Dragonwell Dead

1

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 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.

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 middle 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 excellent, 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 accented 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 unbecoming 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 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, 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.”

“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 Graphicus 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 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 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.”

“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, darting 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.”

“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.”

“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 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 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.