Continued, Death at a Firefly Tea
Theodosia was loving the concert, Drayton not so much. But Haley’s dear friend Angel Mercer was performing tonight at Charleston’s Spring Music Fest. And when you were gifted with backstage passes, even though backstage was a study in crazy town, you didn’t turn them down.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Theodosia was trying to absorb every bit of chaos and glamour as they huddled backstage at the newly restored Quarter Moon Theatre.
“It’s certainly an eye-opener,” Drayton said. “I had no idea so much went into a music fest. All the artists and musicians and sound engineers and cameras and…what did you say those equipment fellows are called? Roadkill?”
“Roadies,” Theodosia said.
Standing in the wings, they watched as the Tumblebums, a local bluegrass group, performed their hit song “Lady in Lace.” The group was seven strong and good, almost great, but Angel Mercer was coming up in the program and that’s who they’d really come to see.
Once the Tumblebums sang their last chorus and took their bows, they rushed offstage, enveloping Theodosia and Drayton in a tsunami of pickers, strummers, and singers, all dressed in various versions of denim and suede.
“Maybe we should try to find Angel’s dressing room,” Theodosia suggested. She fingered her all-access pass, worn around her neck on a lanyard. “After all, we’ve been invited.”
Drayton clutched a silver thermos to his side as they hustled down a narrow hallway crowded with performers. He’d brought his special Buttermint Tea per Angel’s request.
Drayton Conneley was the tea sommelier, Theodosia Browning the primary owner of the Indigo Tea Shop on Charleston, South Carolina’s fabled Church Street.
Along with Haley Parker, their crackerjack chef and baker, they formed the troika that served morning cream tea, elegant themed luncheons, and afternoon tea.
They also catered special events, sold a line of house blended teas, and handled special requests for special people.
Like the Buttermint Tea intended to soothe Angel’s throat.
“Knock, knock,” Theodosia said as she rapped on a half-open dressing room door that had Angel’s name scrawled across it in red.
Then Haley was there to greet them, all smiles and shining blond hair, inviting them in, and looking cute as a bug in her denim miniskirt and midriff-skimming concert T-shirt. “Come in, Angel’s just getting a final touch-up.”
Angel Mercer gave a quick little hand wave as she sat in a high swivel chair, a voluminous purple cape covering her shoulders.
A makeup artist, a fellow with spiky green hair and laces in his tight leather pants, dabbed a ginormous brush against Angel’s cheek, then grabbed a fancy gold tube and added an extra swoosh of mascara to her lashes.
“We made it,” Theodosia said as she leaned in to give Angel a quick hug. “And thanks a bunch for inviting us.”
Whenever Angel was in Charleston, grabbing downtime between her busy concert schedule, she popped into the Indigo Tea Shop to say hello and relax with a cup of tea.
She was a sweet-natured, gifted singer who was all of twenty-three years old.
Theodosia and Drayton considered her almost family.
Now Angel was happy to reciprocate their hospitality.
“You guys,” Angel said, obviously delighted to see Theodosia and Drayton. “Thanks so much for coming.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Theodosia said as her ice-chip blue eyes searched the miniscule dressing room.
There was a large mirror surrounded by bright Hollywood-style lights and a wide shelf that held a jumble of lipsticks, mascaras, eye shadow palettes, and liquid makeup.
Suitcases and duffel bags strewn across the floor spilled out hair pieces, glittery costumes, teeny-tiny bits of underwear, and umpteen pairs of high heels.
“And you brought my tea,” Angel said. “Fantastic.” She smiled as she tilted her head back and pulled her lips into a pout so her makeup artist could apply a sheen of plum-colored lip gloss.
“Hopefully it’s to your liking,” Drayton said. “Hibiscus and peppermint leaves with notes of toffee and vanilla.” Then his eyes darted around the dressing room. He was maybe a bit put off by the glitz and girliness of it all.
“Maybe it’ll do the trick and help soothe my throat,” Angel said.
“Angel’s been dealing with a slight cold,” Haley put in. “Among other things.”
“Oh no,” Drayton said, offering instant sympathy.
“Nothing to worry about.” Angel took a deep breath and cleared her throat. Then she did a vocal exercise, quickly running through a series of do-re-mi scales.
“I’d say your voice is in great form,” Theodosia said.
“Thanks,” Angel said. “Hey.” She gestured to her makeup artist who was once again dabbing at her forehead with a brush. “This is David. He’s an absolute genius. Covers up all my imperfections and makes me look like a porcelain doll.”
David grinned at them. “Anybody else want a touch-up?” He pointed his fluffy brush at Theodosia. “You?”
“I’m good,” Theodosia said, shaking her head and holding up both hands.
“So am I,” Drayton added hastily.
There was a sudden knock at the door. Then a middle-aged man with bushy dark hair, caterpillar eyebrows to match, and a dour scowl on his face stuck his head in and said, “Angel?”
Angel straightened up, suddenly all business. “Yes?”
“Hustle up, babe, you’re on in five minutes. Get it together and do not disappoint. This is big time.”
“Jack, these are my…” Angel began, ready to make polite introductions. But the man had already disappeared.
Slightly taken aback, Angel said, “That was my manager, Jack Crowle. Also known as the great stone-face Easter Island statue who’s constantly nagging me about something.”
“He must care about you,” Theodosia murmured, though she didn’t really approve of Crowle’s brusque tone. She was a born and bred Southern girl who believed in good manners and cordiality, even when it wasn’t always deserved.
“You’re good to go, girl,” David said as he pulled off Angel’s cape.
Vaulting from her chair, Angel’s costume was revealed for the first time.
It consisted of a short, formfitting silver top that exposed a wide expanse of skin (with navel ring, natch) and low-slung jeans that looked like they’d been spray-painted on.
Running up and down each side seam, a galaxy of rhinestones caught the light and sparkled exotically.
“How do you like my duds?” Angel asked as she reached into a jewelry travel bag and slid a half dozen silver bangles onto her wrists. “Too much?”
“Maybe not enough,” Drayton said under his breath. Theodosia gave him an unobtrusive but sharp poke in the ribs with her elbow, and he said, out loud this time, “Lovely, really quite lovely.”
“Yeah, right,” Angel snorted. “I know it’s risqué bordering on mondo trampy, but when you’re doing rock and roll you gotta dress the part, ya know?”
“It’s your stage costume,” Theodosia said.
She knew all about costumes. For their Antebellum Tea, she’d donned an elaborate Scarlett O’Hara–type gown.
And for their Breakfast at Tiffany’s Tea, she’d dressed as Holly Golightly in pearls and a little black cocktail dress.
She’d also been known to wear British mop caps, French berets, and whatever else would charm their tea shop guests.
Of course, day-to-day at the Indigo Tea Shop, her manner of dress was considerably more tame.
Tailored slacks paired with a silk T-shirt, enhanced by a long black Parisian waiter’s apron.
Drayton always kidded her that the black apron set off her abundant waves of auburn hair to perfection.
Illuminated it, in fact, like a fine Renaissance portrait.
Theodosia didn’t know about that, thought it was a bit over the top, but she was thankful for her clear skin (Aunt Libby called it a peaches and cream complexion), oval face, and sparkling blue eyes.
In her mid-thirties now, daily jogs with her dog, Earl Grey, has helped keep her figure strong and lithe.
And then there was Drayton. Sixty-something and still elegant, he was always perfectly turned out. A genuine Southern gent who favored tweed jackets, bow ties, and British-made Church Shoes, no matter the occasion, no matter the season.
“Shoes,” David said, giving Angel’s bare feet a considering gaze. “Which shoes are you going to dazzle them with tonight?”
“Maybe the silver Loubitans?” Angel said.
David grabbed them from an open suitcase and, like Prince Charming helping Cinderella into her glass slippers, knelt down and guided Angel’s feet into the super-high heels.
“Perfect,” Angel said as he buckled tiny straps around her ankles.
“How high are those?” Theodosia asked. “Three and a half inches?” Angel’s shoes were a gorgeous silver leather but delicate and tippy-looking.
“Four,” Angel said. She was a little bit of a thing but, jacked up on her high heels, was suddenly eye to eye with Theodosia.
“And you can walk in them?” Drayton asked as he handed Angel the thermos of tea.
“Walk in them?” Angel unscrewed the thermos top and helped herself to a quick sip. “I’m gonna dance in them.”
* * *
And dance she did. Angel was a virtual flash out there on the stage. Belting out her songs, dancing wildly, and shaking her hair as she was accompanied by three just-as-exuberant female backup singers and her five-piece band.
“She’s as good as J.Lo,” Theodosia whispered to Drayton as they watched from the wings.
“Jell-O?” Drayton said as Theodosia and Haley both chuckled. Drayton might be old school and more of a classical music aficionado, but they loved him dearly.
Angel was gripping the microphone now, crooning the lyrics to her brand-new song. Singing, “Baby got a hold, you gotta hold on me.” She stomped her feet to the beat, doing her little dance as promised. As she spun into a turn, she gave a surreptitious wink to her offstage audience.
“She’s really something,” Theodosia said.
“Wait till you see her big finale,” Haley promised.
Angel sang, flew across the stage as if carried by wings, then spun to the very front edge of the stage. The appreciative audience roared their approval and reached out to try to grab her in an embrace. Angel took a delicate step backward and threw up her arms in a gesture of triumph.
Then, like the biggest, glitziest finale any rock band has ever had, a thunderous explosion rocked the stage.
Theodosia felt it in her chest first, that strange, deep flutter you get when a big bass drum booms its way past you in a parade.
A splitsecond later, a brilliant white flash illuminated the stage as if a nuclear bomb had exploded.
“That’s not supposed to…” Haley began, then the rest of her words were swallowed up in the explosion and rush of hot air that flung everyone standing in the wings backward with the thunderous force of an F6 tornado.
Onstage, Angel was literally catapulted into the third row of seats, while her backup singers and band members were completely lost in an ominous, billowing cloud of sparks, flying debris, and black smoke.
Theodosia tried to cry out, but her throat was instantly dry and parched. Unable to form any words, a single jagged thought skittered through her brain: This isn’t rock band pyrotechnics, it’s an exploding hurt-you-real-bad bomb!