Death by Darjeeling

by Laura Childs

  “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 hair, 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.

  CHAPTER 16

  TURNS OUT, THE Crab Shack was the exact same place where she and her dad had eaten, a quaint little roadside shack where you studied the hand-painted menu on the side of the building, then went to the window and ordered your food. All dining was outdoors, at sun-bleached wooden picnic tables with faded blue umbrellas. Because of her fond memory and the fact that it was almost noon, Theodosia ended up ordering crab cakes and a side of cole slaw. She and Tanner Joseph sat on wobbly wooden benches, enjoying the sun, salty breezes, and surprisingly tasty food.

  Throughout lunch, Tanner spoke convincingly about the mission of the Shorebird Environmentalist Group, how they were dedicated to the preservation of coastlines and natural marshes, as well as nesting grounds and marine sanctuaries. He also filled her in on his credentials, his degree in ecology and his graduate work in the dynamics of ecosystem response.

  “What does one actually do with a degree in ecology?” asked Theodosia out of curiosity. “What avenues are open?”

  Tanner Joseph shrugged. “Today, you can go any number of ways. Work for the Forest Service, the EPA, or Department of Natural Resources. Go private with literally thousands of corporations to choose from, including groups like the Nature Conservancy or Wilderness Society. Or”—he spread his arms wide and grinned—“you can work for a struggling little nonprofit organization. Try to drum up public interest, writing brochures, illustrating them—”

  “Those are your drawings?” Theodosia interrupted.

  “One of my many talents.” Tanner Joseph smiled. “And duties. Along with writing dozens of grant requests to various foundations in hopes of getting a thousand dollars here, two thousand dollars there. That is, if I’m lucky enough to touch a responsive chord with a sympathetic foundation director.”

  “Sounds tough,” said Theodosia.

  “It is.” Tanner Joseph popped a French fry in his mouth. “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. After grad school, I spent a year in the Amazon studying land surface-atmosphere interaction. It was amazing how just building a one-lane dirt road through an area of jungle severely impacted the ecosystem. I was able to observe all the effects first-hand. I understand now how important it is for a community to plan and manage growth. It’s okay to think big, but it’s generally more prudent to take small steps.”

  “What about the newly expanded road out here? It makes the commute a lot easier to Johns Island from Charleston proper.”

  “Sure it does. But it’s al
so probably a mistake,” said Tanner Joseph, “although no one thought so at the time of construction. But think about it. There are hundreds of acres of saltwater marshes out here and almost a dozen species of wildlife on the yellow list, the nearing endangered list.”

  “And the Edgewater Estates?” asked Theodosia.

  Tanner Joseph grimaced, set his crab salad sandwich down, and gazed intently at Theodosia. “You just touched a raw nerve. Our group was opposed to that development from the outset. Everything about it was fraudulent. The developers lied to the eighty-two-year-old farmer who sold them the land. And the shark lawyers who represented Goose Creek Holdings pressured the local town council for some fast zoning changes. We think they had two council members in their pocket.”

  “You fought a good fight,” said Theodosia. “Got lots of press from what I hear.”

  Tanner Joseph snorted angrily. “Not good enough. We lost, and the damn thing got built. Right on twenty-five acres of prime snowy egret nesting ground.” He shook his head with disgust. “To make matters worse, the place is a monstrosity.” He peered at Theodosia sharply. “Have you seen it?”

  Theodosia nodded.

  Tanner Joseph picked up his sandwich again, held it in both hands like an offering. “Do you believe in karma, Miss Browning?”

  Theodosia brushed back a ringlet of hair and smiled. “Some things do seem to have a way of coming full circle.”

  “Well,” he said, staring at her intently, “Edgewater Estates turned out to generate some very bad karma for one of its developers. The so-called money man, Hughes Barron, died three days ago.” The statement hung in the air as Tanner Joseph narrowed his eyes and smiled a tight, bitter smile. “It looks as though cosmic justice may have been at work, after all.”

  CHAPTER 17

  DELAINE DISH WAS sitting at a quiet table in the corner when Theodosia returned to the tea shop. The owner of Cotton Duck Clothing, Delaine had arrived at the Indigo Tea Shop earlier, insisting to Haley and Drayton that she simply had to speak with Theodosia. Told that Theodosia would probably be back shortly, Delaine sat pensively, sipping a cup of tea, waving Haley off every time she advanced with a muffin or cookies.

  “She’s been here almost forty minutes,” whispered Drayton as Theodosia brushed past him. “Didn’t say what she wanted, just that she wants to talk to you.”

  “Delaine.” Theodosia slid into the chair across the table from her shopkeeper neighbor. “What’s wrong?”

  Delaine Dish’s heart-shaped face was set in a look of serious repose. Raven hair that normally fell almost to her waist was plaited into a single, loose braid, making her face seem all the more intense. Her violet Liz Taylor eyes flashed.

  “Do you know what’s being said out there on the street?” she began.

  No, thought Theodosia, but I’ll bet you do. “What’s that, Delaine?” she said.

  “There are rumors flying, literally flying, about what happened the night of the Lamplighter Tour.”

  “I am aware of some talk, Delaine. But I’m sure they are petty words spoken by a very few.”

  “Dear, dear Theo.” Delaine reached across the table and grasped Theodosia’s hand. “Always giving people the benefit of the doubt. Always such a positive outlook. Sometimes I think you should be put up for canonization.”

  “I’m no saint, Delaine. Believe me, if someone offends me or hurts someone close to me, I’ll fire back. Have no fear.”

  Delaine’s fingernails only dug deeper into Theodosia’s hand. “Didn’t I warn you?” she spat. “Didn’t I tell you Hughes Barron was up to no good?”

  “As I recall, you told me he put in an offer on the Peregrine Building next door.”

  “Yes. Hughes Barron and his partner, Lleveret Dante.”

  Theodosia stared at Delaine. She was obviously upset over something. Maybe if she gave Delaine some space, she’d spit out whatever was bothering her.

  “Cordette Jordan stopped by the Cotton Duck this morning. You know, Cordette owns Griffon Antiques over on King Street?”

  “Okay,” said Theodosia.

  “And, of course, we started chatting. Hughes Barron’s mysterious death is a fairly hot topic of conversation right now. I mean, how many people just fall over dead in a beautiful garden while sipping tea?”

  “You don’t really believe he died from sipping tea, do you?” said Theodosia.

  “No, of course not. And I didn’t mean to imply it was your tea, Theodosia. It’s just that . . . Oh, Theo . . . A lot of people are curious. I mean, the police are playing it very close to the vest and haven’t released any information about cause of death. And the man was fairly dastardly in his business dealings. Who knows what really happened!” Delaine pulled a linen hanky from the pocket of her perfect beige smock dress and touched it to her cheek.

  “What was it you and Cordette were chatting about?” asked Theodosia, trying to gain some forward momentum in the conversation.

  “Oh, that,” said Delaine. She swiveled her head and scanned the tea room. When she was satisfied that the few patrons who were sitting there sipping tea and munching scones were probably tourists and completely uninvolved, she leaned toward Theodosia. “This is very interesting. Cordette told me that Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante have their office in her building. One floor above her antique shop.”

  “Really,” said Theodosia.

  “It gets better. Cordette also told me she overhead the two men in the throes of a terrible argument last week. It was when she went up to use the ladies’ room. The ladies’ room is on the second floor, so Cordette would have been on the same floor as their offices. Anyway, and these are Cordette’s exact words: She said the two men were having a knock-down, drag-out fight.”

  As Delaine talked, Theodosia scanned her memory. King Street was definitely not the address Jory Davis had given her for Goose Creek Holdings. She was sure of that. So what had Cordette really heard, if anything? Had the two men really been there that day, locked in some kind of argument? Or had Delaine heard pieces of this, fragments of that, and put it all together in one big, juicy story as she was wont to do?

  “Delaine.” Theodosia pried Delaine’s tiny but firm paw off her own. Embroiled as she was in Hughes Barron’s death, she decided to give Delaine the benefit of the doubt. “Did Cordette say what Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante were arguing about?”

  Delaine studied her ring intently, trying to recall. It was a giant, pearly moonstone that Theodosia had often admired, and now Delaine twisted it absently.

  “Something about buying or selling and one of them wanting to renege or rescind,” said Delaine. “Or maybe it was revenge,” she added.

  Not terribly enlightening, thought Theodosia. Even if Cordette Jordan’s story about the loud argument was true, the two men could have been fighting about anything. Money, property, their long distance phone bill.

  Theodosia patted Delaine’s hand. “You’re a dear to try to help. Thank you.”

  Delaine blinked back tears. “You mean the world to me, Theodosia. I mean it. When my Calvin passed on, you were the only one who really understood.”

  Calvin had been Delaine’s fourteen-year-old calico cat. When he died last spring, Theodosia had sent a note expressing her condolences. It was what she would have done for anyone who was sad or emotionally distraught.

  After Delaine had departed, Theodosia fixed herself a small pot of dragon’s well tea. Technically a Chinese green tea, dragon’s well yields a pale gold liquor that has a reputation for being both refreshing and stimulating. Because of the tea’s natural sweetness and full-bodied flavor, milk, sugar, or even lemon is rarely taken with it.

  “We need to talk about the holiday blends.”

  Theodosia looked up to find Drayton staring intently down at her.

  “Absolutely,” she replied. “Now?”

  “Only if you’re not too distracted,” said Drayton. “I know a lot of things are weighing heavily on your shoulders right now. And haven’t Haley and I he
lped enormously by putting added pressure on you to try to salvage Bethany’s job at the Heritage Society?” Drayton rolled his eyes in a self-deprecating manner.

  “Drayton, nothing would make me happier than to focus on what I love best. Which is the Indigo Tea Shop and the wonderful teas you continue to blend for us.”

  An enormous grin split Drayton’s face as he plopped down next to Theodosia. He balanced his glasses on the tip of his nose, flipped open a leather binder, and wiggled his eyebrows expectantly.

  Theodosia rejoiced inwardly at this show of unbridled enthusiasm. Drayton was in his element. Blending tea was his passion, and every autumn, Drayton blended three or four special teas in honor of the upcoming holidays.

  “You realize we’re starting late,” said Drayton.

  “I know. Somehow, with our initial work on the Web site and taking part in the Lamplighter Tour, things fell through the cracks. But if we need to jump-start things,” said Theodosia, “we could repackage the Lamplighter Blend.”

  Drayton managed a pained expression. “We’d have to. It hasn’t exactly been a top seller since . . .” His voice trailed off. “Let me put it this way. Even when we had a display of the Lamplighter Blend, nobody bought any. People seemed to view it more as a curiosity. Except for one woman who came in and bought a pound.” Drayton paused dramatically. “She said she was thinking about killing her husband.”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Theodosia unhappily. “Delaine might be right after all. Rumors are flying!”

  Drayton nodded sagely. “They certainly are.”

  “Tell you what,” said Theodosia. “Let’s just start from scratch as usual. You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into the holiday blends, and I’m dying to hear your ideas.”

  Drayton picked up his notebook. “This year,” he began, “I suggest we use an Indian black tea as our base. I’d recommend Kahlmuri Estates. It’s well-balanced and rich but highly complementary to added flavors.”

  At the top of one of the pages in his notebook, Drayton had written Kahlmuri Estates black tea.