by Laura Childs
One elderly man who was blind and confined to a wheelchair, severely limited in his activities, enjoyed tossing a tennis ball for Earl Grey. Earl Grey would bump and bounce his way down the hallway, painting an audio picture for the man, then bring the tennis ball back to him and snuggle affectionately in the man’s lap.
Then there was the foursome of fairly active women who never failed to have a plate of treats for Earl Grey. They either coaxed relatives into bringing dog biscuits in for them, or they baked “liver brownie cake,” a strange concoction of beef liver and oatmeal. Theodosia thought the liver brownie cake looked a great deal like liver pâté but tasted like sawdust. Earl Grey, on the other hand, found it a gourmet delight.
These experiences were all enormously rewarding for Theodosia, and sometimes, driving home at night, her eyes would fill with tears as she remembered a certain incident that had touched her heart. She’d have to pull the car over to the side of the road, search for her hanky, and tell Earl Grey, once again, what a truly magnificent fellow he was.
Chapter 13
Leyland Hartwell was as good as his word. The next
morning, the phone rang bright and early.
“Miss Browning?”
“Yes?” answered Theodosia.
“Jory Davis here. I’m an associate with Ligget, Hume, Hartwell. Leyland Hartwell wanted me to call you concerning information we gathered for you. He also wanted me to assure you he would’ve phoned personally, but he was called into an emergency meeting.” There was a slight pause. “Miss Browning?”
“Yes, Mr. Davis. Please go on.”
“Anyway, that is why I am the bearer of this information.”
“It was kind of you to help out on this matter.”
“My pleasure.” Jory Davis cleared his throat. “Hughes Barron, the late Hughes Barron, was a real estate developer of the worst kind. Realize, now, this is me editorializing.”
Theodosia had been hunkered down in her office like a hermit crab, pondering what to do next about Bethany, about business, and now this pleasant man with the rich, deep voice was able to coax a smile out of her. She had seen the name Jory Davis mentioned several times in the business section of the newspaper and in the Charleston Yacht Club’s newsletter but had never met him. Now, however, she was intrigued.
Jory Davis continued as though he were giving a final summation before a jury. “Barron’s track record in California includes not paying contractors, defaulting on mortgages, and fraudulent activity regarding low-interest loans for senior housing that was never built. Obviously, there are more than a few people and government agencies in California who are... were... pursuing Hughes Barron.”
Theodosia’s silver pen bobbed as she jotted down notes.
“We also did a search of local city and county records and found that Hughes Barron has a silent partner, a Mr. Lleveret Dante. Not surprisingly, this Mr. Dante is currently under indictment by the state of Kentucky for a mortgage-flipping scam and, apparently, had Hughes Barron serving as front man for the pair here in Charleston. Their corporate name is Goose Creek Holdings, a nod to the area north of here where Mr. Barron grew up. Corporate offices for Goose Creek Holdings are located at 415 Harper Street. Stop me if you already know any or all of this, Miss Browning,” said Jory Davis rather breathlessly.
Theodosia was impressed. Jory Davis had seemingly thrown himself headlong into researching Hughes Barron for her.
“This is enormously enlightening,” said Theodosia. “And highly entertaining,” she added.
“Good,” said Jory Davis. “Now that I know I have such an appreciative audience, I’ll continue. Goose Creek’s first real estate project was a time-share condominium on nearby Johns Island known as Edgewater Estates. Edge-water Estates still has a lawsuit pending by the Shorebird Environmentalist Group, but their lawyers have been stalling on it. Early on, this Shorebird Group succeeded in obtaining a court order to stop the development but then lost when it was overturned by a higher court. Goose Creek Holdings also owns undeveloped land in West Ashley and Berkeley County. But it’s just raw property, no condos or strip malls yet.” There was a rustle of papers. “That’s pretty much a quick overview on Hughes Barron, the Cliffs Notes version, anyway. I have a sheaf of papers that includes a little more in-depth information. On the lawsuits as well as the condos and property holdings. I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at it.”
“Mr. Davis,” said Theodosia, “your fact-finding has been extremely helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Please, call me Jory. Miss Browning, I understand your father used to be a senior partner at our firm.”
“Yes, he and Leyland started the practice back in the midseventies.”
“You’re family, then, aren’t you?”
Theodosia couldn’t help but smile. “What a kind way to put it.”
“Miss Browning, like I said, I’ve got some background information for you. I can drop these papers in the mail for you, or perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee?”
“I own a tea shop.”
Jory Davis never missed a beat. “Cup of tea. Better yet.”
Theodosia chuckled. She liked this hot-shot attorney who had started out so curiously formal and then veered toward not quite hitting on her, but darn close to it.
“The Indigo Tea Shop,” said Theodosia. “On Church Street. Drop by anytime.”
Chapter 14
Located southwest of Charleston, Johns Island is a big boomerang-shaped piece of land. It is only technically an island in that it is surrounded by waters that include the Stono River, Intracoastal Waterway, Kiawah River, and Bohicket Creek. For many years, Johns Island was a sleepy, rural backwater. Farms dotted the landscape, and a few charming villages served as small bedroom communities for Charleston.
But all that began to change a few years before, as home prices in Charleston escalated, the economy boomed, and the entire Charleston area began to strain its boundaries.
Real estate developers eyed the still-affordable rolling farms of Johns Island as prime targets for development and began to snatch up properties. Long-time Johns Island residents suddenly saw their rural utopia and relaxed way of life about to be threatened. Tensions ran high.
In stepped Hughes Barron, thought Theodosia, as she maneuvered her Jeep Cherokee through light midmorning traffic on the Maybank Highway. Jory Davis’s call this morning had made her, as they say, curiouser and curiouser. So she had jumped into her Jeep, rolled back the canvas cover, and was now enjoying the exhilaration of an open-air ride.
She knew Hughes Barron had been one of the first developers to pounce on property out there. It wasn’t exactly prime oceanfront, but the Atlantic Ocean did flow in between Kiawah and James Islands and create some wonderful tidal rivers and marshes.
Exiting Maybank, Theodosia followed Rivertree Road for a good five miles, then hung a right on Old Camp Road. Those were the directions she’d gotten earlier when she’d phoned the sales office at Hughes Barron’s so-called Edge-water Estates. But right now she was seeing only pastoral vistas and farmland. Just when she thought she must have gotten off course and was prepared to turn around, an enormous, colorful billboard rose up out of a field of waving, yellow tobacco.
Edgewater Estates, the sign proclaimed in painted pinks and greens. Time-Share Condominiums. Own A Piece Of History. Deluxe 1, 2, and 3 Bedrooms. Developed By Goose Creek Holdings.
Theodosia wondered just what piece of history it was that came part and parcel with your Edgewater Estates time-share condo. What had the greedy developer, Hughes Barron, been referring to?
The archaeological remains of the Cusabo Indians who had lived here 400 years ago?
The barely visible ruins of an old Civil War fort? Constructed of crushed lime and oyster shells, an amalgam known as tabby, the old fort had begun to crumble even before the turn of the last century.
How about the 900 acres set aside by the Marine Resources Department?
No matter, she told herse
lf. She wasn’t here today to do a consumer confidence check on Goose Creek Holdings. She was here because, armed with information Jory Davis had provided, her curiosity was running at a fever pitch. Everything she’d heard about Hughes Barron told her the man was definitely not Mr. Popularity. He had to have made enemies. Lots of them. When land was at stake, or multimillion-dollar real estate deals, that’s when people got very, very serious. And sometimes very, very nasty.
Swinging into the entrance of Edgewater Estates, a circular, white-crushed-rock drive that wound around a five-tiered fountain, Theodosia hated the place on sight. The building wasn’t just the antithesis of Johns Island. Rather, it looked more like a retirement village in south Florida.
Edgewater Estates Time Share Condominiums was big, sprawling, and gaudy. Stone cherubs and doves flanked the building’s main entrance, while the building itself was painted what could only be described as tropical green. Accents of white shutters and false balustrades completed the garish touches.
It’s like a bad leisure suit, thought Theodosia as she slid her Jeep into the slot marked Visitor Parking. Overly casual combined with bad design. Always a disastrous marriage.
Hughes Barron or, more likely, his architect, had borrowed drips and drops from Charleston architecture. Unfortunately, they seemed to have thrown out what was true and good and classic and reconstituted it into something overblown and commercial.
My God, Theodosia thought to herself, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to create sales materials for this real estate project! Granted, I had my fair share of turkey accounts at the ad agency. Some awful children’s toys that were supposed to be educational but weren’t. A shopping mall. A line of instant soup mixes that never thickened and had a chalky undertaste. But never, never anything this bad.
“Good morning. Welcome to Edgewater Estates.” A perky young woman, probably no older than twenty-six, in a bright yellow suit smiled at Theodosia from the other side of a white marble counter. “This is our sales office, such as it is.” The girl spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. “We’re already sixty percent sold, so the office we were using is now the recreation room. But you are so in luck. We also have several resales that have just come available, and some of them have ocean views.” The young girl halted her pitch, appraised Theodosia quickly, then added, “You are looking for a time-share condo, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” declared Theodosia. “And I’ve heard wonderful things about Edgewater Estates.”
The girl beamed. “We like to think we’re the premier time-share property on Johns Island.”
Theodosia wanted to tell the girl they were the only time-share property right now. And if the island’s residents woke up and learned their lesson, they’d probably remain the only one. But she held her tongue. Better to play it cool, gather as much information as possible. You never knew when something interesting would pop up in conversation.
The real estate agent stuck out her hand. “I’m Melissa Chapman, sales associate.”
Theodosia shook the girl’s hand and smiled convincingly. “Theodosia Browning, prospective buyer.” Theodosia fingered one of the oversized glossy catalogs that lay on the counter between them. “These are your sales brochures?”
“Oh, yes, help yourself.” Melissa thrust one of the colorful brochures into Theodosia’s hands. “There are four different floor plans available. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Probably a two bedroom,” said Theodosia.
“Our most requested model,” enthused the girl. “And what about time of year? Obviously, summer is wildly popular and carries a premium charge. We only have a few blocks of time left. Late August, I believe. But what many people don’t realize is that right now, October, November, is absolutely perfect out here. And the price is a good seventy percent below a summer slot.” Melissa widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Interested?”
“Very,” said Theodosia. “Can I take a look at some of the units?”
“I’ll get my keys.” Melissa smiled.
Chapter 15
Tacky, tacky, tacky. Theodosia chanted her mantra as she gunned the Jeep’s engine and zipped across a narrow wooden bridge. Loose boards clattered in her wake, and gravel flew as she hit the dirt road on the other side.
To her point of view, the condos had been awful. First off, they’d all had that new-apartment smell. Whatever it was, paint, carpet, adhesive, Sheetrock, every unit she’d looked at had caused her nose to tickle and twitch. On top of that, the condos felt stifling and claustrophobic. And it wasn’t just their size, she told herself. Her apartment above the tea shop was small, but it was cozy small. Not cramped small. Why, the two-bedroom unit Melissa had been so proud of hadn’t really been two bedrooms at all. The so-called second bedroom had been an alcove off one end of the living room with cheap vinyl accordion doors that pulled across!
Raised as she had been in homes with stone foundations and heavy wood construction that had withstood wars as well as countless hurricanes, Theodosia was exceedingly leery of these new slap-dab structures. What would happen when a September hurricane boiled up in the mid-Atlantic and came bearing down on Edgewater Estates with gale-force winds? It would go flying, that’s what, Wizard of Oz style. And the pieces probably wouldn’t land in Kansas.
She gritted her teeth, making a face. Shabby. Truly shabby. Oh, well, this visit had certainly given her insight into the kind of developer Hughes Barron had been. The kind of developer his partner Lleveret Dante was. The worst kind, just as Jory Davis had warned.
Cruising past a little beachfront café with a sign that read Crab Shack, Theodosia suddenly had a distant memory of her and her dad exploring the patchwork of waterways out here, of pulling their boat up on a sand dune and sitting at one of the picnic tables to eat boiled crab and French fries. The memory flowed over her so vividly, it brought tears to her eyes.
She slowed the car, blinked at the passing scenery, and slammed on the brakes.
Five hundred yards down from the Crab Shack was a small, whitewashed building with a blue and white sign that carried the image of a long-legged bird. The sign said Shorebird Environmentalist Group.
Shorebird Environmentalist Group.
She scanned her memory. Wasn’t that the group that had sued Edgewater Estates? Sure it was. Jory Davis had told her about the environmentalists losing their case in court. And Drayton had confided earlier that they’d mustered nearby residents and picketed the Edgewater Estates while it was under construction. Probably their outrage still hadn’t abated. Well, that was good for her. It gave her one more source to draw upon.
Tanner Joseph glanced up from his iMac computer and the new climate modeling program he was trying to teach himself and gazed at the woman who’d just stepped through his door. Lovely, was his first impression. Perhaps a few years older than he was, but really lovely. Great hair plus a real presence about her. Was she old money, perhaps?
Growing up in a steel mill town in Pennsylvania, Tanner Joseph was always painfully aware of class distinction. Even though he’d graduated from the University of Minnesota with a master’s degree in ecology, most of the time he still felt like the kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted Theodosia.
Theodosia surveyed the little office. Three desks, one occupied. But all outfitted with state-of-the-art computers and mounded with reams of paper. A folding table set against the wall seemed to be the repository for the Shorebird Environmentalist Group’s brochures, literature, and posters. Surprisingly well-done paintings hung on the walls, depicting grasses, birds, and local wildlife, executed in a fanciful, contemporary style, almost like updated Chinese brush strokes.
To Theodosia, the organization appeared viable but understaffed. Probably just a director and a couple assistants and, hopefully, a loyal core of volunteers.
She walked over to the desk where the young man who’d greeted her was sitting and stared down at him. He was good-looking. Blond hai
r, tan, white Chiclet teeth. Haley would have thought him “hunky.”
“I’m interested in finding out about the Shorebird Environmentalist Group,” she said.
Tanner Joseph clambered to his feet. It wasn’t every day a classy-looking lady came knocking at his door. And classy-looking ladies, more often than not, had access to the kind of funding that could help bootstrap a struggling, little nonprofit organization like his.
“Tanner Joseph.” He stuck out his hand. “Executive director.” “Theodosia Browning.” She shook hands with him. “Nice to meet you.”
“First let me give you one of our brochures.” Tanner Joseph handed her a small, three-fold brochure printed on recycled paper.
Theodosia flipped it open and studied it. The brochure was well-written and beautifully illustrated. The same artist who had done the paintings on the wall had also illustrated the brochure. Short subheads and bulleted copy documented four different projects the Shorebird Environmentalist Group was currently involved in. The information was interesting, punchy, and easy to digest.
“Listen,” Tanner Joseph said. The whites of his eyes were a distinct contrast to his deep suntan. His hands fidgeted with the front of his faded green T-shirt that proclaimed Save the Sea Turtles. “I was about to step out for a bite to eat. At the Crab Shack just down the road. If you’d like a lemonade or something and don’t mind watching me eat, I could fill you in there.”
“Perfect,” exclaimed Theodosia.
