Sweat Tea Revenge by Laura Childs

that one.”
    Simone smiled in agreement. “Lovely, isn’t it? That’s a nineteen fifty-one Christian Dior dress. What was termed
The
New Look
.”
    “And I love the skirt you have on display in your front window. The ankle-length pale green?”
    “That one’s a Balmain,” said Simone. “A rather rare piece at that.”
    “Lovely,” breathed Theodosia. And it was. That was the thing about fashion: Whether it was vintage or au courant, if a piece was beautifully designed and constructed, it just worked. Theodosia knew that if she paired a silk tank top with that long Balmain skirt, she could skip off to the opera and look stunning. Well, perhaps not
stunning
, but she knew she’d look awfully darned good.
    “We have more recent items, too,” said Simone, indicating the racks of clothing that were packed into her small shop. “A few Yves Saint Laurent pieces from the early seventies that are in surprisingly top-notch condition. And some Claude Montana and Versace from the mid-eighties.” She pushed a hank of blond hair off her face and said, in her soft drawl, “Let me guess. Delaine thinks I murdered Dougan.”
    Theodosia wasn’t prepared for such a straightforward statement.
    Simone seemed to savor Theodosia’s sudden discomfort for a moment or two. Then she said, “Let me save you some time. I’ve already been questioned at length by two different detectives. The fact of the matter is, I was there. At the wedding.” She smirked. “I was an invited guest at the oh-so-swanky Ravencrest Inn. But did I creep up the back stairs and murder poor Dougan? Hardly.”
    “Do you know how he was killed?”
    “I understand it was a lethal blow to the head.”
    “How do you feel about that?” asked Theodosia.
    “Sad. Heartbroken, of course.” But Simone didn’t appear sad or heartbroken. Mostly she just looked bored with their conversation.
    Theodosia decided to put her manners aside and play a little hardball. “When you and Granville were together, did the two of you do a lot of coke?”
    “Coke?” said Simone. “As in cocaine?” She fought to arrange her lovely face into an expression of stunned amazement. “No, of course not. Never in a million years! I don’t do drugs, I don’t even like to take aspirin.” She shook her head, as if a swarm of hornets had suddenly attacked her. “Why would you even
ask
such a thing?”
    “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Theodosia, as she glanced around the shop. “Really, it was just an innocent question.”
    “I certainly hope so,” said an indignant Simone. “Because I wouldn’t want you thinking that I—”
    “What’s that?” Theodosia asked, interrupting her. She pointed at a small wicker stand tucked behind a rack of colorful clothing.
    “Vintage Pucci dresses.”
    “No, behind them,” said Theodosia. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her, she was pretty sure the shelf held a small collection of glass paperweights.
    Simone took a step forward. “Oh. Some vintage opera glasses and a couple of paperweights.”
    “Paperweights,” Theodosia repeated.
    “Yes,” said Simone. “Interesting enough, they’re what’s left of a collection I sold to the people who own Ravencrest Inn.”
    Theodosia was utterly floored. “You realize, Simone, that Granville was probably struck on the head by a glass paperweight.”
    Simone threw her hands in the air. “For goodness’ sake, now you really
are
accusing me of murder.”
    “You’re the one who said it, not me.”
    Simone’s face turned lobster-red and her eyes narrowed to Kabuki mask slits. She balled her hands into fists and leaned forward until she was just inches from Theodosia, invading her personal space. “Don’t play games with me!” she snarled.
    Theodosia fought to maintain a neutral tone. “And don’t you play games with me!”
    “I think,” said Simone, taking a step back, “that you’d better leave.”
    And I think
, Theodosia told herself, as she fled out the door,
that