Pekoe Most Poison Page 7

  Theodosia stared at him. “Because the poison delivery is just too sophisticated for her?”

  “That’s right.”

  Theodosia made a face.

  “Okay, I’ll indulge your skepticism for about one minute,” Drayton said. “Why would she do that?”

  “For one thing, Beau was hemorrhaging money. Money that came from Doreen’s own personal fortune. She admitted as much to us, and then Opal Anne basically hammered home the same thing.”

  “If Doreen did kill her own husband, then why bring us in to investigate?” Drayton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Theodosia said. “To set up a direct conflict with the police? To hopefully steer us in the wrong direction? Because she’s incredibly clever and manipulative?”

  “I’m not sure any of that makes sense,” Drayton said.

  “Maybe it’s not supposed to. The other thing to consider is . . . if Doreen was furious at Beau, if she thought he was robbing her blind, she could have hired someone to do the job for her.”

  “You mean a contract killer?”

  “Think about it,” Theodosia said. “Doreen was the one who chose this fanciful rat tea theme, hired the caterer, and dreamt up the rat disguises.”

  “Maybe . . .” Drayton began. He was beginning to see her point.

  Theodosia snapped her fingers. “We need to find out who the caterer was. And who provided those rat costumes. That could possibly lead somewhere.”

  “Don’t you think the police already questioned those people?”

  “Probably, but the police tend to be awfully forceful,” Theodosia said.

  “As opposed to your subtle charm? Yes, when you put your mind to sleuthing, you are very skillful.” Drayton paused. “I suppose I could drop by Doreen’s house tonight,” he said slowly. “Ask a few questions, find out who handled the catering and things.”

  “Good. Just be careful.”

  Drayton touched a hand to the side of his face. “From what you’re telling me, the smoking centerpiece could have literally served as a smoke screen for murder.”

  “It was a perfect diversion.”

  “And how many people were clustered around Beau’s table to greet him? And then help him?”

  “As I recall,” Theodosia said, “there had to be a dozen or more.”

  “Beau being a popular guy,” Drayton said.

  Theodosia shook her head. “Not anymore he’s not.”

  9

  Theodosia had long since decided that Earl Grey was the perfect roommate. He didn’t smoke, play loud music, or hog the TV remote. How could he? He was a dog. A lovely Heinz 57 mix that she’d found huddled in the alley behind her tea shop one rainy night. She’d rescued him, fed him, cared for him, and loved him.

  Now he was the one constant in her life. Boyfriends had come and gone, some departing reluctantly, some kicked to the curb so fast they didn’t know what hit them. But Earl Grey occupied a major place in Theodosia’s heart and in her home.

  Her home. That was a source of pride as well. A few years ago, Theodosia had made the leap into home ownership and bought a small, quirky little cottage in Charleston’s historic district.

  And what a charmer it was—a classic Tudor-style English cottage that was asymmetrical in design with rough cedar tiles that replicated a thatched roof. The front of the building featured arched doors, cross gables, and a small turret. Lush tendrils of ivy curled their way up the walls.

  Inside was just as cozy. The foyer featured a brick floor, hunter green walls, and antique brass sconces. The living and dining rooms had beamed ceilings and polished wood floors. Her own chintz and damask furniture, blue-and-gold Aubusson carpet, antique highboy, and tasty oil paintings had added the perfect touch.

  Now, as Earl Grey stared at her with limpid brown eyes, Theodosia said, “Yes, I told you we’re going for a run and I meant it.” She’d just pulled on a fleece hoodie and was tying her shoelaces.

  Earl Grey’s tail thumped with enthusiasm.

  “Ready?”

  The dog jumped to his feet.

  Together they tore through the kitchen, out the back door, and down the back alley. It was full-on dark now, so they were mindful of their footing on the inlaid cobblestones. Then, popping out on Concord Street, a cool breeze suddenly snapped in from Charleston Harbor, carrying a beckoning hint of salt and endless ocean.

  Down to White Point Garden they ran, that green space right at the tip of the peninsula, where tulips and crocuses were just starting to burst through damp sod. Ancient cannons stood like sentinels in the same spot where a hangman’s gallows had once dispatched unruly pirates. Fog swirled in, lending an ethereal feel, and Theodosia could hear the mournful toot of ships far out in the churning harbor.

  Earl Grey tugged at his leash, wanting to walk right along spits of damp sand and oyster-shell fill, the waves lapping at their feet. Theodosia had once found an ancient shark’s tooth buried in these crushed shells, but that had been two decades ago. Now the only sharks around Charleston were old-money politicos in three-piece business suits.

  Forty-five minutes later, they strolled down Meeting Street, their run practically concluded, their cool-down walk made all the more picturesque by the presence of enormous mansions and wrought-iron streetlamps that dispensed little puddles of yellow light.

  When Theodosia and Earl Grey dashed in the back door of their home, the phone was ringing.

  Theodosia snatched it off the hook. “Hello?”

  “You’re needed on a mission of mercy,” came Drayton’s pleading voice.

  Theodosia dropped the leash and unsnapped Earl Grey’s collar. “What’s wrong? Who’s in trouble?”

  “Me. I’m at Gruenwald Brothers Funeral Home.”

  “How on earth did you end up there?” Theodosia opened the refrigerator door, grabbed a bottle of spring water, and kicked the door shut again. Twisting off the top, she took a couple of good glugs, waiting for Drayton’s explanation.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Drayton said slowly. “One minute I was at Doreen’s house, biting into an overdone crab cake, and the next thing I knew, we were standing in the basement of a funeral home debating the merits of an ugly bronze casket they keep calling the Alhambra model.”

  “Kicking the tires, huh?”

  “So to speak. But we’ve run into a horrible snag.”

  Theodosia didn’t say a word.

  “Are you still there?” Drayton asked.

  “Yes.” She took another swallow of water and said, “What’s wrong? One size does not fit all?”

  “Theodosia, rarely do I impose upon you to this magnitude, but tonight I truly require your assistance.”

  “You want me to come over there and help pick out a casket?”

  Drayton’s response sounded almost pained. “I want you to come over here and be the voice of reason.”

  • • •

  When Theodosia pulled up in front of Gruenwald Brothers Funeral Home, freshly showered and wearing non-jogging attire that consisted of black slacks and a lightweight tan suede jacket, the place looked plainly deserted.

  She studied the exterior of the funeral home from where she sat in her Jeep. It was large and rambling, bordering on spooky. A fine place for Lurch to get a job as caretaker. Or perhaps as a receptionist?

  Except when she knocked on the front door, the receptionist who greeted her was a plump middle-aged woman with wavy brown hair and a cheery smile.

  “I take it you’re joining the Briggs party?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Theodosia said.

  “Won’t you please come in?” The woman opened the door to reveal a tastefully done gray interior. Gray chairs, gray carpet, gray wallpaper. The only spark of interest consisted of two enormous floral bouquets, one sitting on the front desk, another on a side table. Theodosia noted that the
bouquets consisted of traditional funeral flowers—decorous carnations and unassuming lilies.

  “Our showroom is just downstairs,” the woman said as she led Theodosia around a tricky corner and then down a long, narrow staircase. “Here you go.” She stopped in front of a door and smiled broadly, as if picking out caskets was the most wonderful thing in the world. Which maybe it was to her.

  The Gruenwald Brothers showroom reminded Theodosia of a basement rec room from the nineteen seventies. Cheesy wood paneling, beige indoor-outdoor carpet, knobby red glass lamps. But instead of the requisite foosball table and dartboard, the room held two dozen caskets. They sat on metal stands and seemed to gleam wickedly under pinpoint spotlights that were hidden in the white-paneled ceiling.

  Drayton caught sight of her and came rushing over. “Theodosia. You came.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice,” Theodosia murmured. Glancing around, she spotted the usual suspects—Doreen, Opal Anne, Charles, and Starla. They were perched on uncomfortable-looking funeral folding chairs and had sour expressions on their faces. Two people she didn’t recognize were also sitting with them. “Who are those two?” she asked Drayton.

  “Neighbors. Honey and Michael Whitley.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “Who knows?”

  “And you say the group is deadlocked?” Theodosia glanced over at the wall of caskets. To her they all looked pretty much the same. Sure, a few caskets had silver fittings instead of brass geegaws, but they all served the same basic purpose: place the deceased inside, then place the casket in the ground. Harsh, yes. But those were the cold, undeniable facts.

  “Deadlocked is a terrible choice of words,” Drayton said. “But yes. The group, such as it is, can’t seem to agree on one single casket model.”

  “How about Doreen?”

  “Don’t ask. She’s in the middle of a Chernobyl-style meltdown.”

  A roly-poly man in a black three-piece suit came striding forward to greet Theodosia.

  “Hello,” the man said in hushed tones, extending a pudgy hand and arranging his face in a mournful smile. “I’m Frank Gruenwald. One of the Gruenwald brothers. Welcome.”

  “I understand we’re at a stalemate,” Theodosia said. She didn’t see much point in dancing around. The sooner she got right to it, the sooner she could go home.

  Gruenwald nodded in the direction of Opal Anne and Starla, who were locked in an argument that consisted mostly of hisses and snarls. “The two young ladies seem to be at loggerheads.”

  At that exact moment, the Whitleys popped up from their chairs and hurried over to introduce themselves.

  “We’re Honey and Michael Whitley,” Michael said, matching hushed tones with Gruenwald. “We own the B and B right next door to Doreen’s home. The Scarborough Inn.”

  “Sure,” Theodosia said. “Nice to meet you.” The Whitleys were both well-fed, well-heeled-looking fifty-year-olds. Honey had honeyed hair and a Palm Beach tan; Michael wore a seersucker suit and had the whitest teeth Theodosia had ever seen.

  “And of course you’re well acquainted with Doreen, Opal Anne, Charles, and Starla,” Drayton said.

  Starla suddenly turned and stared red-hot bullets at Theodosia. “Why is she here?” she asked in a menacing voice that sounded like it was right out of a Freddy Krueger movie.

  “I invited her,” Drayton said. “As such, we shall now proceed with the decorum and dignity that Mr. Briggs deserves for his final send-off.”

  Starla made a hissing sound, like a cobra getting ready to spit venom. Opal Anne just smiled.

  Theodosia, feeling uncomfortable at stepping into such a heated family argument, cleared her throat and said, “I take it you folks have managed to narrow this down to a few good choices?”

  Opal Anne spoke up immediately. “I prefer to go with the more basic Lancelot model. The gray finish just seems more solemn and refined.”

  “No, no, no,” Starla said. “We need a much more ornate model.” She jumped to her feet and faced the group, as if she was about to make a major marketing presentation. “I hope you people realize that I have convinced two television stations as well as several members of the print media to cover the funeral this Thursday. Which is why I feel we need something fairly dramatic. A casket that is more . . . dare I say it . . . presidential?”

  Frank Gruenwald smiled broadly. “You’ve just described our Pendergast to a T,” he said, stepping over to a gleaming black casket decorated with polished brass fittings. He swooped an arm toward it, like a model showcasing a pop-up camper on The Price Is Right.

  “What do you think, dear?” Drayton asked Doreen.

  Doreen hunched her shoulders and shook her head. “I wa, I wa, I wa . . .”

  Drayton patted her arm. “That’s okay, we’ll figure it out.”

  “I still think the Alhambra is absolutely stunning,” Honey Whitley said.

  “Wait. Who are you again?” Theodosia asked.

  “Next-door neighbors,” Drayton whispered.

  “Right. Well, is there any chance of a compromise?” Theodosia asked. “A meeting of the minds?” She peered at the gallery of stone faces and wondered what she’d gotten herself into. It was a good thing these people weren’t delegates to the United Nations. They’d let the world crumble, burn, and explode into a gaseous mess before one of them grudgingly gave in. “Maybe we could select a coffin that feels both refined and presidential?” She turned to Gruenwald. “You must have something like that.”

  Gruenwald cupped a hand under his chin and tried to look deeply thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, we do offer the rather elegant Exeter. A popular choice with businessmen.” He cleared his throat. “Well, at least it is with their families.” He managed a rueful smile. “But I’m afraid we only have last year’s model in stock.”

  “That’s not a problem, is it?” Theodosia asked. “I mean, a casket’s not like a car. You don’t need serious add-ons like Wi-Fi or antilock brakes.” She could almost hear Drayton’s strangled groan as she said it.

  “No, no,” Gruenwald hastened to explain. “The Exeter is quite handsome and well equipped. Burled cherrywood, pleated fabric, very roomy and luxurious. Unfortunately, it’s not on display at the moment. We have it tucked in our storage room.”

  “I think we should take a look,” Theodosia said. “I mean, what could it hurt?”

  They all trooped out of the showroom, down a narrow corridor, and into a dingy storage room. Back here, the ceilings were lower, the lights dimmer, and the caskets stacked three and four high. For some reason, it reminded Theodosia of an image she’d once seen of an ancient, underground burial chamber, maybe one tucked deep beneath the narrow streets of Rome or Paris.

  “This is the Exeter,” Gruenwald said, doing his arm wave again.

  They all stared at the casket with its fancy brass fittings in the form of winged birds. Or maybe they were just lumpy fish.

  “Can we see the interior?” Opal Anne asked.

  Gruenwald nodded. “Certainly.” He undid the latches, and lifted the lid with a flourish. As it rose to reveal a plush, pink interior, the hinges uttered a low creaking sound that made everyone give an involuntary shudder. Gruenwald pretended not to notice. “As you can see, the Exeter also offers an excellent padded lining.”

  “Is it silk?” Starla asked.

  “Well, no,” Gruenwald said. “It’s a poly blend, but still very fine quality.”

  “It looks quite handsome,” Drayton said. “I think this might be a good compromise.”

  “Doreen?” Theodosia said.

  “I ba . . . I ba . . . I ba . . .”

  “I could throw in a sateen pillow at no additional charge,” Gruenwald offered.

  When no one said anything more, Theodosia jumped in to close the deal. It was akin to yelling Sold! at a fast-moving horse auction. “Then we a
ll agree? It’s a unanimous vote for the Exeter?” She figured everyone would say yes just so they could escape this dark hole and get back up top with the living. She was right. Still weeping and hiccupping, Doreen managed to whip out her American Express Gold Card and hand it over to Gruenwald.

  • • •

  Back upstairs in the lobby, Theodosia huddled with Opal Anne. Honey and Michael Whitley had struck an odd chord with her. She wasn’t sure why they’d come along tonight and no one else seemed sure, either. She decided to get the story from Opal Anne because, of all the attendees tonight, Opal Anne struck her as being the most sane.

  “Tell me about the Whitleys again?” Theodosia asked.

  “They own the Scarborough Inn right next door to Doreen’s home,” Opal Anne said.

  “So the Whitleys are family friends?”

  Opal Anne rocked a hand back and forth. “Sort of. They started getting chummy with Doreen when they first made an offer to buy her home.”

  This was news to Theodosia. “When did this happen?”

  “Oh, maybe a few months ago,” Opal Anne said. “Honey and Michael are a very enterprising couple. They figure if they can buy the Calhoun Mansion from Doreen and turn it into a B and B adjacent to the one they already own, they’ll have a lock on available guest rooms in the Historic District.”

  “Would they really?”

  “They’d certainly be dominant.” Opal Anne peeked at her watch. “I’m sorry, I have to be going. I have a date.” She gave a sad smile. “Unless he’s already stood me up.”

  “About Doreen’s house,” Theodosia said, unwilling to let it go. “She’s not interested in selling, is she?”

  Opal Anne shrugged. “You tell me. Doreen couldn’t even pick out a simple casket tonight. The poor woman can’t figure out what music the organist should play at Beau’s funeral.” She sighed. “Right now it seems like anything and everything is up for grabs.”

  As they walked out into the cool night air together, Theodosia wondered if that also included Gilded Magnolia Spa.

  10