“You’re late,” called Parker Scully. He lifted one arm in a wave and flashed a welcoming smile at Theodosia as she hurried up the sidewalk toward the main door of the Heritage Society. Earl Grey trotted beside her, tethered by his red leather leash. “Is it your fault?” he asked gazing down at Earl Grey.
Earl Grey turned liquid brown eyes on Parker. The dog had picked up a crinkly yellow fast-food wrapper during his walk along the Battery and was now reluctant to relinquish his treasure.
“I almost ran out of time,” said Theodosia with a laugh. “Between taking care of business, walking his majesty here, and grabbing my notes for Orchid Lights.” She held up the sheaf of papers that was clutched in her hand. “Correction. Make that grabbing my disorganized notes.”
“And solving a murder mystery?” asked Parker. His bright blue eyes twinkled, he reached up a hand and casually ran it through a tousle of blond hair.
“Huh?” said Theodosia. She’d talked to Parker on the phone Sunday evening and relayed to him all the events of that utterly horrible day. But she hadn’t breathed a word to him about a murder. Or even a mystery. Come to think of it, Mark Congdon’s death hadn’t yet taken on the status of murder mystery at that time.
“How did you know about . . . uh . . . that?” Theodosia asked.
“Drayton blabbed,” said Parker, grinning. “I called your shop a little while ago hoping to get you and your Mr. Conneley picked up the phone. I asked how your friend Angie was doing and one thing just sort of led to another.”
“You’ll keep it under your hat, won’t you?” asked Theodosia. “Everything’s kind of in flux right now. We don’t even know if there is a . . .” She glanced around nervously.
“. . . a toxicology issue.”
“You secret’s safe with me,” Parker assured her. “But what I’m really curious about is, why are you such a light-ning rod for this stuff? I mean, somebody in this town drops dead and you’re Johnny on the case.”
“That’s so not true,” protested Theodosia.
Parker Scully peered at her. They’d been seeing each other on again and off again for a while now, so he could push the boundaries a little. But Parker chose to retreat. “Okay, I amend my statement. Not everyone warrants your getting involved.”
“That’s right,” Theodosia told him.
“However,” continued Parker, “from what I’ve seen, your investigative skills are rather impressive.”
“Oh . . . not really,” hedged Theodosia, anxious to change the subject as they pushed their way through the doors and hurried down the main hallway.
“Yes, they—” began Parker, but Theodosia interrupted him.
“I’m not exactly prepared for this meeting,” she said in a loud whisper. “Drayton kind of pulled me in at the last minute.”
“You’ll be fine,” Parker assured her as they rounded a corner and headed down another lengthy corridor lined with fine oil paintings. “Besides, with Timothy Neville at the helm the Heritage Society runs like a finely tuned Swiss watch. Probably all we’ll have to do this Saturday evening is show up and serve refreshments.”
Easier said than done, thought Theodosia.
“Theodosia?” called a high, papery voice. “Is that you?”
“Hello, Timothy,” said Theodosia as she and Parker swung around the doorway into the cypress-paneled board-room. “I brought Earl Grey along, hope you don’t mind.”
Timothy Neville waved a gnarled hand. “No problem. As long as he doesn’t try to usurp my position or lodge an opposing vote. But he does have to come over and give a proper hello.”
Theodosia unsnapped Earl Grey’s leash and the dog padded over to greet Timothy. While most of Charleston, including the board members, employees of the Heritage Society, and donors, were deeply intimidated by Timothy Neville, Earl Grey viewed Timothy as his buddy. To him Timothy Neville wasn’t a prominent member of Charleston society whose Huguenot ancestors had helped settle Charleston. Or a domineering old codger who lived in a splendid mansion over on Archdale Street and played first violin in the Charleston Symphony. No, to Earl Grey Timothy Neville was a guy’s guy who pulled his ears, gave him hearty pats, and occasionally produced a liver-flavored dog cookie from the pocket of his elegant pleated trousers.
“Ah,” said Timothy, removing the lump of soggy, yellow paper from Earl Grey’s mouth. “What do we have here? A treasure map? Long lost documents, perhaps?”
Earl Grey settled down happily at Timothy’s feet as Theodosia and Parker took their seats at the oval table alongside Drayton. Another half dozen volunteers also sat at the table, talking among themselves.
Timothy wasted no time in calling the meeting to order.
“Good evening and thank you all for coming this evening,” intoned Timothy. “I’ve invited Arthur Roumillat, president of the Charleston Orchid Society to join us. As you well know, his fine organization is partnering with ours to present Orchid Lights.”
There was a smattering of applause from everyone seated.
“Yes, yes,” said Timothy holding up a hand. “But remember that the main reason for this event is fund-raising. While other museums and nonprofit organizations are struggling, the Heritage Society fully intends to thrive.”
Timothy favored the group with a thin smile. He wanted to make it crystal clear that under his leadership the Heritage Society was vigorous and highly viable.
“Which means,” continued Timothy, “that our two groups will be running concurrent events. During the same time members of the Orchid Society are exhibiting prize specimens on our patio, the Heritage Society will be holding a silent auction in our great hall. Of course, there will also be music, refreshments, drinks, and entertainment. Hopefully, by causing a sort of ebb and flow of members and patrons between our two organizations we’ll achieve a critical new level of synergy.”
“And raise needed funds,” added Drayton.
“Raise funds,” echoed Timothy. “Absolutely.” He slipped into his seat as Arthur Roumillat stood to address the group. Arthur gave a ten-minute overview of how the orchid show would be presented and how many Orchid Society members would be attending.
Overall, Theodosia thought the pairing of the two groups was a particularly brilliant maneuver on Timothy’s part. It was a way to expose donors and patrons of the Orchid Society to the Heritage Society. And it gave longtime Heritage Society members a fun evening that included an outdoor show featuring one of nature’s most coveted floral species. She also perceived both events as upscale entertainment that would bring out the cream of Charleston society.
“And the entire outdoor patio will be awash with orchids,” finished Arthur Roumillat with an expansive 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.”