Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 38

Burt Tidwell didn’t show up at the Indigo Tea Shop until midafternoon. Even then, he didn’t make his presence known immediately.

He sauntered in, sampled a cup of Ceylon white tea, and scarfed a cranberry scone, all the while keeping Bethany in a state of near panic as she waited on him. Finally, Burt Tidwell told Bethany that she could kindly inform Theodosia of his arrival. Told her to tell Miss Browning that, per her invitation to drop by the tea shop, he was, voilà, now at her disposal.

“Mr. Tidwell, lovely to see you again,” said Theodosia. She arrived at his small table by the window bearing a plate of freshly baked lemon and sour cream muffins drizzled with powdered sugar frosting. Haley had just pulled them from the oven, and the aroma was enough to tempt the devil. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, Theodosia had reasoned, but you could just as often tap his inner thoughts via his stomach, too. And Burt Tidwell had a very ample stomach.

“And pray tell what are these?” Tidwell asked as Theodosia set the plate of muffins on the table between them. His nose quivered like a bunny rabbit, and his lips puckered in delight. “I declare, you folks certainly offer the most delightful repertoire of baked goods.”

“Just our lemon and sour cream muffins,” said Theodosia, waving her hand as if the pastries were nothing at all. In fact, she had instructed Haley to knock herself out.

“May I?” asked Burt Tidwell. He was just this side of salivating.

“Of course,” said Theodosia in her warmest, coziest tone as she inched the plate and accompanying butter dish closer to him. Aunt Libby would have laughingly told her it was like dangling a minnow for spottail bass. “I’m glad you could drop by,” she said. “I wanted to find out how the investigation was going and ask you a couple of peripheral questions.”

“Peripheral questions,” Tidwell repeated. “You have a gift for phrasing, don’t you, Miss Browning? You’re able to make unimportant data seem important and critical issues appear insignificant. A fine tactic often used by the police.”

“Yes,” she continued, trying to ignore his jab but being reminded, once again, of just how maddening the man could be.

“Such goings-on you’ve had in your neighborhood,” chided Tidwell. His pink tongue flicked out to catch a bit of frosting that clung to his upper lip.

“Enjoying that, are you?” Theodosia asked archly.

“Delicious,” replied Tidwell. “As I was saying, your poor neighborhood has endured more than its share of tragedy. First, Mr. Hughes Barron so inelegantly drops dead at your little tea party. Now Mr. Dauphine, your next-door neighbor in the Peregrine Building, has succumbed. Could you, perchance, be the common denominator?”

There’s my opener, thought Theodosia. As infuriating and off base as Tidwell’s implication is, there is my opener.

“But no one from the Indigo Tea Shop was near Mr. Dauphine when he died,” said Theodosia. “And I was under the impression the poor man suffered a heart attack.”

“But you were with Mr. Dauphine three days ago,” said Tidwell. “His very capable associate, Miss Dimple, keeps a detailed log of all visitors and all incoming phone calls. And”—Tidwell paused—“she has shared that with me.”

Good, thought Theodosia, now if you’ll just share a little bit more of that information with me.

“Yes, I did go to Mr. Dauphine’s office,” said Theodosia, struggling to control her temper. “We are neighbors, and I was talking to him about the offer Hughes Barron put forth on his building.” Theodosia took a deep breath. “Have you learned anything more about someone trying to buy the Peregrine Building?” She knew it was a stab in the dark.

Tidwell’s huge hands handled the tiny butter knife with the sureness of a surgeon. Deftly he sliced a wedge of unsalted butter and applied it to a second muffin. “I understand the surviving business partner, Mr. Lleveret Dante, made an offer on the building only yesterday,” he said.

“That’s very interesting,” said Theodosia. Now we’re getting somewhere, she thought.

“Not that interesting,” replied Tidwell mildly. “Hughes Barron had already made an overture to purchase the Peregrine Building. That was fairly common knowledge. It’s only logical to assume that the remaining partner would follow up on any proposition that had already been put into motion.”

“And you think Dante made a legitimate offer?”

Tidwell pursed his lips. “Highly doubtful. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, Miss Browning. Mr. Lleveret Dante had many nefarious dealings in his home state of Kentucky.”

The door to the shop opened, and Delaine Dish walked in. She took one look at Theodosia, deep in conversation with Burt Tidwell, and sat down at the table farthest from them.

Oh, dear, thought Theodosia, just what I don’t need right now—Delaine Dish making the rounds, whispering in hushed tones about the death of Mr. Dauphine.

“Of course,” continued Tidwell, “it makes no difference if Lleveret Dante offered three times market value on the Peregrine Building. He shall never own it now.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Theodosia. She snapped her attention from Delaine back to Tidwell. He knows something, she thought with a jolt. Why else would his sharp eyes be focused on her like a cat doing sentry duty outside a mouse hole?

Tidwell rocked back in his chair. “Because Mr. Dauphine left a very specific last will and testament.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Mr. Dauphine’s will clearly stated that, should he die before disposing of the Peregrine Building, ownership of it passes to the Heritage Society.”