Death By Darjeeling

When one of Libby’s neighbors had once suggested to her that the buildings were an eyesore and should be torn down, Libby had steadfastly demurred and explained her strong feelings about preserving them just as they were.

“No,” she’d said, “let people see how it really was, no tearing it down, no disguising the issue. Slavery was a disgrace and the worst kind of black mark against the South.”

And so Aunt Libby’s dilapidated slave quarters remained. Every so often, a group of schoolchildren or a history professor, filmmaker, or TV station would call and ask permission for a visit or to shoot film footage. Libby always said yes. She knew it was an abomination, but she also knew it was an irrefutable part of Southern history.

“Theodosia.” Libby Revelle stopped in her tracks and turned to face her niece. Her wise, sharp eyes stared intently into the younger woman’s face. “You will be very careful, won’t you?”

Chapter 37

 “You’ll never guess what happened!” exclaimed Haley. Theodosia held her breath. She had just driven back from Aunt Libby’s and quietly let herself in through the back door of the Indigo Tea Shop. Now, judging by the curious, startled look on Haley’s face, it would appear that an event of major proportion had just taken place.

“Mr. Dauphine died!” Haley announced in hushed tones.

“Oh, no, how awful!” cried Theodosia, sinking into a chair. “The poor man.” She let the news wash over her. Of course, she had just been to see Mr. Dauphine three days ago, checking with him about offers he might have received on the Peregrine Building. They’d had a pleasant enough discussion and Mr. Dauphine had seemed in good spirits. He may have been a little tired, and his coughing hadn’t been good, but he certainly hadn’t looked like a man who was about to die.

“They just took his body away,” said Haley. “Did you see the ambulance?”

“No, I parked in back,” said Theodosia.

“That’s where the ambulance was,” said Haley. “Miss Dimple had them pull around to the back. She didn’t want to upset the tourists. Wasn’t that sweet?”

“How did he...?” began Theodosia.

Haley shook her head sadly. “Miss Dimple found him on the second-floor landing. She went looking for him when he didn’t show up for work. Apparently, he was always punctual, always arrived by nine A.M. Anyway, by the time she got to him, he wasn’t breathing. She phoned for an ambulance, but it was too late. The paramedics thought Mr. Dauphine might have had a heart attack.”

Perhaps the four flights of stairs had finally done him in, thought Theodosia. How awful. And poor Miss Dimple; how awful to find her beloved employer of almost forty years crumpled in a sad heap, no longer able to breathe. Now there would be yet another funeral in the historic district.

The sudden memory of Hughes Barron’s recent funeral service caused Theodosia to chase after Haley, who, shaking her head at the sad incident, had wandered out front to exchange additional bits of information with Drayton. Right after the ambulance had arrived, Drayton had gone up and down Church Street, chatting with the other shopkeepers, clucking over the sad news.

“Haley,” said Theodosia, catching up to her, “they’re sure it was a heart attack?”

There was an immediate flicker of understanding in Haley’s eyes. “Well, everyone’s saying it was a heart attack. But...”

“But what if it was something else that caused a heart attack?” asked Theodosia.

“My God,” whispered Haley as she put a hand to her mouth, “you don’t think someone bumped off Mr. Dauphine, do you?”

Theodosia reached for the phone. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”

“Who are you calling? The hospital?”

“No,” replied Theodosia. “Burt Tidwell.”

Chapter 38

Burt Tidwell didn’t show up at the Indigo Tea Shop until midafternoon. Even then, he didn’t make his presence known immediately.

He sauntered in, sampled a cup of Ceylon white tea, and scarfed a cranberry scone, all the while keeping Bethany in a state of near panic as she waited on him. Finally, Burt Tidwell told Bethany that she could kindly inform Theodosia of his arrival. Told her to tell Miss Browning that, per her invitation to drop by the tea shop, he was, voilà, now at her disposal.

“Mr. Tidwell, lovely to see you again,” said Theodosia. She arrived at his small table by the window bearing a plate of freshly baked lemon and sour cream muffins drizzled with powdered sugar frosting. Haley had just pulled them from the oven, and the aroma was enough to tempt the devil. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, Theodosia had reasoned, but you could just as often tap his inner thoughts via his stomach, too. And Burt Tidwell had a very ample stomach.

“And pray tell what are these?” Tidwell asked as Theodosia set the plate of muffins on the table between them. His nose quivered like a bunny rabbit, and his lips puckered in delight. “I declare, you folks certainly offer the most delightful repertoire of baked goods.”

“Just our lemon and sour cream muffins,” said Theodosia, waving her hand as if the pastries were nothing at all. In fact, she had instructed Haley to knock herself out.

“May I?” asked Burt Tidwell. He was just this side of salivating.

“Of course,” said Theodosia in her warmest, coziest tone as she inched the plate and accompanying butter dish closer to him. Aunt Libby would have laughingly told her it was like dangling a minnow for spottail bass. “I’m glad you could drop by,” she said. “I wanted to find out how the investigation was going and ask you a couple of peripheral questions.”

“Peripheral questions,” Tidwell repeated. “You have a gift for phrasing, don’t you, Miss Browning? You’re able to make unimportant data seem important and critical issues appear insignificant. A fine tactic often used by the police.”

“Yes,” she continued, trying to ignore his jab but being reminded, once again, of just how maddening the man could be.

“Such goings-on you’ve had in your neighborhood,” chided Tidwell. His pink tongue flicked out to catch a bit of frosting that clung to his upper lip.

“Enjoying that, are you?” Theodosia asked archly.

“Delicious,” replied Tidwell. “As I was saying, your poor neighborhood has endured more than its share of tragedy. First, Mr. Hughes Barron so inelegantly drops dead at your little tea party. Now Mr. Dauphine, your next- door neighbor in the Peregrine Building, has succumbed. Could you, perchance, be the common denominator?”

There’s my opener, thought Theodosia. As infuriating and off base as Tidwell’s implication is, there is my opener.

“But no one from the Indigo Tea Shop was near Mr. Dauphine when he died,” said Theodosia. “And I was under the impression the poor man suffered a heart attack.”

“But you were with Mr. Dauphine three days ago,” said Tidwell. “His very capable associate, Miss Dimple, keeps a detailed log of all visitors and all incoming phone calls. And”—Tidwell paused—“she has shared that with me.”

Good, thought Theodosia, now if you’ll just share a little bit more of that information with me.

“Yes, I did go to Mr. Dauphine’s office,” said Theodosia, struggling to control her temper. “We are neighbors, and I was talking to him about the offer Hughes Barron put forth on his