Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

“Perhaps you’d better explain yourself,” was all Theodosia said. Better to play it close to the vest, she thought. Find out what this man has to say.

Burt Tidwell held up a hand. “There is concern that whatever liquid was in Hughes Barron’s teacup severely compromised his health. In other words, his beverage was lethal.”

Now amusement lit Theodosia’s face. “Surely you don’t believe it was my tea that killed him.”

“I understand you served a number of teas last night.”

“Of course,” said Theodosia lightly. “Darjeeling, jasmine, our special Lamplighter Blend. You realize, of course, everyone who stopped by the garden—and we’re talking probably two hundred people—sampled our teas. No one else is dead.”

She took another sip of tea, blotted her lips, and favored Tidwell with a warm yet slightly indulgent smile. “Frankly, Mr. Tidwell, if I were you, I’d be more concerned with who Hughes Barron was sitting with in the garden last night rather than which tea he drank.”

“Touché, Miss Browning,” Tidwell replied. He reclined in his chair, swiped the back of his hand against his quivering chin, and let fly his curve ball. “How long has Bethany Shepherd worked for you?”

So that’s where this conversation was going, thought Theodosia. “Really just a handful of times over the past few months,” she replied. “But surely you don’t consider the girl a suspect.”

“I understand she had words with Hughes Barron last week at a Heritage Society meeting.”

“Bethany recently obtained an internship with the Heritage Society, so I imagine she spends considerable time there.”

“Rather harsh words,” said Tidwell. His eyes bored into Theodosia.

“A disagreement doesn’t make her a murderer,” said Theodosia lightly. “It only means she’s a young woman blessed with gumption.”

“We have her at the police station now.”

“Indeed.”

“Taking a statement. Very pro forma.”

“I assume her lawyer is with her?”

“Do you think she needs one?” Tidwell arched a tufted eyebrow.

“Not the issue.”

“Pray tell, what is?”

“She’s entitled to one,” replied Theodosia.

“Poison!” exclaimed Haley. “Sshh!” Drayton held a finger to his lips. “The customers,” he mouthed in an exaggerated gesture, although a couple patrons had already turned in their chairs and were staring inquisitively at the three of them clustered at the counter.

“Tidwell thinks someone poisoned Hughes Barron?” said Haley in a low voice, her eyes wide as saucers.

“That’s his notion so far,” said Theodosia. “He’s already sent the contents of Hughes Barron’s teacup to the state toxicology lab.”

“What absolute rubbish!” declared Drayton. “We had nothing to do with the man’s demise. Are you sure those paramedics checked the man’s heart? Big fellow like that might’ve had a bad ticker.”

“I’m sure they’ll perform an autopsy and clear everything up eventually,” said Theodosia.

“The problem is,” said Drayton, “what do we do in the short term?”

Damage control, Theodosia thought to herself. That was our PR department’s job when I was still at the agency. They'd get a positive spin working before anything negative could grab hold.

“Your point is well taken,” said Theodosia. “As outrageous as the notion is that our tea killed the man, Hughes Barron’s death is fertile ground for wild rumors.”

“Rumors that could cast a veil of suspicion over all of us,” added Haley.

“Actually,” said Theodosia as she stared into the worried eyes of her two dear employees and friends, “I’m more concerned with Bethany right now. Tidwell has her down at the police station.”

Haley’s eyes welled with tears, and she bit her lip to keep from bursting into sobs. “Just who is this man, Hughes Barron? I’ve never even heard of him before!”

“Well,” said Drayton, his dark eyes darting from side to side, “I don’t mind telling you that Church Street is positively buzzing about him today.” His back to the customers, Drayton edged closer to the small counter and faced Theodosia and Haley.

“I spoke earlier with Fern Barrow at the Cottage Inn. She had heard about the disturbance at last night’s Lamplighter Tour and seemed to know quite a bit about our Mr. Hughes Barron.”

“Really?” said Theodosia, intrigued.

“Apparently, he was born and raised in Goose Creek, just north of here, but lived in California most of his life. Santa Monica. Fern said Hughes Barron made a tidy profit out there as a real estate developer. Mostly condos and strip malls.” Drayton rolled his eyes as though he were talking about organized crime.

Theodosia flashed on her conversation with Delaine yesterday afternoon. “God knows what sins a developer with Barron’s reputation might wreak,” she had said.

“Anyway,” continued Drayton, “Hughes Barron moved back to the Charleston area about two years ago. He bought a beachfront home on the Isle of Palms. You know, Theo, near Wild Dunes?”

Theodosia nodded.

“Since he’s moved back, Hughes Barron’s big hot project has been developing some truly awful time-share condominiums,” said Drayton. “Out on Johns Island.”

Johns Island was a sleepy agricultural community known mostly for its large bird refuge.

“That couldn’t have been terribly popular,” said Theodosia.

“Are you kidding? He was almost pilloried for it!” said Drayton. “He was picketed and protested before the bulldozers scooped a single shovel of dirt. The people who opposed the development kept the pressure going all through the construction phase, too. But, of course, the condos were built anyway. They weren’t able to block it.” Drayton sighed. “Hughes Barron must have had powerful connections to get that land rezoned. We’re talking statehouse level, of course,”

“I do remember hearing about that development,” said Theodosia. “And you’re right. There was major opposition from environmental groups as well as the local historical society.”

“Nothing they could do, though.” Drayton sighed again. “Excuse me,” called a woman seated at one of the tables. “Could we please get a little more tea here?”

“Certainly, ma’am.” With a quick rustle and a cordial smile, Haley flitted across the tea room. Besides refilling the teapot, she brought a fresh pitcher of milk and, much to the delight of the party of three women, also produced a plate of caramel-nut shortbread. On the house, of course.

“Drayton.” Theodosia slid the cash register drawer closed. Something was bothering her, and she had to know the full story.

Drayton Conneley had pulled a little step stool out from beneath the counter. Now he was balanced on it, stacking jars of creamed honey from the local apiary, DuBose Bees. He peered down at Theodosia in midstretch. “What’s needling you?” he asked.

“Did Bethany really have words with Hughes Barron at a Heritage Society meeting?”

Drayton’s mouth opened as if he meant to speak, then he seemed to think better of it. To say anything from his lofty perch would be to broadcast trouble they didn’t need right now. Drayton held up an index finger and clambered down.

“Let me put this in perspective,” he said.

Theodosia looked out over the tea room, where all her customers seemed content and taken care of, and nodded.

“I’m not sure how clued in you are about this,” said Drayton, “but Hughes Barron had recently become a new board member at the Heritage Society.”

“So it would seem.”