Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

Why on earth were they pressing Bethany so hard?

she wondered. Surely the police could see she was just a young woman with no ax to grind against anyone. Especially a man like Hughes Barron. Burt Tidwell was no fool. He, of all people, should be able to see that.

Theodosia sighed. Poor Bethany. The only thing she’d been up to lately was trying to rebuild her life. And she’d seemed to have been going about it fairly successfully.

Only last week Theodosia had overheard Bethany speaking glowingly to Drayton about her internship at the Heritage Society. How she’d been chosen over six other candidates. How she was so impressed by the many volunteers who donated countless hours and dollars. How the Heritage Society had recently staged a black-tie dinner and silent auction and raised almost $300,000 to purchase the old Chapman Mill. Abandoned and scheduled for demolition, the historic old mill would now live on in Charleston’s history.

As Theodosia turned the corner at Murray Street, the rush of wind coming off Charleston Harbor hit her full on. It blew her hair out in auburn streamers, brought a rosy glow to her cheeks and, finally, a smile to her face.

The Battery, that stretch of homes and shore at the point of land where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers converged and the Atlantic poured in to meet them, was one of Theodosia’s favorite places. Originally known as Oyster Point because it began as a swampy beach strewn with oyster shells, The Battery evolved into a military strong point and finally into the elegant neighborhood of harborside homes and parks it is today. With its White Point Gardens, Victorian bandstand, and no fewer than twenty-six cannons and monuments, The Battery held a special place in the hearts of every Charlestonian.

Perched on The Battery and overlooking the harbor with a bird’s-eye view of Fort Sumter, the Featherbed House was one of the peninsula’s premier bed-and-breakfasts. It featured elegantly furnished rooms with canopied beds, cypress paneling, and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceilings. And, of course, mounds of featherbeds just as the name promised. A second-story open-air bridge spanned the backyard garden and transported delighted visitors from the main house to a treetop dining room in the renovated hay loft of the carriage house.

In the cozy lobby, filled with every manner of ceramic goose, plush goose, and needlepoint goose, Theodosia stopped to chat with owners Angie and Mark Congdon. They were a husband and wife team who had both been commodity brokers in Chicago and fled the Windy City for a more temperate climate and slower pace.

Changes and reevaluations, mused Theodosia as she hurried back down the street toward Saint Philip’s. Lots of that going around these days.

Saint Philip’s Episcopal was the church for whom Church Street was named. It was a neoclassical edifice that had been drawing communicants for almost 200 years. When the bells in the tall, elegant spire chimed on Sunday mornings, the entire historic district knew that the Reverend Jonathan’s service was about to begin.

Theodosia stepped through a wrought iron archway into the private garden and burial ground.

“Good morning!” a voice boomed.

Theodosia halted in her tracks and looked around. She finally spotted Reverend Jonathan, a small, wiry man with short silver hair, on his hands and knees underneath a small oak tree.

“This tree didn’t fare well in the last big storm,” said Reverend Jonathan as he pulled a metal cable tight around a wooden stake. “I thought if I shored it up, it might have a chance to catch up with its big brothers.”

The “big brothers” Reverend Jonathan referred to were the two enormous live oaks that sat to either side of the parish house.

“You’ve worked wonders here,” said Theodosia. Under Reverend Jonathan’s watchful eye, the garden and historic burial ground had evolved from a manicured lawn with a few shrubs and memorial plaques to a hidden oasis filled with a delightful profusion of seasonal plants, flowering shrubs, stepping stones, and decorative statuary.

Reverend Jonathan straightened up and gazed about with pride. “I love getting my hands dirty. But I have to admit there’s always something needs fixing. Next big project is some restoration work on our beloved church’s interior arches.”

Even though he had well over 1,500 communicants to minister to, dozens of committees to juggle, and fund-raising to tend to, Reverend Jonathan was a tireless worker. He always seemed to find time for hands-on gardening and maintenance of the historic church.

“That’s the thing about these grande dame buildings.” He grinned. “Patch, patch, patch.”

“Mm,” said Theodosia as she handed Reverend Jonathan his canisters of tea. “I know the feeling.”

On her return trip to the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia’s thoughts turned once again to Hughes Barron’s death. Although she felt saddened that a human life had ended, it prickled her that the investigators seemed to be overlooking the obvious. If someone had been sitting at that far table with Hughes Barron, wouldn’t that person have had the perfect opportunity to slip something toxic into the man’s tea?

On a hunch, Theodosia jogged over toward Meeting Street, where Samantha Rabathan lived. Samantha had been the chairperson for last night’s event, she reasoned. Maybe Sam would have a list of attendees. That might be a logical place to start.

As luck would have it, Samantha was outside, bustling about on her enormous veranda, tending to the heroic abundance of plant life that flourished in her many containers and flower boxes. A divorcée for almost ten years, Samantha’s only avocation seemed to be gardening. If Reverend Jonathan was the patron saint of trees and shrubs, Samantha was the guardian angel of flowers.

Samantha changed her flower boxes seasonally, so they might contain flowering bulbs, English daisies, clouds of wisteria, or miniature shrubs. Her trellises, usually hidden under mounds of perfect pink climbing roses, were legendary. Her backyard garden, with roses, star jasmine, begonias, and verbena clustered about a sparkling little pool, and tangled vines creeping up a backdrop of crumbling brick, was a must-see on the annual Garden Club Tour. And Samantha’s elegant floral arrangements always garnered blue as well as purple ribbons at the annual Charleston Flower Show.

“Samantha!” Theodosia waved from the street.

“Hello,” Samantha called back.

She was wearing her Mr. Green Jeans garb today, Theodosia noted. Green coveralls, green gloves, green floppy cotton hat, to go with her green thumb.

Most people in the neighborhood regarded Samantha as a bit of a hothouse plant herself. A delicate tropical flower with fine yellow hair and alabaster skin who shunned the sun. Close friends knew she was merely trying to prolong her facelift.

“How are you feeling today?” asked Theodosia. She shaded her eyes and gazed up at the porch with its trellises of ivy and trumpet vine and window boxes with overflowing ramparts of crape myrtle and althaea.

Samantha grinned sheepishly and fanned a gloved hand in front of her face. “Fine, really fine. Just too much excitement last night. I can’t believe I actually fainted over that poor man. How embarrassing. Oh, well, at least it proves I’m a true Southern lady. Got the vapors. All so very Gone With the Wind, ” she added in an exaggerated drawl.

“Samantha...” began Theodosia.

But Samantha gushed on. “What a gentleman Drayton was to come to my aid. I must remember to thank him.” She aimed her pruning shears toward a pot of cascading plumbago, snipped decisively, and laid a riot of bright blue flowers in her wicker basket. “I know. I shall put together one of my special bouquets. Drayton is a man of culture and refinement. He will appreciate the gesture.”