Death By Darjeeling

“Well,” Drayton had said after hearing her out, “it’s interesting speculation, but it’d be another thing to prove. I certainly don’t discount the fact that Timothy Neville has an abominable temper and is capable of causing harm. Most people have a dark side. And I certainly think you should find out more about this man, Lleveret Dante. Tell you what, why don’t you come along with me tomorrow night? Timothy Neville is having a small concert at his home. One of the string quartets he plays in for fun. There will be people from the Heritage Society as well as people from the neighborhood that you undoubtedly know. You can listen to some good music, then have a jolly snoop in his medicine cabinet, if you like.”

If Drayton had been pulling her leg, his serious demeanor hadn’t betrayed the fact. So she’d agreed. She had to harness her enthusiasm, in fact, because tomorrow night would be, just as Drayton had said, the perfect opportunity to snoop. And she had a sneaking suspicion Timothy Neville wasn’t the righteous pillar of the community that most people thought he was.

“Mr. Dauphine can see you now, Miss Browning.”

Theodosia stood and smiled at Miss Dimple. The woman was aptly named, she thought. Even looked like a dimple. Round, sweet, slightly pink.

“Always nice to see a neighbor, Miss Browning.” Mr. Dauphine struggled to his feet and shook her hand weakly.

“Nice to see you again,” said Theodosia. She noted that Mr. Dauphine’s office was just as antiquated as the reception area, right down to a rotary phone and an archaic dictation machine, what they used to call a steno.

“Of course,” said Mr. Dauphine, “I don’t come in every day like I used to. Been taking it a little slower.” What should have been easy laughter segued into a hacking cough.

“Are you all right, Mr. Dauphine?” said Theodosia. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Mr. Dauphine waved her off with one hand. “Fine, fine,” he choked. Pulling a plastic inhaler from his jacket pocket, he shook it rapidly, depressed the button, and inhaled as best he could.

“Emphysema,” Mr. Dauphine explained, tapping his chest. “Used to smoke.” He helped himself to another puff from his inhaler. “You ever smoke?”

“No,” she replied.

“Good girl. I’d advise you never to start.” He looked at her and smiled. Despite his obvious frailties, Mr. Dauphine’s eyes shone brightly, and his mind seemed quick. “Now,” he said, “have you come to make an offer on my property as well?”

Theodosia tried not to betray her surprise. She’d come looking for information about Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante, and Mr. Dauphine had just nicely opened up that conversational front.

“Not really,” she told him lightly. “But I take it you’ve been under siege of late?”

Mr. Dauphine laughed. “I was, but not anymore. Fellow who wanted to buy this place died.”

“Hughes Barron,” she said. How interesting, she thought, that everyone she talked with lately couldn’t wait to tell her that Hughes Barron had died.

“That’s the one.” Mr. Dauphine leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his thin chest. “He make an offer on your place, too?”

“Not exactly,” said Theodosia slowly. “But I did want to get in touch with his lawyer.”

“Sam Sestero,” said Mr. Dauphine.

“Sam Sestero,” Theodosia repeated, committing the name to memory. “Do you, by any chance, have Mr. Sestero’s phone number?”

“Miss Dimple keeps all that straight for me. I’m sure she can give it to you.” His hand reached out and depressed the button on an old-fashioned intercom system. “Oh, Miss Dimple, see if you can find Mr. Sestero’s number for Miss Browning, will you?” He turned back to Theodosia. “As I recall, Mr. Sestero’s office isn’t far from here.”

Theodosia found that it wasn’t far at all. In fact, Samuel and his brother, Edward Sestero, the two managing partners of Sestero & Sestero Professional Association, turned out to have their offices just down from the stately Romanesque buildings at the intersection of Meeting and Broad Streets, known affectionately to Charlestonians as the Four Corners of Law.

Chapter 22

“You idiot! You must have been out of your mind!” Brimming with anger, the man’s voice reverberated loudly down the cavernous hallway, bouncing off marble floors with thunderous consequences.

“What was I supposed to do?” a second voice countered. This voice was also a loud male voice but pitched higher, with a tone more pleading than enraged.

Theodosia stopped in her tracks. She had been wandering down the hallway of the venerable old Endicott Building, looking for the office of Sestero & Sestero. From the angry sounds coming to her from around the corner, it would appear she might have found it.

“I expect my attorney to show a little smarts!” screamed the first voice.

“What was I supposed to do, for crying out loud?” This from the second voice now. “The man’s a detective first grade. Tidwell could haul my ass before a judge and charge me with obstructing an investigation.”

Tidwell? Theodosia put a hand to the corridor wall and edged forward quietly, instantly on the alert.

“What about attorney-client privilege?” the first voice countered stridently.

“Oh, please.”

“You rolled, you miserable little weasel. That’s all there is to it.”

“Calm down, Mr. Dante. Nothing could be further from the truth. I merely answered a few innocuous questions. You’re acting as if it was a subpoena from a Federal Court judge. Take it easy, awright?”

Well, well, thought Theodosia. So the infamous Mr. Lleveret Dante was paying his lawyer a little visit. And wasn’t he awfully hot under the collar. Screaming and badgering and carrying on, giving the other man, obviously Sam Sestero, an earful.

On the heels of that thought came the notion that Sam Sestero might not be the sharpest tack around if he thought for a minute that Burt Tidwell had been asking what he termed “innocuous questions.”

“I’m in enough hot water as it is!” yelled Lleveret Dante. “All I need is for the AG in Kentucky to make an inquiry down here!”

The AG? Surely, thought Theodosia, Lleveret Dante had to mean the attorney general. That would wash with the information Jory Davis had given her about Lleveret Dante being under indictment in Kentucky for a mortgage flipping scheme.

“Did he ask about the partnership agreement?” screamed Lleveret Dante.

There was a mumbled answer.

“You pathetic wimp, I bet you told him about the business-preservation clause.” “Mr. Dante, I revealed nothing.” “If that idiot Tidwell knows I automatically received

Barron’s half of the business upon his death, he’ll put me under a microscope! You ought to be disbarred, you worthless sack of shit!”

Isn’t it amazing what one overhears in hallways, Theodosia mused. So Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante did have a buy-sell agreement, with what Dante termed a “business-preservation clause.” That meant, in this case, that should one of them die, the other automatically received the dead partner’s share of the business!

But wasn’t that more of a death clause? And couldn’t it also be a motive for murder?

A door slammed shut, and Theodosia was suddenly aware of footsteps coming toward her.

My God! It had to be Lleveret Dante who was barreling down the hallway at full steam. She could hear footsteps ratcheting loudly, the man huffing and puffing like an overworked steam engine. In a matter of seconds, he would be rounding the corner, and she would be face-to-face with him.

Frantically casting about, Theodosia spied an old-fashioned wooden telephone booth next to a pedestal water