Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

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.

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 suddenly 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.”