Death By Darjeeling

sailed right on by the Indigo Tea Shop and drove the few blocks down to The Battery.

Pulling into one of the parking lots, Theodosia noted that the wind was still driving hard. Had to be at least twenty knots. Flags were flapping and snapping, only a handful of people strolled the shoreline or walked the gardens, and then with some difficulty.

Out in the bay, there was a nasty chop on the water. Overhead, a few high, stringy gray clouds scudded along. Squinting and shielding her eyes from the hazy bright sun, Theodosia could see a few commercial boats on the bay, probably shrimpers. But only one sailboat. Had to be at least a forty-footer, and it was heeled over nicely, coming in fast, racing down the slot between Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. It would be heaven to be out sailing today, gulls wheeling overhead, mast creaking and straining, focusing your efforts only on pounding ocean.

“If there’s anything you’d like from the condo, a keepsake, a memento.”

Enough, already, thought Theodosia as the thought jerked her back to the here and now. Lucille Dunn had obviously mistaken her for a close female friend of Hughes Barron. Of that she had no doubt. Okay, maybe that wasn’t all bad. It gave her a kind of tacit permission to go to Hughes Barron’s condo.

Well, permission might be an awfully strong word. At the very least, Lucille Dunn’s words had bolstered her resolve to investigate further.

But what condo had Lucille Dunn been referring to? Had Hughes Barron actually lived at that ghastly Edgewater Estates? Or did he have a place somewhere else? She vaguely recalled Drayton saying something once about the Isle of Palms.

Theodosia sat in the patchy sun, watching waves slap the rocky shoreline and tapping her fingers idly on the dashboard. Only one way to find out.

She dug in the Jeep’s console for her cell phone, punched it on, and dialed information.

She told the operator, “I need the number for a Hughes Barron. That’s B-A-R-R-O-N.” She waited impatiently as the operator consulted her computer listings, praying that the number hadn’t been disconnected yet and there’d be no information available. But, lo and behold, there was a listing, the only listing, for a Hughes Barron. The address was 617 Prometheus on the Isle of Palms. It definitely had to be him.

Grace Memorial Bridge is an amalgam of metal latticework that rises up steeply from the swamps and lowlands to span the Cooper River. The bridge affords a spectacular view of the surrounding environs and offers a bit of a thrill ride, so sharply does it rise and then descend.

Theodosia whipped across Grace Memorial in her Jeep, reveling in the view, grateful that the one- and sometimes two-hour backup that often occurred during rush hour was still hours away.

Twenty minutes later, she was on the Isle of Palms. This bedroom community of 5,000 often swelled to triple the population in the summer months when all hotels, motels, resorts, and beach houses were occupied by seasonal renters, eager to dip their toes in the pristine waters and enjoy the Isles of Palms’ seven unbroken miles of sandy beach.

Hurricane Hugo had hit hard here back in 1989, but you’d hardly know it now. Little wooden beach homes had been replaced by larger, sturdier homes built on stilts. Shiny new resorts and luxury hotels had sprung up where old motels and tourist cabins had been washed away.

Theodosia had little trouble locating Hughes Barron’s condo. It was just off the main road, a few hundred yards down from a cozy-looking Victorian hotel of gray clapboard called the Rosedawn Inn.

Located directly on the beach, Hughes Barron’s condo was part of a row of approximately twenty-four contemporary-looking condos. Judging from their low-slung, beach-hugging design, they were far more townhouse than condo.

After consulting the mailboxes and finding Hughes Barron’s unit number, Theodosia headed for Barron’s condo via a wooden boardwalk that zigzagged through waving clusters of dune grass. Pretty, she thought, and certainly a lot more upscale than his development, Edgewater Estates.

Had Hughes Barron developed these condos, too? she wondered. Or had he purchased a unit here because he saw it as a good investment? Just maybe, Theodosia thought, Hughes Barron was smarter than anyone had given him credit for. The over-the-top garishness of Edgewater Estates and its apparent success meant he had thoroughly understood the taste of his audience.

The front door of unit eight stood open on its hinges. Slightly unnerved, Theodosia rapped loudly on the doorjamb. “Hello,” she called. “Anyone home?” A juggernaut of a woman wearing yellow rubber gloves appeared at the door. Had to be the cleaning lady, Theodosia immediately guessed.

“You with the police?” the woman asked.

Theodosia noted that the cleaning lady’s tone was as dull as her gray hair and as nondescript as her enormous smock. “I’ve been working with them,” replied Theodosia, crossing her fingers behind her back at the little white lie.

“Private investigator?”

“You could say that,” said Theodosia.

“Um hm.” The cleaning lady bobbed her head tiredly. “I’m Mrs. Finster. I come in twice a week to clean. Course, I don’t know what’s going to happen now that Mr. Barron is gone.” She retreated into the condo, and picked up a crystal vase filled with dead, brackish-looking flowers. “They already took some things, left me with a nice mess,” she said unhappily.

By “they,” Theodosia presumed Mrs. Finster meant the police.

Theodosia followed Mrs. Finster into the condo. It was a spacious, contemporary place. Low cocoa-colored leather couch, nice wood coffee table, wall filled with high-tech stereo gear, potted plants, lots of windows. She watched as Mrs. Finster halfheartedly moved things about in the kitchen.

“You just come from the funeral?” asked Mrs. Finster. She flipped the top on a bottle of Lysol and gave the counter a good squirt.

“Yes.”

“Nice?”

“It was very dignified.”

“Good.” Mrs. Finster set the Lysol down, pulled off her rubber gloves, and brushed quickly at her eyes. “The man deserved as much. Me, I don’t attend any kind of church service anymore. My first husband was an atheist.”

Theodosia thought there might be more of an explanation for that somewhat strange statement, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming.

“Had you worked for Mr. Barron a long time?” she asked.

“A year, give or take,” replied Mrs. Finster. “Him and the Missus.”

Theodosia could barely contain her excitement. “His wife lived here, too?”

Mrs. Finster looked at her sharply.

“I only say that,” said Theodosia, “because I had heard his wife was overseas.”

Mrs. Finster considered her statement and shrugged. “Well, someone lived here with him. At least her things were always around. I never met the lady personally. People are funny that way. Most of ’em get out of the house when it comes time for someone to clean. Probably embarrassing for them. Having somebody else scrub their toilets or wipe toothpaste drips and drops out of the sink.”

“Could be,” agreed Theodosia.

“Anyhoo,” continued Mrs. Finster, “now her stuff’s gone. Moved out, I guess.”

“Did you tell the police that?” asked Theodosia.

“That the lady moved out?”

“Yes,” said Theodosia.

“Why?” Mrs. Finster planted her hands on her formidable hips. “They didn’t ask.”

The revelation of a lady friend was news to Theodosia. She pondered the ramifications of her new discovery on her drive back to Charleston.

Obviously, the woman who’d been living at the Isle of Palms condo wasn’t the wife, Angelique, who was still languishing in Provence somewhere. Yet Hughes Barron had obviously been playing house with someone. Someone who might be able to shed considerable light on his death. Or maybe even know of a motive for his murder.

How involved had this mystery woman been in Barron’s business dealings? Theodosia wondered. And where was she now? Had she been in attendance at the funeral today? Or was she hiding out for fear she might be the next victim?