by Laura Childs
“Yeah, I know,” Reggie said. “I hear you.” He chuckled softly. “I don’t necessarily sympathize with you, but I know where you’re coming from.” He yawned, opening his mouth wide and impolitely, and then said, “Gotta go. Yeah, business. Talk to you later.” He hung up the phone, swiveled his chair around, and let his feet crash to the floor.
“Hiya,” he said to Theodosia, giving her a lazy smile.
Theodosia, who’d had time to study the framed photos on his desk, as well as the mosaic of photos plastered all over the walls of Reggie’s office, said, “I love your photo display.” She didn’t really, of course. Big Reggie probably had an ego the size of a Russian czar, because he’d hung framed color photos of himself all over the place. Big Reggie standing next to his Porsche 911, on the golf course at Hilton Head, with his arm around a pretty dark-haired woman, playing polo, and posing with the governor of South Carolina.
“My wall of fame,” Big Reggie said.
Wall of shame, Theodosia thought to herself. She noted that none of his photos had anything to do with Gilded Magnolia Spa; they were all vanity shots of Big Reggie. To Theodosia’s eyes, Reggie Huston looked like an all-American hustler with a hint of playboy thrown in for good measure. But what she really wondered about was how Big Reggie got his all-American financing. Did he have family money or was he living off Beau Briggs’s family money?
Big Reggie pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and eyed his Rolex Submariner watch. “I have a squash game in fifteen minutes. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more time.”
“This won’t take long,” Theodosia said. She sat down in the chair facing Big Reggie’s desk and smiled. “As you may or may not know, Doreen Briggs has asked me to look into things for the family. That includes taking a look at Gilded Magnolia Spa.”
Big Reggie frowned. “What are you? Some kind of auditor?”
“Something like that, yes,” Theodosia said. Better to keep him guessing. “Doreen has concerns about the spa’s financial stability.”
“Who are you again?”
“Theodosia Browning.”
“You’re an attorney? Or . . . what? With the state board of health?”
“No. Like I said, I’m looking into things privately.”
Reggie narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, I know you. I’m good with faces and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you before.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps at the rat tea party?”
“That’s it,” Reggie said, pleased with himself. “I knew I’d figure it out eventually.”
Actually, you didn’t, Theodosia thought.
“So exactly what is it you want?” Reggie asked. He was starting to look bored.
Theodosia pitched her voice lower. “The murder of Beau Briggs . . .”
“Tragic,” Reggie said. “A terrible loss.”
“Still, I’m sure everyone here will soldier on.”
“Of course we will. Heck yes.” Reggie eyed her carefully. “You know, the initial report was that Beau choked to death.”
“I guess after toxicology tests the medical examiner saw it differently,” Theodosia said.
Reggie pretended to look interested. “Poison . . . yeah. I heard. Do they know, was it from the tea or something?”
“Not the tea. Apparently there was another method of delivery.”
“So do they know how it got inside him?”
“No,” Theodosia said. “Do you?”
Reggie seemed to uncoil himself like a big cat. He leaned across his desk and said, “Say, what is this? Some kind of setup?”
“Not at all. Like I told you, I’m helping Doreen out.”
Doreen’s name seemed to settle him down. “Doreen. Poor woman. What she must be going through.”
“Concerning Beau’s murder,” Theodosia continued. “I’ve been looking into several different angles.”
Reggie lifted a hand. “Such as?”
“Beau’s financial dealings, for one thing. He didn’t always make smart investments.”
Reggie kept his poker face. “Is that so?”
“Then there’s the matter of the guests who were sitting the closest to Beau just before he died.”
Reggie didn’t say a word.
“And then,” Theodosia said, “there are the servers who worked at the rat tea.”
Reggie looked interested. “You think one of those rat guys could have killed him?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“I thought they were awfully strange,” Reggie said. “Buzzing around our table all the time, wearing those crazy rat heads.” He looked thoughtful. “They were kind of unnerving.” His eyes locked on to hers. “A perfect disguise, yes?”
“Maybe,” Theodosia said.
“Maybe the police didn’t question them as carefully as they should have.” Reggie stood up and kicked his chair back hard. “Maybe it’s good you’re asking questions. Maybe it’s good that somebody from the outside is looking into this.”
• • •
“Now you know why we call him Big Reggie,” Cindy said as she led Theodosia back through the spa. “It’s not just his size, it’s his grandiose manner and zero-to-sixty temper!”
“He did seem a bit on edge,” Theodosia said.
Cindy lowered her voice. “I heard that Reggie was kicked out of the Peninsula Grill once. And that he was, like, disbarred from the Greenvale Polo Club.”
On their way out, Theodosia noticed the gift shop. “What a lovely-looking shop.”
“You want to go in and take a look around?” Cindy asked.
“If it’s part of the fifty-cent tour, why not?”
“If you see something you like,” Cindy said, “we’d be more than happy to give you a member discount.”
“Thank you.” Theodosia looked around at the spa robes, yoga pants, sport bras, special soaps and oils, and workout DVDs. Everything looked upscale and very well curated. She wondered if maybe some healthy, antioxidant teas would go well in here, too. “Who does your buying?” she asked.
“Mr. Briggs was in charge of merchandising,” Cindy said.
“He had very good taste.” A fancy display on the glass counter in front caught Theodosia’s attention. Glam Baby Cosmetics. “This makeup line looks interesting.”
“Oh.” Cindy rolled her eyes. “That display just went in today. First we weren’t going to carry the Glam Baby line and now it looks like we are. I don’t know what changed, but . . . well, I just work here. I’ve got my marching orders and that’s to be super accommodating to all our guests. Which, most of the time, is a genuine pleasure. I don’t deal with vendors and I certainly don’t have the power to say what products are carried in our gift shop.”
“Who does have that power?”
“Well . . . I suppose now it’s Big Reggie,” Cindy said.
“Big Reggie,” Theodosia said. “Who suddenly carries a very big vote.”
• • •
Outside in the parking lot, Theodosia ran smack-dab into Bill Glass.
“What are you doing here?” Glass asked in his trademark blunt manner. He not only looked rumpled, he looked like he was lurking.
“It’s a women’s spa,” Theodosia said. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“Oh . . . yeah. Whatever.”
“The question is, what are you doing here?”
“Taking a few photos for my article,” Glass said. “The one on the Briggs murder.”
“I really wish you’d drop that.”
“No way,” Glass sneered. “Beau Briggs was the mover and shaker behind this fancy spa, so I gotta have a little art on it.” He patted one of the cameras slung around his neck and leaned against a red car.
“You there!” a loud voice boomed. “Get away from my car.”
Theodosia tur
ned to see Big Reggie thundering toward them like an enraged bull. His eyes were focused exclusively on Bill Glass.
“Stop leaning against my Porsche!” Reggie hollered. “If you so much as put a scratch on that factory finish I’ll sue your sorry butt for everything it’s worth. Don’t you know that Amaranth Red Metallic costs a small fortune?”
Bill Glass put a fake, apologetic grin on his face. “Sorry, Mr. Huston. No harm intended.”
“You,” Reggie said, pointing a finger at him. “The photographer?”
Glass held up his camera in one hand and nodded pleasantly. “How about posing for a photo for Shooting Star?”
The idea of being in a photo appealed to Reggie. “Okay,” he relented. “Maybe just a couple of shots. But make me look good, huh? Last time you caught me, I was eating a cracker at some stupid charity event and ended up looking like a blowfish.”
“No problem, Mr. Huston,” Glass said. He threw a surreptitious wink at Theodosia. “I’ll make sure this shot’s a winner.” He raised his camera. “That’s it, move over to the left a little bit so the spa’s directly behind you. That’s right. Perfect.”
Snap.
14
It was midmorning when Theodosia knocked on Doreen’s door. She’d gotten a weird vibe off Reggie Huston and wanted to see if Doreen felt the same way.
“Theodosia,” Doreen exclaimed when she opened the door, dressed in a peppermint-green top and slacks. “What a surprise.”
Is it really, Doreen?
“I just took a tour of Gilded Magnolia Spa,” Theodosia said. “As you suggested. And then had a short meeting with Reggie Huston.”
“Isn’t Reggie a sweetheart?” Doreen asked. Without waiting for a reply, she said, “Come,” and led Theodosia down a long hallway and into a bright and airy sunroom. Interestingly enough, Honey Whitley, her next-door neighbor, was there. “You remember Honey, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Theodosia said. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hello, dear,” Honey said as she stretched languorously on a chaise longue. Honey wore white distressed jeans, a pink designer T-shirt, and sandals. Her toenails were painted the same color pink as her shirt. Maybe she got perks at Gilded Magnolia Spa?
“Can I get you something?” Doreen asked. “Lemonade? Tea?”
Theodosia thought about the dusty box of tea in the pantry and said, “No thanks. I just have a couple of quick questions for you.”
“Don’t mind me, dear,” Honey said, waving a hand.
I don’t mind you right now, Theodosia thought. But I will if you continue to be overly solicitous by calling me dear.
Theodosia took a seat in a wicker chair; Doreen sat down across from her.
“So how was your visit to the spa?” Doreen asked.
“Gilded Magnolia Spa was lovely,” Theodosia said. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions about Reggie Huston.”
“Yes?”
“Will he be taking over the day-to-day running of the spa?”
Doreen’s face crumpled. “That’s . . . I don’t know . . . completely up in the air for now. I don’t think I can make any critical decisions until after the funeral.”
“That’s smart,” Honey said.
Theodosia continued. “Opal Anne mentioned to me that you might want to step in and run the spa.”
“I don’t know about that,” Doreen said, looking a little panicked.
“You’d never be able to juggle that many things,” Honey said. “How on earth would you keep up this great big house, attend to your social obligations, and run a spa?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Doreen said, looking overwhelmed. “It all sounds baffling. Enough to give me a case of the whim-whams.” She leaned closer to Theodosia. “Did you get any further in your inquiry with Robert Steele about the, uh, money?”
“Drayton and I attended Steele’s presentation last night,” Theodosia said.
“Did you ask him for the money?”
“We didn’t quite get around to that. The venue was a little too public.”
Doreen frowned. “But you will get around to it, won’t you?”
“I’m going to try,” Theodosia said. She wondered exactly when “functioning as a collection agency” had been tacked on to her job description.
“Because seven hundred thousand dollars is a princely sum of money,” Doreen said.
“Seven hundred thousand?” Honey exclaimed. “My Lord, that’s a small fortune!”
Before Theodosia was able to figure out if Doreen had spilled the beans to Honey about Beau’s bad investments, she heard a hubbub of voices just outside the sunroom. Seconds later, Opal Anne and Charles appeared.
Once everyone had exchanged polite hellos, a tearful Doreen grabbed Opal Anne’s hand and said, “Well? Tell me.”
“All the arrangements have been finalized,” Opal Anne said. “We went to Gruenwald Brothers and confirmed the details.”
“And then we stopped by the church,” Charles added.
“The music?” Doreen asked in a whisper.
“That’s all been taken care of,” Opal Anne said.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Doreen blubbered, gazing at Theodosia and then at Honey. “You see how it’s simply too traumatic for me to handle Beau’s final arrangements? Thank heavens that Opal Anne and Charles are doing it for me.”
“So kind,” Honey murmured.
“Now I just have to stumble through the funeral,” Doreen said, sniffling. She shook her head as if to clear it, pulled a Kleenex from her pocket. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“You’ll do fine,” Opal Anne said. She threw a hopeful gaze at Theodosia. “You have news for us?”
“Mostly she just had questions,” Doreen said. “Although Theodosia’s made some decent progress, I must say.”
“I didn’t realize you were a private investigator,” Honey said in a tone that sounded almost hostile.
“I’m not,” Theodosia said. “I’m just looking into a few things for Doreen.”
“And the police aren’t?” Honey said.
“Theodosia’s practically working with them,” Opal Anne said, rushing to her defense. “And she’s been doing a wonderful job.”
“After you talk to Robert Steele,” Doreen said, “what’s next on your agenda?”
“For one thing,” Theodosia said, “I want to look into the rat costumes.”
“Rat costumes?” Honey said with a touch of scorn. “I can’t imagine they’d lead anywhere.”
“I’m actually trying to get a bead on one of the servers,” Theodosia said.
Doreen blinked at her. “Which one? And why?”
“There’s one particular young man I’d like to speak with again,” Theodosia said. “I exchanged a few words with him last Saturday but . . .”
Opal Anne jumped in again. “But back then Theodosia hadn’t been enlisted to play detective yet. Had you, Theo?”
Theodosia smiled as she rose to her feet. “Not yet. But now things have changed.”
“And thank goodness you’re here to help,” Opal Anne said.
Honey waved a hand dismissively at Theodosia. “Good luck with your rats,” she said with a barely suppressed giggle.
• • •
Theodosia rushed in the back door of the Indigo Tea Shop, dropped her bag on her desk, snatched up an apron, and sprinted for the front of the shop.
“Honey, I’m home,” she called out in a joking manner.
But she was also worried that Drayton might be overwhelmed with handling their morning’s tea service and getting ready for their Madame Pompadour Tea luncheon.
Haley leaned out of the kitchen and caught her as she ran by. “Hey, Theo. Do you want to know what we’re serving for lunch today?”
Theodosia skidded to a stop. �
��Absolutely, I do.”
“I tried to come up with a French-inspired menu. In honor of . . . you know . . .”
“Madame de Pompadour.”
“Anyway,” Haley said, “we’ll start with rose petal scones . . .”
“Wait a minute. With real rose petals?”
“Duh.” Haley put her hands on her hips. “Of course.”
“Wow.”
“Then we’ll move on to a small plate that includes three mini sandwiches. Brie cheese and fig spread on brioche, duck mousse pâté on French bread, and ham with Dijon mustard on a mini croissant.”
“My kind of grazer’s lunch,” Theodosia said. “What’s for dessert?”
“What else?” Haley said. “Macarons and pain au chocolat.”
“This is all very fabulous and French. Have you shared this menu with Drayton?”
“Oh, totally. I printed out mini menus on fancy purple-and-gold paper for all our guests. And I gave one to him.”
“Always a step ahead, aren’t you, Haley?”
“Better than a step behind.”
“And we’re all set for the funeral luncheon tomorrow?” Theodosia asked. “No problems?”
Haley nodded. “The menu suggestions you gave me are easy peasy. And I already called Miss Dimple to see if she can come in tomorrow and help serve.”
“Drayton and I shouldn’t be gone more than a couple of hours. I’m sure the two of you can handle things just fine.”
“I know we can.”
“Theodosia,” came Drayton’s voice. “Is that you?”
“Oh my, it’s the master’s voice,” Haley said. “Tea master, anyway.”
“Scuse me,” Theodosia said as he darted into the tea room. “Yes, I’m back,” she said to Drayton. “Sorry to be so late.”
“Thank goodness you’re finally here,” Drayton said with a sigh. “I’ve been working like a one-armed paperhanger all morning.”
Theodosia looked around the tea room. Half the tables were occupied and everyone seemed content. The fragrant aromas of Assam, Nilgiri, and jasmine hung in the air, along with the quiet hum of conversation. The tea room looked perfectly copacetic. “You’ve been busy?”