Dragonwell Dead Laura Childs

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DRAGONWELL DEAD

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This book is dedicated to Tickle Bee.

A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

Many thanks to Sam, Samantha, Bob, and Jennie. And to the many booksellers and tea shops who have not only carried my mysteries but recommended them. This whole crazy process—writing, marketing, selling—is so very much a contact sport.

Theodosia Browning stared at the fluttering green wall in front of her and frowned. She’d taken what she thought was the correct turn and still hit a dead end!

Biting her lower lip, Theodosia pushed back a swirl of thick auburn hair and considered the English hedge maze that surrounded her. It certainly hadn’t looked difficult when she and Drayton had wandered in on a lark some twenty minutes earlier. Yet here she was, confounded by this twelve-foot-high ivy maze that twisted and turned in all directions and held them unwilling captives on the grounds of Carthage Place Plantation.

Birds twittered overhead, an insect droned in her ear.

And Theodosia could distinctly hear the laughter of guests floating above her. Pushing up the sleeves of her cream-colored cashmere sweater, Theodosia’s broad, intelligent face, with its peaches-and-cream complexion and intense 2

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blue eyes, settled into a perplexed yet slightly bemused look. Here she was, stuck in a puzzle maze when hundreds of guests wandered about freely so very close by.

“Any luck?” asked Drayton as he came panting up behind her. Drayton, who was sixtyish and dapper, had tagged along with Theodosia today, happy to partake in the annual Plantation Ramble out here on Ashley River Road. This was the spring weekend when a half dozen privately owned plantations threw open their doors to the public and invited local church and civic groups onto their grounds to host teas, flower shows, and rare plant auctions. This was also the weekend the camellias, jasmine, magnolias, and almost every other species of South Carolina flora and fauna were in full and glorious bloom.

“Another wrong turn,” Theodosia told Drayton. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” said Drayton, tilting his patrician gray head back to survey their leafy prison. “I thought it would be child’s play to wander through this old labyrinth.” He paused, as though pondering his words. “Obviously I was wrong.”

“What time is the rare plant auction?” Theodosia asked him.

“Three o’clock sharp,” said Drayton. He glanced at the ancient Patek Philippe that graced his wrist and grimaced.

“Which means I have barely ten minutes to figure out some sort of escape route. If I miss a chance to bid on a Cockleshell Orchid or even a Machu Picchu, I’ll never forgive myself!”

“I got you into this,” said Theodosia, trying to keep her game face on. “So I’m going to get you out.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” asked Drayton, curiosity evident in his voice. After all, he hadn’t figured a way out either.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

Theodosia lifted her chin and let the warm afternoon sun caress her face. “We’re going to follow the basic tenets of any seasoned explorer,” she told Drayton.

“Which is?” he asked, cocking his head sideways.

“Navigate by the sun.”

“Ahh . . .” said Drayton.

“And,” said Theodosia, holding up an index finger, “I propose we use your watch as a compass.”

“Like they did in Civil War times!” said Drayton excitedly. “Well, aren’t you the clever one.” He pushed up his shirtsleeve, anxious to give Theodosia’s suggestion a try.

“Since we know the sun is in the southwestern quadrant of the sky, we’ll say southwest is somewhere between eleven and twelve.” Drayton made a couple mumbled calculations.

“So west is at one o’clock . . .”

“And east is at seven,” finished Theodosia.

Drayton’s face split into an eager grin. “I should have figured this out myself.”

Two dozen twists and turns later, they came upon a black wrought-iron grate set into the green turf.

“We passed this before,” said Theodosia.

“Indeed we did,” agreed Drayton. “I remember hearing the faint sound of running water.”

Theodosia leaned forward and peered down into the grate, but could see only darkness. “Must be an old well or cistern,” she mused as a low gurgling echoed in her ears.

“There used to be thousands of acres of rice fields around here,” said Drayton as they stepped around the grate. “With a very complicated series of rice dikes. So this is probably part of the old drainage system. After all, the Ashley River is just a mile or so over.”

“Had to be part of it,” said Theodosia. Back in the mid-4

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dle 1800s this entire area had served as the world’s leading producer of rice. Fine Carolina gold, as it was called, was sent out on clipper ships to countries all across the globe.

They rounded the next turn and stopped in their tracks.

“Well, I’ll be,” exclaimed Drayton, a slow smile spreading across his lined face.

“Success,” breathed Theodosia.

Not quite ten feet away was the entrance—or, in this case, exit—to the maze. A wrought-iron arch looped above a most welcome six-foot-wide gap in the hedge of ivy. The ornate scrollwork of the arch made it a companion piece, almost, to the grate they had inspected earlier.

“Good work,” Drayton told Theodosia, as he consulted his watch a final time. “And we made it with two minutes to spare.”

“Better hurry,” Theodosia urged as Drayton hustled off.

Just down the hill she saw that a large wooden stage had been erected specifically for this event. And crowds of eager bidders were jostling about, surveying plant-covered tables even as they jockeyed for a position on the semicircle of folding chairs that spread out around the stage.

“Where on earth did you run off to?” demanded the imperious voice of Delaine Dish. Attired in a flouncy white eyelet dress and large straw hat, Delaine stood poised behind a whitewashed tea stand that was festively strung with white twinkle lights and floral garlands.

“Long story,” Theodosia told her friend tiredly as she slipped into the booth.

“Here,” said Delaine, holding out a tall, frosty glass garnished with a fresh sprig of mint. “Your tea is quite excel-D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

lent, but we’re woefully short on pitchers.” Consternation showed in Delaine’s violet eyes and on her flawless heart-shaped face.

Theodosia accepted the glass of sweet tea and took a sip.

It was excellent, of course. Drayton, as master tea blender and clever visionary of all things tea at the Indigo Tea Shop, had invented this sweet tea recipe on the spur of the moment. In this particular instance, Drayton had combined delicately flavored Dragonwell green tea from China’s Chekiang Province with fresh-squeezed lemon juice and locally grown honey. And each glass served today was ac-cented with the customer’s choice of fresh mint leaves, sprigs of lemon balm, or small stems of edible flowers.

“So you’ve been busy?” asked Theodosia. Probably, she decided, Delaine had been kept hopping. The day was warm, the event well attended, and sweet tea was always a major crowd pleaser.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Delaine sighed dramatically. “I could really use another pair of hands here. And these dinky little pitchers and teapots . . .” She indicated the teapots that sat on the counter, then made a most unbe-coming face. “I have to keep filling them up.”

“I brought the largest ones we had,” Theodosia told her.

As proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop in Charleston’s historic district, Theodosia was used to scooting around her tea room with an elegant bone china teapot clutched in each hand. Perfect, of course, for refilling customers’ dainty cups, but probably not so suitable for the Plantation Ramble where everyone was hot and thirsty and expected a tall, cold glass of tea.

“While you and Drayton have been wandering through these lovely gardens,” sniffed Delaine, “I’ve been working 6

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my fingers to the bone.” She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers as if to confirm her statement. “I’ve been pretty much stuck here when all I really want to do is visit the build-your-own-bouquet stand before all the prettiest flowers are snapped up.”

“Sorry,” said Theodosia, even though she wasn’t all that sorry. Earlier today, she and Drayton had given up several hours of their time to help set up this tea stand as a favor to the Broad Street Garden Club. Delaine, as vice president of that club, had decreed that the club maintain a “formidable presence” at today’s Plantation Ramble. Of course, Delaine had also volunteered Theodosia and Drayton to prepare the gallons of iced tea, known throughout the Southern states as sweet tea.

Now, the members of the Broad Street Garden Club were nowhere to be found and Delaine was upset that the task of manning the booth had fallen to her.

Delaine’s unhappiness suddenly morphed into sweetness and light as two customers approached the booth, eager for tall glasses of sweet tea. “Sweet tea?” she asked pleasantly.

“And how about a lovely garnish of edible violets?” She turned toward Theodosia with a proprietary flourish. “Do we have more flowers and herbs?”

“Sure thing,” said Theodosia, popping the lid off a plastic container and fishing out a tangle of greenery.

“There you go,” said Delaine, as she sent her customers on their way, then gazed off, studying her surroundings.

“Isn’t Carthage Place Plantation an absolute wonder?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you just adore living out here?”

“It is beautiful,” admitted Theodosia. Even though she loved this lush, wooded country, she herself lived in a cozy upstairs apartment over her tea shop on Church Street, D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

smack-dab in the middle of historic Charleston. With her dog, Earl Grey, as roommate.

Seemingly in a good mood now, Delaine continued to rhapsodize. “Besides the spectacular old plantation house and that adorable English maze, there’s also a rose garden, water bog, and english garden. Really, this place is just too Old World and gracious for words!”

Theodosia’s eyes traveled about the plantation grounds.

They were, as Delaine said, quite lovely and gracious.

Spread out from an enormous Georgian-style home with hipped roof and elegant columns was the undulating green of impeccably manicured grounds broken up by numerous flower beds, gardens, and fountains. And today, of course, dozens of food tents and flower stands as well. Past the main house and a half dozen wooden outbuildings, a hardwood forest rose up to form a dramatic backdrop.

“Well, look who’s here!” cried Delaine. Grabbing a pair of white gloves that were lying nearby, she quickly pulled them on and waved vigorously. “Hello, Bobby Wayne!” she called delightedly, then cocked her head and did everything but flutter her eyelashes.

“Hey, sweetie!” Bobby Wayne Loveday, round of both face and form, looking natty in a cream-colored summer suit, gave a hearty wave back at her.

“Theo, darling,” said Delaine, grabbing for Bobby Wayne’s arm and reeling him in possessively. “Do you know Bobby Wayne Loveday? He’s the senior partner at Loveday and Luxor. You know, Charleston’s most prestigious commodity firm?”

“Of course, I know Bobby Wayne,” said Theodosia, favoring him with a warm smile. “We catered a tea awhile back for one of your retiring partners.”

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“Wonderful to see you again,” said Bobby Wayne. A friendly grin lit his broad face as he put an arm around Theodosia’s shoulder and gave her a quick squeeze.

“And here’s Angie and Mark Congdon, too,” squealed Delaine. “Talk about old home week.” Delaine’s tinkling laughter filled the air. “Isn’t this great fun?”

“Actually,” explained Bobby Wayne, “I talked them into driving out with us. Mark works at our firm now,” he said as an aside to Theodosia. “Has for some time.”

“I heard Mark was back in the commodities business,”

replied Theodosia. “Well, you certainly couldn’t find a better, more qualified man.”

“Please,” said a slightly embarrassed Mark.

“Our firm wholeheartedly agrees,” said Bobby Wayne.

“We believe that Mark will soon become one of our top-producing brokers.”

Mark and his wife, Angie Congdon, had both worked as commodity brokers in Chicago several years ago. But they’d given up those careers and moved to Charleston to run the Featherbed House Bed & Breakfast, just blocks away from Theodosia’s tea shop. A few months ago, however, Mark had gotten the itch to jump back into the business. So now Angie was managing the Featherbed House with the help of a new assistant.

“What on earth have you got there?” asked Delaine, gazing at a sparkling object clutched in Angie’s hand.

“Oh,” said Angie, “we just picked these up at the Graph-icus Art Booth. There’s a bunch of artists there who are hand-painting stemware in all sorts of fun designs.” She held her glass up. “See? I got daisies. And, look, Mark got one with a purple orchid and Bobby Wayne chose a golden D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

leopard pattern. All the proceeds go to support children’s art programs,” Angie added.

“What a terrific idea,” commented Theodosia. “And they’re painting stemware right there? At the booth?”

“Using some new kind of acrylic magic markers,” said Angie.

“Wish we could get that kind of teamwork going here,”

commented Delaine.

Angie suddenly picked up on Delaine’s unhappiness.

“Do you want me to help out?” she asked. “Because I sure will.” Besides being a dynamo, Angie was wonderful with people. With her perpetually smiling face and dark hair cut into a no-nonsense bob, she was always ready to jump in and tackle any task.

“Well, maybe,” allowed Delaine. “If it gets real busy.”

“I think most folks are over at the auction right now,”

said Mark, glancing about.

“Then let’s all of us go over and watch,” urged Delaine, turning her focus back to Bobby Wayne. “Besides, Bobby Wayne, you promised to bid on one of those fancy orchids for me.”

“A rare flower for my sweet flower,” said Bobby Wayne, setting his glass down and putting a hand to Delaine’s cheek.

“We’re going to leave the stand unattended?” asked Theodosia. Could we do that? Should we do that? she wondered. And why am I always the one to worry about this kind of stuff?

Delaine pulled her lips into a pout. “Is there a problem?

Honestly, I’ve been slogging away at this booth for almost half an hour. I really need a break.” She glanced at Angie and Mark. “Just leave your stuff here and let’s go.” She 10

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caught Theodosia’s eye and raised her eyebrows in a questioning gesture. “Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Theodosia. This wasn’t her stand after all.

She’d just helped nail it together and donated the sweet tea.

And if they left it for a half hour or so it wasn’t going to just walk away. “Let’s go watch the auction. But I’m positive it’s already started.”

“Oh, it has,” said Bobby Wayne. “I can hear the auctioneer’s chatter over the loudspeakers.”

“Might not be any seats left,” said Theodosia when they got close to the auction stage. The bidding was in full swing and the auctioneer, a tall, lanky man in a pristine white suit, was stirring up the crowd that was seated on folding chairs and benches, as well as all the people who milled about clutching their bidding numbers.

“Look, Drayton’s waving at us,” said Angie. “I think he might have saved a couple places.”

“You ladies go up front with Drayton,” urged Mark Congdon. “I want to get a closer look at the orchids on display.

I’ve been wanting to get my hands on a few more for my collection and this could be my chance.”

“Hurry up,” called Drayton as he motioned Theodosia, Delaine, and Angie to come forward and grab a seat.

“How’s it going?” asked Theodosia, sliding in next to him.

“I’ve already bought a Dracula bella and a Debutante, one of the Odontonia hybrids. Don’t really need the little beauties, but they’re always a delight to have.”

“Typical orchid fanatic,” Angie said with a laugh.

“Mark’s the same way. Always on the lookout for the next exotic flower.”

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“I take it he’s got quite a collection?” asked Delaine.

“Let’s just say there are more than fifty.” Angie laughed again.

“Oh, good heavens,” said Drayton, dropping his voice in awe. “Do you see what’s coming up next?”

“What?” asked Delaine, squinting at the stage. “What?”

“A monkey-face orchid,” said Drayton. “Technically a Platanthera integrilabia.”

“That’s rare?” asked Theodosia. She knew nothing about orchids except that she enjoyed looking at them.

“Extremely rare,” replied Drayton. He was jittery now, waiting for the auctioneer in the white suit to start the bidding again.

“This will go high?” asked Delaine, sounding slightly bored.

“Let’s hope not,” said Drayton, fidgeting in his seat. “Oh, how I’d love to get this one and enter it in next Saturday’s Orchid Lights show. If I repotted the monkey-face in my Chinese oxblood pot, there might be a chance to earn a blue ribbon!”

The auctioneer’s assistant placed the elegant monkey-face orchid on the podium for all to see. Instantly a buzz ran through the crowd. These were South Carolina plant lovers and they knew their stuff.

“We shall start the bidding at two hundred,” announced the auctioneer.

“Dollars?” asked a stunned Delaine.

Drayton’s bidding number shot up.

“Do I have two-fifty?” asked the auctioneer, imperiously surveying the crowd.

Five rows back another sign was raised.

“Three hundred?” asked the auctioneer. His sharp, dart-12

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ing eyes surveyed the crowd. “It’s got best of show written all over it.”

Drayton hesitated for a mere moment, then his sign went up again. “See,” he whispered to Theodosia. “Best of show.”

An intense murmuring rose in the audience. This was a very rare plant and the bidding was likely to become increasingly heated.

“Do I have three-fifty?” asked the auctioneer. His sharp eyes sought out the bidders at the back of the crowd, then he bobbed his head, pleased. He obviously had three-fifty.

Both Theodosia and Angie swiveled in their seats to see who else was bidding.

“Oh, good heavens,” whispered Angie. “Mark’s bidding against Drayton.”

Theodosia nudged Drayton with her elbow. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Mark’s bidding, too.”

“Are you serious?” said Drayton. “Mark is? Well, then . . .”

He hesitated for a moment, then set his sign down in his lap.

“That settles it,” he said, pursing his lips. “I don’t want to bid against Mark. Let him have the orchid.”

“Do I hear four hundred?” asked the auctioneer, a sly, encouraging note in his voice.

There was a pause, then the auctioneer gave a brisk nod.

“Yes, indeed, I have four hundred.”

“Someone else is bidding,” whispered Theodosia.

“Who?” asked Drayton.

Now Theodosia and Drayton both swiveled in their seats to see if they could determine who was bidding against Mark Congdon.

“Rats,” muttered Drayton, catching sight of the other bidder who’d entered the fray. “It’s Harlan Noble.”

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“The rare-book dealer?” asked Theodosia.

“The very one,” said Drayton. “Let’s hope Mark brought his checkbook.”

But in the end, it turned out that Mark Congdon was high bidder. With a rather breathtaking final bid of nine hundred dollars.

“Hmm,” said Delaine, as they all rose at the break.

“That’s a big pile of money for such a dinky little flower.”

“But well worth it,” Drayton assured her.

“I thought for sure you’d hang in there, Drayton,” said a flat voice at his elbow.

“Mr. Noble,” said Drayton, turning to look at the man who’d just spoken to him. “One could say the same about you.”

“Unfortunately not,” said Harlan Noble. And this time he sounded upset.

“I didn’t realize you were an orchid hobbyist,” said Theodosia, looking at the tall, dark-eyed, slightly beak-nosed man. She only knew Harlan Noble enough to say a distantly polite hello to him. He was a member of the Heritage Society and he might have come into the Indigo Tea Shop a year or so ago, but that was it. All she really knew about him was he owned a rare-book shop over on King Street and he specialized in Southern writers and Civil War literature.

“Orchids aren’t just a hobby,” said Harlan Noble, seeming to spit out his words in anger. “Like ship models or mum-mified butterflies. Orchids happen to be my absolute passion!” And with that he bolted off into the crowd.

“Well,” said a slightly stunned Angie, “I guess it’s no secret how Mr. Noble feels. I just hope he’s not too put out with Mark.”

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“Somehow,” said Theodosia, “I get the feeling Harlan Noble’s more than a little put out.”

Mark Congdon, on the other hand, was beaming from ear to ear.

“Look at this,” he crowed, holding up his orchid for everyone to see. “An actual monkey-face orchid. You could spend years paddling through the swamps and bogs of South Carolina and never stumble across one of these babies.”

“It’s really that rare?” asked Delaine, looking askance at the pure-white helmet-shaped orchid with delicate lip petals. “Look at Mark’s plant,” she told Bobby Wayne as he rejoined her. “Hopefully, he’ll be able to keep it going.”

“Mark’s a whiz at orchid cultivation,” Angie assured everyone. “I once watched him bring a half dozen pots of bog buttons back from the dead.”

“Bog buttons,” said Drayton, “now that’s something.

You must be good.”

“Are you sorry you didn’t keep bidding on the orchid?”

asked Theodosia quietly as they headed back toward the sweet tea stand. Drayton had his two orchids tucked safely in a cardboard box, but seemed to be in a pensive mood.

“Yes and no,” said Drayton. “The older I get, the less things I want or need. I suppose that’s called divesting one’s self.”

“Please don’t sound so morbid,” said Theodosia. “You’re still in your prime.”

“Relatively,” shrugged Drayton.

“Glasses of sweet tea all around?” asked Delaine, slipping back behind the booth and looking, for all the world, like she enjoyed being there. Of course, Bobby Wayne was D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

still smiling and following her every move and Delaine was relishing each delicious second of his attention.

“Sounds perfect,” said Mark as he set his monkey-face orchid on the edge of the counter. “I think I actually started hyperventilating during the final round of bidding.”

“I can understand why,” said Theodosia as she joined Delaine behind the stand. “Nine hundred dollars is a major investment.”

“Nine hundred dollars would buy a lot of other things,”

murmured Delaine as she plopped ice cubes into the fancy stemware her friends had purchased earlier.

“You want me to run and grab more ice?” asked Theodosia, seeing that they were starting to run low. If she was going to tend the booth for the next couple of hours or so, and it looked like she probably was, they’d for sure need more ice.

“Good idea,” said Delaine. She poured out the first glass of sweet tea and handed it to Mark. “Congrats,” she told him. “I guess.”

Theodosia headed off across the lawn in the direction of a flapping white tent. There, the ladies from St. Paul’s Church were serving tea sandwiches, homemade pecan pies, and lemonade. And they’d trucked in a huge freezer filled with ice, enough for . . .

A high-pitched gargling sound rose up behind her. And Theodosia paused in her tracks.

Strange, she thought. Sounds almost as if . . .

Theodosia spun around just in time to see Mark Congdon’s beet-red face contort in agony. Lips rigid, eyes fluttering frantically, he clawed hysterically at his throat. Then his arms flayed out stiffly in front of him as his body was suddenly wracked with a series of violent tremors. Then Mark 16

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clamped one arm solidly across his chest as tiny gluts of foam rolled out of his mouth.

“Mark!” screamed Angie, reaching out to him. “Honey, what’s . . . ?” She turned to address the horrified onlookers.

“I think it’s his heart! Mark’s having a heart attack!”

“Somebody help him!” screamed Delaine. She threw her hands up in a gesture of supreme panic and the pitcher of sweet tea she’d been holding exploded at her feet.

At that precise moment Mark Congdon let loose a low, agonized wail and jack-knifed forward. Then, just as quickly, he toppled backward, his eyes sliding back in his head, his body shuddering as he gasped desperately for air.

And in the few seconds before Bobby Wayne regained his composure and pulled out his cell phone to dial 911, all Theodosia could focus on was the terrible rapid-fire drumming of Mark’s hands and feet as they beat uncontrollably against the green grass of Carthage Place Plantation.

“Can you believe it?” fumed Delaine as she sat in the Indigo Tea Shop sipping a cup of English breakfast tea. “That sheriff pulled me aside for questioning. How on earth could I have had anything to do with poor Mark Congdon suffering a fatal heart attack!”

“Delaine,” said Theodosia, who was trying to calm her friend even as she herself attempted to wrap her arms around the fact that Mark was dead. “Please don’t take it personally. The man was just doing his job.” Along with the ambulance, Sheriff Ernest T. Billings had arrived on the scene within a few minutes of Mark’s collapse. The sheriff, a man Theodosia had met once before, had been competent, caring, and organized, all the things an officer of the law should be.

“We’re all upset over Mark’s death,” said Drayton as he set a Crown Ducal teacup down on the table next to where 18

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Delaine was unhappily perched. “And who among us even realized that Mark had a bad heart?” Drayton gazed at Delaine with a combined look of sadness and intensity. Mark and Angie had been good friends, and yesterday’s event had been a terrible shock to him. To all of them.

“Did you know that the doctors even questioned Angie?”

asked Delaine. “The poor dear had just witnessed her husband convulse in agony and suddenly she was on the hot seat!” Delaine dabbed at her eyes even though no tears seemed to mar her flawless makeup.

“I know, I know,” responded Theodosia. “But I’m sure they were just trying to ascertain Mark’s medical history.

The doctors did everything they could. Drayton and I followed the ambulance directly to the hospital in Summerville. We were there when the emergency room doctor pronounced Mark dead upon arrival. He seemed very upset.”

“Then you saw poor Angie being harangued,” said Delaine. “She was just this side of hysterical, but they continued to ask all sorts of impertinent questions.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to be impertinent,” said Theodosia, suddenly realizing she had precious little time to get the Indigo Tea Shop ready for their usual Monday morning bustle of customers. It was going to be difficult to carry on this morning, she decided, after Mark’s shocking and untimely death.

Drayton adjusted his bow tie, then picked up a linen napkin, shook it out, and refolded it.

“You already did that,” Delaine pointed out to him.

He frowned. “You’re quite correct. In fact I’m so addled, I haven’t even selected today’s teas yet.”

“What a day,” sighed Haley Parker as she came rushing out of the kitchen, carrying a silver tray filled with cut-glass D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

sugar bowls and tiny pitchers of fresh cream. “Our doors open in ten minutes and all we can think about is poor Mark Congdon.” Haley paused. She was their head chef and baker extraordinaire, a young woman with enthusiasm to spare, a smiling face, stick-straight long blond hair, and what could be a dangerously caustic wit. Each day Haley whipped up the most amazing scones, muffins, breads, and biscuits. To say nothing of the delicious quiches, chowders, salads, and tea sandwiches that the Indigo Tea Shop served at lunch.

“What exactly was Mark doing when he suffered his heart attack?” asked Haley. “Or myocardial infarction or whatever it was.”

“He was sipping a glass of sweet tea,” said Drayton.

“And celebrating his orchid purchase.”

“Do you think the intense cold from the ice could have caused cardiac arrhythmia?” wondered Theodosia.

“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” said Delaine. “There wasn’t that much ice, remember?”

“Or bradycardia,” said Haley, edging over to join them.

“That’s when the heart beats a little too slowly.”

“Maybe,” said Drayton. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for a final medical report.”

Delaine sat there squirming. “Goodness, I could use a cigarette,” she murmured. “This is all so upsetting.”

“Not very healthy,” chided Drayton. “Especially for your heart.”

“Are you going to open your shop today?” Theodosia asked Delaine. She decided it might be time to gently oust her friend from the tea shop so they could all get to work.

Delaine glanced at her watch, an elegant Chopard, and sighed. “Oh, I suppose so. Although I called earlier and told Janine I’d probably be a tad late this morning. I was plan-20

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ning to stop by the Featherbed House to see how Angie is doing.”

“I’m sure she’s utterly bereft,” said Drayton, who looked fairly bereft himself.

“Poor Angie,” said Haley. “She’s such a dear soul. And she’s been so successful at making a go of the Featherbed House all by herself. I hope Mark’s death doesn’t put her in a tailspin.”

“Being a small business owner is tough work,” said Theodosia. She understood firsthand how difficult it was.

When she left her marketing job to open the Indigo Tea Shop she’d had to figure out a laundry list of tasks. Like dealing with leases, payroll, quarterly taxes, inventory, and cash flow. And then there was the day-to-day worry of pleas-ing customers, staging events, and constantly testing and updating menus. Theodosia knew that even though Angie had hired Teddy Vickers as her assistant, keeping the Featherbed House going would still be a difficult task.

As if reading Theodosia’s mind, Haley asked, “What about Teddy Vickers? Won’t he still be a help?”

“For Angie’s sake I hope so,” said Delaine as she finally got up and started moving slowly toward the front door.

“But Mark was the one with the real business smarts. That’s what I’ve always heard anyway.”

“Bye-bye,” waved Drayton, hoping to move Delaine along. “See you later.”

Once Delaine had made her reluctant exit, Theodosia joined Drayton behind the counter where he fussed about, pulling down colorful tins of tea. “What’s on the docket for today?” she asked him.

“I feel the need for a somewhat strong cup of tea,” Drayton told her. “So I’m considering serving the Ching Wo D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

black tea from Fujian Province. Oh, and probably a nice oolong, too.”

“Which oolong?” asked Theodosia, hoping their customers were also in the mood for a bracing cup of tea. Although Drayton was always happy to brew whatever kind of tea they requested.

“The Ti Kuan Yin,” said Drayton.

“Ah, the monkey tea,” replied Theodosia. “Love that amber color and earthy flavor.” She had hoped to cajole a smile out of Drayton, but no luck.

Haley finished lighting several small tea candles and came over to join them. “I’ve got sweet potato scones, apple muffins, and raisin spice bars about to come out of the oven,” she told them. “So my breakfast breads should be the perfect compliment to your tea choices.”

“Thank you, Haley,” said Drayton, still looking upset.

“Gosh, Drayton, you look awful,” said Haley, who sometimes spoke her mind a little too plainly.

“Exactly what I need this morning,” responded Drayton in a cranky tone. “Moral support.” He peeled off his dove-gray jacket, hung it on a nearby peg, and carefully rolled up his shirtsleeves so they both corresponded to the millimeter.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Haley, backing off.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Theodosia. “You were just trying to be solicitous, weren’t you?”

“I sure was,” said Haley, nodding in the affirmative.

“Really.”

“Then pardon my prickly nature,” said Drayton, soften-ing his words a bit. “I just wish there was something we could do to help Angie.”

“What if I fixed a nice tea basket for her?” offered Haley.

“You know, put in some tins of tea, a dozen scones, some 22

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honey, and a jar of Devonshire cream. Maybe include some of that lavender-peppermint tea, too, that’s supposed to be such a stress buster. You guys could run it down to Angie’s place after lunch. We usually have a bit of a lull then.”

“It’s a start.” Drayton shrugged.

“I think it’s a superb idea,” said Theodosia as the door to the tea shop flew open and a half dozen eager customers pushed their way in.

Business was as brisk as Drayton’s teas this Monday morning. Theodosia and Drayton, clad in long, black Parisian waiter’s aprons, found themselves rushing about the tea shop, pouring tea, delivering scones and muffins, bringing extra dollops of Devonshire cream, strawberry jam, and lemon curd to their customers.

At ten o’clock Harlan Noble shuffled into the tea shop and glanced around imperiously.

“Mr. Noble?” said Theodosia, eyebrows slightly raised.

He was the last person she expected to see here this morning. Dressed in a black sport coat and black shirt, Harlan Noble looked both stern and austere. A fragment of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Raven” suddenly floated into Theodosia’s head. Probably, she decided, because Harlan looked so much like a raven. Then, shaking her head to clear away that strange thought, Theodosia said, “May I help you?”

Instead of answering, Harlan Noble lifted his chin and gazed past her.

“May I help you?” Theodosia asked, a little more insistently this time. “Are you here to pick up a take-out order?

Or perhaps I could show you to a table? We have one left.”

Harlan Noble finally focused dark eyes on Theodosia. “I D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

need to talk with Drayton,” he told her. His voice seemed as brusque as his manner.

Theodosia put a hand on Harlan’s arm, hoping to impart a little courtesy by osmosis. “Drayton’s busy with customers at the moment, but if you’d like to be seated, I’ll send him over as soon as he’s free.”

“I suppose,” said Harlan, rather ungraciously.

“Right this way,” said Theodosia. She guided him to a small table next to the stone fireplace, normally one of their coziest tables. Today it was elegantly laid out with a cream-colored damask napkin, a flickering tea candle, polished sil-verware, and a floral cup and saucer.

Just as Theodosia was pouring a cup of Darjeeling for Harlan Noble, Drayton ambled over. “Mr. Noble,” he said, an inquisitive look on his face.

Harlan Noble wasted no time. “Drayton,” he said, suddenly looking more than a little sheepish. “I wanted to apologize for my harsh words yesterday. Especially in light of what’s happened . . .” Harlan’s voice trailed off and he shook his head. “Such a tragedy about Mark Congdon.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Drayton.

“We’re all rather heartsick,” added Theodosia, who’d stuck around to see exactly what Harlan Noble had on his agenda.

“Mark was a lovely person. So talented,” said Harlan.

“We were actually in a book discussion group together . . .

Greek classics.”

“He will be greatly missed,” intoned Drayton.

“What . . . uh . . . do you know what happened to Mark’s orchid?” Harlan asked. He’d stumbled over his words, but his eyes glowed clear and bright.

Theodosia stared at Harlan Noble for a few long seconds, 24

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then decided the man was a lout of the first magnitude.

Here he was, nosing around on the pretense of feeling bad, but really trying to figure out what happened to Mark’s monkey-face orchid!

“I have it,” said Drayton, his tone just this side of frosty.

“Good, good,” said Harlan, hunching his thin shoulders up, his dark eyes darting between the two of them. “I was just concerned . . .”

Quoth the raven, nevermore, thought Theodosia.

“In fact I’m going to take it to Angie this afternoon,”

said Drayton. “So you need not concern yourself.”

“Two entrées today,” Haley told Theodosia as she darted about her small kitchen, stirring and tasting. “Lavender-infused egg salad on croissants and roast chicken breasts stuffed with root vegetables.”

“Wonderful,” declared Theodosia. “Honestly, Haley, I don’t know how you come up with such inventive recipes.”

“Just one of the tricks of the trade,” responded Haley, clearly pleased. “Oh, and I’m baking several pans of madeleines as well. You’ll be able to take some over to Angie this afternoon.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate your efforts,” said Theodosia, knowing that Angie might very well be numb for the next week or so and not have any idea what she’s eating or even tasting. Still, Haley’s extra efforts were both admirable and heartwarming.

“Madeleines are the new muffins,” declared Haley as she 26

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carefully sliced fresh-baked croissants, slathered them with butter, then topped them with dollops of lavender egg salad. “They’re a little more futsy to make, what with the shallow pans and the delicate little shell shapes. But in the long run, I think madeleines are incredibly versatile. Because they’re such petite cakelike cookies, you can serve them with jelly and Devonshire cream, or top them with chocolate or butterscotch sauce, or just serve two on a plate with a nice scoop of sorbet.”

Theodosia leaned against the doorway and listened to Haley’s friendly chatter, watched her spin and pirouette from oven to counter, doing her intricate little chef’s ballet.

As heavy as Theodosia’s heart was over Mark Congdon’s death, it was reassuring to be in the place she loved most—

her beloved Indigo Tea Shop.

Theodosia knew she’d made the smartest move of her life when she’d bid sayonara to her job in marketing and gam-bled her savings on establishing the Indigo Tea Shop. What had started out as a dusty little diamond in the rough had become one of the most popular spots on Charleston’s Church Street. Pegged wooden floors, brick walls, and a beamed ceiling made for a cozy, cottagelike atmosphere.

Antique wooden tables and chairs, fine china, and sparkling silver lent an upscale, Old World feel. Antique breakfronts and bookcases, crammed with teacups, tiny spoons, tea cozies, jars of lemon curd, tea books, and packaged teas, lined the walls and completed the picture.

Of course, this was Drayton’s domain, too. One wall was floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves lined with shiny tea tins filled with the finest, freshest, and most aromatic teas available. As a master tea taster and tea blender, Drayton de-D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

manded perfection. Which was why the Indigo Tea Shop always stocked the best Formosan oolong, first-flush Darjeeling, smoky Lapsang souchong from China, rare Japanese Sencha, and exotic Kenyan teas.

And when the teacups were rattling, the teapots chirp-ing, and customers filled the small shop with their excited hum, Theodosia knew she was clearly at home.

“Say now,” said Drayton as he came up behind Theodosia, rousing her from her reverie. “We have some very hungry customers waiting out here.”

“Isn’t it good, then, that we’ve got some marvelous luncheons ready to serve,” Haley answered blithely.

Drayton peered over his tortoiseshell half-glasses and consulted his order pad. “I require fourteen egg salads and twelve chicken breasts,” he told Haley.

“Coming up,” sang Haley.

But Drayton wasn’t finished. “For now,” he told her. “As you probably know, we’re expecting two rather large groups in another forty-five minutes. Red-hat ladies, I believe.”

“We’re amazingly busy for a Monday,” commented Haley as she pulled a pan of perfectly golden chicken breasts from the oven and set it atop the stove.

“Can you believe how busy?” asked Dayton, making a wry face. Then he glanced toward Theodosia to hurriedly explain. “Not that I’m displeased we’re making such a go of things. It’s just that . . .”

“I know what you’re saying,” said Theodosia, nodding. “I feel exactly the same way.”

“We all do,” said Haley. “We may carry on as usual, but Mark’s untimely death is hanging directly over our heads.”

“We’re still planning to run over and see Angie, aren’t 28

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we?” asked Drayton. He watched as Haley carefully placed each plump chicken breast atop a mound of baby field greens, then added a spoonful of honeyed white wine sauce.

“Count on it,” said Theodosia.

A stiff breeze off the Atlantic had chased the last wisps of clouds from the azure skies above Charleston. The afternoon sun sparkled down, highlighting the enormous grand and graceful mansions of the historic district. There were Italianate-style homes with low pitched roofs and wide verandas, Victorian-style homes with fanciful turrets and gin-gerbread trim, and here and there a few of the old shotgun-style homes, too. And everywhere, a riot of foliage.

Gnarled live oaks arched over cobblestone streets, dogwood and box ivy lined cobblestone drives, magnolias, pansies, and English daisies exploded with color in every yard.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” said Drayton as he and Theodosia strolled down Murray Street on their way to the Featherbed House.

“Agreed,” said Theodosia. “There’ll probably be friends and relatives jostling about. So it’s the least we can do.”

“Help fortify them,” added Drayton, trying to put his game face on.

But when Theodosia and Drayton climbed the front stairs of the Featherbed House Bed & Breakfast and let themselves into the spacious lobby with its cypress paneling and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceiling, the place seemed deserted. Angie’s collection of ceramic, plush, and needlepoint geese were the only inhabitants, tucked as they were in cabinets and nestled on couches. An antique grand-father clock ticked loudly in the silent room.

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“Nobody’s here,” said Drayton, looking puzzled.

“Hello,” Theodosia called out. “Anybody home?”

“Hold on,” said Drayton, listening intently. “Somebody is coming. Must be . . . Teddy?”

Theodosia paused, focusing on the sound of approaching footsteps.

Teddy Vickers, Angie’s assistant, suddenly loomed in the doorway. He looked both subdued and a little surprised at seeing them.

“Drayton. Theodosia,” said Teddy. “Nice to see you even under these sad circumstances.” Teddy Vickers was one of those men who was of an indeterminate age. He could have been thirty-three, he could have been forty-five. He was boyish-looking with a crooked grin and a shock of dark blond hair combed to one side. It gave him a distinctly East Coast preppy look, like he might be an assistant headmaster at some exclusive school. Except Teddy worked for Angie.

“We brought tea and sandwiches,” said Drayton, holding up a large basket.

“And scones and madeleines,” added Theodosia. She winced inwardly, thinking her voice probably sounded overly cheerful. “And Mark’s orchid from yesterday.” She indicated the little plant she’d tucked carefully in a box and surrounded with tissue paper.

“I thought there’d be more people around,” said Drayton. “Friends, relatives . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Guests,” said Theodosia, suddenly struck by the empti-ness of the normally thriving B and B. Or maybe it was just a sadness that had settled over the old mansion.

Teddy Vickers shook his head. “Angie’s sister and a few other relatives will be arriving from Chicago later this afternoon. As for the Featherbed House, it’s closed for now. We 30

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found space for all our bookings at other nearby B and Bs and won’t be accepting any new reservations.” He shrugged.

“Basically, we’ve taken the phone off the hook.”

“What about current guests?” asked Theodosia. She was a little surprised to hear that the Featherbed House was in the process of shutting down completely.

“We’ve got two rooms occupied right now,” said Teddy,

“but once they leave tomorrow morning . . .” He shrugged his thin shoulders and turned his palms upright as if to say who knows?

“And how are you doing?” asked Drayton.

Teddy sighed loudly. He’d also been at Carthage Place Plantation yesterday and, in the melee following Mark’s collapse, had accompanied Angie, Theodosia, Drayton, Delaine, and Bobby Wayne to the hospital.

“Holding up,” was Teddy’s terse answer. “Although this hasn’t been a happy place for quite some time.”

Theodosia’s brows knit together at this strange comment. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

“The Featherbed House is in dire need of some rather major repairs,” said Teddy. “And lately, Mark had been extremely involved with his job. So not a lot of decisions got made.”

“I’m sure working at Loveday and Luxor was very stress-ful for him,” said Theodosia. Considering the circumstances, she felt Teddy’s words seemed somehow disloyal.

“Lots of competition between brokers, too,” added Teddy, dropping his voice. “I got the feeling the place was pretty much a viper’s nest.”

Really? Theodosia thought to herself. Viper’s nest? First I’ve ever heard of that.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

Drayton cleared his throat. “Is Angie around? We’d like to say a quick hello and express our condolences.”

“I’m sure she’ll speak with you,” said Teddy Vickers. He waved a hand. “Have a seat and I’ll tell Angie you’re here.”

Theodosia and Drayton made themselves as comfortable as they could in the lobby of the Featherbed House.

“This place is so unnaturally quiet,” remarked Drayton.

Theodosia had to agree. Usually the Featherbed House was bustling with guests checking in or checking out, enjoying wine and cheese in the lobby, or lounging on the back patio amid the gardens. And everywhere Theodosia looked—the polished floors, the hand-painted goose mural on the wall, the overstuffed pillows—were reminders of the love and care Angie and Mark had put into the place.

“Theodosia?” came Angie’s whispery voice as she walked slowly into the lobby. “Drayton?” Angie Congdon stood there looking pale and thin, as though a stray puff of wind could blow her away.

Theodosia and Drayton rushed to put their arms around her.

“How are you doing, dear lady?” asked Drayton. “Are you holding up?”

“Oh, Angie,” cried Theodosia. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“You’re doing it,” said Angie, giving them a sad, lop-sided smile. “You’re here. Both of you. And that means the absolute world to me.”

“We were afraid we might be intruding,” said Drayton.

“Even though we brought goodies. And Mark’s orchid.”

Angie glanced about the lobby, a wistful look on her face.

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“As you can see, you’re not intruding at all,” she said. “In fact, I’m afraid Mark’s death has completely knocked me for a loop. There are still people to contact, things to do.” She dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. “But I can’t seem to manage it. In fact, I spent most of the morning on the phone with the hospital over in Summerville.”

“Come,” said Drayton, motioning to both women. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

“Have you received a more definitive cause of death from the cardiologist?” asked Theodosia, once they were all seated on low club chairs around a small wooden table.

Angie gazed at them, a strange, pinched look on her face. “Funny you should ask,” she said. “I just got off the phone with Sheriff Billings.” She reached in the pocket of her light jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “He faxed me this report.”

Angie held it out, as if willing Theodosia to take it.

Theodosia reached for the piece of paper in Angie’s hand and accepted it gently. “May I read it?” she asked.

“Please,” said Angie, who seemed to be in a mild state of shock.

Theodosia unfolded the paper and scanned the report. It appeared to be a standard hospital form with most of the pertinent medical facts filled in by hand. The first part of the form was a list of all the symptoms Mark Congdon had presented with. Dilated pupils, respiratory distress, cardiac arrhythmia, convulsions.

The next part listed the lifesaving measures the EMTs and ER personnel had employed. Blood gas analysis, epi-nephrine, defibrillation, cardiac catheterization.

Theodosia’s eyes skipped to the bottom of the report, to D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

the line that read Cause of Death. Her brow furrowed, her heart thumped inside her chest as her eyes focused on the phrase that had been scrawled in: nonspecific toxin.

“Good heavens,” breathed Theodosia, as her brain suddenly started racing. A toxin is a poison, right? Sure it is.

“What?” asked Drayton, upon seeing Theodosia’s reaction. “What?”

Wordlessly, Theodosia handed him the paper.

Drayton put on his glasses and quickly scanned the report. “Nonspecific toxin!” he exclaimed when he got to the bottom of the page. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Angie swiped at her eyes again with her hanky. “I have no idea. But I’ve been under the complete impression that Mark either suffered a heart attack or had some kind of brain aneurysm. Those were the two things that fixed in my mind. And the doctors and medical personnel had pretty much confirmed that.” She leaned closer toward Drayton.

“You know, Mark always pushed himself so hard. Up at five, at the office by seven. Of course, that’s what being a commodity broker is all about.” Her shoulders slumped, her hands shook. “Now this . . .”

“Good lord,” said Drayton, aiming a level gaze at Theodosia. “This medical report changes everything.”

But Theodosia’s mind had already leapt into overdrive. If toxin means poison, then poison means murder, she told herself.

“Here, Drayton, let me see that report again.”

“I . . . uh . . . couldn’t bring myself to read the entire contents of the report,” said Angie. “It seemed . . .” Her voice cracked. “. . . so very final.”

“You should call the hospital and see if you can get more detailed information,” said Theodosia. “This simply isn’t 34

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acceptable. I’m sure there are more specific lab tests that can be run. Certain . . . uh, what would you call them? Tox screens?”

“I’m not sure I could manage that right now,” Angie said. Her voice was a whisper and her shoulders slumped de-jectedly. Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. She seemed on the verge of collapse.

“Would you like me to see if I can find out more?” asked Theodosia. Her heart went out to poor Angie Congdon.

She’d never seen her friend look so fragile.

“Theo,” said Angie, reaching for Theodosia’s hand.

“Would you really?”

“Of course,” said Theodosia. “I’ll phone the hospital and . . .”

“She’ll take this up with law enforcement, too,” volunteered Drayton.

“Bless you,” Angie whispered to Theodosia. “You’re such a calm, take-charge person.” Her eyes drifted toward Drayton. “You, too, Drayton. If the two of you can find it within your hearts to help me, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“We’ll do whatever we can,” promised Drayton even as he threw Theodosia a pleading look. “Won’t we?”

“Count on it,” said Theodosia, realizing she’d somehow backed herself into a fairly serious investigation.

A murder investigation? Yeah, maybe.

“There’s so much to handle all at once,” fretted Angie.

“Plan a funeral, notify all our friends and relatives. I suppose I’ll have to go down to Mark’s office and pick up his address book . . .”

“I’ll do that,” volunteered Theodosia. In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself.

“Would you really?” asked Angie.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“No problem,” said Theodosia. “I’ll stop by Loveday and Luxor first thing tomorrow.”

“And I’ll certainly assist with funeral arrangements,”

said Drayton. “Do you know when . . . uh . . . when Mark’s body will be. . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

“No,” came Angie’s choked voice. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What exactly does nonspecific toxin mean?” Drayton asked Theodosia as the two of them hurried back down the street, headed for the tea shop.

“It means something got into Mark’s system and killed him,” said Theodosia. “But the docs don’t know exactly what it was.”

“Like a poison?” asked Drayton.

Theodosia looked grim. “It’s not a pretty thought, but that notion had crossed my mind.”

“How ghastly,” said Drayton.

They walked along in silence for a while.

“You know,” said Theodosia, “there’s a possibility someone might have tampered with the sweet tea yesterday.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Drayton, fingering his bow tie nervously. “I brewed that tea myself!”

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“Think about it,” said Theodosia. “Mark drank a glass of tea, then immediately collapsed.”

“But anyone could have drunk that tea,” sputtered Drayton. “Others did drink that tea.”

“Good point,” responded Theodosia.

“Delaine was the one who was pouring,” murmured Drayton. “You don’t think she somehow . . . ?”

“Of course not,” said Theodosia. She’d known Delaine for years. The woman was ditsy, yes. But a murderer?

Hardly.

“I suppose someone could have gotten to that tea,” allowed Drayton. “Although there wouldn’t be any evidence.

Everything got spilled or thrown away yesterday in all the commotion.”

“What if there was something wrong with Mark’s glass?”

said Theodosia. She was suddenly reminded of the painted glasses that Angie, Mark, and Bobby Wayne had purchased at the art booth.

“You think there was a dangerous toxin in the paint?”

asked Drayton.

“It’s a thought,” said Theodosia. At this point she had no idea what happened. “Although lots of other people purchased those glasses, and nothing happened to them.”

“Or did someone know which glass belonged to Mark?”

asked Drayton. He suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “The one painted with purple orchids.”

“That’s an awfully chilling thought,” responded Theodosia. “It would mean someone was stalking him, just waiting for some sort of opportunity.” She paused. “It would mean Mark’s murder was premeditated.”

Drayton grimaced. “Good heavens, there had to be six 38

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hundred people at Carthage Place Plantation yesterday.

Maybe more. That makes for an enormous pool of suspects.”

“Even so,” said Theodosia, “we should probably get that glass checked out. There could be trace remnants of the toxin or whatever it was. And fingerprints.”

Drayton blinked hard. “I thought Mark dropped it, that the glass got smashed.”

“He did,” said Theodosia. “And it did. But I scooped the broken pieces into a cardboard box and stuck them in the back of my Jeep.”

“And they’re still there?” asked Drayton.

Theodosia gave a tight nod.

“So they could be analyzed,” mused Drayton.

“Sure,” said Theodosia. “If that’s what Sheriff Billings thinks we should do.”

“Good lord. Please don’t tell anyone else that you have those broken pieces,” said Drayton.

“No kidding,” replied Theodosia. She had no intention of broadcasting the fact that she might possess a possible clue to Mark’s untimely death.

“Which means you’re going to be having a rather intense phone conversation with Sheriff Ernest T. Billings?” asked Drayton.

“Soon as we get back,” replied Theodosia.

“It’s terrifying to think someone might have wanted Mark Congdon dead,” said Drayton. “Had schemed and planned for it. I wouldn’t think he had an enemy in the world.”

They walked along in silence for another fifty paces and then Theodosia said, “Do you find it strange that Harlan Noble came sniffing around trying to buy Mark’s orchid?”

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“It is strange,” said Drayton, scratching his head. “Then again, orchid collectors are pretty odd ducks.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Theodosia.

“How’s Angie doing?” asked Haley. She was standing at the counter, ringing up a take-out order, when Theodosia and Drayton walked into the Indigo Tea Shop. It was now late afternoon and only two tables were occupied. Sun slanted in the heavy leaded windows giving the interior an Old World, painterly feel. Like background lighting in a fine Rem-brandt painting.

Drayton put a finger to his lips. “Some strange things are happening,” he said under his breath.

Haley was instantly on alert. “Tell me!”

So they did.

But much to their surprise, Haley immediately pooh-poohed their poison theory.

“I still bet Mark suffered a heart attack,” she said.

“Why on earth would you say that?” asked Drayton,

“when evidence seems to point to the contrary?”

“That’s not quite true,” said Haley. “From what you told me, Mark exhibited all the classic symptoms of a heart attack. Then factor in the notion that he was just too nice a guy. He didn’t have any enemies.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Theodosia.

“Oh, right,” said Haley, rolling her eyes. “Some visitor to Charleston didn’t like their room at the Featherbed House?

Somebody thought the percale sheets were too stiff so they decided to retaliate?”

“He worked for Loveday and Luxor for the past six 40

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months,” suggested Theodosia. “Maybe somebody there had it in for him.”

“Maybe.” Haley shrugged. “But we did a tea for them not too long ago. They all seemed like nice, reasonable people. I bet this whole poison thing is just a tempest in a teapot.”

“Interesting choice of words,” remarked Drayton.

“Just you wait,” said Haley, gesturing for Theodosia to follow as she turned and headed for the kitchen. “I bet everything will turn out kosher.”

Theodosia followed Haley through the velvet celadon-green curtains where a sweet, chocolaty aroma suddenly enveloped her. She was still pondering Haley’s words and sincerely hoping that Haley was right.

Haley grabbed a tray of elegant-looking chocolate truffles and held them out to Theodosia. Half the candies were drizzled with zigzags of white chocolate, the other half were smothered in rich-looking cocoa powder.

“Of course,” said Haley, as Theodosia chose a truffle,

“Mark is still dead. And that’s a terrible, terrible thing. But murder? I just don’t think so.” She peered at Theodosia.

“What do you think?”

“I hope you’re right,” said Theodosia, chewing thoughtfully.

“No, I mean about the truffles.”

“Oh,” said Theodosia, still chewing. “They’re absolutely wonderful.” She rolled her eyes for emphasis.

“I was thinking of whipping up a few more batches and selling them in the tea shop this week,” said Haley. “On a kind of trial basis. You know, see how it goes.”

“If they’re all this good, we’ll be sold out by noon tomorrow,” said Theodosia, reaching for another piece.

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“Ohhh . . . you like them,” cooed Haley.

“What’s this about a trial basis?” asked Drayton, stepping into the kitchen.

“Truffles,” said Theodosia. “Haley thinks we should ex-pand our repertoire.”

“Why not?” said Drayton. He grabbed one, popped it into his mouth. A look of sublime happiness immediately washed across his face. Drayton had a bit of a reputation as a chocoholic. “More than a few tea shops are offering truffles these days,” he commented. “And, lord knows, chocolate pairs beautifully with so many different teas. I mean, think about Moroccan mint tea with chocolate. Or black tea with hints of citrus. Or a raspberry tisane. Or a peppermint-flavored tea. Oh, I could go on and on.”

“No kidding,” said Haley.

“Would you consider serving your truffles at Orchid Lights?” asked Theodosia. Orchid Lights was the combination orchid show and fund-raiser that the Heritage Society was staging this Saturday night. Theodosia had volunteered to do a refreshment table with a small assortment of tea and sweets. Her sort-of boyfriend, Parker Scully, who owned Solstice, a French- and Mediterranean-influenced bistro over on Market Street, was going to handle wine and spirits.

“We could include truffles,” said Haley. “If you think people would like them.”

“Oh, I definitely think they’d be a hit,” said Theodosia.

Drayton reached for another truffle. “You’ll be at the meeting tonight?” he asked Theodosia.

She nodded.

“Shouldn’t run too long,” he told her. “We just need to tie up a few loose ends. You know how Timothy likes to have all the details figured out and everyone accountable.”

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Timothy was Timothy Neville, the octogenarian director of Charleston’s Heritage Society.

“Speaking of loose ends,” said Haley. “You did remember that your intern starts work here on Wednesday.”

Drayton feigned a puzzled look. “Intern?” he muttered.

“Don’t try to weasel out of this,” said Haley, taking a stern tone. “This intern thing has been set up for months.”

Drayton drew himself up to his full height and peered down his aquiline nose at Haley. “What possible use would I have for an intern?”

“The general idea is to use her as a sort of assistant,” said Haley. “But remember, it’s supposed to be a positive learning experience.”

“For who?” asked Drayton.

“For the intern,” said Haley, holding her ground. This wasn’t the first go-round she’d had with Drayton; it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Drayton shook his head, as if scolding an unruly child. “I simply don’t require any assistance whatsoever.”

“Sure you do,” said Haley. “Of course, you do. Half the time you’re running around here completely frizzle-frazzled.”

“Frizzle-frazzled?” Drayton lifted an eyebrow and pursed his lips. His face took on a slight resemblance to a thunder-cloud. “Although I have no idea what that means, I take serious umbrage to the fact that it’s probably an accusation of sorts.”

“Okay then,” said Haley, deciding to reverse gears and try another approach. “You’re overworked. You’re a real champ, but you’ve got way too much to do.”

“Haley’s right, you know,” said Theodosia, who’d been thoroughly enjoying herself watching this somewhat bizarre exchange. It was like watching an unscripted soap opera. Or D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

an episode of reality TV. Everyday dramas and events that got blown out of proportion.

“I beg to differ. Haley is wrong about my needing an intern,” declared Drayton in an ominous tone. “Quite wrong.”

“You’re late,” called Parker Scully. He lifted one arm in a wave and flashed a welcoming smile at Theodosia as she hurried up the sidewalk toward the main door of the Heritage Society. Earl Grey trotted beside her, tethered by his red leather leash. “Is it your fault?” he asked gazing down at Earl Grey.

Earl Grey turned liquid brown eyes on Parker. The dog had picked up a crinkly yellow fast-food wrapper during his walk along the Battery and was now reluctant to relinquish his treasure.

“I almost ran out of time,” said Theodosia with a laugh.

“Between taking care of business, walking his majesty here, and grabbing my notes for Orchid Lights.” She held up the sheaf of papers that was clutched in her hand. “Correction.

Make that grabbing my disorganized notes.”

“And solving a murder mystery?” asked Parker. His D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

bright blue eyes twinkled, he reached up a hand and casually ran it through a tousle of blond hair.

“Huh?” said Theodosia. She’d talked to Parker on the phone Sunday evening and relayed to him all the events of that utterly horrible day. But she hadn’t breathed a word to him about a murder. Or even a mystery. Come to think of it, Mark Congdon’s death hadn’t yet taken on the status of murder mystery at that time.

“How did you know about . . . uh . . . that?” Theodosia asked.

“Drayton blabbed,” said Parker, grinning. “I called your shop a little while ago hoping to get you and your Mr. Conneley picked up the phone. I asked how your friend Angie was doing and one thing just sort of led to another.”

“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you?” asked Theodosia. “Everything’s kind of in flux right now. We don’t even know if there is a . . .” She glanced around nervously.

“. . . a toxicology issue.”

“You secret’s safe with me,” Parker assured her. “But what I’m really curious about is, why are you such a light-ning rod for this stuff? I mean, somebody in this town drops dead and you’re Johnny on the case.”

“That’s so not true,” protested Theodosia.

Parker Scully peered at her. They’d been seeing each other on again and off again for a while now, so he could push the boundaries a little. But Parker chose to retreat.

“Okay, I amend my statement. Not everyone warrants your getting involved.”

“That’s right,” Theodosia told him.

“However,” continued Parker, “from what I’ve seen, your investigative skills are rather impressive.”

“Oh . . . not really,” hedged Theodosia, anxious to change 46

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the subject as they pushed their way through the doors and hurried down the main hallway.

“Yes, they—” began Parker, but Theodosia interrupted him.

“I’m not exactly prepared for this meeting,” she said in a loud whisper. “Drayton kind of pulled me in at the last minute.”

“You’ll be fine,” Parker assured her as they rounded a corner and headed down another lengthy corridor lined with fine oil paintings. “Besides, with Timothy Neville at the helm the Heritage Society runs like a finely tuned Swiss watch. Probably all we’ll have to do this Saturday evening is show up and serve refreshments.”

Easier said than done, thought Theodosia.

“Theodosia?” called a high, papery voice. “Is that you?”

“Hello, Timothy,” said Theodosia as she and Parker swung around the doorway into the cypress-paneled board-room. “I brought Earl Grey along, hope you don’t mind.”

Timothy Neville waved a gnarled hand. “No problem.

As long as he doesn’t try to usurp my position or lodge an opposing vote. But he does have to come over and give a proper hello.”

Theodosia unsnapped Earl Grey’s leash and the dog padded over to greet Timothy. While most of Charleston, including the board members, employees of the Heritage Society, and donors, were deeply intimidated by Timothy Neville, Earl Grey viewed Timothy as his buddy. To him Timothy Neville wasn’t a prominent member of Charleston society whose Huguenot ancestors had helped settle Charleston. Or a domineering old codger who lived in a splendid mansion over on Archdale Street and played first D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

violin in the Charleston Symphony. No, to Earl Grey Timothy Neville was a guy’s guy who pulled his ears, gave him hearty pats, and occasionally produced a liver-flavored dog cookie from the pocket of his elegant pleated trousers.

“Ah,” said Timothy, removing the lump of soggy, yellow paper from Earl Grey’s mouth. “What do we have here? A treasure map? Long lost documents, perhaps?”

Earl Grey settled down happily at Timothy’s feet as Theodosia and Parker took their seats at the oval table alongside Drayton. Another half dozen volunteers also sat at the table, talking among themselves.

Timothy wasted no time in calling the meeting to order.

“Good evening and thank you all for coming this evening,” intoned Timothy. “I’ve invited Arthur Roumillat, president of the Charleston Orchid Society to join us. As you well know, his fine organization is partnering with ours to present Orchid Lights.”

There was a smattering of applause from everyone seated.

“Yes, yes,” said Timothy holding up a hand. “But remember that the main reason for this event is fund-raising.

While other museums and nonprofit organizations are struggling, the Heritage Society fully intends to thrive.”

Timothy favored the group with a thin smile. He wanted to make it crystal clear that under his leadership the Heritage Society was vigorous and highly viable.

“Which means,” continued Timothy, “that our two groups will be running concurrent events. During the same time members of the Orchid Society are exhibiting prize specimens on our patio, the Heritage Society will be holding a silent auction in our great hall. Of course, there will also be music, refreshments, drinks, and entertainment.

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Hopefully, by causing a sort of ebb and flow of members and patrons between our two organizations we’ll achieve a critical new level of synergy.”

“And raise needed funds,” added Drayton.

“Raise funds,” echoed Timothy. “Absolutely.” He slipped into his seat as Arthur Roumillat stood to address the group. Arthur gave a ten-minute overview of how the orchid show would be presented and how many Orchid Society members would be attending.

Overall, Theodosia thought the pairing of the two groups was a particularly brilliant maneuver on Timothy’s part. It was a way to expose donors and patrons of the Orchid Society to the Heritage Society. And it gave longtime Heritage Society members a fun evening that included an outdoor show featuring one of nature’s most coveted floral species. She also perceived both events as upscale entertainment that would bring out the cream of Charleston society.

“And the entire outdoor patio will be awash with orchids,” finished Arthur Roumillat with an expansive gesture.

“Excuse me,” said Drayton, putting a hand up. “But we need half of that patio for tables and chairs. We’re already planning on glass-topped tables with festive centerpieces.”

Arthur Roumillat frowned at Drayton. “First I’ve heard of that.”

“Check your notes from last month’s meeting,” Drayton reminded him. He was a fourth-term board member as well as the Heritage Society’s parliamentarian.

Timothy Neville suddenly looked unhappy. “Can you two work this out, please?” he asked. “Divvy up the territory so to speak.”

“Certainly,” said Drayton. “And I want to remind you D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

that Theodosia here has graciously volunteered to donate tea and desserts for Saturday night.”

Warm smiles were suddenly focused on Theodosia.

Celerie Stuart, one of the newest board members, said in a loud whisper, “You do so much, Theo.”

Theodosia waved a hand as if to say, It’s nothing.

Drayton continued.

“And Parker Scully, owner of Solstice Bistro and Wine Bar, will be donating and serving select alcoholic refreshments.” Drayton peered over his half-glasses at Parker. “Do we know exactly what those libations will be yet?”

“White wine spritzers and a fancy cocktail as yet to be determined,” replied Parker good-naturedly.

Drayton picked up his pen and scratched a note on his yellow legal pad. “Yet to be determined,” he murmured.

Timothy Neville took that opportunity to grab the floor again. “And our newest board member, Celerie Stuart, has been working with numerous volunteers to coordinate our silent auction.” Timothy turned his dark, piercing eyes on Celerie. “As I understand it, some rather exotic items have been donated. Celerie, would you care to enlighten us? Give us a little taste of what’s to come?”

Celerie Stuart scratched the tip of her nose with her pencil eraser as she consulted her notes. Midforties, with a cap of reddish-blond curls, Celerie was a consummate volunteer and Junior Leaguer. “We’ve actually had an amazing amount of donations,” she told the group. “Some of the items we’ve received include harbor cruises, a weekend at a Hilton Head resort, an exquisite collection of toy soldiers, oil paintings, a fishing charter, handcrafted silver jewelry, golf clubs, fifty pounds of raw oysters, and even a ride in a fighter jet.”

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There were excited murmurs all around the table.

“And we’re still selling tickets?” asked Theodosia. “For admission this Saturday night?”

“Absolutely,” said Timothy. “Thirty-five dollars if you phone in your reservation, forty dollars if you purchase your ticket at the door.”

“And there’s been fairly good publicity?” Theodosia asked.

Timothy nodded again. “We’ve already had a sidebar in the Arts section of the Charleston Post and Courier, plus list-ings on the community calendars of most major radio sta-tions.” He hesitated. “We’ve also received an invitation from Channel Eight to appear on their Windows on Charleston show this Saturday morning.” He gazed around the table, casting an appraising eye at the group. “We still need a volunteer for that. Preferably someone who’s media savvy.”

Drayton immediately thrust an elbow into Theodosia’s ribs. “You,” he said in a loud stage whisper.

Sitting on Theodosia’s other side, Parker immediately took up Drayton’s cause. “Theodosia would be perfect,”

agreed Parker.

Timothy turned gleaming eyes on her. “Yes,” he said, as if the idea had just that moment occurred to him. “You did work in marketing, didn’t you? And you’ve appeared on television before.”

Theodosia held up both hands in protest. She didn’t feel she was the best spokesperson for this event. Didn’t think she was all that convincing on camera. “I would think you’d be the logical candidate, Timothy.” Her eyes sought out Arthur Roumillat. “Or Mr. Roumillat.”

But Arthur Roumillat shook his head dismissively.

“Can’t,” he said. “Way too much to do this Saturday. The D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

Orchid Society has never set up at this location before and it looks like we’ve got some serious logistical problems to work out. We’ve got plans for at least a dozen tables to showcase perhaps seventy-five individual entries, so I couldn’t possibly take time out to do a media appearance.”

Timothy placed both hands flat on the table and smiled at Theodosia. It was a wide, barracuda smile. A smile that meant he’d finagled his way. “The matter’s settled then,”

said Timothy. “Theodosia will be our media spokesperson and do the on-air appearance with Windows on Charleston.”

“Good for you,” said Parker, patting her on the back.

“I didn’t exactly volunteer,” muttered Theodosia.

“The television appearance was the last thing on the docket,” said Timothy, gazing down the length of the table.

“So we seem to have matters well under control.”

“What about a photographer?” asked Celerie. “Were you able to line one up?”

Timothy grimaced. “I have one. Suffice it to say he was not my first choice. Nor even my second or third. Unfortunately, all the really good photographers seemed to be booked.”

“Who did you get?” asked Drayton.

“Bill Glass,” replied Timothy. “The fellow who publishes Shooting Star.”

“Oh no,” groaned Drayton. “The man’s an absolute pain.” He turned to Theodosia. “You remember him.”

Theodosia nodded. She did know Bill Glass and she wasn’t a bit thrilled with Timothy’s choice, either. Bill Glass’s weekly publication, Shooting Star, was a glossy, gossipy tabloid. People devoured it, but that didn’t make it good.

“Mr. Glass may be slightly more commercial than the Heritage Society is used to,” responded Timothy, staring at 52

Laura Childs

them with hooded eyes. “But he’s given me assurances that Shooting Star will carry a front-page promo article for Orchid Lights. And his paper does come out Friday, the day preced-ing our event.”

“It’s a rag,” snipped Drayton.

Timothy, who was old enough and rich enough to face anyone down, merely said, “It’s free PR.”

A former cotton warehouse, the century-old brick building that stood near the corner of President and Bee streets had been updated, rehabbed, and rewired. Now it was an elegant showpiece that housed the offices of Loveday and Luxor Commodity Brokers.

Theodosia crossed the gleaming wood floor of the reception area, glancing at colorful, geometric paintings that hung on the old yellow-brick walls. Under foot was a contemporary red-and-purple area rug. A receptionist was perched behind a sleek glass desk you probably wouldn’t care to sit at if you were wearing a miniskirt.

The young woman looked up from her silver laptop as Theodosia approached. “May I help you?” she asked. Her long dark hair swished at her shoulders.

“I’m here to pick up a few things from Mark Congdon’s office,” explained Theodosia. “I’m Theodosia Browning. I 54

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spoke with Bobby Wayne, your senior partner, yesterday?”

“Of course,” said the receptionist. Her hand moved toward the intercom system, flicked a flat button. “Mr. Loveday’s in a meeting, but I’ll buzz Fayne. She was Mr.

Congdon’s administrative assistant.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. She rocked back on her heels, taking in more of the decor. And wondered why it was that when interior designers got their hands on a graceful old building, many of them felt compelled to pack it full of contemporary art objects. Wondered why they felt driven to juxtapose old with new. Was it . . .

“Miss Browning?” came a timorous voice.

Theodosia interrupted her art critique to find a young woman gazing soulfully at her. “Yes,” she answered. “That’s me.”

The young woman extended her hand in a cordial, business-like manner. “I’m Fayne Hamilton, Mr. Congdon’s assistant.”

As Theodosia shook her hand, she studied the young woman. Fayne Hamilton was midtwenties, with long brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, and serious brown eyes. But what struck Theodosia the most was Fayne Hamilton’s manner. She seemed prim and proper almost to the point of being stiff. Of course, Theodosia reasoned, her boss had just died and Fayne was undoubtedly upset, was probably still in shock.

“Are you okay?” asked Theodosia. It was not the opening she’d planned for. Her sudden concern for this young woman just sort of popped out unexpectedly.

Fayne put a hand to her chest and blinked rapidly.

“Mark . . . Mr. Congdon . . . his death caught us all completely off guard. One minute we were working together and then . . .”

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“Unexpected tragedies such as this,” said Theodosia, “are hard on everyone. Family, friends, and certainly coworkers.”

“We all thought the absolute world of Mark,” said Fayne as she led Theodosia down a long hallway. “When he joined Loveday and Luxor he was a breath of fresh air.”

“Had you worked with Mark for long?” asked Theodosia.

Fayne stopped in front of a closed wooden door. A gleaming brass name plate off to one side read Mark Congdon.

“I was his assistant the whole time he was here,” said Fayne. “Which was, what? Almost six months, I guess.”

“He hadn’t worked here all that long,” mused Theodosia, as Fayne pushed open the door.

“No,” said Fayne, stepping inside Mark’s office. “But he was a terrific guy. And a really smart broker, too. All his clients loved him. And trusted him.”

“I suppose we should start with . . .” began Theodosia as she followed Fayne into Mark’s office. She paused midsen-tence and gazed, startled, around Mark’s office. Empty bookshelves and a cleaned-out credenza met her eyes. Two brown cardboard boxes sat atop a bare expanse of wooden desk. “Everything’s packed already,” said Theodosia, sounding both surprised and a little flustered. This was not what she’d expected at all.

Fayne nodded sadly. “Surprised me, too. But I was told that Martha was asked to sort through everything last night. So Mark’s personal things would be all ready to go.”

“Really,” said Theodosia. She’d been under the distinct impression that it would be her task to go through Mark’s desk. To sift through his personal items. Theodosia put a hand on one of the cardboard boxes. “Not too much here.”

“I suppose most of what was in here really belonged to the firm,” said Fayne. “Client records, company documents, 56

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things like that. So Martha removed all that stuff and packed up Mark’s personal items.” She hesitated. “Which I thought was going to be my job.”

“Who exactly is this Martha?” asked Theodosia.

“She’s Leah Shalimar’s private secretary,” responded Fayne. “Ms. Shalimar is taking over all Mark’s accounts.

She’s a senior vice president just like he was.”

“I see,” said Theodosia, realizing what Fayne said probably made sense. Except it all felt just a little bit rushed.

“Would you like to speak with Ms. Shalimar?” asked Fayne, sensing Theodosia’s hesitation. “I know she’s in.”

“Sure,” said Theodosia. “I’d like that very much.”

Fayne escorted Theodosia farther down the corridor and rapped gently on a closed door. Then she pushed it open and led her into an expansive corner office with dark red walls and black Chinese-style furniture. Leah Shalimar was on the phone, but smiled brightly and waved them in. Then she held up an index finger to indicate she’d be with them in just one minute.

While Leah Shalimar purred to her client, or whoever it was she was talking to, Theodosia studied her. Leah Shalimar was superskinny in her plum-colored suit, with a sweep of dark hair, expressive eyebrows over darting eyes, and a hyperactive manner. Though she was on the phone, Leah Shalimar was in constant motion. She paced back and forth behind her desk, drummed her lacquered nails on her file cabinet, flipped through her Rolodex, all the while grabbing sips from an oversized coffee mug. Leah reminded Theodosia of a shark, the one ocean creature that must keep moving in order to stay alive.

Theodosia decided that Leah Shalimar had to ingest more than a few cups of espresso a day to generate that D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

much activity. In fact, with the nervous energy she was putting off, South Carolina Electric & Gas could probably har-ness Leah and power half of Charleston.

“Hell-ooo,” said Leah Shalimar once she was off the phone. She dashed around her desk, grasped both of Theodosia’s hands, and flashed a dazzling smile. “So nice to finally meet you. Bobby Wayne has told me so much about your tea shop. And . . .” Now she favored Fayne with a quick smile, too. “. . . how supportive you’ve been to Mark’s poor wife.”

“Angie and I have been friends for a long time,” murmured Theodosia.

Leah Shalimar took a step backward. “So, are the police any closer to discovering what really happened to Mark?”

“I’m not exactly privy to that sort of information,” said Theodosia, wondering if Leah Shalimar actually knew something or if she was just fishing around.

“The police are investigating?” asked Fayne, looking worried. “I thought Mark died of a heart attack.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Leah, her gaze drilling into Theodosia.

“You mean something happened to Mark?” asked Fayne.

“Like foul play?” She seemed suddenly upset and on the verge of tears.

“That’s for the authorities to determine,” said Leah. She turned an unsympathetic eye on Fayne. “Why don’t you run and tell Bobby Wayne that Miss Browning is here. I’m absolutely positive he’ll want to pop in and say how-do.”

Fayne hesitated a moment and cast a glance at Theodosia. “If you need any help going through those boxes . . .”

she said.

“Thank you,” said Theodosia, watching as Fayne turned reluctantly and left the office.

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Leah, wasting no time, hunched her shoulders forward and gestured for Theodosia to take a chair. “Come. Sit down,” Leah urged. She was obviously a high-energy woman used to having her way. Her stiletto heels sounded like rifle reports as she scooted back around her desk and plopped down in her chair, smiling at Theodosia across her ocean-sized desk.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” said Leah. “I understand you were a good friend of Mark’s. In fact, he mentioned your name to me several times.”

“Mark was a terrific person,” said Theodosia. “All of us at the Indigo Tea Shop will miss him very much.”

Leah put a hand to her chest. “As will we. His passing is a terrible blow.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if the memory of Mark Congdon was almost too much to bear.

Then her eyes popped open and she leaned forward across her desk. “You know,” said Leah. “I’ve heard some amazing things about your little enterprise. It’s reputed to be terribly cozy and charming. With marvelous food.” Leah pronounced the word mahvelous, drawing out the “a” like an old silver screen actress might.

“We’ve gotten our fair share of good press,” said Theodosia, wondering what the whole story was behind this slightly manic woman. “And we pride ourselves on having satisfied customers.”

“Your stopping by has just sparked the most brilliant idea,” announced Leah, dropping her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “I’m supposed to host a group of women for lunch tomorrow. Business women. Potential investors, actually. Wouldn’t it be a kick if we came to your tea shop?”

“Tomorrow?” asked Theodosia. Wow, this woman works fast. Maybe that’s why she’s a hotshot commodity broker.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“Yes,” said Leah, growing more and more enchanted with her idea. “I was going to take my group to Le Pouvre, but your place would be far more suitable. From what I hear it’s extremely civilized.” Leah grabbed her day-date book and scanned it eagerly. “Shall we say one o’clock?”

“Fine,” said Theodosia, knowing she’d have to give a heads-up to Drayton and Haley. “We’d love to have you.

How many guests?”

“Five in all,” said Leah, holding up a hand and splaying out her fingers. “Oh, and make sure everything is très elegant, will you? We’ll be expecting the unexpected.”

“Will do,” promised Theodosia, knowing in her heart that every single tea or luncheon that she, Drayton, and Haley catered and served was considered special. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Knock knock,” said a male voice.

“Bobby Wayne,” exclaimed Leah. “Come in. Look who’s here.”

“Hello, Theodosia,” said Bobby Wayne. He walked over to where Theodosia was sitting, bent down, and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. “Good to see you.”

“She dropped by to collect Mark’s personal belongings,”

explained Leah. “To help expedite things I had Martha pack everything last night.”

“Is that right?” said Bobby. He cast a warm and sympathetic smile toward Theodosia. “It’s awfully nice of you to be so helpful to Angie. I spoke with her last night and she couldn’t say enough good things about you and Drayton.”

“And I understand you’ll be giving the eulogy at Mark’s funeral on Thursday,” said Theodosia.

Bobby Wayne nodded sadly. “I didn’t think it was my place, but Angie was so insistent I just couldn’t say no.”

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“I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job,” said Theodosia. A few months ago, Delaine had twisted Bobby Wayne’s arm to serve as master of ceremonies for an Animal Rescue League fund-raiser and he’d done a wonderful job. So Theodosia expected Bobby Wayne would be able to find just the right words for Mark’s funeral service. “And thank you for being there for Angie,” added Theodosia.

“I told her anything I could do to help, she should just call. Day or night. After all,” said Bobby Wayne, “Mark was family.”

Leah’s phone shrilled and she made a fast grab for it.

“Hello? Leah here.”

Bobby Wayne faced Theodosia again. “Can I give you a hand with those boxes you came to fetch?” he asked. “Apparently everything of Mark’s has already been packed.”

“So I’ve discovered,” said Theodosia.

They waved good-bye to Leah, then trooped back down the hall to Mark Congdon’s office. Bobby Wayne grabbed the two boxes off the now-empty desk and lugged them out to the parking lot.

“Thanks so much,” said Theodosia as she popped open the back door of her Jeep.

“No problem,” said Bobby Wayne, although his face was a little red and his breathing had become somewhat labored.

For some reason, Theodosia had forgotten all about the cardboard box containing the broken glass.

Good lord, she thought to herself as she gave that box a quick shove toward the front, then flipped a piece of tarp over it. But Bobby Wayne appeared not to notice as he struggled to load the boxes he’d just ferried down.

“Leah seems like a very capable executive,” said Theodosia as she shut the back hatch. There was something D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

about Leah Shalimar that didn’t sit right with her and she wanted to find out more.

“Leah’s not only smart, she’s a hard worker, too,” responded Bobby Wayne. He’d pulled out a white hanky and was mopping his brow. “She’s especially stepped up to the plate now that she’s going to be handling some of our very special accounts.”

“I understand Leah is taking over for Mark?” said Theodosia, remembering what Fayne Hamilton had told her earlier.

“She is now,” said Bobby Wayne.

“So in a way it’s a kind of promotion for Leah?” prodded Theodosia.

Bobby Wayne cocked a sharp eye at Theodosia. “I never thought about it that way, but, yes, I suppose it is. To be honest, it was always a question of who would head the firm’s FOREX Division, Mark or Leah. They were the two big stars of the firm.” Bobby Wayne shook his head and sighed deeply. “Now, sadly, that question’s been answered.

Tragic circumstances spared us from making that difficult decision.”

I wonder, thought Theodosia, I wonder if that’s completely true.

Hot crab casserole was one of Theodosia’s favorite luncheon entrées. Loaded with good Carolina blue crab, the dish was creamy, cheesy, and sinfully rich. All the attributes Theodosia loved in food, but probably should be wary of. Plus, Haley was serving her crab casserole with traditional southern spoonbread. What a delightful combination!

“This looks fabulous, Haley,” exclaimed Theodosia.

She’d ducked in through the back door and dumped her handbag on top of a landslide of catalogs and correspondence that was mounded atop her perpetually messy desk.

Now Theodosia slipped an apron over her head and threaded the strings around her waist as she admired Haley’s cooking prowess.

“The crab casserole’s a cinch,” said Haley, pulling her first pan, all golden brown and bubbling, from the oven.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“And the spoonbread’s just plain fun—there’s no niftier way to combine butter, milk, cornmeal, and eggs. Anyway, I thought the combo would make for a nice luncheon duo today. Oh, and there’s chilled crab salad, too. Just in case some folks prefer cold instead of hot.”

“You hit the fish market this morning,” observed Theodosia.

“Oh yeah,” said Haley, who was a stickler for buying fresh food as well as making full use of local produce. On almost any given morning you could find Haley Parker, wicker basket in hand, stalking the open air farmer’s markets. Prodding the red snapper, casting a watchful eye out for the best flounder, cobia, and bluefish. Haley picked up jars of local honey and jam, too. And knew a special few vendors who ventured out into the woods hunting for tasty yet short-seasoned morels. Of course, Haley’s careful and discerning eye paid off big time. The customers who flocked to the Indigo Tea Shop were always delighted by Haley’s traditional recipes as well as her imaginative nou-velle creations.

Theodosia glanced at her watch. It read eleven-thirty.

“When will you be ready to serve?” she asked.

“Be about five minutes,” replied Haley. “Drayton’s already taken the orders, so maybe just go out and check that everyone’s teacups are filled. Oh, and I made a pitcher of strawberry slush tea, too. It’s chilling in the fridge.”

“Haley, you’re a wonder,” said Theodosia as she slipped between the velvet drapes and out into the tea room.

“Well, hello there,” said Drayton. He was behind the counter, ringing up a take-out order of tea and scones.

“Everything go okay?” he asked once he’d packed the order 64

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in one of their signature indigo-blue bags and handed it over to the customer.

“Yes and no,” said Theodosia.

Drayton raised an eyebrow. “Do tell,” he said.

“Mark’s things had already been packed by the time I got there,” said Theodosia. “So the only real work was carting a couple boxes down to my Jeep, which Bobby Wayne kindly helped with.”

“I don’t see the problem,” said Drayton as he ladled a scoop of rich black Darjeeling tea into a blue-and-white teapot. Wait a minute,” he mumbled to himself. “Did table six want the Jungpana Estate or the Singel Estate?” He thought for a minute. “Jungpana.” He glanced over at Theodosia. “Okay, now I’m listening.”

“This was all done under the suggestion of Leah Shalimar, one of their VPs,” said Theodosia.

“I think I remember Mark mentioning her once,” said Drayton. “Said she was a firecracker. Or maybe it was a pistol.”

“She’s got firepower all right,” said Theodosia. “In fact, now that poor Mark is out of the picture she’s taken over all his accounts.”

That got Drayton’s attention. “Is that a fact?” he said. He stared at Theodosia, waiting for more. But she was silent.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Drayton.

“I got a strange . . . what would you call it? A strange vibe from Leah Shalimar.”

“Good vibe or bad vibe?” asked Drayton.

“Not one hundred percent good,” admitted Theodosia.

“Fact is, she didn’t seem all that distressed by Mark’s passing. And Bobby Wayne let slip that Leah and Mark had been up for the same job.”

“Hmm,” said Drayton. “Interesting. You don’t suppose D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

this Leah Shalimar could have . . . um . . .” He stopped, unwilling to finish his sentence.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” said Theodosia.

“And I have no earthly clue.” She lifted the glass top off their pastry display, took out a peach scone, and placed it on a small Chinese-patterned blue-and-white plate. “But I’m sure as heck going to sniff around some more.”

Just when things couldn’t get any busier, Theodosia got a phone call. Haley called her name across the tea shop, trying to make herself heard above the chirp of tea kettles, the chatter of happy customers, and the gentle clink of teacups against saucers.

“Can you take a message?” Theodosia mouthed to Haley.

She was pouring refills and balancing what she figured had to be their final tray of entrées to dispense.

Haley shook her head and her long blond hair swished about her shoulders. “It’s important,” she mouthed back.

Turns out, it was.

“Miz Browning?” came Sheriff Billing’s booming voice once Theodosia had dashed into her office. “This is Sheriff Ernest T. Billings. We spoke yesterday?”

“Yes, of course,” said Theodosia. When she’d called him late yesterday afternoon, Sheriff Billings had been somewhat skeptical about finding any kind of significant evidence on the broken painted glass.

“I’ve been noodling around what you said, so I made a phone call to the state crime lab? They think it might be helpful to analyze those broken pieces after all.” He paused, mindful that he’d all but blown her off earlier.

“Plus one of the docs at the hospital ran some new kind of 66

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test on Mr. Congdon’s blood and tissue samples. Trying to narrow the diagnosis down a bit more.” There was another pregnant pause. “So . . . do you still have those pieces?”

“I do,” said Theodosia, her heart skipping a hopeful beat.

The wheels of justice turned slowly, but at least they were turning. She could picture Sheriff Billings in her mind, looking slightly bulky in his khaki uniform, running a finger through thin, graying hair, his square jaw set firmly as he made this request and delivered his sort-of apology.

“Would you be willing to drop those pieces by my office?” asked Sheriff Billings.

Theodosia glanced around the tea shop. They were just finishing up lunch and had a tea-tasting group coming early afternoon. Plus she had to clue Drayton and Haley in about Leah Shalimar’s special luncheon tomorrow.

“I’m awfully busy right now,” she told Sheriff Billings.

“But I could certainly drive out after work.”

“That’d be just swell,” said Sheriff Billings. “Just leave the whole shebang at my office, okay? You know where that is? Corner of Boone and Hopper? A couple of my boys will be there unless something else happens out this way. And I pray it does not.”

“I’ll deliver it,” Theodosia assured him. “And you’ll have the analysis done as soon as possible?”

“I’ll send it to the state crime lab first thing tomorrow,”

promised Sheriff Billings.

Theodosia didn’t get a chance to tell Drayton about Sheriff Billing’s call until lunch and his tea tasting were over. But he was still wildly enthusiastic.

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“That’s wonderful news,” said Drayton. “We should run right down and tell Angie.”

“Are you sure we should both go?” asked Theodosia. She was torn between giving Angie her much-needed privacy and being a caring, supportive friend.

“Angie’s already highly suspicious about the circumstances surrounding Mark’s death,” said Drayton. “It’s just that she’s still too stunned to do anything about it.”

“So that’s where we come in,” said Theodosia.

“Exactly,” said Drayton. “Besides, you wanted to give her Mark’s address book . . .”

“Oh, man, I’ll have to dig that out of my Jeep,” said Theodosia, suddenly embarrassed that she’d forgotten all about the address book.

“And I need to fill Angie in on a few more details concerning Thursday’s service,” said Drayton.

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Then let’s do it.”

Teddy Vickers met them at the front door of the Featherbed House. He was carrying an armload of fresh towels and looked tired and grumpy. “Back again?” he asked.

“Is Angie around?” asked Drayton, ignoring Teddy’s strangely brusque manner.

Teddy spun on his heels. “I’ll get her.”

Theodosia wondered why Teddy was so snarly. With no guests booked at the inn, he certainly couldn’t be all that busy. After all, Drayton was pretty much handling all the details for the funeral service. Maybe, Theodosia decided, Teddy had been closer to Mark than she thought. And just displayed his grief in a different way.

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“You’re not going to believe this,” said Angie, once the three of them were seated in the lobby again and she had Mark’s address book clutched tightly in her hands. “Harlan Noble dropped by to see me not more than fifteen minutes ago.”

Drayton frowned and adjusted his bow tie. “Are you serious? For what reason?”

Angie looked more than a little perturbed. “It seems Mr.

Noble wants to purchase Mark’s orchid collection.”

“His orchids?” said Drayton, trying to digest what Angie had just told them. “You mean all of them?”

Angie nodded. “That’s what he said. The entire collection, lock, stock, and barrel. But I got the feeling he was most interested in the monkey-face orchid.”

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Drayton. “Harlan is certainly a persistent fellow. What on earth did you tell him?”

“I thanked him for his offer and told him I’m not up to making any major decisions at this time,” said Angie. “And I’m not.” She followed her statement with a slightly worried frown. “And, frankly, I didn’t much appreciate Mr. Noble’s aggressiveness. Even though his offer was couched in a gesture of sympathy, I could tell what his true agenda was.”

Theodosia shook her head. “Harlan Noble had no business coming over here and asking about Mark’s orchids. He should be mindful of your privacy right now.”

“I suppose he’s dying to exhibit that monkey-face orchid in Saturday’s big show,” said Drayton. He gazed at Angie and shrugged, almost apologetically. “It is a lovely plant.”

“It is,” agreed Angie. She lifted her head and focused her gaze intently on Drayton. “Which is why I want you to exhibit it.”

D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

“What?” said a surprised Drayton, his voice suddenly rising a full octave. “Are you serious?”

“I couldn’t be more serious,” said Angie. “In fact, I want you to have the entire collection.”

“Oh, no,” stammered Drayton. “I’m truly touched, but I couldn’t accept such a magnanimous gift.”

“Of course, you could,” said Angie. “You were Mark’s friend and you have the skills necessary to keep the orchids going. If they stay here in our little greenhouse I’m sure I’ll either under water or overfeed them, causing them to just wither away.”

“It’s too much,” said Drayton, still protesting. He fingered his bow tie and gazed at Theodosia, hoping for moral support.

But she was firmly on Angie’s side.

“You can do this, Drayton,” urged Theodosia. “You’ve got the proverbial green thumb. Look how good your cultivation know-how is when it comes to Japanese bonsai.

You’re always winning awards at various exhibitions. Orchids might be a little trickier, I suppose, but I have complete faith that you can keep Mark’s collection going.

Besides, Drayton, your caring for Mark’s orchids would be a kind of . . . well . . . a living tribute to him.”

“A truly fitting memorial,” agreed Angie.

“Goodness,” said Drayton, still stunned. “I suppose when you put it that way . . .” He paused, wiped at the corner of one eye. “I’m just so very touched and honored. I mean, Mark’s got a Fen orchid and a Southern Twayblade. Either one would be spectacular to own. But both of them. All of them!”

“Then it’s settled,” said Angie, looking slightly hopeful 70

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for the first time in days. “Besides, passing the orchids on to you is the least I can do. You’ve given me so much help in planning Mark’s service at the cathedral.”

“Oh, I’m happy to,” said Drayton. “Well, not exactly happy, but . . .” Drayton stopped abruptly, looking supremely flustered.

Angie patted his hand gently. “That’s okay, Drayton, I know what you mean.”

Once Theodosia and Drayton had said their good-byes and were standing on the front sidewalk, Drayton decided he wanted to pop into Mark’s greenhouse. So they followed a stone footpath around the side of the large wooden inn to the secluded back garden.

Alternating squares of lush green lawn and redbrick patio were framed by well-tended flower beds. In the center a small pond teemed with goldfish. Wrought-iron tables and chairs and benches of woven river willow completed the relaxing scene.

The small greenhouse sat underneath the second-story walkway that connected the main house to the carriage house.

“This is amazing,” exclaimed Theodosia as they pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. Brilliant green foliage highlighted by bright blooms stood out like neon against the whitewashed windows. Gravel crunched underfoot.

Drayton nodded. “Like we’ve been instantly transported to a magical, tropical garden.”

On either side of them large wooden tables were jam-packed with orchids, all in various stages of growth and D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

bloom. Above their heads, flowering orchids were contained in wire baskets stuffed with sphagnum moss. Many of the longer roots dangled down, trailing in the air.

“Look at this white cattleya,” said Drayton. “So simple, yet so magnificent. And over here, a Jewel orchid.”

“What’s this one?” asked Theodosia, indicating a small orchid with brilliant magenta spots spattered against yellow-green petals.

“Don’t quote me,” said Drayton, “because I’m still an amateur when it comes to orchid culture. But it’s probably a Vandopsis.”

Theodosia’s eyes continued to take it all in hungrily.

“And are these bromeliads?” she asked. Reaching out, she touched the tip of her finger to a stiff, spiny plant that boasted a brilliant purple-pink flower in the center.

“They are,” said Drayton. “Sort of orchid second cousins.”

“Everything looks so healthy,” remarked Theodosia.

“Mark must have been an amazingly gifted horticulturist.”

“He was very particular about using only rainwater or distilled water,” said Drayton.

“And the aroma in here is simply heavenly,” sighed Theodosia. Inhaling the heady scents from the orchids reminded her of the poppy field scene in The Wizard of Oz.

Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion are all se-duced by the heady scents from the flowers and decide to curl up and take naps. Almost forgetting about their visit to Emerald City.

“Just think,” said Theodosia, gazing at the riot of bloom-ing plants. “These all belong to you now.”

Drayton shook his head, a perplexed frown suddenly descending. “Too much,” he muttered. “It’s simply too much.”

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When they finally got back to the tea shop, Theodosia coaxed Drayton into helping her unload the Jeep.

“Sure, sure,” agreed Drayton. “No problem.” He still seemed completely stunned by Angie’s generous gift to him.

She led him around to the back alley where her Jeep was parked outside the back door, then popped open the back hatch.

“Just these two boxes?” asked Drayton, grappling for the two cardboard boxes that had come from Loveday and Luxor.

“Right,” said Theodosia. “That smaller box is the one with the broken glass.”

“Good lord,” said Drayton as he struggled to pull out the boxes. “Just having those glass fragments around makes me nervous.”

“After tonight you won’t have to worry,” she promised.

“Hey,” said Haley as they tromped into Theodosia’s office. “Good thing you guys came back. We just got a mongo delivery from FedEx! Five big boxes!”

“My new teas are here,” exclaimed Drayton. “Outstand-ing!” He unceremoniously dumped Theodosia’s boxes on top of her desk and dashed toward the front of the shop.

Theodosia, who’d been following in Drayton’s footsteps, tried to stem the miniature landslide he’d set into motion on her desk. “I’ve just gotta clean this stuff up,” she vowed to herself.

“You want a strawberry muffin?” Haley asked Theodosia.

“There’s still a few left and I just latched the front door, so they’re yours if you want ’em.” Haley paused. “And there’s D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

profiteroles, too. I could fill a couple with chocolate ice cream and top them with whipped cream.”

“Just a muffin is great,” said Theodosia as she slid her fingernails under the tape and pulled open the top of one of the cardboard boxes. “I’ll be right out.”

“Gotcha,” said Haley, disappearing into her kitchen.

Theodosia dug into the box, wondering if there was anything else of Mark’s that Angie might need right away. She sifted through a stack of business magazines and a week’s worth of the Financial Times. “This can all be tossed,” she muttered to herself, knowing it would be unproductive and wearing for Angie to sort through old publications.

Under a box of Cohiba cigars, Theodosia found an un-used plane ticket, an invitation to an opening at the Cameo Gallery, and a brochure for the Plantation Ramble.

She glanced at these three items idly as she carried them out into the tea shop, ready to sit down and enjoy her muffin and probably sample one of the new teas that had just arrived.

True to his nature, Drayton already had a teapot steeping as he hurriedly ransacked through the rest of his boxes.

“Here you go,” said Haley as she hustled out and set a small plate that bore a single muffin in front of Theodosia.

“Enjoy.”

Theodosia took a nibble of strawberry muffin as she continued to glance at the three items she’d grabbed. The plane ticket was for a trip to Nassau in the Bahamas. She didn’t know if it was related to business or pleasure, so she decided she’d better hand the ticket over to Angie. Let her decide.

The invitation was for a fancy art opening last week, so that could just be tossed.

Theodosia studied the final item, the Plantation Ramble 74

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brochure. It was a four-color foldout piece that was fairly well produced. Good paper stock, decent printing, lots of color photographs. She’d seen these same flyers all over town and out at Carthage Place Plantation, but had never really looked at one close up until now.

“Have some butter,” said Haley, setting another small plate on the table. “It’s unsalted.”

“Thanks,” said Theodosia. She picked up a tiny silver knife, carved out a small slice of butter, and spread it on her muffin. “Mmm . . . good,” she remarked.

“What’s in the two boxes?” asked Haley. “Junk from Mark’s office?”

Theodosia nodded. “Stuff I was supposed to pack up, but got packed for me.”

“You want me to carry ’em upstairs to your apartment?”

asked Haley. “In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have a lot of extra room in that office of yours.” Haley was a neat-nik of the first magnitude and was always fighting to banish clutter.

“I think the boxes are pretty heavy,” replied Theodosia.

At least Drayton had made them seem so.

“I’ve been studying martial arts,” bragged Haley. “Tae Kwon Do. So I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

“Well, okay,” said Theodosia. “Just be careful. Don’t hurt your back or anything.”

“Hey,” said Haley, “you want me to get you another muffin? There’s more left.”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” said Theodosia as she perused the brochure with its impressive list of gardens at Carthage Place Plantation. Just as Delaine had mentioned, there was a rose garden, an English garden, a hedge maze, and a water D r a g o n w e l l D e a d

bog. But there were more gardens listed here, too. A butterfly garden, an herb garden, and . . .

A small wrinkle insinuated itself between Theodosia’s normally placid brows. Something had just struck her as odd. “Does anybody know about this nightshade garden?”

she suddenly asked out loud.

“Hmm?” said a distracted Drayton. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, unpacking his new shipment of Darjeeling, Assam, and Nilgiri teas that had just arrived from India.

“The nightshade garden,” repeated Theodosia. “At Carthage Place Plantation. Haley?”

“Don’t know,” murmured Haley as she moved off to clear the last of the tables.

“Drayton?” asked Theodosia.

“Not sure,” he said, balancing a tin of Singbulli Estate Darjeeling in one hand and a tin of Doomni Assam in the other. “I’d imagine it’s their contemplative garden. Probably very low-key and lovely, filled with lilies and evening primrose and such.”

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