by Laura Childs
“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 Drayton 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.
“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 Ba
rron 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 would 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 160-year-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.
