Pekoe Most Poison

by Laura Childs

  “Carolina blue crab,” Doreen said in a conspiratorial whisper. “From a caterer that’s brand-new here in Charleston and making quite a splash. We even tapped them to cater all the appetizers for our grand opening party at Gilded Magnolia Spa next Saturday.”

  “You have quite a large group here today,” Theodosia said. “Are most of them spa customers?”

  “It’s a sprinkling of all sorts of people,” Doreen said. “Spa members, media people, a few friends and neighbors, some business associates.” She raised a hand to one of the rat waiters and said, “We’re going to need a fresh pot of this orange pekoe tea for Beau.” And to Theodosia: “It’s his favorite.”

  “One of Drayton’s recommendations?” Theodosia asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Doreen said. “I consulted with Drayton on all the teas we’re serving here today. As usual, he was spot-on.”

  “He’s the best tea sommelier I’ve ever encountered. We’re fortunate to have him at the Indigo Tea Shop.”

  “Watch out someone doesn’t try to steal him away,” Doreen said. She turned, held up Beau’s teacup for the waiter to pour him a fresh cup of tea, and said, “Just set the teapot on the warmer, please.”

  The pink rat leaned forward, set down the teapot, and, in the process, the edge of his sleeve brushed against one of the tall white tapers.

  “Watch the . . . !” Doreen cried out as the candle wobbled dangerously in its silver holder.

  But it was too late.

  The burning candle bobbled and swayed for a couple more seconds and then tipped onto the table. It landed, flame burning bright, right in the middle of an enormous, frothy centerpiece. As if someone had doused it with gasoline, a ring of dancing fire burst forth. A split second later, the decorator-done arrangement of silk flowers, pinecones, twisted vines, and dried moss was a boiling, seething inferno.

  As the guests at Doreen’s table began to scream, two people leapt to their feet and began beating at the crackling flames with linen napkins. Their efforts just served to fan the flames and set one of the napkins on fire. It twisted and blazed like an impromptu torch until the person waving it suddenly dropped it onto the table.

  Beau Briggs, as if just realizing they might all be in mortal danger, suddenly jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward. “Somebody get a fire extinguisher!” he yelped as flames continued to dance and scorch the tabletop. Now everyone from his table was jigging around in a fearful, nervous rugbylike scrum, while people from other tables were rushing over to shout suggestions. Doreen, no help at all, put her hands on her head and let loose a series of high-pitched yips.

  “Somebody do something!” a woman in a black leather dress screamed.

  At which point Theodosia grabbed the teapot from her table, elbowed her way through the gaggle of guests, and poured the tea directly onto the flames.

  There was a loud hiss as an enormous billow of black smoke swirled upward. But the tea had done the trick. The fire had fizzled out, leaving only the remnants of a singed and seared centerpiece swimming in a brown puddle of Darjeeling tea.

  “Thank you,” Beau cried out. “Thank you!”

  “Good work,” Drayton said to Theodosia, just as blue rat arrived, fumbling with a bright-red fire extinguisher. He aimed the nozzle at the table and proceeded to spray white, foamy gunk all over the remaining plates of food.

  “Stop, stop,” Beau yelled at the rat. He lifted his hands to indicate they were all fine, that the danger was over, even as a few tendrils of smoke continued to spiral up from the charred centerpiece.

  “Goodness,” Doreen squealed, nervously patting her heart with one hand. “That was absolutely terrifying. We could have . . . all been . . .” She spun around toward Theodosia, a look of gratitude washing across her face. “Thank you, my dear, for such quick, decisive thinking.”

  “But your tea party’s been ruined,” Theodosia said with a rueful smile. “I’m so sorry.” The head table, which had looked so elegant and refined a few minutes earlier, was now a burned and blistered wreck. The ceiling above was horribly smudged.

  “We’ll salvage this party yet,” Beau said. Undeterred, he pulled himself to his full height and raised his hands, like a fiery evangelist, ready to address the upturned, still-stunned faces of all his guests.

  “I don’t know how,” Doreen muttered.

  “My dear friends,” Beau said. “Please pardon the inconvenience.” He pulled a hankie from his jacket pocket and mopped at his florid face as a spatter of applause broke out. He acknowledged the applause with a slightly uneven smile and continued. “Even though everything is firmly under control, I think it’s best that we finish our . . . ahem, that we adjourn to . . .” Stumbling over his words, he halted midsentence as a tremendous shudder ran through his entire body. It shook his shoulders, jiggled his belly, and made his knees knock together. Then his eyes popped open to twice their normal size and he let out a cough, razor sharp and harsh. That cough quickly became a series of coughs that racked his body and morphed into a high-pitched, thready-sounding wheeze.

  Doreen, looking properly concerned, held out a glass of water for her husband. “Please drink this, dear.”

  As Beau struggled to grab the water, his hands began to shake violently. He managed to just barely grasp the glass and lift it shakily to his lips.

  “I just need . . .” Beau managed to croak out.

  But just as he was about to take a much-needed sip of water, his head suddenly flew backward and he let loose a loud choke that sounded like the bark of an angry seal. The water glass slipped from his hand.

  Crash! Shards of glass flew everywhere.

  “Beau?” Doreen said in a small, scared voice, as if she sensed something was catastrophically wrong.

  Beau was waving both hands in front of his face now, gasping for breath and hacking loudly. “Wha . . . bwa . . .” He fought to get his words out, but simply couldn’t manage it.

  At least five sets of hands stretched out to help him, all holding water glasses. Instead of grabbing one of the glasses, Beau struggled to pick up his cup of tea. He managed to get his teacup halfway to his lips before his right hand convulsed into a rigid claw and the cup slipped from his grasp. As it clattered to the table, he clutched frantically at his throat. Eyes fluttering like crazy as they rolled back in his head, he managed a hoarse groan. Then, as if made of rubber, his legs gave way completely.

  Bam! Beau dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, smacking his forehead on the sharp edge of the table on his way down.

  In a frenzy now, screeching for help, Doreen bent over and tried to grab him. But Beau was so heavy and unwieldy that all she managed to do was bunch his shirt above his jacket collar. “He’s not breathing!” she screamed. “Does anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?”

  One man from a nearby table immediately sprang to his feet and came flying around to help. He knelt down directly behind Beau, wrapped his arms around his chest, and pulled him halfway upright. Then, locking his hands under Beau’s sternum, the man pulled his arms tight, making quick upward thrusts.

  Beau’s eyes flickered open, then turned glassy as white foam dribbled from his mouth.

  “It’s working, it’s working!” Doreen cried. “He blinked his eyes.”

  “Thank goodness,” Drayton said. He sank into his chair as the Good Samaritan continued to thump and bump poor Beau Briggs.

  “Is he coming around?” Doreen asked in a tremulous voice as Beau’s head jerked back and forth spasmodically and then lolled to one side as if his neck were made of Silly Putty.

  “His color’s looking better,” the skinny woman in black leather cried out. “His face isn’t purple anymore.”

  “That’s good?” Doreen asked. Then, as if to reassure herself, said, “That’s good.”

  Meanwhile, the man who was still administering the Heimlich maneuver was struggling
mightily and beginning to lose steam. “If I could just . . .” he grunted out, trying to catch his breath. “. . . Dislodge whatever he’s got caught in his throat. Try to get him breathing on his own.” He pulled and thrust harder and harder, his own face turning a violent shade of red. “Where’s the ambulance?” the man gasped. “Where are the EMTs?”

  “On their way!” the pink rat cried. “I can hear sirens now.”

  “Can somebody take over here?” the Good Samaritan gasped.

  A man in a white dinner jacket sprang into action. He employed a different technique. He bent Beau forward and thumped him hard on the back. But nothing seemed to be working. Beau’s eyes, open wide but unseeing, looked like two boiled eggs. His bulbous body was as limp and unresponsive as a noodle.

  “I don’t think that technique is going to work,” Theodosia said in a quiet voice.

  Drayton heard her and frowned, his eyes going wide with alarm. “Why would you say that? What do you think is wrong with him?”

  “You see that white foam dribbling from his mouth?” Theodosia said. “You see his pale, almost waxy complexion? I think he’s ingested some sort of poison.”

  “Poison!” Doreen suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs. “Don’t drink the tea! The tea is poison!”

  2

  Bone china teacups crashed rudely into saucers, most of them shattering instantly as guests dropped their cups in terror. People bent forward and spit out their tea as blind panic ensued. Even bits of scone and shortbread were spit discreetly into cloth napkins.

  Meanwhile, Beau hadn’t given up the ghost quite yet. His body began to shake as he suddenly launched into a cataclysmic fit. Gold buttons popped off his jacket and shot through the air like tiny, deadly missiles. His arms flailed about, his feet drummed the floor so hard one leather loafer flew off and sailed across the room, whacking some poor woman in the head.

  “Grab him, grab him!” Drayton shouted. “We’ve got to hold him down.”

  “Shove something in his mouth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue,” another man yelled out.

  The woman in black leather poked at Beau’s mouth with a silver spoon, then jumped back, fearful.

  More frantic suggestions rang out from the crowd that had gathered around him.

  “Don’t let him crack a rib.”

  “Ambulance is coming.”

  “Try to sit him up straight.”

  Nothing worked, of course. Beau Briggs was caught in the violent throes of some deadly paroxysm. His head lolled, his eyes glazed over, and more white foam dribbled out the sides of his mouth as everyone gathered around in a macabre circle to watch.

  Finally, Beau let out a single garbled choke, something on par with a guttural gwack, and gave one final, fatal shiver. Seconds later he lay unnaturally still.

  “Oh no, no no no!” Doreen lifted up her arms as if imploring the intercession of some heavenly force. “He’s not moving! Somebody do something!”

  One of her fingers snagged in her long strand of pearls and ripped them hard. A tiny snap sounded and then her precious Akoya pearls tumbled down the front of her dress.

  “My husband! My pearls!” Doreen screamed. She looked like she was ready to faint.

  Theodosia leapt for Doreen and wrapped her arms tightly around the woman’s upper body, pinning her arms down to her sides. “Doreen, calm down,” she said. Then she glanced over her shoulder and briskly called out “Chair” to Drayton. He immediately slipped a chair behind Doreen. “Sit down,” Theodosia commanded. Doreen finally closed her mouth and sat down hard.

  “What about him?” Drayton gestured to the body of Beau Briggs, which lay contorted on the floor. His pink jacket was covered with black ashes and white foam, his meaty face twisted into a death’s-head grimace.

  Theodosia grabbed two linen napkins off her table and carefully placed them across Beau’s face.

  “That’s it?” one of the female guests asked, her face its own mask of horror. “That’s all we can do?”

  “You could say a prayer,” Theodosia said as she became aware of the press of curious onlookers all around her.

  Blue rat poked his head next to Theodosia’s, jostling her roughly with his snout. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked. His voice sounded muffled inside his mask.

  Theodosia looked at him tiredly. “Yes. You can take off that stupid rat head and get the EMTs in here fast.”

  • • •

  Two EMTs did come rushing in, bringing along a clattering gurney and a portable respirator. In fact, all activity seemed to kick into hyperdrive. More guests pushed forward and their voices rose to create a wall of sound like the drone of a thousand bees. Two uniformed police officers shoved their way in and stood behind the EMTs, watching as they attempted to resuscitate Beau. Phones began to ring and buzz. A few surreptitious photos were snapped.

  “Okay, everybody move out of the way right now,” a voice called out. “Show’s over. Officer Bowie, Officer Jepson, let’s get cracking here. I want a twenty-foot perimeter set up. Push everybody back, string up some tape, and arrest anyone who doesn’t cooperate.”

  Theodosia glanced up to see who was shouting out orders. And saw rushing toward them a tall, intense-looking man in a flapping raincoat. He looked cool and calm and seemed to possess a no-nonsense attitude. She decided this was good. He was exactly what was needed right now.

  The young man in the raincoat knelt down next to Beau’s body. “Any luck?” he asked one of the EMTs who was working on him. The EMT shook his head slowly. It was clearly over for Beau.

  “Oh no,” Doreen moaned. She popped up from her chair to see what was going on with her husband, basically leaning against Theodosia for support.

  “I’m sorry,” the young man said to Doreen.

  “Who are you?” Doreen asked in a shaky voice.

  “I’m Detective Pete Riley,” the man said. “And you are . . . ?”

  Doreen’s chin quavered. “He’s m-m-my . . .”

  “Your husband?” Riley asked, not unkindly.

  Doreen bobbed her head. She didn’t seem to be tracking particularly well.

  “I’m very sorry,” Riley said again. “But perhaps you and your friend could give me a little space?” He looked directly at Theodosia. “Could you take her . . . somewhere?”

  “Certainly,” Theodosia said. As Riley’s eyes met hers there was a flash of recognition. He knows me? Then she thought, yes, of course. This young detective had come into her tea shop a few months ago with Detective Burt Tidwell, the head of Robbery-Homicide. Though she had no clear recollection that the two of them had ever been properly introduced.

  • • •

  Detective Riley didn’t waste any time. He rounded up the people who’d been seated at Beau Briggs’s table and set about questioning them. Theodosia, burning with curiosity, tried to edge her way back over to where the interrogation was taking place so she could listen to what was going on. Which, basically, was that everyone was coming across as either indignant or uncooperative.

  A big guy by the name of Reggie Huston, who claimed to be Beau Briggs’s business partner, wanted no part of the questioning.

  “Why are you talking to me?” Huston asked in a belligerent tone. “When you should be questioning all these other yahoos.”

  The woman in black leather kept firing her own questions back at Riley. “What are you going to do about this?” she snapped. “What happens next?”

  And a few other people, a tall man in a finely tailored suit, and another couple, seemed rude at best.

  “What’s going on?” Drayton asked. He’d pushed his way through the throng of people who were buzzing about angrily, to be close to Theodosia.

  “The detective in charge just questioned all the people who were seated at the head table,” she told him. “Not that they gave him any substantial information. Now he’s
working his way through the people who were sitting at the nearby tables.”

  “That’s us,” Drayton said, looking nervous. “But we were guests, purely observers. We don’t really know what happened.”

  “But maybe one of those guys does,” Theodosia said. She nodded toward the rat servers who were now lined up against the wall, looking like some kind of perp walk that you’d see on an episode of Law & Order. “You see that young guy on the end?”

  “The one with the spiky hair?” Drayton asked.

  “That’s the one. Doesn’t he look nervous to you? Evasive, almost?”

  “He’s probably just scared,” Drayton said.

  “Scared, yes. But he also looks like he wants to say something. You see how he’s chattering away with the guy next to him?”

  Drayton nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve been watching the two of them,” Theodosia said. “Whenever one of the police officers asked a question, they clammed right up. It struck me as . . . suspicious.”

  Drayton lifted a single eyebrow. “You know, Theo, you have a very active imagination and are slightly suspicious of everyone. You’re always imagining there’s a bogeyman hiding out there in the woods.”

  “Yes,” Theodosia said. “But this time there really could be.”

  • • •

  Some thirty minutes later, it was Theodosia’s turn to be questioned.

  Detective Pete Riley fixed her with an earnest gaze. “I’m told you’re the one person who uttered the word poison. Why did you make that call? How did you know?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Theodosia said. “In fact, I still don’t know. I just made an educated guess.” She noticed that Detective Riley’s eyes were very blue. Cobalt blue. She shook her head, trying to focus. “Was it poison?” she asked. “Was it the tea?”

  “The tea?” Riley shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so. The emergency medical techs tell me that the condition of the victim’s mouth and throat was not consistent with any sort of toxin that the victim might have ingested. But obviously we need to get the crime scene guys out here. And then transport the victim to the lab and run a series of tests.”