Death by Darjeeling Page 6

  “We had some trouble in town last night,” said Theodosia.

  “I heard,” said Aunt Libby.

  Theodosia spun about. “What?” Libby, the sly fox, had sat through lunch with her, watched her fidget, and never said a word. Theodosia smiled wryly. Yes, that was Libby Revelle’s style, the Aunt Libby she knew and loved. Don’t push, let people talk in their own good time.

  “What did you hear?” asked Theodosia. “And from who?”

  “Oh, Bill Wexler came by, and we had ourselves a nice chat.”

  Bill Wexler had delivered mail in the low-country for almost twenty-five years. He also seemed to have a direct pipeline to everything that went on in Charleston, the low-country, and as far out as West Ashley.

  “If people out here know, it’s going to be all over town by the time I get back this afternoon,” said Theodosia.

  Libby nodded. “Probably.”

  Theodosia squinted into the sun, looking perplexed.

  “Nothing you can do, dear,” said Libby. “The only part you played in last night’s little drama was a walk-on role. If folks are silly enough to think you’re involved, that’s their problem.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Theodosia. She eased herself down into the chair next to Libby, already deciding to stay the afternoon.

  “But then, you’re not worried about yourself, are you?” asked Libby.

  “Not really,” said Theodosia.

  Libby reached a hand out and gently stroked Theodosia’s hair. “You’re my cat, always have been. Land on your feet, nine lives to spare.”

  “Oh, Libby.” Theodosia caught her aunt’s hand in hers and squeezed it gratefully. As she did, she was suddenly aware of Libby’s thin, parchmentlike skin, the frailness of her tiny bones. And Aunt Libby’s mortality.

  CHAPTER 8

  TEAPOTS CHIRPED AND whistled and teacups clinked against saucers as Drayton bustled about the shop. Four tables were occupied, customers eager for morning tea and treats. Afterward, they would be picked up by one of the bright yellow jitneys that would whisk them away on their morning tour through Charleston’s historic district, the open air market, or the King Street antiques district.

  “Where’s Haley?” Theodosia swooped through the doorway just as Drayton measured a final tablespoon of Irish breakfast tea into a Victorian teapot.

  “Hasn’t shown up yet,” Drayton said as he arranged teapots, pitchers of milk, bowls of sugar cubes, and small plates of lemon slices on a silver tray, then deftly hoisted it to his shoulder.

  “That’s not like her,” said Theodosia, pitching in. She was instantly concerned about Haley’s absence since she was ordinarily quite prompt, usually showing up at the Indigo Tea Shop by 7:00 A.M. That’s when Haley would heat up the oven and pour out batter she’d mixed up and refrigerated the day before. It was Haley’s shortcut to fresh-baked scones, croissants, and benne wafers without having to get up at four in the morning.

  While Drayton poured tea, Theodosia mustered up a pan of scones from the freezer and warmed them quickly in the oven.

  “It won’t matter that they’ve been frozen,” Drayton murmured under his breath. “Scones are so amazingly heavy anyway, I don’t think anyone will know the difference.”

  And Drayton was right. Served piping hot to their guests along with plenty of Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, the scones were actually ooed and ahed over.

  “Have you noticed anything odd?” asked Theodosia. She stood behind the counter surveying the collection of customers who lingered at the tables.

  Drayton glanced up from the cash register. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not seeing any of our regulars,” said Theodosia.

  Drayton gave her a sharp look. “You’re right.” His eyes searched out Theodosia’s. “You don’t suppose . . .”

  “I’m sure they’ll be in later,” she said.

  “Of course they will.”

  Forty minutes later, the early customers had all departed, tables had been cleared, floors swept, and teapots readied for the next influx.

  “Now that I’ve got a moment to breathe, I’m going to phone Haley,” said Theodosia. “I’m really getting worried.”

  The bell over the door jingled merrily. “Here we go,” said Theodosia. “More customers.” She turned toward the door with a welcoming smile, but it was Haley who burst through the door, not another throng of customers.

  “Haley!” said Theodosia. “What’s wrong?” Haley’s ordinarily placid face projected unhappiness, her peaches-and-cream complexion blotchy. Her shoulders sagged, her eyes were puffy, and she’d been crying. Hard.

  “They fired her!” cried Haley.

  Theodosia flew across the room to Haley, put an arm around her shoulder. “Come, dear. Sit down.” She led Haley to the closest table and got her seated. “Drayton,” Theodosia called, “we’re going to need some tea. Strong tea.”

  Tears trickled down Haley’s cheeks as she turned sad eyes on Theodosia. “They fired Bethany. From the Heritage Society.”

  “Oh, no,” said Theodosia. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, they called her a little while ago and told her not to bother coming in.”

  “Who called her?” asked Theodosia.

  “Mr. Neville,” said Haley.

  “Timothy?”

  “Yes, Timothy Neville,” said Haley in a choked voice.

  “What happened?” Drayton set a pot of tea and three mugs on the bare table.

  “Timothy Neville fired Bethany,” said Theodosia.

  He sat down, instantly concerned. “Oh, no.”

  “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 them 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 suddenl
y 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.