Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

“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.

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 takeout 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.”

“You’re referring to Tidwell?” said Theodosia.

“Was that his name?” asked Haley. “He had no right to push everyone around the way he did. We couldn’t help it if someone had the misfortune to drop dead. I mean, it’s terribly sad when anyone dies suddenly, awful for their family. But for crying out loud, we didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“If you ask me,” said Drayton, “that fellow Tidwell was far too diligent for his own good. He not only pestered everyone, but he also kept a small contingent of visitors tied up for over forty minutes. And those were people who’d been talking on the front steps, nowhere near that man, Hughes Barron! He even interviewed Samantha, and she was shrieking around inside the house most of the evening.”

“Maybe because she fainted,” said Haley. “She really did seem upset.”

“Momentarily upset,” said Drayton, “because she feared that a tragedy might reflect badly on the Lamplighter Tour.” His voice was tinged with disapproval.

“Oh, I can’t believe Samantha is that callous,” said Theodosia.

“But she was worried about it,” interjected Haley. “Over and over she kept saying, ‘Why did this have to happen during the Lamplighter Tour? Whatever will people think?’ ”

Theodosia gazed into her cup of Assam tea. The evening had been nothing short of bizarre. The only lucky break was the fact that Tidwell hadn’t made public his suspicion about a foreign substance in Hughes Barron’s tea. Police photographers had shown up, and the evening’s participants questioned, but, as far as she knew, it hadn’t escalated any further.

The fact that some type of foreign substance might have been introduced into Hughes Barron’s tea, and the fact that Burt Tidwell has shown up, had piqued Theodosia’s curiosity, however. And she’d made it a point to nose around last night’s investigation. As the last so-called civilian to leave, she hadn’t arrived home at her little apartment above the tea shop until around 11:00 P.M.

But even in the familiar serenity of her living room, with its velvet sofa, kilim rug, and cozy chintz and prints decor, she’d felt disquieted and filled with questions. That had prompted her to take Earl Grey out for a late walk.

Meandering the dark pathways of the historic district, inexplicably drawn back to the Avis Melbourne House, Theodosia had seen a new arrival: a shiny black van with tinted windows. The forensic team. From her vantage point in the shadows, she had heard Tidwell’s gruff voice chiding them, nagging at them.

A curious man, she had thought to herself. Paradoxical. A genteel manner that could rapidly disintegrate into reproachful or shrewish.

Back home again, Theodosia had fixed herself a cup of chamomile tea, ideal for jangled nerves or those times when sleep proves elusive. Then she sat down in front of her computer for a quick bit of Internet research.

On the site of the Charleston Post and Courier, she found what she was looking for. That venerable newspaper had loaded their archives (not all of them, just feature stories going back to 1996) on their Web site. Conveniently, they’d also added a search engine.

Within thirty seconds, Theodosia had pulled up three articles that mentioned Burt Tidwell. She learned that he had logged eleven years with the FBI and ten years as a homicide detective in Raleigh, North Carolina.

During his stint in Raleigh, Tidwell was one of the investigators responsible for apprehending the infamous Crow River Killer.

Theodosia had recalled the terrible events: four women brutally murdered, their bodies dumped in the swamps of the Crow River Game Preserve.

Even when all the leads had petered out and the trail had grown cold, Tidwell stayed on the case, poring over old files, piecing together scraps of information.

Interviews in the Charleston Post and Courier spoke of Tidwell’s “eerie obsession” and his “uncanny knack” for creating a profile of the killer.

And Tidwell had finally nailed the Crow River Killer. His persistence had paid off big time.

“Oh, oh,” said Drayton in a low voice.

Theodosia looked up to see Burt Tidwell’s big form looming in the doorway. He put a hand on the lower half of the double door and eased it open.

“Good morning!” Tidwell boomed. He seemed jovial, a far cry from his bristle and brash of the previous evening. “You open for business?”

“Come in, Mr. Tidwell,” said Theodosia. “Sit with us and have a cup of tea.” She remained seated while Drayton and Haley popped up from their chairs as if they’d suddenly become hot seats.

Burt Tidwell paused in the middle of Theodosia’s small shop and looked around. His prominent eyes took in the more than one hundred glass jars of tea, the maple cabinet that held a formidable collection of antique teapots, the silk-screened pastel T-shirts Theodosia had designed herself with a whimsical drawing of a teacup, a curlicue of rising steam, and the words Tea Shirt.

“Sweet,” he murmured as he eased himself into a chair.

“We have Assam and Sencha,” Drayton announced, curiously formal.

“Assam, please,” said Tidwell. His eyes shone bright on Theodosia. “If we could talk alone?”

Theodosia knew Haley had already escaped to the nether regions of the back offices, and she assumed Dray-ton would soon follow.

“Of course,” said Drayton. “I have errands to run, anyway.”

Tidwell waited until they were alone. Then he took a sip of tea, smiled, and set his teacup down. “Delicious.”

“Thank you.”

“Miss Browning,” Tidwell began, “are you aware our hapless victim of last evening is Hughes Barron, the real estate developer?”

“So I understand.”

“He was not terribly well liked,” said Tidwell, smiling.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Miss Browning, it saddens me to be the bearer of such news, but Mr. Barron’s death was no accident.” He paused, searching out Theodosia’s face. “We are looking at a wrongful death. Even as we speak, a sample of the tea that Hughes Barron was drinking last night has been dispatched to the state toxicology lab.”

Theodosia’s heart skipped a beat, even as she willed herself to remain calm. Do not let this man rattle or intimidate you, she told herself. You had nothing to do with Hughes Barron’s death. Surely this would soon reveal itself as one big misunderstanding.

On the heels of that came the realization that she had spent nearly a dozen years in advertising, where everything had run in panic mode. Everything a crash and burn involving millions of dollars. Could she keep her cool? Absolutely.