Death By Darjeeling

Chapter 6

Theodosia stared at the storyboards propped up against the wall in her office. Jessica Todd, president of Todd & Lambeau Design Group, had brought in three more boards. Now there were six different Web site designs for her to evaluate.

As her eyes roved from one to the other, she told herself that all were exciting and extremely doable. Any one... eeny, meeny, miney, moe ...would work beautifully at launching her tea business into cyberspace.

Ordinarily, Theodosia would be head over heels, champing at the bit to make a final choice and set the wheels in motion. But today it seemed as if her brain was stuffed with cotton.

Too much had happened, she told herself. Was happening. It felt like a freight train gathering momentum. Not a runaway train quite yet, but one that was certainly rumbling down the rails.

Bethany had phoned the tea shop a half hour ago, and Haley, stretching the cord to its full length so she could talk privately in the kitchen, had a whispered conversation with her. When Haley hung up, Theodosia had grabbed a box of Kleenex and listened intently as Haley related Bethany’s sad tale.

“She’s finished at the police station for now,” Haley had told her. “But one of the detectives, I don’t know if it was that Tidwell character or not, advised her to get a lawyer.” Haley had snuffled, then blown her nose loudly. “Do you know any lawyers?” she’d asked plaintively.

Theodosia had nodded. Of course she did. Her father’s law firm was still in business. The senior partner, Leyland Hartwell, always a family friend, was a formidable presence in Charleston.

Jessica Todd impatiently tapped a manicured finger on her ultraslim laptop computer. Hyperthyroidal and super-slim herself, wearing an elegant aubergine-colored suit, Jessica sat across the desk from Theodosia. She was anxious to get Theodosia’s decision today.

As President of Todd & Lambeau, Jessica had distinguished herself as one of the top Internet marketing gurus in Charleston. And today she was fairly jumping out of her skin, eager to implement her graphic design ideas, Web architecture, and marketing strategies for the Indigo Tea Shop’s new Web site.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Jessica?” Theodosia asked, stalling. Decisions weren’t coming easily.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked,” Jessica replied somewhat peevishly. She shook her head and ran long fingernails through her sleek, short helmet of dark hair. “Again, no thank you.”

“Sorry,” murmured Theodosia.

Jessica reached over and plucked up a board that featured a montage of teapots and tea leaves, set against a ghosted background of green terraced slopes, one of the old Chinese tea plantations.

“If we could just revisit this concept for a moment,” said Jessica, forging ahead, “I believe you’ll find it meets all criteria we established. Dynamic graphics, intuitive user interface. Look at the global navigation buttons. On-line Catalog, Tea Tips, Tea Q&A, and Contact Us. Here, I’ll show you how it works on the laptop.”

“Jessica...” Theodosia began, then stopped. There was no way she could focus on this when she was so concerned about Bethany and the events of last night. She knew better than to make critical business decisions when her mind was somewhere else.

“I’m sorry,” said Theodosia standing up. “We’re going to have to do this another time.”

“What?” sputtered Jessica.

“Your designs are perfectly lovely. Spectacular, in fact. But I need to live with them for a few days. And it’s only right to share them with Drayton and Haley, get a consensus.”

“Let’s call them in now.”

“Jessica. Please.”

“All right, all right.” Jessica Todd snapped her laptop closed, gathered up her attaché case. “Call me, Theodosia. But don’t wait too long. We’re hot into a pitch right now for a new on-line brokerage. And if it comes through, when it comes through, we’re all going to be working twenty-four/seven on it.”

“I hear you, Jessica.”

Walking Jessica to the door, Theodosia thought back on her own career in advertising. I was like that, she told herself. Nervous, nuts. Slaving evenings and weekends, caught in the pressure cooker. What had Jessica called it? Working twenty-four/seven. Right.

Breathing a sigh of relief, feeling enormously grateful for her serene little world at the tea shop, Theodosia surprised Haley just as she was dusting a fresh pan of lemon bars with powdered sugar.

“I’m going to do deliveries today,” Theodosia announced.

“You are? Why is that?” asked Haley.

“Can’t sit still, don’t want to sit still.”

“I know the feeling,” said Haley. She reached under her wooden baker’s rack and pulled out a large wicker hamper. “Okay, lucky for you it’s the milk run. Only two deliveries. A half-dozen canisters of jasmine and English breakfast teas for the Featherbed House and some of Drayton’s special palmetto blend for Reverend Jonathan at Saint Philip’s.”

Once outside, Theodosia walked briskly in the direction of the Featherbed House. The sun shone down warmly. The breeze off the Cooper River was light and tasted faintly salty. White, puffy clouds scudded overhead. But what should have been a glorious day to revel in went relatively unnoticed by Theodosia, so preoccupied was she by recent events.

Why on earth were they pressing Bethany so hard?

she wondered. Surely the police could see she was just a young woman with no ax to grind against anyone. Especially a man like Hughes Barron. Burt Tidwell was no fool. He, of all people, should be able to see that.

Theodosia sighed. Poor Bethany. The only thing she’d been up to lately was trying to rebuild her life. And she’d seemed to have been going about it fairly successfully.

Only last week Theodosia had overheard Bethany speaking glowingly to Drayton about her internship at the Heritage Society. How she’d been chosen over six other candidates. How she was so impressed by the many volunteers who donated countless hours and dollars. How the Heritage Society had recently staged a black-tie dinner and silent auction and raised almost $300,000 to purchase the old Chapman Mill. Abandoned and scheduled for demolition, the historic old mill would now live on in Charleston’s history.

As Theodosia turned the corner at Murray Street, the rush of wind coming off Charleston Harbor hit her full on. It blew her hair out in auburn streamers, brought a rosy glow to her cheeks and, finally, a smile to her face.

The Battery, that stretch of homes and shore at the point of land where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers converged and the Atlantic poured in to meet them, was one of Theodosia’s favorite places. Originally known as Oyster Point because it began as a swampy beach strewn with oyster shells, The Battery evolved into a military strong point and finally into the elegant neighborhood of harborside homes and parks it is today. With its White Point Gardens, Victorian bandstand, and no fewer than twenty-six cannons and monuments, The Battery held a special place in the hearts of every Charlestonian.

Perched on The Battery and overlooking the harbor with a bird’s-eye view of Fort Sumter, the Featherbed House was one of the peninsula’s premier bed-and-breakfasts. It featured elegantly furnished rooms with canopied beds, cypress paneling, and twelve-foot-high hand-molded plaster ceilings. And, of course, mounds of featherbeds just as the name promised. A second-story open-air bridge spanned the backyard garden and transported delighted visitors from the main house to a treetop dining room in the renovated hay loft of the carriage house.

In the cozy lobby, filled with every manner of ceramic goose, plush goose, and needlepoint goose, Theodosia stopped to chat with owners Angie and Mark Congdon. They were a husband and wife team who had both been commodity brokers in Chicago and fled the Windy City for a more temperate climate and slower pace.

Changes and reevaluations, mused Theodosia as she hurried back down the street toward Saint Philip’s. Lots of that going around these days.

Saint Philip’s Episcopal was the church for whom Church Street was named. It was a neoclassical edifice that had been drawing communicants for almost 200 years. When the bells in the tall, elegant spire chimed on Sunday mornings, the entire historic district knew that the Reverend Jonathan’s service was about to begin.

Theodosia stepped through a wrought iron archway into the private garden and burial ground.

“Good morning!” a voice boomed.

Theodosia halted in her tracks and looked around. She finally spotted Reverend Jonathan, a small, wiry man with short silver hair, on his hands and knees underneath a small oak tree.

“This tree didn’t fare well in the last big storm,” said Reverend Jonathan as he pulled a metal cable tight around a wooden stake. “I thought if I shored it up, it might have a chance to catch up with its big brothers.”

The “big brothers” Reverend Jonathan referred to were the two enormous live oaks that sat to either side of the parish house.

“You’ve worked wonders here,” said Theodosia. Under Reverend Jonathan’s watchful eye, the garden and historic burial ground had evolved from a manicured lawn with a few shrubs and memorial plaques to a hidden oasis filled with a delightful profusion of seasonal plants, flowering shrubs, stepping stones, and decorative statuary.

Reverend Jonathan straightened up and gazed about with pride. “I love getting my hands dirty. But I have to admit there’s always something needs fixing. Next big project is some restoration work on our beloved church’s interior arches.”

Even though he had well over 1,500 communicants to minister to, dozens of committees to juggle, and fund-raising to tend to, Reverend Jonathan was a tireless worker. He always seemed to find time for hands-on gardening and maintenance of the historic church.

“That’s the thing about these grande dame buildings.” He grinned. “Patch, patch, patch.”

“Mm,” said Theodosia as she handed Reverend Jonathan his canisters of tea. “I know the feeling.”

On her return trip to the Indigo Tea Shop, Theodosia’s thoughts turned once again to Hughes Barron’s death. Although she felt saddened that a human life had ended, it prickled her that the investigators seemed to be overlooking the obvious. If someone had been sitting at that far table with Hughes Barron, wouldn’t that person have had the perfect opportunity to slip something toxic into the man’s tea?

On a hunch, Theodosia jogged over toward Meeting Street, where Samantha Rabathan lived. Samantha had been the chairperson for last night’s event, she reasoned. Maybe Sam would have a list of attendees. That might be a logical place to start.

As luck would have it, Samantha was outside, bustling about on her enormous veranda, tending to the heroic abundance of plant life that flourished in her many containers and flower boxes. A divorcée for almost ten years, Samantha’s only avocation seemed to be gardening. If Reverend Jonathan was the patron saint of trees and shrubs, Samantha was the guardian angel of flowers.

Samantha changed her flower boxes seasonally, so they might contain flowering bulbs, English daisies, clouds of wisteria, or miniature shrubs. Her trellises, usually hidden under mounds of perfect pink climbing roses, were legendary. Her backyard garden, with roses, star jasmine, begonias, and verbena clustered about a sparkling little pool, and tangled vines creeping up a backdrop of crumbling brick, was a must-see on the annual Garden Club Tour. And Samantha’s elegant floral arrangements always garnered blue as well as purple ribbons at the annual Charleston Flower Show.

“Samantha!” Theodosia waved from the street.

“Hello,” Samantha called back.

She was wearing her Mr. Green Jeans garb today, Theodosia noted. Green coveralls, green gloves, green floppy cotton hat, to go with her green thumb.

Most people in the neighborhood regarded Samantha as a bit of a hothouse plant herself. A delicate tropical flower with fine yellow hair and alabaster skin who shunned the sun. Close friends knew she was merely trying to prolong her facelift.

“How are you feeling today?” asked Theodosia. She shaded her eyes and gazed up at the porch with its trellises of ivy and trumpet vine and window boxes with overflowing ramparts of crape myrtle and althaea.

Samantha grinned sheepishly and fanned a gloved hand in front of her face. “Fine, really fine. Just too much excitement last night. I can’t believe I actually fainted over that poor man. How embarrassing. Oh, well, at least it proves I’m a true Southern lady. Got the vapors. All so very Gone With the Wind,” she added in an exaggerated drawl.

“Samantha...” began Theodosia.

But Samantha gushed on. “What a gentleman Drayton was to come to my aid. I must remember to thank him.” She aimed her pruning shears toward a pot of cascading plumbago, snipped decisively, and laid a riot of bright blue flowers in her wicker basket. “I know. I shall put together one of my special bouquets. Drayton is a man of culture and refinement. He will appreciate the gesture.”

“I’m certain he will, Samantha,” said Theodosia. “Theodosia.” Samantha peered down from her veranda. “The sun is almost overhead. Do take care.”

Theodosia ignored her warning. “Samantha, is there any way to connect people’s names with the Lamplighter Tour tickets that were purchased?”

Samantha considered Theodosia’s question. “You’re asking me if we wrote down guests’ names?”

“Did you?” asked Theodosia hopefully.

Samantha shook her head slowly from side to side. “No, we just sold the tickets and collected the money. Nobody has ever bothered to keep track of who bought what or how many. Usually our biggest concern is trying to outsell the Tradd Street tour. You know, they have an awful lot of volunteers out pounding the streets. This year they even placed printed posters in some of the B and Bs!”

Theodosia put a hand to her head and smoothed back her hair. This was what she’d been afraid of. No record keeping, just volunteers selling tickets wherever they could.

“But you know,” added Samantha, venturing toward the sunlight, “if we offered a drawing or door prize in conjunction with the Lamplighter Tour, that would be an extra incentive to buy a ticket! And then, of course, we’d have to record people’s names and addresses and phone numbers, that sort of thing.” She wrinkled her nose in delicious anticipation. “A drawing! Isn’t that a marvelous idea? I can’t wait to propose it for next year’s Lamplighter Tour.”

Samantha snipped a few more stems of plumbago, then smiled brightly at Theodosia. “Theodosia, would you be interested in donating one of your gift baskets?”