Gunpowder Green atsm-2

by Laura Childs

  She wondered what the media had written about Grapevine. Haley had quoted from an article in the business section of the Post and Courier. But, from the rah-rah sound of it, the article had probably been reedited from a press release that the company itself had prepared. That was usually how those things worked. Lord knows, over the years she herself had written enough press releases that got turned into newspaper articles or sidebars in trade publications.

  But what had the hard-nosed business analysts said about Grapevine? The techie guys from Forrester or the business mavens at Arthur Andersen? Or even the reviewers at some of the vertical trade pubs?

  Easy enough to check, she thought, as she clicked on Netscape and typed in the key word “Grapevine.”

  Forty-seven thousand hits came up for Grapevine, everything from rock bands to a restaurant in Napa Valley. Oops. Definitely got to narrow the search, Theodosia decided.

  Now she added the term PDA to the search parameter. That yielded sixty-three hits. Far more manageable.

  Theodosia scanned down her new list of hits, searching for a company profile, analyst’s report, anything that might give her an outsider’s snapshot view of Grapevine.

  She clicked open an article from Technology Voyage, a well-respected publication that reported on new products and trends in E-commerce and provided top-line analyses of various new high-tech companies. She had actually placed advertising in Technology Voyage and met with its editors when she worked on the Avanti account, a company that manufactured semiconductors.

  The Technology Voyage article was titled “PDAs on the Fast Track.” It began with a good overview of the PDA market. Sales were erupting, topping three billion dollars with projections of more than six billion dollars by next year. And just as Haley had said, PDAs were touted as portable, pocket-sized devices that let you magically keep track of appointments, addresses, phone numbers, to-do lists, and personal notes. More full-featured PDAs could even be used to send and receive E-mail, surf the Internet, or support digital cameras.

  The article went on to list the various PDA manufacturers, manufacturers of PDA applications, chips and inner workings, and PDA wireless service and content providers.

  According to the article, Grapevine was a manufacturer of flash memory cards, thirty-two and sixty-four-megabyte SD cards for storing data in those PDAs that used the Palm operating system.

  Wow, thought Theodosia. What with working on computers, setting up a Web site, and trading stocks on-line, I’m fairly well versed in technology, but this is getting slightly complicated!

  The article went on to list the burgeoning number of PDA manufacturers that included such companies as Casio, IBM, Hewlett-Packard, Royal, Compaq, and Handspring, and briefly detailed Microsoft’s competing operating system, Pocket PC.

  Theodosia put two fingers to her forehead, kneaded gently at the beginnings of a techno headache. Better to quit while she was ahead? She scanned the rest of the article quickly, then became caught up again. As she read the “Editors Choice” thumbnail sketches of several different PDAs, she wondered how she’d ever gotten along without a Blackberry to deliver wireless E-mails. Then she changed her mind in favor of an Ericsson that boasted handwriting and voice recognition. And finally, Theodosia decided the daVinci, with its tiny folding keyboard, had to be the slickest thing yet.

  Would one of these minicomputers work for her? Perhaps so. A whizbang PDA might help her keep better track of all manner of things. Tea party commitments, shopping lists and—she pulled her face into a wry grin—a list of murder suspects? She shook her head. Time to give it a rest. She was starting to obsess, and that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

  Chapter 17

  “Haley, where are the tea candles?” barked Drayton.

  “Top shelf,” she called from the kitchen.

  “Not the colored ones, I want the beeswax candles in the little Chinese blue and white containers.” Drayton stood behind the counter, frowning, studying the floor-toceiling shelves.

  “Bottom shelf,” came Haley’s voice again. “On the left.”

  Mumbling to himself, Drayton bent down and began pulling rolls of blue tissue paper, small blue shopping bags, and corrugated gift boxes from the cupboard in a mad rush to find his candles.

  “Stop it.” Haley, ever vigilant and slightly phobic about tidiness, appeared behind him and admonished him sharply. “You’re getting everything all catawampus.”

  She knelt down. “Better let me do it,” she said in a kinder tone. Opening the cupboard door on the far left, she pulled out the candles Drayton had been searching for. “Here,” she said as she put two boxes into his outstretched hands. “Candles. Far left.”

  “Thank you,” Drayton said sheepishly. “Guess I really am in a twitter today.”

  “You got that right,” Haley grumped as she stuffed everything back into the cupboard. “Good thing this mystery tea thing isn’t a weekly event. I’d be a wreck. We’d all be a wreck.”

  “Who’s a wreck?” asked Theodosia as she let herself in the front door.

  “Drayton is,” joked Haley. “In his sublime paranoia to keep everything a secret, he’s ending up doing most of the prep work himself. Although he has deigned to allow me to bake a few of his menu items,” she added with a wicked grin.

  “Like what?” asked Theodosia. “I’m in the dark as much as you are,” she explained as she slipped off her light coat and shook raindrops from it.

  “Oh, let’s see,” said Haley. “Cannelles de Bordeaux, croquets aux pignons, and fougasse. Which is really just pastry, cookies, and breads. Except when you say it in French, it sounds exquisite. Of course, anything said in French sounds exquisite. A case in point: boudin noir.”

  “What’s that?” asked Theodosia.

  “Blood sausage,” replied Haley.

  Drayton rolled his eyes. “A bit bizarre for one of my teas,” he declared as his eyes went to his watch, a classic Piaget that seemed to perpetually run a few minutes late. “Haley, it’s almost nine. Better unlock the door.”

  “Theodosia already did,” Haley shot back, then threw Theodosia a questioning glance. “You did, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  Theodosia gave a quick nod.

  “I heard that, Haley,” said Drayton.

  “I don’t know how many customers we’ll have today,” said Theodosia. “It’s still raining like crazy out there.”

  “Oh, there’ll be a few brave souls who’ll come out to tromp the historic district,” said Drayton. “And when they find their way to us, there’s a good chance they’ll be hungry.”

  “And cold,” added Haley as she gave a little shiver.

  “Right,” agreed Drayton. “Which is why you better get back there and finish your baking,” said Drayton.

  “You don’t need me to help out here? Set tables and things?”

  “I’ll set the tables and brew the teas, you just tend to baking.”

  “Okay,” Haley agreed happily.

  Standing at the cash register, fussing with an arrangement of tea canisters, Theodosia was aware, once again, of how much she loved their mix of personalities and the easy bantering that went on among the three of them. Anyone else walking in might think they were being slightly argumentative, but she knew it was the unrestrained familiarity that was usually reserved just for family members. Yes, they joked and pushed one another at times, but at the first sign that someone was feeling slightly overwhelmed or even provoked, they rallied to that person’s defense.

  The door flew open, and cold, moist air rushed in. A bulky man in a nondescript gray raincoat lowered his umbrella and peered at them.

  “Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia greeted him as she closed the door quickly and ushered him to a table. “You’re out and about early. And on a Saturday yet.”

  “Tea?” offered Drayton as he approached Tidwell with a freshly brewed pot of Kandoli Garden Assam.

  Tidwell lowered himself into a chair and nodded. “Thank you. Yes.”


  Drayton poured a cup of tea, then stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m being presumptuous, Detective Tidwell, but you look like a man who might possibly be in need of a Devonshire split.”

  Tidwell’s beady eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Pray tell, what is a Devonshire split?”

  “A traditional little English sweet bun that we serve with strawberry jam. Of course, if we were in England’s lake country, we would also serve it with clotted cream.”

  “Pretend that we are,” Tidwell said. “Especially in light of this hideous wet weather.”

  Slipping into the chair across from Tidwell, Theodosia studied the man carefully. Tidwell had obviously come here bearing some type of information. Would he be forthright in telling her what was on his mind? Of course not. That wasn’t Tidwell’s style. He preferred to play his own maddening little games.

  But today Tidwell surprised Theodosia. For, once his pastry and accompaniments arrived, he became quite talkative.

  “We’ve finished most of our ballistics tests,” he told her. “Regretfully, nothing’s jumped out at us.” Tidwell sliced his Devonshire split in half, peered at it expectantly. “At first we thought the bullets in the pistol might have been dumdums.”

  “What exactly are dumdums?” asked Theodosia. She’d heard the term before, but had no idea what dumdums really were.

  “A nasty little trick that originated in India,” said Tidwell as he lathered clotted cream onto his pastry. “Put succinctly, dumdums are expanding bullets. When they impact something, they expand.”

  “And you thought these tricky little bullets might have impacted Oliver Dixon’s head?” she said.

  “Well, not exactly,” said Tidwell. “The pistol would have to have been pointed directly at him for that to occur. And from everything we know, from interviews with fairly reliable people, Oliver Dixon was holding the pistol at shoulder level and pointing it up into the air. If it had been loaded with dumdums, they could have exploded and dealt a fatal wound, but something would’ve been needed to make them explode.”

  “So your tests revealed nothing,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell took a sip of tea and set his tea cup down with a gentle clink. “Let’s just say our tests were inconclusive.”

  “What about Oliver Dixon’s jacket?” asked Theodosia. “I would imagine you ran forensic tests on that?”

  Tidwell sighed. “Spatters of blood, type B positive, which is somewhat rare, maybe only ten percent of the population. Definitely belonging to Oliver Dixon, though; we checked it against his medical records. On the sleeves and jacket front, residue from Charleston Harbor showing a high nutrient concentration and a low N-P ratio. And a small amount of imbedded dirt. Probably from the shore.”

  Theodosia thought about the blood-spattered, dirt-smeared linen tablecloth that now resided in Professor Morrow’s botany lab. “Probably,” she agreed, trying to keep any sign of nervousness from her voice. If Tidwell knew what she was up to, she’d be in deep trouble, and the tablecloth would undoubtedly be confiscated by the police.

  They both fell silent as the front door opened with a whoosh and two couples, obviously tourists, pushed their way in.

  “Can we get some coffee and muffins?” asked one of the men. He wore a yellow slicker and spoke with a Midwesterner’s flat accent.

  Theodosia was up and out of her chair in a heartbeat. “How about tea and blackberry scones?” she invited. “Or a plate of lemon tarts?”

  “Tea,” mused the man. He turned to the rest of his party, who were all nodding agreeably, pulling off wet outerwear and settling into chairs. “Why not,” he said, “as long as it’s hot and strong.”

  Tidwell sat at his table, happily sipping tea and eating his pastry while Theodosia and Drayton quickly served the new customers.

  Like many tourists who wandered into the Indigo Tea Shop, they seemed eager to embrace what would be a new experience for them.

  On the other hand, Theodosia had to remind herself that, after water, tea was the most popular drink in the world, a much-loved, long-established beverage that had been around almost 5,000 years. Sipped, savored, or tossed back hastily, the peoples of the world consumed more than 700 billion cups of tea in a single year.

  “Detective Tidwell.” Theodosia put her hands on the back of one of the creaky, wooden chairs and leaned toward him. “Do you remember the fellow who was involved in the terrible scene at Oliver Dixon’s funeral the day before yesterday?”

  “You mean Booth Crowley?” he asked.

  “No, I mean Billy Manolo,” she said. Do not allow him to fluster you, she cautioned herself. The man is obstinate only because he relishes it as great sport.

  “You realize that Billy Manolo works at the yacht club,” she said. “He had access to the pistol.”

  “Of course he did,” said Tidwell. “In fact, his fingertips were found on the rosewood box that the pistol was kept in.”

  “What do you make of that?” asked Theodosia.

  Tidwell shrugged. “A half-dozen other sets of fingerprints were also found on that box.” “Was Ford Cantrell’s among them?” she asked. “Do you really think Ford Cantrell would be foolish

  enough to leave his prints on the box if, in fact, he tampered with the pistol?” asked Tidwell. He picked up a silver spoon, scooped up yet another lump of sugar, and plunked it into his teacup.

  Theodosia stared at Tidwell. He has a unique talent for deflecting questions, she decided. And answering questions with another question designed to throw you slightly off track.

  “I take it you have elevated Billy Manolo to suspect status?” said Tidwell.

  “The notion of Billy as suspect is not without basis,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell shook his great head slowly. “Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Billy Manolo seems like a troublemaker, I’ll grant you that. And he has a past history of being involved in petty thievery and nefarious dealings. But is our Billy cool enough, calculating enough, to plan and execute a murder? In front of two hundred people? I hardly see even a flash of that type of required brilliance. I fear Billy Manolo exhibits only limited capacity.”

  Theodosia knew what was coming and steeled herself for it. She had sent Tidwell careening down this path, and she regretted it mightily. To make matters worse, her commitment to Lizbeth Cantrell felt pitifully hollow, as though there wasn’t a prayer in the world that her brother’s name could be cleared.

  “Ford Cantrell, on the other hand, is a man with a grudge,” continued Tidwell. “A man who manufacturers his own munitions. Yes,” Tidwell reiterated when he saw Theodosia’s eyes go large, “Ford Cantrell makes a hobby of packing gunpowder into his own cartridges. If anyone knew how to rig that old pistol to explode, it would be someone with the critical knowledge that Ford Cantrell possesses. I am confident of a forthcoming arrest.”

  Chapter 18

  Alone tern rode the crazed thermals, wheeling high above the yacht club where J-24s, Columbias, and San Jose 25s creaked up against silvered wooden pilings and tugged at their moorings as they pitched about in the roiling sea. The only sound, save the howling wind, was a sputtering bilge pump, somewhere out on the end of the long main pier.

  Nobody home, thought Theodosia as she cinched her trench coat tighter about her and stepped onto the pier. In some places, the weather-beaten boards had two-inch gaps between them, so she had to really watch her footing. There didn’t appear to be anybody on this long, wet pier today, and the water looked cold and unforgiving. A misstep was unthinkable.

  She’d first tried the door to the clubhouse and found that locked. Even pounding on the door and punching the doorbell hadn’t roused anyone. It was conceivable no one was here at all, that Billy Manolo didn’t work on Saturday or hadn’t come in because of bad weather or might be planning to show up later.

  Theodosia did hold out a faint hope that someone might be hunkered down on the sailboat at the far end of the pier where the bilge pump sounded so noisily. It could be Billy Manolo, she mused
, pumping out a leaky boat, working down below, trying to elude the wind’s nasty bite.

  Halfway to the end of the pier, Theodosia gazed out toward Charleston Harbor. Only two ships were visible through the gray mist. One appeared to be a commercial fishing vessel; the other looked like a Coast Guard cutter, probably from the nearby Coast Guard station located just down from The Battery at the mouth of the Ashley River. It certainly was a far cry from almost a week ago, when the harbor had been dotted with boats, when the promise of spring had hung in the air.

  “Anybody there?” She reached the end of the pier and saw that the pump was running full tilt, pouring a steady spew of frothy green water from a twenty-five-foot Santana into the harbor. She stepped down to the smaller pier that ran parallel to the moored boat. These side piers weren’t anchored by deep pilings like the main pier. Instead, they floated on top of barrels. Now, with the wind whipping in from the Atlantic at a good ten knots, the smaller, auxiliary pier pitched about precariously.

  “Billy?” Theodosia called, fighting the rising panic that was beginning to build inside her as the small pier bobbed like an errant cork.

  Get a grip, she admonished herself as she extended both arms out to her sides for better balance, then picked her way carefully back to the safety of the main pier. You’ve walked up and down piers your whole life. This is no time to get spooked.

  Jory Davis’s boat was moored at slip 112, more than halfway back in the direction of the clubhouse, with side piers that were considerably more stable since they were sheltered. Theodosia walked out to Rubicon, the J-24 that he loved to pilot around Charleston Harbor and up and down the Intracoastal Waterway, put her hands on the side hull, and clambered aboard. Standing in the cockpit, she felt the rhythm of the boat, heard the noisy overhead clank of halyards against the mast. She leaned forward, stuck the key in the lock for the hatch, and turned it. Grabbing the handle, she braced herself and tugged it open.