Theodosia whirled around to see Miss Dimple shrug out of her sweater coat and hang it on the brass coatrack. Because she was only a titch over five feet tall, Miss Dimple had to practically stand on tiptoes. Then, with a broad smile on her lined face, she whirled around and headed for the counter to greet them.
“Am I late?” were Miss Dimple’s first words.
“Dear lady, you are punctual as ever,” Drayton said.
Miss Dimple was their seventy-something crackerjack bookkeeper who often helped serve at event teas. She was a grandmotherly type—the twinkle-eyed, apple-cheeked kind that also gave a nod to fashion with curly, pink-tinted hair and painted fingernails to match.
“Long time no see,” Theodosia said. “How are the cats?” Miss Dimple had a pair of Siamese cats.
“The fur babies are adorable and as demanding as ever,” she chuckled. “Of course, as Siamese cats it’s their God-given right.” She grabbed an apron, put it on, and turned to face Drayton. “What can I do to help?”
“You can deliver this pot of Keemun to table five,” Drayton said. “Then run in the kitchen and grab some more scones to put in our pie saver. Honestly, our takeout customers have cleaned us out!”
Theodosia relaxed some as Miss Dimple buzzed about the tea room, pouring refills, clearing plates, and chatting with customers. And just as she’d poured herself a nice fortifying cup of Darjeeling, the front door opened and Bettina walked in. Bettina spotted Theodosia immediately and made a beeline for her.
“The visitation,” Bettina said, a grim look on her face. “It’s set for tonight. And the funeral’s tomorrow.”
“So soon,” Theodosia murmured.
“It’s all Aunt Delaine’s doing. You know how frantic she is, always in a tizzy to hurry things along.”
Theodosia glanced about the tea shop. Everyone was sipping tea and munching scones, Miss Dimple seemed to have things covered, so . . .
“Bettina.” Theodosia grabbed the girl’s hand and led her over to a table in the corner. “We need to talk some more.”
“Okay.” Bettina slid into a chair and placed her hands flat on the table. Even though she looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept for the last two nights, her eyes burned with fervent hope. “Do you want to ask me about the various players again? Possible suspects?”
“Something like that, yes. I’d hoped you’d remembered a few more things about your mom and who she hung out with. Even if you don’t think something’s important, it could figure into her murder.”
“I guess.”
“So far I’ve spoken with your mom’s two business partners . . .”
“Harv and Marv,” Bettina said. “And you went to the show last night.” She seemed faintly pleased.
“Yes, and while I was there I spoke with Eddie Fox, the director.”
“Fox,” Bettina said. “Though not without talent, he imagines himself as a big-time Hollywood director. Wants to have his own IMDb page.” She leaned forward. “But do you see any of them as suspects?”
“At this point I’m still gathering basic information. And wondering who else I should be talking to.”
Bettina closed her eyes and thought for a minute. “Probably that designer I told you about who was part of the Lemon Squeeze team, Mark Devlin.”
“Was he at the Limón Tea on Sunday?” Theodosia asked.
Bettina frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay, you said Mark Devlin was the actual designer for the line.”
“Right. It’s kind of a deep, dark secret, but he did all the preliminary sketches and then worked with the partners to winnow down the designs that would go into production. Then he helped supervise a lot of the fabrication and manufacturing.”
“Sounds as if Mark Devlin is highly competent,” Theodosia said. More so than Nadine was, she thought. On the other hand, Nadine was an investor. By way of her sister’s money, anyway.
“Oh yeah, Devlin’s got major experience designing for labels like Denim Canoe and Ladybug Cotton.”
“Those are fairly hip sportswear labels,” Theodosia said. “Based in New York, I’d guess?”
“I think so.”
“But Devlin lives here in Charleston?”
“He’s from here originally and recently moved back. Rumor has it that Devlin’s extremely difficult to get along with, a complete prima donna, and that didn’t fly well in New York. Mom once told me that Mr. Chauvet wanted to make a change to one of the yoga tops—add a vent or something—and Devlin freaked out.”
“But Chauvet still let Devlin have major input.”
Bettina shrugged. “I guess.”
“Was Mark Devlin friends with your mom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Bettina brushed a fluff of hair out of her eyes. “Gee, this is difficult. Like pointing fingers and tattling. I feel like I’m back in third grade.”
“Just remember, you’re doing it for a very good reason.”
“I know.”
“Is there anyone else you can think of? Anyone at all?”
“Mom had a sort-of boyfriend, but I think they’d broken it off a while back,” Bettina said.
“Simon Nardwell.”
“Oh, you already know about him?”
“Just that he owns a gun shop,” Theodosia said.
“And specializes in antique weapons. Which I guess, now that I think of it, looks kind of fishy . . . seeing as how Mom was shot to death.”
“Were your mom and Nardwell close? How long had they been dating?”
Bettina hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know. They dated some, but Mom didn’t exactly . . . share. I know Aunt Delaine didn’t think much of Simon Nardwell. Thought he was kind of boring and dreary. She always referred to him as Simon Ne’er-do-well.”
“Snarky.”
Bettina rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah.”
“Just so you know, I intend to pay Nardwell a visit. Today if possible.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Okay, Bettina, I want you to think hard about this. Do you know if your mom had any enemies or if she had a recent falling out with someone?”
Bettina squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “I’m sorry, I’m so upset I can’t remember what I told you.”
Theodosia reached across the table and patted Bettina’s hand. “That’s okay, you’re doing fine.” She paused. “What about the film director, Eddie Fox?”