Pekoe Most Poison

by Laura Childs

  “We just ran into a PR person out in your lobby,” Theodosia began. “Starla Crane of . . .”

  “The Image Factory,” Timothy said. “Yes, Miss Crane was just here, making a pitch to our marketing people. I sat in for a short while.”

  “Please tell me you’re not going to hire her,” Theodosia said.

  Timothy’s expression remained benign. “The young woman’s not your cup of tea?”

  “She’s rude and abrasive,” Theodosia said. “Other than that, she may be very good at what she does.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” Timothy said. “A sandpaper personality would definitely not play well with our rather genteel members and donors.”

  Theodosia was about to say more when she suddenly realized that Starla could have been sent here covertly on a fact-finding mission. Could Doreen be relying on Starla’s advice to help her allocate grant money? Had Starla been doing due diligence on the Heritage Society? She fervently hoped not. Should she say something to Timothy? She decided that she almost had to.

  “You know,” Theodosia said, “Starla Crane has been doing a good deal of PR work for Doreen Briggs.”

  Timothy looked at her sharply. “Is that right?”

  “Which means,” Theodosia continued, “that Starla could have been sent here as a kind of scout.”

  Timothy’s brows pinched together. “You mean Starla Crane might possibly hold sway over Doreen Briggs’s decision to award us a grant?”

  “It’s possible,” Theodosia said. She felt kind of sick telling Timothy all this. But there was more to reveal. A lot more.

  “As you know, Drayton and I have been counting on receiving a rather large grant from Doreen Briggs,” Timothy said. “If that doesn’t come through, our goose could be cooked.”

  “There’s a problem,” Drayton said. He set his tin of tea down on Timothy’s desk.

  “I can see that,” Timothy said.

  “No,” Drayton said. “I mean there’s an even bigger problem. Tell him, Theo.”

  Theodosia drew a deep breath. “The Charleston police are looking at Doreen as a possible suspect in her husband’s death.” There. It was out in the open now. Spit out like a hunk of bad-tasting meat.

  Timothy registered shock all the way down to his silk socks. “What!” He hunched forward in his chair. “Doreen Briggs is a suspect? How is that even possible?”

  “It just is possible,” Theodosia said. “Doreen was right there when her husband was poisoned. She could have even been the one who slipped it to him.”

  “It’s possible, but not probable,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia shook her head. “We don’t know that, Drayton. We haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  “Gotten that far,” Timothy repeated. “You two are looking into her husband’s death?”

  “Somewhat,” Drayton hedged.

  “Yes, we are,” Theodosia said. “And I hate to say this, but Doreen has been making us jump through hoops every step of the way. In fact, she’s been dangling your grant over our heads. If we find the killer, you get the grant.”

  “Oh no,” Timothy said slowly. “She’s using our grant as a carrot.”

  “But we only get our carrot if Doreen isn’t the killer,” Drayton said.

  Timothy shook his head and pulled his lips into an icy smile. “Because Doreen would find it rather difficult to write a check sitting in a cozy little cell at Leath Correctional.”

  Drayton lifted a hand. “When you put it that way . . .”

  “We’ve got to put her on the back burner, then, and consider other sources of funding,” Timothy said. “Some sort of stopgap until I can either rally our donors or our numbers people can fumble their way through this up-and-down stock market.”

  “Things are that bad?” Drayton asked.

  “We’re going to need an act of God to keep this place open,” Timothy said.

  “Is the Heritage Society running at a deficit?” Theodosia asked.

  “Not right now we’re not,” Timothy said. “But we will be shortly. The problem is, and I know Drayton has gone over some of this with you, our investments are flat as a pancake. So are our donations.” Timothy rapped a knuckle against his desk and cocked his head at Theodosia and Drayton. “So I’m wondering what we can do.”

  “Perhaps another fund-raiser?” Drayton said.

  Timothy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’ve done innumerable fund-raisers and we’ve done them to death. Orchid Lights, Crystal Ball, seasonal galas, garden parties ad nauseam.” Now he focused his gaze directly on Theodosia. “What we need is some fresh thinking. Something that’s outside the box, perhaps even outside our comfort zone.” He bent his head forward and massaged the sides of his head with the tips of his fingers. “I’ve been thinking about this—worrying about this nonstop—and I haven’t come up with a single idea.”

  Theodosia was silent for a few moments, thinking about Timothy’s predicament. Then she said, “I can think of only one thing at the moment. But it might be a bit unorthodox . . .”

  Timothy lifted his head. “Try me. I’m open to any and all suggestions at this point.”

  Theodosia took a deep breath. “Have you ever thought about deacquisitioning some of your art and antiquities?”

  Timothy looked at her sharply. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t believe we’re that open to suggestion,” Drayton said hastily. “Selling off pieces is definitely outside our comfort zone.”

  “Hear me out,” Theodosia said. “There are a lot of top museums that deacquisition pieces on a fairly regular basis. I mean, if the Met in New York or the de Young in San Francisco can sell off a couple dozen pieces a year, why can’t the Heritage Society?”

  “Selling off some of our inventory never occurred to me,” Timothy said.

  But Drayton still looked upset. “I hate to think of all our valuable pieces marching out the door.”

  “Then don’t sell the really valuable pieces,” Theodosia reasoned. “You must have duplicates of some things. I know you have paintings and antique furniture that have been in storage so long the donors have long since forgotten about them. In some cases the donors are even deceased.”

  “That’s true,” Timothy said. “Many of our donated pieces date back to the middle eighteen hundreds.”

  “There you go,” Theodosia said. “Get your curators to go through the collection with a fine-tooth comb. Keep the good stuff, weed out the pieces that aren’t all that relevant to your mission today, or are second rate, or just don’t fit with your collection anymore.”

  “And sell it where?” Drayton asked in an arch tone. “On eBay?”

  “Send it to Sotheby’s in New York,” Theodosia said. “Or Bonhams or 1stdibs or wherever. But, for goodness’ sake, don’t apologize for the fact that you’re deacquisitioning. Make a big deal of it, like it’s the smart, forward-thinking thing to do.”

  “That’s a very skillful PR attitude,” Timothy said. “And certainly not a bad idea at all.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, furrowing his brow as if in deep thought. “In fact, it’s a very interesting idea.”

  Theodosia smiled. When Timothy said something was interesting, that was high praise indeed. It meant he was probably in.

  One of Timothy’s gnarled hands reached out and tapped the top of the tea tin. “What is this you brought me?”

  “It’s Keemun Hao Ya,” Drayton said. “Very rich and full-bodied.”

  “Excellent,” Timothy said. “Yes, this should all work quite nicely.”

  Theodosia smiled. She knew he wasn’t talking about the tea.

  • • •

  “Are you up for one more errand?” Theodosia asked as they climbed into her Jeep.

  Drayton glanced at his watch. “I suppose. What did you have in mind?”

 
“I think we should visit that costume supply company,” she said as they pulled away from the curb.

  “Did you ever find the name for it?” He pulled the seat belt across and fastened it.

  Theodosia nodded. “I sure did. It’s Big Top Costumes over on Fulton Street.”

  “Do you really think this will prove worthwhile?” Drayton asked as they drove along.

  “It’s a long shot. But you never know. Mostly I’m trying to get a bead on that one particular server.”

  “And you think the costume shop can help? I thought you said the costumes were just sent over to Crispin’s Catering.”

  “They were,” Theodosia said. “So this really is a long shot.”

  • • •

  It was a long shot in more ways than one. Because Mort Ruskin, the owner of Big Top Costumes, was reluctant to offer much in the way of assistance.

  “If you could just answer a couple of questions about the rat costumes,” Theodosia said.

  Mort rolled his eyes. “Those darned things.” Mort had a hangdog face, rounded shoulders, and slumped so badly he resembled a truculent teenager. He wore a rumpled white shirt and brown slacks; his shirt hung open at the neck and his too-wide necktie hung down practically to his knees.

  “I’m guessing you already know what took place at Doreen Briggs’s rat tea,” Drayton said.

  “Heard about it, yeah,” Mort said. “Read about it in the newspaper, too. Terrible thing. Don’t blame it on the costumes, though. Or my company. Not my fault, not my fault.” He shook his head vigorously and threw up both arms in a manner that was reminiscent of Richard Nixon giving his “I’m not a crook!” speech.

  “So the white rat costumes are here?” Theodosia said.

  “They’re not really costumes per se,” Mort said. “The jackets and pants are from our Napoleonic collection. Lots of call for that, lots of folks here with Frenchie ancestors.”

  “And the rat heads?” Theodosia asked.

  “The rat heads come from our Nutcracker collection,” Mort said. “You know, those ballet-dancing rats?” He gave a dry chuckle that turned into a wheeze. “Anyway, we just put the two elements together for that so-called rat tea. Hah! Look where it got us.”

  “Look where it got Beau Briggs,” Drayton said.

  “We’re interested in . . .” Theodosia began.

  But before the words had escaped her mouth, Mort shook his head and said, “No, no, no. I’m not gonna let that stuff go out of here again.”

  “Why not?” Drayton asked.

  Mort seemed to fish around for a reasonable answer. “Uh . . . for one thing, those costumes need to be dry-cleaned.”

  “Listen,” Theodosia said hurriedly, “we just need one quick favor. We only want to check the costumes, okay? Not wear them. Something might have been left in one of the . . . um . . . pockets.”

  Mort scrunched up his face. “Who are you people with again?”

  With an absolute straight face, Drayton said, “Crispin’s Catering.”

  Mort seemed to relax some. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Okay, yeah. I guess you could look at them. But that’s all.” Seemingly relieved to be done with them, he waved an arm. “Go through that door, it’s the rack on your left. Eight costumes. And don’t think I haven’t counted them.”

  • • •

  The back room of Big Top Costumes was a melting pot of Halloween, circus, animal, World War II, and princess party costumes, along with every opera or Broadway play that had ever been cast, staged, and produced. Costumes were flung on tables, hung on racks, and even suspended from rods in the ceiling. The scent of mustiness, mothballs, and dry cleaning fluid permeated the air.

  “This is awful,” Drayton said. “Like a way station for old costumes. A purgatory of sorts.”

  “Don’t think about it, Drayton,” Theodosia said, quickly locating the rack they were looking for. “Here are the rat costumes right here. The jackets and stuff.” She wasted no time in sifting through them. “And look at this, there are pockets.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Not yet.” Theodosia started digging through the jacket pockets like mad.

  Drayton stared at the rat heads that were lined up on a shelf directly above the costume rack. “Does this look strange to you? All these heads, I mean?”

  “This whole thing has been one strange litany,” Theodosia said. She was on her fourth costume, patting the jacket, digging in the pockets of the pants, trying not to sneeze as the aroma of mothballs tickled her nose. “Come on, Drayton, give me a hand. Before that guy Mort comes back and kicks us out of here.”

  Drayton got busy then, working shoulder to shoulder with Theodosia. “This dry cleaning fluid is killing my sinuses.”

  “I hear you—it’s awful,” she said.

  “I’m . . .” Drayton sneezed so abruptly it sounded like an explosion. “Excuse me.” He pulled out a hankie and swiped at his eyes and nose.

  “Hey there,” Theodosia said, excitement tingeing her voice. “I think I might have found something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure.” Theodosia pulled a crumpled slip of paper from one of the pockets. “Let’s take a look.”

  “What is it? Looks like a fortune cookie message.”

  “No, I think it’s something else.” She unfolded the paper and studied it.

  “Let me see,” Drayton said. “Wait, you’d better read it to me, my eyes are watering.”

  “It says ‘Port City Bistro.’ And there’s a time stamp on it.”

  “Port City is a fairly tony restaurant over on Market Street,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia rubbed the paper between her fingers. “I think this is a parking receipt.”

  “Maybe one of the rats works there?”

  “Let’s go find out,” Theodosia said. “Let’s pay him a visit.”

  16

  By the time they pulled up in front of the restaurant it was full-on dark. A trendy neon sign with chase lights spelled out PORT CITY BISTRO; more lights glowed in the windows. Two young men in matching red jackets with gold trim looked bored out of their minds as they stood in front of a stand that said VALET PARKING $5.

  Inside Port City Bistro, the dining room was elegant and dimly lit. It wasn’t exactly a fig and fern bar, more like the next generation’s iteration of upscale orchids and candles. White linen tablecloths covered the tables, nautical photos and paraphernalia hung on whitewashed walls, a central fireplace, low and square in its modernity, flames dancing, lent a cheery air. A few early bird couples occupied tables while most of the real action seemed concentrated in the bar just off to their left.

  It was still a little early for dinner, Theodosia decided. And it would seem that most of Port City’s customers were assembled in the bar—folks who’d fled their work cubicles for the day and dropped in for a quick cocktail. Or maybe not so quick.

  “You see anyone you recognize?” Drayton asked. “From the rat tea?”

  “Not yet,” Theodosia said. “But I’ve only seen one of the waitstaff so far and it’s a woman.”

  “I’ll go check the bar.”

  “Good thinking,” Theodosia said.

  Just as Drayton headed off to the bar, a waiter emerged from a swinging door at the rear of the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” Theodosia said, holding up a hand. Then her heart began to beat a little faster. This wasn’t the young man they were looking for, but she was pretty sure she recognized this waiter. He was the pink rat who’d escorted them to their table. He was in his late thirties or early forties with a long face, bushy eyebrows, and a pompadour hairdo that hearkened back to the fifties.

  “The hostess will be right with you, ma’am,” the waiter called to her.

  Theodosia crooked a finger at him. “Actually, it’s you I need a word with.”<
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  “Who, me?” The waiter came closer, clearly puzzled. The name tag on his black jacket said PERRY.

  “You were one of the waiters who worked at the rat tea last Saturday, weren’t you?” Theodosia asked

  A look of worry seeped across Perry’s face. “If you’re with the cops, I already told you I’m not your guy. I’m no killer, okay? Go bother somebody else.”

  “I’m not with the cops. I’m a friend of Doreen’s.”

  “Who’s Doreen?” Perry asked.

  “She’s the woman who hosted the rat tea. The one whose husband was poisoned.” Theodosia had seen this man Perry before. And not just at the rat tea. Maybe working in another restaurant?

  “Listen, you’re still barking up the wrong tree,” Perry said. “I already talked to the cops. I’m sorry but I don’t know anything about poison. I’ve worked in the hospitality industry for over fifteen years and I’ve never even seen a case of food poisoning.”

  “Wait a minute,” Theodosia said. “I know you. You used to work at Solstice, right?”

  “That’s right,” Perry said. “And now I’m working here and I really like it.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I want to keep this job, okay? Please don’t make trouble for me.”

  “I only have a quick question,” Theodosia said.

  “About . . . ?”

  “The young guy who was working the rat tea along with you. The blond guy with the spiky hair. When the police had all you guys lined up on Saturday, he looked like he knew something but was holding back.”

  “You’re talking about Marcus?”

  “Marcus?” Theodosia said, pouncing on his words. “That’s his name?”

  “Yeah,” Perry said. “Marcus Covey. I’ve worked with him a couple times through Crispin’s Catering. He always seemed like an okay kid. But now that you mention it, he did seem a little shaky last Saturday.” Perry looked around to make sure the hostess or his boss wasn’t about to holler at him. “But you could chalk it up to that poor guy dropping dead. You don’t see nasty stuff like that every day.”

  “Do you know where Marcus lives?” Theodosia asked as she noticed Drayton heading right toward her. She held up a finger to stop him.