Death by Darjeeling

by Laura Childs

“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.

  One elderly man who was blind and confined to a wheelchair, severely limited in his activities, enjoyed tossing a tennis ball for Earl Grey. Earl Grey would bump and bounce his way down the hallway, painting an audio picture for the man, then bring the tennis ball back to him and snuggle affectionately in the man’s lap.

  Then there was the foursome of fairly active women who never failed to have a plate of treats for Earl Grey. They either coaxed relatives into bringing dog biscuits in for them, or they baked “liver brownie cake,” a strange concoction of beef liver and oatmeal. Theodosia thought the liver brownie cake looked a great deal like liver pâté but tasted like sawdust. Earl Grey, on the other hand, found it a gourmet delight.

  These experiences were all enormously rewarding for Theodosia, and sometimes, driving home at night, her eyes would fill with tears as she remembered a certain incident that had touched her heart. She’d have to pull the car over to the side of the road, search for her hanky, and tell Earl Grey, once again, what a truly magnificent fellow he was.

  CHAPTER 13

  LEYLAND HARTWELL WAS as good as his word. The next morning, the phone rang bright and early.

  “Miss Browning?”

  “Yes?” answered Theodosia.

  “Jory Davis here. I’m an associate with Ligget, Hume, Hartwell. Leyland Hartwell wanted me to call you concerning information we gathered for you. He also wanted me to assure you he would’ve phoned personally, but he was called into an emergency meeting.” There was a slight pause. “Miss Browning?”

  “Yes, Mr. Davis. Please go on.”

  “Anyway, that is why I am the bearer of this information.”

  “It was kind of you to help out on this matter.”

  “My pleasure.” Jory Davis cleared his throat. “Hughes Barron, the late Hughes Barron, was a real estate developer of the worst kind. Realize, now, this is me editorializing.”

  Theodosia had been hunkered down in her
office like a hermit crab, pondering what to do next about Bethany, about business, and now this pleasant man with the rich, deep voice was able to coax a smile out of her. She had seen the name Jory Davis mentioned several times in the business section of the newspaper and in the Charleston Yacht Club’s newsletter but had never met him. Now, however, she was intrigued.

  Jory Davis continued as though he were giving a final summation before a jury. “Barron’s track record in California includes not paying contractors, defaulting on mortgages, and fraudulent activity regarding low-interest loans for senior housing that was never built. Obviously, there are more than a few people and government agencies in California who are . . . were . . . pursuing Hughes Barron.”

  Theodosia’s silver pen bobbed as she jotted down notes.

  “We also did a search of local city and county records and found that Hughes Barron has a silent partner, a Mr. Lleveret Dante. Not surprisingly, this Mr. Dante is currently under indictment by the state of Kentucky for a mortgage-flipping scam and, apparently, had Hughes Barron serving as front man for the pair here in Charleston. Their corporate name is Goose Creek Holdings, a nod to the area north of here where Mr. Barron grew up. Corporate offices for Goose Creek Holdings are located at 415 Harper Street. Stop me if you already know any or all of this, Miss Browning,” said Jory Davis rather breathlessly.

  Theodosia was impressed. Jory Davis had seemingly thrown himself headlong into researching Hughes Barron for her.

  “This is enormously enlightening,” said Theodosia. “And highly entertaining,” she added.

  “Good,” said Jory Davis. “Now that I know I have such an appreciative audience, I’ll continue. Goose Creek’s first real estate project was a time-share condominium on nearby Johns Island known as Edgewater Estates. Edgewater Estates still has a lawsuit pending by the Shorebird Environmentalist Group, but their lawyers have been stalling on it. Early on, this Shorebird Group succeeded in obtaining a court order to stop the development but then lost when it was overturned by a higher court. Goose Creek Holdings also owns undeveloped land in West Ashley and Berkeley County. But it’s just raw property, no condos or strip malls yet.” There was a rustle of papers. “That’s pretty much a quick overview on Hughes Barron, the Cliffs Notes version, anyway. I have a sheaf of papers that includes a little more in-depth information. On the lawsuits as well as the condos and property holdings. I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at it.”

  “Mr. Davis,” said Theodosia, “your fact-finding has been extremely helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Please, call me Jory. Miss Browning, I understand your father used to be a senior partner at our firm.”

  “Yes, he and Leyland started the practice back in the midseventies.”

  “You’re family, then, aren’t you?”

  Theodosia couldn’t help but smile. “What a kind way to put it.”

  “Miss Browning, like I said, I’ve got some background information for you. I can drop these papers in the mail for you, or perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee?”

  “I own a tea shop.”

  Jory Davis never missed a beat. “Cup of tea. Better yet.”

  Theodosia chuckled. She liked this hot-shot attorney who had started out so curiously formal and then veered toward not quite hitting on her, but darn close to it.

  “The Indigo Tea Shop,” said Theodosia. “On Church Street. Drop by anytime.”

  CHAPTER 14

  LOCATED SOUTHWEST OF Charleston, Johns Island is a big boomerang-shaped piece of land. It is only technically an island in that it is surrounded by waters that include the Stono River, Intracoastal Waterway, Kiawah River, and Bohicket Creek. For many years, Johns Island was a sleepy, rural backwater. Farms dotted the landscape, and a few charming villages served as small bedroom communities for Charleston.

  But all that began to change a few years before, as home prices in Charleston escalated, the economy boomed, and the entire Charleston area began to strain its boundaries.

  Real estate developers eyed the still-affordable rolling farms of Johns Island as prime targets for development and began to snatch up properties. Long-time Johns Island residents suddenly saw their rural utopia and relaxed way of life about to be threatened. Tensions ran high.

  In stepped Hughes Barron, thought Theodosia, as she maneuvered her Jeep Cherokee through light midmorning traffic on the Maybank Highway. Jory Davis’s call this morning had made her, as they say, curiouser and curiouser. So she had jumped into her Jeep, rolled back the canvas cover, and was now enjoying the exhilaration of an open-air ride.

  She knew Hughes Barron had been one of the first developers to pounce on property out there. It wasn’t exactly prime oceanfront, but the Atlantic Ocean did flow in between Kiawah and James Islands and create some wonderful tidal rivers and marshes.

  Exiting Maybank, Theodosia followed Rivertree Road for a good five miles, then hung a right on Old Camp Road. Those were the directions she’d gotten earlier when she’d phoned the sales office at Hughes Barron’s so-called Edgewater Estates. But right now she was seeing only pastoral vistas and farmland. Just when she thought she must have gotten off course and was prepared to turn around, an enormous, colorful billboard rose up out of a field of waving, yellow tobacco.

  Edgewater Estates, the sign proclaimed in painted pinks and greens. Time-Share Condominiums. Own A Piece Of History. Deluxe 1, 2, and 3 Bedrooms. Developed By Goose Creek Holdings.

  Theodosia wondered just what piece of history it was that came part and parcel with your Edgewater Estates time-share condo. What had the greedy developer, Hughes Barron, been referring to?

  The archaeological remains of the Cusabo Indians who had lived here 400 years ago?

  The barely visible ruins of an old Civil War fort? Constructed of crushed lime and oyster shells, an amalgam known as tabby, the old fort had begun to crumble even before the turn of the last century.

  How about the 900 acres set aside by the Marine Resources Department?

  No matter, she told herself. She wasn’t here today to do a consumer confidence check on Goose Creek Holdings. She was here because, armed with information Jory Davis had provided, her curiosity was running at a fever pitch. Everything she’d heard about Hughes Barron told her the man was definitely not Mr. Popularity. He had to have made enemies. Lots of them. When land was at stake, or multimillion-dollar real estate deals, that’s when people got very, very serious. And sometimes very, very nasty.

  Swinging into the entrance of Edgewater Estates, a circular, white-crushed-rock drive that wound around a five-tiered fountain, Theodosia hated the place on sight. The building wasn’t just the antithesis of Johns Island. Rather, it looked more like a retirement village in south Florida.

  Edgewater Estates Time Share Condominiums was big, sprawling, and gaudy. Stone cherubs and doves flanked the building’s main entrance, while the building itself was painted what could only be described as tropical green. Accents of white shutters and false balustrades completed the garish touches.

  It’s like a bad leisure suit, thought Theodosia as she slid her Jeep into the slot marked Visitor Parking. Overly casual combined with bad design. Always a disastrous marriage.

  Hughes Barron or, more likely, his architect, had borrowed drips and drops from Charleston architecture. Unfortunately, they seemed to have thrown out what was true and good and classic and reconstituted it into something overblown and commercial.

  My God, Theodosia thought to herself, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to create sales materials for this real estate project! Granted, I had my fair share of turkey accounts at the ad agency. Some awful children’s toys that were supposed to be educational but weren’t. A shopping mall. A line of instant soup mixes that never thickened and had a chalky undertaste. But never, never anything this bad.

  “Good morning. Welcome to Edgewater Estates.” A perky young woman, probably no older than twenty-six, in a bright yellow suit smiled at Theodosia from the other side of a white m
arble counter. “This is our sales office, such as it is.” The girl spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. “We’re already sixty percent sold, so the office we were using is now the recreation room. But you are so in luck. We also have several resales that have just come available, and some of them have ocean views.” The young girl halted her pitch, appraised Theodosia quickly, then added, “You are looking for a time-share condo, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” declared Theodosia. “And I’ve heard wonderful things about Edgewater Estates.”

  The girl beamed. “We like to think we’re the premier time-share property on Johns Island.”

  Theodosia wanted to tell the girl they were the only time-share property right now. And if the island’s residents woke up and learned their lesson, they’d probably remain the only one. But she held her tongue. Better to play it cool, gather as much information as possible. You never knew when something interesting would pop up in conversation.

  The real estate agent stuck out her hand. “I’m Melissa Chapman, sales associate.”

  Theodosia shook the girl’s hand and smiled convincingly. “Theodosia Browning, prospective buyer.” Theodosia fingered one of the oversized glossy catalogs that lay on the counter between them. “These are your sales brochures?”

  “Oh, yes, help yourself.” Melissa thrust one of the colorful brochures into Theodosia’s hands. “There are four different floor plans available. Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “Probably a two bedroom,” said Theodosia.

  “Our most requested model,” enthused the girl. “And what about time of year? Obviously, summer is wildly popular and carries a premium charge. We only have a few blocks of time left. Late August, I believe. But what many people don’t realize is that right now, October, November, is absolutely perfect out here. And the price is a good seventy percent below a summer slot.” Melissa widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Interested?”

  “Very,” said Theodosia. “Can I take a look at some of the units?”