Death By Darjeeling atsm-1

by Laura Childs

  “Can he do that, Drayton?” asked Theodosia.

  Drayton nodded his head slowly, as if still comprehending Haley’s words. “I suppose so. He’s the president. As such, Timothy Neville wields an incredible amount of power. If he were firing someone from an executive position, he’d probably have to call a formal board meeting. At least it would be polite protocol to do so. But for an intern...Yes, I’m afraid Timothy Neville is empowered to hire or fire at will.”

  “Because she’s not important enough,” Haley said with a sniff.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Drayton.

  “What you all don’t realize,” cried Haley, “is that Bethany was going to use her internship as a stepping stone to a better job. You can’t get hired by a good museum unless you have some kind of internship under your belt. And now Bethany’s credibility is completely ruined!” She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Drayton gently patted her arm. “There, there, perhaps something can still be done.” He gazed sadly at Theodosia. His hangdog look implored her, Can’t you do something?

  Theodosia arched her eyebrows back at him. What can I do?

  “Can’t you at least talk to him?” Drayton finally asked out loud.

  Haley’s tear-streaked face tipped up toward Theodosia and brightened. “Could you? Please? You’re so good at things like this. You’re brave, and you know lots of important people. Please, you’ve just got to help!”

  The pleading looks on Drayton’s and Haley’s faces spoke volumes.

  Theodosia sat back in her chair and took a sip of tea. She had spoken with Timothy Neville once or twice over the years. He had always been clipped and formal. She recalled him the other night at the Lamplighter Tour. Sitting at one of the tables, almost holding court as he lectured about the bronze bells that hung in the tower of Saint Michael’s and how they’d once been confiscated by British soldiers.

  “Of course, I’ll talk to him,” she said with outward bravado, when what she really felt inside was Oh, dear.

  Chapter 9

  Outrage makes many women belligerent and strident. With Theodosia it only served to enhance her firm, quiet manner. She strode down Church Street past Noble Dragon Books, Bouquet Garni Giftware, and the Cotton Duck clothing shop. Her thoughts were a jumble, but her resolve was clear. Firing Bethany was unconscionable. The girl was clearly not involved in anything that had to do with Hughes Barron. This had been an incredible overreaction by the Heritage Society and especially on the part of Timothy Neville. She didn’t know a whit about employment law, but she did know about being an employer. Since Bethany’s internship had been a paid internship, that meant she was a regular employee. So just maybe the firing could be considered illegal. Particularly since it was highly doubtful the Heritage Society could prove malicious intent or lack of ability on Bethany’s part.

  Her zeal carried Theodosia past the Avis Melbourne Home before she even realized it. When she suddenly became aware of just where she was, Theodosia slowed her pace, then stopped. Standing just outside a heroic hedge of magnolias, she gazed up at the lovely old home. It looked even more magnificent by day. Stately Ionic columns presented an elegant facade on this predominantly Georgian-style house with its keen attention to symmetry and grace.

  But this was where the murder took place, Theodosia reminded herself. This was where Hughes Barron was— dare she say it?—poisoned.

  Theodosia turned back and walked slowly up the broad front walk. The lanterns and glowing jack-o’-lanterns of the other night were gone. Now the house gleamed white in the sunlight.

  It really was a wedding cake of a house, Theodosia thought to herself. The columns, second-floor balustrade, and roof ornaments looked just like daubs of white frosting.

  She paused at the front steps, turned onto the winding flagstone path that led through a wrought-iron gate, and walked around the side of the house. Within moments, shade engulfed her. Ever since she’d taken a botany class, when she had first purchased the tea shop, Theodosia had made careful observation of plants. Now she noted that tall mimosa trees sheltered the house from the hot Charleston sun, and dense stands of loquat and oleander lined the pathway.

  As her footsteps echoed hollowly, she wondered if anyone was home. Probably not. The Odettes, the couple who called this lovely mansion home, owned a travel agency. They were probably at their office or off somewhere leading a trip. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even seen the Odettes the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Heritage Society volunteers had supervised the event, helping her get set up in the butler’s pantry, and they had guided tour guests through the various downstairs rooms and parlors.

  As she rounded the back corner of the house and came into full view of the garden, Theodosia was struck by how deserted it now looked. Two days ago it had been a lush and lavish outdoor space, darkly elegant with sweet-scented vines and twinkling lanterns, filled with the chatter and laughter of eager Lamplighter Tour guests. Then, of course, had come the gruff and urgent voices of the various police and rescue squads echoing off flagstones and brick walls. But now the atmosphere in the garden was so very still. The tables and chairs were still there, the fountain splattered away, but the mood was somber. Like a cemetery, she thought with a shiver.

  Stop it, she chided herself, don’t let your imagination run wild.

  Theodosia walked to the fountain, leaned down, and trailed a hand in the cool water. Thick-leafed water plants bobbed on the surface, and below, copper pennies gleamed. Someone threw coins in here, she mused. Children, perhaps. Making a wish. Or Lamplighter Tour guests. She straightened up, looked around. It really was a beautiful garden with its abundant greenery and wrought-iron touches. Funny how it had seemed so sinister a moment ago.

  Theodosia walked to the far table—the table where Hughes Barron had been found slumped over his teacup. She sat down in his chair, looked around.

  The table rested snug against an enormous hedge that ran around the outside perimeter of the garden. Could someone have slipped through that hedge? Theodosia reached a hand out to touch the leaves. They were stiff, dark green, packed together densely. But down near the roots there was certainly a crawl space.

  She tilted her head back and gazed at the live oak tree overhead. It was an enormous old tree that spread halfway across the garden. Lace curtains of Spanish moss hung from its upper branches. Could someone have sat quietly in the crook of that venerable tree and dropped something in Hughes Barron’s tea? Yes, she thought, it was possible. Anything was possible.

  Chapter 10

  Timothy Neville loved the Heritage Society with all his being. He possessed an almost religious fervor for the artifacts and buildings they worked to preserve. He displayed uncanny skill when it came to restoration of the society’s old documents, doing most of the painstaking conservation work himself. He worked tirelessly to recruit new members.

  But, most of all, Timothy Neville reveled in Heritage Society politics. Because politics was in his blood.

  Descended from the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the sixteenth century, his ancestors had been fiery, spirited immigrants who’d settled in the Carolinas. Those hardy pioneers had eagerly embraced the New World and helped establish Charles Town. Fighting off the governance of the English crown, surviving the War Between the States, weathering economic downturns in rice and indigo, they were an independent, self-assured lot. Today they were regarded as the founding fathers of Charleston’s aristocracy.

  “Miss Browning.” Timothy Neville inclined his head and pulled his lips back in a rictus grin that displayed two rows of small, sharp teeth. “Come to plead the case of the young lady?”

  Standing in the doorway of Timothy Neville’s Heritage Society office, peering into the dim light, amazed by the clutter of art and artifacts that surrounded him, Theodosia was taken aback. How on earth could Timothy Neville have known she wanted to talk with him about Bethany? She was certain Bethany hadn’t said anything about the two of the
m being friends. In fact, Bethany hadn’t ever really been formally employed by her. And this morning Haley had certainly been far too upset and frightened to place any phone calls.

  Timothy Neville pointedly ignored her and turned his attention back to the Civil War–era document he was working on. It was badly faded and the antique linen paper seriously degraded. An intriguing challenge, he thought to himself.

  Instead of answering him immediately, Theodosia took this opportunity to study Timothy Neville. Watching him in the subdued light, his head bent down, Theodosia was struck by what an unusual-looking little man Timothy Neville was. High, rounded forehead, brown skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, a bony nose, and small, sharp jaw.

  Why, he was almost simian-looking, thought Theodosia. Timothy Neville was a little monkey of a man.

  As if reading her mind, Timothy Neville swiveled his head and stared at her with dark, piercing eyes. Though small and wiry, he always dressed exceedingly well. Today he was turned out in pleated gray wool slacks, starched white shirt, and dove gray jacket.

  Theodosia met his gaze unfalteringly. Timothy Neville had been president of the Heritage Society for as long as she had been aware there was a Heritage Society. She figured the man had to be at least seventy-five years old, although some folks put him at eighty. She knew that, besides being a pillar in the Heritage Society, Timothy Neville also played second violin with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra and resided in a spectacular Georgian-style mansion on Archdale Street. He was exceedingly well placed, she reminded herself. It would behoove her to proceed carefully.

  He finally chose to answer his own question. “Of course that’s why you’re here,” he said with a sly grin. And then, as though reading her mind, added, “Last week Drayton mentioned that the girl was living with one of your employees. In the little cottage across the alley from you, I believe.”

  “That’s right,” said Theodosia. Perhaps this was going to be easier than she’d initially thought. Neville was being polite, if not a trifle obtuse. And Drayton was, after all, on the board of the Heritage Society. She herself had once been invited to join. Maybe this misunderstanding could be easily straightened out. Maybe the Heritage Society had just panicked, made a mistake.

  “Nothing I can do,” said Timothy as he bent over his document again.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Theodosia. The temperature in the room suddenly seemed to drop ten degrees. “I realize Bethany was ...is... only an intern with the Heritage Society. But I’m afraid she was let go for the wrong reason. For goodness sake, she was Hughes Barron’s waitress. The girl had nothing to do with the man’s untimely death.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the girl or the man’s death!” Timothy Neville’s dark eyes glittered like hard obsidian, and a vein in his temple throbbed. “But as far as untimely goes, I’d say it was extremely timely. Opportunistic, in fact.” He gave a dry chuckle that sounded like a rattlesnake’s warning. “Not unlike the man himself.”

  Timothy suddenly jumped up from his chair and confronted Theodosia. Although he was four inches shorter than her, he made up for it with white-hot fervor.

  “Hughes Barron was a despicable scoundrel with a callous disregard for historical preservation!” he screamed, his brown face suddenly contorting and turning beet red. “The man thought he could come to our city—our city, for God’s sake—and run roughshod over principles and ideals we hold dear.”

  “Look, Mr. Neville, Timothy...” Theodosia began.

  He pointed a finger at her, continuing his tirade. “That evil man had even been planning something for your neck of the woods, young lady! That’s right!”

  Timothy Neville bounced his head violently several times, and Theodosia felt a light spray hit her face. She took a step back.

  “Property on your block!” screamed Timothy Neville. “You think you’re immune? Think again!”

  Theodosia stared with fascination at this little man who was clearly, almost frighteningly, out of control. She wondered if such a neurotic, brittle man could get so overwrought concerning historical buildings, could he also commit murder?

  Chapter 11

  Wonderful smells emanated from the kitchen, a sure sign that Haley had regained her balance and slipped back into her usual routine. “It’s me,” called Theodosia as she let herself into her office and pulled the back door closed behind her.

  Haley popped her head around the doorway like a little gopher. “Successful meeting?” Her face glowed from the heat of the kitchen, and her mood seemed considerably improved. Theodosia thought she looked 200 percent better than she had a few hours ago.

  “I’d say so.”

  Now Drayton appeared. “You saw Timothy,” he said eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to reason with him?” he asked.

  Still vivid in Theodosia’s mind was the sight of Timothy Neville in the throes of a hissy fit. “Not exactly,” she replied.

  “So you didn’t get Bethany’s job back?” asked Haley.

  “No,” said Theodosia. “Not yet.”

  Haley’s smile sagged.

  “I don’t understand,” said Drayton. “You said it was a success.”

  “It was, in a way. Timothy was kind enough to reveal his true character.”

  Drayton and Haley stared at each other. They were uncertain as to what exactly Theodosia meant by this. And Theodosia, seeing their disappointment, had no intention of giving them a blow-by-blow description of Timothy Neville’s incredibly obnoxious behavior.

  “Drayton, Haley,” said Theodosia. “I need to make a phone call. Trust me; this isn’t over. In fact, we’ve only just scratched the surface.”

  “Now, what do you suppose she meant by all that?” Haley asked Drayton as they went out into the tea room, shaking their heads.

  Flipping through her hefty Rolodex, Theodosia found the number she wanted. Step one, she thought to herself. Sure hope he’s in.

  “Leyland Hartwell, please. Tell him it’s Theodosia Browning.”

  As Theodosia waited for Leyland Hartwell to come on the line, her eyes searched out the pale mauve walls of her little office. Along with framed tea labels and opera programs, Theodosia had hung dozens of family photos. Her eyes fell on one now. A black-and-white photo of her dad on his sailboat. Looking suntanned, windblown, relaxed. He’d been a member of the Charleston Yacht Club and had once sailed with a crew of three others in the 771-mile Charleston-to-Bermuda Race. He had been an expert sailor, and she had loved sailing with him. Handling the tiller, throwing out the spinnaker, thrilling to the exhilarating rush of sea foam when they heeled over in the wind.

  “Theodosia!” Leyland Hartwell’s voice boomed in her ear. “What a pleasant surprise. Do you still have that Heinz fifty-seven dog?”

  “The Dalbrador,” she said.

  “That’s the one. Ha, ha. Very clever. What can I do for you, my dear?”

  “I’m after some information, Leyland. Your firm still handles a considerable amount of real estate business, am I correct?”

  “Yes, indeed. Mortgages, title examinations, deeds, foreclosures and cancellations, zoning, leases. You name it, we’ve got our fingers in the thick of things.”

  “I’m trying to gather information on a real estate developer by the name of Hughes Barron. Do you know him?”

  “Heard of him,” said Leyland Hartwell. There was a pause. “We’re talking about the fellow who just died, right?”

  “Right,” said Theodosia. And please don’t ask too much more, she silently prayed.

  “Lots of rumors flying on that one,” said Leyland Hartwell. “I was at Coosaw Creek yesterday afternoon playing a round with Tommy Beaumont. He told me Barron died of a heart attack. Then later on a fellow at the bar said he heard a rumor that Barron had been poisoned. Arsenic or something like it.”

  “I really wanted to know about his business dealings,” said Theodosia. Theodosia heard a rustle of paper, and then Leyland Hartwell spoke to
her again.

  “Business deals. Gotcha. Is this time-sensitive?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “No problem. I’ll put one of my people on it and light a fire. We’ll find out what we can. Say, do you still sell that lemon mint tea with the real lemon verbena?”

  “We certainly do.”

  “Mrs. Hartwell surely does love that stuff on ice. Awfully refreshing.”

  Theodosia smiled. Leyland Hartwell was devoted to his wife and always referred to her as Mrs. Hartwell. “Good, I’ll send some over for her.”

  “Aren’t you a love. One of my fellows will be back to you soon. Hopefully first thing tomorrow.”

  Chapter 12

  Click, click, click. Earl Grey took long, easy strides as his toenails hit the blue vinyl runner that ran down the center hallway of the O’Doud Senior Home. Head erect, ears pitched forward, he was spiffily outfitted in his blue nylon vest emblazoned with his therapy dog patch.

  “Hello there, Earl.” Suzette, one of the regular night nurses who had worked there a good fifteen years, greeted him with a big smile as he passed by. As an afterthought, Suzette also acknowledged Theodosia. “Hello, ma’am,” she said.

  Earl Grey and Theodosia were both officially on duty, but Theodosia had long since gotten used to playing second fiddle. Once they set foot in the door, it was strictly Earl Grey’s show. And everyone, from head nurse to janitor, tended to greet Earl Grey first. It was as though he was the one who’d driven over for a visit and allowed Theodosia to tag along.

  That was just fine with Theodosia. In fact, downplaying her role was the whole idea behind therapy dog work. You wanted the dog to approach residents first, in the hallways or recreation room, or even in a resident’s private room.

  Let the residents themselves decide their level of interaction.

  Sometimes, if a person was lying in bed, sick or infirm, they’d just smile at Earl Grey. Often he’d have a calming influence on them, or he’d be able to cheer them with his quiet presence. It was at times like those that Theodosia thought they might be remembering some lovable dog they’d once enjoyed as a pet. Earl Grey, uncanny canine that he was, seemed to understand just when a resident had gained that certain comfort level with him. When he thought the time was right, he’d rest his muzzle on the edge of their bed and give them a gentle kiss.