Dragonwell Dead atsm-8

by Laura Childs

  So Earl Grey, Theodosia’s Dalbrador roommate and sometime service dog, was not a happy camper. Tonight he was a put-out pup.

  “C’mon, Earl Grey,” Theodosia coaxed. “Eat your dinner.”

  The dog sniffed his bowl of kibbles with its topping of steamed rice and looked away. When Earl Grey was upset he got finicky.

  “Okay,” said Theodosia, feeling guilty now for leaving him at home. “Then how about a turkey neck?” Turkey and chicken necks, because they contained gristle but no bones, were excellent for dogs. High in protein, with a serious chew factor to boot.

  Opening the refrigerator door, Theodosia fished out a raw turkey neck, gingerly holding the slimy offering between her thumb and index finger.

  Earl Grey’s expressive brown eyes sparkled but still he feigned disinterest. He walked slowly over to Theodosia, sniffed at the proffered turkey neck, then hesitated. Finally he accepted it, giving Theodosia a look that clearly said, I’m not happy about tonight, but a fellow’s got to eat.

  As the dog started toward the living room with the turkey neck clamped securely in his mouth, Theodosia called out to him, “Whoa there, pal. Keep it in here on the tile floor.”

  Caught in the act, Earl Grey retreated to the kitchen.

  While Earl Grey nibbled his turkey neck, Theodosia heated up a bowl of crab chowder, brewed a quick cup of chamomile tea, and grabbed an almond scone. Then she arranged everything on a wicker tray and carried it in to her dining-room table. True to her word, Haley had muscled both of Mark’s boxes upstairs. So now they rested on the table, too.

  Maybe I’ll take a quick peek through them, Theodosia thought to herself. Although the big thing on her mind right now were the plants in the nightshade garden.

  She wondered who would have known that such nasty plants were growing and actually thriving right there on the grounds of Carthage Place Plantation?

  Drayton had procured the list of garden docents from Miss Maybelle Chase. So maybe, tomorrow morning, she’d take a look at that. But in the meantime . . .

  Earl Grey, finished with his supper now, padded in and gave his mistress an inquisitive look.

  “Okay, come on in,” she told him. Earl Grey, used to having the full run of Theodosia’s upstairs apartment, eased himself down on her green-and-cinnamon-colored Chinese rug and proceeded to groom his suede-like paws.

  Theodosia stared at the two cardboard boxes. She was tired, the hour was late, and she was of a mind to forget the whole thing. On the other hand, some rather strange forces seemed to be at work. And some decidedly quirky people were beginning to look more and more like suspects. So maybe taking a quick look through Mark’s stuff would shed some light on any number of things.

  Shoving her dinner tray to one side, she flipped open the lid on the first cardboard box. Digging a hand in, she grabbed a stack of papers, notes, and miscellaneous items, then spread everything out on her dining-room table and stared at it.

  No, she decided, there’s a better way to do this.

  She grabbed the box, tipped it upside down, and deposited the complete contents on her table.

  Messy, she thought. But now I won’t miss anything.

  Slowly, Theodosia sorted through the contents spread out closest to her: a box of business cards, a Swiss Army knife, auto club membership decals, a desk calendar. She tossed those things back into the box, then swept another pile toward her. This time she found tickets for last year’s Spoleto Festival, a few canceled checks, a small ceramic elephant, and an iPod.

  Nothing very telling here, she decided as she stifled a yawn.

  Theodosia was about to bag the entire search when her eyes fell upon a square envelope. It was good quality linen paper and had but one word handwritten on it: Mark.

  Should I? wondered Theodosia, worrying that she might be peeping where she shouldn’t be.

  She picked up the envelope, hesitated a moment, then opened it. Inside was a square note card, trimmed in gold with a tiny embossed bee at the top.

  A short message was scrawled in looping handwriting:

  Dear Mark,

  Thank you for the lovely birthday lunch at Trocadero.

  Maybe we can do it again sometime—my treat?

  Holding my breath,

  Fayne

  Time stood still for a moment as Theodosia absorbed the contents and gist of this note. It was a note from an employee to her boss that seemed to cross the line of being merely friendly. The words seemed wistful, hopeful, and a little bit bold.

  Theodosia scrunched around in her chair and stared at the oil painting that hung over her fireplace. It was a brood-ing seascape of a turn-of-the-century three-masted schooner caught in tempestuous waters far from the safe harbor of Charleston. With sails ripped and giant waves pounding onto its decks, there was no doubt the sailing ship would soon be lost. As she contemplated the painting she also contemplated the possibility that Fayne Hamilton had been in love with Mark Congdon. Or, if not in love with him, at least smitten.

  Is that why Fayne seemed so discombobulated about Mark’s personal belongings being packed up by someone else? Theodosia wondered. Had Fayne realized the note she sent him might have been scooped up from his desk drawer and tossed into the mix? Maybe. Definitely maybe.

  Drumming her fingernails on the table, Theodosia decided there could be more notes of this nature contained within these boxes.

  If so, what would that prove? she wondered. That Fayne and Mark had enjoyed some sort of secret relationship? Or that Fayne had been rebuffed by Mark? And, as a result, been very, very upset.

  Upset. In a Fatal Attraction sort of way?

  Theodosia stared at the old brass clock that ticked away on the top shelf of her mahogany secretary. It was ten-thirty now and it would probably take her at least another hour to sort through all this stuff.

  She stared at Earl Grey, stretched out and snoozing comfortably. It was going to be a long night.

  10

  “Are you serious?” squawked Haley as she stared at Theodosia with saucer eyes.

  Theodosia nodded, then turned her gaze on Drayton. It was nine a.m. and she had just told both of them about the two notes she’d discovered among Mark’s things last night.

  “So the first note was a kind of simpering thank-you?” asked Haley.

  “Pretty much,” said Theodosia as she sipped a cup of Mango Verde, Drayton’s house blend of an Assam green tea flavored with tiny bits of mango.

  “And the second note?” asked Drayton, equally surprised by this revelation. “It was definitely more . . . uh . . .passionate?”

  “I’d say so,” replied Theodosia. She had both notes tucked in her pocket but didn’t feel it would be proper to completely reveal their contents.

  “Wow,” said Haley. “Looks like Mark might have been having an affair with this Fayne what’s-her-name!”

  “Fayne Hamilton,” murmured Theodosia.

  “Of course he wasn’t,” snapped Drayton. He paused, then peered carefully at Theodosia. “At least I don’t think he was.”

  “I seriously doubt if Mark was involved with her,” said Theodosia. “Both of Fayne’s notes seemed more sadly hopeful than anything.”

  “Then maybe Fayne Hamilton murdered Mark,” proposed Haley. “Unrequited love is a very powerful emotion. Makes people do crazy things.”

  “It can,” agreed Drayton. He picked up the floral teapot that sat in the middle of the table and poured himself another cup of Assam.

  “When you talk to Fayne Hamilton in person,” said Theodosia, trying to share her impression of the girl with Drayton and Haley, “she doesn’t strike you as being capable of murder. She’s a quiet girl, rather polite and unassuming.”

  There, thought Theodosia. That’s a pretty fair assessment.

  “But that’s exactly what people said about that BTK guy,” exclaimed Haley. “His neighbors claimed he was a nice guy, soft-spoken, helpful, always polite. And look what a monster he turned out to be!”

  “Oh, H
aley, please,” said Drayton. “Now you’ve gone to the absolute extreme.”

  “Listen,” said Haley, still wound up, “if this Fayne person knew about the nightshade garden you guys found last night, maybe she snuck in, grabbed a handful of plants, and poisoned Mark’s sweet tea. After all, you guys were sticking fresh sprigs of herbs and flowers in all the glasses. Who would notice? She could have slipped it right in!”

  “Ah,” said Drayton, looking supremely unhappy now. “The nightshade garden. I have some information that could put a considerable wrinkle in your theory.”

  Haley eyed Drayton suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night Miss Maybelle Chase shared with me her list of garden docents.” Drayton paused. “I read through the names this morning and guess who cropped up?”

  “Harlan Noble,” guessed Haley.

  “That’s right,” said Drayton.

  “And Leah Shalimar,” said Theodosia.

  Drayton pointed a gnarled index finger at Theodosia. “Bingo. That lady also wins a prize.”

  “So both Leah and Harlan knew about the plants and had access to them,” mused Theodosia. “That’s fairly interesting.”

  “Some might say damning,” said Drayton. “You’re going to phone Sheriff Billings and see if he knows about the existence of the nightshade garden?”

  Theodosia glanced at her watch. “That’s definitely on my agenda. Soon as we get the tea shop prepped for the day.”

  “Are you going to mention Leah and Harlan’s names to him, too?” asked Drayton.

  Theodosia thought for a minute. “I almost have to. Especially Leah, since she was a docent at Carthage Place and she worked with Mark.”

  “It’s certainly a major coincidence,” said Drayton, narrowing his eyes. “I wonder if Ms. Shalimar will admit to being at the Plantation Ramble on Sunday.”

  “Was she there?” asked Haley.

  “Don’t know,” said Theodosia. “But you can certainly ask her. She’ll be here in a matter of hours.”

  “Oooh, that’s right,” said Haley.

  “Uh, excuse me, but there’s another big question on the table,” said Drayton. “Do you plan to tell Angie about the notes Fayne Hamilton wrote to her husband?”

  “I’m kind of agonizing over that one,” admitted Theodosia.

  “Well, I don’t think you should tell her,” said Drayton. “At least not right now. Angie’s in a very fragile state. Seeing those notes might upset her even more.”

  “What do you think, Haley?” asked Theodosia.

  Haley pushed her stick-straight hair behind her ears and exhaled slowly. Finally she said, “I think, as a friend, you owe it to Angie to be completely honest.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” said Drayton.

  Theodosia slipped one hand into her pocket and fingered the two notes. “A dilemma,” she murmured.

  Midmorning, just as their customers had settled in, just as Drayton was pouring steaming cups of Irish Breakfast tea and Theodosia was distributing lemon–poppy seed scones, Delaine Dish came bustling in. She slalomed her way through the tea shop, delivering air kisses and emitting delighted squeals as she ran into friends on the way. Then she plunked herself down at the small table next to the stone fireplace.

  “Angie Congdon tells me you’re investigating Mark’s death,” Delaine said without preamble once Theodosia had drifted over with a small pot of Russian Caravan tea and a plate arranged with a trio of fresh-baked mini pecan muffins.

  Theodosia gave a hesitant smile. She didn’t feel it was appropriate to reveal everything to Delaine. “Somewhat,” she hedged. “Angie kind of asked for my help with some things.”

  “Theodosia Browning,” scolded Delaine. “Here you are snooping around over another mysterious death and you didn’t tell me? Honestly, Theo, I thought we were friends. Dear friends at that.” Delaine shrugged off her raspberry pink jacket revealing a matching raspberry pink sheath dress underneath.

  “We are dear friends,” said Theodosia, sliding into the chair across from her and noting that Delaine’s lipstick matched her dress. Theodosia always found it a little bewildering that Delaine viewed her as a best friend. Delaine was often highly critical and short with her. Although Delaine was basically kindhearted where children and small animals were concerned.

  “To tell you the truth, though,” said Theodosia, “I’m thinking it’s really best to let the authorities handle things.” Theodosia hoped her statement might help stem the tide of questions Delaine probably wanted to ask. After all, Delaine always had a long list of questions.

  “Definitely let the authorities take charge,” concurred Delaine as she popped a bite of pecan muffin into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, then leaned forward in her chair, looking to all the world like she had a nice, juicy piece of gossip to deliver. “Especially since rumors about Mark’s death are spreading like wildfire.”

  “Are they really?” asked Theodosia. Her front teeth worried her bottom lip.

  Delaine gave a smug smile, then lifted her teacup and took a delicate sip. “Nobody is buying that heart attack story anymore,” she finally said.

  Theodosia tapped her fingertips against her silver tray and pondered Delaine’s statement.

  Delaine, supremely pleased by the response she’d elicited, arched her eyebrows and lifted her chin. “Maybe you should call your friend Detective Tidwell,” she prompted. “He could help you sort this out.”

  “Tidwell’s not her friend,” said Drayton in a dry tone as he approached Delaine’s table. “Not exactly, anyway.”

  “I’m afraid Dorchester County’s not within Detective Tidwell’s jurisdiction,” replied Theodosia. Burt Tidwell was the rather brash and brilliant detective who headed the Robbery-Homicide Division of the Charleston Police Department. He would, of course, be the perfect investigator to ferret out and question certain prime suspects in this case. But Carthage Place Plantation was located at least thirty miles outside of Charleston proper. So definitely not Tidwell’s jurisdiction.

  “Just a thought,” murmured Delaine. “I mention it only in passing. Oh, Drayton,” she called as he started to move off. “So kind of you to help make arrangements for Mark’s funeral tomorrow. Although I hear you tapped Floradora for flowers when Fig and Vine is really the hot new florist. In fact, they created the most amazing centerpiece for one of Marianne Petigru’s recent dinner parties. Giant spider mums with Japanese irises and miniature callas.”

  “A funeral is a far cry from a dinner party,” said Drayton in a slightly disapproving tone.

  Delaine picked up a linen napkin and dabbed gently at her lips. “Perhaps,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “but they’re still both important social events.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Theodosia found time to slip into her back office and call Sheriff Billings. When she told him about the nightshade garden at Carthage Place Plantation, he was completely blown away.

  “I never even heard of such a thing,” he said. “ ’Course, me and Mrs. Billings aren’t into gardening and plants and such. I’d rather watch NASCAR races and she’s a die-hard quilter. No green thumbs in our household.”

  “Well, there’s an absolute cornucopia of poison growing out there,” said Theodosia, trying to keep a shrill note from her voice and barely succeeding.

  “I’ll for sure roust the crime scene guys and get them out to Carthage Place,” Sheriff Billings assured her. “Take samples of all those plants.” He hesitated for a moment. “Heck, maybe we’ll even find a match to that nonspecific toxin the docs came up with.”

  “A match,” repeated Theodosia. Yes, that could happen.

  “And if we get real lucky,” continued Sheriff Billings, we might even find a three-way match. Mr. Congdon’s blood and tissue samples with one of those plants out there, and whatever residue that’s found on that broken glass you brought in. Then we’d have it nailed.”

  “Not completely,” said Theodosia. �
��You still have to figure out who the perpetrator is.”

  “Well . . . yeah,” said Sheriff Billings, backing off somewhat. “There is that.”

  “There are . . . uh . . . a couple people you should maybe check out,” said Theodosia. “What you might call persons of interest.”

  “And who might they be?” asked Sheriff Billings.

  “A woman named Leah Shalimar. She’s a vice president at Loveday and Luxor . . .”

  “Same firm as Mark Congdon,” grunted Sheriff Billings.

  “She’s also a garden docent at Carthage Place,” said Theodosia.

  “I already talked to this Miss Shalimar once already,” said Sheriff Billings. “ ’Course, that was just a cursory meeting at Loveday and Luxor. It’s routine to talk to people who worked with the deceased. Of course, if this lady really knew her way around those gardens . . . then she warrants checking out a second time. Who’s the second one?”

  “Harlan Noble,” said Theodosia. “He’s a docent, too.

  Plus he got into a sort of bidding war against Mark Congdon. Over an orchid.”

  “And I take it he lost?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sore loser, huh? Yeah, we can run a check on him. Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Thank you,” said Theodosia. “And if you could get in touch with the various researchers who’ve been making use of those plants, maybe they can tell you something, too.”

  “Miz Browning . . .”

  “Yes?” said Theodosia.

  “Thank you. You’ve done some real smart police work on this.”

  “I appreciate that, Sheriff Billings. If you could sort of keep me in the loop, I’d be grateful.”

  “Count on it,” said Sheriff Billings.

  Well, thought Theodosia as she hung up the phone. There’s certainly a difference between Sheriff Billings and Burt Tidwell. One’s polite, one isn’t. One thanks me, the other tries to ignore me.

  “Uh . . . Miss Theodosia?” called an uncertain voice.

  Theodosia looked up from her desk to find a young woman staring at her. It took her a moment to figure out just who she was.