Death By Darjeeling

She straightened up, looked around. It really was a beautiful garden with its abundant greenery and wrought-iron touches. Funny how it had seemed so sinister a moment ago.

Theodosia walked to the far table—the table where Hughes Barron had been found slumped over his teacup. She sat down in his chair, looked around.

The table rested snug against an enormous hedge that ran around the outside perimeter of the garden. Could someone have slipped through that hedge? Theodosia reached a hand out to touch the leaves. They were stiff, dark green, packed together densely. But down near the roots there was certainly a crawl space.

She tilted her head back and gazed at the live oak tree overhead. It was an enormous old tree that spread halfway across the garden. Lace curtains of Spanish moss hung from its upper branches. Could someone have sat quietly in the crook of that venerable tree and dropped something in Hughes Barron’s tea? Yes, she thought, it was possible. Anything was possible.

Chapter 10

Timothy Neville loved the Heritage Society with all his being. He possessed an almost religious fervor for the artifacts and buildings they worked to preserve. He displayed uncanny skill when it came to restoration of the society’s old documents, doing most of the painstaking conservation work himself. He worked tirelessly to recruit new members.

But, most of all, Timothy Neville reveled in Heritage Society politics. Because politics was in his blood.

Descended from the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the sixteenth century, his ancestors had been fiery, spirited immigrants who’d settled in the Carolinas. Those hardy pioneers had eagerly embraced the New World and helped establish Charles Town. Fighting off the governance of the English crown, surviving the War Between the States, weathering economic downturns in rice and indigo, they were an independent, self-assured lot. Today they were regarded as the founding fathers of Charleston’s aristocracy.

“Miss Browning.” Timothy Neville inclined his head and pulled his lips back in a rictus grin that displayed two rows of small, sharp teeth. “Come to plead the case of the young lady?”

Standing in the doorway of Timothy Neville’s Heritage Society office, peering into the dim light, amazed by the clutter of art and artifacts that surrounded him, Theodosia was taken aback. How on earth could Timothy Neville have known she wanted to talk with him about Bethany? She was certain Bethany hadn’t said anything about the two of them being friends. In fact, Bethany hadn’t ever really been formally employed by her. And this morning Haley had certainly been far too upset and frightened to place any phone calls.

Timothy Neville pointedly ignored her and turned his attention back to the Civil War–era document he was working on. It was badly faded and the antique linen paper seriously degraded. An intriguing challenge, he thought to himself.

Instead of answering him immediately, Theodosia took this opportunity to study Timothy Neville. Watching him in the subdued light, his head bent down, Theodosia was struck by what an unusual-looking little man Timothy Neville was. High, rounded forehead, brown skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, a bony nose, and small, sharp jaw.

Why, he was almost simian-looking, thought Theodosia. Timothy Neville was a little monkey of a man.

As if reading her mind, Timothy Neville swiveled his head and stared at her with dark, piercing eyes. Though small and wiry, he always dressed exceedingly well. Today he was turned out in pleated gray wool slacks, starched white shirt, and dove gray jacket.

Theodosia met his gaze unfalteringly. Timothy Neville had been president of the Heritage Society for as long as she had been aware there was a Heritage Society. She figured the man had to be at least seventy-five years old, although some folks put him at eighty. She knew that, besides being a pillar in the Heritage Society, Timothy Neville also played second violin with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra and resided in a spectacular Georgian-style mansion on Archdale Street. He was exceedingly well placed, she reminded herself. It would behoove her to proceed carefully.

He finally chose to answer his own question. “Of course that’s why you’re here,” he said with a sly grin. And then, as though reading her mind, added, “Last week Drayton mentioned that the girl was living with one of your employees. In the little cottage across the alley from you, I believe.”

“That’s right,” said Theodosia. Perhaps this was going to be easier than she’d initially thought. Neville was being polite, if not a trifle obtuse. And Drayton was, after all, on the board of the Heritage Society. She herself had once been invited to join. Maybe this misunderstanding could be easily straightened out. Maybe the Heritage Society had just panicked, made a mistake.

“Nothing I can do,” said Timothy as he bent over his document again.

“I beg your pardon?” said Theodosia. The temperature in the room suddenly seemed to drop ten degrees. “I realize Bethany was ...is... only an intern with the Heritage Society. But I’m afraid she was let go for the wrong reason. For goodness sake, she was Hughes Barron’s waitress. The girl had nothing to do with the man’s untimely death.”

“I don’t give a damn about the girl or the man’s death!” Timothy Neville’s dark eyes glittered like hard obsidian, and a vein in his temple throbbed. “But as far as untimely goes, I’d say it was extremely timely. Opportunistic, in fact.” He gave a dry chuckle that sounded like a rattlesnake’s warning. “Not unlike the man himself.”

Timothy suddenly jumped up from his chair and confronted Theodosia. Although he was four inches shorter than her, he made up for it with white-hot fervor.

“Hughes Barron was a despicable scoundrel with a callous disregard for historical preservation!” he screamed, his brown face suddenly contorting and turning beet red. “The man thought he could come to our city— our city, for God’s sake—and run roughshod over principles and ideals we hold dear.”

“Look, Mr. Neville, Timothy...” Theodosia began.

He pointed a finger at her, continuing his tirade. “That evil man had even been planning something for your neck of the woods, young lady! That’s right!”

Timothy Neville bounced his head violently several times, and Theodosia felt a light spray hit her face. She took a step back.

“Property on your block!” screamed Timothy Neville. “You think you’re immune? Think again!”

Theodosia stared with fascination at this little man who was clearly, almost frighteningly, out of control. She wondered if such a neurotic, brittle man could get so overwrought concerning historical buildings, could he also commit murder?

Chapter 11

Wonderful smells emanated from the kitchen, a sure sign that Haley had regained her balance and slipped back into her usual routine. “It’s me,” called Theodosia as she let herself into her office and pulled the back door closed behind her.

Haley popped her head around the doorway like a little gopher. “Successful meeting?” Her face glowed from the heat of the kitchen, and her mood seemed considerably improved. Theodosia thought she looked 200 percent better than she had a few hours ago.

“I’d say so.”

Now Drayton appeared. “You saw Timothy,” he said eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Were you able to reason with him?” he asked.

Still vivid in Theodosia’s mind was the sight of Timothy Neville in the throes of a hissy fit. “Not exactly,” she replied.

“So you didn’t get Bethany’s job back?” asked Haley.