by Laura Childs
“I didn’t know that.”
“Miss Browning, it saddens me to be the bearer of such news, but Mr. Barron’s death was no accident.” He paused, searching out Theodosia’s face. “We are looking at a wrongful death. Even as we speak, a sample of the tea that Hughes Barron was drinking last night has been dispatched to the state toxicology lab.”
Theodosia’s heart skipped a beat, even as she willed herself to remain calm. Do not let this man rattle or intimidate you, she told herself. You had nothing to do with Hughes Barron’s death. Surely this would soon reveal itself as one big misunderstanding.
On the heels of that came the realization that she had spent nearly a dozen years in advertising, where everything had run in panic mode. Everything a crash and burn involving millions of dollars. Could she keep her cool? Absolutely.
“Perhaps you’d better explain yourself,” was all Theodosia said. Better to play it close to the vest, she thought. Find out what this man has to say.
Burt Tidwell held up a hand. “There is concern that whatever liquid was in Hughes Barron’s teacup severely compromised his health. In other words, his beverage was lethal.”
Now amusement lit Theodosia’s face. “Surely you don’t believe it was my tea that killed him.”
“I understand you served a number of teas last night.”
“Of course,” said Theodosia lightly. “Darjeeling, jasmine, our special Lamplighter Blend. You realize, of course, everyone who stopped by the garden—and we’re talking probably two hundred people—sampled our teas. No one else is dead.”
She took another sip of tea, blotted her lips, and favored Tidwell with a warm yet slightly indulgent smile. “Frankly, Mr. Tidwell, if I were you, I’d be more concerned with who Hughes Barron was sitting with in the garden last night rather than which tea he drank.”
“Touché, Miss Browning,” Tidwell replied. He reclined in his chair, swiped the back of his hand against his quivering chin, and let fly his curve ball. “How long has Bethany Shepherd worked for you?”
So that’s where this conversation was going, thought Theodosia. “Really just a handful of times over the past few months,” she replied. “But surely you don’t consider the girl a suspect.”
“I understand she had words with Hughes Barron last week at a Heritage Society meeting.”
“Bethany recently obtained an internship with the Heritage Society, so I imagine she spends considerable time there.”
“Rather harsh words,” said Tidwell. His eyes bored into Theodosia.
“A disagreement doesn’t make her a murderer,” said Theodosia lightly. “It only means she’s a young woman blessed with gumption.”
“We have her at the police station now.”
“Indeed.”
“Taking a statement. Very pro forma.”
“I assume her lawyer is with her?”
“Do you think she needs one?” Tidwell arched a tufted eyebrow.
“Not the issue.”
“Pray tell, what is?”
“She’s entitled to one,” replied Theodosia.
Chapter 5
“Poison!” exclaimed Haley. “Sshh!” Drayton held a finger to his lips. “The customers,” he mouthed in an exaggerated gesture, although a couple patrons had already turned in their chairs and were staring inquisitively at the three of them clustered at the counter.
“Tidwell thinks someone poisoned Hughes Barron?” said Haley in a low voice, her eyes wide as saucers.
“That’s his notion so far,” said Theodosia. “He’s already sent the contents of Hughes Barron’s teacup to the state toxicology lab.”
“What absolute rubbish!” declared Drayton. “We had nothing to do with the man’s demise. Are you sure those paramedics checked the man’s heart? Big fellow like that might’ve had a bad ticker.”
“I’m sure they’ll perform an autopsy and clear everything up eventually,” said Theodosia.
“The problem is,” said Drayton, “what do we do in the short term?”
Damage control, Theodosia thought to herself. That was our PR department’s job when I was still at the agency. They'd get a positive spin working before anything negative could grab hold.
“Your point is well taken,” said Theodosia. “As outrageous as the notion is that our tea killed the man, Hughes Barron’s death is fertile ground for wild rumors.”
“Rumors that could cast a veil of suspicion over all of us,” added Haley.
“Actually,” said Theodosia as she stared into the worried eyes of her two dear employees and friends, “I’m more concerned with Bethany right now. Tidwell has her down at the police station.”
Haley’s eyes welled with tears, and she bit her lip to keep from bursting into sobs. “Just who is this man, Hughes Barron? I’ve never even heard of him before!”
“Well,” said Drayton, his dark eyes darting from side to side, “I don’t mind telling you that Church Street is positively buzzing about him today.” His back to the customers, Drayton edged closer to the small counter and faced Theodosia and Haley.
“I spoke earlier with Fern Barrow at the Cottage Inn. She had heard about the disturbance at last night’s Lamplighter Tour and seemed to know quite a bit about our Mr. Hughes Barron.”
“Really?” said Theodosia, intrigued.
“Apparently, he was born and raised in Goose Creek, just north of here, but lived in California most of his life. Santa Monica. Fern said Hughes Barron made a tidy profit out there as a real estate developer. Mostly condos and strip malls.” Drayton rolled his eyes as though he were talking about organized crime.
Theodosia flashed on her conversation with Delaine yesterday afternoon. “God knows what sins a developer with Barron’s reputation might wreak,” she had said.
“Anyway,” continued Drayton, “Hughes Barron moved back to the Charleston area about two years ago. He bought a beachfront home on the Isle of Palms. You know, Theo, near Wild Dunes?”
Theodosia nodded.
“Since he’s moved back, Hughes Barron’s big hot project has been developing some truly awful time-share condominiums,” said Drayton. “Out on Johns Island.”
Johns Island was a sleepy agricultural community known mostly for its large bird refuge.
“That couldn’t have been terribly popular,” said Theodosia.
“Are you kidding? He was almost pilloried for it!” said Drayton. “He was picketed and protested before the bulldozers scooped a single shovel of dirt. The people who opposed the development kept the pressure going all through the construction phase, too. But, of course, the condos were built anyway. They weren’t able to block it.” Drayton sighed. “Hughes Barron must have had powerful connections to get that land rezoned. We’re talking statehouse level, of course,”
“I do remember hearing about that development,” said Theodosia. “And you’re right. There was major opposition from environmental groups as well as the local historical society.”
“Nothing they could do, though.” Drayton sighed again. “Excuse me,” called a woman seated at one of the tables. “Could we please get a little more tea here?”
“Certainly, ma’am.” With a quick rustle and a cordial smile, Haley flitted across the tea room. Besides refilling the teapot, she brought a fresh pitcher of milk and, much to the delight of the party of three women, also produced a plate of caramel-nut shortbread. On the house, of course.
“Drayton.” Theodosia slid the cash register drawer closed. Something was bothering her, and she had to know the full story.
Drayton Conneley had pulled a little step stool out from beneath the counter. Now he was balanced on it, stacking jars of creamed honey from the local apiary, DuBose Bees. He peered down at Theodosia in midstretch. “What’s needling you?” he asked.
“Did Bethany really have words with Hughes Barron at a Heritage Society meeting?”
Drayton’s mouth opened as if he meant to speak, then he seemed to think better of it. To say anything from his lofty perch woul
d be to broadcast trouble they didn’t need right now. Drayton held up an index finger and clambered down.
“Let me put this in perspective,” he said.
Theodosia looked out over the tea room, where all her customers seemed content and taken care of, and nodded.
“I’m not sure how clued in you are about this,” said Drayton, “but Hughes Barron had recently become a new board member at the Heritage Society.”
“So it would seem.”
“I don’t have exact details on who sponsored him or what the final vote was on accepting him, because, as you recall, I was up in Boston when all that took place.”
Theodosia nodded. Drayton had been at Chatham Brothers Tea Wholesalers on a buying trip.
“Suffice it to say, however, that Hughes Barron was voted in by a small margin, and Timothy Neville, our board president, was extremely displeased. Well,” continued Drayton, “last week, this past Wednesday evening to be exact, was our most recent board meeting. Because I had never met Hughes Barron before, I decided it was only fair to reserve judgment on the man. I wasn’t privy to his background or what his motivations for joining the Heritage Society were. For all I knew, they could have been totally altruistic. So I maintained an open mind. Until, of course, Hughes Barron got up to speak and jumped on his own personal bandwagon concerning new development in the historic district.” Drayton suddenly looked unhappy. “That’s when it all started.”
“When what started?” asked Theodosia. “I’m afraid we got into a row with Hughes Barron,” confessed Drayton.
“Who did?” asked Theodosia. “All of you?” She knew any kind of new development in the historic district was one of Drayton’s pet peeves. He himself resided in a 160year-old home once occupied by a Civil War surgeon.
“Timothy Neville, Joshua Brady, and me. Samantha and Bethany threw their two cents in as well. But mostly it was Timothy. He had a particularly ugly go-round with Hughes Barron.” Drayton lowered his voice. “You know how cantankerous and judgmental Timothy can be.”
Indeed, Theodosia was well aware of Timothy Neville’s fiery temper. The crusty octogenarian president of the Heritage Society had a reputation for being bull-headed and brash. In fact, she had once seen Timothy Neville berate a waiter at the Peninsula Grill for incorrectly opening a bottle of champagne and spilling a few drops of the French bubbly. She had always felt that Timothy Neville was entirely too full of himself.
“So Timothy Neville took off on Hughes Barron?” said Theodosia.
“I’d have to say it was more of a character assassination.” Drayton looked around sharply, then lowered his voice an octave. “Timothy denounced Hughes Barron as a Neanderthal carpetbagger. Because of that condo development.”
“Just awful,” said Theodosia.
Drayton faced Theodosia with sad eyes. “I agree. A gentleman should never resort to name-calling.”
“I meant the condos,” Theodosia replied.
Chapter 6
Theodosia stared at the storyboards propped up against the wall in her office. Jessica Todd, president of Todd & Lambeau Design Group, had brought in three more boards. Now there were six different Web site designs for her to evaluate.
As her eyes roved from one to the other, she told herself that all were exciting and extremely doable. Any one... eeny, meeny, miney, moe ...would work beautifully at launching her tea business into cyberspace.
Ordinarily, Theodosia would be head over heels, champing at the bit to make a final choice and set the wheels in motion. But today it seemed as if her brain was stuffed with cotton.
Too much had happened, she told herself. Was happening. It felt like a freight train gathering momentum. Not a runaway train quite yet, but one that was certainly rumbling down the rails.
Bethany had phoned the tea shop a half hour ago, and Haley, stretching the cord to its full length so she could talk privately in the kitchen, had a whispered conversation with her. When Haley hung up, Theodosia had grabbed a box of Kleenex and listened intently as Haley related Bethany’s sad tale.
“She’s finished at the police station for now,” Haley had told her. “But one of the detectives, I don’t know if it was that Tidwell character or not, advised her to get a lawyer.” Haley had snuffled, then blown her nose loudly. “Do you know any lawyers?” she’d asked plaintively.
Theodosia had nodded. Of course she did. Her father’s law firm was still in business. The senior partner, Leyland Hartwell, always a family friend, was a formidable presence in Charleston.
Jessica Todd impatiently tapped a manicured finger on her ultraslim laptop computer. Hyperthyroidal and super-slim herself, wearing an elegant aubergine-colored suit, Jessica sat across the desk from Theodosia. She was anxious to get Theodosia’s decision today.
As President of Todd & Lambeau, Jessica had distinguished herself as one of the top Internet marketing gurus in Charleston. And today she was fairly jumping out of her skin, eager to implement her graphic design ideas, Web architecture, and marketing strategies for the Indigo Tea Shop’s new Web site.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Jessica?” Theodosia asked, stalling. Decisions weren’t coming easily.
“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked,” Jessica replied somewhat peevishly. She shook her head and ran long fingernails through her sleek, short helmet of dark hair. “Again, no thank you.”
“Sorry,” murmured Theodosia.
Jessica reached over and plucked up a board that featured a montage of teapots and tea leaves, set against a ghosted background of green terraced slopes, one of the old Chinese tea plantations.
“If we could just revisit this concept for a moment,” said Jessica, forging ahead, “I believe you’ll find it meets all criteria we established. Dynamic graphics, intuitive user interface. Look at the global navigation buttons. On-line Catalog, Tea Tips, Tea Q&A, and Contact Us. Here, I’ll show you how it works on the laptop.”
“Jessica...” Theodosia began, then stopped. There was no way she could focus on this when she was so concerned about Bethany and the events of last night. She knew better than to make critical business decisions when her mind was somewhere else.
“I’m sorry,” said Theodosia standing up. “We’re going to have to do this another time.”
“What?” sputtered Jessica.
“Your designs are perfectly lovely. Spectacular, in fact. But I need to live with them for a few days. And it’s only right to share them with Drayton and Haley, get a consensus.”
“Let’s call them in now.”
“Jessica. Please.”
“All right, all right.” Jessica Todd snapped her laptop closed, gathered up her attaché case. “Call me, Theodosia. But don’t wait too long. We’re hot into a pitch right now for a new on-line brokerage. And if it comes through, when it comes through, we’re all going to be working twenty-four/seven on it.”
“I hear you, Jessica.”
Walking Jessica to the door, Theodosia thought back on her own career in advertising. I was like that, she told herself. Nervous, nuts. Slaving evenings and weekends, caught in the pressure cooker. What had Jessica called it? Working twenty-four/seven. Right.
Breathing a sigh of relief, feeling enormously grateful for her serene little world at the tea shop, Theodosia surprised Haley just as she was dusting a fresh pan of lemon bars with powdered sugar.
“I’m going to do deliveries today,” Theodosia announced.
“You are? Why is that?” asked Haley.
“Can’t sit still, don’t want to sit still.”
“I know the feeling,” said Haley. She reached under her wooden baker’s rack and pulled out a large wicker hamper. “Okay, lucky for you it’s the milk run. Only two deliveries. A half-dozen canisters of jasmine and English breakfast teas for the Featherbed House and some of Drayton’s special palmetto blend for Reverend Jonathan at Saint Philip’s.”
Once outside, Theodosia walked briskly in the direction of the Featherbed House. The sun shone down warmly. The br
eeze off the Cooper River was light and tasted faintly salty. White, puffy clouds scudded overhead. But what should have been a glorious day to revel in went relatively unnoticed by Theodosia, so preoccupied was she by recent events.
Why on earth were they pressing Bethany so hard?
she wondered. Surely the police could see she was just a young woman with no ax to grind against anyone. Especially a man like Hughes Barron. Burt Tidwell was no fool. He, of all people, should be able to see that.
Theodosia sighed. Poor Bethany. The only thing she’d been up to lately was trying to rebuild her life. And she’d seemed to have been going about it fairly successfully.
Only last week Theodosia had overheard Bethany speaking glowingly to Drayton about her internship at the Heritage Society. How she’d been chosen over six other candidates. How she was so impressed by the many volunteers who donated countless hours and dollars. How the Heritage Society had recently staged a black-tie dinner and silent auction and raised almost $300,000 to purchase the old Chapman Mill. Abandoned and scheduled for demolition, the historic old mill would now live on in Charleston’s history.
As Theodosia turned the corner at Murray Street, the rush of wind coming off Charleston Harbor hit her full on. It blew her hair out in auburn streamers, brought a rosy glow to her cheeks and, finally, a smile to her face.
The Battery, that stretch of homes and shore at the point of land where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers converged and the Atlantic poured in to meet them, was one of Theodosia’s favorite places. Originally known as Oyster Point because it began as a swampy beach strewn with oyster shells, The Battery evolved into a military strong point and finally into the elegant neighborhood of harborside homes and parks it is today. With its White Point Gardens, Victorian bandstand, and no fewer than twenty-six cannons and monuments, The Battery held a special place in the hearts of every Charlestonian.
Perched on The Battery and overlooking the harbor with a bird’s-eye view of Fort Sumter, the Featherbed House was one of the peninsula’s premier bed-and-breakfasts. It featured elegantly furnished rooms with canopied beds, cypress paneling, and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceilings. And, of course, mounds of featherbeds just as the name promised. A second-story open-air bridge spanned the backyard garden and transported delighted visitors from the main house to a treetop dining room in the renovated hay loft of the carriage house.
