Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 3

The magic of the night was suddenly shattered by the harsh strobe of red and blue lights. Three police cruisers roared down the street and braked to a screeching halt. Front tires bounced roughly up over curbs, sending a gaggle of curious onlookers scattering. The whoop-whoop of a rapidly approaching ambulance shrilled.

Klang und licht, thought Theodosia. Sound and light. So much excitement, so much kinetic energy being exerted. But as she stood under the oak tree in the dark garden, surveying the slumped body of Hughes Barron, she knew no amount of hurry or flurry on the part of police or paramedics would make a whit of difference. Hughes Barron was beyond help. He was in the Lord’s hands now.

But, of course, they all came blustering into the courtyard anyway: four police officers from the precinct headquarters on Broad Street, all with polished boots and buttons; a team of EMTs dispatched from Charleston Memorial Hospital, who jounced their clattering metal gurney across the brick patio; and six firemen, and who seemed to have shown up just to feed off the excitement.

The two EMTs immediately checked Hughes Barron’s pulse and respiration and hung an oxygen mask on him. One knelt down and put a stethoscope to Barron’s chest. When he ascertained that the man no longer had a heartbeat, activity seemed to escalate.

Two officers immediately cornered Drayton, Haley, Bethany, and Samantha for interviews and statements. Another team of officers began the business of stringing yellow police tape throughout the garden.

A tall, muscular policeman, with an impressive display of stars and bars on his uniform and a name tag that read Grady, turned his attention to Theodosia.

“You found him?” Grady had a bulldog face and a heroic amount of gear attached to his belt: gun, flashlight, radio, handcuffs, billy club. Theodosia thought he looked like a human Swiss Army knife.

For some reason—the illogic of the situation or the shock at finding someone dead—this Swiss Army knife analogy tickled Theodosia, and she had to struggle to maintain an impassive expression.

“Actually, no,” she said, finally answering Grady’s question. “One of the young ladies who works for me, Bethany Shepherd, noticed something was wrong.” She gestured toward Bethany, who was across the courtyard, talking to one of the other officers. “She was the one who alerted us. I just checked the man’s pulse.”

Grady had pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and was making rapid scratches in it. “How did she alert you?”

“She screamed,” said Theodosia.

One side of Grady’s mouth twitched downward, passing judgment on her answer. Obviously, he didn’t consider it helpful.

“And was the man breathing?” pressed Grady.

“No, unfortunately. Which is why we called nine-one-one.”

More scratches in Grady’s notebook.

“And your name is ...?”

“Theodosia Browning. I own the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street.”

“So you don’t know what happened, Theodosia?” said Grady.

“Just that he died,” replied Theodosia. Her eyes went to the crisscross of black and yellow tape that was now strung through the garden like giant spiderwebs. Police Line the words blared, black on yellow. Do Not Cross. Vinyl tape had been wound haphazardly around bushes of crape myrtle and cherry laurel trees, through the splattering fountain and beds of flowers transported from Charleston greenhouses and dug in for this one special night. Now plants and blossoms lay crushed.

Grady cocked one droopy eye at her. “You don’t know what happened, but you knew he was dead.”

“My impression was that he was cyanotic. If you look at the tips of his fingernails, there’s a curious blue tinge.”

“Lady...” Grady began.

“You seem upset,” said Theodosia. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” She looked around. “Can we get anyone a cup of tea?”

That small gesture seemed to break the tension of the moment.

Grady suddenly remembered his manners and touched his cap with a finger. “Thank you, ma’am. Maybe later. Could you wait over there with the others, please?” Grady pointed across the courtyard. “I need to confer with the medical team.”

Theodosia peered toward the far corner of the garden to a round, wrought iron table, still festooned with its purple floral centerpiece. In the darkness she could just barely make out Drayton and Haley sitting there, looking rather glum. Samantha was sprawled in a wicker chair, sipping from a glass of water, fanning herself with a program. Only Bethany was illuminated by the lights from the house. She stood near the door of the butler’s pantry, deep in conversation with two officers.

“Certainly,” said Theodosia. She took one step back, had every intention of joining the others, when one of the EMTs, a young man with shaggy blond hair, picked up the teacup and sniffed suspiciously at the contents.

“Put that down.” The voice echoed out of the darkness like the rough growl of a big cat.

Caught by surprise, the EMT sent the teacup clattering into its saucer. Luckily, it remained upright.

Grady spun on his heels. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The man with the big cat growl led with his stomach. It billowed out between the lapels of his tweed jacket like a weather balloon. Bushy brows topped slightly popped eyes, and a walrus mustache drooped around his mouth. Although his stance conveyed a certain poise and grace, his head stuck curiously forward from his shoulders.

“Tidwell,” said the man.

“Show me your ID?” Grady wasn’t budging an inch.

Tidwell pulled a battered leather card case out of his pocket, held it daintily between two fingers.

Grady flipped the leather case open and scanned the ID. “Detective Tidwell. Well, okay.” Grady’s voice was smooth and dripping with appeasement. “Looks like the boys downtown are already on top of this. What can I do to help, Detective?”

“Kindly stay out of my way.”

“Sure,” agreed Grady cheerfully. “No problem. But you need any help, just whistle.”

“Count on it,” said Tidwell. He swiped his stubbled chin with the back of his hand, a gesture he would repeat many times. When Grady was out of earshot, Tidwell mumbled “Asshole” under his breath. Then he focused his full attention on Hughes Barron, still sitting at the table as best he could, wearing the oxygen mask one of the EMTs had slapped on him.

“Excuse me,” said Theodosia. In her crepe-soled shoes, Tidwell hadn’t heard her approach.

He swung around, wary. “Who are you?”

“Theodosia Browning.” She extended a hand to him.

“Browning, Browning...” Tidwell narrowed his eyes, ignoring her outstretched hand. “I knew a Macalester Browning once. Lawyer fellow. Fairly decent as far as lawyers go. Lived in one of the plantations out on Rutledge Road.”

“My father,” said Theodosia.

“Mnh,” grunted Tidwell, turning back toward Hughes Barron. He lifted the teacup, dropped his nose to it, and sniffed. He swirled the contents like a wine taster.

Or a tea taster, reflected Theodosia.

Tidwell reached into a bulging pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His sausage-sized fingers seemed to have trouble hitting numbers on the keypad. Finally, after several tries and more than a few expletives, his call went through.

“Pete, get me Brandon Hart.” He paused. “Yeah.” Tidwell sucked on his mustache impatiently. “Brandon?” he barked into the phone. “Me. Burt. I need your best crime-scene techs. That skinny one’s good. And the bald guy with the tattoo. Yeah, tonight. Now. Pete’ll fill you in.” He clicked off his phone.

“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.