Dragonwell Dead atsm-8

by Laura Childs

  “Smack-dab in the historic district and just a stone’s throw from the Battery,” said Drayton. “I’ll bet a lot of people would love to get their hands on that property.”

  Theodosia picked up a Brown Betty teapot and poured a stream of cinnamon spice tea into Delaine’s and Bobby Wayne’s teacups. “What bothers me is his timing. Why did Teddy Vickers suddenly wait until the day of Mark’s funeral to spring this on Angie?”

  “Don’t know,” shrugged Bobby Wayne, getting involved with his second scone.

  “And what’s with his forty-eight-hour deadline?” Theodosia asked.

  “Maybe Teddy figured he was doing Angie a favor,” said Delaine. “You know, taking the place off her hands.”

  “Sometimes,” said Theodosia slowly, “actions that appear to be favors really benefit someone else.”

  “Theodosia?” said Charlie, suddenly appearing at their table. “You have a phone call. A Sheriff Billings?”

  “Excuse me,” said Theodosia, slipping quickly from her chair.

  “I thought I’d get back to you on those plants,” said Sheriff Billings, his voice booming loudly into Theodosia’s ear.

  “I appreciate it,” she said.

  “Apparently, the College of Pharmacy at the School of Medicine over in Columbia has been using those plants in an ongoing research study. They extract tannins, flavones, and alkaloids for use in antiviral research, if you know what that is.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Okay then. As far as the other stuff goes, we’re still waiting for lab results. You know, residue from the broken glass, tissue cultures from the victim.”

  Theodosia grimaced at the sheriff’s rather clinical assessment.

  “I assume you’ve been in touch with the fire marshal here in Charleston,” she said.

  “We’ve spoken a couple times,” Sheriff Billings told her. “It does seem like a bit of a coincidence that Mrs. Congdon’s husband was murdered and then her house or inn or whatever you’d call it suddenly burned down.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidences?” asked Theodosia.

  Sheriff Billings gave a rueful grunt. “No, ma’am, not that kind.”

  Good, thought Theodosia. That means you’re on top of things.

  But she found Sheriff Billings’s next words rather dis-heartening.

  “To tell you the truth, Miss Browning,” he said slowly. “I’m a bit flummoxed by this case. In fact, I’ve been thinking about calling in SLED.” The South Carolina Law Enforcement Division was a statewide agency that could be called in to assist with investigations.

  “Really?” said Theodosia. She knew SLED was good, but she also knew that precious time would be lost if this happened. It would take days for Sheriff Billings and probably the fire marshal to get these new investigators up to speed. In the mean time, strange things seemed to be happening to Angie at warp speed.

  Theodosia said her good-byes, then hung up the phone. She was still troubled by the fact that not much was happening. Where she’d once thought the wheels of justice were finally turning, now they seemed slightly derailed.

  If only Burt Tidwell were investigating.

  Burt Tidwell was the one detective, the only detective, that she truly trusted. He was tenacious, brilliant, and mad-dening. He’d helped her out before and had the keen ability to bull his way right into the heart of a thorny investigation. To make things happen. Fast.

  Theodosia sat in her office chair and stared across at the montage of photos and memorabilia on her wall. An old photo of her and her dad on his sailboat. Framed exotic tea labels. An award she and Earl Grey had received for their work with Big Paws, the Charleston service dog organization. A framed copy of one of Haley’s scone recipes that had appeared in the Post and Courier. More photos.

  She thought about Angie and the terrible heartbreak her friend had experienced, was still going through. She thought about Mark, all excited about jumping back into the commodities game. Then his life coming to a screeching, grue-some halt as he lay convulsing in front of his wife and friends.

  And the deep down, inner part of Theodosia, the part that despised bullies, rooted for underdogs, and believed that old-fashioned justice ought to prevail, quivered with outrage.

  So Theodosia pulled herself together and did the most logical thing she could think of. She phoned Burt Tidwell at his office.

  Unfortunately, the detective was not in residence.

  “He’s bone fishing down in Abaco,” his assistant told her.

  “At Marvle Cay. Said he’s not to be disturbed.”

  “Where’s Abaco?” asked Theodosia.

  “Bahamas.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Lord willing,” his assistant said, “he’ll do us all a favor and stay out of the office for another week. Two would be even better.”

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. “Thanks anyway.” She dug into her red leather address book where she’d stuck Tidwell’s business card. Scanning his card, she squinted at his cell phone number, hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if she could make a cell phone connection in the Bahamas. Then she punched in the number, deciding it was worth a shot.

  Tidwell answered on the fourth ring. “Tidwell.”

  “Detective Tidwell, this is Theodosia. Sorry to disturb you but . . .”

  “Theodosia who?” came Burt Tidwell’s gruff reply.

  “Theodosia Browning,” she said. “You know, from the tea shop?”

  “Who gave you this number?” he demanded.

  Theodosia frowned. He was playing cat and mouse with her. One of his favorite games. “You did,” she told him.

  “Did you call my office first?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And they told you I was in the Bahamas bone fishing?” he asked.

  “Well . . . yes,” replied Theodosia. “And I’m really sorry to disturb you, but . . .”

  “Fish aren’t biting worth a darn,” complained Tidwell. “Stupid things are swimming all around me. I can see their shadows but they simply don’t respond. That’s the problem with fish. Dinosaur brains. Limited attention span.”

  “A lot of that going around,” said Theodosia. She hesitated as she heard more loud splashing sounds, then a disgusted mutter. She conjured a mental image of Burt Tidwell. Oversized, bobbling head, slightly protruding eyes. A big man, looking almost like a cross between a grizzly bear and a walrus. She wondered if Tidwell was suited up in rubber waders or just sloshing around in an old T-shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. Either costume would be a strange sight to behold.

  “So what did you want?” asked Tidwell. “Now that you’ve interrupted my vacation and completely obliterated my concentration.”

  “There’s been a disturbing incident,” Theodosia told him. “Mark Congdon, a friend of mine, collapsed and died last Sunday at Carthage Place Plantation. Initially the doctors thought he’d suffered a heart attack, now the medical report says he died from a nonspecific toxin.”

  “Not my jurisdiction,” growled Tidwell. “I only handle homicides in Charleston proper.”

  “I realize that,” said Theodosia. “It’s just that I thought perhaps—”

  Tidwell cut her off. “Who’s heading the investigation?”

  “Sheriff Ernest Billings.”

  Tidwell snorted. “I was part of a golf foursome with Billings once. Something called the Law Enforcement Officers Golf Scramble. Out at Shadowmoss. Man plays a terrible short game and cheats like a fiend.”

  Theodosia fervently wished they could get back on track.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she told him.

  “Oh, mother of pearl!” Tidwell let out an excited whoop. “I actually snagged one of the buggers!” There were more excited mutterings, then a loud splash and a muffled burbling.

  “Detective Tidwell?” Theodosia asked tentatively. She wondered if he’d been pulled underwater and was drowning.

  Then there was more burbling and anothe
r Tidwell whoop. And then a faint glub-glub-glub.

  Theodosia could almost picture Burt Tidwell reeling in his trophy-sized fish while his cell phone slipped through blue waters, finally settling on the sandy bottom of the Caribbean.

  15

  Theodosia was pondering the whole dilemma. Thinking about how Angie Congdon had asked for her help. Feeling bad that she hadn’t really been able to provide any. And was interrupted when Delaine and Bobby Wayne stuck their heads in her office to say good-bye.

  “We’re taking off now,” said Delaine, giving a casual wave. “Oh, can we maybe slip out your back door? When we got here, Church Street was all parked up, so I had Bobby Wayne pull around back. I knew you had two reserved parking spots back there and figured you wouldn’t mind.”

  “By all means go out this way,” said Theodosia, starting for the back door. “But I’m going to have to move a couple things.” She kicked at a carton of tea candles, then bent down and picked up a flat box. It was heaped with some of the spillover from her perpetually messy desk.

  “Sorry,” she told Delaine and Bobby Wayne as they edged past her. “I know I’m not the tidiest person . . .”

  “You should see my office,” said Bobby Wayne. “It’s got . . .” He stopped abruptly, his eyes suddenly fixed on the box in Theodosia’s hands.

  “What?” she asked him.

  Bobby Wayne looked puzzled. “That’s some of the stuff that belonged to Mark?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Theodosia, glancing down at it. “I guess it is. Some of it is.” She almost forgot that she’d removed a few things from the two boxes before Haley carried them upstairs.

  Bobby Wayne scratched at the back of his neck. “That little ceramic elephant . . . ?”

  Theodosia stared at a shiny gray elephant with bright eyes and a curled trunk. It was a cute little collectible, the kind of thing you might put on a small shelf in your dining room along with other small knickknacks.

  “I’d swear there’s one just like it at our office,” said Bobby Wayne. He frowned, his mind struggling to dredge up the exact visual. “Well, maybe not tucked in an office, per se, but sitting out on somebody’s workstation.”

  Theodosia pounced on his words. “Whose workstation? Do you remember?”

  Now Bobby Wayne looked nervous and a little unhappy.

  “I think it might be Fayne Hamilton’s.”

  As if things weren’t crazy enough, Drayton was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to get organized for his afternoon tea tasting.

  “Our customers will be here in less than ten minutes!” he screeched, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. He was expecting a group of about a dozen women who had nicknamed themselves the Patriot’s Point Tea Club and showed up at the Indigo Tea Shop three or four times a year. Obviously, Drayton wanted everything to be absolutely perfect for these repeat customers.

  “Take it easy, Drayton,” said Haley. “I’ve got everything lined up—scones, shrimp bisque, and cheese straws, plus cucumber–goat cheese sandwiches on herb bread. So the kitchen’s good to go. And Miss Dimple has the two round tables all set up. She went with the French Garden china by Villeroy & Boch and the Ashmont pattern flatware.”

  “That’s all fine and fancy,” replied Drayton, “but I’m still playing catch-up and tinkering with tea selections.” He rolled his eyes as if to punctuate his sentence.

  Theodosia edged over to where Drayton was dithering amid the chirp and hiss of teapots. “What do you think might be on the menu?” she asked him. “Tea-wise, I mean.”

  “A Nilgiri for sure,” said Drayton.

  “Sounds like an excellent choice,” said Theodosia. Nilgiris were fragrant black teas that imparted a slight “green” flavor. Almost vegetable-like.

  “And a traditional black tea from the Ambootia Tea Estate in the district of Darjeeling,” continued Drayton.

  Theodosia nodded. As always, Drayton was spot-on with his tea selections. His vast experience as a master tea taster and blender always paid off big time. He had the know-how even if his confidence and patience occasionally faltered.

  “And I’m thinking of tossing in a tea from the Gopaldhara Tea Estate,” finished Drayton. He gave a slight shrug as if to indicate it should be okay.

  “The Gopaldhara has a slight honey and sandalwood essence,” added Charlie. Despite Drayton’s persnickety mood, she was hanging in there.

  Theodosia gazed at the two of them as a smile played slowly at her mouth.

  “What?” demanded Drayton. “You see a problem?”

  “No,” said Theodosia. “What I see are two people trying their darndest to put together a fantastic tea-tasting experience. All I can say is I’m delighted you’re working together so well.”

  This last remark caught Drayton completely off guard. “We are?” he asked, fingering his bow tie and glancing nervously at Charlie. “Really?”

  Just as Haley and Miss Dimple were delivering bowls of shrimp bisque to the Patriot’s Point Tea Club ladies, just as Drayton and Charlie were pouring steaming pots of Darjeeling, Leah Shalimar strolled into the Indigo Tea Shop.

  “I couldn’t stay away!” she told a surprised Theodosia.

  It was getting late and Theodosia hadn’t really expected many more customers, but she gladly led Leah to a small table set for two.

  “The idea of enjoying some of your wonderful tea and scones kept pulling at me,” confessed Leah. “So I decided the best thing to do was drive over here.” She peered up at Theodosia. “You’re still serving, aren’t you? I saw those other tables of . . .”

  “We’re delighted to have you,” said Theodosia. “And Haley’s been ferociously productive in the kitchen today, so depending on just how hungry you are you’ve got your choice of a full tea luncheon or an afternoon repast of tea and scones.”

  “What would the full tea luncheon be?” asked Leah. “I’ve been running errands ever since the funeral this morning and haven’t had a bite to eat.”

  Theodosia thought for a moment. They still had quiche from lunch. And the sandwiches that Haley had made for the tea club. And then there was . . .

  “Wait a minute,” said Leah. “Why don’t you just surprise me? You know I adore surprises.” Her eyes wandered over to where Drayton was chatting with the tea club.

  “All right,” said Theodosia. “We’ll fix a little tray for you.” But at the same time she was wondering if Leah had really dropped in for tea or if she was scouting Drayton again. Or just . . . scouting?

  Theodosia’s questions were pretty much answered when, ten minutes later, Leah asked her to sit down at her table. And, out of the blue, began pitching her on investment products.

  “A woman in your position really needs to employ a complete portfolio of financial products,” said Leah, as she nibbled daintily at a cucumber-and-goat-cheese sandwich. In your younger years,” said Leah, nodding sweetly at Theodosia, “it’s important to build wealth. Of course, as you get older and your portfolio increases in value, your strategy should then shift to conserving wealth.”

  “This building wealth thing,” said Theodosia. “What exactly are you recommending? Stocks? Mutual funds?”

  Leah shook her head tolerantly, as though Theodosia had just given the wrong answer in a school spelling bee. “Way too conservative,” she told her. “Even if you pick what you think might be a more volatile sector, like oil or telecommunications, you’re not necessarily going to see guaranteed growth. Not in double digits anyway.”

  “I didn’t think anything was guaranteed,” said Theodosia. She knew a little bit about investing. Her father had been a lawyer, had left her a small portfolio when he died. And Theodosia knew that risk was always a factor in investing.

  Leah reached for her teapot and refilled her teacup. “Let me tell you a little about FOREX,” she began.

  Uh-oh, thought Theodosia.

  “FOREX basically means foreign exchange,” said Leah. “You invest a certain amount of money to purchase a f
oreign currency futures contract.”

  “So it’s speculating on the value of foreign currency,” said Theodosia.

  “I’m impressed,” said Leah Shalimar, “that you grasped the basic concept so readily. Believe me, it took me a while to understand the nuances.”

  “Not having the best, uh, geopolitical understanding of the world’s currency markets,” said Theodosia, “I think I’d probably be pretty awful at this.”

  “Ah,” said Leah, holding up a finger. “The beauty of our FOREX product is that you don’t need to be particularly knowledgeable in this area. We work through a wonderful company called Sun Commonwealth Trust. They’re the FCM, or futures commission merchant, who administers the plan.”

  “So Loveday and Luxor is basically brokering their product,” said Theodosia.

  Leah nodded. “In a way. And we feel extremely fortunate to be affiliated with Sun Commonwealth. As FCMs go they have a stellar reputation.”

  “Really,” said Theodosia.

  “They garnered a sidebar in Futures magazine not too long ago,” Leah said knowingly.

  “Ah,” said Theodosia, who’d never read Futures magazine. It was as far from her daily realm as a gossip tabloid.

  “So what I’m going to do,” said Leah, reaching into her caramel-colored leather handbag, “is leave one of our brochures with you.” She placed a small four-color brochure on the table and slid it toward Theodosia. On the cover was a montage photo of various foreign currency and gold coins. Leah’s business card was stapled to the top of the brochure. “Read through it,” urged Leah. “At your leisure, of course. Then we can get together and I’ll answer any questions you might have.” She favored Theodosia with a bright smile, a salesperson’s smile.

  “Great,” said Theodosia, slipping the little brochure into her apron pocket and knowing this type of investment was way too rich for her blood. She gazed across the table at Leah, who was looking very pleased with her little pitch.