Dragonwell Dead atsm-8

by Laura Childs

  “Mark was a lovely person. So talented,” said Harlan. “We were actually in a book discussion group together . . . Greek classics.”

  “He will be greatly missed,” intoned Drayton.

  “What . . . uh . . . do you know what happened to Mark’s orchid?” Harlan asked. He’d stumbled over his words, but his eyes glowed clear and bright.

  Theodosia stared at Harlan Noble for a few long seconds, then decided the man was a lout of the first magnitude. Here he was, nosing around on the pretense of feeling bad, but really trying to figure out what happened to Mark’s monkey-face orchid!

  “I have it,” said Drayton, his tone just this side of frosty.

  “Good, good,” said Harlan, hunching his thin shoulders up, his dark eyes darting between the two of them. “I was just concerned . . .”

  Quoth the raven, nevermore, thought Theodosia.

  “In fact I’m going to take it to Angie this afternoon,” said Drayton. “So you need not concern yourself.”

  3

  “Two entrées today,” Haley told Theodosia as she darted about her small kitchen, stirring and tasting. “Lavender-infused egg salad on croissants and roast chicken breasts stuffed with root vegetables.”

  “Wonderful,” declared Theodosia. “Honestly, Haley, I don’t know how you come up with such inventive recipes.”

  “Just one of the tricks of the trade,” responded Haley, clearly pleased. “Oh, and I’m baking several pans of madeleines as well. You’ll be able to take some over to Angie this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your efforts,” said Theodosia, knowing that Angie might very well be numb for the next week or so and not have any idea what she’s eating or even tasting. Still, Haley’s extra efforts were both admirable and heartwarming.

  “Madeleines are the new muffins,” declared Haley as she carefully sliced fresh-baked croissants, slathered them with butter, then topped them with dollops of lavender egg salad. “They’re a little more futsy to make, what with the shallow pans and the delicate little shell shapes. But in the long run, I think madeleines are incredibly versatile. Because they’re such petite cakelike cookies, you can serve them with jelly and Devonshire cream, or top them with chocolate or butterscotch sauce, or just serve two on a plate with a nice scoop of sorbet.”

  Theodosia leaned against the doorway and listened to Haley’s friendly chatter, watched her spin and pirouette from oven to counter, doing her intricate little chef’s ballet. As heavy as Theodosia’s heart was over Mark Congdon’s death, it was reassuring to be in the place she loved most—her beloved Indigo Tea Shop.

  Theodosia knew she’d made the smartest move of her life when she’d bid sayonara to her job in marketing and gambled her savings on establishing the Indigo Tea Shop. What had started out as a dusty little diamond in the rough had become one of the most popular spots on Charleston’s Church Street. Pegged wooden floors, brick walls, and a beamed ceiling made for a cozy, cottagelike atmosphere. Antique wooden tables and chairs, fine china, and sparkling silver lent an upscale, Old World feel. Antique breakfronts and bookcases, crammed with teacups, tiny spoons, tea cozies, jars of lemon curd, tea books, and packaged teas, lined the walls and completed the picture.

  Of course, this was Drayton’s domain, too. One wall was floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves lined with shiny tea tins filled with the finest, freshest, and most aromatic teas available. As a master tea taster and tea blender, Drayton demanded perfection. Which was why the Indigo Tea Shop always stocked the best Formosan oolong, first-flush Darjeeling, smoky Lapsang souchong from China, rare Japanese Sencha, and exotic Kenyan teas.

  And when the teacups were rattling, the teapots chirping, and customers filled the small shop with their excited hum, Theodosia knew she was clearly at home.

  “Say now,” said Drayton as he came up behind Theodosia, rousing her from her reverie. “We have some very hungry customers waiting out here.”

  “Isn’t it good, then, that we’ve got some marvelous luncheons ready to serve,” Haley answered blithely.

  Drayton peered over his tortoiseshell half-glasses and consulted his order pad. “I require fourteen egg salads and twelve chicken breasts,” he told Haley.

  “Coming up,” sang Haley.

  But Drayton wasn’t finished. “For now,” he told her. “As you probably know, we’re expecting two rather large groups in another forty-five minutes. Red-hat ladies, I believe.”

  “We’re amazingly busy for a Monday,” commented Haley as she pulled a pan of perfectly golden chicken breasts from the oven and set it atop the stove.

  “Can you believe how busy?” asked Dayton, making a wry face. Then he glanced toward Theodosia to hurriedly explain. “Not that I’m displeased we’re making such a go of things. It’s just that . . .”

  “I know what you’re saying,” said Theodosia, nodding. “I feel exactly the same way.”

  “We all do,” said Haley. “We may carry on as usual, but Mark’s untimely death is hanging directly over our heads.”

  “We’re still planning to run over and see Angie, aren’t we?” asked Drayton. He watched as Haley carefully placed each plump chicken breast atop a mound of baby field greens, then added a spoonful of honeyed white wine sauce.

  “Count on it,” said Theodosia.

  A stiff breeze off the Atlantic had chased the last wisps of clouds from the azure skies above Charleston. The afternoon sun sparkled down, highlighting the enormous grand and graceful mansions of the historic district. There were Italianate-style homes with low pitched roofs and wide verandas, Victorian-style homes with fanciful turrets and gingerbread trim, and here and there a few of the old shotgun-style homes, too. And everywhere, a riot of foliage. Gnarled live oaks arched over cobblestone streets, dogwood and box ivy lined cobblestone drives, magnolias, pansies, and English daisies exploded with color in every yard.

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this,” said Drayton as he and Theodosia strolled down Murray Street on their way to the Featherbed House.

  “Agreed,” said Theodosia. “There’ll probably be friends and relatives jostling about. So it’s the least we can do.”

  “Help fortify them,” added Drayton, trying to put his game face on.

  But when Theodosia and Drayton climbed the front stairs of the Featherbed House Bed & Breakfast and let themselves into the spacious lobby with its cypress paneling and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceiling, the place seemed deserted. Angie’s collection of ceramic, plush, and needlepoint geese were the only inhabitants, tucked as they were in cabinets and nestled on couches. An antique grand-father clock ticked loudly in the silent room.

  “Nobody’s here,” said Drayton, looking puzzled.

  “Hello,” Theodosia called out. “Anybody home?”

  “Hold on,” said Drayton, listening intently. “Somebody is coming. Must be . . . Teddy?”

  Theodosia paused, focusing on the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Teddy Vickers, Angie’s assistant, suddenly loomed in the doorway. He looked both subdued and a little surprised at seeing them.

  “Drayton. Theodosia,” said Teddy. “Nice to see you even under these sad circumstances.” Teddy Vickers was one of those men who was of an indeterminate age. He could have been thirty-three, he could have been forty-five. He was boyish-looking with a crooked grin and a shock of dark blond hair combed to one side. It gave him a distinctly East Coast preppy look, like he might be an assistant headmaster at some exclusive school. Except Teddy worked for Angie.

  “We brought tea and sandwiches,” said Drayton, holding up a large basket.

  “And scones and madeleines,” added Theodosia. She winced inwardly, thinking her voice probably sounded overly cheerful. “And Mark’s orchid from yesterday.” She indicated the little plant she’d tucked carefully in a box and surrounded with tissue paper.

  “I thought there’d be more people around,” said Drayton. “Friends, relatives . . .” His voice trailed off.

  �
�Guests,” said Theodosia, suddenly struck by the emptiness of the normally thriving B and B. Or maybe it was just a sadness that had settled over the old mansion.

  Teddy Vickers shook his head. “Angie’s sister and a few other relatives will be arriving from Chicago later this afternoon. As for the Featherbed House, it’s closed for now. We found space for all our bookings at other nearby B and Bs and won’t be accepting any new reservations.” He shrugged. “Basically, we’ve taken the phone off the hook.”

  “What about current guests?” asked Theodosia. She was a little surprised to hear that the Featherbed House was in the process of shutting down completely.

  “We’ve got two rooms occupied right now,” said Teddy, “but once they leave tomorrow morning . . .” He shrugged his thin shoulders and turned his palms upright as if to say who knows?

  “And how are you doing?” asked Drayton.

  Teddy sighed loudly. He’d also been at Carthage Place Plantation yesterday and, in the melee following Mark’s collapse, had accompanied Angie, Theodosia, Drayton, Delaine, and Bobby Wayne to the hospital.

  “Holding up,” was Teddy’s terse answer. “Although this hasn’t been a happy place for quite some time.”

  Theodosia’s brows knit together at this strange comment. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

  “The Featherbed House is in dire need of some rather major repairs,” said Teddy. “And lately, Mark had been extremely involved with his job. So not a lot of decisions got made.”

  “I’m sure working at Loveday and Luxor was very stressful for him,” said Theodosia. Considering the circumstances, she felt Teddy’s words seemed somehow disloyal.

  “Lots of competition between brokers, too,” added Teddy, dropping his voice. “I got the feeling the place was pretty much a viper’s nest.”

  Really? Theodosia thought to herself. Viper’s nest? First I’ve ever heard of that.

  Drayton cleared his throat. “Is Angie around? We’d like to say a quick hello and express our condolences.”

  “I’m sure she’ll speak with you,” said Teddy Vickers. He waved a hand. “Have a seat and I’ll tell Angie you’re here.”

  Theodosia and Drayton made themselves as comfortable as they could in the lobby of the Featherbed House.

  “This place is so unnaturally quiet,” remarked Drayton.

  Theodosia had to agree. Usually the Featherbed House was bustling with guests checking in or checking out, enjoying wine and cheese in the lobby, or lounging on the back patio amid the gardens. And everywhere Theodosia looked—the polished floors, the hand-painted goose mural on the wall, the overstuffed pillows—were reminders of the love and care Angie and Mark had put into the place.

  “Theodosia?” came Angie’s whispery voice as she walked slowly into the lobby. “Drayton?” Angie Congdon stood there looking pale and thin, as though a stray puff of wind could blow her away.

  Theodosia and Drayton rushed to put their arms around her.

  “How are you doing, dear lady?” asked Drayton. “Are you holding up?”

  “Oh, Angie,” cried Theodosia. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”

  “You’re doing it,” said Angie, giving them a sad, lop-sided smile. “You’re here. Both of you. And that means the absolute world to me.”

  “We were afraid we might be intruding,” said Drayton. “Even though we brought goodies. And Mark’s orchid.”

  Angie glanced about the lobby, a wistful look on her face.

  “As you can see, you’re not intruding at all,” she said. “In fact, I’m afraid Mark’s death has completely knocked me for a loop. There are still people to contact, things to do.” She dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. “But I can’t seem to manage it. In fact, I spent most of the morning on the phone with the hospital over in Summerville.”

  “Come,” said Drayton, motioning to both women. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

  “Have you received a more definitive cause of death from the cardiologist?” asked Theodosia, once they were all seated on low club chairs around a small wooden table.

  Angie gazed at them, a strange, pinched look on her face. “Funny you should ask,” she said. “I just got off the phone with Sheriff Billings.” She reached in the pocket of her light jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “He faxed me this report.”

  Angie held it out, as if willing Theodosia to take it.

  Theodosia reached for the piece of paper in Angie’s hand and accepted it gently. “May I read it?” she asked.

  “Please,” said Angie, who seemed to be in a mild state of shock.

  Theodosia unfolded the paper and scanned the report. It appeared to be a standard hospital form with most of the pertinent medical facts filled in by hand. The first part of the form was a list of all the symptoms Mark Congdon had presented with. Dilated pupils, respiratory distress, cardiac arrhythmia, convulsions.

  The next part listed the lifesaving measures the EMTs and ER personnel had employed. Blood gas analysis, epinephrine, defibrillation, cardiac catheterization.

  Theodosia’s eyes skipped to the bottom of the report, to the line that read Cause of Death. Her brow furrowed, her heart thumped inside her chest as her eyes focused on the phrase that had been scrawled in: nonspecific toxin.

  “Good heavens,” breathed Theodosia, as her brain suddenly started racing. A toxin is a poison, right? Sure it is.

  “What?” asked Drayton, upon seeing Theodosia’s reaction. “What?”

  Wordlessly, Theodosia handed him the paper.

  Drayton put on his glasses and quickly scanned the report. “Nonspecific toxin!” he exclaimed when he got to the bottom of the page. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Angie swiped at her eyes again with her hanky. “I have no idea. But I’ve been under the complete impression that Mark either suffered a heart attack or had some kind of brain aneurysm. Those were the two things that fixed in my mind. And the doctors and medical personnel had pretty much confirmed that.” She leaned closer toward Drayton. “You know, Mark always pushed himself so hard. Up at five, at the office by seven. Of course, that’s what being a commodity broker is all about.” Her shoulders slumped, her hands shook. “Now this . . .”

  “Good lord,” said Drayton, aiming a level gaze at Theodosia. “This medical report changes everything.”

  But Theodosia’s mind had already leapt into overdrive. If toxin means poison, then poison means murder, she told herself. “Here, Drayton, let me see that report again.”

  “I . . . uh . . . couldn’t bring myself to read the entire contents of the report,” said Angie. “It seemed . . .” Her voice cracked. “. . . so very final.”

  “You should call the hospital and see if you can get more detailed information,” said Theodosia. “This simply isn’t acceptable. I’m sure there are more specific lab tests that can be run. Certain . . . uh, what would you call them? Tox screens?”

  “I’m not sure I could manage that right now,” Angie said. Her voice was a whisper and her shoulders slumped dejectedly. Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. She seemed on the verge of collapse.

  “Would you like me to see if I can find out more?” asked Theodosia. Her heart went out to poor Angie Congdon. She’d never seen her friend look so fragile.

  “Theo,” said Angie, reaching for Theodosia’s hand. “Would you really?”

  “Of course,” said Theodosia. “I’ll phone the hospital and . . .”

  “She’ll take this up with law enforcement, too,” volunteered Drayton.

  “Bless you,” Angie whispered to Theodosia. “You’re such a calm, take-charge person.” Her eyes drifted toward Drayton. “You, too, Drayton. If the two of you can find it within your hearts to help me, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can,” promised Drayton even as he threw Theodosia a pleading look. “Won’t we?”

  “Count on it,” said Theodosia, realizing she’d somehow backed herself into a fairly serious investigation
.

  A murder investigation? Yeah, maybe.

  “There’s so much to handle all at once,” fretted Angie. “Plan a funeral, notify all our friends and relatives. I suppose I’ll have to go down to Mark’s office and pick up his address book . . .”

  “I’ll do that,” volunteered Theodosia. In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself.

  “Would you really?” asked Angie.

  “No problem,” said Theodosia. “I’ll stop by Loveday and Luxor first thing tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll certainly assist with funeral arrangements,” said Drayton. “Do you know when . . . uh . . . when Mark’s body will be. . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

  “No,” came Angie’s choked voice. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  4

  “What exactly does nonspecific toxin mean?” Drayton asked Theodosia as the two of them hurried back down the street, headed for the tea shop.

  “It means something got into Mark’s system and killed him,” said Theodosia. “But the docs don’t know exactly what it was.”

  “Like a poison?” asked Drayton.

  Theodosia looked grim. “It’s not a pretty thought, but that notion had crossed my mind.”

  “How ghastly,” said Drayton.

  They walked along in silence for a while.

  “You know,” said Theodosia, “there’s a possibility someone might have tampered with the sweet tea yesterday.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Drayton, fingering his bow tie nervously. “I brewed that tea myself!”

  “Think about it,” said Theodosia. “Mark drank a glass of tea, then immediately collapsed.”

  “But anyone could have drunk that tea,” sputtered Drayton. “Others did drink that tea.”

  “Good point,” responded Theodosia.

  “Delaine was the one who was pouring,” murmured Drayton. “You don’t think she somehow . . . ?”

  “Of course not,” said Theodosia. She’d known Delaine for years. The woman was ditsy, yes. But a murderer? Hardly.