Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 21

Miss Dimple smiled broadly at Theodosia. “Mr. Dauphine will just be a moment,” she said. “He’s on the phone. Long distance.”

“Thank you,” murmured Theodosia as she wondered why people always tended to be more patient when the person they’re waiting for is talking long distance versus a local call. Strange that distance makes us polite, and nearness makes us impatient.

After her conversation with Drayton, she had made her way up four flights of stairs in the Peregrine Building to the office of Mr. Harold Dauphine, the owner. Theodosia knew the man had to be at least seventy-five years old. His plump secretary, Miss Dimple, couldn’t be that much younger. Did they scoot up and down these stairs all day? she wondered. Could that be the key to longevity? Or, once they arrived for work in the morning, did they just perch up here, recovering from the effort?

“Miss Browning?” Miss Dimple was smiling at her. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Theodosia sat and marveled at the decor of the office. The whole thing was like a throwback to the fifties. Gray metal filing cabinets, venetian blinds, an honest-to-goodness Underwood upright typewriter. You could film an old Perry Mason episode right here. She half expected to see Miss Dimple don a green eyeshade.

Theodosia thumbed through a dog-eared copy of Reader’s Digest, skimming the “Quotable Quotes” section. She stared out the window and wondered about Hughes Barron’s partner, Lleveret Dante, and she thought about Drayton’s reaction to her suspicions about Timothy Neville.

As much as the look on Drayton’s face had betrayed his skepticism about Timothy Neville, he’d still listened carefully to her.

“Well,” Drayton had said after hearing her out, “it’s interesting speculation, but it’d be another thing to prove. I certainly don’t discount the fact that Timothy Neville has an abominable temper and is capable of causing harm. Most people have a dark side. And I certainly think you should find out more about this man, Lleveret Dante. Tell you what, why don’t you come along with me tomorrow night? Timothy Neville is having a small concert at his home. One of the string quartets he plays in for fun. There will be people from the Heritage Society as well as people from the neighborhood that you undoubtedly know. You can listen to some good music, then have a jolly snoop in his medicine cabinet, if you like.”

If Drayton had been pulling her leg, his serious demeanor hadn’t betrayed the fact. So she’d agreed. She had to harness her enthusiasm, in fact, because tomorrow night would be, just as Drayton had said, the perfect opportunity to snoop. And she had a sneaking suspicion Timothy Neville wasn’t the righteous pillar of the community that most people thought he was.

“Mr. Dauphine can see you now, Miss Browning.”

Theodosia stood and smiled at Miss Dimple. The woman was aptly named, she thought. Even looked like a dimple. Round, sweet, slightly pink.

“Always nice to see a neighbor, Miss Browning.” Mr. Dauphine struggled to his feet and shook her hand weakly.

“Nice to see you again,” said Theodosia. She noted that Mr. Dauphine’s office was just as antiquated as the reception area, right down to a rotary phone and an archaic dictation machine, what they used to call a steno.

“Of course,” said Mr. Dauphine, “I don’t come in every day like I used to. Been taking it a little slower.” What should have been easy laughter segued into a hacking cough.

“Are you all right, Mr. Dauphine?” said Theodosia. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Mr. Dauphine waved her off with one hand. “Fine, fine,” he choked. Pulling a plastic inhaler from his jacket pocket, he shook it rapidly, depressed the button, and inhaled as best he could.

“Emphysema,” Mr. Dauphine explained, tapping his chest. “Used to smoke.” He helped himself to another puff from his inhaler. “You ever smoke?”

“No,” she replied.

“Good girl. I’d advise you never to start.” He looked at her and smiled. Despite his obvious frailties, Mr. Dauphine’s eyes shone brightly, and his mind seemed quick. “Now,” he said, “have you come to make an offer on my property as well?”

Theodosia tried not to betray her surprise. She’d come looking for information about Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante, and Mr. Dauphine had just nicely opened up that conversational front.

“Not really,” she told him lightly. “But I take it you’ve been under siege of late?”

Mr. Dauphine laughed. “I was, but not anymore. Fellow who wanted to buy this place died.”

“Hughes Barron,” she said. How interesting, she thought, that everyone she talked with lately couldn’t wait to tell her that Hughes Barron had died.

“That’s the one.” Mr. Dauphine leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his thin chest. “He make an offer on your place, too?”

“Not exactly,” said Theodosia slowly. “But I did want to get in touch with his lawyer.”

“Sam Sestero,” said Mr. Dauphine.

“Sam Sestero,” Theodosia repeated, committing the name to memory. “Do you, by any chance, have Mr. Sestero’s phone number?”

“Miss Dimple keeps all that straight for me. I’m sure she can give it to you.” His hand reached out and depressed the button on an old-fashioned intercom system. “Oh, Miss Dimple, see if you can find Mr. Sestero’s number for Miss Browning, will you?” He turned back to Theodosia. “As I recall, Mr. Sestero’s office isn’t far from here.”

Theodosia found that it wasn’t far at all. In fact, Samuel and his brother, Edward Sestero, the two managing partners of Sestero & Sestero Professional Association, turned out to have their offices just down from the stately Romanesque buildings at the intersection of Meeting and Broad Streets, known affectionately to Charlestonians as the Four Corners of Law.