Dragonwell Dead

gesture.

“Excuse me,” said Drayton, putting a hand up. “But we need half of that patio for tables and chairs. We’re already planning on glass-topped tables with festive centerpieces.”

Arthur Roumillat frowned at Drayton. “First I’ve heard of that.”

“Check your notes from last month’s meeting,” Drayton reminded him. He was a fourth-term board member as well as the Heritage Society’s parliamentarian.

Timothy Neville suddenly looked unhappy. “Can you two work this out, please?” he asked. “Divvy up the territory so to speak.”

“Certainly,” said Drayton. “And I want to remind you that Theodosia here has graciously volunteered to donate tea and desserts for Saturday night.”

Warm smiles were suddenly focused on Theodosia. Celerie Stuart, one of the newest board members, said in a loud whisper, “You do so much, Theo.”

Theodosia waved a hand as if to say, It’s nothing.

Drayton continued.

“And Parker Scully, owner of Solstice Bistro and Wine Bar, will be donating and serving select alcoholic refreshments.” Drayton peered over his half-glasses at Parker. “Do we know exactly what those libations will be yet?”

“White wine spritzers and a fancy cocktail as yet to be determined,” replied Parker good-naturedly.

Drayton picked up his pen and scratched a note on his yellow legal pad. “Yet to be determined,” he murmured.

Timothy Neville took that opportunity to grab the floor again. “And our newest board member, Celerie Stuart, has been working with numerous volunteers to coordinate our silent auction.” Timothy turned his dark, piercing eyes on Celerie. “As I understand it, some rather exotic items have been donated. Celerie, would you care to enlighten us? Give us a little taste of what’s to come?”

Celerie Stuart scratched the tip of her nose with her pencil eraser as she consulted her notes. Midforties, with a cap of reddish-blond curls, Celerie was a consummate volunteer and Junior Leaguer. “We’ve actually had an amazing amount of donations,” she told the group. “Some of the items we’ve received include harbor cruises, a weekend at a Hilton Head resort, an exquisite collection of toy soldiers, oil paintings, a fishing charter, handcrafted silver jewelry, golf clubs, fifty pounds of raw oysters, and even a ride in a fighter jet.”

There were excited murmurs all around the table.

“And we’re still selling tickets?” asked Theodosia. “For admission this Saturday night?”

“Absolutely,” said Timothy. “Thirty-five dollars if you phone in your reservation, forty dollars if you purchase your ticket at the door.”

“And there’s been fairly good publicity?” Theodosia asked.

Timothy nodded again. “We’ve already had a sidebar in the Arts section of the Charleston Post and Courier, plus listings on the community calendars of most major radio stations.” He hesitated. “We’ve also received an invitation from Channel Eight to appear on their Windows on Charleston show this Saturday morning.” He gazed around the table, casting an appraising eye at the group. “We still need a volunteer for that. Preferably someone who’s media savvy.”

Drayton immediately thrust an elbow into Theodosia’s ribs. “You,” he said in a loud stage whisper.

Sitting on Theodosia’s other side, Parker immediately took up Drayton’s cause. “Theodosia would be perfect,” agreed Parker.

Timothy turned gleaming eyes on her. “Yes,” he said, as if the idea had just that moment occurred to him. “You did work in marketing, didn’t you? And you’ve appeared on television before.”

Theodosia held up both hands in protest. She didn’t feel she was the best spokesperson for this event. Didn’t think she was all that convincing on camera. “I would think you’d be the logical candidate, Timothy.” Her eyes sought out Arthur Roumillat. “Or Mr. Roumillat.”

But Arthur Roumillat shook his head dismissively. “Can’t,” he said. “Way too much to do this Saturday. The Orchid Society has never set up at this location before and it looks like we’ve got some serious logistical problems to work out. We’ve got plans for at least a dozen tables to showcase perhaps seventy-five individual entries, so I couldn’t possibly take time out to do a media appearance.”

Timothy placed both hands flat on the table and smiled at Theodosia. It was a wide, barracuda smile. A smile that meant he’d finagled his way. “The matter’s settled then,” said Timothy. “Theodosia will be our media spokesperson and do the on-air appearance with Windows on Charleston.”

“Good for you,” said Parker, patting her on the back.

“I didn’t exactly volunteer,” muttered Theodosia.

“The television appearance was the last thing on the docket,” said Timothy, gazing down the length of the table. “So we seem to have matters well under control.”

“What about a photographer?” asked Celerie. “Were you able to line one up?”

Timothy grimaced. “I have one. Suffice it to say he was not my first choice. Nor even my second or third. Unfortunately, all the really good photographers seemed to be booked.”

“Who did you get?” asked Drayton.

“Bill Glass,” replied Timothy. “The fellow who publishes Shooting Star.”

“Oh no,” groaned Drayton. “The man’s an absolute pain.” He turned to Theodosia. “You remember him.”

Theodosia nodded. She did know Bill Glass and she wasn’t a bit thrilled with Timothy’s choice, either. Bill Glass’s weekly publication, Shooting Star, was a glossy, gossipy tabloid. People devoured it, but that didn’t make it good.

“Mr. Glass may be slightly more commercial than the Heritage Society is used to,” responded Timothy, staring at them with hooded eyes. “But he’s given me assurances that Shooting Star will carry a front-page promo article for Orchid Lights. And his paper does come out Friday, the day preceding our event.”

“It’s a rag,” snipped Drayton.

Timothy, who was old enough and rich enough to face anyone down, merely said, “It’s free PR.”

6

A former cotton warehouse, the century-old brick building that stood near the corner of President and Bee streets had been updated, rehabbed, and rewired. Now it was an elegant showpiece that housed the offices of Loveday and Luxor Commodity Brokers.

Theodosia crossed the gleaming wood floor of the reception area, glancing at colorful, geometric paintings that hung on the old yellow-brick walls. Under foot was a contemporary red-and-purple area rug. A receptionist was perched behind a sleek glass desk you probably wouldn’t care to sit at if you were wearing a miniskirt.

The young woman looked up from her silver laptop as Theodosia approached. “May I help you?” she asked. Her long dark hair swished at her shoulders.

“I’m here to pick up a few things from Mark Congdon’s office,” explained Theodosia. “I’m Theodosia Browning. I spoke with Bobby Wayne, your senior partner, yesterday?”

“Of course,” said the receptionist. Her hand moved toward the intercom system, flicked a flat button. “Mr. Loveday’s in a meeting, but I’ll buzz Fayne. She was Mr. Congdon’s administrative assistant.”

“Thank you,” said Theodosia. She rocked back on her heels, taking in more of the decor. And wondered why it was that when interior designers got their hands on a graceful old building, many of them felt compelled to pack it full of contemporary art objects. Wondered why they felt driven to juxtapose old with new. Was it . . .

“Miss Browning?” came a timorous voice.

Theodosia interrupted her art critique to find a young woman gazing soulfully at her. “Yes,” she answered. “That’s me.”

The young woman extended her hand in a cordial, business-like manner. “I’m Fayne Hamilton, Mr. Congdon’s assistant.”