Dragonwell Dead

14

“Why is the Needwood out?” demanded Drayton. He and Theodosia had hurried back to the Indigo Tea Shop and now he was fretting over pots of tea that were steeping.

Charlie regarded him with a fearful look. “I was just . . .” she began.

“This is hardly our best Ceylon black tea.” He snatched up the silver tin, hurriedly snapped the lid back on.

“But a customer requested it,” said Charlie. “Asked for it specifically because it’s organically grown.”

“Well,” said Drayton, tapping the lid with his fingertips, “that’s entirely different now, isn’t it? You should have mentioned that.”

Charlie raised her eyebrows. “You really didn’t give me time.”

“Hey, tough guy,” said Haley as she brought a glass pie keeper heaped with fresh-baked scones up to the counter. “Ease up, will you?” She cast a sympathetic glance at Charlie. “He doesn’t mean it, you know. Drayton’s really a sweetie.”

“Sure he is,” muttered Charlie, as she fussed with the steeping teapots.

“You remember how to set up an individual tea tray?” asked Drayton, in a slightly kinder tone of voice. “Teapot, timer, cubes of raw sugar, sliced lemon, small spoon, linen napkin folded just so?”

“You showed me yesterday,” said Charlie. “But if it’ll make you feel any better, you can show me again.”

“Maybe we should go over it one more time,” said Drayton. “And did I mention we’ll be doing a tea tasting this afternoon?”

“You sure did,” said Charlie, obviously struggling to maintain a cool composure.

“What’s your major again?” asked Drayton.

“Biology and chemistry,” Charlie told him.

“Chemistry,” sniffed Drayton. “What does chemistry have to do with working in a tea shop?”

“Everything,” replied Charlie. “In fact, baking is really food chemistry.”

Shaking her head, Haley wandered over to where Theodosia was clearing a table. Miss Dimple, their freelance bookkeeper and sometimes helper, was busy restocking display shelves nearby. With the luncheon rush almost over, the tea room was now only partially filled.

“How’s it going over there?” asked Theodosia. She had picked up the drift of Drayton’s paranoia.

“Drayton’s not exactly exuding warm, fuzzy vibes,” said Haley.

“We’re talking cold prickly?”

Haley gave a rueful smile. “You might say that.” She reached for a cup and saucer, pitching in to help Theodosia clear the table. “How was Mark’s funeral?” she asked in a low voice.

“Strange,” responded Theodosia. “Somewhere between the hymns and the final graveside benediction Teddy Vickers made a grudging offer to buy the Featherbed House.”

Haley rocked back, stunned. “What? Are you serious? What was Angie’s reaction?”

“Shock, disbelief, bewilderment,” replied Theodosia. “I think the one-two punch of Mark’s death and the terrible fire yesterday have hit her so hard she’s still operating in trauma mode.”

“Poor Angie,” said Haley. “So the funeral was . . . pretty awful?”

“Aside from Teddy dropping his little bombshell, the funeral was actually quite lovely,” said Theodosia. “Music, flowers, program . . . everything was planned and carried out perfectly. Right down to the smallest detail.”

“Drayton always was a superb event planner,” said Haley, carefully gathering up the lace placemats. “Must be that little touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder that spurs him to greatness.”

Theodosia glanced across the tea room to where Drayton was still hovering and fidgeting. “Now if we could just get him to relax where Charlie is concerned.”

“Are you still open?” called Delaine. “And do you have any food left?”

The little bell tinkled above them as Delaine Dish and Bobby Wayne Loveday stood in the doorway. While Delaine posed gracefully, looking all the world like an entitled duchess, Bobby Wayne was clearly unsure about entering an environment that was generally foreign to most men.

“Yes to both counts,” Theodosia told them. “Haley made the most wonderful bacon and red pepper quiche for lunch. And I just this minute finished setting up a fresh table.” She waved a hand and pulled out a chair at one of the tables for four. “Sit here. Give you plenty of room.”

As Delaine and Bobby Wayne took their seats, Charlie was at Theodosia’s side in a heartbeat. Looking like a real pro, she handed Delaine and Bobby Wayne the small luncheon menus that were laser printed daily, then set tall glasses of ice water in front of them.

Delaine regarded Charlie with open curiosity. “You’re new here, aren’t you, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Charlie.

“Charlie is Drayton’s intern,” explained Theodosia. “She’s learning all about tea as well as the business of tea.”

“There’s that much to learn?” asked Delaine, wrinkling her nose.

“More than I ever thought,” responded Charlie.

“So Drayton’s actually a good teacher?” said Delaine, a little pussycat smile hovering about her lips.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “The best.”

Theodosia had to check herself from doing a double take.

Clearly, she decided, Charlie deserved an A in diplomacy.

“And here I was, worried about getting enough to eat,” said Bobby Wayne, patting his somewhat ample stomach and leaning back in his chair. He had happily snarfed a cream scone, a bowl of oyster stew, and a wedge of bacon and red pepper quiche. Delaine, ever conscious of her size-eight figure, had eaten far more moderately, opting for a chicken walnut salad with lime vinaigrette.

Theodosia favored Bobby Wayne with a tolerant smile. His was a litany she heard frequently. In fact, women as well as men often expressed worry over the small tea shop por-tions. But once scones with Devonshire cream and jam were served, once a citrus salad or lovely cream soup had been offered as a starter, once the finger sandwiches, miniature quiches, tiny croissants stuffed with chicken salad, and endive stuffed with crab salad arrived at the table, it was no longer a question of will there be enough to eat? No, the problem quickly did an about-face and the subject instead was how will I ever find room for dessert?

And Haley had just delivered a plate of key lime dessert scones accompanied by peanut butter truffles to the table.

“Good heavens,” groaned Bobby Wayne. “More food?” Still, his eyes roved hungrily over the golden-brown scones that had come steaming from the oven and the sinfully rich truffles covered in walnuts.

Theodosia had sat down with them and now Drayton sauntered over and joined them as well.

“These are some of Haley’s finest,” said Drayton, indicating the scones. “She always has the most amazing recipes up her tricky little sleeves. A highly inventive young lady, absolutely a whiz in the kitchen.”

“Everything here is wonderful,” Bobby Wayne rhapsodized. “The soup, the quiche, your desserts!”

Haley returned with a bowl overflowing with Devonshire cream and a tiny cut-glass bowl filled with lemon curd. “I’m probably going to be doing a recipe book,” she told Bobby Wayne, after he’d lavished her with compliments.

Bobby Wayne stuck his spoon into the Devonshire cream and dropped another frothy spoonful onto his half-eaten scone. “When will that be?” he asked. He looked like he was ready to buy a copy today. Maybe even two copies.

“Not sure,” said Haley. “I’m still . . . what would you call it? Dickering with publishers.”

It wasn’t long before talk turned to Angie Congdon and Teddy Vickers’s strange offer.

“It just came sailing out of the blue,” remarked Drayton. “Very bewildering. And highly inappropriate, too.”

“Talk about a fire sale,” remarked Delaine.

Drayton reared his head back. “Your choice of verbiage isn’t particularly amusing, Delaine.”

She waved a languid hand. “Oh, lighten up, Drayton. You know I positively absolutely adore Angie. I’m as shocked as anyone by Teddy Vickers’s offer. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Does Teddy even have the financial resources?” wondered Drayton. “I mean, he’s awfully young. And he was just serving as her assistant.”

“He can probably manage financing,” mused Bobby Wayne. “Even though most of the Featherbed House is in ruins, it’s still located on a prime piece of real estate.”

“Maybe the Featherbed House could be rebuilt,” offered Delaine. She glanced at Drayton, obviously trying to make amends for her flippant comment earlier.

“Smack-dab in the historic district and just a stone’s throw from the Battery,” said Drayton. “I’ll bet a lot of people would love to get their hands on that property.”

Theodosia picked up a Brown Betty teapot and poured a stream of cinnamon spice tea into Delaine’s and Bobby Wayne’s teacups. “What bothers me is his timing. Why did Teddy Vickers suddenly wait until the day of Mark’s funeral to spring this on Angie?”

“Don’t know,” shrugged Bobby Wayne, getting involved with his second scone.

“And what’s with his forty-eight-hour deadline?” Theodosia asked.

“Maybe Teddy figured he was doing Angie a favor,” said Delaine. “You know, taking the place off her hands.”

“Sometimes,” said Theodosia slowly, “actions that appear to be favors really benefit someone else.”

“Theodosia?” said Charlie, suddenly appearing at their table. “You have a phone call. A Sheriff Billings?”

“Excuse me,” said Theodosia, slipping quickly from her chair.

“I thought I’d get back to you on those plants,” said Sheriff Billings, his voice booming loudly into Theodosia’s ear.

“I appreciate it,” she said.

“Apparently, the College of Pharmacy at the School of Medicine over in Columbia has been using those plants in an ongoing research study. They extract tannins, flavones, and alkaloids for use in antiviral research, if you know what that is.”

“Sort of.”

“Okay then. As far as the other stuff goes, we’re still waiting for lab results. You know, residue from the broken glass, tissue cultures from the victim.”

Theodosia grimaced at the sheriff’s rather clinical assessment.

“I assume you’ve been in touch with the fire marshal here in Charleston,” she said.

“We’ve spoken a couple times,” Sheriff Billings told her. “It does seem like a bit of a coincidence that Mrs. Congdon’s husband was murdered and then her house or inn or whatever you’d call it suddenly burned down.”

“You don’t believe in coincidences?” asked Theodosia.

Sheriff Billings gave a rueful grunt. “No, ma’am, not that kind.”

Good, thought Theodosia. That means you’re on top of things.

But she found Sheriff Billings’s next words rather dis-heartening.

“To tell you the truth, Miss Browning,” he said slowly. “I’m a bit flummoxed by this case. In fact, I’ve been thinking about calling in SLED.” The South Carolina Law Enforcement Division was a statewide agency that could be called in to assist with investigations.

“Really?” said Theodosia. She knew SLED was good, but she also knew that precious time would be lost if this happened. It would take days for Sheriff Billings and probably the fire marshal to get these new investigators up to speed. In the mean time, strange things seemed to be happening to Angie at warp speed.

Theodosia said her good-byes, then hung up the phone. She was still troubled by the fact that not much was happening. Where she’d once thought the wheels of justice were finally turning, now they seemed slightly derailed.

If only Burt Tidwell were investigating.

Burt Tidwell was the one detective, the only detective, that she truly trusted. He was tenacious, brilliant, and mad-dening. He’d helped her out before and had the keen ability to bull his way right into the heart of a thorny investigation. To make things happen. Fast.

Theodosia sat in her office chair and stared across at the montage of photos and memorabilia on her wall. An old photo of her and her dad on his sailboat. Framed exotic tea labels. An award she and Earl Grey had received for their work with Big Paws, the Charleston service dog organization. A framed copy of one of Haley’s scone recipes that had appeared in the Post and Courier. More photos.

She thought about Angie and the terrible heartbreak her friend had experienced, was still going through. She thought about Mark, all excited about jumping back into the commodities game. Then his life coming to a screeching, grue-some halt as he lay convulsing in front of his wife and friends.

And the deep down, inner part of Theodosia, the part that despised bullies, rooted for underdogs, and believed that old-fashioned justice ought to prevail, quivered with outrage.

So Theodosia pulled herself together and did the most logical thing she could think of. She phoned Burt Tidwell at his office.

Unfortunately, the detective was not in residence.

“He’s bone fishing down in Abaco,” his assistant told her.

“At Marvle Cay. Said he’s not to be disturbed.”

“Where’s Abaco?” asked Theodosia.

“Bahamas.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Lord willing,” his assistant said, “he’ll do us all a favor and stay out of the office for another week. Two would be even better.”

“Okay,” said Theodosia. “Thanks anyway.” She dug into her red leather address book where she’d stuck Tidwell’s business card. Scanning his card, she squinted at his cell phone number, hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if she could make a cell phone connection in the Bahamas. Then she punched in the number, deciding it was worth a shot.

Tidwell answered on the fourth ring. “Tidwell.”

“Detective Tidwell, this is Theodosia. Sorry to disturb you but . . .”

“Theodosia who?” came Burt Tidwell’s gruff reply.

“Theodosia Browning,” she said. “You know, from the tea shop?”

“Who gave you this number?” he demanded.

Theodosia frowned. He was playing cat and mouse with her. One of his favorite games. “You did,” she told him.

“Did you call my office first?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“And they told you I was in the Bahamas bone fishing?” he asked.

“Well . . . yes,” replied Theodosia. “And I’m really sorry to disturb you, but . . .”

“Fish aren’t biting worth a darn,” complained Tidwell. “Stupid things are swimming all around me. I can see their shadows but they simply don’t respond. That’s the problem with fish. Dinosaur brains. Limited attention span.”

“A lot of that going around,” said Theodosia. She hesitated as she heard more loud splashing sounds, then a disgusted mutter. She conjured a mental image of Burt Tidwell. Oversized, bobbling head, slightly protruding eyes. A big man, looking almost like a cross between a grizzly bear and a walrus. She wondered if Tidwell was suited up in rubber waders or just sloshing around in an old T-shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. Either costume would be a strange sight to behold.

“So what did you want?” asked Tidwell. “Now that you’ve interrupted my vacation and completely obliterated my concentration.”

“There’s been a disturbing incident,” Theodosia told him. “Mark Congdon, a friend of mine, collapsed and died last Sunday at Carthage Place Plantation. Initially the doctors thought he’d suffered a heart attack, now the medical report says he died from a nonspecific toxin.”

“Not my jurisdiction,” growled Tidwell. “I only handle homicides in Charleston proper.”

“I realize that,” said Theodosia. “It’s just that I thought perhaps—”

Tidwell cut her off. “Who’s heading the investigation?”

“Sheriff Ernest Billings.”

Tidwell snorted. “I was part of a golf foursome with Billings once. Something called the Law Enforcement Officers Golf Scramble. Out at Shadowmoss. Man plays a terrible short game and cheats like a fiend.”

Theodosia fervently wished they could get back on track.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she told him.

“Oh, mother of pearl!” Tidwell let out an excited whoop. “I actually snagged one of the buggers!” There were more excited mutterings, then a loud splash and a muffled burbling.

“Detective Tidwell?” Theodosia asked tentatively. She wondered if he’d been pulled underwater and was drowning.

Then there was more burbling and another Tidwell whoop. And then a faint glub-glub-glub.

Theodosia could almost picture Burt Tidwell reeling in his trophy-sized fish while his cell phone slipped through blue waters, finally settling on the sandy bottom of the Caribbean.