by Laura Childs
“It doesn’t appear that he did,” Theodosia said. She twiddled her pen, thinking. “You know, that’s an awful lot of money to have hanging out there.”
“Enough to kill for?” Drayton asked.
“That’s what worries me.”
“What is Angel Oak, anyway? Where did they come from?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Theodosia said. “Let’s call Doreen and see if she knows anything about this.” She reached for her phone and punched in the number. When Doreen was finally on the line, Theo said, “Doreen, I was just going through those financial papers you gave me.”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Doreen said. “You really are a go-getter, just like Drayton said you were.”
Theodosia plunged on ahead. “Doreen, I was wondering if you were familiar with an investment firm by the name of Angel Oak Venture Capital?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Doreen said slowly. Through the phone, Theodosia could hear the rattle of ice cubes in a glass.
“Okay, then, how about a man by the name of Robert Steele?”
Doreen was quiet for a few moments and then she said, “You must be talking about Bob. Bob Steele.”
Theodosia turned toward Drayton and mouthed, “Suddenly she knows him.”
“You met Bob, didn’t you?” Doreen asked. “He was sitting right there at our table. He was one of Beau’s guests.”
“Listen, Doreen, are you aware that Beau invested seven hundred thousand dollars in Robert Steele’s company? In his Angel Oak Venture Capital fund?” There was dead silence on the line, and for a minute Theodosia thought Doreen might have hung up.
Then Doreen’s voice rose in a shrill scream. “Whaaat? What did you say?”
“Are you aware that . . . ?”
“I’m completely stunned!” Doreen gasped out. “Your question . . . that amount of money . . . it literally punched the wind right out of me. How much did you say again? Seven hundred thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“No, that can’t be right.” She did sound breathless. “Please tell me that’s not so.”
“I’ve got the confirmation right here in front of me,” Theodosia said. “It’s in the papers you just gave me.”
“Oh no,” Doreen moaned. “Seven hundred thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money. Isn’t that a lot of money?”
“I would say it’s a great deal of money.” Is she kidding? That’s a huge matzo ball to have hanging out there.
“Do you . . . do you think there’s any way to get it back?”
“I have no idea,” Theodosia said. “But it looks as if Beau was trying to do exactly that. Opt out of this investment fund and get the money returned.”
“From Robert Steele?”
“Yes, from Steele,” Theodosia said. What is her problem? Does she not get this? “From his company, Angel Oak.”
“Please, can you help me?” Doreen asked. Her voice rose in a pleading mewl. “Can you please try and get the money back?”
“Let me think about it,” Theodosia said. An idea had just struck her. If she could somehow recover those funds from Angel Oak, a grateful Doreen might just kick it all over to the Heritage Society. After all, seven hundred grand would goose the Heritage Society along for a good long while.
• • •
Theodosia set down her phone and said to Drayton, “You heard most of that?”
“I heard the part where you said Beau invested seven hundred thousand dollars in Angel Oak.”
“Yup. And Doreen wants to know if we can get it back.”
Drayton looked perplexed. “Can we? Better yet, can you?” He hesitated. “I realize that’s asking a lot of you.”
Theodosia thumbed through the stack of papers again. “Like I said, from the looks of things, Beau’s already tried.” She glanced up at Drayton. “But Angel Oak hasn’t given up a penny.”
“So what are you saying?”
Theodosia leaned back in her chair. She’d just had another thought. “Think about this for a plot twist, Drayton. Maybe Robert Steele killed Beau rather than refund his investment.”
Drayton clutched at his throat. “Dear Lord. Do you suppose that’s what happened? I mean, if Robert Steele was right there at the tea, he certainly could have . . .” Drayton seemed to sag inwardly. Then he worked to compose his thoughts. “Are you going to tell Detective Riley?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Theodosia reached for her teacup and took a sip of tea, trying to gather her thoughts. “You know, there’s another way to look at this, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe Doreen wanted us to paw through her papers and discover this information. Maybe she killed her husband and is trying to shift the blame to Robert Steele.”
“That would mean she has a very devious mind.”
“It would mean Doreen is a sociopath,” Theodosia said.
“Is there some way we could investigate Robert Steele and Angel Oak?” Drayton asked. “To see if they’re on the up-and-up? Maybe this Angel Oak fund is like buying a CD, you have to commit your money for a certain period of time.”
“Maybe so. But I agree that we should take a good hard look at them. Because right now I’m pretty much in the dark. I don’t know if Angel Oak is a hedge fund, a mutual fund, or a private equity group.”
“How would we find that information out?” Drayton asked.
Theodosia scanned the papers in front of her. “I suppose we could call Robert Steele and simply ask him.” She spotted the company’s phone number on a sheet of letterhead and hastily punched it in. When her call was answered, she said, in a very businesslike tone, “I’d like to speak with Robert Steele, please.”
“I’m sorry,” an efficient-sounding receptionist said back, “Mr. Steele is out of the office right now. Are you by any chance calling about his presentation tonight?”
It took Theodosia about one millisecond to make up her mind. “Yes, I am.” She tempered her words to sound friendly. “I know I jotted down the information somewhere, but if you could just run the particulars by me again it would be so helpful.”
“Certainly. My pleasure. Mr. Steele will be at the Lady Goodwood Inn in the Swamp Fox Room tonight. His presentation begins at seven o’clock sharp with coffee and cookies to follow afterward.”
Theodosia hung up the phone and gave Drayton a cryptic smile. “Guess where we’re going tonight?” She’d been planning to drop by the costume rental place, but now this seemed a lot more important.
Drayton looked nervous. “Please don’t tell me we’re going on another dreadful errand.”
“Nothing as gruesome as last night. We’re going to attend a seminar on investing.”
Drayton fingered his bow tie. “Considering the flux that Wall Street’s been going through lately, that sounds even gloomier than picking out caskets.”
• • •
The Lady Goodwood Inn was a historic inn located in Charleston’s French Quarter. It was charming, very old-world, and a favored spot for local businesses to hold meetings, seminars, and presentations.
Tonight, the floral carpeting whispered underfoot as Theodosia and Drayton crossed the dimly lit lobby. The wooden check-in desk, looking like something out of a fine European hotel, dominated one wall, while overstuffed chairs tucked next to large potted plants made for cozy, intimate spots. In fact, guests had already gathered here in small groups, enjoying the inn’s complimentary wine and cheese before they headed out for dinner at local favorites like Poogan’s Porch or the Peninsula Grill.
Theodosia wondered if the Whitleys also offered wine and cheese for their guests at the Scarborough Inn. Probably. Didn’t everyone these days?
“What are we looking for again?” Drayton asked as they turned left and headed down a long corridor.
“The Swamp F
ox Room,” Theodosia told him.
“Ah, in honor of our brave Francis Marion.” Drayton was a history buff and liked nothing more than to recount tales of Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox, and his derring-do during the Revolutionary War. Especially when it involved outsmarting General Cornwallis and his British troops.
“Maybe this room?” Theodosia said. But no, this meeting room was clearly marked as the Plantation Room.
“Here it is,” Drayton said. “And there’s even a sign for Angel Oak.”
They both peered at the cardboard sign that hung to the left of the door. It said ANGEL OAK VENTURE CAPITAL—AT THE LEADING EDGE OF TECHNOLOGY.
“Technology,” Drayton said. “Oh dear. That arena is so foreign to me.”
Theodosia patted his arm as they entered the room. “Don’t worry, Drayton, I promise not to spill the beans about your being a confirmed Luddite.”
They took seats in the back row of chairs in the small meeting room. All in all, Theodosia figured there were about twenty people who’d shown up for the presentation. Not a huge turnout. Then again, maybe there weren’t that many potential tech investors out there.
At exactly seven o’clock, Robert Steele bounded to the front of the room. He was a good-looking man. Tall, hair blow-combed just so, a winning smile, elegantly tailored suit. Theodosia thought Steele looked like a cross between a slick salesman and a televangelist.
There was a spatter of applause from the guests and then Steele’s commanding voice boomed out. “Welcome, welcome. But please hold your applause. Because this presentation is all about you. About how you can profit mightily from the coming tech boom.”
“We’re poised for another tech boom?” Drayton whispered to Theodosia.
“News to me,” she whispered back.
The lights were dimmed and, from somewhere above and behind them, a computer projected multiple colorful images on the white wall directly behind Steele. He waved at one of the images as it flipped past and launched into his pitch.
“Well-seasoned emerging tech stocks are some of the best investments that are out there today,” Steele said. “They offer the perfect mix of overt riskiness as well as hidden strength and potential growth.”
Theodosia leaned back in her chair, somewhat impressed by the multimedia presentation on Angel Oak’s Equity Crowdfunding program, as well as Robert Steele’s slick patois. He was a cajoling cheerleader for what turned out to be a private hedge fund. He doled out just the right amount of technical information and hyped his own tech smarts, dropping his voice to a reverential tone when he talked about return on investment.
Twenty minutes into the presentation, Drayton nudged Theodosia. “What do you think?” he whispered.
“The man is good,” Theodosia whispered back. “He could sell ice to Eskimos. I can see why Beau fell for his pitch.”
“You don’t think Robert Steele has a line on the next hot tech companies?”
Theodosia listened as Steele tried to persuade them to join what he called an elite corps of investors. “Let me put it this way,” she said. “I don’t think we should stick around long enough to grab a prospectus. Or even one of his store-bought cookies.”
13
Gilded Magnolia Spa looked exactly as its name implied. Gilded. The enormous double doors leading into the spa were painted a shimmering gold and covered with raised images of females wearing vaguely Grecian-looking togas. Theodosia figured if the sun struck them just so, the toga ladies would all melt into a friendly tangle.
Inside, the lobby looked like a tropical paradise, with potted magnolias, palm trees, and banana plants circling a sitting area that was composed of gold suede couches and chairs. All this glamour, as if it were the green room for Fort Knox, was sandwiched between a gilded cove ceiling and a plush gold carpet.
Theodosia stepped briskly up to the receptionist desk. “Good morning, I’m Theodosia Browning. Here for a tour?”
“Oh yes,” the receptionist said. She was blond and tanned (practically gilded, too) and achingly youthful. “Cindy Spangler, our client manager, is expecting you.”
Whether some secret button was pushed or not, precisely thirty seconds later, Cindy came bouncing out to greet Theodosia. Blond haired, tall, and sinewy, Cindy wore a crop top, low-slung yoga pants, and trainers. She also looked like she could run ten miles without breaking a sweat, twist herself into a tantric yoga pretzel, and still walk away with the Miss Universe crown.
“I’m Cindy Spangler,” Cindy said, pumping Theodosia’s hand enthusiastically and flashing a dazzling smile. “Manager of client services.”
“Theodosia Browning. Nice to meet you.” At that moment Theodosia made up her mind to dedicate her life to fitness much like this perfect specimen of a woman obviously had. To jog eight miles instead of four, to buy a set of barbells or stretch bands or kettle balls. To give up bread and pasta. To follow whatever magic formula would yield killer abs like Cindy had.
“You’re here to take the tour,” Cindy said. She dropped her voice. “Mrs. Briggs called me yesterday to tell me you’d be by. You know we’re all just heartsick over her husband’s death. He was such a kind and lovely man. We’ve already posted a tribute to him on our website and plan to hold a memorial service tomorrow afternoon. Probably at the Eden Pool.”
“I’m sure Doreen will appreciate your show of solidarity,” Theodosia said.
But Cindy still seemed distressed. “It’s just so weird. I mean, Gilded Magnolia Spa has only been open a little over two months. And Mr. Briggs seemed fairly healthy. He drank blueberry smoothies and worked out and everything.”
“I guess a shot of poison trumps fitness any day,” Theodosia said.
Cindy made a worried face. “Is that true? That’s the rumor going around here, but is it really true?”
“It’s what the police are saying.”
“Wow. So somebody really . . . um . . .”
“Poisoned him,” Theodosia said, filling in the blanks.
“How terrifying,” Cindy said. She had a stricken look on her face, as if a maniac might pop out and offer her a chalice filled with hemlock at any moment.
“But you were going to show me around the spa,” Theodosia said, bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand.
“Of course,” Cindy said. “Right this way.” She led Theodosia down a carpeted hallway. “The spa is basically one part fitness and one part beauty treatments.” They stopped at a door and looked into a large, well-lit studio where a yoga class was taking place, everyone stretching and breathing and looking very Zen. “So we offer yoga, spin classes, Pilates, that sort of thing.”
They continued down the hallway, hooked left, and walked into a small reception area with a fancy French desk and shelves lined with myriad spa products—lotions and potions and candles and creams.
“This is the entrance to our spa treatment area.”
“It’s lovely,” Theodosia said. The walls and carpeting were blush pink with a few pieces of artwork that featured gilded ballerinas.
“We offer hot stone massage, manicures and pedicures, acupuncture, glycolic peels, Botox, and our special twenty-four-karat facials featuring real gold,” Cindy said as they walked along, peeking into a few of the individual treatment rooms. She reached out and grabbed a fluffy towel. “Look, even our towels are embroidered with gold thread.”
“This is all quite magnificent,” Theodosia said. “A girl could spend the entire day here.”
“Some ladies do,” Cindy said.
“So how’s business?” Theodosia asked. After all, that’s what was really on her mind. If the partner, Reggie Huston, was siphoning off money as fast as Opal Anne suspected he was, maybe Cindy had picked up on something.
“Business has been good,” Cindy said. “At least I think it’s good. There was a huge membership flurry when we first opened two months ago, but now it’
s settled down some. But I don’t really deal with marketing and membership fees. And I sure don’t have anything to do with accounts payable or receivable. That’s all handled by our accountants.”
“Who might they be?”
“We use an outside firm called Harrison and Whales. Big Reggie hired them.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. “Big Reggie?”
Cindy gave a sheepish smile. “That’s what we call our co-owner, Reggie Huston. Although maybe he owns the whole thing now? Now that Mr. Briggs is, um . . . gone.”
“Dead,” Theodosia said. After all, Briggs hadn’t just left the building, he had left the living. “But tell me about Big Reggie. Like, why do you call him Big Reggie?”
“Oh . . .” Cindy’s eyes skittered away from her. “It’s just something we dreamed up.”
“I’m supposed to meet with Reggie in a few minutes.”
“Certainly,” Cindy said. “Why don’t we go check in with his office and see if he’s ready for you? It’ll probably be tight, though. Big Reggie’s a very busy man.”
“I’ll just bet he is.”
• • •
Sally, Reggie Huston’s administrative assistant, was in a blind panic. Three phone lines were ringing, her desk was heaped with paper, her eyes carried a haunted look, and her hair looked like she’d just plugged herself into an electric light socket.
“Mr. Huston can only give you a few minutes,” Sally told Theodosia in a tight voice. “He’s working on the grand opening party so he’s extremely busy.”
“So I’ve been told,” Theodosia said. She noted that Sally was a walking advertisement for stress. She decided that the poor girl really should slip down to a treatment room, slap a couple of cucumber slices on her eyelids, and try to chill out for a while. Maybe try chanting or meditation.
Sally knocked on Reggie’s door. “Mr. Huston? Ms. Browning is here to see you.” There was a noncommittal grunt from inside and then Sally, looking even more frightened, backed away from the door and said, “Go right in.”
Big Reggie was sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone when Theodosia walked in. He was wearing white Bermuda shorts, a navy-and-white-striped shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and had his feet up on his credenza. His eyes slid lazily over to Theodosia and then slid back to where they’d been focused on his Tod’s loafers.