Dragonwell Dead

“Miss Maybelle,” began Theodosia. “I’m just curious. Why on earth would you want to grow plants such as those? I mean . . . they’re all so . . .”

An unexpected smile flitted across Miss Maybelle’s lined face. “Deadly?” she asked. “But, my dear, those plants have flourished on this plantation for a very long time. Psilocybin mushrooms, opium poppies, banewort, belladonna, black nightshade, foxglove, poison rhubarb, and three dozen other varieties of poisonous plants and herbs.”

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Drayton.

“Why, that nightshade garden and the statue of the angel was here when I moved in some thirty-seven years ago,” continued Miss Maybelle. “After my uncle James died and bequeathed this place to me, God rest his dear, departed soul.”

“Yes,” said Theodosia, still trying to wrest an answer from Miss Maybelle. “But why grow them at all?”

Miss Maybelle turned wide eyes on Theodosia. “You see, Carthage Place Plantation has been granted special permission from the state of South Carolina to grow these plants. Many clinical chemists and researchers make use of them.”

“Do you know the exact purpose?” asked a perplexed Drayton.

Now it was Miss Maybelle’s turn to look slightly puzzled as she glanced from Drayton to Theodosia. “I’m afraid I really don’t,” she told them.

9

Earl Grey’s nose was out of joint. He’d lobbied hard to go along with Theodosia to Carthage Place Plantation tonight and she’d told him no. Then, when Haley came over to walk him, he’d gotten a four-block jog instead of his usual two-mile romp through White Point Gardens down along the Battery.

So Earl Grey, Theodosia’s Dalbrador roommate and sometime service dog, was not a happy camper. Tonight he was a put-out pup.

“C’mon, Earl Grey,” Theodosia coaxed. “Eat your dinner.”

The dog sniffed his bowl of kibbles with its topping of steamed rice and looked away. When Earl Grey was upset he got finicky.

“Okay,” said Theodosia, feeling guilty now for leaving him at home. “Then how about a turkey neck?” Turkey and chicken necks, because they contained gristle but no bones, were excellent for dogs. High in protein, with a serious chew factor to boot.

Opening the refrigerator door, Theodosia fished out a raw turkey neck, gingerly holding the slimy offering between her thumb and index finger.

Earl Grey’s expressive brown eyes sparkled but still he feigned disinterest. He walked slowly over to Theodosia, sniffed at the proffered turkey neck, then hesitated. Finally he accepted it, giving Theodosia a look that clearly said, I’m not happy about tonight, but a fellow’s got to eat.

As the dog started toward the living room with the turkey neck clamped securely in his mouth, Theodosia called out to him, “Whoa there, pal. Keep it in here on the tile floor.”

Caught in the act, Earl Grey retreated to the kitchen.

While Earl Grey nibbled his turkey neck, Theodosia heated up a bowl of crab chowder, brewed a quick cup of chamomile tea, and grabbed an almond scone. Then she arranged everything on a wicker tray and carried it in to her dining-room table. True to her word, Haley had muscled both of Mark’s boxes upstairs. So now they rested on the table, too.

Maybe I’ll take a quick peek through them, Theodosia thought to herself. Although the big thing on her mind right now were the plants in the nightshade garden.

She wondered who would have known that such nasty plants were growing and actually thriving right there on the grounds of Carthage Place Plantation?

Drayton had procured the list of garden docents from Miss Maybelle Chase. So maybe, tomorrow morning, she’d take a look at that. But in the meantime . . .

Earl Grey, finished with his supper now, padded in and gave his mistress an inquisitive look.

“Okay, come on in,” she told him. Earl Grey, used to having the full run of Theodosia’s upstairs apartment, eased himself down on her green-and-cinnamon-colored Chinese rug and proceeded to groom his suede-like paws.

Theodosia stared at the two cardboard boxes. She was tired, the hour was late, and she was of a mind to forget the whole thing. On the other hand, some rather strange forces seemed to be at work. And some decidedly quirky people were beginning to look more and more like suspects. So maybe taking a quick look through Mark’s stuff would shed some light on any number of things.

Shoving her dinner tray to one side, she flipped open the lid on the first cardboard box. Digging a hand in, she grabbed a stack of papers, notes, and miscellaneous items, then spread everything out on her dining-room table and stared at it.

No, she decided, there’s a better way to do this.

She grabbed the box, tipped it upside down, and deposited the complete contents on her table.

Messy, she thought. But now I won’t miss anything.

Slowly, Theodosia sorted through the contents spread out closest to her: a box of business cards, a Swiss Army knife, auto club membership decals, a desk calendar. She tossed those things back into the box, then swept another pile toward her. This time she found tickets for last year’s Spoleto Festival, a few canceled checks, a small ceramic elephant, and an iPod.

Nothing very telling here, she decided as she stifled a yawn.

Theodosia was about to bag the entire search when her eyes fell upon a square envelope. It was good quality linen paper and had but one word handwritten on it: Mark.

Should I? wondered Theodosia, worrying that she might be peeping where she shouldn’t be.

She picked up the envelope, hesitated a moment, then opened it. Inside was a square note card, trimmed in gold with a tiny embossed bee at the top.

A short message was scrawled in looping handwriting:

Dear Mark,

Thank you for the lovely birthday lunch at Trocadero.

Maybe we can do it again sometime—my treat?

Holding my breath,

Fayne

Time stood still for a moment as Theodosia absorbed the contents and gist of this note. It was a note from an employee to her boss that seemed to cross the line of being merely friendly. The words seemed wistful, hopeful, and a little bit bold.

Theodosia scrunched around in her chair and stared at the oil painting that hung over her fireplace. It was a brood-ing seascape of a turn-of-the-century three-masted schooner caught in tempestuous waters far from the safe harbor of Charleston. With sails ripped and giant waves pounding onto its decks, there was no doubt the sailing ship would soon be lost. As she contemplated the painting she also contemplated the possibility that Fayne Hamilton had been in love with Mark Congdon. Or, if not in love with him, at least smitten.

Is that why Fayne seemed so discombobulated about Mark’s personal belongings being packed up by someone else? Theodosia wondered. Had Fayne realized the note she sent him might have been scooped up from his desk drawer and tossed into the mix? Maybe. Definitely maybe.

Drumming her fingernails on the table, Theodosia decided there could be more notes of this nature contained within these boxes.

If so, what would that prove? she wondered. That Fayne and Mark had