Laura Childs: Dragonwell Dead

Theodosia and Drayton rushed to put their arms around her.

“How are you doing, dear lady?” asked Drayton. “Are you holding up?”

“Oh, Angie,” cried Theodosia. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“You’re doing it,” said Angie, giving them a sad, lop-sided smile. “You’re here. Both of you. And that means the absolute world to me.”

“We were afraid we might be intruding,” said Drayton. “Even though we brought goodies. And Mark’s orchid.”

Angie glanced about the lobby, a wistful look on her face.

“As you can see, you’re not intruding at all,” she said. “In fact, I’m afraid Mark’s death has completely knocked me for a loop. There are still people to contact, things to do.” She dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. “But I can’t seem to manage it. In fact, I spent most of the morning on the phone with the hospital over in Summerville.”

“Come,” said Drayton, motioning to both women. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

“Have you received a more definitive cause of death from the cardiologist?” asked Theodosia, once they were all seated on low club chairs around a small wooden table.

Angie gazed at them, a strange, pinched look on her face. “Funny you should ask,” she said. “I just got off the phone with Sheriff Billings.” She reached in the pocket of her light jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “He faxed me this report.”

Angie held it out, as if willing Theodosia to take it.

Theodosia reached for the piece of paper in Angie’s hand and accepted it gently. “May I read it?” she asked.

“Please,” said Angie, who seemed to be in a mild state of shock.

Theodosia unfolded the paper and scanned the report. It appeared to be a standard hospital form with most of the pertinent medical facts filled in by hand. The first part of the form was a list of all the symptoms Mark Congdon had presented with. Dilated pupils, respiratory distress, cardiac arrhythmia, convulsions.

The next part listed the lifesaving measures the EMTs and ER personnel had employed. Blood gas analysis, epinephrine, defibrillation, cardiac catheterization.

Theodosia’s eyes skipped to the bottom of the report, to the line that read Cause of Death . Her brow furrowed, her heart thumped inside her chest as her eyes focused on the phrase that had been scrawled in: nonspecific toxin .

“Good heavens,” breathed Theodosia, as her brain suddenly started racing. A toxin is a poison, right? Sure it is.

“What?” asked Drayton, upon seeing Theodosia’s reaction. “What?”

Wordlessly, Theodosia handed him the paper.

Drayton put on his glasses and quickly scanned the report. “Nonspecific toxin!” he exclaimed when he got to the bottom of the page. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Angie swiped at her eyes again with her hanky. “I have no idea. But I’ve been under the complete impression that Mark either suffered a heart attack or had some kind of brain aneurysm. Those were the two things that fixed in my mind. And the doctors and medical personnel had pretty much confirmed that.” She leaned closer toward Drayton. “You know, Mark always pushed himself so hard. Up at five, at the office by seven. Of course, that’s what being a commodity broker is all about.” Her shoulders slumped, her hands shook. “Now this . . .”

“Good lord,” said Drayton, aiming a level gaze at Theodosia. “This medical report changes everything.”

But Theodosia’s mind had already leapt into overdrive. If toxin means poison, then poison means murder , she told herself. “Here, Drayton, let me see that report again.”

“I . . . uh . . . couldn’t bring myself to read the entire contents of the report,” said Angie. “It seemed . . .” Her voice cracked. “. . . so very final.”

“You should call the hospital and see if you can get more detailed information,” said Theodosia. “This simply isn’t acceptable. I’m sure there are more specific lab tests that can be run. Certain . . . uh, what would you call them? Tox screens?”

“I’m not sure I could manage that right now,” Angie said. Her voice was a whisper and her shoulders slumped dejectedly. Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. She seemed on the verge of collapse.

“Would you like me to see if I can find out more?” asked Theodosia. Her heart went out to poor Angie Congdon. She’d never seen her friend look so fragile.

“Theo,” said Angie, reaching for Theodosia’s hand. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” said Theodosia. “I’ll phone the hospital and . . .”

“She’ll take this up with law enforcement, too,” volunteered Drayton.

“Bless you,” Angie whispered to Theodosia. “You’re such a calm, take-charge person.” Her eyes drifted toward Drayton. “You, too, Drayton. If the two of you can find it within your hearts to help me, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“We’ll do whatever we can,” promised Drayton even as he threw Theodosia a pleading look. “Won’t we?”

“Count on it,” said Theodosia, realizing she’d somehow backed herself into a fairly serious investigation.

A murder investigation? Yeah, maybe.

“There’s so much to handle all at once,” fretted Angie. “Plan a funeral, notify all our friends and relatives. I suppose I’ll have to go down to Mark’s office and pick up his address book . . .”

“I’ll do that,” volunteered Theodosia. In for a penny, in for a pound , she told herself.

“Would you really?” asked Angie.

“No problem,” said Theodosia. “I’ll stop by Loveday and Luxor first thing tomorrow.”

“And I’ll certainly assist with funeral arrangements,” said Drayton. “Do you know when . . . uh . . . when Mark’s body will be. . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

“No,” came Angie’s choked voice. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What exactly does nonspecific toxin mean?” Drayton asked Theodosia as the two of them hurried back down the street, headed for the tea shop.

“It means something got into Mark’s system and killed him,” said Theodosia. “But the docs don’t know exactly what it was.”

“Like a poison?” asked Drayton.

Theodosia looked grim. “It’s not a pretty thought, but that notion had crossed my mind.”

“How ghastly,” said Drayton.

They walked along in silence for a while.

“You know,” said Theodosia, “there’s a possibility someone might have tampered with the sweet tea yesterday.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Drayton, fingering his bow tie nervously. “I brewed that tea myself!”

“Think about it,” said Theodosia. “Mark drank a glass of tea, then immediately collapsed.”

“But anyone could have drunk that tea,” sputtered Drayton. “Others did drink that tea.”

“Good point,” responded Theodosia.

“Delaine was the one who was pouring,” murmured Drayton. “You don’t think she somehow . . . ?”

“Of course not,” said Theodosia. She’d known Delaine for years. The woman was ditsy, yes. But a murderer? Hardly.

“I suppose someone could have gotten to that tea,” allowed Drayton. “Although there wouldn’t be any evidence. Everything got spilled or thrown away yesterday in all the commotion.”

“What if there was something wrong with Mark’s glass?” said Theodosia. She was suddenly reminded of the painted glasses that Angie, Mark, and Bobby Wayne had purchased at the art booth.

“You think there was a dangerous toxin in the paint?” asked Drayton.

“It’s a thought,” said Theodosia. At this point she had no idea what happened. “Although lots of other people purchased those glasses, and nothing happened to them.”