Death by Darjeeling

by Laura Childs

  “Keeping an eye out,” Tidwell replied mildly. He pulled a small packet of Sen-Sen out of his jacket pocket, shook out a piece and stuck the packet back in his pocket without bothering to offer any to her.

  “You should keep an eye on him.” Theodosia nodded sharply toward Lleveret Dante. Down the line of cars, Dante had pulled himself apart from a small cluster of people and was hoisting himself up into a chocolate brown Range Rover. Theodosia noted that the SUV was tricked out ridiculously with every option known to man. Grill guard, fog lights, roof rack, the works.

  Tidwell didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “There’s enough people keeping an eye on him. It’s the quiet ones I worry about.”

  Quiet like Bethany, Theodosia thought angrily. “When are you going to get off Bethany’s case?” she demanded. “The more you continue to harass her, the more you look like a rank amateur.”

  Bert Tidwell guffawed loudly.

  “Oh, Theo!” a voice tinkled merrily.

  Theodosia and Bert Tidwell both looked around to see Samantha bearing down upon them.

  “What is it, Samantha?”

  “I was going to ride with Tandy and George Bostwick, but they’re going to go out to Magnolia Cemetery, and I need to get back for an appointment. Can you be a dear and give me a lift? Just a few blocks over, drop me near your shop?” she inquired breathlessly.

  “Of course, Samantha. I’d be delighted.” And without a fare-thee-well to Burt Tidwell, Theodosia wrenched open the passenger door for Samantha, then stalked around the rear of her Jeep and climbed in.

  “What was that all about?” Samantha asked as she fastened her seatbelt, plopped her purse atop the center console, and ran a quick check of her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

  Theodosia turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. “That was Bert Tidwell being a boor.” She double-clutched from first into third, and the Jeep lurched ahead. “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “It is you who . . . Oh, Theodosia!” cried Samantha with great consternation as the Jeep careened onto the curb, swished perilously close to an enormous clump of tea olive trees, then swerved back onto the street again. “Kindly restrain yourself. I am in no way ready for one of your so-called off-road experiences!”

  CHAPTER 32

  BY THE TIME she dropped Samantha at Church Street and Wentworth, Lucille Dunn’s words, “If there’s anything you’d like from the condo, a keepsake, a memento,” were echoing feverishly in her brain. So Theodosia sailed right on by the Indigo Tea Shop and drove the few blocks down to The Battery.

  Pulling into one of the parking lots, Theodosia noted that the wind was still driving hard. Had to be at least twenty knots. Flags were flapping and snapping, only a handful of people strolled the shoreline or walked the gardens, and then with some difficulty.

  Out in the bay, there was a nasty chop on the water. Overhead, a few high, stringy gray clouds scudded along. Squinting and shielding her eyes from the hazy bright sun, Theodosia could see a few commercial boats on the bay, probably shrimpers. But only one sailboat. Had to be at least a forty-footer, and it was heeled over nicely, coming in fast, racing down the slot between Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. It would be heaven to be out sailing today, gulls wheeling overhead, mast creaking and straining, focusing your efforts only on pounding ocean.

  “If there’s anything you’d like from the condo, a keepsake, a memento.”

  Enough, already, thought Theodosia as the thought jerked her back to the here and now. Lucille Dunn had obviously mistaken her for a close female friend of Hughes Barron. Of that she had no doubt. Okay, maybe that wasn’t all bad. It gave her a kind of tacit permission to go to Hughes Barron’s condo.

  Well, permission might be an awfully strong word. At the very least, Lucille Dunn’s words had bolstered her resolve to investigate further.

  But what condo had Lucille Dunn been referring to? Had Hughes Barron actually lived at that ghastly Edgewater Estates? Or did he have a place somewhere else? She vaguely recalled Drayton saying something once about the Isle of Palms.

  Theodosia sat in the patchy sun, watching waves slap the rocky shoreline and tapping her fingers idly on the dashboard. Only one way to find out.

  She dug in the Jeep’s console for her cell phone, punched it on, and dialed information.

  She told the operator, “I need the number for a Hughes Barron. That’s B-A-R-R-O-N.” She waited impatiently as the operator consulted her computer listings, praying that the number hadn’t been disconnected yet and there’d be no information available. But, lo and behold, there was a listing, the only listing, for a Hughes Barron. The address was 617 Prometheus on the Isle of Palms. It definitely had to be him.

  Grace Memorial Bridge is an amalgam of metal latticework that rises up steeply from the swamps and lowlands to span the Cooper River. The bridge affords a spectacular view of the surrounding environs and offers a bit of a thrill ride, so sharply does it rise and then descend.

  Theodosia whipped across Grace Memorial in her Jeep, reveling in the view, grateful that the one- and sometimes two-hour backup that often occurred during rush hour was still hours away.

  Twenty minutes later, she was on the Isle of Palms. This bedroom community of 5,000 often swelled to triple the population in the summer months when all hotels, motels, resorts, and beach houses were occupied by seasonal renters, eager to dip their toes in the pristine waters and enjoy the Isles of Palms’ seven unbroken miles of sandy beach.

  Hurricane Hugo had hit hard here back in 1989, but you’d hardly know it now. Little wooden beach homes had been replaced by larger, sturdier homes built on stilts. Shiny new resorts and luxury hotels had sprung up where old motels and tourist cabins had been washed away.

  Theodosia had little trouble locating Hughes Barron’s condo. It was just off the main road, a few hundred yards down from a cozy-looking Victorian hotel of gray clap-board called the Rosedawn Inn.

  Located directly on the beach, Hughes Barron’s condo was part of a row of approximately twenty-four contemporary-looking condos. Judging from their low-slung, beach-hugging design, they were far more townhouse than condo.

  After consulting the mailboxes and finding Hughes Barron’s unit number, Theodosia headed for Barron’s condo via a wooden boardwalk that zigzagged through waving clusters of dune grass. Pretty, she thought, and certainly a lot more upscale than his development, Edgewater Estates.

  Had Hughes Barron developed these condos, too? she wondered. Or had he purchased a unit here because he saw it as a good investment? Just maybe, Theodosia thought, Hughes Barron was smarter than anyone had given him credit for. The over-the-top garishness of Edgewater Estates and its apparent success meant he had thoroughly understood the taste of his audience.

  The front door of unit eight stood open on its hinges.

  Slightly unnerved, Theodosia rapped loudly on the doorjamb. “Hello,” she called. “Anyone home?”

  A juggernaut of a woman wearing yellow rubber gloves appeared at the door. Had to be the cleaning lady, Theodosia immediately guessed.

  “You with the police?” the woman asked.

  Theodosia noted that the cleaning lady’s tone was as dull as her gray hair and as nondescript as her enormous smock.

  “I’ve been working with them,” replied Theodosia, crossing her fingers behind her back at the little white lie.

  “Private investigator?”

  “You could say that,” said Theodosia.

  “Um hm.” The cleaning lady bobbed her head tiredly. “I’m Mrs. Finster. I come in twice a week to clean. Course, I don’t know what’s going to happen now that Mr. Barron is gone.” She retreated into the condo, and picked up a crystal vase filled with dead, brackish-looking flowers. “They already took some things, left me with a nice mess,” she said unhappily.

  By “they,” Theodosia presumed Mrs. Finster meant the police.

  Theodosia followed Mrs. Finster into the condo. It was a spacious, contemporary place. Low cocoa-colored l
eather couch, nice wood coffee table, wall filled with high-tech stereo gear, potted plants, lots of windows. She watched as Mrs. Finster halfheartedly moved things about in the kitchen.

  “You just come from the funeral?” asked Mrs. Finster. She flipped the top on a bottle of Lysol and gave the counter a good squirt.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice?”

  “It was very dignified.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Finster set the Lysol down, pulled off her rubber gloves, and brushed quickly at her eyes. “The man deserved as much. Me, I don’t attend any kind of church service anymore. My first husband was an atheist.”

  Theodosia thought there might be more of an explanation for that somewhat strange statement, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming.

  “Had you worked for Mr. Barron a long time?” she asked.

  “A year, give or take,” replied Mrs. Finster. “Him and the Missus.”

  Theodosia could barely contain her excitement. “His wife lived here, too?”

  Mrs. Finster looked at her sharply.

  “I only say that,” said Theodosia, “because I had heard his wife was overseas.”

  Mrs. Finster considered her statement and shrugged. “Well, someone lived here with him. At least her things were always around. I never met the lady personally. People are funny that way. Most of ’em get out of the house when it comes time for someone to clean. Probably embarrassing for them. Having somebody else scrub their toilets or wipe toothpaste drips and drops out of the sink.”

  “Could be,” agreed Theodosia.

  “Anyhoo,” continued Mrs. Finster, “now her stuff’s gone. Moved out, I guess.”

  “Did you tell the police that?” asked Theodosia.

  “That the lady moved out?”

  “Yes,” said Theodosia.

  “Why?” Mrs. Finster planted her hands on her formidable hips. “They didn’t ask.”

  The revelation of a lady friend was news to Theodosia. She pondered the ramifications of her new discovery on her drive back to Charleston.

  Obviously, the woman who’d been living at the Isle of Palms condo wasn’t the wife, Angelique, who was still languishing in Provence somewhere. Yet Hughes Barron had obviously been playing house with someone. Someone who might be able to shed considerable light on his death. Or maybe even know of a motive for his murder.

  How involved had this mystery woman been in Barron’s business dealings? Theodosia wondered. And where was she now? Had she been in attendance at the funeral today? Or was she hiding out for fear she might be the next victim?

  CHAPTER 33

  SOFT BACKGROUND MUSIC played as Bethany and Haley leaned over the counter, giggling. At the large table in the corner, Drayton sat with three guests, presiding over a tea tasting. For some reason, the women had wanted to focus only on Indian teas, so Drayton had brewed pots of Kamal Terai, Okayti Darjeeling, and Chamraj Nilgiri.

  Now, as Theodosia sat at a small table near the window, ruminating over the events of the day, she could hear the four of them using tea-taster terms such as biscuity, a reference to tea that’s been fired, and soft, which meant a tea had been purposely underfermented.

  Indian teas were all well and good, but today Theodosia needed a little extra fortification. She’d opted for a pot of Chinese Pai Mu Tan, a rare white tea from southern China, also known as White Peony. With its soft aroma and smooth flavor, it was also known to aid digestion. After the roller-coaster ride of the past week, and the surprising revelations of today, Theodosia figured her digestive system could use a little settling.

  “Bethany,” Theodosia called quietly from where she was seated.

  Bethany immediately came over to Theodosia’s table and favored her with a wan smile.

  “Sit with me for a minute.”

  Bethany’s smile slipped off her face. “Am I fired? I’m not fired, am I?” She twisted her head around to peer at Haley. “I know it looks like we were goofing off over there, but I’ve got a—”

  “Bethany, you’re not fired. Please, try to relax.” Theodosia smiled warmly to show Bethany she really meant it.

  “Sorry.” Bethany cast her eyes downward. “You must think I’m some kind of paranoid goose.”

  Theodosia poured Bethany a cup of tea. “No, I think you were treated unfairly at the Heritage Society, and it stuck in your craw. The experience has left your confidence more than a little shaken.”

  “You’re right,” Bethany admitted shyly. “It has.”

  “But I want to ask you something,” said Theodosia, “and I don’t want you to read anything more into it than the fact that it’s just a simple, straightforward question, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Bethany, looking nervous again.

  Theodosia leaned forward. “Bethany, you got into an argument with Hughes Barron, is that correct?”

  “I spoke up to him at one meeting at the Heritage Society, but I wouldn’t call it arguing. Really. You can ask Drayton.”

  “I believe you,” said Theodosia. “And later, after that same meeting where Timothy Neville took offense at Hughes Barron and verbally chastised him—”

  “He certainly did,” Bethany agreed.

  “You talked to Hughes Barron again. After the meeting?”

  “I . . . I did. To tell you the truth, I felt kind of sorry for him. He was a new board member who had made a generous donation and then was treated badly. I know it wasn’t my place, me being the new kid, but I kind of apologized to him. I didn’t want him to think we were all maniacs. After all, he wasn’t the one who lost his temper, it was Timothy Neville.”

  “Bethany, I have to ask this. Are you . . . did you have any dealings with Hughes Barron outside the Heritage Society?”

  The stricken look on Bethany’s face was the only answer she needed.

  “I never talked to him alone except for that one time, after the meeting. That was the one and only time. On the night of the Lamplighter Tour, I didn’t serve him. Haley did. I only . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Theodosia nodded and sat back. In her wildest dreams she hadn’t believed that Bethany could be the mysterious girlfriend. But she had to ask. And if Bethany had spoken to Hughes Barron after that meeting, apologized to him like she said, maybe Timothy Neville had overheard her words and been enraged. That would certainly account for her being summarily fired. Fired for an act of kindness, thought Theodosia. What is the world coming to?

  Bethany was smiling shyly at Theodosia. “Haley and I were working on a new idea.”

  “What’s that, Bethany?” My God, the girl had looked so stricken. How could she have even thought she might have been involved with Hughes Barron?

  “At the photo exhibition the other night, I ran into a friend. We got to talking, and I told her I was working here. Anyway, she called this morning and asked if we could cater a teddy bear tea. For her daughter’s eighth birthday party.”

  Theodosia considered the request. She’d heard of teddy bear teas for children. They’d just never done one.

  “I said we could do it.” Bethany paused. “Can we do it?”

  Theodosia smiled at Bethany’s hopeful eagerness. “I suppose so. Have you talked to Drayton yet? He’s major domo in charge of all catering.”

  “I have, and he suggested I take a shot at working up a menu and a few party activities, then submit a proposal to my friend.”

  “Bethany, I think that’s a fine idea.”

  “You do?”

  “Is that what you and Haley were working on?”

  “Yes, we’ve already got three pages of notes.”

  “Good for you.” Theodosia smiled.

  The bell over the door suddenly tinkled merrily.

  “Two for tea?” asked Tanner Joseph as he stood in the doorway smiling at the two women seated at the small table.

  Bethany rose awkwardly. “Hello, Mr. Jo—Tanner. Could I get you a cup of . . . Oh, excuse me.” She suddenly spotted the stack of art boards under his arm. “You’re here on business. The lab
els.” She suddenly bolted, leaving Theodosia to contend with an amused Tanner Joseph.

  “She’s a wonderful girl,” he said, sitting down.

  “We think so,” agreed Theodosia. She was determined to play it cool and carry on with her review of his label ideas.

  Tanner set a stack of art boards on the table between them. “Tea labels, as promised,” he said. “But I must confess, I took them a bit beyond the pencil stage.”

  “Whatever you did, it certainly didn’t take you long,” said Theodosia.

  “You could say I threw myself into it.” He favored her with a grin.

  Dressed today in dark green slacks and a green military-looking sweater with cotton shoulder epaulets, Tanner Joseph looked rather dashing and every inch an eco commando. Though Theodosia had the distinct feeling he used his good looks to leverage every possible advantage, she could certainly see why Bethany had accepted a date with him. He was a handsome young man.

  “Let’s take a look at what you’ve got,” said Theodosia. For the next few minutes, she banished all thoughts of poison frogs from her head as she studied the four label illustrations Tanner Joseph had created.

  They were good. Better, in fact, than anything Theodosia had hoped for. Rendered in black and white, they were punchy and strong. They weren’t just sketches but finished art, beautifully finished at that. Theodosia knew that once Tanner received approval from her, it was a simple matter of adding a bit of color.

  “These are wonderful,” declared Theodosia. She was particularly delighted by the free-flowing brush strokes and the calligraphy he had managed to incorporate.

  “I tried to capture a bit of a Zen feeling,” said Tanner, “but still convey the zest of your flavors.”

  “Drayton.” Theodosia raised her voice just a touch.

  Drayton looked over at her and held up a finger. His tea-tasting group was jabbering amongst themselves, and it looked like he would be able to extricate himself for a few moments.

  “How long will it take to add color?” asked Theodosia.

  “Not long, a few hours,” said Tanner. “Oh, hello.” He smiled up at Drayton. “I guess you’re the gentleman who created the tea blends.”