“Mmn . . . I think maybe.”
It was darker back there and the ground felt soft and squishy underfoot. Theodosia reached down and slipped off her shoes. No need to ruin them. They crept closer to the garage and found themselves stepping into some sort of flower bed loaded with mulch. Or maybe it was just dried-up leaves. Theodosia put a hand up against the garage wall and slid along to her left. Three steps later, her knee bumped against something hard. It was a wooden bench. And there was a small window set just above it.
“Help me up,” Theodosia whispered.
Drayton put a hand out to help her. When she was balancing on the teetering bench, he said, “See anything?”
“No, it’s too dark.”
“Definitely time to go, then,” Drayton said. “Before we really do get caught.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when they heard a loud rmm-rmm-rmming sound.
Theodosia hopped noiselessly down from the bench and stared at him. “Was that a . . . ?”
“Motorcycle!” Drayton gasped.
A motorcycle was bumping down the alley, headed right toward them.
“Quick,” Theodosia mouthed.
They both ducked low just as a single headlamp swept across the brittle, dry grass of the backyard. There was more loud, throaty revving from the engine, then the rattling sound of a garage door going up.
Run for it? Stay put? Theodosia wasn’t sure. Then, suddenly, the engine switched off and the night went silent. Now it was too late to make any kind of move. They froze instantaneously, and then slowly, carefully, tried to crouch even lower in the bed of mulch. They waited, barely breathing, as they heard boots scuffle on the cement apron, and then the garage door rumbled down.
Theodosia’s eyes were wide as saucers as Billy Grainger passed within ten feet of them, heading up his back walk. There was a jingle of keys, and then the back door opened. Seconds later, it snicked closed and a light went on inside the house.
Theodosia slowly let out a breath. A close call. Grainger was inside his house now and, thank goodness, he hadn’t seen them creeping around like a pair of Peeping Toms.
“We have to get out of here.” Drayton’s voice was low and urgent.
Theodosia nodded. “I agree.” Then she tiptoed toward the house. The lights were blazing inside now. “But not before we take one little look.”
“No!” Drayton hissed.
But Theodosia was already creeping down the walk to the side of the house. Maybe something would be visible through that window now.
Drayton threw up his hands in frustration, but ended up following her anyway. When Theodosia pressed her nose to the window, he whispered, “Is Grainger in there?”
She nodded. “I think I saw him moving. But the window’s so filthy it’s hard to . . .” She rubbed a little circle on the window with her fist, trying to wipe away some of the grime.
“Now?” Drayton asked. “Now do you see him?”
Theodosia stared in again. “Oh jeepers.” Her voice was urgent and low. “Oh crap.”
“What? What?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the window. Together they skittered toward the front of the house, then bent low and ran across the dry grass. Fifteen seconds later they were back safely in Theodosia’s Jeep.
“What did you see?” Drayton asked. His curiosity was at a fever pitch; he knew she’d seen something strange.
“Billy Grainger,” Theodosia gasped out. “He was wearing a white shirt with a black bow tie.”
“What?” Drayton was practically dumbstruck by her words. “What?”
“I said Billy . . .”
“No, no, I heard you the first time,” Drayton said. “What I meant was, what does that mean?”
“From the looks of things,” Theodosia said. “From the starched white shirt and fancy bow tie that he was wearing, I’d say Billy Grainger could have waltzed right in to the opera tonight!”
18
Midmorning on Thursday and the Indigo Tea Shop was filled with customers. Teakettles chirped and burped as Theodosia and Drayton worked at top speed. Drayton pumped out freshly brewed pots of Nilgiri, orchid plum, and English breakfast tea. Theodosia hastily delivered these pots of tea, along with Haley’s cranberry bread and orange scones, to all their customers who were seated at tables.
Just as they’d reached their maximum tipping point, just when they couldn’t seat one more person or accept one additional take-out order, a colorful horse-drawn jitney rumbled to a stop outside their front door and disgorged a load of passengers.
“Uh-oh,” Drayton murmured. “Overload.”
Eight people spilled into the tea shop, chattering and laughing and shrieking for tea.
Except for one.
A solid-looking woman in a bright purple dress put her hands on her hips and said, “I don’t drink tea.”