Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

Without waiting for an answer, Samantha stuck her steel pruning shears and trowel into the webbed pockets of the canvas tool belt she wore cinched around her waist, linked her arm through Theodosia’s, and pulled her along toward the back door of her house.

“Look, over there,” Samantha said, pointing, “where I planted my new La Belle Sultane roses last year. What do you bet that in five months I’ll have blooms the size of your fist!”

Samantha fussed about in her kitchen, clattering dishes, while Theodosia seated herself in the small dining room. Samantha had an enviable collection of Waterford crystal, and today it was catching the light that streamed through the octagonal windows above the built-in cabinets in a most remarkable way.

“Here we are.” Samantha bustled in with a silver tea service. “Perhaps not as perfect as you serve at the Indigo Tea Shop, but hopefully just as elegant.”

Theodosia knew Samantha was making reference to her silver tea set. Not just silver-plated, the teapot and accompanying pieces were pure English sterling, antiques that had been in Samantha’s family for over a century.

“Everything is lovely,” murmured Theodosia as Samantha stood at the table, held a bone china cup under the silver spout, and poured deftly.

Theodosia accepted the steaming cup of tea, inhaling the delicate aroma. Ceylon silver tips? Kenilworth Garden? She couldn’t quite place it.

As Theodosia lifted her cup to take a sip, her eyes fell upon the livid purple flowers banked so artfully on the cabinet opposite her. Funny how she hadn’t noticed them before. But then the sun had been streaming in and highlighting the crystal so vividly.

The purple blooms were like curled velvet and bore a strange resemblance to the cowled hood of a monk’s robe, she noted. Pretty. But also somewhat unusual.

Images suddenly drifted into Theodosia’s head. Of flowers she’d seen elsewhere. Purple flowers that had graced the wrought-iron tables the evening of the Lamplighter Tour. Mrs. Finster at Hughes Barron’s condominium holding a vase of dead flowers. Deep purple, almost black. Papery and shriveled.

Theodosia put her teacup down without taking a sip. The fine bone china emitted a tiny clink as cup met saucer. Suddenly she understood what kind of poison had been used to kill Hughes Barron and how easily the deed had been accomplished.

As understanding dawned, the chastising voice of Samantha Rabathan echoed dreamlike in Theodosia’s ears.

“You’re not drinking your tea,” Samantha accused in a peevish, singsong voice as she slipped quickly to Theodosia’s side.

Theodosia, stunned, gazed down at the teacup filled with deadly liquor, blinked, lifted her head again, and stared at the steel-jawed pruning shears with their curved Bowie knife blade and sharp tip poised just inches from her. In a single, staggering heartbeat she saw anger and triumph etched on Samantha’s face.

“Hughes Barron,” whispered Theodosia. “Why?”

Samantha’s mouth twisted cruelly as she spat out her answer. “I loved him. But he wouldn’t divorce her. Wouldn’t divorce Angelique. He promised he would, but then he wouldn’t do it.”

“So you poisoned him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Oh, please. At first I only tried to make him sick. So he would need me. Then I...” Samantha’s eyes rolled crazily in her head as she jabbed with the pruning shears, the sharp tip pressing in, dimpling the skin of Theodosia’s neck again and again.

She’s having some sort of breakdown, thought Theodosia. The nerves that connect her thoughts with her actions have somehow short-circuited. She’s divorced herself from reality. At the same time, Theodosia knew she had to try to keep Samantha talking. Keep Samantha communicating and engaged, seeing her still as a person. Theodosia shuddered, trying to keep at bay the thought of those nasty carbon steel pruning shears slicing into her neck.

“What are they?” Theodosia’s voice was hoarse. “The purple flowers.”

“Monkshood,” snapped Samantha.

“Monkshood,” repeated Theodosia. She’d learned something about this plant in the botany class she’d taken back when she first became serious about the tea business. Monkshood contained the deadly poison aconite. It had been used for centuries. The Chinese dipped arrows and spears in aconite. In England the plant was called auld wife’s huid. And, indeed, the potent petals had turned many an old wife into a widow.

“Don’t be impolite,” taunted Samantha. “Drink your tea.” The sharp point traced a circle on Theodosia’s neck, slightly below and behind her left ear.

Theodosia flinched at the needlelike pain. That’s where the carotid artery is, she thought wildly.

“The tea,” spat Samantha. “You are fast becoming a rude, unwelcome guest who has severely stretched my patience!” The last half of her sentence came out in a loud, shrill tone.

Anger flickered deep within Theodosia, replacing fear. This woman, with cold, cunning calculation, had poisoned Hughes Barron. Had gone on to threaten Earl Grey. And now, this same deranged creature was within an inch of inflicting bodily harm on her! Smoldering outrage began to ignite every part of her body.

Theodosia raised her right hand slowly, extending it tentatively toward a tiny silver saucer where a half dozen cubes of sugar rested.

“May I?” asked Theodosia.

Samantha’s laugh was a harsh bark. Her head jerked up and down. “What’s that silly song? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down? Go on, help yourself, you prim and proper little simp.”

Theodosia reached for two cubes, clutched them gently between her thumb and forefinger. Feeling the fine granulation of the sugar cubes between her fingers, she was also keenly aware of cold steel pressed insistently against her neck.

As she drew her hand back, Theodosia suddenly dropped the sugar cubes as if they were a pair of hot dice. Her right hand wrapped around the handle of Samantha’s handsome silver teapot, clutching it for dear life. With every bit of strength she could muster, Theodosia swung the heavy teapot, filled to the brim with hot, scalding tea, toward Samantha. The silver lid flew forward, cutting Samantha in the cheek. Then hot tea surged out and met its intended target, splashing directly into Samantha’s face.

Samantha threw back her head and howled like a scalded cat. “My face! My face!” she shrieked. The garden shears flew from her hand and clattered to the floor as her hands flailed helplessly. “You nasty witch!” She gnashed her teeth in pain and outrage. “What have you done to my face!” Samantha tottered back unsteadily, eyes blinded by the viciously hot liquid, her hair drenched.

Theodosia bent down and snatched up the pruning shears. Then she reached over and plucked the steel trowel from Samantha’s webbed belt as well. Like disarming a gunslinger, Theodosia told herself recklessly.

Samantha had one hand on the wall now, hobbling along, trying to cautiously feel her way toward the kitchen. “Help me!” she yowled. She was stooped over and bedraggled. “Cold water ...a towel!”

Theodosia pulled her cell phone from her handbag and dialed Burt Tidwell’s number. Tidwell’s office immediately patched her through to his mobile phone.

Theodosia barked Samantha’s address at Tidwell, admonishing him to get here now, even as she stepped outside and stood on the front porch to finish their terse conversation. Then she collapsed tiredly on the steps and dropped her head in her hands. She tried not to listen to Samantha’s pitiful cries.

“You all right?” Tidwell peered inquisitively into Theodosia’s face. He had arrived ten minutes earlier, breathless and bug-eyed, gun drawn. Two patrol cars, lights flashing, sirens screaming, had been just seconds behind him.