Outrage makes many women belligerent and strident. With Theodosia it only served to enhance her firm, quiet manner. She strode down Church Street past Noble Dragon Books, Bouquet Garni Giftware, and the Cotton Duck clothing shop. Her thoughts were a jumble, but her resolve was clear. Firing Bethany was unconscionable. The girl was clearly not involved in anything that had to do with Hughes Barron. This had been an incredible overreaction by the Heritage Society and especially on the part of Timothy Neville. She didn’t know a whit about employment law, but she did know about being an employer. Since Bethany’s internship had been a paid internship, that meant she was a regular employee. So just maybe the firing could be considered illegal. Particularly since it was highly doubtful the Heritage Society could prove malicious intent or lack of ability on Bethany’s part.
Her zeal carried Theodosia past the Avis Melbourne Home before she even realized it. When she suddenly became aware of just where she was, Theodosia slowed her pace, then stopped. Standing just outside a heroic hedge of magnolias, she gazed up at the lovely old home. It looked even more magnificent by day. Stately Ionic columns presented an elegant facade on this predominantly Georgian-style house with its keen attention to symmetry and grace.
But this was where the murder took place, Theodosia reminded herself. This was where Hughes Barron was— dare she say it?—poisoned.
Theodosia turned back and walked slowly up the broad front walk. The lanterns and glowing jack-o’-lanterns of the other night were gone. Now the house gleamed white in the sunlight.
It really was a wedding cake of a house, Theodosia thought to herself. The columns, second-floor balustrade, and roof ornaments looked just like daubs of white frosting.
She paused at the front steps, turned onto the winding flagstone path that led through a wrought-iron gate, and walked around the side of the house. Within moments, shade engulfed her. Ever since she’d taken a botany class, when she had first purchased the tea shop, Theodosia had made careful observation of plants. Now she noted that tall mimosa trees sheltered the house from the hot Charleston sun, and dense stands of loquat and oleander lined the pathway.
As her footsteps echoed hollowly, she wondered if anyone was home. Probably not. The Odettes, the couple who called this lovely mansion home, owned a travel agency. They were probably at their office or off somewhere leading a trip. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even seen the Odettes the night of the Lamplighter Tour. Heritage Society volunteers had supervised the event, helping her get set up in the butler’s pantry, and they had guided tour guests through the various downstairs rooms and parlors.
As she rounded the back corner of the house and came into full view of the garden, Theodosia was struck by how deserted it now looked. Two days ago it had been a lush and lavish outdoor space, darkly elegant with sweet-scented vines and twinkling lanterns, filled with the chatter and laughter of eager Lamplighter Tour guests. Then, of course, had come the gruff and urgent voices of the various police and rescue squads echoing off flagstones and brick walls. But now the atmosphere in the garden was so very still. The tables and chairs were still there, the fountain splattered away, but the mood was somber. Like a cemetery, she thought with a shiver.
Stop it, she chided herself, don’t let your imagination run wild.
Theodosia walked to the fountain, leaned down, and trailed a hand in the cool water. Thick-leafed water plants bobbed on the surface, and below, copper pennies gleamed. Someone threw coins in here, she mused. Children, perhaps. Making a wish. Or Lamplighter Tour guests. She straightened up, looked around. It really was a beautiful garden with its abundant greenery and wrought-iron touches. Funny how it had seemed so sinister a moment ago.
Theodosia walked to the far table—the table where Hughes Barron had been found slumped over his teacup. She sat down in his chair, looked around.
The table rested snug against an enormous hedge that ran around the outside perimeter of the garden. Could someone have slipped through that hedge? Theodosia reached a hand out to touch the leaves. They were stiff, dark green, packed together densely. But down near the roots there was certainly a crawl space.
She tilted her head back and gazed at the live oak tree overhead. It was an enormous old tree that spread halfway across the garden. Lace curtains of Spanish moss hung from its upper branches. Could someone have sat quietly in the crook of that venerable tree and dropped something in Hughes Barron’s tea? Yes, she thought, it was possible. Anything was possible.