Death By Darjeeling atsm-1

by Laura Childs

  Earl Grey, deliriously glad to be running off his leash where there were such interesting places to explore and things to sniff, circled around Libby exuberantly.

  Now that the weather had turned cooler, Libby had switched to high-oil-content sunflower seeds. She claimed that migratory birds would soon be arriving exhausted from their long flight from the north and needed extra oil to restore their energy.

  Theodosia wondered what it would take to restore her energy. The preparations to bring Earl Grey to Aunt Libby’s last night had been nerve-racking. She’d had to make three trips just to get the dog bed, canister of food, aluminum food and water bowls, and Earl Grey, himself, down to her Jeep.

  Then, just on the off chance that she was being watched or even followed, she’d circled through the historic district a few times, scanning her rearview mirror for any suspicious cars. She spent another fifty minutes driving and, upon arrival, giving a careful explanation to Aunt Libby so she wouldn’t be thrown into hysterics.

  But Libby hadn’t gone into hysterics. She had listened with a sort of dead calm to Theodosia’s disclosure of her sleuthing efforts following the death of Hughes Barron, as well as her explanation as to exactly why she’d brought her companion animal out to the plantation.

  Libby had stretched a hand out to Earl Grey and patted him on the head. “It will do him good to spend time on the plantation,” she’d said. “Let him stretch his legs and chase critters in the woods. He can be a country dog for a while.”

  Now Theodosia had to figure out her next move, and it had to be a careful one. Judging from the note last night, someone had been angered by her snooping around. Somehow, some way, she had rattled the cage of Hughes Barron’s murderer.

  It was a terrifying thought, one that chilled her to the marrow. At the same time, it also gave her an odd feeling of pride at the success of her own amateur sleuthing efforts.

  “Breakfast’s served.” Margaret Rose Reese, Libby’s live-in housekeeper, set a yawning platter of food down on the small pine table that sat outside on the porch.

  “My goodness, Margaret Rose, breakfast’s ready so soon?” said Libby as she climbed the stairs to the porch. Dressed in a tobacco-colored suede jacket, khaki slacks, and old felt hat, she looked like a seasoned plantation owner, even though she no longer grew her own crops.

  Margaret Rose was a white-haired, rail-thin woman who seemed to have the metabolism of a gerbil. Between Libby and Margaret Rose, Theodosia didn’t know which one exuded more nervous energy. In fact, if that energy were to be harnessed, it could probably generate enough power to keep the lights burning in the entire state of South Carolina.

  “I swear,” said Libby, pulling off her leather gloves and sitting down to the table laden with orange juice, tea, fresh fruit, croissants, and a platter of bacon and scrambled eggs. “The older you get, Margaret Rose, the earlier you get up. Pretty soon you’ll have us eating breakfast at four A.M.”

  Margaret Rose grinned. She had been with Libby for almost fifteen years. In fact, Libby had hired her right after Theodosia went off to college and Margaret Rose’s former employer, the Reverend Earl Dilworth, passed away.

  Theodosia had always suspected Libby’s reasons for hiring Margaret Rose were twofold. First, Margaret Rose didn’t really have a place to go after old Reverend Dilworth died, and Libby was too kindhearted to see her left at odds and ends. Second, Libby finally realized how lonely she was, rattling around in that huge old house by herself.

  True, Libby had two neighbors, good friends, who leased much of her land for growing crops and spent time around the house and old barn (now the equipment shed) on an almost daily basis. But that wasn’t the same. The house would still have been empty.

  “You’re driving back to Charleston this morning?” asked Libby as she helped herself to juice, coffee, and a small serving of scrambled eggs.

  Theodosia nodded.

  “You know that Leyland Hartwell at your father’s old law firm would be delighted to assist you in any way,” said Libby.

  She was trying not to show her deep-seated worry, but concern shone in her eyes.

  “I’ve already spoken with Leyland,” said Theodosia. “He helped me obtain some information I needed. He and another lawyer, Jory Davis.”

  Theodosia wondered if she shouldn’t perhaps call Jory Davis and see if he could give her a referral on a good private security company. It might not be a bad idea to have someone keep an eye on the tea shop as well as Haley and Bethany’s apartment across the alley. She decided she’d better include Drayton’s house, too. His place was so old, over 160 years, that a clever person could easily pick one of the ancient locks or pry open one of the rattly windows. And, because any restoration Drayton had done had been to make it as historically accurate as possible, she knew there was no way he’d ever install a security system.

  Their breakfasts eaten, Theodosia and Libby watched as an unsuspecting woodchuck lumbered out of the woods to go facedown in a platter of seeds. Then, abruptly startled by a playful, pouncing Earl Grey, the woodchuck was forced to beat a hasty retreat and hole up in a hollow log. Nonplused, Earl Grey circled the woodchuck’s temporary hideout with a mournful but proprietary air.

  “Walk with me for a while, dear,” invited Libby, and the two descended the wooden steps and slowly crossed the broad carpet of lawn.

  “So peaceful,” murmured Theodosia as they wandered past the small family cemetery surrounded by a low, slightly tumbledown rock wall. In one corner of the family plot was a grape arbor with decorative urns underneath. The grapes from the thick twining vines had long since been carried away by grackles, and dry, papery leaves rustled in the gentle wind. An enormous live oak, that sentinel of the South, rose from another corner and spread its canopy over the small area.

  “It’s comforting to know our family is still nearby,” said Libby. “Oh, look.” She stuck her gloved hand into a large, dark green clump of foliage and pulled out a cluster of white blossoms that resembled delicate butterfly wings. Smiling, she held out the branch to Theodosia.

  “Ginger lily,” murmured Theodosia. It was a tropical plant that had long ago been brought over from Asia to grace Southern gardens. It was also one of the few plants that flowered in the autumn. Theodosia accepted the blossoms, inhaling the delicate fragrance so reminiscent of gardenias.

  “Just a moment,” she whispered, and slipped through the archway into the small cemetery to lay the blossoms on the simple marble tablet that marked her mother’s grave.

  Libby smiled her approval.

  Circling around the pond with its shoreline of cattails and waving golden grasses, past the old barn that decades ago had held prize cattle and fine Thoroughbred horses, they came to a cluster of small, dilapidated wood-frame buildings. The elements had long since erased any evidence of paint, and now the wood had weathered silver. Red-brick chimneys had begun to crumble.

  These were the outbuildings that long ago had been slave quarters.

  When one of Libby’s neighbors had once suggested to her that the buildings were an eyesore and should be torn down, Libby had steadfastly demurred and explained her strong feelings about preserving them just as they were.

  “No,” she’d said, “let people see how it really was, no tearing it down, no disguising the issue. Slavery was a disgrace and the worst kind of black mark against the South.”

  And so Aunt Libby’s dilapidated slave quarters remained. Every so often, a group of schoolchildren or a history professor, filmmaker, or TV station would call and ask permission for a visit or to shoot film footage. Libby always said yes. She knew it was an abomination, but she also knew it was an irrefutable part of Southern history.

  “Theodosia.” Libby Revelle stopped in her tracks and turned to face her niece. Her wise, sharp eyes stared intently into the younger woman’s face. “You will be very careful, won’t you?”

  Chapter 37

  “You’ll never guess what happened!” exclaimed Haley. Theodosia held her b
reath. She had just driven back from Aunt Libby’s and quietly let herself in through the back door of the Indigo Tea Shop. Now, judging by the curious, startled look on Haley’s face, it would appear that an event of major proportion had just taken place.

  “Mr. Dauphine died!” Haley announced in hushed tones.

  “Oh, no, how awful!” cried Theodosia, sinking into a chair. “The poor man.” She let the news wash over her. Of course, she had just been to see Mr. Dauphine three days ago, checking with him about offers he might have received on the Peregrine Building. They’d had a pleasant enough discussion and Mr. Dauphine had seemed in good spirits. He may have been a little tired, and his coughing hadn’t been good, but he certainly hadn’t looked like a man who was about to die.

  “They just took his body away,” said Haley. “Did you see the ambulance?”

  “No, I parked in back,” said Theodosia.

  “That’s where the ambulance was,” said Haley. “Miss Dimple had them pull around to the back. She didn’t want to upset the tourists. Wasn’t that sweet?”

  “How did he...?” began Theodosia.

  Haley shook her head sadly. “Miss Dimple found him on the second-floor landing. She went looking for him when he didn’t show up for work. Apparently, he was always punctual, always arrived by nine A.M. Anyway, by the time she got to him, he wasn’t breathing. She phoned for an ambulance, but it was too late. The paramedics thought Mr. Dauphine might have had a heart attack.”

  Perhaps the four flights of stairs had finally done him in, thought Theodosia. How awful. And poor Miss Dimple; how awful to find her beloved employer of almost forty years crumpled in a sad heap, no longer able to breathe. Now there would be yet another funeral in the historic district.

  The sudden memory of Hughes Barron’s recent funeral service caused Theodosia to chase after Haley, who, shaking her head at the sad incident, had wandered out front to exchange additional bits of information with Drayton. Right after the ambulance had arrived, Drayton had gone up and down Church Street, chatting with the other shopkeepers, clucking over the sad news.

  “Haley,” said Theodosia, catching up to her, “they’re sure it was a heart attack?”

  There was an immediate flicker of understanding in Haley’s eyes. “Well, everyone’s saying it was a heart attack. But...”

  “But what if it was something else that caused a heart attack?” asked Theodosia.

  “My God,” whispered Haley as she put a hand to her mouth, “you don’t think someone bumped off Mr. Dauphine, do you?”

  Theodosia reached for the phone. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”

  “Who are you calling? The hospital?”

  “No,” replied Theodosia. “Burt Tidwell.”

  Chapter 38

  Burt Tidwell didn’t show up at the Indigo Tea Shop until midafternoon. Even then, he didn’t make his presence known immediately.

  He sauntered in, sampled a cup of Ceylon white tea, and scarfed a cranberry scone, all the while keeping Bethany in a state of near panic as she waited on him. Finally, Burt Tidwell told Bethany that she could kindly inform Theodosia of his arrival. Told her to tell Miss Browning that, per her invitation to drop by the tea shop, he was, voilà, now at her disposal.

  “Mr. Tidwell, lovely to see you again,” said Theodosia. She arrived at his small table by the window bearing a plate of freshly baked lemon and sour cream muffins drizzled with powdered sugar frosting. Haley had just pulled them from the oven, and the aroma was enough to tempt the devil. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, Theodosia had reasoned, but you could just as often tap his inner thoughts via his stomach, too. And Burt Tidwell had a very ample stomach.

  “And pray tell what are these?” Tidwell asked as Theodosia set the plate of muffins on the table between them. His nose quivered like a bunny rabbit, and his lips puckered in delight. “I declare, you folks certainly offer the most delightful repertoire of baked goods.”

  “Just our lemon and sour cream muffins,” said Theodosia, waving her hand as if the pastries were nothing at all. In fact, she had instructed Haley to knock herself out.

  “May I?” asked Burt Tidwell. He was just this side of salivating.

  “Of course,” said Theodosia in her warmest, coziest tone as she inched the plate and accompanying butter dish closer to him. Aunt Libby would have laughingly told her it was like dangling a minnow for spottail bass. “I’m glad you could drop by,” she said. “I wanted to find out how the investigation was going and ask you a couple of peripheral questions.”

  “Peripheral questions,” Tidwell repeated. “You have a gift for phrasing, don’t you, Miss Browning? You’re able to make unimportant data seem important and critical issues appear insignificant. A fine tactic often used by the police.”

  “Yes,” she continued, trying to ignore his jab but being reminded, once again, of just how maddening the man could be.

  “Such goings-on you’ve had in your neighborhood,” chided Tidwell. His pink tongue flicked out to catch a bit of frosting that clung to his upper lip.

  “Enjoying that, are you?” Theodosia asked archly.

  “Delicious,” replied Tidwell. “As I was saying, your poor neighborhood has endured more than its share of tragedy. First, Mr. Hughes Barron so inelegantly drops dead at your little tea party. Now Mr. Dauphine, your next-door neighbor in the Peregrine Building, has succumbed. Could you, perchance, be the common denominator?”

  There’s my opener, thought Theodosia. As infuriating and off base as Tidwell’s implication is, there is my opener.

  “But no one from the Indigo Tea Shop was near Mr. Dauphine when he died,” said Theodosia. “And I was under the impression the poor man suffered a heart attack.”

  “But you were with Mr. Dauphine three days ago,” said Tidwell. “His very capable associate, Miss Dimple, keeps a detailed log of all visitors and all incoming phone calls. And”—Tidwell paused—“she has shared that with me.”

  Good, thought Theodosia, now if you’ll just share a little bit more of that information with me.

  “Yes, I did go to Mr. Dauphine’s office,” said Theodosia, struggling to control her temper. “We are neighbors, and I was talking to him about the offer Hughes Barron put forth on his building.” Theodosia took a deep breath. “Have you learned anything more about someone trying to buy the Peregrine Building?” She knew it was a stab in the dark.

  Tidwell’s huge hands handled the tiny butter knife with the sureness of a surgeon. Deftly he sliced a wedge of unsalted butter and applied it to a second muffin. “I understand the surviving business partner, Mr. Lleveret Dante, made an offer on the building only yesterday,” he said.

  “That’s very interesting,” said Theodosia. Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

  “Not that interesting,” replied Tidwell mildly. “Hughes Barron had already made an overture to purchase the Peregrine Building. That was fairly common knowledge. It’s only logical to assume that the remaining partner would follow up on any proposition that had already been put into motion.”

  “And you think Dante made a legitimate offer?”

  Tidwell pursed his lips. “Highly doubtful. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, Miss Browning. Mr. Lleveret Dante had many nefarious dealings in his home state of Kentucky.”

  The door to the shop opened, and Delaine Dish walked in. She took one look at Theodosia, deep in conversation with Burt Tidwell, and sat down at the table farthest from them.

  Oh, dear, thought Theodosia, just what I don’t need right now—Delaine Dish making the rounds, whispering in hushed tones about the death of Mr. Dauphine.

  “Of course,” continued Tidwell, “it makes no difference if Lleveret Dante offered three times market value on the Peregrine Building. He shall never own it now.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Theodosia. She snapped her attention from Delaine back to Tidwell. He knows something, she thought with a jolt. Why else would his sharp eyes be focused on her li
ke a cat doing sentry duty outside a mouse hole?

  Tidwell rocked back in his chair. “Because Mr. Dauphine left a very specific last will and testament.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Mr. Dauphine’s will clearly stated that, should he die before disposing of the Peregrine Building, ownership of it passes to the Heritage Society.”

  Chapter 39

  “Theodosia, please,” began Delaine, “someone’s got to tell you, and it may as well be me.”

  “Tell me what, Delaine?” Theodosia slipped into the chair across from Delaine Dish. She was still rankled by Tidwell’s attitude and shocked at his revelation that the Heritage Society was suddenly on the receiving end of poor Mr. Dauphine’s generosity. This certainly was a surprising turn of events.

  Delaine cocked her head in mock surprise. “Surely you’re aware of Timothy Neville’s mud-slinging campaign. It has reached epidemic proportions.”

  So Delaine hadn’t come here to talk about Mr. Dauphine. She still had a bee in her bonnet over Timothy Neville. Theodosia settled back in her chair and gazed at Delaine. She was dressed head to toe in cashmere, pale pink cowl-neck sweater that draped elegantly, and matching hip-skimming skirt. Even her handbag was cashmere, a multicolored soft baguette bag in coordinating pinks, purples, and reds. Theodosia slid her chair back a notch and peeked at Delaine’s shoes. Ostrich. Holy smokes. The clothing business must be good these days, very good. Certainly far better than the tea shop business.

  “Delaine,” said Theodosia tiredly, “I have so much going on right now. I appreciate your concern, but—”

  “Theodosia, I cannot stand idly by and tolerate this much longer. The man is spreading lies. Lies!”

  Theodosia smiled and nodded as Angie Congdon from the Featherbed House entered the shop. “Hello, Angie,” she called, then turned back to Delaine. “What kind of lies?” Theodosia asked, the smile tight on her face.