Ming Tea Murder by Laura Childs Page B

She’d dealt with Diver before and knew it would do no good to pressure her. Diver, who was pushing sixty, wore a beehive hairdo, brown pantsuit, and sensible shoes. She was as formidable and stolid as she looked, tenacious at running interference for her boss.
    â€œI just need five minutes with him,” Theodosia said.
    Diver gave a passing glance at an appointment calendar and grimaced. “That’s probably not going to happen.”
    â€œHe’s in a meeting?” said Theodosia. She leaned down and pulled a clear cellophane bag filled with toasted coconut scones from her tote bag. She’d stopped by the tea shop on her way over. Knowing Diver was a sugar freak of the first magnitude, she’d come armed for bear.
    â€œOh,” said Diver when Theodosia plunked the scones down on her desk. Her squeaky little
oh
was the equivalent of the enemy blinking first.
    â€œBecause, if he’s in a meeting, these scones might be a welcome addition,” Theodosia said.
    Diver stared at the scones as if she’d just discovered the treasure of the Sierra Madre.
    â€œYou know, I actually have an extra bag here,” said Theodosia. She set the second bag on the counter. “Maybe
you’d
enjoy them.”
    Diver’s brows knit together for a fraction of a second. “That’s kind of you,” she said slowly. “Generous, in fact.” Her salivary glands seemed to be waging war with her no-nonsense attitude.
    Theodosia gave an offhand wave. “Not a problem. Our scones are so popular, we pretty much bake them all day long. There’s more where those came from.”
    Diver’s hand snaked up to grab her bag.
    â€œSo . . . do you think Mr. Kern would have, like, two seconds to spare?” Theodosia asked.
    Diver licked her lips. “He’s awfully busy,” she said, making a final pro forma protest, “but let me check.” She stood up and smoothed the front of her jacket. “I’ll just be a moment.”
    â€œTake your time,” Theodosia said sweetly.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œI don’t know how you weaseled your way in here,” said Elliot Kern, “but I’m not about to discuss our employment policies with you.” He was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a blue button-down oxford shirt and was bristling with outrage. His hawk nose seemed to vibrate and his lips were pulled tight. Theodosia thought that Kern still looked like one of the members of the Medici family. One of the bean-counter types.
    Seated in a black leather club chair, Theodosia stared across an acre of mahogany library table that served as a desk in Kern’s private office. If his words and attitude hadn’t been so hostile, the meeting might have been downright cozy. Kern’s floor-to-ceiling shelves held an array of art objects ranging from Greek vases to South Sea island masks to early American silver. Oil paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. His desk was peppered with tasty objects d’art such as brass candlesticks, geodes, and Chinese ink bottles. It was like taking a crash course in museology.
    Theodosia placed the scones on his desk and offered a distracted smile. “I’m not here to discuss museum policy,” she said. “I just want to get a few things straight.”
    Kern stared at her as if she were an unwelcome squatter. Which she pretty much was. “Such as?”
    â€œYou put Max on unpaid leave.”
    â€œYes,” said Kern. “I most certainly did.”
    â€œWhen do you expect him to return and be back on your payroll?”
    Kern leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
    â€œWhen will he be—”
    Kern held up a hand. “No, I heard you just fine. I just can’t believe you have the gall to ask that question.”
    â€œI don’t mean to be galling,” said Theodosia.
I just want a straight
answer.
    â€œLook,” said Kern, pressing his palms flat against