Death By Darjeeling

Fifteen minutes of work produced a modicum of progress.

“I think we can safely rule out about thirty of these,” reasoned Haley. She indicated a stack of receipts. “These customers are all from out of state and fairly far-flung. California, Texas, Nevada, New York...”

“Agreed,” said Theodosia. “So now we’re down to local purchases. Who have we got?”

Haley passed the remaining handful of receipts to Theodosia. “Those two sisters, Elmira and Elise, who live over the Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop. Reverend Jonathan at Saint Philip’s. A couple of the B and Bs.” Theodosia studied the culled receipts. “Mostly friends and neighbors,” she said. “Not exactly hardcore suspects.”

“Lydia at the Chowder Hound Restaurant down the street bought three of them,” said Haley. “Do you think she had it in for Hughes Barron?”

“I doubt she even knew him,” murmured Theodosia. “Okay, Haley, thanks. Good job.”

“Sorry we couldn’t come up with something more definitive.” Haley hesitated in the doorway, feeling somehow that she’d let Theodosia down.

“That’s all right,” said Theodosia. “Thanks again.”

Theodosia reached for the clip that contained her thick hair and yanked it out. As her hair tumbled about her shoulders, she thought of all the things she had left undone at the shop, how she’d even missed this week’s therapy dog session with Earl Grey.

Her heart caught in her chest. Earl Grey. The dog she’d found cowering in the alley out back, the dog that was her dear companion. Someone, quite possibly the person who had murdered Hughes Barron, had threatened to poison Earl Grey if she didn’t back off.

Okay, Theodosia thought to herself. Following up on these sales receipts was going to be her last effort. And if it didn’t pan out, she would back off.

Sitting in her chair, trying to focus, Theodosia leafed through the stack of twenty or so receipts Haley had culled out.

Lydia at the Chowder Hound. Could she have had any sort of connection to Hughes Barron? Or, for that matter, any of the possible suspects? Her gut feeling told her probably not.

And Samantha Rabathan had bought a tea infuser a few months ago. Theodosia pondered this, thought about probable connections. What if, just what if Samantha purchased the tea infuser for the Heritage Society?

Samantha was kind of a goody-goody that way. When she wasn’t out winning a blue ribbon for her spectacular La Reine Victoria roses or flitting about being a social butterfly, she spent a good portion of her time as a volunteer with the Heritage Society. She worked in the small library and helped the development director entice new donors.

So it was possible that Timothy Neville might be behind this after all.

Timothy Neville could have done away with Hughes Barron and somehow planted the tea infuser with Bethany’s fingerprints as false evidence. He knew her prints would have thrown the police off the track. That is, if the police ever got onto that track in the first place.

Well, there was only one way to find out. She would go and ask Samantha if she’d bought a tea infuser for the Heritage Society. Samantha might think it a strange question, but she’d probably be too polite to say so.

Chapter 48

Paved in antique brick and bluestone, accented by a vine-covered arbor, Samantha Rabathan’s garden was a peaceful, perfect sanctuary. Flower beds arranged in concentric circles around a small pool had lost much of their bloom for the season but, because of the great variety of carefully selected greenery, still conveyed a verdant, pleasing palette.

“Yoohoo, over here, dear,” called Samantha.

She had seen Theodosia approach out of the corner of her eye, had heard her footfalls. Still on her hands and knees, Samantha looked up, a smile on her face and pruning shears in her hand.

“Artful pruning in autumn makes for healthy flowers in spring,” said Samantha as though she were lecturing a garden club. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, even though the afternoon sun kept disappearing, without a moment’s notice, behind large, puffy clouds.

Theodosia gazed about. The garden was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. At the same time, Samantha’s garden always seemed a trifle contained. So many of Charleston’s backyard gardens felt enchanting and mysterious because of their slightly wild, untamed look. Vines tumbling down crumbled brick walls, tree branches twining overhead, layers of lush foliage with statuary, rockery, and wrought iron peeking through. These were the places Theodosia thought of as secret gardens. And there were many in the old city.

“How is everyone at the tea shop?” Samantha inquired brightly.

“Good,” said Theodosia. “Busy. We’re right in the middle of inventory, so everything’s a muddle.” She thought this little story might help deflect any flak concerning her tea infuser inquiry.

“Sounds very tedious,” said Samantha as she picked up a trowel, sank it deep into the rich turf, and ousted an errant weed.

“Only way we can get a handle on reorders,” said Theodosia as Samantha tossed the weed into a carefully composed pile of wilted blooms and stems.

“Samantha,” continued Theodosia, “did you purchase a tea infuser for the Heritage Society?”

Samantha finished tamping the divot she’d created, stood up, and gave a finishing stomp with her heel.

“Why, I think perhaps I might have. Is there a problem, Theodosia? A product recall?” Now her voice was tinged with amusement. “Tell you what. Come inside, and we’ll have ourselves a nice cup of tea and a good, friendly chat.”

Without waiting for an answer, Samantha stuck her steel pruning shears and trowel into the webbed pockets of the canvas tool belt she wore cinched around her waist, linked her arm through Theodosia’s, and pulled her along toward the back door of her house.

“Look, over there,” Samantha said, pointing, “where I planted my new La Belle Sultane roses last year. What do you bet that in five months I’ll have blooms the size of your fist!”

Samantha fussed about in her kitchen, clattering dishes, while Theodosia seated herself in the small dining room. Samantha had an enviable collection of Waterford crystal, and today it was catching the light that streamed through the octagonal windows above the built-in cabinets in a most remarkable way.

“Here we are.” Samantha bustled in with a silver tea service. “Perhaps not as perfect as you serve at the Indigo Tea Shop, but hopefully just as elegant.”

Theodosia knew Samantha was making reference to her silver tea set. Not just silver-plated, the teapot and accompanying pieces were pure English sterling, antiques that had been in Samantha’s family for over a century.

“Everything is lovely,” murmured Theodosia as Samantha stood at the table, held a bone china cup under the silver spout, and poured deftly.

Theodosia accepted the steaming cup of tea, inhaling the delicate aroma. Ceylon silver tips? Kenilworth Garden? She couldn’t quite place it.

As Theodosia lifted her cup to take a sip, her eyes fell upon the livid purple flowers banked so artfully on the cabinet opposite her. Funny how she hadn’t noticed them before. But then the sun had been streaming in and highlighting the crystal so vividly.

The purple blooms were like curled velvet and bore a strange resemblance to the cowled hood of a monk’s robe, she noted. Pretty. But also somewhat unusual.

Images suddenly drifted into Theodosia’s head. Of flowers she’d seen elsewhere. Purple flowers that had graced the wrought-iron tables the evening of the Lamplighter Tour. Mrs. Finster at Hughes Barron’s condominium holding a vase of dead flowers. Deep purple, almost black. Papery and shriveled.

Theodosia put her teacup down without taking a sip. The fine bone china emitted a tiny clink as cup met saucer. Suddenly she understood what kind of poison had been used to kill Hughes Barron and how easily the deed had been accomplished.

As understanding dawned, the chastising voice of Samantha Rabathan echoed dreamlike in Theodosia’s ears.