by Laura Childs
Theodosia reached for the phone. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”
“Who are you calling? The hospital?”
“No,” replied Theodosia. “Burt Tidwell.”
CHAPTER 38
BURT TIDWELL DIDN’T show up at the Indigo Tea Shop until midafternoon. Even then, he didn’t make his presence known immediately.
He sauntered in, sampled a cup of Ceylon white tea, and scarfed a cranberry scone, all the while keeping Bethany in a state of near panic as she waited on him. Finally, Burt Tidwell told Bethany that she could kindly inform Theodosia of his arrival. Told her to tell Miss Browning that, per her invitation to drop by the tea shop, he was, voilà, now at her disposal.
“Mr. Tidwell, lovely to see you again,” said Theodosia. She arrived at his small table by the window bearing a plate of freshly baked lemon and sour cream muffins drizzled with powdered sugar frosting. Haley had just pulled them from the oven, and the aroma was enough to tempt the devil. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, Theodosia had reasoned, but you could just as often tap his inner thoughts via his stomach, too. And Burt Tidwell had a very ample stomach.
“And pray tell what are these?” Tidwell asked as Theodosia set the plate of muffins on the table between them. His nose quivered like a bunny rabbit, and his lips puckered in delight. “I declare, you folks certainly offer the most delightful repertoire of baked goods.”
“Just our lemon and sour cream muffins,” said Theodosia, waving her hand as if the pastries were nothing at all. In fact, she had instructed Haley to knock herself out.
“May I?” asked Burt Tidwell. He was just this side of salivating.
“Of course,” said Theodosia in her warmest, coziest tone as she inched the plate and accompanying butter dish closer to him. Aunt Libby would have laughingly told her it was like dangling a minnow for spottail bass. “I’m glad you could drop by,” she said. “I wanted to find out how the investigation was going and ask you a couple of peripheral questions.”
“Peripheral questions,” Tidwell repeated. “You have a gift for phrasing, don’t you, Miss Browning? You’re able to make unimportant data seem important and critical issues appear insignificant. A fine tactic often used by the police.”
“Yes,” she continued, trying to ignore his jab but being reminded, once again, of just how maddening the man could be.
“Such goings-on you’ve had in your neighborhood,” chided Tidwell. His pink tongue flicked out to catch a bit of frosting that clung to his upper lip.
“Enjoying that, are you?” Theodosia asked archly.
“Delicious,” replied Tidwell. “As I was saying, your poor neighborhood has endured more than its share of tragedy. First, Mr. Hughes Barron so inelegantly drops dead at your little tea party. Now Mr. Dauphine, your next-door neighbor in the Peregrine Building, has succumbed. Could you, perchance, be the common denominator?”
There’s my opener, thought Theodosia. As infuriating and off base as Tidwell’s implication is, there is my opener.
“But no one from the Indigo Tea Shop was near Mr. Dauphine when he died,” said Theodosia. “And I was under the impression the poor man suffered a heart attack.”
“But you were with Mr. Dauphine three days ago,” said Tidwell. “His very capable associate, Miss Dimple, keeps a detailed log of all visitors and all incoming phone calls. And”—Tidwell paused—“she has shared that with me.”
Good, thought Theodosia, now if you’ll just share a little bit more of that information with me.
“Yes, I did go to Mr. Dauphine’s office,” said Theodosia, struggling to control her temper. “We are neighbors, and I was talking to him about the offer Hughes Barron put forth on his building.” Theodosia took a deep breath. “Have you learned anything more about someone trying to buy the Peregrine Building?” She knew it was a stab in the dark.
Tidwell’s huge hands handled the tiny butter knife with the sureness of a surgeon. Deftly he sliced a wedge of unsalted butter and applied it to a second muffin. “I understand the surviving business partner, Mr. Lleveret Dante, made an offer on the building only yesterday,” he said.
“That’s very interesting,” said Theodosia. Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.
“Not that interesting,” replied Tidwell mildly. “Hughes Barron had already made an overture to purchase the Peregrine Building. That was fairly common knowledge. It’s only logical to assume that the remaining partner would follow up on any proposition that had already been put into motion.”
“And you think Dante made a legitimate offer?”
Tidwell pursed his lips. “Highly doubtful. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, Miss Browning. Mr. Lleveret Dante had many nefarious dealings in his home state of Kentucky.”
The door to the shop opened, and Delaine Dish walked in. She took one look at Theodosia, deep in conversation with Burt Tidwell, and sat down at the table farthest from them.
Oh, dear, thought Theodosia, just what I don’t need right now—Delaine Dish making the rounds, whispering in hushed tones about the death of Mr. Dauphine.
“Of course,” continued Tidwell, “it makes no difference if Lleveret Dante offered three times market value on the Peregrine Building. He shall never own it now.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Theodosia. She snapped her attention from Delaine back to Tidwell. He knows something, she thought with a jolt. Why else would his sharp eyes be focused on her like a cat doing sentry duty outside a mouse hole?
Tidwell rocked back in his chair. “Because Mr. Dauphine left a very specific last will and testament.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Mr. Dauphine’s will clearly stated that, should he die before disposing of the Peregrine Building, ownership of it passes to the Heritage Society.”
CHAPTER 39
THEODOSIA, PLEASE,” BEGAN Delaine, “someone’s got to tell you, and it may as well be me.”
“Tell me what, Delaine?” Theodosia slipped into the chair across from Delaine Dish. She was still rankled by Tidwell’s attitude and shocked at his revelation that the Heritage Society was suddenly on the receiving end of poor Mr. Dauphine’s generosity. This certainly was a surprising turn of events.
Delaine cocked her head in mock surprise. “Surely you’re aware of Timothy Neville’s mud-slinging campaign. It has reached epidemic proportions.”
So Delaine hadn’t come here to talk about Mr. Dauphine. She still had a bee in her bonnet over Timothy Neville. Theodosia settled back in her chair and gazed at Delaine. She was dressed head to toe in cashmere, pale pink cowl-neck sweater that draped elegantly, and matching hip-skimming skirt. Even her handbag was cashmere, a multicolored soft baguette bag in coordinating pinks, purples, and reds. Theodosia slid her chair back a notch and peeked at Delaine’s shoes. Ostrich. Holy smokes. The clothing business must be good these days, very good. Certainly far better than the tea shop business.
“Delaine,” said Theodosia tiredly, “I have so much going on right now. I appreciate your concern, but—”
“Theodosia, I cannot stand idly by and tolerate this much longer. The man is spreading lies. Lies!”
Theodosia smiled and nodded as Angie Congdon from the Featherbed House entered the shop. “Hello, Angie,” she called, then turned back to Delaine. “What kind of lies?” Theodosia asked, the smile tight on her face.
Delaine Dish leaned forward eagerly. “Innuendoes, really. About the night of the Lamplighter Tour.”
“Oh, that,” said Theodosia.
“About your snooping around inside his house during one of his concerts.” Delaine’s cupid lips were curled in a smile, but her look clearly questioned the truthfulness of this allegation.
“He said that?” Theodosia tried her best to appear injured and innocent.
“That’s what Timothy told George Harper when he stopped by the Antiquarian Map Store.”
“Really,” said Theodosia. So maybe Timothy Neville had been the one who’d opened the door that night,
she thought. Come to check if she was snooping about. And she cowering in the dark. Truly, another proud moment in what had been an insane last couple weeks. “What else, Delaine?” Theodosia asked.
Delaine looked pained. “Something about the young woman who served as an intern at the Heritage Society. Now works for you.”
“Bethany.”
“That’s the one.”
“Let me guess, Delaine. Timothy Neville is convinced Bethany had some kind of relationship with Hughes Barron.”
“Yes, he is!” said Delaine, enormously pleased that Theodosia seemed to be finally getting into the spirit of this juicy discussion.
“Forget it,” said Theodosia. “It’s not true. None of it’s true.” Well, she reluctantly admitted to herself, the snooping part was true, but she wasn’t about to confess her sins to Delaine Dish. If she did, they’d be headline news all over Charleston.
“I know that, Theodosia,” assured Delaine. “But Timothy Neville carries a lot of clout around here. You do, too, of course. Your family is almost as old as his. But he is being verbal. You remain silent.”
“I do not need to dignify his lies with a rebuttal.”
“Oh, hello, Angie,” said Delaine excitedly. She turned in her chair, the better to greet Angie Congdon. “Wasn’t it a shame about Mr. Dauphine? Such a pity. Dear, do you have just a moment?” Delaine stood in a swirl of perfect pink and reached out to catch Angie’s arm. “I just received the most tantalizing shipment of silks in the most amazing jewel tones and, of course, I immediately thought of your olive complexion and dark hair.” Delaine was off and running.
Theodosia rose and began clearing the table, all the while pondering what Delaine had just related to her. As much as she wanted to, perhaps she couldn’t ignore these issues any longer. Maybe she had to do something about Timothy Neville. The question was, what?
If he had been the one who left the note last night, it meant he was truly dangerous, a threat to everyone at the tea shop. But she still didn’t have any hard evidence to use against him.
It was obvious now that Timothy Neville had been secretly fearful that Hughes Barron’s offer on the Peregrine Building would be accepted. If the Peregrine Building had been sold before the event of Mr. Dauphine’s death, the Heritage Society would have lost out completely.
Was that motive enough to do away with Hughes Barron? Perhaps.
And now, with Mr. Dauphine’s very convenient death, the deed to the property slid over to the Heritage Society, no questions asked. Timothy Neville would, once again, look like a shining star in the eyes of his board of directors and roster of high-profile donors.
So did that make Timothy Neville a double murderer? It was a chilling thought.
There was yet another dark possibility. Only yesterday, Mr. Lleveret Dante had put forth an offer on the Peregrine Building. But what if Mr. Dauphine had turned him down flat? Could being rebuffed have sent Lleveret Dante into a vicious rage? A rage that prompted him to kill Mr. Dauphine?
Not knowing about Mr. Dauphine’s will, Lleveret Dante might have assumed that, with the aging owner’s death, the property would have been sold off hastily. He was already the likely suitor, already in a position to pounce on the Peregrine Building!
Her theories reminded Theodosia of the logic course she’d taken in college. If A equals D, then B equals C. Logic hadn’t made any sense to her then, and her suppositions on Hughes Barron’s murder or Mr. Dauphine’s death weren’t yielding anything constructive, either. They were just puzzles within puzzles that made her head spin.
The phone shrilled on the counter next to her, and Theodosia automatically reached for it. “Indigo Tea Shop, how may I help you?” she said.
“Theodosia, Tanner Joseph here. Good news. I’ve just finished your labels.”
“Wonderful,” she said in a flat voice.
“Hey, don’t sound so excited.”
Tanner Joseph’s tone was upbeat and breezy. A far cry, Theodosia thought, from the anger and hostility he’d radiated when she’d made mention of Hughes Barron the day before. She suddenly wondered if he knew something about the Peregrine Building. Everyone else certainly did.
“Will you be home this evening?” Tanner asked her. “I’m driving into the city, and I could easily drop them—”
“No,” interrupted Theodosia. “Don’t bother. I prefer to come pick them up.” She thought quickly. “You’ll be at your office tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” Tanner said, “but there’s really no need to—”
“It’s no trouble,” said Theodosia and hung up the phone.
The labels. Damn. She’d forgotten about them for the moment. They were one more futzy detail to follow up on, one more reminder that she wasn’t really tending to business here. Theodosia stared out into the tea shop where Delaine was still deep in conversation with Angie Congdon.
“Do we need to talk?” Drayton, reaching for a fresh jar of honey, saw consternation mingled with weariness on Theodosia’s face.
Theodosia nodded. “My office, though.”
When the two were alone, Theodosia related her conversation with Delaine.
“Pay no attention,” counseled Drayton. “Everyone knows Delaine is a confirmed gossip.” He peered at her, knowing something else was gnawing at her. “Did Burt Tidwell say something to you as well?”
“Drayton,” said Theodosia, “you’re on the board of directors of the Heritage Society. Were you aware that Mr. Dauphine had willed the Peregrine Building to the Heritage Society?”
“He did?” Drayton frowned. “Seriously? No, I knew nothing. It’s news to me.”
“So board members aren’t privy to such information?”
“That kind of thing comes under the category of directed donation. So usually just the board president, in this case Timothy Neville, and the Heritage Society’s legal counsel are privy to details.”
“I see.”
Drayton gazed at her. “You’re getting frown lines.” “Not now, Drayton,” she snapped.
“Oh, we’re going to be that way, are we?” he said. “Once again, you have assumed the entire weight of the world on your small but capable shoulders.” He continued even as she glowered at him. “As you wish, Theodosia. I shall play along, then.” He crossed his arms and tried to appear thoughtful. “Let me guess. Suddenly you are envisioning a scenario where Timothy Neville also decides to hasten the death of Mr. Dauphine?”
“It’s a possibility,” admitted Theodosia.
“Perhaps. Or a second scenario might place our mystery man, Lleveret Dante, at the scene of that crime as well. Mr. Mustard in the library, so to speak.”
“It’s no joking matter, Drayton.”
“No, it’s not, Theodosia. I’m as concerned as you about everything that’s gone on. And I certainly don’t take the threat against Earl Grey lightly, either. I hope you informed Detective Tidwell about that incident.”
He took her silence as a no.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he said wearily.
“Last night, you said you were in this with me,” she cried.
“That was before Mr. Dauphine turned up dead!” He rolled his eyes skyward as if to implore, Heaven help me.
“I’m not afraid,” murmured Theodosia. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Really,” said Drayton. He planted both hands on her desk and leaned toward her. “Then, pray tell, why did you spirit Earl Grey off to your Aunt Libby’s in the middle of the night?”
CHAPTER 40
TANNER JOSEPH HEARD the muffled slam of the car door outside his office. She was here, he told himself excitedly. Theodosia Browning had arrived to fetch the tea labels. Evening before last, he had worked long into the night, adding subtle touches of color to the black-and-white drawings, so intense had been his desire to please Theodosia and see her again.
After his call to her yesterday, when she told him she wanted to wait till morning, preferred to drive out to Johns Island and pick up the la
bels herself, he had been terribly dismayed. But when the day had dawned and a gloriously sunny day revealed itself, his spirits had greatly improved, and he saw now that he might turn her visit to his advantage. He simply had to convince Theodosia to stay. To spend the rest of the day with him. And, he hoped, the evening. That would finally give the two of them the time and space they needed to really get to know each other.
The door flew open, and Tanner Joseph greeted Theodosia with a smile. It was the boyish grin he had practiced many times in his bathroom mirror. It was also a grin that, more often than not, worked rather well on girls.
Only Theodosia was not a girl, he reminded himself. She was a woman. A beautiful, enchanting woman.
“Hello, Tanner.” Theodosia stood in front of his desk, gazing down at him. She wore a plum-colored pant suit and carried a slim leather attaché case. Her face was impassive, her voice brisk and businesslike.
Theodosia had to remind herself that this young man who sat before her, looking rather innocuous and innocent, had quite possibly used Bethany to obtain information about her. She wasn’t certain why Tanner Joseph wanted to collect this information but, since she still viewed him as a wild-card suspect in Hughes Barron’s murder, his attempt at familiarity was extremely unsettling. As she met Tanner Joseph’s piercing blue eyes, she assured herself this would be a quick, by-the-book business transaction.
Tanner Joseph took in her business garb and snappy attitude, and his hopes slipped a bit. Perhaps Theodosia hadn’t taken time to fully appreciate the thousand-watt glow of his boyish grin. No, he could see she obviously hadn’t. She was all but tapping her toe to get going.
“Here are the finished pieces, Theo.” He held the art boards out to Theodosia and watched as she took them from his hands. Their fingers touched for a moment. Could she feel the spark? The electricity? He certainly could.
Theodosia quickly shuffled through the four boards, studying the finished art. “These are very good,” she declared.