When a wedding is tragically averted by the death of the bridesmaid, Theodosia is determined to prove that it was murder in the latest entry in this <New York Times <bestselling series.

Theodosia Browning and her tea sommelier, Drayton Conneley, are tapped to cater the elegant wedding of Bettina and Jamie. Theodosia and Drayton are setting up when they hear a crash from the greenhouse. Shockingly, they discover that part of the roof has collapsed, trapping a bridesmaid and the groom. He will pull through but the bridesmaid is no more. Theodosia is convinced it was murder.

INCLUDES DELICIOUS RECIPES AND TEA TIME TIPS!

Autorentext

Laura Childs is the New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. In her previous life she was the CEO of her own marketing firm, authored several screenplays, and produced a reality TV show.

Leseprobe
1

The killer in the camo shirt, black tactical pants, and blade sunglasses crept ever so carefully between rows of orange chrysanthemums and Chinese silver grass. All around, late summer flowers and native grasses blazed crimson and gold while fuzzy yellow bees bumbled from blossom to stem. The killer didn't pay much attention to this bucolic autumnal display but was strictly focused on the mission at hand. Slowly, pressing forward, the killer crawled on hands and knees, eyes finally locked on the back wall of the greenhouse that was now a tantalizing fifteen feet away. Then, head lifted like a wolf sniffing the wind, the killer scuttled the remaining distance through late-blooming dahlias, hunched over and moving fast. Collapsing in the loamy soil, shoulders and back pressed hard against the greenhouse, the killer enjoyed a moment of blessed relaxation. Almost there.

Breathing back to normal now, the killer peered carefully around the side of the greenhouse. There were six cars and a Jeep, all unoccupied and parked a good fifty yards away, clustered near a series of small white cottages. Looking right, the killer saw the wedding arch, resplendent with curling ivy and woven with white pampas grass, sunflowers, and red bittersweet. Four dozen white folding chairs were set up neatly in front of it. No invited guests had arrived yet, probably wouldn't for an hour or so. So all was good.

Now for the tricky part. Standing upright, the killer dodged around the greenhouse and sprinted the length of it, pant legs brushing tall stalks of foxtail grass as club moss squished underfoot. Spinning around the front of the building, the killer grabbed the door, yanked it open, and darted inside. Just for a second, the killer had caught a glimpse of one person, an older man, silver-haired and wearing a tweed jacket. But, luckily, the man hadn't glanced this way.

Standing inside the greenhouse, heart thump-thumping, the killer felt a swell of anticipation. Hundreds of lush green plants and ferns along with six dozen cymbidium orchids had been draped from the ceiling like some fantastical verdant hanging garden. Below the flora and fauna, a long dining table was set with white linen, crystal goblets, fancy china, and silver flatware. Everything perfect for the wedding reception.

The killer's mouth pulled into a sneer. Like that was going to happen.

Five seconds later, this most dangerous uninvited guest climbed onto a chair swagged in white tulle and hopped aboard the long table, footprints making muddy imprints on the Belgian linen. Grabbing a wrench from a hip pocket, the killer reached up and carefully loosened four bolts in the mechanism that controlled the greenhouse's overhead windows. Then, tromping down the middle of the table, kicking a teacup out of the way and feeling a perverse pleasure in doing so, the killer reached the second mechanism. Twist, twist, and then that was done, too. What was the old saying? Righty tighty, lefty loosey? Well, the hinges were loose all right. Loose as a goose that was about to get its neck wrung. Now to set the mechanism on a hair trigger . . .

And there it was. All the anger and planning and revenge fantasies had been distilled down to this. To the bride and groom rushing through the doorway, flushed with excitement on their wedding day, only to find . . . well, their world would come crashing down on them soon enough.

In the gingerbread cottage that served as the event center kitchen for Foxtail Flower Farm, it was an entirely different story. Tea maven Theodosia Browning, who’d been tapped to cater high tea at Bettina and Jamie’s wedding reception, was busy stacking rainbow-hued French macrons on a silver four-tiered tray. Drayton Conneley, her tea sommelier at the Indigo Tea Shop, was double-checking his stash of Harney & Sons Wedding Tea as well as his proprietary Happily Ever After Tea, a blend of jasmine, lemongrass, and rose petals.

And then there was Delaine Dish, the bride's high-strung aunt, wearing a pink Chanel suit and four-inch stilettos, running around like a chicken with its head chopped off.

"It's Bettina's wedding," Theodosia said with a wry smile. "But you're the one with pre-wedding jitters."

"Because everything has to be perfect!" Delaine cried.

"Henry James once said, 'Excellence does not require perfection,'" Drayton said in measured tones. Delaine's hysteria and theatrics were starting to annoy him.

"Well, Henry James isn't invited to this wedding, so I'm going to keep working my eyeballs off," Delaine said. She frowned, looked around, and muttered, "Where did I put the bouquets and boutonnieres?"

"The cooler in your car?" Theodosia said.

"Right," Delaine said as she rushed out the door.

"She's driving me berserk," Drayton said once Delaine had gone.

"Have faith, it will all be over soon," Theodosia told him. She was in a playful mood this morning because she was looking forward to the fantasy and romance of this autumn outdoor wedding. She and Drayton had driven out early with baskets of scones, freshly made tea sandwiches, and sliced cheeses. The crab claw and shrimp platters would be arriving shortly-along with a minister, a bartender, and four waitpersons.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Theodosia touched a hand to one of her sapphire blue earrings, which matched her eyes to perfection. As luck (and genetics) would have it, Theodosia had been born with vivid blue eyes, masses of auburn hair, a fair English complexion, and a wit and sense of humor that were undoubtedly inherited from Irish ancestors on her mother's side. She was clever, accomplished, and, as owner of the Indigo Tea Shop on Charleston's famed Church Street, an entrepreneur in her own right.

Drayton was sixty-something, cultured, droll in his manner of speech, and always impeccably dressed. He'd lived in China, worked at the tea auctions in Amsterdam, and once taught courses at the Culinary Institute of Charleston. Now he was a professional tea sommelier and a proper fixture at the Indigo Tea Shop.

"Do you think . . . ," Drayton began, then was interrupted by a clatter at the front door. Delaine, her heel caught in the doormat, struggled as she balanced an armload of flowers.

"I've got to keep these cool for another forty minutes," Delaine announced as she finally pulled herself free and lurched in.

"Lots of room in the cooler," Drayton said. He reached out and opened the door for her.

"Thank you, thank you," said an agitated Delaine. She stuffed the flowers into the cooler, stepped back, and touched a shaking hand to her heart.

"Take a breath and try to relax," Theodosia urged. "Everything's practically done, and your guests should be arriving soon. Don't burn yourself out when you've got a beautiful day ahead of you."

"I don't want any screwups," Delaine said. "Which is one of the reasons I've strictly forbidden anyone from entering that gree…