Dragonwell Dead atsm-8 Read online

  “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.

  2

  “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 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 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 planning 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 pleasing 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 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, softening 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 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 Devons
hire 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 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 silverware, 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.