Dragonwell Dead

“What?” squawked Teddy. “I thought the fire started because of faulty wiring.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” said Theodosia. “And rest assured that the fire department will dig deep and look at all the angles. I also imagine that sooner or later—probably sooner—they’ll get around to questioning you.”

“I already talked to them,” Teddy told her. “Right after the fire.”

“I’m quite positive they’ll be talking with you again,” said Theodosia.

“Because you’ll make sure of it, won’t you?” said Teddy. He sounded bitter, defeated.

Theodosia tugged on Earl Grey’s leash and the dog turned toward her, eager to get moving again. “Count on it,” she told Teddy.

Theodosia was still furious with Teddy Vickers when she arrived home. She decided that he’d basically betrayed Angie.

Not by doing anything illegal, but because he’d betrayed her trust. Angie had hired Teddy and given him a lot of responsibility. Now Teddy was repaying her by attempting to profit on her terrible misfortune.

Feeling unsettled by her conversation with Teddy and apprehensive about appearing on television tomorrow, Theodosia stomped into her kitchen and put her tea kettle on. She’d brew a cup of jasmine tea. That sweet, flavorful elixir always served to soothe her nerves.

Carrying her tea into the bedroom, Theodosia hoped that somewhere in her overstuffed walk-in closet she’d discover the perfect outfit to wear for tomorrow’s TV appearance.

She also prayed she could dash in to Channel 8, do a fast forty-five-second pitch on Orchid Lights, and remind view-ers that tickets were still available. Then she’d get the heck out of there with a minimum of fanfare. Head off to Delaine’s.

Delaine’s. Thud.

Somehow, the notion of trying on a romantic, flouncy dress did little to cheer her. It was the idea of ruffles, she decided. Ruffles were great on christening gowns, prom dresses, and some wedding gowns. And relatively cute when tastefully adorning silk blouses or a full skirt you might wear to a garden party.

Ruffles were definitely not good on men’s tuxedo shirts, dog and cat collars, and, probably . . . that dress. The mysterious dress that awaited her at Cotton Duck.

Plopping down on her bed, Theodosia tilted her head left, then right, detecting a few sore spots on her back. She’d definitely banged a shoulder in her headlong plunge this morning. And put a strain on her lower back with all the frantic swimming and diving. She wondered how Drayton was faring this evening. Decided he’d probably retired early with a steaming cup of rosehip tea, his calming tonic of choice.

Theodosia clasped her fingers together at the base of her neck, massaging with her thumbs. She tried to hit the pressure points that might relieve those nagging aches. Sliding her hands upward, she massaged the back of her head with her fingertips and instantly felt better. She closed her eyes, working her fingers up over her occipital ridge to the top of her skull.

Better now. Much better with the old magic fingers massage.

As feelings of relaxation seeped through her, Theodosia’s eyes gradually fluttered open and she found herself gazing at the top of her dresser. It was a little messy, just like the top of her desk, with its collection of perfume bottles, a Baccarat crystal Labrador, and a little ceramic Buddha that had multiple strands of colored beads wound around it.

Then Theodosia’s eyes landed on the box she’d brought back from the Bogard Inn last night. The box she’d been going to deliver to Angie.

Little ceramic elephant, iPod, and that ticket.

As she eased herself down onto her bed, she thought to herself, Ticket. I’ve just got to ask someone about that ticket.

21

Constance Brucato, the producer for Windows on Charleston, was waiting impatiently for Theodosia when she arrived in the Channel 8 lobby.

Dark haired, broad shouldered, always slightly out of breath, Constance’s only greeting was “Hurry up!” as she motioned impatiently for Theodosia to follow her. When Theodosia complied, Constance turned and hurried down a long white corridor hung with trendy pieces of art. Stopping at a door marked Edit Room, Constance knocked softly, then pushed her way into a dimly lit control room.

“What, no hair and makeup?” quipped Theodosia. “No green room?”

But Constance was in no mood for humor today. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to watch Windows on Charleston lately,” she said as she paused near a console where a dozen monitors flickered and two men slouched over a huge panel of buttons. “But we’ve got a brand-new show host.”

Theodosia, who was usually at the Indigo Tea Shop by eight-thirty, rarely had time to catch Windows on Charleston, which aired at ten. She shook her head, offered a rueful smile. “Sorry,” she told Constance. “Haven’t seen it lately.”

“Well, our new host, hostess really, is a wonderful woman,” trilled Constance. “Tons of personality. Hand-picked by our general manger.”

Theodosia peered at Constance. She’d spent time in marketing, she knew a sell job when she heard one.

“Here’s the other thing,” began Constance. “We had to change the format a touch.” She tapped her pen nervously against her clipboard. “We have another guest that’s going to appear with you.”

“Really,” said Theodosia. “Because I was under the impression I’d be going on alone. Just to give a quick reminder about tonight’s Orchid Lights.”

“That may have been the case a few days ago,” said Constance. “But we’ve reshuffled things.” She shrugged. “That’s the nature of television. Always in flux.”

“So who . . . ?” began Theodosia.

But Constance was on the move again. “This way,” she said sharply, pushing her way through another set of double doors and leading Theodosia directly into a dimly lit studio.

“Excellent,” muttered Constance. “He’s setting up now.”

Theodosia peered across the studio, but cameras and set components blocked her view. “Who is?” she asked, picking her way carefully through thick black cables that snaked underfoot. She could see a small table packed with orchids, lit overhead by a row of extremely bright lights. Curious now, Theodosia moved a few steps forward, easing herself around a large TV monitor. Then her tentative smile turned to sudden dismay as she recognized the second guest.

“Harlan Noble?” Theodosia reached a hand out and squeezed Constance’s plump arm. “I’m appearing with Harlan Noble?”

“Yes,” said Constance, shaking herself free of Theodosia. “He very graciously agreed to bring in some of his most prized orchids.”

“And you want us to go on . . . together?” Theodosia’s normally well-modulated voice had turned into a protesting squawk.

“My executive producer had strong feelings about this,” said Constance. “Showing actual orchids versus just talking about them in the abstract.”

“I can understand that,” said Theodosia. “And I think putting Harlan Noble’s orchids on camera is a wonderful idea. So why not let Mr. Noble go on alone and present his collection?”

“No, no, no,” protested Constance Brucato. “That’s not the way we visualized the segment.” She held up a fistful of six-by-eight-inch cards and riffled them in Theodosia’s face. “I’ve already written out cards for Abby Davis, the host of Windows on Charleston. Abby’s very meticulous about preproduction, so I’m not about to burden her with any deviation in the plan. Besides, if I changed anything now, she’d kill me!”