Dragonwell Dead atsm-8 Page 11

  As the final organ hymn concluded, a short blessing was bestowed on Mark Congdon’s casket. Then Drayton rose from his seat and walked to the front of the cathedral.

  “As you know,” began Drayton, in an oratorical style that had been honed from dozens of lectures given at the Heritage Society, “we have invited all of you to place a flower on Mark’s casket in tribute to his great passion for orchids and gardening. As the pallbearers wheel him out, please feel free to come to the center aisle and place your flower gently atop the casket. Then we shall all proceed to Magnolia Cemetery for brief prayers and the final interment.”

  Theodosia watched as Drayton placed a spray of fire orchids atop Mark’s casket. There were at least two dozen flowers on the vine-like stem, yellow-orange blossoms dappled with bright orange spots.

  Then the six pallbearers snapped to attention and took their place alongside Mark’s casket. They wheeled it around, hesitated, then slowly made their way down the center aisle. A gentle rustle ran through the crowd and then arms were suddenly outstretched. Lilies, single roses, magnolias, stems of dogwood, and every kind of flower imaginable were placed on top of Mark’s casket.

  Theodosia smiled through a veil of tears. It was as though the heavens had opened and flowers were raining down.

  She watched as the casket, now a veritable bower of flowers, slowly approached the doors at the back of the church. Then, a small figure rose unsteadily, hesitated, then placed a flower and ribbon-entwined wreath on Mark’s coffin.

  Fayne Hamilton! thought Theodosia. And she looks extremely distraught.

  “Fayne,” murmured Theodosia to Drayton.

  He frowned, not understanding.

  “Mark’s secretary,” she whispered. “The notes.”

  “Ohhh,” murmured Drayton, finally understanding. The two of them stood, waiting until most of the mourners had retreated from the cathedral, then walked toward the altar to collect the flowers.

  “She put a wreath on Mark’s casket,” said Theodosia. “And, I must say, she looked very upset.”

  “Who was upset?” asked Bobby Wayne, as he bent and, with a loud grunt, hefted one of the floral bouquets under Delaine’s careful direction.

  “Fayne Hamilton,” said Theodosia.

  Bobby Wayne peered at Theodosia through a jungle of orchids and vines. “You mean our Fayne? Mark’s secretary?”

  Theodosia nodded.

  “Poor girl.” Bobby Wayne sighed. “She’s been awfully upset. Even called in sick yesterday.”

  A worried frown flickered across Theodosia’s face. “Yes, poor girl,” she murmured.

  Theodosia caught up with Fayne Hamilton half a block from the cathedral. She waved at the girl, called her name, dodged through throngs of mourners who milled about on the wide sidewalk.

  But when Fayne finally succumbed to Theodosia’s en-treaties, she seemed quite unwilling to talk. “Oh, hello,” was all Fayne said.

  Theodosia was not one to be put off or even mince words. “Fayne,” Theodosia began, “I have to ask. Were you at the Featherbed House yesterday?”

  Fayne shifted from one foot to the other, looking nervous. “No,” she replied.

  “Fayne,” said Theodosia, shaking her head in consternation. “You strike me as a fairly straightforward person, an honest person. So this is not the time to twist words. Because I saw you. I saw you walking down Murray Street.”

  “Technically,” said Fayne, “I wasn’t really there. I was going to go there, but I changed my mind.”

  “Why were you going there?” asked Theodosia. Although she had a fairly good idea, she wanted to hear it from Fayne herself.

  Fayne looked uneasy. “I wanted to talk to Mrs. Congdon.”

  “About . . . ?” prompted Theodosia.

  “None of your business,” snapped Fayne, suddenly mustering a modicum of anger and outrage. “I don’t have to say a word to you.”

  “No, you don’t,” replied Theodosia. “But the fire marshal might be interested in asking you a number of questions. And I can pretty much guarantee he’s not going to be nearly as polite as I am.”

  Fayne’s gaze bordered on hostile now and her brown eyes fairly snapped with anger. “What are you talking about?”

  “The fire,” said Theodosia. She took a step closer to Fayne, daring her to answer. “Did you have anything to do with that fire?”

  Fayne’s anger seemed to suddenly crumble. Her eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered. “Of course not. How could you even think I had something to do with that?”

  “You have no idea what happened?” pressed Theodosia.

  “No,” wailed Fayne.

  Theodosia stared at Fayne, trying to detect any degree of deception in the girl’s demeanor. But her emotions appeared genuine. Fayne just seemed unhappy. Supremely unhappy.

  “The fire marshal still might want to talk to you as a witness,” said Theodosia.

  “But I didn’t see anything,” protested Fayne. “Really, I didn’t. My being there was just a bad . . .” She struggled to find the right word. “. . . coincidence.”

  “Are you going back to work today?” Theodosia asked her.

  Fayne bobbed her head and brushed at her eyes. “Yes. Probably.”

  “Okay,” said Theodosia. She wasn’t sure what to do now. Obviously the girl was upset, but Theodosia didn’t think she was lying. Was pretty sure she wasn’t. “I appreciate your talking to me,” she added.

  Fayne gave a tight nod.

  Theodosia had turned and was heading back to St. John’s when Fayne called after her, “Did she read the notes?”

  “Pardon?” said Theodosia, stopping in her tracks. She was, perhaps, ten or twelve feet away from Fayne.

  “Did Mrs. Congdon see the notes?”

  Theodosia stared back at a somewhat confrontational Fayne Hamilton. “Not yet,” she said.

  “You have them, don’t you?” said Fayne. “I know you do.” Fayne gave an involuntary shudder, as though the day had suddenly turned cool. “Are you going to tell her?” Now there was a slight challenge in her eyes.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Theodosia.

  * * *

  The graveside service at Magnolia Cemetery was more of the same. Prayers, hymns, floral arrangements, final tributes. Finally, when that twenty-minute service concluded, Theodosia got in line at the tail end of the mourners who were filing past Angie, offering their last words of comfort. Teddy Vickers, looking serious in a dark suit, was right in front of Theodosia. Drayton, Delaine, and Bobby Wayne were directly behind her.

  As the line gradually shuffled forward, Theodosia was struck by how monumentally beautiful Magnolia Cemetery was. It was an old cemetery that had borne the ages.

  Established in the 1850s, Magnolia Cemetery served as the final resting place for Civil War veterans, prominent southern politicians and planters, a few bootleggers, and ordinary folk, too. Crumbling brick tombs, wrought-iron crosses, and elaborate stone monuments were set against a dramatic backdrop of gnarled live oaks shrouded with moss.

  So taken was Theodosia by an intriguing vista of marble obelisks and a hidden lagoon, that she barely paid any attention to the conversation going on between Teddy Vickers and Angie.

  But Theodosia’s ears perked up when she suddenly heard the words reasonable offer.

  What? she wondered. What’s Teddy saying to Angie? Theodosia took a step forward and tried not to appear as though she was eavesdropping. Even though she really was.

  “Why do you keep pestering me about this, today of all days?” questioned Angie. Her voice was low and hoarse and she was visibly quivering, obviously deeply upset by Teddy’s words.

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” responded Teddy as he shifted about nervously.

  Angie shook her head and swiped at her eyes with a linen hanky. “This is all too much,” she murmured.

  “My apologies,” said Teddy, sounding downright unapologetic but still trying to keep the conversat
ion between the two of them. “But I thought this might afford you some relief. Help you escape the pain of making so many difficult decisions.”

  “But this would be the toughest decision of them all,” responded Angie. Her shoulders slumped, her voice dropped low and cracked.

  “Fine,” came Teddy Vickers’s cool reply. “But please understand, my offer is good only for the next forty-eight hours. After that . . .” Teddy shook his head and stomped off.

  “Angie,” said Theodosia, stepping forward to put an arm around her friend. “Are you all right?” Actually, she thought Angie looked like she was on the point of collapse.

  “I’m in shock,” whispered Angie.

  “Of course you are,” said Drayton, coming forward to join them. “It’s been an awfully trying day.” He cleared his throat, trying to smile but managing only a nervous tick. “Really, a trying week.”

  “No,” said Angie, shaking her head as if to clear away cobwebs. “This is something totally new. Something completely unexpected.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Drayton.

  “What is it, honey?” asked Theodosia, as Delaine and Bobby Wayne, realizing something important was taking place, clustered about, too.

  “On the way to the cemetery . . .” began Angie, her hands flailing helplessly.

  “Yes?” said Bobby Wayne.

  “In the limousine . . .” stammered Angie. “And then again just now . . .”

  They all stared at her, waiting for her to finish.

  “Teddy Vickers made an offer to buy the Featherbed House!”

  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.

  “Go
od 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.