Dragonwell Dead

particularly knowledgeable in this area. We work through a wonderful company called Sun Commonwealth Trust. They’re the FCM, or futures commission merchant, who administers the plan.”

“So Loveday and Luxor is basically brokering their product,” said Theodosia.

Leah nodded. “In a way. And we feel extremely fortunate to be affiliated with Sun Commonwealth. As FCMs go they have a stellar reputation.”

“Really,” said Theodosia.

“They garnered a sidebar in Futures magazine not too long ago,” Leah said knowingly.

“Ah,” said Theodosia, who’d never read Futures magazine. It was as far from her daily realm as a gossip tabloid.

“So what I’m going to do,” said Leah, reaching into her caramel-colored leather handbag, “is leave one of our brochures with you.” She placed a small four-color brochure on the table and slid it toward Theodosia. On the cover was a montage photo of various foreign currency and gold coins. Leah’s business card was stapled to the top of the brochure. “Read through it,” urged Leah. “At your leisure, of course. Then we can get together and I’ll answer any questions you might have.” She favored Theodosia with a bright smile, a salesperson’s smile.

“Great,” said Theodosia, slipping the little brochure into her apron pocket and knowing this type of investment was way too rich for her blood. She gazed across the table at Leah, who was looking very pleased with her little pitch.

“Can I ask you a question?” said Theodosia.

“Shoot,” said Leah. She reached down, picked up her scone and took a dainty bite.

“Do you think Fayne Hamilton was in love with Mark Congdon?”

Leah stopped chewing and lifted her head to stare at Theodosia. “What a funny question,” she said. “Impertinent, but a little juicy, too.”

Theodosia sat there, letting Leah have her fun. Finally, the woman answered.

“It was probably just a silly little crush,” said Leah. “After all, lots of secretaries fall in love with their bosses. Or coworkers.” Leah shrugged. “Offices are kind of a breeding ground for that kind of familiarity. Everyone works close, you’re together almost every day . . .”

“But do you think she was in love with him?” asked Theodosia, knowing that people caught in the throes of passion, or perceived passion, will sometimes go to extremes. Driven by sheer emotion, they often made unwise decisions.

“Was she in love,” said Leah, drawing out the last word. “I don’t know.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Maybe. Probably.”

Theodosia decided to finish out her day by going through some of the tea and tableware catalogs in her office. Dreaming over the new Wedgwood Bloomers plates that featured a giant, hand-painted rose, picking out a few tea novelty items. She was going to order some rock sugar as well as some green-tea anemones. The anemones were spring-picked tea leaves that had been bundled together, tied with string, and flattened into a rosette. They were basically display teas—you put an anemone in a glass teapot and watched it bloom. A couple of customers had requested anemones, so she was going to order a few. See if other people were charmed by them, too.

Then there was the silver samovar she had her eye on. An elegant, convenient way to heat water, brew tea, and then serve it as well. This one was an updated version of the classic Russian tea samovar and was in the four- hundred-dollar range. A little steep, but they could certainly use it when catering events.

Just as Theodosia jotted down the catalog number for the silver samovar, the phone rang. Knowing everyone was still busy pouring tea and serving the last course of fruit parfait, she picked up the phone herself.

The man on the line identified himself as John Darnell, the fire marshal for the Charleston Fire Department. Theodosia had known that sooner or later he’d get around to her, wanting to ask questions about what she’d seen or done the day of the Featherbed House fire.

Darnell wasted no time with his line of questioning.

“I understand you were one of the first people on the scene,” he said, sounding conversational and rather low-key.

“That’s right,” replied Theodosia.

“Did you happen to see anyone on or near the property? Anyone who was lingering, or driving by, or maybe just seemed a little out of place?”

Theodosia hesitated. “Is this a criminal investigation?”

“This is an investigation,” responded John Darnell. “Did you see someone, Miss Browning?” he prompted. His tone had suddenly turned a touch more official.

“There was one young woman,” replied Theodosia. “I noticed her walking away from the Featherbed House just as I was driving toward it.”

“You personally know this woman?” asked Darnell. “Or you can describe her?”

Theodosia took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Her name is Fayne Hamilton. And she actually works at the same company where Mark Congdon worked.”

“Mark Congdon, the owner of the property,” said the fire marshal. Now his voice was neutral, flat. But there was the sound of papers rustling in the background and Theodosia could tell Darnell was checking through reports as he chatted with her on the phone.

“Mark Congdon, the homicide victim,” said John Darnell.

“That’s right,” said Theodosia. She felt bad about siccing the fire marshal on Fayne Hamilton. But what could she do? The girl had been seen in the vicinity. And Theodosia did have her own suspicions as well.

“Can you think of anyone else you might have seen that day?” asked Darnell.

Theodosia thought about Harlan Noble standing in the crowd, watching the fire with his dark, hooded eyes. He’d been coveting Mark’s orchids earlier, had even tried to purchase them. Would Harlan destroy them if he couldn’t get his hands on them? Theodosia thought about Leah Shalimar, too. Now heading up the division that Mark would have headed up. And she thought about Teddy Vickers, who was suddenly aspiring to be the new owner of the Featherbed House.

So many suspects, she thought to herself. So many questions.

But the fire marshal still had a few surprising questions of his own.

“Miss Browning, how long have you been personally acquainted with Angie Congdon?”

Theodosia thought for a second. “Maybe three, three and a half years.”

“Do you know if there have been any recent problems at the Featherbed House?”

“Problems?” said Theodosia, wondering just where this line of questioning was headed. “I doubt they had any more problems than any other small business,” she finally replied.

The fire marshal paused slightly, as if gathering his thoughts. “Do you know if there were any problems between Mrs. Congdon and her husband?”

Time stood still for Theodosia.

“You’re asking about Angie?” said a stunned Theodosia. “And your questions are leading to doubts about her character?”

John Darnell cleared his throat. “Look at it from our point of view, ma’am. In a complex situation such as this, we have to take a hard look at everyone.”

It had been a long day and everyone was exhausted. Drayton and Charlie sat sprawled on chairs in the tea room. Miss Dimple was gamely clearing away dirty dishes. Haley rattled pots and pans in the kitchen. But it wasn’t her usual “let’s finish this up and get to night class” rattle. She seemed like she was done in, too.

“You look tired, Drayton,” said Theodosia. “You, too, Charlie.” Drayton was far from being a young man and Charlie wasn’t yet used to flying around the tea shop all day, staying on her feet.

“I am tired,” agreed Drayton. He glanced sideways at Charlie. “We both are.”

Charlie nodded in agreement, seemingly too exhausted to utter a single word.

“Then you two scoot on home,” said Theodosia. “I’ll finish up here.”