The English Breakfast Murder, page 10
The owner, Gordon Sargent, had kindly offered to cater Delaine's Fashion Bash luncheon at cost. Which meant that, after charging all her luncheon attendees a hefty sixty dollars a ticket, Delaine would clear a cool three thousand dollars to plunk in the Heritage Society's coffers.
Theodosia and Delaine pushed their way toward the deserted hostess stand. They'd arrived slightly before the lunch crowd was poised to hit, before the bankers and lawyers and ad guys sat down to snarf their radicchio salads and grilled snapper.
"Were you planning to have the tea in Garden Gate's party room?" Theodosia asked. Off to their left was the large dining room, to their right a clubby-looking bar. Theodosia knew Garden Gate had another large party room somewhere. She remembered being in it when she'd attended a Christmas party here last year.
"No, no, no," said Delaine as she herded Theodosia on through the restaurant toward the back door. "Our group will be outside. There's a reason they call this Garden Gate." Emerging on the outdoor patio was a pleasant and amazing contrast after the dark atmosphere of the restaurant. A fountain spattered merrily in the center of a small, circular pool. Wooden lattice walls covered with a tangle of vines surrounded the large, sunny patio. Against these roughhewn walls, stands of dogwood, mock orange, and camellias formed a delightful faux forest. Scattered about were a dozen or so wrought iron tables and chairs accented with colorful umbrellas emblazoned with the usual Cinzano and Perrier logos.
"You like?" asked Delaine.
"It's great," enthused Theodosia. "What a terrific place to hold a tea and fashion show." Open to the sky, yet still sheltered from the hot Charleston sun by the riot of trees, large potted plants, and table umbrellas, the patio was pretty, inviting, and tranquil.
"My dear Miss Dish, is that you?"
Theodosia turned to see a good-looking man in a beautifully tailored summer suit come rushing across the patio, smiling brightly at them.
"Say now," the man exclaimed. "I didn't mean to interrupt your inspection tour, but my office is right over there." He turned slightly and gestured toward the far wall of the courtyard. A riot of greenery cascaded across more latticework, hiding what appeared to be a small window framed by wooden shutters. "You see?" he said. "I even used to have a teeny, tiny window. Then we added staff and had to move a few inside walls."
"Theodosia Browning, meet Gordon Sargent," gushed Delaine. "Gordon is our genial host and impresario of the Garden Gate Restaurant."
Gordon Sargent grasped Theodosia's hand warmly. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, he smiled widely, revealing dazzling white teeth. "And you're the lady with the tea shop!" he exclaimed. "Delaine's told me all about you. Welcome."
Theodosia found herself warming up to Gordon Sargent almost immediately. He had the forthright, friendly manner of a skilled restaurateur. And in the two years that Garden Gate had been open, he had certainly garnered more than his share of favorable write-ups and reviews in the local press. His inventive menu, what Gordon Sargent liked to call "nouvelle coastal cuisine," included such delicacies as pecan-crusted grouper in champagne sauce and smoked Carolina shrimp with citrus marinade. Pushing the limits of Carolina cooking, his offerings were a far cry from the region's traditional fare of crab cakes and oyster stew.
The three of them wandered about the patio, Delaine chattering blissfully away about Saturday's upcoming event. "That's an interesting piece," Theodosia remarked as she stopped to admire a stone statue of a cherub carrying an urn on one shoulder. Somewhat pebbled and distressed in appearance, the statuary was tucked into a copse of rhododendrons and azaleas, looking all the world like something from a Roman ruin.
"Like it?" Gordon asked her.
"Very much," said Theodosia.
"It came from an old church that was demolished over near Monk's Corner," Sargent told her. "Sad to think something that pretty was almost cast away."
Theodosia stared at Gordon Sargent intently. "How exactly did you come by this piece?" she asked.
Gordon stuck both hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Oh, I'm a fairly lucky guy. The lady I'm dating is an antique maven. She's got a real knack for ferreting out this kind of thing."
"Summer Sullivan?" exclaimed Theodosia. Wasn't this a coincidence?
Gordon's face brightened even more. "Good gosh, you two know each other? Hey, that's great. Small world, isn't it."
"Actually," said Theodosia, "I just met Summer for the first time yesterday morning. Her partner, Harper Fisk, was a good friend of Drayton Conneley, my assistant."
Gordon stared at her intently then snapped his fingers as though he'd just put two and two together. "Oh, my gosh! You were the lady at Halliehurst Beach!" His mood shifted suddenly from that of genial host to one of somber reflection. "That must have been awful for you. Swimming out and finding poor Harper Fisk's body like that."
"Awful for Harper Fisk, too," murmured Delaine. "But we don't want to get sidetracked by something so dreary when we have big plans to discuss."
But Gordon Sargent wasn't nearly ready to drop the subject.
He shook his head sadly. "I've been going out with Summer for about six months now. She's a pretty happy-go-lucky girl. But the last three days have been pure hell for her. She's completely broken up over Harper's death. As you can imagine, they were very close."
Theodosia's heart went out to the girl. She couldn't imagine how she'd feel if she ever lost Drayton. Just like the relationship that must have existed between Harper Fisk and Summer Sullivan, Drayton was far more than an employee to her. He was a critical part of her business team and one of her best friends. Yes, she'd be absolutely devastated. As devastated as Summer Sullivan probably was right now.
"Yes, poor Summer," said Delaine, not seeming to muster up more than a modicum of empathy. "You know," she said brightly, gazing about the patio garden and smiling contentedly to herself, "our Fashion Bash was originally advertised as simply a luncheon tea. But seeing all this marvelous flora and fauna has inspired me to give it a little added emphasis."
"What do you have in mind, Delaine?" asked Theodosia. Trust Delaine to change things at the last minute. And what exactly does she need me for? She seems to have everything already decided on.
Delaine spun on her high-heeled sandals to face them. Her green eyes glinted, impending drama was written on her face.
"Just look around," she extolled them. "We are in an incredible English Garden. Mr. Gordon Sargent's fantasy garden!"
Gordon gave a dazed, somewhat bewildered smile. It was obvious he wasn't used to someone like Delaine coming in and doing a number on him either.
"Now picture, if you will," continued Delaine, "the utterly exquisite fashions we'll be showcasing." She paused dramatically. "Lots of summer lace. Very soft, almost handkerchief thin, white cotton skirts and cropped pants. And camisole-style tops with lace, tiny eyelets, and gauzy ribbons. Then there's an exquisite ivory collection for evening wear," she continued. "Dresses and pant suits, still summery light, but far more formal. I mean, I've already sold two of these pieces as wedding gowns. Of course, these were not first-time brides, but mature women, one on her second marriage, another on her third."
Gordon stared at Delaine, enraptured. Obviously he'd also never had experience with a woman like Delaine in the throes of a big idea. Theodosia, on the other hand, had witnessed Delaine's revelations on an almost weekly basis for several years running. She knew that Delaine did have good ideas, it was the theatrics that took their toll.
"Delaine," said Theodosia, a faint smile playing at her lips. "Let's cut to the chase. What exactly are you suggesting?"
Delaine whirled on her. "Thank you, Theodosia. You're always so good at centering me, at grounding me."
"So this new theme would be..." began Gordon, trying his best to keep pace with the conversation.
"Lavender and Lace," purred Delaine. She held up a finger to Gordon. "Don't try to talk me out of it. . ."
"I wasn't," he stammered.
"Yes," Delaine tilted her face upward and smiled a distant, dreamy smile. "I see bouquets of fresh lavender overflowing at each table." She was on the move now, her concept really sweeping her away. Gordon followed at her heels. From somewhere he produced a tiny leather notebook and began frantically jotting down notes. Theodosia tried to keep from giggling. When Delaine got wound up, she was a sight to behold.
"For our beverage we should serve lavender iced tea," proclaimed Delaine. "And we must place tiny lavender soaps and lavender sachets at each place setting as favors. And tie lavender ribbons and little pieces of lace to all the chairs."
"Pretty," murmured Theodosia. So this is why Delaine strong-armed me into coming along. She wanted an audience.
"You mentioned lavender tea," interjected Gordon Sargent. "Which brings to mind an idea. If you'll excuse me for one moment. . ." And off he dashed toward the kitchen.
"Oh, Theodosia," exclaimed Delaine, clutching Theodosia's arm, "we do work well together, don't we?"
"We're a regular Jekyll and Hyde," responded Theodosia.
"And isn't Gordon Sargent an absolute dreamboat?" asked Delaine, dropping her voice to a low growl. "So elegant, so European."
"He's definitely deserving of all the rave reviews," answered Theodosia, noncommittally. In the last month or so, Delaine had broken off from dating Cooper Hobcow, a somewhat infamous criminal attorney. She hoped Delaine wasn't setting her cap for Gordon Sargent. After all, the man was already romantically involved with Summer Sullivan.
"You know," said Delaine, "Gordon Sargent is actually related to the real Sargent, the American painter!"
"To John Singer Sargent? Where on earth did you hear that?" asked Theodosia. That would be quite a surprise, since before Gordon Sargent hit it big with Garden Gate Restaurant, he was supposed to have run a modest little seafood restaurant called the Harbor Grill over in Myrtle Beach.
"And the rumor is," whispered Delaine, not the least bit deterred by Theodosia's skepticism, "that he has a real Sargent hanging right here in the bar. The painting of the two very romantic-looking dancers with the musicians in the background. I hear it's worth an absolute fortune."
"Do you think he inherited it?" asked Theodosia. She knew there was no arguing with Delaine regarding provenance or authenticity.
"Oh, honey," purred Delaine, "I wouldn't be surprised. With a family heritage like that. . ."
As if on cue, Gordon Sargent came bustling out of his kitchen bearing a marvelous old silver samovar.
"When you mentioned the lavender iced tea, this samovar came to mind as the ideal serving piece." Gordon set the samovar down on a wrought iron table and the three of them gathered around it.
An elaborate tea heating and brewing apparatus, the samovar was invented in Russia during the eighteenth century and soon became the symbol of a family's prosperity and cordiality. The samovar was generally placed in the center of the table and family and guests would gather round it to be served hot tea with sugar. The gleaming silver samovar that Gordon Sargent had just presented was obviously a fine Russian antique. Shaped like a decorative vase, it featured an elaborate spigot.
"It really does exude personality, doesn't it?" said Gordon, pleased with his find.
Theodosia considered the idea. The samovar hinted at exotic lands where tea was a way of life, a deeply ingrained part of the culture. Plus, the samovar was a drop-dead gorgeous serving piece. It would lend an exotic feel to the whole event.
"It's perfect," Theodosia told Gordon Sargent. "Do you want me to make the lavender tea or should I have-"
Gordon Sargent held up a hand. "Just send a couple tins of your lavender tea over and we'll do the rest. Garden Gate will take care of everything. Don't worry about a thing." He grinned widely. "Never mind that I put in fourteen-hour workdays."
"Remember now, you must use fresh lavender as garnish," said Delaine, batting her eyelashes at Gordon.
But Gordon had turned his attention to Theodosia.
"Will you be attending the service tomorrow?" he asked her.
She shook her head. The idea hadn't really crossed her mind. In fact, she wasn't sure she'd even known there was a service tomorrow for Harper Fisk.
"Apparently his body was released yesterday by the police," said Gordon. "He's being cremated this afternoon and Summer is planning to bury his urn in the family plot. You should come," invited Gordon. "It's just going to be a small graveside service at Magnolia Cemetery."
"Sounds so sad," said Delaine.
"It is sad," said Gordon. "Harper was the last of the Fisks."
"So I'd heard," said Theodosia.
So Harper Fisk's body has been released from the county morgue. Obviously the police have decided to treat it as an accidental death. Which means there'll be no further investigation. No official investigation, anyway.
"I'll try to make it," Theodosia told Gordon Sargent as they turned to leave. "I really will." ; Back in the darkness and cool of the restaurant, Delaine' was suddenly craning her neck every which way, doing some serious table spotting.
"Will you look at that!" she exclaimed. "Grace Broadmoor is having lunch with Sarah Jane Hastings. And I thought they weren't even on speaking terms! Theo, dear, if you don't mind, I'm just going to make a teeny, weeny little detour. I'll see you tonight. At the gallery opening. Okay?"
Without waiting for an answer, Delaine barreled into the main dining room to exchange air kisses with her lunching friends.
On her way toward the door, Theodosia glanced into the bar and wondered about the oil painting in question. The so-called John Singer Sargent.
Got to check this out, she told herself.
Walking into the bar, her sandals whispering softly on the plush carpeting, she went directly to the far wall where the painting was hung.
It was a rich and handsome piece. Two Spanish dancers romantically entwined, a small group of musicians playing in the background.
The painting was beautifully placed, too, and served as the main focal point within the bar. Centered on the cranberry red wall, a low mahogany side table had been placed directly beneath it. On the table was an ornate chimney-style brass and black enamel lamp.
Theodosia bent close and peered at the painting. Was it real? she wondered.
She studied the painting carefully, noting the way the light shone against the beaded surface. Then, because no one was around and the bartender seemed fairly well occupied with whipping up a couple Cosmopolitans, she picked up the brass lamp and held it near the painting. The light played across the canvas, revealing a pebbly, uninterrupted surface. Very convincing, to be sure, but not quite the look of old oil paint on hand-gessoed canvas. No, the painting was cleverly done, but it was definitely a reproduction.
Theodosia moved the lamp back into place. Very clever, she thought again, knowing that every restaurant needs some sort of gimmick these days, and every restaurateur a marketable story or unique persona. Thanks to her past life in marketing, promotion was one thing she understood exceedingly well.
CHAPTER 11
“THANK GOODNESS, YOU'RE back," Haley hissed from the kitchen as Theodosia let herself in the back door and hurried through her small office. With its antique wooden desk, tuffet-style chair, and celadon green walls that showcased a montage of posters and photographs, it was ordinarily a very attractive office. But today everything looked a mess. Empty shipping cartons were stacked everywhere, packing material littered the floor and obscured the Aubusson rug, her desk was piled high with tea catalogs.
"What's wrong?" asked Theodosia. Usually when she stepped out for a few hours, things didn't go crazy on her. This was the second day in a row that they had. Not good, she told herself. Not good. Running a small business is a contact sport. Better stay in contact.
"Drayton's in an absolute tizzy," warned Haley. "Summer Sullivan called a while ago and he was on the phone with her for almost twenty minutes. She's completely panicked ... everything's been erased from Harper Fisk's computer!"
Theodosia frowned, feeling the slightest prickle of unease. The odds against another bad break happening to someone in the English Breakfast Club had to be about a million to one. Yipes.
On the other hand, maybe it was just a simple computer glitch-not as bad as Drayton made it sound. Drayton didn't know beans about computers and Summer Sullivan could have just overreacted. Maybe Summer didn't realize that Harper probably had some sort of backup system, a zip drive or some such thing. Or if he hadn't been that fastidious, he might have backed his work up on disk.
"I'll talk to Drayton," said Theodosia. "See if I can help." Drayton was pouring tea when he saw Theodosia emerge from the back. He hustled over to her, slopping tea as he went.
Very uncharacteristic of him, Theodosia noted. He must be upset.
"Did Haley tell you?" Drayton whispered frantically. "Everything's been erased! Harper's business information, his personal files, all his notations on gifts to the Heritage Society! Everything!"
"You're sure it was erased from the hard drive?" asked Theodosia.
Drayton fixed her with a blank stare. "I don't know," he sputtered. "It's been erased from the computer. The thing that looks vaguely like a TV set and sits in the office at the Legacy Gallery. I don't know how the darn thing works, I just know the information is gone!"
"Was there a power glitch?" Theodosia wondered out loud as Haley emerged from the kitchen with an extra plate of ginger-pear scones.
"I don't know!" snapped Drayton. "I just know the whole thing sounds fishy."
"I told you I didn't trust Summer Sullivan," piped up Haley. "I think there's more to her than meets the eye.”
“ Tell you what," said Theodosia, glancing around the tea room quickly. "Soon as we finish with this luncheon crowd, we'll run over there. Okay?"
Poor girl has enough on her plate, thought Theodosia. And now Haley wants to accuse her of wrongdoing. No, it didn't feel right.
Drayton bobbed his head tightly. "Okay."
Summer Sullivan seemed flummoxed beyond belief. "I was just on this computer yesterday afternoon," she wailed, "and it was working fine. I know I'm no techno guru, but I've got a fairly decent working knowledge of computers."
