by Laura Childs
“So you suspect young Ford Cantrell?” Tidwell’s bright eyes were riveted on her.
“If I had a suspect in mind,” Theodosia said slowly, “that would imply I believed a criminal act had been committed. And I have no proof of that.”
“Aha,” said Tidwell, “so this conversation is simply neighborly gossip.”
Theodosia stared at him unhappily.
Seeing her displeasure, Tidwell’s eyes lost their merriment, and he suddenly turned serious. “Yes, I have heard rumblings about this so-called Dixon-Cantrell feud. Although you seem to have gained the upper hand as far as specific details.”
Though large in girth, Tidwell’s words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be. “Do you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.
He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”
But I know an expert, thought Theodosia. And I just might take a chance on talking to him.
Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”
And he was out the door, just like that.
Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he’s back?”
“He’s back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”
“Oh,” was all Theodosia said. Contemplating a visit with Timothy Neville and actually talking to Timothy Neville were two different things.
“Do you think he still hates me for suspecting him of poisoning that real estate developer?” she asked.
“Nonsense,” said Drayton. “Timothy Neville doesn’t hate you; he hates everyone. Timothy has always been an equal-opportunity curmudgeon. Don’t give his ill humor a second thought.”
Chapter 7
Timothy Neville was going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn’t about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.
What did it matter?
He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.
Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B1, B6, C, and E.
True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.
Genetics. Timothy Neville chalked it all up to genetics. His mother had lived to ninety and had taken to her bed only on the day prior to her death. Her ancestors, most of whom dated back to the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the mid-1600s, had been a determined and hardy lot. They had endured the hardships of an ocean voyage, worked tirelessly to help colonize Charles Town, fought off the greedy English crown, then managed to survive the War Between the States. Today, his ancestors were numbered among the founding fathers of Charleston and considered social aristocracy.
Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he studied the landscape painting he held in his hands. It had been painted in the late thirties by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, a watercolorist famed for her moody renditions of low-country rice plantations. The piece had sustained some damage. One corner had been gnawed by insects, and a brown splotch of water damage shot through the sky. The painting hadn’t been preserved in acid-free paper, either, so it was slightly faded. It would take considerable conservation skills to restore the little watercolor, but the piece was well worth it. Huger Smiths were few and far between these days, and most people who held one in their possession preferred to sell it at auction in New York rather than donate it to a museum.
“Mr. Neville? There’s someone to see you?” Claire, one of the secretaries, hovered in the doorway.
Timothy didn’t look up. “Who, please?”
“Theodosia Browning?” Claire has a way of making everything sound like a question. Why is that? he wondered. He’d heard other young women speak in that same maddening way. Were they too insecure to spit out a simple declarative statement?
It didn’t matter. Timothy knew he was merely stalling for time, letting the idea that Theodosia Browning had come to call upon him ruminate in his mind. There was certainly nothing wrong in allowing her a brief cool-your-heels period in the anteroom. After all, she had harbored suspicions about him being involved in the death of that real estate developer last fall and had helped herself to a merry snoop in his home during a music recital. Since that incident, he felt that she had been more cool and aloof with him than he with her. Embarrassment? Remorse over her actions? Had to be.
“Show her in,” Timothy said finally.
Theodosia Browning entered his office in a whisper of silk. He heard the slight rustle of the fabric, could detect a pleasant, slightly floral scent about her. He wondered if it was perfume or tea.
Timothy laid the painting down on the table in front of him and turned to face her. He did not make any indication for her to take a chair.
She smiled at him, looking, he decided, rather pretty in her aqua silk slacks and jacket with that mass of curly auburn hair framing her head like a friendly Medusa.
“Mr. Neville . . .” began Theodosia.
“Call me Timothy,” he said in his clipped, no-nonsense manner. “We are well acquainted with each other, are we not?”
Theodosia flinched slightly, and her cheeks flared pink from embarrassment.
“Timothy, then,” said Theodosia. She was beginning to regret her impulsiveness at coming here. Timothy Neville had clearly not forgotten her actions of a few months ago. She swallowed hard, determined to get through this. “You’re an expert in antique weaponry,” she began. “Guns, pistols, the like. Would you be able to help me understand how a pistol might explode on its own?”
“Snooping again, are we Miss Browning?” Timothy Neville favored her with a remote smile. “One could call it investigating, Mr. Neville,” she replied. To heck with calling him Timothy, Theodosia decided. Addressing him as Mr. Neville was far more preferable. The formality kept him at arm’s length, which was probably where she should keep this strange little man.
“One could,” Timothy replied. “But then one would have to be a duly sworn investigator. I don’t recall that you are.”
Theodosia ignored Timothy’s remark. “My interest is in Oliver Dixon’s death... the terrible accident that befell him. You are—”
“Yes, of course I’m aware of what took place,” murmured Timothy. “Terrible tragedy. He was a fine fellow.” Timothy’s bright eyes bore into her. “And you think because I have a collection of antique weapons that I know about exploding pistols and the like, is that it?”
“I rather thought you might be able to offer some type of explanation,” said Theodosia.
“An explanation for an accident,” said Timothy slowly. “I’m not sure I follow your logic. Or that I see there’s any logic to follow.”
“But if it wasn’t accidental, then . . .” She stopped abruptly. “You’re not going to help me, are you?” said Theodosia. This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. She knew her feelings of regret for snooping on Timothy were a huge obstacle for her to overcome. That and the f
act that Timothy Neville’s brilliance made her feel like a plodding schoolchild.
Timothy Neville shrugged imperceptibly.
“Well, it might interest you,” said Theodosia out of frustration, “that I have discovered a few clues of my own on the Heritage Society’s Web site.”
Timothy just stared at her.
“That’s right,” Theodosia continued. “Thanks to old newspaper clippings that reside on your Web site, I’ve discovered a few things about the Dixon-Cantrell feud.”
“Good for you,” said Timothy. He hadn’t meant to sound flippant and harsh, but it came out that way. He knew he was a crusty old man, prone to caustic remarks and pronouncements, and he regretted his sarcastic tone instantly.
But his words cut Theodosia to the quick and made her spin on her heel.
It’s definitely time to leave, she decided. Timothy Neville is not going to give me one iota of cooperation.
She had already retreated through the doorway when Timothy began to speak. “Miss Browning, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you might possibly have the right church but are looking in the wrong pew.” His words, meant to appease, tumbled out in a rush. He’d also spoken so softly that Theodosia was barely able to register all his words. It had been like listening to a faulty record or tape and catching only fragments.
“What?” Theodosia asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.
But Timothy Neville had turned back to his painting.
Chapter 8
“Did you find out what you wanted?” Drayton asked.
After Theodosia returned to the tea shop, he had waited the better part of an hour before approaching her. She’d retired to her office immediately, and he’d heard her tapping away on her laptop computer. Probably working on some marketing ideas. Between the shop and the Web site and the specialty teas and her new idea for tea bath products, Theodosia was awfully busy. And a little distracted, too. “You were gone long enough,” Drayton added.
Theodosia leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. “The meeting with Timothy didn’t last all that long. But I was so darned upset afterward that I had to take a cool-down stroll behind Saint Philip’s.”
The cemetery behind Saint Philip’s was one of those hidden places in Charleston, a spot not too many tourists found their way to. Filled with fountains and sculpture and fascinating old tombstones, it was a quiet, restful place where one could usually find solace.
“Timothy said something to upset you?” asked Drayton. He knew Timothy was old and crusty, but he also knew the man could be handled. Of course, you had to use kid gloves.
“Timothy Neville hates me,” declared Theodosia. “I’m sure of it. He gave me that hard-eyed, calculating look that just seems to pierce right through you. I know all of you folks on the board at the Heritage Society think he does a masterful job, raising money and helping save old buildings by securing landmark status for them, but I don’t see him as anything but rude and dismissive.” She put her elbows on her desk and dropped her chin in her hands. “That’s it,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. He hates me.”
“Theodosia, I think you’re being paranoid,” said Dray-ton.
“I’m not. He really is an abominable little man.”
“Who can also be quite charming,” argued Drayton. “Besides, if Timothy hated you, he wouldn’t have invited you to his Garden Fest party.”
Charleston’s annual Garden Fest started next week, a weeklong event where more than three dozen backyard gardens in the historic district were open for public viewing. Many would-be garden enthusiasts had been working on their gardens for years, adding fountains and cultivating prize flowers in an attempt to get on the venue. But it was a select number that were chosen every year. And it was a great honor. Of course, Timothy Neville’s courtyard garden at the rear of his enormous Georgian-style mansion on Archdale Street topped the list.
“He didn’t invite me,” said Theodosia, “he invited you.”
“Yes, but your name went back on the RSVP, as you had agreed to accompany me.”
Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to go?”
Drayton looked stern. “Of course you do. I certainly can’t cancel at this late date. Not very gentlemanly. Plus it’s an important event.”
“Okay,” Theodosia sighed. She stuck her legs out straight and kicked off her loafers. They were exquisitely thin leather and perfectly matched her aqua silk outfit. Delaine, her fashion guardian angel, had seen to that. “I just hope Timothy doesn’t toss me out on my ear.”
“Timothy didn’t give you any information at all?” Drayton prodded gently. “That’s not like him. He might toy with you a bit, but Timothy is generally flattered when asked to lend his expertise.”
Picking up a fat black pen, Theodosia began to make doodles on the art pad that sat front and center on her desk.
Drayton decided it might be advantageous to change the subject. “You’ve been working on your bath teas.”
“Yes.”
“Any ideas?”
Theodosia brightened. “Actually, lots. What would you think of an entire line of bath products? Tea bags for the bath, so to speak. So many green teas are excellent for relaxing sore muscles, and herbals like lavender, jasmine, calendula blossoms, and rose petals are soothing to the skin. The bath care market, especially those products with natural ingredients, is taking off like crazy, and I think soothing tea products would fit right in.”
“So do I,” agreed Drayton.
They batted ideas back and forth for the better part of an hour, Theodosia taking notes like mad, finally switching to her laptop computer because, she contended, she could get the ideas down faster.
At five o’clock, Haley came in.
“I’m going to lock up, okay?” said Haley.
“Sure, fine,” waved Theodosia, completely out of her funk now. “Have a terrific evening.”
“You, too,” said Haley. “Bye, Drayton.”
“Good night,” he called.
Theodosia and Drayton sat quietly for a moment, listening as Haley snapped off lights, then exited the front door, locking it behind her. The only light on in the tea shop was the glowing Tiffany lamp that sat on Theodosia’s desk.
“Drayton,” said Theodosia slowly, “Timothy Neville did say something to me.”
He stared at her patiently.
“Timothy mumbled something about ‘right church, wrong pew.’ I think he was referring to the Dixon-Cantrell feud. You’ve heard about that?”
Drayton nodded. “Dribs and drabs over the years.”
“That’s what I was talking to Detective Tidwell about today.”
“That’s kind of what Haley and I figured. You think Ford Cantrell...?”
Theodosia shrugged. “Maybe . . . You saw how irate he was at the picnic.”
“Howling mad,” agreed Drayton.
“Of course, Timothy could have been trying to send me off in the wrong direction, too,” said Theodosia.
“That doesn’t sound like Timothy,” said Drayton. “He usually prides himself on being rather insightful and precise.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“So,” said Drayton, “are you going to keep investigating?”
Theodosia’s blue eyes were as lovely and unpredictable as the nearby Atlantic. “Count on it,” she told him.
Chapter 9
“Isn’t it a cunning little piece? See how the light
catches the gray green glaze? I’m so hoping it was crafted by one of the Edgefield potters.”
Theodosia carefully placed hot blueberry muffins on her serving tray and listened to that voice. She knew that voice. At least she thought she did.
Parting the curtains and stepping out into the tea shop, she was mildly surprised to find Giovanni Loard, cradling a teapot in his hands and talking animatedly with Drayton.
“Yes,” Drayton was saying, “the Edgefield provenance is correct, and I’d definitely date it to the early ninet
eenth century.”
Theodosia noted that Drayton had allowed his glasses to slip halfway down his nose and was speaking in what Haley called his Heritage Society voice. Timothy Neville may have loved to be called upon to lend his expertise, but Drayton wasn’t far behind.
“Good morning,” Theodosia greeted the two men after she’d dropped off pastry baskets at the various tables. Drayton smiled absently while Giovanni Loard jumped up from his chair and eagerly took her hand.
“Miss Browning, so nice to see you again,” Giovanni gushed. “And so lovely to finally visit your tea shop.”
“Delighted to have you,” she replied. “My condolences again on the death of your cousin.”
Giovanni’s smile crumpled. “Thank you. It’s been a difficult time for all of us. Especially Doe. Thank goodness for small kindnesses from people like you.”
“Look at this,” said Drayton, delivering a sturdy little ceramic into Theodosia’s hands.
“Your absolutely brilliant colleague here has been kind enough to take a look at this teapot,” said Giovanni. “He’s quite sure it’s an Edgefield.”
Edgefield pottery came from a rich supply of heavy clay found in Edgefield County, northwest of Charleston and located along the Savannah River. In the 1800s, Edge-field potters had crafted pitchers, storage jars, bowls, and teapots as well as little jars with faces molded into them.
“Lovely,” said Theodosia as she turned the little clay vessel over in her hands. “These things are getting hard to find. Did you just pick this up for sale in your shop?”
“Oh, no,” said Giovanni, “it was one of Doe and Oliver’s wedding gifts. Poor girl can’t bear to even look at any of these objects now. It breaks her heart to have them in the house. She’s kindly asked me to handle the sale of several pieces for her.”
“I’m sure she’s utterly shattered,” said Theodosia, even though she found it strange and almost improper for Doe to be selling off wedding presents so soon after Oliver Dixon’s death. For goodness sake, the man’s funeral wasn’t until tomorrow!