Pekoe Most Poison

by Laura Childs

  “Detective Riley told me what happened to that poor waiter last night,” Doreen said in a harsh, gurgling voice. Then her face pulled into a feral snarl. “There’s a madman on the loose.” Her eyes practically rolled back in her head. “Not one of us is safe!” Sniffling loudly, she pinched Drayton’s arm harder as she clung to him.

  Theodosia grabbed Drayton’s other arm. Engaging in a sort of tug-of-war, she finally emerged victorious, pulling him free of Doreen’s grasp.

  “I need to speak to both of you later,” Doreen rasped as they backed away.

  “Bull hockey,” Theodosia said as she and Drayton slid into one of the church pews. “Beau Briggs didn’t look one bit peaceful. If anything he looked angry.”

  “Because he was murdered?” Drayton said. “Do you think somewhere at the cellular level he knew that someone did him in?”

  “That sounds awfully metaphysical. Or maybe supernatural. But still, wouldn’t you be angry if someone poisoned you?”

  “I’d be positively livid.”

  Theodosia leaned closer to Drayton. “You know, Drayton, Doreen seems to have gone off the deep end.”

  “You think?”

  “That business about none of us being safe. That’s just not true.”

  “What about Marcus Covey?” Drayton asked. “You still think somebody murdered him, don’t you?”

  “Well . . . yes. But that’s different.”

  “How so?”

  Theodosia thought for a minute. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to figure it out.”

  The organ began to play again. Soft notes wafted above them and resonated off the church’s stone walls. Theodosia and Drayton watched carefully as more people came in and sat down. Then, interestingly enough, Big Reggie marched up the center aisle and took a seat right near the front. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a casual light-blue sports jacket, looking like he might be anxious to get out of there as soon as possible and maybe squeeze in a round of golf.

  Then, as even more people hurried in to be seated, Robert Steele and Honey and Michael Whitley pushed their way up the aisle.

  “The gang’s all here,” Theodosia whispered.

  The organist was getting serious. “You’ll Never Walk Alone” rang out, thundering mightily like it was the end of days. Something was about to happen.

  Theodosia turned in her seat and saw Frank Gruenwald nudging the casket up the center aisle on some kind of metal conveyance. Behind him walked Doreen Briggs, Opal Anne, and Charles, heads bowed, all of them dressed in black and carrying a single white rose. Starla Crane followed in their wake, wearing a tight black dress and a large black hat, glancing to and fro at the mourners who were seated. When the whole cortege reached the front of the church, Doreen, Opal Anne, and Charles took their places in the very front pew. Starla continued to buzz around, whispering in Gruenwald’s ear, making sure he seesawed the casket just right, so that it rested horizontally to the altar. When that arrangement was finally to her liking, she waved her hand impatiently, and Gruenwald scurried to grab several large sprays of flowers and place them atop the casket.

  Drayton watched Starla for a few minutes and then frowned. “Why is she here?”

  Theodosia glanced sideways at him. “Billable hours?”

  “Seriously?”

  “She could be racking up a small fortune. A hotshot PR firm probably bills out at a good two hundred dollars an hour.”

  “Is Starla Crane a hotshot?”

  “I doubt it. But I think she’d like everyone to believe she is.”

  “So she’s taking advantage of Doreen.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “And maybe trying to drum up some more business in the process?”

  “Maybe,” Theodosia said. “Or maybe Starla’s been keeping up a constant stream of chatter and activity so nobody takes a careful look at her.”

  Drayton drew back, his eyes going wide. “You think Starla could have poisoned Beau?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody did.” Theodosia picked up a hymnal and flipped through a few pages, then set it down again. She glanced around the church and noticed that Detective Pete Riley was sitting in a pew some ten rows behind them. He looked tired, like he’d been up all night. And maybe he had.

  “The thing is,” Theodosia said, resuming her train of thought, “Starla seems to have Doreen’s ear. I mean, just look around. Starla not only art-directed this funeral, she convinced the media to show up. If she can do that, what else is she capable of?”

  “If Starla’s a suspect in Beau’s death, if she’s a potential poisoner, then how do you explain Marcus Covey’s death?” Drayton asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe Starla thought Covey knew something. I sure thought he did. So I suppose she could have . . . lured him.”

  “Lured him to his death?”

  “If Starla pointed a loaded gun at Covey, she could have gotten a noose around his neck and engineered his hanging.”

  “That would be cold-blooded murder at its absolute worst,” Drayton said. He touched a hand to his polka-dot bow tie, as if to reassure himself. “Do you think Starla owns a gun?”

  “I don’t know, but I certainly wouldn’t want to find out the hard way.”

  Just as Drayton was about to respond, the minister came flying out to take his place at a small podium. He looked a little breathless, as if he were late to the party. But he delivered what seemed to be a heartfelt welcoming tribute. And, after a few minutes, it all settled down into a fairly routine funeral.

  Prayers were offered, music rang out, Doreen sobbed right on cue.

  There were two testimonials, one by Opal Anne that was quiet and moving. Another by Doreen’s neighbor Michael Whitley that felt a little disjointed and closed with him quoting a few verses of poetry.

  “They had a neighbor give a testimonial?” Drayton whispered.

  “Better than having Big Reggie do it,” Theodosia whispered back.

  There was one final song—the organist belted out a sedate version of “Amazing Grace”—and then Beau’s funeral was over. The procession reversed itself and Beau Briggs’s casket was pushed down the aisle, with Doreen, Starla, Opal Anne, Reggie Huston, Robert Steele, and Honey and Michael Whitley trailing right behind it.

  Outside, standing on the steps of the church, Theodosia looked around for Detective Riley, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Instead, she saw Bill Glass elbowing his way through the mourners, poking his camera in people’s faces and snapping pictures every few seconds.

  “Glass,” she muttered. Still, if he could manage to shake something loose that would be good, wouldn’t it?

  Starla Crane seemed to be everywhere, buzzing around like a queen bee, talking to the media, offering solace to Doreen. When she caught sight of Theodosia and Drayton, she turned her head away quickly.

  Doreen was a different story.

  When Doreen spotted Theodosia and Drayton she made her way over to them and said, without preamble, “The police aren’t any closer to catching this crazed killer. If you two come up with anything, and I mean any useful information at all, I’ll double the size of that grant!”

  “My heavens,” Drayton said, looking surprised.

  “I mean it,” Doreen said. She put a hankie to her mouth and gave a muffled sob.

  “Please don’t get so upset, Momma,” Charles said. He was standing beside Doreen, trying to calm her.

  “I’ll get as upset as I want,” Doreen cried.

  “Come on, people,” Opal Anne said, sounding a little tired. “We’ve got to keep moving. We still have to attend the short service at the cemetery and then get back home for our luncheon.”

  “Come on, Momma,” Charles said. “Please?”

  “And for goodness’ sake,” Opal Anne whispered to both of them, “let’s try not to make a scene in front of the came
ras.”

  “Whatever,” Doreen said as she toddled away, clinging tightly to Charles’s arm.

  Theodosia and Drayton stood in the middle of the crowd of mourners, watching them climb into a long black limousine.

  “Well,” Drayton said finally, “Doreen’s offer was fairly shocking. But with double the amount of money on the line, we dare not poop out now.”

  “I agree,” Theodosia said. “Unfortunately, we’re not making that much forward progress.”

  “You’ve been on the right track . . .”

  “But always a step behind,” Theodosia said. “Now it’s time to try and get a jump on this thing.”

  Drayton glanced at his watch. “Let’s discuss this later. For now we have to swing by the Indigo Tea Shop and pick up the food for the buffet. Then we need to head over to Doreen’s house and get everything set up.”

  But as they were hurrying to her Jeep, Theodosia recognized a familiar face. “Just a minute, Drayton.” She stepped across the street, holding up a hand to give a wave. “Excuse me, excuse me . . .”

  The woman Theodosia was waving to stopped and turned. She was dressed to the nines in a bright-yellow sundress and matching floppy hat. Her sandals were raffia and she carried an oversized straw bag.

  “You’re Jemma Lee, am I right?” Theodosia asked as she hurried to greet the young woman. “Of Glam Baby Cosmetics?”

  Jemma Lee smiled broadly. “That’s right.” Though she was jumping the gun on the season, she looked like the perfect Southern belle. Until she opened her mouth. Then she sounded as if she’d just emigrated from Ukraine. Or hopped off a freighter from Minsk.

  “I’m Theodosia. I’m a friend of Doreen Briggs.”

  Jemma pulled her face into a sad smile. “Wasn’t it awful about her husband?”

  “Terrible,” Theodosia said. “But I’m guessing you’re fairly familiar with the circumstances. You’re Reggie Huston’s friend, am I right?”

  “That’s right,” Jemma said.

  “I saw your photo in Reggie’s office.”

  “My sweet boyfriend,” Jemma said with a smile.

  “I’m guessing by your accent that your given name probably isn’t really Jemma?” Theodosia asked, smiling.

  Jemma dimpled prettily. “My name is Svetlana Radovitch,” she said in heavily accented Russian, “but nobody here can pronounce. Besides . . .” She shrugged. “Name must fit in with . . .” This time she gestured with both hands, indicating all the Charleston folks who were still clustered around, talking in honeyed tones. “Fit with South,” she finally spit out. “And work with new makeup product.”

  Theodosia was sizing Jemma up and decided to take a chance. “Reggie is quite a character, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes,” Jemma said. “Big Reggie is a very important man.” She pronounced it beeg, sounding a little bit gangster, a little bit Russian. “He give me my big chance.”

  “Let me guess,” Theodosia said. “Reggie helped finance your makeup line?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And then Reggie paved the way for your line to be featured in Gilded Magnolia Spa’s gift shop?”

  Jemma clapped a hand to her chest. “My big break.”

  Theodosia smiled. “Reggie really is quite the charmer.” He’s quite the manipulator, too.

  Jemma leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Generous, too. Pays for my apartment.”

  “Of course he does,” Theodosia cooed. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “Theodosia!” Drayton called to her from across the street. He tapped a finger against the face of his watch. “We have to get going.”

  “One minute,” Theodosia called back. She was wondering how she could question this girl some more when her brain suddenly spit out a crazy impromptu idea. “You know, Jemma, I’d love it if you came to my Candlelight Tea tomorrow night. At my tea shop.”

  “You own tea shop?”

  “It’s the Indigo Tea Shop over on Church Street.”

  “You’re a lady bigshot,” Jemma said with admiration.

  Theodosia smiled. “Not quite.”

  “I’d like very much to come.”

  “And be sure to bring your boyfriend, too. Bring Big Reggie.”

  “You call him Big Reggie, too?”

  “Sure. Everybody at Gilded Magnolia Spa does.”

  “And you really want us to come?”

  “By all means,” Theodosia said. “The more the merrier.”

  • • •

  Theodosia was quiet as she drove to the Indigo Tea Shop to pick up the food. While Drayton chattered away about the funeral, all she could think about was Detective Riley telling her about the poison. What she thought of now as scratch ’n’ sniff poison. And about how it was sometimes employed as a Russian mob technique. She wondered if Jemma, née Svetlana, was somehow connected to the Russian mob.

  Or was Jemma just a hopeful immigrant who’d escaped the nasty Putin regime and was trying hard to build a better life with Reggie Huston?

  Good question.

  18

  “Do you know what that snake Big Reggie was doing all the while poor Beau Briggs was in the back room of Gruenwald Brothers Funeral Home being cosmetically enhanced for his big moment?” Theodosia asked heatedly.

  “No,” Drayton said. “But from the tone of your voice it must have been something ghastly.”

  They were fussing about in Doreen’s kitchen, unpacking the scones and tea sandwiches, heating up the quiche, getting ready to set out a buffet luncheon on the dining room table.

  “Big Reggie was out canoodling,” Theodosia said. “With his Russian tootsie.”

  Drayton’s brows angled up. “A tootsie?”

  “You know what I mean, his girlfriend.” She whipped the plastic wrap off a bowl of fruit salad and crumpled the plastic into a ball. “The one I was telling you about on the way over here.”

  “I get that, yes,” Drayton said. “It’s not like I exist under a rock. You were grumbling plenty about Big Reggie’s girlfriend. The Russian lady. But what’s the big deal? The man is single, isn’t he? He’s allowed.” Drayton filled three copper teakettles with water and set them on the stove to heat.

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story,” Theodosia said. “Besides introducing his girlfriend’s cosmetic line into Gilded Magnolia Spa, it turns out that Reggie also financed the whole project. Manufacturing, marketing, the whole enchilada.”

  “Using his own money?”

  “If he’s embezzling from Gilded Magnolia Spa, I would imagine it would be more like using Doreen Briggs’s money.”

  “I suppose so,” Drayton said slowly.

  “There’s more,” Theodosia said. “Big Reggie is paying the freight on the girlfriend’s apartment.”

  “Holy butter beans,” Drayton said. “Is it possible that Big Reggie did kill Beau? That he was broke and desperately needed the money?”

  “Reggie certainly had every opportunity during the rat tea. He was right there, seated at the head table the whole time.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “That’s because I don’t have a definitive answer,” Theodosia said. “I don’t know if Reggie killed him.”

  “You sound pretty angry,” Drayton said. “So I’m guessing you have some kind of hunch about Reggie.”

  “I do and I don’t.” Theodosia grabbed a basket of scones. “Reggie might have been feeling desperate, worried that Beau was about to tumble to his conniving ways. So Reggie could have plotted and carried out the whole sordid murder.”

  “Do you think Reggie also killed Marcus Covey?”

  “That’s the tricky part. It feels like Beau Briggs’s death and Covey’s death are related. That the same guy killed them both. But I don’t know how to put it all together. All I can surmise is that
somebody out there, maybe even a person we’ve been rubbing elbows with, is a double murderer.”

  “Just maybe not Reggie?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know.”

  “Still, there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,” Drayton said.

  “But rotten doesn’t necessarily mean dead,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton jacked up the heat on the burners. “Only that it’s beginning to smell.”

  They got busy then, setting out plates, silverware, and napkins. Making sure the food they’d brought along was arranged just so. Scones in baskets, tea sandwiches set out on three-tiered trays, quiche cut in easy-to-grab wedges. Drayton hunted around, found some tall pink tapers and brass candlesticks, and placed them on the table. By the time Doreen’s guests began arriving for lunch, the dining room glowed with warmth and the buffet luncheon looked like a carefully styled photograph from a fancy tea magazine.

  • • •

  “Everything looks beautiful,” Doreen said to Theodosia as they watched guests file through the buffet line. “Not just the food, but the table setting, too. Are those my candles or did you bring them along?”

  “Drayton pulled them out of the cupboard. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve used them in ages.”

  “You seem to be feeling somewhat better,” Theodosia said. It was true, Doreen had pulled herself together and was a lot less weepy. She’d also tossed on a shiny black bugle bead jacket over her dress. Now, instead of sad Doreen, she was glitzy Doreen.

  Doreen waved a hand. “Oh, you know . . . I’m trying.” She blinked several times, wiped at her eyes, and said, “Didn’t Starla do a wonderful job this morning?”

  “She certainly demonstrated her ability at pulling in the press.”

  “Yes, I was very pleased.”

  Theodosia glanced around. “I’m surprised Starla’s not here.” Since the two of you have been joined at the hip lately.

  “Oh, she had some pressing business over at the spa.” Doreen pushed an errant curl out of her face. “You know our big grand opening party happens this Saturday night.”

  “That’s right.” Theodosia was surprised that Doreen hadn’t canceled or at least delayed the party. Then again, it wasn’t her call to make. Maybe there were too many plans in place, too many vendors to notify. Maybe . . . the show must go on?