Death by Darjeeling Page 3

“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 curling 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.

  Bethany tucked the serving tray against one hip and started toward him, intent on asking if she could refill his teacup or perhaps clear his table.

  But as she approached, goose bumps rose on her arms, and a shiver ran down her spine. The night had turned suddenly chill. A stiff breeze tumbled dry leaves underfoot, whipsawed a final brave stand of camellias, and sent petals fluttering. The candle on the table nearest her was instantly snuffed, and the candle sitting on the man’s table began to sputter wildly.

  Bethany was within four feet of the man when a warning bell sounded in her head. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her! But as she squinted into the darkness, the erratic candlelight hissed and flared, illuminating the man’s face.

  The calm of the courtyard was shattered by Bethany’s shrill scream. The silver tray crashed to the bricks. Teacups broke into shards, and a half-filled pot of tea exploded on impact.

  Theodosia heard Bethany’s cry from inside the butler’s panty. She slammed open the door and rushed outside and through the tangle of empty tables. “Bethany!” she called, urgency in her voice, worry swelling in her breast.

  Anguish written across her face, all Bethany could do was back away from the table and point to the man sitting there alone.

  Heels clicking like rapid fire, Theodosia approached.

  She saw immediately that the man slumped in his chair, his chin heavy on his chest. One hand dangled at his knees, and the other rested on the table, still clutching a teacup. As Theodosia quickly took in this strange scene, her fleeting impression was that the tiny teacup decorated in swirling gold vines seemed dwarfed by the man’s enormous hand.

  “Theodosia, what are you . . .” From across the way, Samantha’s voice rose sharply, then died.

  Another strangled cry tore from Bethany’s mouth. She pointed toward Samantha, who had crumpled in a dead faint.

  Haley and Drayton had followed close on Theodosia’s heels. But now they quickly bent over Samantha and ministered to her.

  Theodosia’s brain shifted into overdrive. “Haley, call nine-one-one. Bethany, stop crying.”

  “She’s all right, just fainted,” called Drayton as he gently lifted Samantha to a sitting position.

  “Bethany, get a glass of water for Samantha,” Theodosia directed. “Do
it now. And please try to stop crying.”

  Theodosia turned her attention back to the man’s motionless body. Gently, she laid her index and forefinger against the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a pulse. No breath signs, either.

  Theodosia inhaled sharply. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  During her college days, one of Theodosia’s more unorthodox professors, Professor Hammish Poore, had taken his entire biology class on a field trip to the Charleston County Morgue. There they’d witnessed two autopsies first-hand. Although it had been more than a few years since that grisly experience, Theodosia was still reasonably familiar with the body’s sad signs that indicated life had ceased.

  This poor man could have had a sudden heart attack, she reasoned. Or experienced an explosive brain embolism. Death from asphyxiation was a possibility as well. But if something had obstructed his airway, someone would have heard him choking.

  Wouldn’t they?

  Theodosia was aware of hushed murmurs of concern in the background, of Drayton shaking his head slowly, speaking in solemn tones about Hughes Barron.

  This was Hughes Barron?

  Theodosia fixed her attention on the hand holding the teacup. In the flickering spasms of the candle she could see the man’s fingernails had begun to turn blue, causing her to wonder: What was in that cup besides tea?

  CHAPTER 3

  THE MAGIC OF the night was suddenly shattered by the harsh strobe of red and blue lights. Three police cruisers roared down the street and braked to a screeching halt. Front tires bounced roughly up over curbs, sending a gaggle of curious onlookers scattering. The whoop-whoop of a rapidly approaching ambulance shrilled.

  Klang und licht, thought Theodosia. Sound and light. So much excitement, so much kinetic energy being exerted. But as she stood under the oak tree in the dark garden, surveying the slumped body of Hughes Barron, she knew no amount of hurry or flurry on the part of police or paramedics would make a whit of difference. Hughes Barron was beyond help. He was in the Lord’s hands now.

  But, of course, they all came blustering into the courtyard anyway: four police officers from the precinct headquarters on Broad Street, all with polished boots and buttons; a team of EMTs dispatched from Charleston Memorial Hospital, who jounced their clattering metal gurney across the brick patio; and six firemen, and who seemed to have shown up just to feed off the excitement.

  The two EMTs immediately checked Hughes Barron’s pulse and respiration and hung an oxygen mask on him. One knelt down and put a stethoscope to Barron’s chest. When he ascertained that the man no longer had a heartbeat, activity seemed to escalate.

  Two officers immediately cornered Drayton, Haley, Bethany, and Samantha for interviews and statements. Another team of officers began the business of stringing yellow police tape throughout the garden.

  A tall, muscular policeman, with an impressive display of stars and bars on his uniform and a name tag that read Grady, turned his attention to Theodosia.

  “You found him?” Grady had a bulldog face and a heroic amount of gear attached to his belt: gun, flashlight, radio, handcuffs, billy club. Theodosia thought he looked like a human Swiss Army knife.

  For some reason—the illogic of the situation or the shock at finding someone dead—this Swiss Army knife analogy tickled Theodosia, and she had to struggle to maintain an impassive expression.

  “Actually, no,” she said, finally answering Grady’s question. “One of the young ladies who works for me, Bethany Shepherd, noticed something was wrong.” She gestured toward Bethany, who was across the courtyard, talking to one of the other officers. “She was the one who alerted us. I just checked the man’s pulse.”

  Grady had pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and was making rapid scratches in it. “How did she alert you?”

  “She screamed,” said Theodosia.

  One side of Grady’s mouth twitched downward, passing judgment on her answer. Obviously, he didn’t consider it helpful.

  “And was the man breathing?” pressed Grady.

  “No, unfortunately. Which is why we called nine-one-one.”

  More scratches in Grady’s notebook.

  “And your name is . . . ?”

  “Theodosia Browning. I own the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street.”

  “So you don’t know what happened, Theodosia?” said Grady.

  “Just that he died,” replied Theodosia. Her eyes went to the crisscross of black and yellow tape that was now strung through the garden like giant spiderwebs. Police Line the words blared, black on yellow. Do Not Cross. Vinyl tape had been wound haphazardly around bushes of crape myrtle and cherry laurel trees, through the splattering fountain and beds of flowers transported from Charleston greenhouses and dug in for this one special night. Now plants and blossoms lay crushed.

  Grady cocked one droopy eye at her. “You don’t know what happened, but you knew he was dead.”

  “My impression was that he was cyanotic. If you look at the tips of his fingernails, there’s a curious blue tinge.”

  “Lady . . .” Grady began.

  “You seem upset,” said Theodosia. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” She looked around. “Can we get anyone a cup of tea?”

  That small gesture seemed to break the tension of the moment.

  Grady suddenly remembered his manners and touched his cap with a finger. “Thank you, ma’am. Maybe later. Could you wait over there with the others, please?” Grady pointed across the courtyard. “I need to confer with the medical team.”

  Theodosia peered toward the far corner of the garden to a round, wrought iron table, still festooned with its purple floral centerpiece. In the darkness she could just barely make out Drayton and Haley sitting there, looking rather glum. Samantha was sprawled in a wicker chair, sipping from a glass of water, fanning herself with a program. Only Bethany was illuminated by the lights from the house. She stood near the door of the butler’s pantry, deep in conversation with two officers.

  “Certainly,” said Theodosia. She took one step back, had every intention of joining the others, when one of the EMTs, a young man with shaggy blond hair, picked up the teacup and sniffed suspiciously at the contents.

  “Put that down.” The voice echoed out of the darkness like the rough growl of a big cat.

  Caught by surprise, the EMT sent the teacup clattering into its saucer. Luckily, it remained upright.

  Grady spun on his heels. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The man with the big cat growl led with his stomach. It billowed out between the lapels of his tweed jacket like a weather balloon. Bushy brows topped slightly popped eyes, and a walrus mustache drooped around his mouth. Although his stance conveyed a certain poise and grace, his head stuck curiously forward from his shoulders.

  “Tidwell,” said the man.

  “Show me your ID?” Grady wasn’t budging an inch.

  Tidwell pulled a battered leather card case out of his pocket, held it daintily between two fingers.

  Grady flipped the leather case open and scanned the ID. “Detective Tidwell. Well, okay.” Grady’s voice was smooth and dripping with appeasement. “Looks like the boys downtown are already on top of this. What can I do to help, Detective?”

  “Kindly stay out of my way.”

  “Sure,” agreed Grady cheerfully. “No problem. But you need any help, just whistle.”

  “Count on it,” said Tidwell. He swiped his stubbled chin with the back of his hand, a gesture he would repeat many times. When Grady was out of earshot, Tidwell mumbled “Asshole” under his breath. Then he focused his full attention on Hughes Barron, still sitting at the table as best he could, wearing the oxygen mask one of the EMTs had slapped on him.

  “Excuse me,” said Theodosia. In her crepe-soled shoes, Tidwell hadn’t heard her approach.

  He swung around, wary. “Who are you?”

  “Theodosia Browning.” She extended a hand to him.

  “Browning, Browning . . .” Tidwell narrowed his eyes,
ignoring her outstretched hand. “I knew a Macalester Browning once. Lawyer fellow. Fairly decent as far as lawyers go. Lived in one of the plantations out on Rutledge Road.”

  “My father,” said Theodosia.

  “Mnh,” grunted Tidwell, turning back toward Hughes Barron. He lifted the teacup, dropped his nose to it, and sniffed. He swirled the contents like a wine taster.

  Or a tea taster, reflected Theodosia.

  Tidwell reached into a bulging pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His sausage-sized fingers seemed to have trouble hitting numbers on the keypad. Finally, after several tries and more than a few expletives, his call went through.

  “Pete, get me Brandon Hart.” He paused. “Yeah.” Tidwell sucked on his mustache impatiently. “Brandon?” he barked into the phone. “Me. Burt. I need your best crime-scene techs. That skinny one’s good. And the bald guy with the tattoo. Yeah, tonight. Now. Pete’ll fill you in.” He clicked off his phone.

  “You’re Burt Tidwell,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell swiveled his bullet-shaped head, surprised to find her still standing there. “You still here?” he frowned.

  “You’re the one who caught the Crow River Killer.”

  Something akin to pride crossed Tidwell’s face, then he fought to regain his brusque manner. “And what might you know about that?” he demanded.

  “Just what I read in the paper,” said Theodosia.

  CHAPTER 4

  SUNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the windows of the Indigo Tea Shop. It was 8:30 A.M., and the daily bustle and chores that routinely went on had been largely forgotten or quickly dispatched. A few customers had come and gone, Church Street shopkeepers mostly, who’d come for take-out orders or to try to glean information about last evening’s bizarre goings-on.

  Now Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley sat together at one of the tables, a pot of tea before them, rehashing those unsettling events.

  “I can’t believe how long the police spent talking to Bethany,” declared Haley. “The poor girl was almost in tears. And then that awful, rude man came along, and, of course, she did burst into tears.”