ferried luncheon plates while Drayton brewed pot after pot of tea. Then one table requested a tea tasting of three different Japanese green teas, so Drayton had to pull down his tins of Sencha, Gyokuro, and Bancha and tend to that.
As lunchtime morphed into afternoon tea time, Theodosia was able to relax a little bit. The pace grew slower, their guests a little less harried and demanding. Mostly, the folks who came in for afternoon tea were looking for a genteel respite in the middle of their day. They wanted to slowly sip a cup of oolong or Lapsang souchong and savor their scones and jam.
Still, the phone continued to ring off the hook, and Theodosia found herself booking two tea parties and, depending on the bid she came up with, a catering gig for the Charleston Opera Society.
“That’s it,” said Theodosia, leaning over the counter as Drayton measured out scoops of Formosan oolong, “I’m not taking any more calls.”
So, of course, the phone shrilled yet again.
Sighing, Theodosia picked up the receiver and said, “Indigo Tea Shop. How may I help?”
“Theo?” came a rich, baritone voice.
“Max!” said Theodosia. Note to all: This was one call she definitely wanted to take. In fact, she could just picture Max sitting in his office at the museum, feet up on his desk, looking more like a grad student than the PR director. Tall and thin, with a tousle of dark hair, he had an olive complexion and generally wore a slightly sardonic grin. Theodosia had decided that you needed a
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