Death By Darjeeling

fountain. She dove into the phone booth, grabbed the receiver off the hook, and held it to her face.

“Oh, did she really?” said Theodosia loudly, pantomiming a phone call. “Is that a fact. Then what happened?”

Lleveret Dante stormed past her, and Theodosia finally grabbed her first look at Hughes Barron’s infamous business partner.

Lleveret Dante was a short man, maybe five foot five at best, with a shock of white hair that went off in all directions, as if he might have a giant cowlick on top of his head. Dante’s face was the color of a ripe plum against the crisp white of his three-piece suit.

Dante paced back and forth impatiently as he waited for the elevator. Every time he spun on his heel, his white suit coat flared out slightly. Made him look like a top spinning on its axis.

What a bizarre vision, Theodosia thought to herself as she rose on tiptoes and peered around the corner of the telephone booth to catch a final glimpse of the man. And yes, her hunch was correct. The man was wearing white socks and shoes as well. Well, that iced the cake. Aside from his hideous temper, Lleveret Dante was obviously a strange duck, one that would bear watching.

Chapter 23

In most cities and states, the position once known as the coroner has evolved into that of medical examiner. Coroner, at one time, meant any person in authority—a sheriff, judge, or deputy—who was empowered to make the final pronouncement that a person was deceased. But as forensic investigations became more sophisticated over the years, most jurisdictions found a pressing need for a medical examiner, one person in charge who was a doctor as well as a trained pathologist.

In Charleston, the coroner was still an elected four-year position and had been since 1868. Before that, justices of the county court selected coroners. Previous to that, they were appointed by the king of England.

Theodosia stood in the ornate marble entrance of the County Services Building. She had wandered over when she realized it was just a block down from the Endicott Building, where she’d just experienced her first sighting of Mr. Lleveret Dante.

I can’t do this, she told herself. There’s no way I can waltz downstairs to the coroner’s office and be convincing. Yes, you can, goaded a determined little voice inside her head. It was the voice that often pushed her, told her to take chances. You’re here. What have you got to lose?

Well, she thought, if Burt Tidwell had been snooping around Sam Sestero’s office, looking for information about Hughes Barron and Lleveret Dante, then I might not be barking up the wrong tree after all.

Theodosia gripped the metal railing and, like Alice tumbling into the rabbit hole, descended the circular staircase that led to the basement.

“County Morgue, help ya?” a receptionist with a heroic beehive hairdo was screeching loudly into her headset. She held court behind a black laminate counter where she alternately handled incoming calls, signed for deliveries, and paged through The National Enquirer. A second ringing phone line was currently vying for her attention.

“I’m here to check on a body,” Theodosia told the receptionist. She clung to the counter for support. Even though she felt giddy and scared, she tried to sound casual, as though she’d done this a hundred times before.

The woman smiled briefly and held up an index finger. A third line had begun to ring.

Theodosia noted that the receptionist’s two-inch-long acrylic nails were painted blood red. Very Vampyra.

“Delivery,” announced a man in a blue uniform who suddenly appeared at Theodosia’s elbow. He thumped a large cardboard box onto the counter. The office was suddenly as busy as Grand Central Station.

“Which one, honey?” the receptionist asked Theodosia as she signed for the newly arrived packaged and consulted her clipboard. “No!” the receptionist suddenly bellowed into her headset before Theodosia could reply. “We do not issue death certificates! Cremation permits, yes. Death certificates, no. That would be Records and Registration.” She raised her penciled eyebrows skyward in frustration and rolled her eyes.

“Hughes Barron,” Theodosia said finally.

But the receptionist was still wrangling with the caller. “Did this person die outside of a hospital?” the receptionist asked. “They did? Sir, you should have given me that information in the first place. That means you need a burial transit permit.” She covered the mouthpiece with a chubby hand and addressed Theodosia.

“Sorry, honey. Check down the hall. Second door on the left, ask for Jeeter Clark.”

The antiseptic green hallway was a traffic jam of occupied gurneys, shiny, silver conveyances all holding body bags. Full body bags, Theodosia noted. The noxious smell of formalin and formaldehyde assaulted her as she squeamishly edged past.

“Jeeter?”

Jeeter Clark jumped to his feet, startled. He’d been drinking a can of orange soda pop and munching a ham sandwich. When he saw it wasn’t his boss at the door or a disgruntled bookie come to call, he seemed to relax.

“Jeez, lady, you scared me.” Jeeter put the hand that held his half-eaten ham sandwich to his chest. He was wearing green scrubs, the kind doctors wear in an operating room.

“Didn’t mean to,” said Theodosia. “The receptionist said I’d find you in here.”

“Trudy sent you?” he asked.

“Sure did,” said Theodosia, falling into his folksy pattern of speech.

“Okay, sure,” Jeeter replied, satisfied that she had business there. “You must be from Edenvale.”

Theodosia suddenly realized that, dressed as she was in black jacket and slacks, this man had just mistaken her for one of the many funeral directors who routinely called on the County Morgue to pick up bodies!

Oh, be honest, now. Wasn’t this what you had in mind all along?

“No, Indigo,” said Theodosia, almost choking on her words. Lord love a duck, she thought. Now I’ve really done it.

“Not familiar with that one,” Jeeter muttered. “And you’re here to fetch...?”

“Barron. Hughes Barron,” said Theodosia, again trying to sound like a disinterested funeral professional who did this routinely. Whatever that was supposed to sound like.

Jeeter snatched up a clipboard and consulted it. And, wonder of wonders, Hughes Barron’s name was listed.

“Yeah, I got that name,” said Jeeter. “ I suppose you want to know when the body’s going to be released.”

The ridiculousness of the situation made her bold. “That’s right.”

Jeeter squinted at his clipboard. “You guys are always trying to bust my hump, aren’t you? Well, I guess you gotta make a buck, too.” He scanned what must have been a fairly long list. “Let’s see, lab work’s done. They’ve taken tissue samples. Lung, stomach, liver, brain...”

“Does it say what killed him?” asked Theodosia.

“That’d be on the pathologist’s report.” Jeeter slid open a drawer, ran his finger down a row of file folders, and pulled one out. He flipped it open and thumbed through a dozen or so sheets. “Bradycardia,” he announced.

“Bradycardia,” repeated Theodosia.

But Jeeter wasn’t finished. “Heart and respiratory failure induced by a toxic substance.” Jeeter looked up. “Some kind of poison. Guess they haven’t got a complete report from the lab yet.” He smiled at Theodosia affably. “They’re always backed up. But don’t worry, that’s no problem. You can take him anyway. Funeral’s in two days, huh?”

Was it?