Page 98 of Honey Drop Dead

“Not today.”

“Okay, good girl. Just don’t forget ’twas curiosity that killed the cat.”

“Or maybe that cat has nine lives.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Riley was still chuckling as he hung up.

Theodosia pointed at Drayton as she walked past the counter and said, “One thirty. That’s our official closing time.” Then she went into the kitchen to ask Haley about produce.

Haley was ecstatic. “Frog Hollow Farm? Holy guacamole, they’re, like, a famous purveyor of vegetables and poultry. Totally farm to table. The chef at Husk Restaurant uses them and he’s super picky. Jeepers. I’d better do a little preplanning for next week’s menu, so I know what to put on my list.”

“Take your time,” Theodosia said. She wandered back into a now empty tea room and saw Drayton bent over the counter, glasses perched on his nose, cup of tea at hand, reading the Post & Courier.

“Are you checking the help wanted ads? Looking for a better job?”

Drayton straightened up. “What? No, of course not.”

“Kidding, just kidding. I was wondering if you’re in a mood to take a drive with me.”

He closed the paper. “Depends on where you’re going.”

“Still worried about getting roped into a wild goose chase?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Well, you can relax. I’m heading out to Frog Hollow Farm to pick up produce for Philip’s restaurant and get an order for Haley as well.”

“Sounds lovely,” Drayton said. He glanced out the window and gave an affirmative nod. “With plenty of sun and a robin’s-egg blue sky, it should be a perfect day for a drive.”

30

It was indeed a perfect day for a drive.

Theodosia headed down East Bay Street, hooked a right, and crossed the Ravenel Bridge. They’d rolled the windows down to let in copious amounts of warm sun and cool air, Rascal Flatts played on the radio, and Drayton rode shotgun.

He glanced down at the Cooper River as they spun across the bridge. “Even the river is a brilliant blue today,” he said. “Must be a lucky sign.”

They drove through Mount Pleasant on Highway 17, cut down Long Point Road, and, after a few turns, ended up in a decidedly rural area.

“You know where we’re going?” Drayton asked.

“Got a good idea.”

They swept around a tight S-curve, saw sunlight glinting off brackish water and tupelo gum trees standing like lone sentinels.

“Pretty out here,” Drayton observed. “How close are we to this wondrous farm?”

“Another few miles,” Theodosia said.

They passed an old church—what the locals called a praise house—and then a cluster of roadside stands.

“Look at that,” Drayton said. “They’re selling fresh blue crabs.”

“Nothin’ better,” Theodosia said.

A few minutes later Theodosia saw the beginnings of a rustic ranch fence set against a forest of shaggy willow oaks. Beyond were lush, green fields and a big sign that said frog hollow farm—fresh produce and poultry. And under that, in smaller type, it said pick your own.

There was one car and two pickup trucks as they pulled into the parking lot.

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