Death By Darjeeling atsm-1 Read online

  The clip-clop of hooves on the pavement outside the Indigo Tea Shop signaled that the horse-drawn coach had arrived to carry their tea-tasting visitors back to their respective inns and hotels.

  “I hope you have tickets for one of tonight’s Lamplighter Tours,” said Theodosia as final sips were taken, mouths carefully daubed, and linen napkins refolded. “Many of the historic homes on the tour are private residences that graciously open their doors only for this one special event. It’s really quite remarkable.”

  Sponsored by the Heritage Society, the Lamplighter Tour was an annual tradition in Charleston, held during the last two weeks of October when the long-anticipated cooler nights had returned. These evening walking tours of notable avenues such as Montagu, Queen, and Church Streets afforded visitors a leisurely stroll down cobblestone lanes and a golden opportunity to step inside many of Charleston’s elegant, lofty-ceilinged grande dame homes and cloistered courtyard gardens.

  “If I may impart my own personal recommendation,” said Drayton, pulling back chairs and offering his arm to the ladies, “I would heartily suggest our own Church Street walk. It begins at the Ravenel Home, a stunning example of Victorian excess, and concludes in the formal garden of the elegant Avis Melbourne Home where our gracious hostess and proprietor, Miss Theodosia Browning, has been engaged to serve a repertoire of fine teas, including a special Lamplighter Blend created just for this event.”

  “Oh, my,” said one of the ladies. “How intriguing.”

  “You have characterized it aptly,” said Drayton. “Our Lamplighter Blend is a lovely marriage of two traditional black teas with a hint of jasmine added for high notes.”

  Theodosia glanced toward the counter and grinned at Haley, who had just emerged from the back room, her arms filled with gift baskets. Haley was always accusing Dray-ton that his role as Parliamentarian in the Charleston Heritage Society led to oratorical extravagance.

  “Of course,” added Theodosia in a droll voice meant to be a casual counterpoint to Drayton’s, “we’ll also be serving blackberry scones with clotted cream.”

  Pleasured groans emanated from around the table.

  Catching the subtle exchange between Theodosia and Haley, Drayton snatched one of the baskets filled with small tins of tea and tied with white ribbon and held it up for all to see. “Be sure to take a quick perusal of our gift baskets before you leave. Miss Parker here has recently taken up the art of weaving traditional South Carolina sweetgrass baskets and has become quite an accomplished artisan.”

  Haley’s face reddened at Drayton’s announcement. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  And, of course, ladies being ladies, veteran shoppers, and enthusiastic tourists, at least three of the delightfully done gift baskets were carefully wrapped in Theodosia’s signature indigo blue tissue paper and tucked safely in the carriage as they departed.

  “Did you bring Earl Grey down?” asked Theodosia after the door had swung shut and the shadows lengthened enough so she knew there wouldn’t be any more customers for afternoon tea.

  Haley nodded. “Earl, come on, fellow,” called Theodosia as she clapped her hands together.

  A furry muzzle poked through the draperies, then an angular canine emerged and padded softly across the wooden planks of the floor. When the dog reached Theodosia, he laid his head in her lap and sighed contentedly.

  Earl Grey, Theodosia’s adopted dog, looked a far sight better today than when she had first found him. Hungry and shivering, curled up in a cardboard box in the narrow cobblestone alley that ran behind the tea shop, Earl Grey had been an abandoned, unwanted mongrel that probably wandered the streets for weeks.

  But Theodosia found his elegant head, soft, troubled eyes, and quiet temperament endearing and took to him immediately. She nursed him, groomed him, named him, and ultimately loved him.

  When Drayton had objected to a stray dog being named after the popular nineteenth-century prime minister who first brought back the famed bergamot-flavored tea from China, Theodosia insisted the name was more an old English reference to the dog’s mottled coloration.

  “I can’t see that he’s particularly gray,” Drayton had argued, his tone just this side of vexation.

  Indeed, the dog was more salt and pepper.

  “There. On the inside of his left hind leg,” Theodosia had pointed out. “That area is distinctly gray.”

  Drayton was nonplused by the dog. “A mixed breed,” he’d declared with arched eyebrows.

  “Like blending a fine tea,” Theodosia had said with artful cleverness. She’d placed her strong hands atop the animal’s sleek head and gently massaged the dog’s ears as he gazed up at her, limpid brown eyes filled with love. “Yes,” she had exclaimed, “this fellow is a blend of Dalmatian and Labrador. A Dalbrador.” And from that moment on, Earl Grey of the Dalbrador pedigree became the beloved, official greeter at the Indigo Tea Shop and a permanent resident of Theodosia’s cozy upstairs apartment.

  “How many more sweetgrass baskets can you manage?” Theodosia asked as Haley, standing on tiptoe, arranged a half dozen of the gift baskets on a shelf behind the cash register.

  “How many do you need?”

  “My guestimate is at least fifty between now and the holidays. If our Web site is up and running by then, double it.”

  “Bethany can help me finish maybe another dozen,” said Haley, referring to her friend, Bethany Shepherd, who was temporarily living with her in the little garden apartment across the alley. “But we’ll have to buy the majority.”

  “No problem,” said Theodosia. “I was planning a drive out to the low country anyway. After I pop in on Aunt Libby, I’ll round up some more baskets.”

  Sweetgrass baskets were a staple in the makeshift stalls along Highway 17 North. Handmade from bunches of sweetgrass, pine needles, and bulrush, then bound together by fiber strips from native palmetto trees, the baskets exuded both functionality and beauty, and the women of the low country took great pride in their handiwork.

  “How is Bethany doing?” asked Theodosia, her face softening with concern for Haley’s friend whose husband had died in a car accident just eight months earlier. In the past couple of months, the shy Bethany had helped out in the tea shop a few times, and Theodosia was hoping the young woman would soon find her rudder again.

  “Good days, sad days,” said Haley in measured tones. “It’s not easy being a widow at twenty-seven. I think if Bethany didn’t have the internship to sustain her, she’d really be at loose ends.”

  “So at least that part of her life is successful,” said Theodosia.

  “Yes, thanks to Drayton.” Haley glanced gratefully toward Drayton Conneley, who was talking on the telephone, briskly finalizing details for that evening’s tea service. “If he hadn’t put in a good word for Bethany at the Heritage Society, I don’t know what she would have done. Bethany slaved to get her master’s degree in art history, but it’s still impossible to land any type of museum curator job without internship credentials. Maybe now...” Haley’s voice quavered and her large brown eyes filled with tears.

  Theodosia reached over and gently patted Haley’s hand. “Time heals,” reassured Theodosia in a quiet voice. “And in Charleston, time is an old friend.”

  Chapter 2

  Darkness had settled on Charleston like a soft, purple cloak. Palmettos swayed gently in the night breeze. Mourning doves that sheltered in spreading oak and pecan trees had long since tucked downy heads under fragile wings.

  But up and down Church Street the atmosphere was alive and filled with magic. Candles in brass holders flickered enticingly from broad verandas. Clusters of Lamplighter Tour walkers thronged the sidewalks, gliding through dusky shadows only to emerge in pools of golden light that spilled from arched doorways of houses buzzing with activity, open this one special evening to all visitors who had a ticket in hand and a reverence for history in their hearts.

  Fat, orange pumpkins squatted on the steps of the Avis Melbourne Home. On the sweepi
ng porch where a half dozen white Ionic columns imperiously stood guard, young women in eighteenth-century garb greeted visitors with lanterns and shy smiles. Their hair was nipped into sleek topknots, their step dainty and mannered, unaccustomed as they were to layers of petticoats and the disconcerting rustle of silk.

  Inside the Avis Melbourne Home, the room proportions were enormous. This was a residence designed for living on a grand scale, with gilt chandeliers dangling overhead, rich oil paintings adorning walls, and Italianate marble fireplaces in every room. The color palette was soft and French: salmon pink, oyster white, pale blue.

  More costumed guides, members of the Heritage Society, accompanied visitors through the parlor, dining room and library. Their running patter enlightened on architecture, antiques, and beaux arts.

  Down the long center hallway, footsteps barely registered on plush wool Aubusson carpets as guests found their way outside to the courtyard garden.

  It was here that many of the tour guests had now congregated, sitting at tables that ringed a central three-tiered fountain. Foliage abounded, the sound of pattering water pleasantly relaxing.

  Theodosia ducked out the side door from her command post in the butler’s pantry. For the last hour she and Dray-ton had been working nonstop. He oversaw the preparation of five different teas, while she hustled silver teapots out to Haley for serving, then ran back for refills. At one point they’d been so harried she’d asked Haley to make a quick phone call to Bethany and plead for reinforcement.

  Now, as Theodosia surveyed the guests in the garden, it looked as though she could finally stop to catch her breath. Haley and Bethany were moving with practiced precision among the twenty or so tables, pouring tea and offering seconds on blackberry scones, looking like French waiters with their long white aprons over black shirts and slacks. The tables themselves had been elegantly draped in white linen and held centerpieces of purple flowers nestled in pockets of greenery.

  “Theodosia, darling!”

  Theodosia turned as Samantha Rabathan, this year’s chairperson for the Church Street walk, tottered across the brick patio wearing three-inch heels and flashing a winning smile. Ever the social butterfly and fashion maven, Samantha was fetchingly attired in a flouncy cream-colored silk skirt and pale peach cashmere sweater, generously scooped in front to reveal her matching peach skin and ample endowments.

  Theodosia tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind one ear, and rested the large teapot she’d been holding on one of the temporary serving stations. Even in her midnight blue velvet tailored slacks and white lace top, an outfit that had received admiring glances from several of the gentlemen in the crowd, she suddenly felt like a brown wren next to Samantha’s plumage.

  “We’ve got a packed house, Samantha.” Theodosia swept a hand to indicate the contented crowd enjoying tea and treats on the patio. “Your walk is a huge success.”

  “It is, isn’t it,” Samantha agreed with a giggle. “I was just calling around on my cell phone and heard that the Tradd Street walk got half our turnout.” She nudged Theodosia with an elbow and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial purr. “Did you know we sold ninety more tickets than last year? It’s a new Church Street record!”

  Last year Delaine Dish had been the Church Street chair. For some reason unknown to Theodosia, Samantha and Delaine had a weird, catty rivalry going on between them, one she had no desire to explore, much less get in the middle of.

  “Oh, my,” Samantha cooed as she fanned herself briskly with one of the tour’s printed programs. “Such a warm evening.”

  And off she went across the patio, the heels of her perfect cream shoes dangerously close to catching between the stones, her cell phone shrilling once again.

  “I can’t imagine why she’s warm,” whispered Drayton in Theodosia’s ear. “She not exactly bundled up.”

  “Be nice, Drayton,” said Theodosia. “Samantha worked hard on ticket sales and lining up volunteers.”

  “You can afford to be charitable,” he said with a sniff. “Samantha’s always been sweet to you. My guess is she’s secretly in awe of your past life in advertising. She knows you’ve sold the proverbial ice to Eskimos. But in complete, unadulterated fairness, this has been a group effort. A lot of good people worked very hard to pull this off.”

  “Agreed,” said Theodosia. “Now tell me what results you’ve gathered from our rather unscientific poll.”

  Drayton’s face brightened. “Three to one on the Lamplighter Blend! I’d estimate we have less than half a pot left.”

  “Really?” said Theodosia, her cheeks flaring with color, and her usually calm, melodious voice cracking with excitement.

  “The people have spoken, madam. The tea’s a knockout.”

  “So we package more and include it on the Web site,” she said.

  “No, we feature it.” Drayton favored Theodosia with an uncharacteristic grin as he picked up the silver teapot she’d set down earlier and started toward the house. “The pantry awaits. The end of the evening is blessedly in sight.” He paused. “Coming?”

  “Give me a minute, Drayton.”

  Theodosia stood half hidden under an elegant arch of vines, basking in the glow of success. It was the first tea she’d blended by herself. True, she’d started with two exquisitely mellow teas from the American Tea Plantation. And she’d had Drayton’s excellent counsel. But still...

  “Excuse me.”

  Theodosia whirled about and found herself staring down at two tiny women. Both were barely five feet in height, quite advanced in years, and wore identical green suits. Twins, she thought to herself, then peered closer. No, just dressed alike. Probably sisters.

  “Mavis Beaumont.” Birdlike, one of the ladies in green extended a gloved hand. “Theodosia Browning,” said Theodosia, taking the tiny hand in hers. She blinked. Staring at these two was like seeing double.

  “You’re the woman with that marvelous dog, aren’t you?” said Mavis.

  Theodosia nodded. This happened frequently. “You mean Earl Grey.”

  “That’s the one!” Mavis Beaumont turned to her sister and continued. “Miss Browning has this beautifully trained dog that visits sick people. I had occasion to meet him the time Missy broke her leg.”

  The sister smiled and nodded.

  “Early Grey is a therapy dog,” explained Theodosia just in case they hadn’t realized he was part of a very real program.

  On Monday evenings Theodosia and Earl Grey visited the O’Doud Senior Home and took part in pet therapy. Earl Grey would don his blue nylon vest with the embroidered patch that identified him as a certified therapy dog, and the two would roam the broad halls, stopping to interact with the aging but eager-to-talk residents, visiting the rooms of people who were bedridden.

  Earl Grey had quickly become a favorite with the residents, many of whom enjoyed only occasional visits from their families. And just last month, Earl Grey had befriended a woman who’d suffered a terrible, debilitating stroke that left her entire right side paralyzed. In the woman’s excitement to pet Earl Grey, she had tentatively extended her rigid right arm for the first time in months and managed a patting motion on the dog’s back. That breakthrough had led to the woman going to physical therapy and finally regaining some real use of the arm.

  Mavis Beaumont grasped Theodosia’s arm. “Lovely party, dear.”

  The sister, the one who apparently didn’t talk, at least not tonight, nodded and smiled.

  “Good night,” called Theodosia.

  “What was that all about?” asked Haley as she shuffled past shouldering a huge tray.

  “Fans of Earl Grey.”

  “That guy’s got some PR agent, doesn’t he?” she joked.

  “Say, thanks for enlisting Bethany,” said Theodosia. “I sure hope we didn’t ruin her plans for tonight.”

  “Are you serious?” said Haley. “The poor girl was sitting home alone with her nose stuck in Gombrich’s Story of Art. Not that there’s anything wrong with cu
rling up with an art history book, but between you and me, this was a great excuse to get her out and talking to real people. Believe me, this is the best thing for her.”

  From her post at the far end of the garden, Bethany glanced toward Theodosia and Haley and saw by the looks on their faces that they were talking about her. She gave a thin smile, knowing they had her best interests at heart, feeling thankful she had friends who cared so much.

  With her elegant oval face, pale complexion, long dark hair, and intense brown eyes, Bethany was a true beauty. But her body language mirrored the sadness she carried inside. Where most young women her age moved with effortless grace, Bethany was sedate, contained. Where amusement and joy should have lit her face, there was melancholy.

  Picking up a serving tray, Bethany walked to the nearest empty table. She cleared it, taking great pains with the bone china cups and saucers, then moved solemnly to the next table. Centerpiece candles that had glowed so brightly an hour earlier were beginning to sputter. The Lamplighter Tour visitors were taking final sips, slowly meandering back inside the house, saying their good-byes. The evening was drawing to a close.

  Bethany glanced across the patio to where Theodosia and Haley had been standing just a few minutes earlier. Now they were nowhere to be seen. They must have ducked inside the butler’s pantry to start their cleanup, she thought to herself.

  Bethany crisscrossed the brick patio, picking up a cup here, a plate there. When she finally broke from her task and looked around, there were only two tables where people remained seated.

  Correction, make that one, she told herself as the foursome sitting at the table nearest the central fountain stood up and began to amble off slowly, chatting, admiring the dark foliage, pointing up at overhanging Spanish moss.

  Bethany glanced toward the far corner of the patio. Against the large, dense hedge that formed one border of the garden and ran around the perimeter of the property, she could just barely make out the figure of a man sitting quietly alone.