Lemon Curd Killer

Book 25: A Tea Shop Mystery

by Laura Childs

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

High tea and high fashion turn deadly in this latest installment of the New York Times bestselling series.
Tea shop entrepreneur Theodosia Browning has been tapped to host a fancy Limón Tea in a genuine lemon orchard as a rousing kickoff to Charleston Fashion Week. But as fairy lights twinkle and the scent of lemon wafts among the tea tables, the deadly murder of a fashion designer puts the squeeze on things.
As the lemon curd begins to sour, the murdered woman’s daughter begs Theodosia to help find the killer. Tea events and fashion shows must go on, however, which puts Theodosia and her tea sommelier, Drayton Conneley, right in the thick of squabbling business partners, crazed clothing designers, irate film
producers, drug deals, and a disastrous Tea Trolley Tour.
INCLUDES DELICIOUS RECIPES AND TEA TIME TIPS!

Release date: March 7, 2023

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

When life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. Theodosia Browning had adopted a slightly more creative approach. She was smack-dab in the middle of hosting a fanciful Limón Tea Party.

Picture this if you will: Five dozen Southern ladies dressed in gauzy florals and wearing hats and gloves. All seated at elegant tea tables in the fairy-tale setting of an actual lemon grove strung with hundreds of white twinkle lights. Postcard perfect, yes? Now add in a delicate waft of lemon-scented tea, large glass bowls amply heaped with fresh-picked lemons, and lemon scones served as the first course. For the pièce de résistance, a fashion show was about to begin and a camera crew was on hand to capture all the highlights of the runway. Naturally, the usual gaggle of high-strung designers, stylists, and business partners paced about nervously in the background.

A lot to contend with. Almost too much for Theodosia. It was one thing to serve morning and afternoon tea at her charming Indigo Tea Shop on Charleston’s famed Church Street, another to juggle a major event such as this Limón Tea Party.

“Grab another pitcher of lemonade, will you?” Theodosia said to Haley, her young chef and baker. “And that silver ice bucket as well.”

Theodosia blew a wisp of curly auburn hair off her face as she stood in the kitchen of the Orchard House Inn, home to South Carolina’s only lemon orchard. All the food and beverages were being staged here with the help of Drayton, her tea sommelier, Haley, her chef, and two additional waitstaff. And each course was (thankfully!) going out on time. Seemed to be, anyway.

“That woman is driving me batty,” Drayton said as he measured out scoops of lemon verbena tea. A natural orator, each of his syllables was rounded and carefully cadenced.

“You’re talking about Delaine?” Theodosia asked. She gazed at him with crystalline blue eyes that were complemented by a peaches and cream complexion and an abundant halo of auburn hair. With her slender, athletic build, Theodosia always gave the impression that she was infused with energy and about to come uncoiled.

“Delaine always drives me crazy,” Drayton said. “That’s nothing new. No, I’m talking about her overbearing sister, Nadine. The woman is positively outrageous. Not only is she bullying the poor models, she’s been braying out orders to the film crew. And seriously ragging that dilettante of a film director whose name escapes me at the moment. My fear is that our lovely guests might pick up on the dissonance and frenzy wafting through the air.”

Haley looked up from where she was stacking lobster salad tea sandwiches on three-tiered trays. “You mean bad vibes?” Haley was sylphlike and blond, cute as a button, and in her early twenties—still easily impressionable.

“Precisely,” Drayton said.

Theodosia glanced out the window over the sink and saw Nadine rushing around, waving her arms, looking as if she were jacked up on an entire bottle of Ritalin.

“Tell you what. You and Haley make one more round with scones, tea, and lemonade, then carry out the tea sandwiches. I’ll go see if I can wrangle Nadine.”

Theodosia, ever the peacemaker, didn’t want trouble. She also didn’t want Drayton to lose his cool. He was her steadfast, sixty-something tea sommelier and right-hand man who rarely got ruffled. But today he was edging toward it. Not that you could tell. In his cream-colored silk jacket and pale pink bow tie he was the picture of a Southern gent dressed for a lovely spring afternoon. Not a wrinkle in sight, nary a hair out of place.

Walking across the grass, Theodosia tilted her face up slightly to catch the warm sun. This was such a fun idea to host a tea party i

n an actual lemon grove on Johns Island, just a few miles outside Charleston’s city limits. The Orchard House Inn was the perfect spot, a lovely plantation-style B and B with a chef’s kitchen and plenty of parking. And to think that the inn’s owners had actually imported all these trees, planted them, and then carefully nurtured them so that they were all producing edible fruit. Quite amazing.

Theodosia walked past the fluttering white tent that served as a temporary dressing room and where a dozen underfed models were squeezing their slim bodies into leggings and halter tops. She passed a small shed where a maintenance man in green overalls was stowing a rake and noticed the film director fidgeting with a camera on a tripod. Even though the day was warm, the director—she remembered his name was somebody Fox—wore a dark green Burberry blazer with a linen scarf looped lazily around his neck.

Theodosia smiled to herself. Like he was at the Cannes Film Festival ready to pick up an award instead of filming an afternoon tea and fashion show.

Finally, a few steps into the lemon orchard, she found the two sisters, Delaine and Nadine, locked in a heated argument. Delaine Dish was sputtering like a manic gopher, her face turning pink as she lectured her younger sister, Nadine.

“You always send the sportiest looks down the runway first,” Delaine shouted. “Then work your way up to the more fashion-conscious outfits.” Delaine was the high-maintenance owner of

Cotton Duck, one of Charleston’s premier clothing boutiques. She was also a semi-socialite, confirmed gossip, and veteran of countless fashion shows. Today Delaine wore a flouncy rose-colored skirt with a matching, tight-fitting peplum jacket.

Nadine, grim faced and posturing awkwardly in her yellow dress, barely acknowledged her own sister.

“Ladies,” Theodosia said, breaking into their conversation. “Please don’t tell me we have a problem.”

Delaine spun to face her. “A problem? There’s always a problem when Nadine’s involved.”

Nadine’s expression turned even more sour. “You’re always accusing me of being stupid,” she sneered at Delaine. “Well, Lemon Squeeze Couture is my project and I’m creative director. So I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly back off!”

While Delaine was size zero skinny with flowing dark hair and a heart-shaped face, Nadine was her polar opposite. Light blond close-cropped hair, zaftig figure, and a temperament more mercurial than Delaine’s. If that was even possible.

“Please,” Theodosia said. “Let’s all take a deep breath here.” Yes, it may have been Theodosia’s tea party, but these two ladies had the potential to turn it into WrestleMania if they continued to go at it tooth and nail.

“B-b-but the timing,” Delaine began. “With so many moving parts . . . you want everything to be perfect. The food, the fashion . . .”

“Relax,” Theodosia said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. “For one thing, the tea party is nothing to worry about. Drayton and I have done this a million times. As far as the fashion show goes, it looks as if all the models are dressed, glammed up, and eager to strut their stuff.” She forced a smile. “Why don’t you both take a deep breath, sit down, and enjoy the show. I have a feeling it’s going to be terrific.”

Nadine’s waxed brows shot up as she fought to pull her pink-glossed, over-injected lips into an unhappy line. “So you say, but this is an enormous challenge for me. It’s not just the kickoff event for Charleston Fashion Week, it’s the very first time my partners and I have staged an actual Lemon Squeeze Couture Fashion Show!”

Theodosia sighed. Lemon Squeeze Couture was a new line of workout clothing, or as Nadine preferred to call it—athleisure wear—that was debuting today at the Limón Tea Party.

And just to throw a monkey wrench into things, adding a film crew had been a last-minute decision cooked up by Nadine’s two business partners, Harv and Marv. They suddenly had their hearts set on a fun, bouncy fashion video that could be set to music and

played on the Lemon Squeeze Couture website. Not a bad idea entirely, just a little late in the game.

Theodosia consulted her watch and waved a hand as a bumblebee buzzed lazily past her head. “Tell you what,” she said. “We have ten minutes before the fashion show is scheduled to start. Delaine, why don’t you check on the models. And, Nadine, perhaps you could take a quick break. I know you have people from the press here, so before you speak to them maybe you could grab a glass of lemonade and . . .”

“Chill out,” Delaine snapped.

---

*   *   *

Nadine, her nose out of joint because of the confrontation with her sister, walked to the back door of the Orchard House Inn. Still steaming with anger, she hesitated for a moment, then pulled open the screen door and stepped into the empty kitchen. It was large with lots of metal shelves stocked with stewpots, stacks of fry pans, and sheet cake pans. Acres of counter space held what remained of today’s tea party bounty—extra three-tiered trays and pans mounded with lemon cream scones covered in plastic wrap. Six blue coolers that had recently held a myriad of tea sandwiches stood empty. There was also a scatter of tea tins, teapots, and tea accoutrements.

Nadine didn’t give a fig about tea or tea sandwiches. What she really wanted right now was a cigarette to help settle her nerves—and who cared if this was a no-smoking zone? Who was going to know? All the tea people were running around like crazy chickens serving the guests while her silly, domineering sister was trying to take over the show and ingratiate herself with her business partners. Hah. Delaine always had been the pushy one.

Dipping into her skirt pocket, Nadine grabbed a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights, shook one out, and lit up. She inhaled greedily, then exhaled slowly. Tried to calm her jangled nerves as well as her intense worry over the fashion show. And just as her shoulders started to unkink, just as she was beginning to relax, she heard, on the other side of the door that separated the kitchen from a rather large parlor, two people arguing.

Curious now (Nadine was always curious), she wondered if it might be her erstwhile business partners, Harv and Marv, sniping at each other yet again. She tiptoed over, put an ear to the door, and heard . . .

More arguing. Insistent and growing increasingly heated with every passing moment. Still, the voices were pitched so low it was virtually impossible to make out actual words.

Could they be talking about me? Nadine wondered as her paranoia kicked in big-time.

She hadn’t been getting along all that well with Harv and Marv. They’d finally tumbled to her utter lack of knowledge concerning fashion and their new product launch. Once that had happened, once she’d been unmasked, it seemed as if they were constantly shouting and ranting at her about one thing or another. And it was upsetting to Nadine. Could she help it if she was a neophyte when it came to design and sales and marketing? Sure, she’d embroidered some of her résumé (okay, most of it), but for goodness’ sake, she was trying to contribute. Could she help it if she lacked actual know-how about manufacturing and distribution? What about all the sweat equity she’d poured in? Surely, that must count for something!

Listening harder, trying to discern exact words, Nadine leaned closer. And as she did, she bumped her forehead against the swinging door, causing it to emit a loud creak. At that exact same moment, Nadine lost her balance and—doggone high heels!—teetered hard against the door.

The door swung open, causing her to practically fall into the parlor.

Embarrassed, cartwheeling her arms to try and regain her b

alance, Nadine stared at the two people and recognized them instantly. “Oh jeez,” she sputtered. “I’m so sorry. I was just . . .” Before she got halfway through her apology, her eyes fell on a large black duffel bag stuffed with . . .

Oh no.

Realizing she was suddenly in serious trouble, Nadine spun about frantically, hoping to beat a hasty retreat.

Too late.

As she lurched back into the kitchen, legs churning, veins coursing hot with adrenaline, something sharp struck the back of her head. It was an exquisitely well-defined pain, almost like the sting of a hornet. The sudden assault made her cry out. Then, a millisecond later, the pain was excruciating, as if the entire back of her head were on fire. Nadine wondered what strange thing had just happened as a million jumbled thoughts spun crazily through her brain and she crashed to the floor.

And the very last thing Nadine was cognizant of before she winked out for good, for all eternity, was being dragged . . . dragged into a place that was cold and dark and sticky.

Chapter 2

“Is it my imagination or do some of these fine Charleston ladies have appetites that rival a burly truck driver?” Drayton asked Theodosia. “I just made the rounds again and almost everyone requested a second lemon scone. One woman wanted a third!”

“That’s because our scones are so ridiculously delicious,” Theodosia said. “Don’t spill the beans, but I think Haley uses a special cake flour to get them so light and fluffy.”

“That’s lovely, of course. But now we’re in need of additional lemon curd.”

“I’ll run and grab a few more bowls,” Theodosia said. She spun on her heels and headed for the back door of the Orchard House Inn. Put a little urgency into her step because she knew the fashion show would be starting anytime now and she didn’t want to miss a second of it. After all, it wasn’t every day she got to host a tea party that served as the kickoff for Charleston Fashion Week.

Grab the lemon curd, scoop it into those little glass slipper bowls, Theodosia thought to herself. I hope Haley packed a few extra.

One glance in the wicker basket on the counter told her that Haley had. How perfect.

This tea is going to go off as planned come hell or high water.

Theodosia set a half dozen of the small glass slipper bowls on the counter, crossed to the walk-in cooler, and pulled open the door.

That’s when hell or high water showed up.

Or at least a dead body. On the floor of the cooler. Facedown, arms and limbs akimbo, the head practically submerged in a bowl of lemon curd. Her lemon curd.

Whose dead body? was the first thought that streaked like lightning through Theodosia’s brain. Then she bonked into hyperdrive and thought, Oh, dear Lord, I recognize that bright yellow dress. It’s Nadine!

Theodosia drew a sharp breath even as she put a hand to her mouth. She blinked, swallowed hard, then pulled it together. Let the shock subside a little.

What just happened here? Well, she was no forensic expert, but as she stared at Nadine with a mixture of horror and curiosity, she saw what looked like a small black hole, jagged and ringed with blood, at the back of the poor woman’s head. Really more at the base of her skull. And even though Theodosia knew in her heart there wasn’t much hope, that Nadine had pretty much left the building, she bent down anyway and, with a shaking hand, gently touched two fingers to one side of Nadine’s neck.

Nothing. No throb of pulse. No hint of warmth in the carotid artery. No chance of resuscitation.

Theodosia backed away from Nadine’s body but left the cooler door wide open. And wondered what to do next.

Well, she knew what should be done. She had to alert the authorities. And then try to put the entire luncheon and fashion show on hold.

Not gonna be easy.

But she had to do it anyway.

Yes, go, Theodosia told herself. Do it now!

Flying out the back door, phone in hand, she had the bad luck of running smack-dab into Delaine. Actually crashed into her, her left shoulder jamming hard against Delaine’s shoulder, giving them both a hard shaking up.

“Ouch,” a grumpy Delaine cried. “What’s your problem?”

“Don’t go in there!” Theodosia warned.

Delaine gazed at her with suspicion. “Why not?”

“Because there’s a . . . a problem.” Theodosia was already tip-tapping 911 into her cell phone.

Delaine wiggled her nose and frowned. “What’s that you’re doing there? Three digits? Did you just punch in an emergency number?”

Theodosia didn’t have time to answer because the dispatcher was suddenly on the line saying, “911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s been a death,” Theodosia said. Then her words tumbled out in one long stream. “At the Orchard House Inn on Bohicket Road. We need help, law enforcement, and whoever else you can send. Immediately.”

“A death?” Delaine said. “What are you talking about? Who died?”

Theodosia paid her no mind as she listened carefully to the dispatcher’s words, fought to comprehend them.

“You’ll radio Sheriff Burney? . . . Yes, thank you, we’ll watch for him,” Theodosia said. “And could you maybe send the county coroner as well?” She was breathless and jumpy as she tried to focus on the dispatcher’s questions, then said, “No, I don’t know the exact cause, but it looks like a gunshot. . . . Yes, that does seem fairly suspicious. So it could have been . . . murder?”

“Murder!” Delaine screamed.

Theodosia listened to the calm voice of the dispatcher for another half minute, then said, “I don’t know,” and “We’ll try.” And then, “Got it, nobody’s to leave the premises.”

Delaine reached a hand out and gripped Theodosia’s arm as she hung up.

“What’s going on?” Delaine demanded. “You said death—maybe a murder. Who’s been murdered?”

“Delaine,” Theodosia said, “you need to take a deep breath and hang on. Try to stay strong.”

Delaine looked suddenly petulant. “You’re not making any sense at all. What are you blathering about?”

“The murder victim? I’m afraid it’s your sister, Nadine.”

Delaine’s face blanched white, overriding multiple layers of bronzer and blusher. Her forehead puckered, she made a soft mewling sound, and she said, “You’re joking, right? Theo, please tell me you’re joking!”

“I wish I were.”

“No, it can’t be. That would . . . uh . . .” Delaine suddenly stopped mid-sentence, as if she’d been flash frozen or her internal engine had seized. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the ground.

---

*   *   *

So. Theodosia made the dreaded announcement that the fashion show was on hold. Delaine was eventually revived. And Bettina, Nadine’s daughter, was informed, as gently as possible, about the death of her mother.

A few minutes later, Sheriff Clay Burney, his two deputies, and an ambulance with two EMTs came screaming onto the scene.

Tall and lean with short silvered hair and a craggy face, Sheriff Burney had been county sheriff for more than twenty-seven years and had seen his share of accidents, killings, and death.

“Did you move her?” were his first words to Theodosia.

“No,” she said as the EMTs went crashing past them. They immediately fell to their knees and futilely checked Nadine’s airway, breathing, and pulse.

“When you found her, did you know she was dead?” Sheriff Burney asked.

“Pretty much,” Theodosia said.

“Okay then,” Sheriff Burney said as he glanced at his two deputies. “Seth, Roscoe, you boys stay here and secure the scene while I go out and talk to this group of people.”

“Got it, Sheriff,” Seth said. Seth was languid with shaggy blond hair like a surfer dude. Roscoe had a crew cut and looked as if he’d just escaped from the marines.

If Theodosia’s somewhat cryptic announcement of the fashion show’s cancellation had been met with disappointment, Sheriff Burney’s words were met with outright hostility from the crowd.

“A situation? What kind of situation?” one woman demanded.

“Why are we all being detained?” another shouted.

This from one of the partners: “Tell us what happened!”

Once Sheriff Burney elaborated on the circumstances as delicately as possible, the guests fell silent. His announcement of Nadine’s murder cast a terrible pall over the group. Many of them dabbed at their eyes; some glanced about fearfully as if some kind of rogue militia might be planning to storm the place.

Delaine sat at a table and sniffled, while Harv and Marv, the two managing partners, skulked about and whispered to each other, and the models lazed around and smoked.

Theodosia spent her time trying to soothe Bettina’s tears over her mother’s death and explaining the bizarre turn of events to Andrea Wilts, the owner of the Orchard House Inn.

Ten minutes later a shiny black Crime Scene van showed up with two men who immediately donned white Tyvek suits. One of the men shook hands with Sheriff Burney and said, “Once we finish here, we’ll transport the victim to the Charleston Medical Examiner’s office. Per our contractual arrangement with them.” Then they all three disappeared inside the inn.

Drayton sidled up

to Theodosia. “I have to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Earlier today, I overheard Nadine having a knock-down, drag-out fight with that film director, Eddie Fox.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just that . . .”

Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think Fox might have killed her?”

Drayton shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s just a thought. On the other hand, it seems as if everyone associated with this Lemon Squeeze Couture project harbored a secret desire to wring Nadine’s neck. All day I kept hearing whispers of how she was caustic and overbearing, treated everyone so badly.”

Theodosia looked out at the crowd and wondered who could have killed Nadine. Correction, who could have shot Nadine. Someone here must be carrying a concealed weapon, right? Or maybe they’d already ditched it somewhere in the woods. Or nearby Bohicket Creek.

And how long had Nadine been dead?

Theodosia racked her brain. From the time she’d separated Delaine and Nadine until the time she’d discovered Nadine’s body in the cooler had to be nine or ten minutes. A lot could happen in that time. A lot had happened.

Was the killer still on the premises? Was it someone in this crowd that she’d rubbed shoulders with? Or someone who’d snuck in from the outside? It would have been a piece of cake to waltz in here, given the frantic activity of the tea service and film crew. To say nothing of all the guests, models, stylists, and makeup artists. Really, it would have been a snap.

Theodosia gave a reflexive shudder. She let her thoughts wander for a few moments, reached for her phone, then changed her mind. Rethought her idea and then made her call anyway.

“Howdy there.” Pete Riley’s voice was warm and engaging. Clearly, he’d checked his caller ID and knew that it was Theodosia, his girlfriend, sailing buddy, and fellow foodie, on the line.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” Theodosia said.

“Did it rain on your fancy-schmancy tea?”

“Look out your window. Do you see dark clouds?”

“Nope, I’m looking out over Charleston Harbor and the sun does seem to be shining.” A pause. “So what happened? What’s wrong? Your voice sound

s funny.”

“You remember Nadine, Delaine’s sister?”

“Met her once. That was enough,” Riley said. “The lady was too high-strung for my sensibilities.”

“Not anymore. Nadine was just murdered.”

“What!” he cried.