Theodosia parked her Jeep in the circular drive that led to an entrance fronted with a half dozen white Doric columns and a dark green canvas awning. Palmetto trees stood guard on each side of the main door; bougainvillea plants spilled out of red ceramic pots. They nodded to the liveried doorman, breezed through the main lobby, hooked a left, and headed down a wide hallway.
“Where do you think the brunch is being held?” Drayton asked. “The Rose Room or the Solarium?”
“Has to be the Rose Room,” Theodosia said. “It’s the showiest spot.”
Drayton nodded. “Of course. That would be Delaine’s preference.”
And there was Delaine, standing at the entrance, looking a little unsettled but welcoming everyone and distributing air-kisses like fairy dust.
“Theo, Drayton!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for coming.” She put a hand on Drayton’s arm, pulled him close, and said, “You know, if I’d had more time I could’ve planned a destination funeral. I hear those are so on trend right now.”
“A destination funeral,” Theodosia repeated, deadpan.
“Where to?” Drayton asked.
Delaine shrugged. “I understand the Turks and Caicos are lovely this time of year.”
“Indeed,” Drayton said, in a strained tone. He looked around, spotted a large silver teapot, and headed off in that direction.
Theodosia, on the other hand, stepped into the Rose Room, saw Julie Eiden, the intern, hand a clutch of papers to Eddie Fox, and decided to make the two of them her immediate business.
She approached them just as Julie said, “It’s the updated schedule from the postproduction house. The final edit is set for Monday.”
“Yeah. Good,” Fox said, folding the papers and jamming them into his jacket pocket. Then he spotted Theodosia and said, “Hey, tea lady, how’s it going?”
“Not bad for a funeral,” Theodosia said as Julie scooted away.
“Do you know her well?” Theodosia asked, nodding after Julie.
“Julie? I’ve only dealt with her a few times. But, from what I can see, the poor kid’s getting the short end of the stick.”
Theodosia wanted to know more. “How so?”
“Take it from me, Harv and Marv are no picnic to work for.” His eyes darted sideways and he pursed his lips.
Theodosia searched his face. “Was there something else? It seemed as if you were about to . . .”
“Say more?” Fox dipped his chin and lowered his voice. “Well, yeah. The thing is, when Nadine was with the company . . .”
“Yes?” Theodosia slowly drew out her word.
“Whenever we sat down for a production meeting, Nadine acted as if she hated Julie.”
“Are you serious?”
“Heck yeah. I once saw Nadine lay into Julie because she brought her the wrong kind of sandwich from the deli.” He shook his head. “It was something really stupid . . . like rye bread instead of whole wheat. I don’t remember what exactly, but I do know Nadine was super picky. And nasty. But that was Nadine’s thing. She was always horrid to Julie no matter how hard the poor kid tried to please her.”
“And now there’s no Nadine,” Theodosia said. She had a sudden, strange thought, immediately dismissed it, then let her brain circle back to it. What if Julie, pushed to the breaking point by Nadine’s cruelty and nattering, had finally hit the wall? What if Julie had grown to hate Nadine as much as Nadine hated her? And then murdered her?
Interesting idea. Crazy idea. But wouldn’t that mean Julie had been involved in cocaine? She certainly didn’t look like a druggie or a party girl. But these days, who could tell?
Drayton tapped Theodosia on the shoulder. “Excuse me?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Hey,” Fox said. “It’s Mr. GQ. All dressed up in his funeral suit.”
Drayton ignored him. “We need to eat and get back to the Indigo Tea Shop ASAP.”
“Excuse me,” Theodosia said to Fox. “The buffet line calls.”
“See ya guys,” Fox said as he headed for the bar.
“This looks delicious,” Drayton said as they picked up their plates and started down the buffet line. Charleston’s culinary landscape embraced influences from Europe, Africa, France, and the Caribbean, so dining out was always an adventure—whether it be the lush ambiance of the Charleston Grill or the gracious hospitality of 82 Queen.
“Farrow and shrimp hash,” Theodosia said as she ladled a helping onto her plate. “Yum.”
“Plus Charleston-style oysters Benedict,” Drayton said. “Your basic fried oysters and poached eggs on a toasted English muffin.”
“And I have to try some of this French toast stuffed with apples and topped with whipped cream.”
“Couldn’t be as good as Haley’s.”
Theodosia placed a piece of French toast on her plate. “I’m more than willing to do a taste test.”
“Okay, and here’s some braised okra. We really should sample that as well.”
“Agreed.”
Plates filled, Theodosia and Drayton wove their way through the maze of tables over to where Delaine and Bettina were seated.
Delaine, who had passed on the brunch in order to smoke a cigarette and sip a glass of white wine, immediately pounced on them.
“What did you think of the funeral?” she asked.
“It was lovely,” Theodosia said.
“Mm-hmm,” was Drayton’s comment.
“Did you like my poem?”
“I think all the readings were quite apropos,” Theodosia said.
Delaine gave a twitchy smile. “Bettina’s selection was lovely, yes? A bit churchy and preachy, but nicely done.” She reached over and patted the girl’s hand. “You did good, sweetie.”
Bettina focused a gaze on Theodosia and gave a rueful smile, as if to say, What can you do? She’s family and I’m stuck with her.
Theodosia was working her way through her shrimp hash, when, nearby, voices suddenly rose a couple of decibels—as if a disagreement or argument had broken out. And then, in another instant, all hell broke loose as aggressive shouts escalated to a fever pitch.
Definitely not indoor voices. Now what’s going on?
Theodosia looked across a sea of tables and saw Eddie Fox waving his arms wildly and shouting at Marvin Chauvet who was still seated. Fox, who’d adapted a threatening posture, was haranguing Chauvet about something—and there seemed to be no sign of letting up. Then, just as suddenly, Chauvet, who’d obviously had enough, let out a primal scream and jumped to his feet so fast his chair toppled over with a loud BANG.