by Laura Childs
“I suppose someone could have gotten to that tea,” allowed Drayton. “Although there wouldn’t be any evidence. Everything got spilled or thrown away yesterday in all the commotion.”
“What if there was something wrong with Mark’s glass?” said Theodosia. She was suddenly reminded of the painted glasses that Angie, Mark, and Bobby Wayne had purchased at the art booth.
“You think there was a dangerous toxin in the paint?” asked Drayton.
“It’s a thought,” said Theodosia. At this point she had no idea what happened. “Although lots of other people purchased those glasses, and nothing happened to them.”
“Or did someone know which glass belonged to Mark?” asked Drayton. He suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “The one painted with purple orchids.”
“That’s an awfully chilling thought,” responded Theodosia. “It would mean someone was stalking him, just waiting for some sort of opportunity.” She paused. “It would mean Mark’s murder was premeditated.”
Drayton grimaced. “Good heavens, there had to be six hundred people at Carthage Place Plantation yesterday. Maybe more. That makes for an enormous pool of suspects.”
“Even so,” said Theodosia, “we should probably get that glass checked out. There could be trace remnants of the toxin or whatever it was. And fingerprints.”
Drayton blinked hard. “I thought Mark dropped it, that the glass got smashed.”
“He did,” said Theodosia. “And it did. But I scooped the broken pieces into a cardboard box and stuck them in the back of my Jeep.”
“And they’re still there?” asked Drayton.
Theodosia gave a tight nod.
“So they could be analyzed,” mused Drayton.
“Sure,” said Theodosia. “If that’s what Sheriff Billings thinks we should do.”
“Good lord. Please don’t tell anyone else that you have those broken pieces,” said Drayton.
“No kidding,” replied Theodosia. She had no intention of broadcasting the fact that she might possess a possible clue to Mark’s untimely death.
“Which means you’re going to be having a rather intense phone conversation with Sheriff Ernest T. Billings?” asked Drayton.
“Soon as we get back,” replied Theodosia.
“It’s terrifying to think someone might have wanted Mark Congdon dead,” said Drayton. “Had schemed and planned for it. I wouldn’t think he had an enemy in the world.”
They walked along in silence for another fifty paces and then Theodosia said, “Do you find it strange that Harlan Noble came sniffing around trying to buy Mark’s orchid?”
“It is strange,” said Drayton, scratching his head. “Then again, orchid collectors are pretty odd ducks.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Theodosia.
“How’s Angie doing?” asked Haley. She was standing at the counter, ringing up a take-out order, when Theodosia and Drayton walked into the Indigo Tea Shop. It was now late afternoon and only two tables were occupied. Sun slanted in the heavy leaded windows giving the interior an Old World, painterly feel. Like background lighting in a fine Rem-brandt painting.
Drayton put a finger to his lips. “Some strange things are happening,” he said under his breath.
Haley was instantly on alert. “Tell me!”
So they did.
But much to their surprise, Haley immediately pooh-poohed their poison theory.
“I still bet Mark suffered a heart attack,” she said.
“Why on earth would you say that?” asked Drayton,“when evidence seems to point to the contrary?”
“That’s not quite true,” said Haley. “From what you told me, Mark exhibited all the classic symptoms of a heart attack. Then factor in the notion that he was just too nice a guy. He didn’t have any enemies.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” said Theodosia.
“Oh, right,” said Haley, rolling her eyes. “Some visitor to Charleston didn’t like their room at the Featherbed House? Somebody thought the percale sheets were too stiff so they decided to retaliate?”
“He worked for Loveday and Luxor for the past six months,” suggested Theodosia. “Maybe somebody there had it in for him.”
“Maybe.” Haley shrugged. “But we did a tea for them not too long ago. They all seemed like nice, reasonable people. I bet this whole poison thing is just a tempest in a teapot.”
“Interesting choice of words,” remarked Drayton.
“Just you wait,” said Haley, gesturing for Theodosia to follow as she turned and headed for the kitchen. “I bet everything will turn out kosher.”
Theodosia followed Haley through the velvet celadon-green curtains where a sweet, chocolaty aroma suddenly enveloped her. She was still pondering Haley’s words and sincerely hoping that Haley was right.
Haley grabbed a tray of elegant-looking chocolate truffles and held them out to Theodosia. Half the candies were drizzled with zigzags of white chocolate, the other half were smothered in rich-looking cocoa powder.
“Of course,” said Haley, as Theodosia chose a truffle, “Mark is still dead. And that’s a terrible, terrible thing. But murder? I just don’t think so.” She peered at Theodosia. “What do you think?”
“I hope you’re right,” said Theodosia, chewing thoughtfully.
“No, I mean about the truffles.”
“Oh,” said Theodosia, still chewing. “They’re absolutely wonderful.” She rolled her eyes for emphasis.
“I was thinking of whipping up a few more batches and selling them in the tea shop this week,” said Haley. “On a kind of trial basis. You know, see how it goes.”
“If they’re all this good, we’ll be sold out by noon tomorrow,” said Theodosia, reaching for another piece.
“Ohhh . . . you like them,” cooed Haley.
“What’s this about a trial basis?” asked Drayton, stepping into the kitchen.
“Truffles,” said Theodosia. “Haley thinks we should ex-pand our repertoire.”
“Why not?” said Drayton. He grabbed one, popped it into his mouth. A look of sublime happiness immediately washed across his face. Drayton had a bit of a reputation as a chocoholic. “More than a few tea shops are offering truffles these days,” he commented. “And, lord knows, chocolate pairs beautifully with so many different teas. I mean, think about Moroccan mint tea with chocolate. Or black tea with hints of citrus. Or a raspberry tisane. Or a peppermint-flavored tea. Oh, I could go on and on.”
“No kidding,” said Haley.
“Would you consider serving your truffles at Orchid Lights?” asked Theodosia. Orchid Lights was the combination orchid show and fund-raiser that the Heritage Society was staging this Saturday night. Theodosia had volunteered to do a refreshment table with a small assortment of tea and sweets. Her sort-of boyfriend, Parker Scully, who owned Solstice, a French- and Mediterranean-influenced bistro over on Market Street, was going to handle wine and spirits.
“We could include truffles,” said Haley. “If you think people would like them.”
“Oh, I definitely think they’d be a hit,” said Theodosia.
Drayton reached for another truffle. “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?” he asked Theodosia.
She nodded.
“Shouldn’t run too long,” he told her. “We just need to tie up a few loose ends. You know how Timothy likes to have all the details figured out and everyone accountable.”
Timothy was Timothy Neville, the octogenarian director of Charleston’s Heritage Society.
“Speaking of loose ends,” said Haley. “You did remember that your intern starts work here on Wednesday.”
Drayton feigned a puzzled look. “Intern?” he muttered.
“Don’t try to weasel out of this,” said Haley, taking a stern tone. “This intern thing has been set up for months.”
Drayton drew himself up to his full height and peered down his aquiline nose at Haley. “What possible use would I have for an intern?”
“The gen
eral idea is to use her as a sort of assistant,” said Haley. “But remember, it’s supposed to be a positive learning experience.”
“For who?” asked Drayton.
“For the intern,” said Haley, holding her ground. This wasn’t the first go-round she’d had with Drayton; it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Drayton shook his head, as if scolding an unruly child. “I simply don’t require any assistance whatsoever.”
“Sure you do,” said Haley. “Of course, you do. Half the time you’re running around here completely frizzle-frazzled.”
“Frizzle-frazzled?” Drayton lifted an eyebrow and pursed his lips. His face took on a slight resemblance to a thunder-cloud. “Although I have no idea what that means, I take serious umbrage to the fact that it’s probably an accusation of sorts.”
“Okay then,” said Haley, deciding to reverse gears and try another approach. “You’re overworked. You’re a real champ, but you’ve got way too much to do.”
“Haley’s right, you know,” said Theodosia, who’d been thoroughly enjoying herself watching this somewhat bizarre exchange. It was like watching an unscripted soap opera. Or an episode of reality TV. Everyday dramas and events that got blown out of proportion.
“I beg to differ. Haley is wrong about my needing an intern,” declared Drayton in an ominous tone. “Quite wrong.”
5
“You’re late,” called Parker Scully. He lifted one arm in a wave and flashed a welcoming smile at Theodosia as she hurried up the sidewalk toward the main door of the Heritage Society. Earl Grey trotted beside her, tethered by his red leather leash. “Is it your fault?” he asked gazing down at Earl Grey.
Earl Grey turned liquid brown eyes on Parker. The dog had picked up a crinkly yellow fast-food wrapper during his walk along the Battery and was now reluctant to relinquish his treasure.
“I almost ran out of time,” said Theodosia with a laugh. “Between taking care of business, walking his majesty here, and grabbing my notes for Orchid Lights.” She held up the sheaf of papers that was clutched in her hand. “Correction. Make that grabbing my disorganized notes.”
“And solving a murder mystery?” asked Parker. His bright blue eyes twinkled, he reached up a hand and casually ran it through a tousle of blond hair.
“Huh?” said Theodosia. She’d talked to Parker on the phone Sunday evening and relayed to him all the events of that utterly horrible day. But she hadn’t breathed a word to him about a murder. Or even a mystery. Come to think of it, Mark Congdon’s death hadn’t yet taken on the status of murder mystery at that time.
“How did you know about . . . uh . . . that?” Theodosia asked.
“Drayton blabbed,” said Parker, grinning. “I called your shop a little while ago hoping to get you and your Mr. Conneley picked up the phone. I asked how your friend Angie was doing and one thing just sort of led to another.”
“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you?” asked Theodosia. “Everything’s kind of in flux right now. We don’t even know if there is a . . .” She glanced around nervously.
“. . . a toxicology issue.”
“You secret’s safe with me,” Parker assured her. “But what I’m really curious about is, why are you such a light-ning rod for this stuff? I mean, somebody in this town drops dead and you’re Johnny on the case.”
“That’s so not true,” protested Theodosia.
Parker Scully peered at her. They’d been seeing each other on again and off again for a while now, so he could push the boundaries a little. But Parker chose to retreat. “Okay, I amend my statement. Not everyone warrants your getting involved.”
“That’s right,” Theodosia told him.
“However,” continued Parker, “from what I’ve seen, your investigative skills are rather impressive.”
“Oh . . . not really,” hedged Theodosia, anxious to change the subject as they pushed their way through the doors and hurried down the main hallway.
“Yes, they—” began Parker, but Theodosia interrupted him.
“I’m not exactly prepared for this meeting,” she said in a loud whisper. “Drayton kind of pulled me in at the last minute.”
“You’ll be fine,” Parker assured her as they rounded a corner and headed down another lengthy corridor lined with fine oil paintings. “Besides, with Timothy Neville at the helm the Heritage Society runs like a finely tuned Swiss watch. Probably all we’ll have to do this Saturday evening is show up and serve refreshments.”
Easier said than done, thought Theodosia.
“Theodosia?” called a high, papery voice. “Is that you?”
“Hello, Timothy,” said Theodosia as she and Parker swung around the doorway into the cypress-paneled board-room. “I brought Earl Grey along, hope you don’t mind.”
Timothy Neville waved a gnarled hand. “No problem. As long as he doesn’t try to usurp my position or lodge an opposing vote. But he does have to come over and give a proper hello.”
Theodosia unsnapped Earl Grey’s leash and the dog padded over to greet Timothy. While most of Charleston, including the board members, employees of the Heritage Society, and donors, were deeply intimidated by Timothy Neville, Earl Grey viewed Timothy as his buddy. To him Timothy Neville wasn’t a prominent member of Charleston society whose Huguenot ancestors had helped settle Charleston. Or a domineering old codger who lived in a splendid mansion over on Archdale Street and played first violin in the Charleston Symphony. No, to Earl Grey Timothy Neville was a guy’s guy who pulled his ears, gave him hearty pats, and occasionally produced a liver-flavored dog cookie from the pocket of his elegant pleated trousers.
“Ah,” said Timothy, removing the lump of soggy, yellow paper from Earl Grey’s mouth. “What do we have here? A treasure map? Long lost documents, perhaps?”
Earl Grey settled down happily at Timothy’s feet as Theodosia and Parker took their seats at the oval table alongside Drayton. Another half dozen volunteers also sat at the table, talking among themselves.
Timothy wasted no time in calling the meeting to order.
“Good evening and thank you all for coming this evening,” intoned Timothy. “I’ve invited Arthur Roumillat, president of the Charleston Orchid Society to join us. As you well know, his fine organization is partnering with ours to present Orchid Lights.”
There was a smattering of applause from everyone seated.
“Yes, yes,” said Timothy holding up a hand. “But remember that the main reason for this event is fund-raising. While other museums and nonprofit organizations are struggling, the Heritage Society fully intends to thrive.”
Timothy favored the group with a thin smile. He wanted to make it crystal clear that under his leadership the Heritage Society was vigorous and highly viable.
“Which means,” continued Timothy, “that our two groups will be running concurrent events. During the same time members of the Orchid Society are exhibiting prize specimens on our patio, the Heritage Society will be holding a silent auction in our great hall. Of course, there will also be music, refreshments, drinks, and entertainment. Hopefully, by causing a sort of ebb and flow of members and patrons between our two organizations we’ll achieve a critical new level of synergy.”
“And raise needed funds,” added Drayton.
“Raise funds,” echoed Timothy. “Absolutely.” He slipped into his seat as Arthur Roumillat stood to address the group. Arthur gave a ten-minute overview of how the orchid show would be presented and how many Orchid Society members would be attending.
Overall, Theodosia thought the pairing of the two groups was a particularly brilliant maneuver on Timothy’s part. It was a way to expose donors and patrons of the Orchid Society to the Heritage Society. And it gave longtime Heritage Society members a fun evening that included an outdoor show featuring one of nature’s most coveted floral species. She also perceived both events as upscale entertainment that would bring out the cream of Charleston society.
“And the entire outdoor patio will b
e awash with orchids,” finished Arthur Roumillat with an expansive gesture.
“Excuse me,” said Drayton, putting a hand up. “But we need half of that patio for tables and chairs. We’re already planning on glass-topped tables with festive centerpieces.”
Arthur Roumillat frowned at Drayton. “First I’ve heard of that.”
“Check your notes from last month’s meeting,” Drayton reminded him. He was a fourth-term board member as well as the Heritage Society’s parliamentarian.
Timothy Neville suddenly looked unhappy. “Can you two work this out, please?” he asked. “Divvy up the territory so to speak.”
“Certainly,” said Drayton. “And I want to remind you that Theodosia here has graciously volunteered to donate tea and desserts for Saturday night.”
Warm smiles were suddenly focused on Theodosia. Celerie Stuart, one of the newest board members, said in a loud whisper, “You do so much, Theo.”
Theodosia waved a hand as if to say, It’s nothing.
Drayton continued.
“And Parker Scully, owner of Solstice Bistro and Wine Bar, will be donating and serving select alcoholic refreshments.” Drayton peered over his half-glasses at Parker. “Do we know exactly what those libations will be yet?”
“White wine spritzers and a fancy cocktail as yet to be determined,” replied Parker good-naturedly.
Drayton picked up his pen and scratched a note on his yellow legal pad. “Yet to be determined,” he murmured.
Timothy Neville took that opportunity to grab the floor again. “And our newest board member, Celerie Stuart, has been working with numerous volunteers to coordinate our silent auction.” Timothy turned his dark, piercing eyes on Celerie. “As I understand it, some rather exotic items have been donated. Celerie, would you care to enlighten us? Give us a little taste of what’s to come?”
Celerie Stuart scratched the tip of her nose with her pencil eraser as she consulted her notes. Midforties, with a cap of reddish-blond curls, Celerie was a consummate volunteer and Junior Leaguer. “We’ve actually had an amazing amount of donations,” she told the group. “Some of the items we’ve received include harbor cruises, a weekend at a Hilton Head resort, an exquisite collection of toy soldiers, oil paintings, a fishing charter, handcrafted silver jewelry, golf clubs, fifty pounds of raw oysters, and even a ride in a fighter jet.”