Pekoe Most Poison

by Laura Childs

  “And an autopsy,” Theodosia said. “You’ll need to do an autopsy.” She stopped, drew a breath, and said, “Because we’re looking at . . .”

  Riley finished the sentence for her. “Murder. Yes, I’m afraid that’s right.”

  “Murder!” Doreen suddenly screamed from where she was standing ten feet away. Her eyes crossed as she stumbled backward and pretty much collapsed into the arms of the man standing next to her.

  3

  It was an impromptu Sunday brunch held on Drayton’s back patio. He’d called Theodosia at nine o’clock Sunday morning and invited her over. By eleven o’clock they were enjoying cream scones along with one of his famous mushroom and Brie cheese omelets. Earl Grey, Theodosia’s long-limbed dog (what she’d come to think of as a Dalbrador, since he looked a bit Dalmatian and a little bit Labrador), and Honey Bee, Drayton’s King Charles spaniel, lay at their feet, enjoying the sun, ever hopeful for shared tidbits.

  Drayton’s patio was modest at best, with gray flagstones and overflowing pots of pink bougainvillea. But the rest of his backyard was a veritable jungle. Tall thickets of bamboo, beds of furry green moss, and large twisted Taihu rocks served as the perfect backdrop for Drayton’s enormous collection of Japanese bonsai trees. There were windswept trees that had been tamed and twisted into shape, elegantly pruned junipers and oaks, and even miniature bonsai forests that had been painstakingly trained to grow, and even flourish, in small, flat containers.

  As Theodosia knew it would, their conversation turned to Beau’s bizarre death yesterday afternoon.

  “I’ve reversed my opinion,” Drayton said as he sliced his cream scone in half and dabbed on a puff of Devonshire cream. “You do need to get involved. Poor Doreen is simply frantic with worry.”

  “I don’t think my involvement is one bit necessary,” Theodosia responded. “I have the distinct feeling that Detective Pete Riley is quite capable of handling this. Or certainly his boss, Detective Tidwell.” She took another bite of omelet. It was delicious. Drayton prided himself on using locally sourced, cage-free eggs, claiming they were superior in taste.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I’m surprised Tidwell himself didn’t show up last night. This is the kind of wacky, pseudocelebrity type of murder that he dines out on.”

  Theodosia had a somewhat storied history in dealing with Detective Tidwell. She’d been present at a crazy smash-and-grab robbery at Heart’s Desire late last year where Tidwell had been the investigating officer. They managed to figure a few things out together, and he was also a frequent drop-in visitor at the Indigo Tea Shop.

  “I wondered about Tidwell’s involvement myself,” Drayton said. “Which is why I asked one of the uniformed officers about him yesterday. It turns out that Detective Tidwell is in absentia.”

  “Where’s he run off to?”

  “He’s currently attending some sort of homeland security seminar in New York City. So the Briggs case has landed squarely in Detective Riley’s hands.”

  “Good,” Theodosia said with approval. “Because Detective Riley struck me as being a fairly smart cookie. I’m sure he’ll be able to handle this . . . this mess.”

  Drayton tilted his head at Theodosia and his furry brows raised up a few millimeters. He was giving her vexed. Or maybe it was indignant. Either way, Drayton had a way of making Theodosia feel as if she’d committed some horrible faux pas. Like she’d sliced her scone improperly or held up her pinky finger whilst sipping tea.

  “It’s not working,” Theodosia said finally.

  Drayton gazed across his teacup at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about the look you’re giving me. I know that look. It means you want something. That you’re trying to lob a ball squarely into my court. Even though I have no idea what you want.”

  “When you put it that way . . .”

  “Hmm?”

  “I was thinking that perhaps you could talk to Doreen,” Drayton said. “I know she’d welcome your concern and sympathy.”

  “That’s what you want?” Theodosia asked. “For me to talk to her? And do what . . . lend a sympathetic ear?”

  “Well.” Drayton’s teacup made a delicate clink as he set it down in the saucer. The distinctive ring of fine bone china. “Perhaps you could listen to her as well.”

  Theodosia knew something was brewing and it wasn’t just another pot of oolong tea. “And what would I be listening for?”

  “When I spoke with Doreen this morning . . . Excuse me, let me rephrase my words. When Doreen woke me up at the crack of dawn, babbling hysterically, she asked if I knew anyone who could help her.”

  “Help her,” Theodosia repeated. “And, please don’t let this be the case, but you immediately thought of me?”

  “Yes, I did,” Drayton said. “And don’t sound so surprised. Isn’t it obvious that the poor woman needs someone to serve as a savvy advocate?”

  “What exactly do you want me to advocate?” Theodosia really was playing hard to get.

  “I think you have a fairly good idea,” Drayton said. And now his words and manner had taken on a stiff, almost formal tone. “You know how resourceful you are, how very perceptive you can be. Especially in light of yesterday’s . . . dare we call it . . . murder?”

  “I think you could definitely venture out on a limb and call it murder,” Theodosia said. “Because I don’t think Beau Briggs choked to death on a piece of Juicy Fruit gum.”

  “No, he did not. In fact, you voiced a not-so-subtle hint about that yesterday.”

  “When I said that Beau might have been poisoned?”

  “Precisely,” Drayton said. “You see how intuitive you are? How your hypothesis was spot-on?”

  Theodosia leaned forward in her chair and eyed Drayton warily. “Are you asking me to go on the offensive and help solve Beau Briggs’s murder?”

  Drayton lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Don’t act so surprised. It’s not like you haven’t done this before.” When Theodosia let out a deep sigh, he said, “You’re very good at this, Theo. You are spookily clever when it comes to ferreting out clues and making smart, logical deductions.”

  “I still don’t know why you’re so fired up to have me involved. May I remind you, you’re the one who’s always warning me not to get involved in any kind of murder, disaster, or crazy scheme. You’re the autocrat of good sense.”

  “This time there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Drayton hesitated. “It’s really difficult to say.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to explain yourself,” Theodosia said. “Because you’re acting very mysterious and it’s starting to worry me.”

  Drayton touched a hand to his bow tie. “There’s a quid pro quo involved.”

  “And that would mean . . . what, exactly?” Theodosia couldn’t quite fathom what Drayton was talking about. Why was he talking in circles when he was usually direct to the point of being blunt?

  “As you know, Doreen Briggs is thinking about awarding a rather sizable grant to the Heritage Society,” Drayton said. “She’s in the middle of what you might call the decision process.” The Heritage Society, a sort of hybrid museum–historical society, was Drayton’s baby. He sat on its board of directors, and Timothy Neville, the organization’s octogenarian director, was one of his oldest and dearest friends.

  “You mentioned that grant to me a couple of days ago,” Theodosia said. “But I imagine that Beau’s untimely death might certainly delay Doreen’s decision.”

  “That’s not exactly right,” Drayton said. “Now circumstances have conspired to make it all a tad more complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “Doreen was very impressed with your cool head and quick thinking in yesterday’s impossible situation.”

  “That’s nice.
I was happy to help, even though there was no earthly chance of reviving her poor husband.” Theodosia took a sip of tea. “Now, what else? Tell me why you’re dancing around as if you’re just learning the tango.”

  Drayton grimaced. “Doreen made it quite clear to me this morning that if you and I didn’t assist her in a sort of . . . well, let’s call it a private investigation, then . . .”

  “Wait a minute.” The reason for Drayton’s nervousness suddenly clicked into place for Theodosia. “Are you telling me that if we don’t help Doreen, she won’t come through with your grant?”

  “I’m afraid that’s it in a nutshell.”

  “She’s holding a grant over your head?” Theodosia said. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” Drayton was so embarrassed he did everything but hang his head.

  “Then I’d say Doreen is being horrid and petty. In fact, I’m pretty sure an attorney would categorize her request as plain old extortion.”

  “Could we just call it arm-twisting and be done with it?” Drayton said. “That doesn’t sound quite so illegal or threatening.”

  “Blackmail,” Theodosia spit out. She reached for a second scone and then decided against it. Her brain was spinning and the extra sugar wouldn’t do her any good at all. “I take it this grant is important to the Heritage Society?”

  “I would deem it highly necessary for continued sustainability.”

  “You want to give that to me in English?” Theodosia asked. Drayton’s speech sometimes went from formal to florid.

  “Yes . . . well,” he said. “You know how the stock market has pogoed up and down the past couple of years? And how interest rates have been at an all-time low?”

  “Tell me about it. My 401(k) is gasping for breath.”

  “Obviously this rather dire financial situation has affected everyone,” Drayton said.

  He was clearly uneasy talking about money, so Theodosia decided she’d better jump in and pull the rest of the story out of him.

  “You’re telling me that the people who have been the Heritage Society’s loyal supporters, your contributors and benefactors, aren’t getting a decent return on their investments like they have in the past,” Theodosia said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And so their charitable giving has dropped off. They’re not writing the large checks anymore.”

  “They’re not.” Drayton paused. “Some of them aren’t writing any checks at all.”

  Theodosia leaned back in her chair and gazed at the two dogs who were lying on the patio, still patiently waiting for crumbs to drop. She took a scone, broke off two pieces, and gave them their goodies. Both dogs swallowed once—gunk—like hungry crocodiles that didn’t bother to chew. “Your situation does sound serious,” she continued. “So I take it the Heritage Society is desperate for Doreen’s infusion of cash?”

  “I’m afraid we are.”

  “Oh my,” Theodosia said. She knew she was being subtly shanghaied. Still, a part of her wanted to resist. Who was Doreen Briggs to make Drayton jump through hoops? To make her jump through hoops? “I’m not sure what I can do,” she said finally.

  “The truth of the matter is, you may not be able to do much of anything to help Doreen,” Drayton said. “But at least you could give it a shot.”

  “And if we investigate Beau’s death privately, if we unlock a few clues, Doreen may repay our good efforts by writing a check?”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “It’s an absurd proposition on her part,” Theodosia murmured. She wanted to rail against the idea of being coerced, but hated the idea of letting Drayton down. He was one of her best friends, after all. She sighed deeply. “I suppose if I just . . .”

  Drayton gazed at her expectantly. “Yes? Was that a yes?”

  Theodosia set down her teacup. This was one of the strangest requests she’d ever received. And to have the future of the Heritage Society riding on her investigational smarts was ridiculous. Preposterous even. On the other hand . . . she’d been right smack-dab in the middle of things when Beau had given up the ghost. She had a nodding acquaintance with the detective in charge. And, truth be told, she was . . . let’s just say, sublimely curious.

  Theodosia stared across the table at Drayton, who seemed to be waiting on pins and needles.

  “When did you tell Doreen we’d drop by?” she asked.

  Drayton consulted his watch, an antique Piaget that perpetually ran five minutes late. “Twelve o’clock,” he said. “We can just make it if we hurry.”

  4

  Theodosia didn’t much like the idea of being strong-armed. On the flip side of the coin, she had to admit she was keenly interested in Beau Briggs’s murder. It wasn’t every day that some poor rich dude dropped dead right before your very eyes. Correction, make that right in front of at least fifty pairs of eyes. And even though all those people had been witnesses, the murder weapon, motive, and killer hadn’t been one bit obvious.

  Which made this case interesting, bordering on . . . well, tantalizing.

  “Excuse me,” said a police officer who was stationed at the front door of Doreen Briggs’s ginormous home. “I’m afraid that Mrs. Briggs is not accepting visitors right now.”

  “We’re not visitors,” Drayton said. “We’re friends. Doreen is expecting us.”

  The officer, whose name tag read PARNELL, consulted a list and said, “Steele?”

  “No,” Drayton said.

  “Huston?”

  “Let me look at that list,” Drayton said. He pointed to his name. “There. Drayton Conneley. That’s us.”

  Parnell looked relieved. “Okay, then.”

  “Excuse me,” Theodosia said. “Why exactly are you stationed at the front door?”

  Officer Parnell smiled. “I’m here to make the family feel safer. Mrs. Briggs is worried there might be an attempt made on her life, too.”

  “Of course,” Theodosia said. She threw Drayton a look that clearly said, Doreen Briggs is one crazy lady.

  • • •

  Doreen was sitting in a purple velvet chair in an overheated library that was stuffed to the rafters with leather-bound books. Looking morose, she was sniffing into a white lace hankie while sipping amber liquid from a heavy cut glass tumbler. She had on a black silk dress, enormous diamond earrings, and her hair looked like a basket of curly fries. Perched in matching straight chairs opposite her were two people who looked to be in their early twenties, a young man and a young woman. Theodosia figured they must be Doreen’s children.

  “Drayton,” Doreen exclaimed when they walked into the room. She didn’t get up, but extended an arm, like a deposed queen receiving visitors. “Thank you for coming.”

  Drayton leaned forward and patted her hand. “Of course, dear lady. How are you holding up?”

  “Terrible.” Ice cubes rattled in Doreen’s glass as she took a sip of amber liquid. Then she focused a wan smile on Theodosia. “And, Theodosia. I had a conversation with Drayton this morning and he shared so much about you. Not just what a clever tea entrepreneur you are. But how smart and intuitive you are.” Doreen tapped the side of her head with an index finger. “How you have a sixth sense at reading people, at understanding human nature.”

  “Sometimes I can,” Theodosia hedged.

  “As you might imagine, I am in desperate need of your help,” Doreen said. “I’ve talked to the police until I’m blue in the face and all they do is take notes, nod their collective heads, and blather on about an investigation. But I don’t believe they have a single idea as to where to start looking.” Her voice rose. “I don’t believe they’ve even started looking.”

  “Started looking for what exactly?” Theodosia asked. She wanted to be crystal clear about Doreen’s expectations.

  “For Beau’s killer, of course!”

  “You’re sure that your hus
band was, in fact, murdered?”

  Doreen’s eyes bulged. “What else could it be? You yourself said he was poisoned.”

  “I said it looked like poison. But I’m not a doctor or a medical examiner. Lab tests need to be done . . .”

  “They’ve been done,” Doreen screeched. “I received word from Detective Riley this morning. It turns out you were spot-on with your assertion. My poor Beau was poisoned!”

  “Mother,” said the young man. “Please don’t get overly excited. It’s not good for your heart.”

  “You’re getting yourself all worked up,” the young woman warned.

  Doreen waved a hand dismissively. “Drayton, Theodosia, this is my son, Charles, and Beau’s stepdaughter, Opal Anne. They’ve been a great comfort to me in my time of need.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Charles said. He was dark haired, slim, and seemed preternaturally quiet. Then again, Doreen probably never let him get a word in edgewise.

  “And so has . . .” Doreen looked around with slightly bleary eyes. “Where on earth did Starla run off to now?”

  “You asked her to get some more ice cubes,” Opal Anne said. She was young and pretty with brown doe eyes. Theodosia figured she was probably just a year or two out of college.

  “Oh, right,” Doreen mumbled.

  “Starla is a family member as well?” Theodosia asked politely.

  “These days I certainly feel like I am.” A woman with short, dark, spiky hair, and a hard expression on her narrow face was staring directly at them. She held a silver ice bucket in bony, fidgeting hands. Theodosia recognized her as the skinny woman who’d worn the leather dress at yesterday’s rat tea. Today she wore a tight black sweater and a matching pencil skirt.

  Doreen waggled her fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Starla. Thank you.”