Dragonwell Dead, page 2
part #8 of A Tea Shop Mystery Series
“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 mummified 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.
