Death By Darjeeling atsm-1

by Laura Childs

  In the cozy lobby, filled with every manner of ceramic goose, plush goose, and needlepoint goose, Theodosia stopped to chat with owners Angie and Mark Congdon. They were a husband and wife team who had both been commodity brokers in Chicago and fled the Windy City for a more temperate climate and slower pace.

  Changes and reevaluations, mused Theodosia as she hurried back down the street toward Saint Philip’s. Lots of that going around these days.

  Saint Philip’s Episcopal was the church for whom Church Street was named. It was a neoclassical edifice that had been drawing communicants for almost 200 years. When the bells in the tall, elegant spire chimed on Sunday mornings, the entire historic district knew that the Reverend Jonathan’s service was about to begin.

  Theodosia stepped through a wrought iron archway into the private garden and burial ground.

  “Good morning!” a voice boomed.

  Theodosia halted in her tracks and looked around. She finally spotted Reverend Jonathan, a small, wiry man with short silver hair, on his hands and knees underneath a small oak tree.

  “This tree didn’t fare well in the last big storm,” said Reverend Jonathan as he pulled a metal cable tight around a wooden stake. “I thought if I shored it up, it might have a chance to catch up with its big brothers.”

  The “big brothers” Reverend Jonathan referred to were the two enormous live oaks that sat to either side of the parish house.

  “You’ve worked wonders here,” said Theodosia. Under Reverend Jonathan’s watchful eye, the garden and historic burial ground had evolved from a manicured lawn with a few shrubs and memorial plaques to a hidden oasis filled with a delightful profusion of seasonal plants, flowering shrubs, stepping stones, and decorative statuary.

  Reverend Jonathan straightened up and gazed about with pride. “I love getting my hands dirty. But I have to admit there’s always something needs fixing. Next big project is some restoration work on our beloved church’s interior arches.”

  Even though he had well over 1,500 communicants to minister to, dozens of committees to juggle, and fund-raising to tend to, Reverend Jonathan was a tireless worker. He always seemed to find time for hands-on gardening and maintenance of the historic church.

  “That’s the thing about these grande dame buildings.” He grinned. “Patch, patch, patch.”

  “Mm,” said Theodosia as she handed Reverend Jonathan his canisters of tea. “I know the feeling.”

  On her return trip to the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia’s thoughts turned once again to Hughes Barron’s death. Although she felt saddened that a human life had ended, it prickled her that the investigators seemed to be overlooking the obvious. If someone had been sitting at that far table with Hughes Barron, wouldn’t that person have had the perfect opportunity to slip something toxic into the man’s tea?

  On a hunch, Theodosia jogged over toward Meeting Street, where Samantha Rabathan lived. Samantha had been the chairperson for last night’s event, she reasoned. Maybe Sam would have a list of attendees. That might be a logical place to start.

  As luck would have it, Samantha was outside, bustling about on her enormous veranda, tending to the heroic abundance of plant life that flourished in her many containers and flower boxes. A divorcée for almost ten years, Samantha’s only avocation seemed to be gardening. If Reverend Jonathan was the patron saint of trees and shrubs, Samantha was the guardian angel of flowers.

  Samantha changed her flower boxes seasonally, so they might contain flowering bulbs, English daisies, clouds of wisteria, or miniature shrubs. Her trellises, usually hidden under mounds of perfect pink climbing roses, were legendary. Her backyard garden, with roses, star jasmine, begonias, and verbena clustered about a sparkling little pool, and tangled vines creeping up a backdrop of crumbling brick, was a must-see on the annual Garden Club Tour. And Samantha’s elegant floral arrangements always garnered blue as well as purple ribbons at the annual Charleston Flower Show.

  “Samantha!” Theodosia waved from the street.

  “Hello,” Samantha called back.

  She was wearing her Mr. Green Jeans garb today, Theodosia noted. Green coveralls, green gloves, green floppy cotton hat, to go with her green thumb.

  Most people in the neighborhood regarded Samantha as a bit of a hothouse plant herself. A delicate tropical flower with fine yellow hair and alabaster skin who shunned the sun. Close friends knew she was merely trying to prolong her facelift.

  “How are you feeling today?” asked Theodosia. She shaded her eyes and gazed up at the porch with its trellises of ivy and trumpet vine and window boxes with overflowing ramparts of crape myrtle and althaea.

  Samantha grinned sheepishly and fanned a gloved hand in front of her face. “Fine, really fine. Just too much excitement last night. I can’t believe I actually fainted over that poor man. How embarrassing. Oh, well, at least it proves I’m a true Southern lady. Got the vapors. All so very Gone With the Wind,” she added in an exaggerated drawl.

  “Samantha...” began Theodosia.

  But Samantha gushed on. “What a gentleman Drayton was to come to my aid. I must remember to thank him.” She aimed her pruning shears toward a pot of cascading plumbago, snipped decisively, and laid a riot of bright blue flowers in her wicker basket. “I know. I shall put together one of my special bouquets. Drayton is a man of culture and refinement. He will appreciate the gesture.”

  “I’m certain he will, Samantha,” said Theodosia. “Theodosia.” Samantha peered down from her veranda. “The sun is almost overhead. Do take care.”

  Theodosia ignored her warning. “Samantha, is there any way to connect people’s names with the Lamplighter Tour tickets that were purchased?”

  Samantha considered Theodosia’s question. “You’re asking me if we wrote down guests’ names?”

  “Did you?” asked Theodosia hopefully.

  Samantha shook her head slowly from side to side. “No, we just sold the tickets and collected the money. Nobody has ever bothered to keep track of who bought what or how many. Usually our biggest concern is trying to outsell the Tradd Street tour. You know, they have an awful lot of volunteers out pounding the streets. This year they even placed printed posters in some of the B and Bs!”

  Theodosia put a hand to her head and smoothed back her hair. This was what she’d been afraid of. No record keeping, just volunteers selling tickets wherever they could.

  “But you know,” added Samantha, venturing toward the sunlight, “if we offered a drawing or door prize in conjunction with the Lamplighter Tour, that would be an extra incentive to buy a ticket! And then, of course, we’d have to record people’s names and addresses and phone numbers, that sort of thing.” She wrinkled her nose in delicious anticipation. “A drawing! Isn’t that a marvelous idea? I can’t wait to propose it for next year’s Lamplighter Tour.”

  Samantha snipped a few more stems of plumbago, then smiled brightly at Theodosia. “Theodosia, would you be interested in donating one of your gift baskets?”

  Chapter 7

  Cane Ridge plantation was built in 1835 on Horlbeck Creek. It included a fanciful Gothic Revival cottage replete with soaring peaks and gables, steeply pitched shingled roof, and broad piazza extending around three sides. Set high on a vantage point overlooking a quiet pond and marshland, it had been a flourishing rice plantation in its day, with acres of flat, low fields that stretched out to meet piney forests.

  Theodosia’s father, Macalester Browning, and her Aunt Libby had grown up at Cane Ridge, and Theodosia had spent countless summers there. She always returned to Cane Ridge when her heart was troubled or she was in need of clearing her head.

  “The cedar waxwings are here, but the marsh wrens have not yet arrived.” Libby Revelle, Theodosia’s aunt, scanned the distant marsh as she stood on the side piazza, a black cashmere shawl wrapped around her thin but firmly squared shoulders.

  Tiny but elegant in her carriage, the silver haired Libby Revelle was a bird-watcher of the first magnitude. With her binoc
ulars and Peterson’s Field Guide to Eastern Birds, she was able to identify shape of bill, tail patterns, and wing bars much the same way aviation aficionados delighted in identifying aircraft.

  Theodosia hadn’t intended on stopping at Aunt Libby’s and staying for lunch. She had driven out to the low-country with every intention of visiting the Charleston Tea Plantation. Owners Mack Fleming and Bill Hall were good friends, and she was anxious to inspect the tea from their final harvest of the season.

  But driving out the Maybank Highway in her Jeep Cherokee, Theodosia had felt a sudden longing for the old plantation, a desire to return to a place where she had always felt not only welcome, but also comfortably at home. And so, when she neared the turnoff for Rutledge Road, she pointed her red Jeep down the bumpy, gravel road that led to Cane Ridge and Aunt Libby.

  Jouncing along, Theodosia had felt a certain peacefulness steal over her. The live oaks, dogwoods, and enormous hedges of azaleas closed in on the road in a comforting way. Through the forest’s dense curtain were distant vine-covered humps, tell tale remnants of old rice dikes. And as she bumped across a rickety bridge, black water flowed silently beneath, conjuring images of youths in flat-bottomed bateaus.

  Theodosia downshifted on her final approach, thankful for four-wheel drive. She’d purchased her Jeep just a year ago, against Drayton’s advice, and was totally in love with it.

  Drayton, ever mindful of image, had argued that the Jeep was “not particularly ladylike.”

  Theodosia had countered by pointing out that the Jeep was practical. “Perfect,” she’d told him, “for transporting boxes and gift baskets. And if I want to go into the woods and pick wild dandelion or wild raspberries for flavoring teas, the Jeep’s ideal. I can jounce down trails and even creek beds and not worry about getting stuck.”

  Drayton had dramatically put a hand to his forehead and sighed. “You had to buy red?”

  Haley, on the other hand, had jumped in the passenger side and pleaded that they go “four-wheeling.”

  “Help me put out my buffet, will you?” asked Libby. “We’ve eaten our soup and sandwiches, and now it’s our winged friends’ turn.”

  “You stay here and enjoy the sun while I take the seed down,” said Theodosia, glad to be of help.

  Aunt Libby plied her winged visitors with a mixture of thistle, cracked corn, and black oil seed. Over the coming winter, Libby would go through at least eight hundred pounds of seeds.

  Theodosia carried two pails overflowing with Libby’s seed mixture to a fallen log on the edge of the marsh. A fifteen-foot length of gnarled oak, the tree trunk was peppered with hollow bowls and clefts, making perfect natural basins for birdseed.

  Back on the piazza, Libby’s heart expanded with pride as she watched this beautiful, accomplished woman, her niece. She loved Theodosia as a mother would a child. When Theodosia’s mother died when Theo was only eight, she was only too happy to fill in wherever she could. She’d enjoyed attending Theodosia’s various music recitals and class plays, sewing labels on Theodosia’s clothes when she went off to camp, and teaching her how to whistle with two fingers in her mouth.

  Then, when Theodosia’s father passed away when she was twenty, she’d become her only real family. Even though Theodosia was living in a dorm at school, she’d gladly opened her house to her on holidays, hosted parties for Theodosia’s friends, and gave her advice when she graduated and began job hunting.

  And when Theodosia had decided to drop out of advertising and test her entrepreneurial spirit by buying the little tea shop, Libby had backed her one hundred percent.

  “I was on my way to see Mack and Bill,” Theodosia said as she came up the short flight of steps. The pails clanked down on the wooden porch.

  “So you said,” answered Libby. She sat in a wicker chair, gazing out at a horizon of blue pond, waving golden grasses, and hazy sun.

  Theodosia stared out at the old log she’d just replenished with seed, watched a striped chipmunk scamper out from a clump of dried weeds, snatch up a handful of fallen seeds, then sit back on its haunches to dine.

  “We had some trouble in town last night,” said Theodosia.

  “I heard,” said Aunt Libby.

  Theodosia spun about. “What?” Libby, the sly fox, had sat through lunch with her, watched her fidget, and never said a word. Theodosia smiled wryly. Yes, that was Libby Revelle’s style, the Aunt Libby she knew and loved. Don’t push, let people talk in their own good time.

  “What did you hear?” asked Theodosia. “And from who?”

  “Oh, Bill Wexler came by, and we had ourselves a nice chat.”

  Bill Wexler had delivered mail in the low-country for almost twenty-five years. He also seemed to have a direct pipeline to everything that went on in Charleston, the low-country, and as far out as West Ashley.

  “If people out here know, it’s going to be all over town by the time I get back this afternoon,” said Theodosia.

  Libby nodded. “Probably.”

  Theodosia squinted into the sun, looking perplexed.

  “Nothing you can do, dear,” said Libby. “The only part you played in last night’s little drama was a walk-on role. If folks are silly enough to think you’re involved, that’s their problem.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Theodosia. She eased herself down into the chair next to Libby, already deciding to stay the afternoon.

  “But then, you’re not worried about yourself, are you?” asked Libby.

  “Not really,” said Theodosia.

  Libby reached a hand out and gently stroked Theodosia’s hair. “You’re my cat, always have been. Land on your feet, nine lives to spare.”

  “Oh, Libby.” Theodosia caught her aunt’s hand in hers and squeezed it gratefully. As she did, she was suddenly aware of Libby’s thin, parchmentlike skin, the frailness of her tiny bones. And Aunt Libby’s mortality.

  Chapter 8

  Teapots chirped and whistled and teacups clinked against saucers as Drayton bustled about the shop. Four tables were occupied, customers eager for morning tea and treats. Afterward, they would be picked up by one of the bright yellow jitneys that would whisk them away on their morning tour through Charleston’s historic district, the open air market, or the King Street antiques district.

  “Where’s Haley?” Theodosia swooped through the doorway just as Drayton measured a final tablespoon of Irish breakfast tea into a Victorian teapot.

  “Hasn’t shown up yet,” Drayton said as he arranged teapots, pitchers of milk, bowls of sugar cubes, and small plates of lemon slices on a silver tray, then deftly hoisted it to his shoulder.

  “That’s not like her,” said Theodosia, pitching in. She was instantly concerned about Haley’s absence since she was ordinarily quite prompt, usually showing up at the Indigo Tea Shop by 7:00 A.M. That’s when Haley would heat up the oven and pour out batter she’d mixed up and refrigerated the day before. It was Haley’s shortcut to fresh-baked scones, croissants, and benne wafers without having to get up at four in the morning.

  While Drayton poured tea, Theodosia mustered up a pan of scones from the freezer and warmed them quickly in the oven.

  “It won’t matter that they’ve been frozen,” Drayton murmured under his breath. “Scones are so amazingly heavy anyway, I don’t think anyone will know the difference.”

  And Drayton was right. Served piping hot to their guests along with plenty of Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, the scones were actually ooed and ahed over.

  “Have you noticed anything odd?” asked Theodosia. She stood behind the counter surveying the collection of customers who lingered at the tables.

  Drayton glanced up from the cash register. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not seeing any of our regulars,” said Theodosia.

  Drayton gave her a sharp look. “You’re right.” His eyes searched out Theodosia’s. “You don’t suppose...”

  “I’m sure they’ll be in later,” she said.

  “Of course they will.
”

  Forty minutes later, the early customers had all departed, tables had been cleared, floors swept, and teapots readied for the next influx.

  “Now that I’ve got a moment to breathe, I’m going to phone Haley,” said Theodosia. “I’m really getting worried.”

  The bell over the door jingled merrily. “Here we go,” said Theodosia. “More customers.” She turned toward the door with a welcoming smile, but it was Haley who burst through the door, not another throng of customers.

  “Haley!” said Theodosia. “What’s wrong?” Haley’s ordinarily placid face projected unhappiness, her peaches-and-cream complexion blotchy. Her shoulders sagged, her eyes were puffy, and she’d been crying. Hard.

  “They fired her!” cried Haley.

  Theodosia flew across the room to Haley, put an arm around her shoulder. “Come, dear. Sit down.” She led Haley to the closest table and got her seated. “Drayton,” Theodosia called, “we’re going to need some tea. Strong tea.”

  Tears trickled down Haley’s cheeks as she turned sad eyes on Theodosia. “They fired Bethany. From the Heritage Society.”

  “Oh, no,” said Theodosia. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, they called her a little while ago and told her not to bother coming in.”

  “Who called her?” asked Theodosia.

  “Mr. Neville,” said Haley.

  “Timothy?”

  “Yes, Timothy Neville,” said Haley in a choked voice.

  “What happened?” Drayton set a pot of tea and three mugs on the bare table.

  “Timothy Neville fired Bethany,” said Theodosia.

  He sat down, instantly concerned. “Oh, no.”