by Laura Childs
Bethany tucked the serving tray against one hip and started toward him, intent on asking if she could refill his teacup or perhaps clear his table.
But as she approached, goose bumps rose on her arms, and a shiver ran down her spine. The night had turned suddenly chill. A stiff breeze tumbled dry leaves underfoot, whipsawed a final brave stand of camellias, and sent petals fluttering. The candle on the table nearest her was instantly snuffed, and the candle sitting on the man’s table began to sputter wildly.
Bethany was within four feet of the man when a warning bell sounded in her head. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her! But as she squinted into the darkness, the erratic candlelight hissed and flared, illuminating the man’s face.
The calm of the courtyard was shattered by Bethany’s shrill scream. The silver tray crashed to the bricks. Teacups broke into shards, and a half-filled pot of tea exploded on impact.
Theodosia heard Bethany’s cry from inside the butler’s panty. She slammed open the door and rushed outside and through the tangle of empty tables. “Bethany!” she called, urgency in her voice, worry swelling in her breast.
Anguish written across her face, all Bethany could do was back away from the table and point to the man sitting there alone.
Heels clicking like rapid fire, Theodosia approached. She saw immediately that the man slumped in his chair, his chin heavy on his chest. One hand dangled at his knees, and the other rested on the table, still clutching a teacup. As Theodosia quickly took in this strange scene, her fleeting impression was that the tiny teacup decorated in swirling gold vines seemed dwarfed by the man’s enormous hand.
“Theodosia, what are you . . .” From across the way, Samantha’s voice rose sharply, then died.
Another strangled cry tore from Bethany’s mouth. She pointed toward Samantha, who had crumpled in a dead faint.
Haley and Drayton had followed close on Theodosia’s heels. But now they quickly bent over Samantha and ministered to her.
Theodosia’s brain shifted into overdrive. “Haley, call nine-one-one. Bethany, stop crying.”
“She’s all right, just fainted,” called Drayton as he gently lifted Samantha to a sitting position.
“Bethany, get a glass of water for Samantha,” Theodosia directed. “Do it now. And please try to stop crying.”
Theodosia turned her attention back to the man’s motionless body. Gently, she laid her index and forefinger against the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a pulse. No breath signs, either.
Theodosia inhaled sharply. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
During her college days, one of Theodosia’s more unorthodox professors, Professor Hammish Poore, had taken his entire biology class on a field trip to the Charleston County Morgue. There they’d witnessed two autopsies first-hand. Although it had been more than a few years since that grisly experience, Theodosia was still reasonably familiar with the body’s sad signs that indicated life had ceased.
This poor man could have had a sudden heart attack, she reasoned. Or experienced an explosive brain embolism. Death from asphyxiation was a possibility as well. But if something had obstructed his airway, someone would have heard him choking.
Wouldn’t they?
Theodosia was aware of hushed murmurs of concern in the background, of Drayton shaking his head slowly, speaking in solemn tones about Hughes Barron.
This was Hughes Barron?
Theodosia fixed her attention on the hand holding the teacup. In the flickering spasms of the candle she could see the man’s fingernails had begun to turn blue, causing her to wonder: What was in that cup besides tea?
Chapter 3
The magic of the night was suddenly shattered by the harsh strobe of red and blue lights. Three police cruisers roared down the street and braked to a screeching halt. Front tires bounced roughly up over curbs, sending a gaggle of curious onlookers scattering. The whoop-whoop of a rapidly approaching ambulance shrilled.
Klang und licht, thought Theodosia. Sound and light. So much excitement, so much kinetic energy being exerted. But as she stood under the oak tree in the dark garden, surveying the slumped body of Hughes Barron, she knew no amount of hurry or flurry on the part of police or paramedics would make a whit of difference. Hughes Barron was beyond help. He was in the Lord’s hands now.
But, of course, they all came blustering into the courtyard anyway: four police officers from the precinct headquarters on Broad Street, all with polished boots and buttons; a team of EMTs dispatched from Charleston Memorial Hospital, who jounced their clattering metal gurney across the brick patio; and six firemen, and who seemed to have shown up just to feed off the excitement.
The two EMTs immediately checked Hughes Barron’s pulse and respiration and hung an oxygen mask on him. One knelt down and put a stethoscope to Barron’s chest. When he ascertained that the man no longer had a heartbeat, activity seemed to escalate.
Two officers immediately cornered Drayton, Haley, Bethany, and Samantha for interviews and statements. Another team of officers began the business of stringing yellow police tape throughout the garden.
A tall, muscular policeman, with an impressive display of stars and bars on his uniform and a name tag that read Grady, turned his attention to Theodosia.
“You found him?” Grady had a bulldog face and a heroic amount of gear attached to his belt: gun, flashlight, radio, handcuffs, billy club. Theodosia thought he looked like a human Swiss Army knife.
For some reason—the illogic of the situation or the shock at finding someone dead—this Swiss Army knife analogy tickled Theodosia, and she had to struggle to maintain an impassive expression.
“Actually, no,” she said, finally answering Grady’s question. “One of the young ladies who works for me, Bethany Shepherd, noticed something was wrong.” She gestured toward Bethany, who was across the courtyard, talking to one of the other officers. “She was the one who alerted us. I just checked the man’s pulse.”
Grady had pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and was making rapid scratches in it. “How did she alert you?”
“She screamed,” said Theodosia.
One side of Grady’s mouth twitched downward, passing judgment on her answer. Obviously, he didn’t consider it helpful.
“And was the man breathing?” pressed Grady.
“No, unfortunately. Which is why we called nine-one-one.”
More scratches in Grady’s notebook.
“And your name is ...?”
“Theodosia Browning. I own the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street.”
“So you don’t know what happened, Theodosia?” said Grady.
“Just that he died,” replied Theodosia. Her eyes went to the crisscross of black and yellow tape that was now strung through the garden like giant spiderwebs. Police Line the words blared, black on yellow. Do Not Cross. Vinyl tape had been wound haphazardly around bushes of crape myrtle and cherry laurel trees, through the splattering fountain and beds of flowers transported from Charleston greenhouses and dug in for this one special night. Now plants and blossoms lay crushed.
Grady cocked one droopy eye at her. “You don’t know what happened, but you knew he was dead.”
“My impression was that he was cyanotic. If you look at the tips of his fingernails, there’s a curious blue tinge.”
“Lady...” Grady began.
“You seem upset,” said Theodosia. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” She looked around. “Can we get anyone a cup of tea?”
That small gesture seemed to break the tension of the moment.
Grady suddenly remembered his manners and touched his cap with a finger. “Thank you, ma’am. Maybe later. Could you wait over there with the others, please?” Grady pointed across the courtyard. “I need to confer with the medical team.”
Theodosia peered toward the far corner of the garden to a round, wrought iron table, still festooned with its purple floral centerpiece. In the darkness she could just barely make out Drayton and Haley sitting
there, looking rather glum. Samantha was sprawled in a wicker chair, sipping from a glass of water, fanning herself with a program. Only Bethany was illuminated by the lights from the house. She stood near the door of the butler’s pantry, deep in conversation with two officers.
“Certainly,” said Theodosia. She took one step back, had every intention of joining the others, when one of the EMTs, a young man with shaggy blond hair, picked up the teacup and sniffed suspiciously at the contents.
“Put that down.” The voice echoed out of the darkness like the rough growl of a big cat.
Caught by surprise, the EMT sent the teacup clattering into its saucer. Luckily, it remained upright.
Grady spun on his heels. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man with the big cat growl led with his stomach. It billowed out between the lapels of his tweed jacket like a weather balloon. Bushy brows topped slightly popped eyes, and a walrus mustache drooped around his mouth. Although his stance conveyed a certain poise and grace, his head stuck curiously forward from his shoulders.
“Tidwell,” said the man.
“Show me your ID?” Grady wasn’t budging an inch.
Tidwell pulled a battered leather card case out of his pocket, held it daintily between two fingers.
Grady flipped the leather case open and scanned the ID. “Detective Tidwell. Well, okay.” Grady’s voice was smooth and dripping with appeasement. “Looks like the boys downtown are already on top of this. What can I do to help, Detective?”
“Kindly stay out of my way.”
“Sure,” agreed Grady cheerfully. “No problem. But you need any help, just whistle.”
“Count on it,” said Tidwell. He swiped his stubbled chin with the back of his hand, a gesture he would repeat many times. When Grady was out of earshot, Tidwell mumbled “Asshole” under his breath. Then he focused his full attention on Hughes Barron, still sitting at the table as best he could, wearing the oxygen mask one of the EMTs had slapped on him.
“Excuse me,” said Theodosia. In her crepe-soled shoes, Tidwell hadn’t heard her approach.
He swung around, wary. “Who are you?”
“Theodosia Browning.” She extended a hand to him.
“Browning, Browning...” Tidwell narrowed his eyes, ignoring her outstretched hand. “I knew a Macalester Browning once. Lawyer fellow. Fairly decent as far as lawyers go. Lived in one of the plantations out on Rutledge Road.”
“My father,” said Theodosia.
“Mnh,” grunted Tidwell, turning back toward Hughes Barron. He lifted the teacup, dropped his nose to it, and sniffed. He swirled the contents like a wine taster.
Or a tea taster, reflected Theodosia.
Tidwell reached into a bulging pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His sausage-sized fingers seemed to have trouble hitting numbers on the keypad. Finally, after several tries and more than a few expletives, his call went through.
“Pete, get me Brandon Hart.” He paused. “Yeah.” Tidwell sucked on his mustache impatiently. “Brandon?” he barked into the phone. “Me. Burt. I need your best crime-scene techs. That skinny one’s good. And the bald guy with the tattoo. Yeah, tonight. Now. Pete’ll fill you in.” He clicked off his phone.
“You’re Burt Tidwell,” said Theodosia.
Tidwell swiveled his bullet-shaped head, surprised to find her still standing there. “You still here?” he frowned.
“You’re the one who caught the Crow River Killer.”
Something akin to pride crossed Tidwell’s face, then he fought to regain his brusque manner. “And what might you know about that?” he demanded.
“Just what I read in the paper,” said Theodosia.
Chapter 4
Sunlight filtered through the windows of the Indigo Tea Shop. It was 8:30 A.M., and the daily bustle and chores that routinely went on had been largely forgotten or quickly dispatched. A few customers had come and gone, Church Street shopkeepers mostly, who’d come for takeout orders or to try to glean information about last evening’s bizarre goings-on.
Now Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley sat together at one of the tables, a pot of tea before them, rehashing those unsettling events.
“I can’t believe how long the police spent talking to Bethany,” declared Haley. “The poor girl was almost in tears. And then that awful, rude man came along, and, of course, she did burst into tears.”
“You’re referring to Tidwell?” said Theodosia.
“Was that his name?” asked Haley. “He had no right to push everyone around the way he did. We couldn’t help it if someone had the misfortune to drop dead. I mean, it’s terribly sad when anyone dies suddenly, awful for their family. But for crying out loud, we didn’t have anything to do with it!”
“If you ask me,” said Drayton, “that fellow Tidwell was far too diligent for his own good. He not only pestered everyone, but he also kept a small contingent of visitors tied up for over forty minutes. And those were people who’d been talking on the front steps, nowhere near that man, Hughes Barron! He even interviewed Samantha, and she was shrieking around inside the house most of the evening.”
“Maybe because she fainted,” said Haley. “She really did seem upset.”
“Momentarily upset,” said Drayton, “because she feared that a tragedy might reflect badly on the Lamplighter Tour.” His voice was tinged with disapproval.
“Oh, I can’t believe Samantha is that callous,” said Theodosia.
“But she was worried about it,” interjected Haley. “Over and over she kept saying, ‘Why did this have to happen during the Lamplighter Tour? Whatever will people think?’ ”
Theodosia gazed into her cup of Assam tea. The evening had been nothing short of bizarre. The only lucky break was the fact that Tidwell hadn’t made public his suspicion about a foreign substance in Hughes Barron’s tea. Police photographers had shown up, and the evening’s participants questioned, but, as far as she knew, it hadn’t escalated any further.
The fact that some type of foreign substance might have been introduced into Hughes Barron’s tea, and the fact that Burt Tidwell has shown up, had piqued Theodosia’s curiosity, however. And she’d made it a point to nose around last night’s investigation. As the last so-called civilian to leave, she hadn’t arrived home at her little apartment above the tea shop until around 11:00 P.M.
But even in the familiar serenity of her living room, with its velvet sofa, kilim rug, and cozy chintz and prints decor, she’d felt disquieted and filled with questions. That had prompted her to take Earl Grey out for a late walk.
Meandering the dark pathways of the historic district, inexplicably drawn back to the Avis Melbourne House, Theodosia had seen a new arrival: a shiny black van with tinted windows. The forensic team. From her vantage point in the shadows, she had heard Tidwell’s gruff voice chiding them, nagging at them.
A curious man, she had thought to herself. Paradoxical. A genteel manner that could rapidly disintegrate into reproachful or shrewish.
Back home again, Theodosia had fixed herself a cup of chamomile tea, ideal for jangled nerves or those times when sleep proves elusive. Then she sat down in front of her computer for a quick bit of Internet research.
On the site of the Charleston Post and Courier, she found what she was looking for. That venerable newspaper had loaded their archives (not all of them, just feature stories going back to 1996) on their Web site. Conveniently, they’d also added a search engine.
Within thirty seconds, Theodosia had pulled up three articles that mentioned Burt Tidwell. She learned that he had logged eleven years with the FBI and ten years as a homicide detective in Raleigh, North Carolina.
During his stint in Raleigh, Tidwell was one of the investigators responsible for apprehending the infamous Crow River Killer.
Theodosia had recalled the terrible events: four women brutally murdered, their bodies dumped in the swamps of the Crow River Game Preserve.
Even when all the leads had petered out and the trail had grown
cold, Tidwell stayed on the case, poring over old files, piecing together scraps of information.
Interviews in the Charleston Post and Courier spoke of Tidwell’s “eerie obsession” and his “uncanny knack” for creating a profile of the killer.
And Tidwell had finally nailed the Crow River Killer. His persistence had paid off big time.
“Oh, oh,” said Drayton in a low voice.
Theodosia looked up to see Burt Tidwell’s big form looming in the doorway. He put a hand on the lower half of the double door and eased it open.
“Good morning!” Tidwell boomed. He seemed jovial, a far cry from his bristle and brash of the previous evening. “You open for business?”
“Come in, Mr. Tidwell,” said Theodosia. “Sit with us and have a cup of tea.” She remained seated while Drayton and Haley popped up from their chairs as if they’d suddenly become hot seats.
Burt Tidwell paused in the middle of Theodosia’s small shop and looked around. His prominent eyes took in the more than one hundred glass jars of tea, the maple cabinet that held a formidable collection of antique teapots, the silk-screened pastel T-shirts Theodosia had designed herself with a whimsical drawing of a teacup, a curlicue of rising steam, and the words Tea Shirt.
“Sweet,” he murmured as he eased himself into a chair.
“We have Assam and Sencha,” Drayton announced, curiously formal.
“Assam, please,” said Tidwell. His eyes shone bright on Theodosia. “If we could talk alone?”
Theodosia knew Haley had already escaped to the nether regions of the back offices, and she assumed Dray-ton would soon follow.
“Of course,” said Drayton. “I have errands to run, anyway.”
Tidwell waited until they were alone. Then he took a sip of tea, smiled, and set his teacup down. “Delicious.”
“Thank you.”
“Miss Browning,” Tidwell began, “are you aware our hapless victim of last evening is Hughes Barron, the real estate developer?”
“So I understand.”
“He was not terribly well liked,” said Tidwell, smiling.
