Dragonwell Dead atsm-8

by Laura Childs

  There were excited murmurs all around the table.

  “And we’re still selling tickets?” asked Theodosia. “For admission this Saturday night?”

  “Absolutely,” said Timothy. “Thirty-five dollars if you phone in your reservation, forty dollars if you purchase your ticket at the door.”

  “And there’s been fairly good publicity?” Theodosia asked.

  Timothy nodded again. “We’ve already had a sidebar in the Arts section of the Charleston Post and Courier, plus listings on the community calendars of most major radio stations.” He hesitated. “We’ve also received an invitation from Channel Eight to appear on their Windows on Charleston show this Saturday morning.” He gazed around the table, casting an appraising eye at the group. “We still need a volunteer for that. Preferably someone who’s media savvy.”

  Drayton immediately thrust an elbow into Theodosia’s ribs. “You,” he said in a loud stage whisper.

  Sitting on Theodosia’s other side, Parker immediately took up Drayton’s cause. “Theodosia would be perfect,” agreed Parker.

  Timothy turned gleaming eyes on her. “Yes,” he said, as if the idea had just that moment occurred to him. “You did work in marketing, didn’t you? And you’ve appeared on television before.”

  Theodosia held up both hands in protest. She didn’t feel she was the best spokesperson for this event. Didn’t think she was all that convincing on camera. “I would think you’d be the logical candidate, Timothy.” Her eyes sought out Arthur Roumillat. “Or Mr. Roumillat.”

  But Arthur Roumillat shook his head dismissively. “Can’t,” he said. “Way too much to do this Saturday. The Orchid Society has never set up at this location before and it looks like we’ve got some serious logistical problems to work out. We’ve got plans for at least a dozen tables to showcase perhaps seventy-five individual entries, so I couldn’t possibly take time out to do a media appearance.”

  Timothy placed both hands flat on the table and smiled at Theodosia. It was a wide, barracuda smile. A smile that meant he’d finagled his way. “The matter’s settled then,” said Timothy. “Theodosia will be our media spokesperson and do the on-air appearance with Windows on Charleston.”

  “Good for you,” said Parker, patting her on the back.

  “I didn’t exactly volunteer,” muttered Theodosia.

  “The television appearance was the last thing on the docket,” said Timothy, gazing down the length of the table. “So we seem to have matters well under control.”

  “What about a photographer?” asked Celerie. “Were you able to line one up?”

  Timothy grimaced. “I have one. Suffice it to say he was not my first choice. Nor even my second or third. Unfortunately, all the really good photographers seemed to be booked.”

  “Who did you get?” asked Drayton.

  “Bill Glass,” replied Timothy. “The fellow who publishes Shooting Star.”

  “Oh no,” groaned Drayton. “The man’s an absolute pain.” He turned to Theodosia. “You remember him.”

  Theodosia nodded. She did know Bill Glass and she wasn’t a bit thrilled with Timothy’s choice, either. Bill Glass’s weekly publication, Shooting Star, was a glossy, gossipy tabloid. People devoured it, but that didn’t make it good.

  “Mr. Glass may be slightly more commercial than the Heritage Society is used to,” responded Timothy, staring at them with hooded eyes. “But he’s given me assurances that Shooting Star will carry a front-page promo article for Orchid Lights. And his paper does come out Friday, the day preceding our event.”

  “It’s a rag,” snipped Drayton.

  Timothy, who was old enough and rich enough to face anyone down, merely said, “It’s free PR.”

  6

  A former cotton warehouse, the century-old brick building that stood near the corner of President and Bee streets had been updated, rehabbed, and rewired. Now it was an elegant showpiece that housed the offices of Loveday and Luxor Commodity Brokers.

  Theodosia crossed the gleaming wood floor of the reception area, glancing at colorful, geometric paintings that hung on the old yellow-brick walls. Under foot was a contemporary red-and-purple area rug. A receptionist was perched behind a sleek glass desk you probably wouldn’t care to sit at if you were wearing a miniskirt.

  The young woman looked up from her silver laptop as Theodosia approached. “May I help you?” she asked. Her long dark hair swished at her shoulders.

  “I’m here to pick up a few things from Mark Congdon’s office,” explained Theodosia. “I’m Theodosia Browning. I spoke with Bobby Wayne, your senior partner, yesterday?”

  “Of course,” said the receptionist. Her hand moved toward the intercom system, flicked a flat button. “Mr. Loveday’s in a meeting, but I’ll buzz Fayne. She was Mr. Congdon’s administrative assistant.”

  “Thank you,” said Theodosia. She rocked back on her heels, taking in more of the decor. And wondered why it was that when interior designers got their hands on a graceful old building, many of them felt compelled to pack it full of contemporary art objects. Wondered why they felt driven to juxtapose old with new. Was it . . .

  “Miss Browning?” came a timorous voice.

  Theodosia interrupted her art critique to find a young woman gazing soulfully at her. “Yes,” she answered. “That’s me.”

  The young woman extended her hand in a cordial, business-like manner. “I’m Fayne Hamilton, Mr. Congdon’s assistant.”

  As Theodosia shook her hand, she studied the young woman. Fayne Hamilton was mid-twenties, with long brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and serious brown eyes. But what struck Theodosia the most was Fayne Hamilton’s manner. She seemed prim and proper almost to the point of being stiff. Of course, Theodosia reasoned, her boss had just died and Fayne was undoubtedly upset, was probably still in shock.

  “Are you okay?” asked Theodosia. It was not the opening she’d planned for. Her sudden concern for this young woman just sort of popped out unexpectedly.

  Fayne put a hand to her chest and blinked rapidly. “Mark . . . Mr. Congdon . . . his death caught us all completely off guard. One minute we were working together and then . . .”

  “Unexpected tragedies such as this,” said Theodosia, “are hard on everyone. Family, friends, and certainly coworkers.”

  “We all thought the absolute world of Mark,” said Fayne as she led Theodosia down a long hallway. “When he joined Loveday and Luxor he was a breath of fresh air.”

  “Had you worked with Mark for long?” asked Theodosia.

  Fayne stopped in front of a closed wooden door. A gleaming brass name plate off to one side read Mark Congdon.

  “I was his assistant the whole time he was here,” said Fayne. “Which was, what? Almost six months, I guess.”

  “He hadn’t worked here all that long,” mused Theodosia, as Fayne pushed open the door.

  “No,” said Fayne, stepping inside Mark’s office. “But he was a terrific guy. And a really smart broker, too. All his clients loved him. And trusted him.”

  “I suppose we should start with . . .” began Theodosia as she followed Fayne into Mark’s office. She paused mid-sentence and gazed, startled, around Mark’s office. Empty bookshelves and a cleaned-out credenza met her eyes. Two brown cardboard boxes sat atop a bare expanse of wooden desk. “Everything’s packed already,” said Theodosia, sounding both surprised and a little flustered. This was not what she’d expected at all.

  Fayne nodded sadly. “Surprised me, too. But I was told that Martha was asked to sort through everything last night. So Mark’s personal things would be all ready to go.”

  “Really,” said Theodosia. She’d been under the distinct impression that it would be her task to go through Mark’s desk. To sift through his personal items. Theodosia put a hand on one of the cardboard boxes. “Not too much here.”

  “I suppose most of what was in here really belonged to the firm,” said Fayne. “Client records, company documents, things like tha
t. So Martha removed all that stuff and packed up Mark’s personal items.” She hesitated. “Which I thought was going to be my job.”

  “Who exactly is this Martha?” asked Theodosia.

  “She’s Leah Shalimar’s private secretary,” responded Fayne. “Ms. Shalimar is taking over all Mark’s accounts. She’s a senior vice president just like he was.”

  “I see,” said Theodosia, realizing what Fayne said probably made sense. Except it all felt just a little bit rushed.

  “Would you like to speak with Ms. Shalimar?” asked Fayne, sensing Theodosia’s hesitation. “I know she’s in.”

  “Sure,” said Theodosia. “I’d like that very much.”

  Fayne escorted Theodosia farther down the corridor and rapped gently on a closed door. Then she pushed it open and led her into an expansive corner office with dark red walls and black Chinese-style furniture. Leah Shalimar was on the phone, but smiled brightly and waved them in. Then she held up an index finger to indicate she’d be with them in just one minute.

  While Leah Shalimar purred to her client, or whoever it was she was talking to, Theodosia studied her. Leah Shalimar was superskinny in her plum-colored suit, with a sweep of dark hair, expressive eyebrows over darting eyes, and a hyperactive manner. Though she was on the phone, Leah Shalimar was in constant motion. She paced back and forth behind her desk, drummed her lacquered nails on her file cabinet, flipped through her Rolodex, all the while grabbing sips from an oversized coffee mug. Leah reminded Theodosia of a shark, the one ocean creature that must keep moving in order to stay alive.

  Theodosia decided that Leah Shalimar had to ingest more than a few cups of espresso a day to generate that much activity. In fact, with the nervous energy she was putting off, South Carolina Electric & Gas could probably harness Leah and power half of Charleston.

  “Hell-ooo,” said Leah Shalimar once she was off the phone. She dashed around her desk, grasped both of Theodosia’s hands, and flashed a dazzling smile. “So nice to finally meet you. Bobby Wayne has told me so much about your tea shop. And . . .” Now she favored Fayne with a quick smile, too. “. . . how supportive you’ve been to Mark’s poor wife.”

  “Angie and I have been friends for a long time,” murmured Theodosia.

  Leah Shalimar took a step backward. “So, are the police any closer to discovering what really happened to Mark?”

  “I’m not exactly privy to that sort of information,” said Theodosia, wondering if Leah Shalimar actually knew something or if she was just fishing around.

  “The police are investigating?” asked Fayne, looking worried. “I thought Mark died of a heart attack.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Leah, her gaze drilling into Theodosia.

  “You mean something happened to Mark?” asked Fayne. “Like foul play?” She seemed suddenly upset and on the verge of tears.

  “That’s for the authorities to determine,” said Leah. She turned an unsympathetic eye on Fayne. “Why don’t you run and tell Bobby Wayne that Miss Browning is here. I’m absolutely positive he’ll want to pop in and say how-do.”

  Fayne hesitated a moment and cast a glance at Theodosia. “If you need any help going through those boxes . . .” she said.

  “Thank you,” said Theodosia, watching as Fayne turned reluctantly and left the office.

  Leah, wasting no time, hunched her shoulders forward and gestured for Theodosia to take a chair. “Come. Sit down,” Leah urged. She was obviously a high-energy woman used to having her way. Her stiletto heels sounded like rifle reports as she scooted back around her desk and plopped down in her chair, smiling at Theodosia across her ocean-sized desk.

  “Lovely to finally meet you,” said Leah. “I understand you were a good friend of Mark’s. In fact, he mentioned your name to me several times.”

  “Mark was a terrific person,” said Theodosia. “All of us at the Indigo Tea Shop will miss him very much.”

  Leah put a hand to her chest. “As will we. His passing is a terrible blow.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the memory of Mark Congdon was almost too much to bear.

  Then her eyes popped open and she leaned forward across her desk. “You know,” said Leah. “I’ve heard some amazing things about your little enterprise. It’s reputed to be terribly cozy and charming. With marvelous food.” Leah pronounced the word mahvelous, drawing out the “a” like an old silver screen actress might.

  “We’ve gotten our fair share of good press,” said Theodosia, wondering what the whole story was behind this slightly manic woman. “And we pride ourselves on having satisfied customers.”

  “Your stopping by has just sparked the most brilliant idea,” announced Leah, dropping her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “I’m supposed to host a group of women for lunch tomorrow. Business women. Potential investors, actually. Wouldn’t it be a kick if we came to your tea shop?”

  “Tomorrow?” asked Theodosia. Wow, this woman works fast. Maybe that’s why she’s a hotshot commodity broker.

  “Yes,” said Leah, growing more and more enchanted with her idea. “I was going to take my group to Le Pouvre, but your place would be far more suitable. From what I hear it’s extremely civilized.” Leah grabbed her day-date book and scanned it eagerly. “Shall we say one o’clock?”

  “Fine,” said Theodosia, knowing she’d have to give a heads-up to Drayton and Haley. “We’d love to have you. How many guests?”

  “Five in all,” said Leah, holding up a hand and splaying out her fingers. “Oh, and make sure everything is très elegant, will you? We’ll be expecting the unexpected.”

  “Will do,” promised Theodosia, knowing in her heart that every single tea or luncheon that she, Drayton, and Haley catered and served was considered special. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Knock knock,” said a male voice.

  “Bobby Wayne,” exclaimed Leah. “Come in. Look who’s here.”

  “Hello, Theodosia,” said Bobby Wayne. He walked over to where Theodosia was sitting, bent down, and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

  “She dropped by to collect Mark’s personal belongings,” explained Leah. “To help expedite things I had Martha pack everything last night.”

  “Is that right?” said Bobby. He cast a warm and sympathetic smile toward Theodosia. “It’s awfully nice of you to be so helpful to Angie. I spoke with her last night and she couldn’t say enough good things about you and Drayton.”

  “And I understand you’ll be giving the eulogy at Mark’s funeral on Thursday,” said Theodosia.

  Bobby Wayne nodded sadly. “I didn’t think it was my place, but Angie was so insistent I just couldn’t say no.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job,” said Theodosia. A few months ago, Delaine had twisted Bobby Wayne’s arm to serve as master of ceremonies for an Animal Rescue League fund-raiser and he’d done a wonderful job. So Theodosia expected Bobby Wayne would be able to find just the right words for Mark’s funeral service. “And thank you for being there for Angie,” added Theodosia.

  “I told her anything I could do to help, she should just call. Day or night. After all,” said Bobby Wayne, “Mark was family.”

  Leah’s phone shrilled and she made a fast grab for it. “Hello? Leah here.”

  Bobby Wayne faced Theodosia again. “Can I give you a hand with those boxes you came to fetch?” he asked. “Apparently everything of Mark’s has already been packed.”

  “So I’ve discovered,” said Theodosia.

  They waved good-bye to Leah, then trooped back down the hall to Mark Congdon’s office. Bobby Wayne grabbed the two boxes off the now-empty desk and lugged them out to the parking lot.

  “Thanks so much,” said Theodosia as she popped open the back door of her Jeep.

  “No problem,” said Bobby Wayne, although his face was a little red and his breathing had become somewhat labored.

  For some reason, Theodosia had forgotten all about the cardboard box c
ontaining the broken glass.

  Good lord, she thought to herself as she gave that box a quick shove toward the front, then flipped a piece of tarp over it. But Bobby Wayne appeared not to notice as he struggled to load the boxes he’d just ferried down.

  “Leah seems like a very capable executive,” said Theodosia as she shut the back hatch. There was something about Leah Shalimar that didn’t sit right with her and she wanted to find out more.

  “Leah’s not only smart, she’s a hard worker, too,” responded Bobby Wayne. He’d pulled out a white hanky and was mopping his brow. “She’s especially stepped up to the plate now that she’s going to be handling some of our very special accounts.”

  “I understand Leah is taking over for Mark?” said Theodosia, remembering what Fayne Hamilton had told her earlier.

  “She is now,” said Bobby Wayne.

  “So in a way it’s a kind of promotion for Leah?” prodded Theodosia.

  Bobby Wayne cocked a sharp eye at Theodosia. “I never thought about it that way, but, yes, I suppose it is. To be honest, it was always a question of who would head the firm’s FOREX Division, Mark or Leah. They were the two big stars of the firm.” Bobby Wayne shook his head and sighed deeply. “Now, sadly, that question’s been answered. Tragic circumstances spared us from making that difficult decision.”

  I wonder, thought Theodosia, I wonder if that’s completely true.

  7

  Hot crab casserole was one of Theodosia’s favorite luncheon entrées. Loaded with good Carolina blue crab, the dish was creamy, cheesy, and sinfully rich. All the attributes Theodosia loved in food, but probably should be wary of. Plus, Haley was serving her crab casserole with traditional southern spoonbread. What a delightful combination!

  “This looks fabulous, Haley,” exclaimed Theodosia. She’d ducked in through the back door and dumped her handbag on top of a landslide of catalogs and correspondence that was mounded atop her perpetually messy desk. Now Theodosia slipped an apron over her head and threaded the strings around her waist as she admired Haley’s cooking prowess.