Death By Darjeeling

Evie Woodrow’s boat. It was a lot of fun.”

“Well, then, you’ve just got to sail on my boat,” said Jory Davis. “Woodrow’s boat is a tub, compared to my J24.” He gathered up his briefcase and stuck out his hand. “Gotta go. Great meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you,” called Theodosia as Jory Davis disappeared through the doorway. “Who was that?” asked Haley. She stood in the doorway wearing an expectant look on her face.

“A lawyer friend,” replied Theodosia.

“I know that. He told me that earlier, when I showed him back here. I meant who is he to you?”

“Haley, did you need something?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. You’ve got a phone call.”

“It’s not Delaine, is it?”

“It’s Burt Tidwell,” whispered Haley. She put a finger to her mouth. Since Bethany was working out front, Haley obviously wanted to keep this phone call hush-hush. “Line two. Shall I close the door?” she asked.

Theodosia nodded to Haley as she picked up the phone and vowed not to let Burt Tidwell spoil her good mood.

“Mr. Tidwell,” she said brightly.

“Miss Browning,” he acknowledged gruffly.

“And how is your investigation proceeding?” She tossed him a leading question in hopes of getting a little feedback.

“Extremely well,” Tidwell answered.

Theodosia slipped out of her loafers and wiggled her toes in the sunlight that spilled in through the leaded panes. He has nothing, she thought. Diddly-squat, to use an inelegant term. But she would humor him. Oh, yes, she would humor him and keep going with her own investigation. And she would surely play to what seemed to be a sense of vanity on his part concerning professional prowess.

“I trust you’ve gotten your lab results back,” said Theodosia.

“I have indeed.”

Damn, she thought. This fellow is maddening. “And...” she said.

“Exactly what I suspected. A toxic substance.”

“A toxic substance,” repeated Theodosia. “In the teacup.”

“Yes.”

“But not in the teapot.” She could hear him breathing loudly at the other end of the line. Short, almost wheezy breaths. “Mr. Tidwell?” she said with more force.

“After forensic investigation by the state toxicology lab, it was determined that the teapot did not contain any toxic substance. Only the teacup.”

“Would you care to share with me the nature of that substance?”

“It’s still being analyzed.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Miss Browning,” said Tidwell, “did you know that Hughes Barron was looking at a property on your block?”

“The Peregrine Building,” she replied.

“So you were aware of this?”

“I heard a rumor to that effect.”

“His purchase could have impacted you, don’t you think?”

“In what way?”

“Oh, a commercial development could change the character of your block. Might possibly affect business.”

Theodosia caught her breath. “Mr. Tidwell, are you trying to imply that I’m a suspect?”

Now Burt Tidwell let go a deep, hearty laugh. “Madam, until I conclude an investigation, I consider everyone a suspect.”

“Surely that can’t be efficient.”

“It is merely the way I work, madam. Good day.”

Theodosia slammed down the phone. Of all the nerve! First he let it be known that Bethany was a suspect! Then to imply she might be! A cad. The man was truly a cad. Any grudging respect she had felt earlier had just flown out the window.

She stared at her desktop angrily. Then, with both hands, she pushed everything off to the left. Files began to topple, and she let them. One of the story boards slipped to the floor. Pink message slips that had been stacked in order of date and time were suddenly jumbled.

But she had just given herself a good expanse of wood on which to work. A place to start fresh, to think fresh. She set a piece of plain white paper in front of her. At the top of it she wrote the name, “Hughes Barron.” Under that she wrote “Poison?”

Like the beginnings of a family tree, she jotted two names underneath. “Timothy Neville” and “Lleveret Dante.” Because she didn’t have another suspect, she put a third mark, a question mark, alongside the two names. Somehow it felt right.

She ruminated and read through the papers Jory Davis had brought her until Drayton poked his head in some forty minutes later.

“Getting a lot done?”

“Yes,” she lied. Then thought better of it. “No. Sit. Please.” She indicated the tufted chair across from her desk.

Drayton sat down, crossed his legs, and gazed at her expectantly.

She fixed him with an intense stare. “How well do you know Timothy Neville?”

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.