by Laura Childs
Theodosia peered down into the boat. Jory had been right. Rubicon was seriously taking on water. At least three inches of green seawater had managed to seep inside and was sloshing around.
She searched for a bilge pump, found one, then wasn’t exactly sure how to connect the darn thing and get it started.
No, she finally told herself, leave well enough alone. The best thing to do was follow Jory’s advice. Find Billy Manolo and have him take care of this.
Still crouched on the deck, Theodosia searched for a clue that might tell her how to get in touch with the elusive Billy Manolo.
Flipping open one of the small storage bins, she found a clear plastic pouch that contained the boat’s user manual and a clutch of maps. Following her hunch, she unsnapped the pouch and rummaged through the papers.
On the inside cover of the user manual was a handwritten list of names. The fourth one down was Billy M. There was a phone number listed and an address: 115 Con-cannon.
Could this be Billy Manolo? The yacht club’s Billy Manolo? Had to be.
Chapter 19
Upriver, on the west bank of the Cooper River, sits the now-defunct Charleston Naval Base. Decommissioned some ten years ago, it is technically situated in North Charleston, an incorporated city of its own and the third-largest city in South Carolina.
With sailors and officers gone, the economy forever changed, real estate had become more affordable, zoning more forgiving.
Theodosia drove slowly down Ardmore Street, searching each street sign for the cross street, Concannon. Here was an older part of Charleston, but not the part that showed up in glossy four-color brochures sent out by the Convention & Visitors Bureau. Instead, these small, wood-frame houses looked tired and battered, many in dire need of a coat of paint. Yards were small, often with more bare patches than tended lawn. Those places that were better kept were often surrounded by metal fences.
Just past a tire recycling plant, Theodosia found Con-cannon Street. She made a leap of faith, put the Jeep into a right turn, and searched for numbers on the houses.
She had guessed correctly. Here was 215, here 211. Billy’s home at 115 Concannon was in the next block.
A vacant, weed-filled lot bordered Billy Manolo’s house, a one-story home that was little more than a cottage. Once-white paint had been ground off from years of wind, rain, and high humidity, and now the weathered wood glowed with an interesting patina. As Theodosia strode up the walk, she noted that, aside from the paint, everything else appeared sturdy and fairly well kept.
Grasping a black wrought-iron handrail, she mounted the single cement step and rang the doorbell.
Nothing.
She hit the doorbell again, held it in longer this time, and waited. Still no one came to the door. Perplexed, Theodosia stood for a moment, let her eyes wander to an overgrown hedge of dogwood, then to a small brick walkway that led around the side of the house.
Why not? she decided, as she crossed wet grass and started around the house.
It was like tumbling into another world.
Sections of beautifully ornate wrought-iron fences and grilles danced before her eyes. Elegant scrolls, whimsical corn motifs, and curling ivy adorned each piece. Wrought-iron pieces that had been completed leaned up against wood fences and the back of Billy Manolo’s house. Other pieces, still raw from the welder’s torch and awaiting mortises and hand finishing, were stacked in piles and seemed to occupy every square foot of the small backyard.
Sparks arced from a welder’s torch in the dim recess of a sagging, dilapidated garage that appeared slightly larger than the house.
Billy Manolo lifted his welder’s helmet and glared at Theodosia as blue flame licked from his torch. “What do you want?” he asked. His voice carried the same nervous hostility he’d exhibited the other day at Oliver Dixon’s funeral.
Still in a state of delighted amazement, Theodosia peered past him, her eyes fixing on even more of the beautifully crafted metalwork. Most was stacked in hodgepodge piles, a few smaller pieces hung from the ceiling.
“These are wonderful,” she said.
Billy Manolo shrugged as he flicked the switch on his oxyacetylene torch. “Yeah,” was all he said.
“You made all these?” she asked.
Billy grunted in the affirmative. His welder’s helmet quivered atop his head like the beak of a giant condor.
“They’re beautifully done. Do you do a lot of restoration work?” Theodosia knew that Charleston homes, especially those in and around the historic district, were always in need of additions or repairs.
“Who wants to know?” Billy Manolo demanded.
“Sorry.” She colored slightly. “I’m Theodosia Browning. We met at the picnic last Sunday? You borrowed the tablecloth from me.” She moved toward him to offer her hand and almost tripped on a stack of metal bars.
“Careful,” Billy cautioned. “Last thing I need around here is some fool woman falling on her face.” He stared at her. “How come you came here?” he asked abruptly. “I don’t keep no pictures here. You got to go to Popple Hill for that.”
“Popple Hill?” said Theodosia. She had no idea what Popple Hill was or what Billy was even talking about.
“The design folks,” Billy explained impatiently as though she were an idiot child. “Go talk to them. They’ll figure out size and design and all. I just make the stuff.” Billy Manolo shook his head as though she were a buzzing mayfly that was irritating him. He leaned forward, slid a grimy hand into a leather glove that lay atop his forge. There was a hiss of air and immediately flame shot from his welder’s torch again.
“I see,” said Theodosia, averting her eyes and making a mental note to ask around and find out just who these Popple Hill designers were. “Actually, I just came from the yacht club,” she explained. “Jory Davis in slip one twelve wanted me to give you these.” She reached into her purse, grabbed the keys, and dangled them at Billy. “The keys for Rubicon.”
Billy Manolo sighed, switched the torch off again.
“He wants you to turn on the bilge pump,” said Theodosia, this time putting a tinge of authority into her voice. “He’s stuck out of town on business, and he’s afraid his boat is taking on water. Actually, it is taking on water. I was just there.”
Billy Manolo pulled the welder’s helmet from his head and strode toward her. He reached out and snatched the keys from her outstretched hand and stared stolidly at her.
“Great,” she answered, a little too heartily. She gazed about the backyard, realizing full well that Billy Manolo was an ironworker by trade, that he’d probably made some of the gates, grills, and balcony railings that adorned many of Charleston’s finer homes.
And along with that realization came the sudden understanding that Billy Manolo, with his knowledge of metals and stress points and such, could easily have been the one who had tampered with the old pistol. Billy Manolo, whose fingerprints had certainly turned up on the rosewood box that the old pistol had been housed in.
“Look,” Theodosia said, caught somewhere between losing her patience at Billy’s rudeness and a small insinuation of fear, “the very least you can do is be civil.”
He tilted his head slightly, gave her a surly, one-eyed glance. “Why should I?”
Theodosia lost it. “You might want to seriously consider working on your people skills,” she told him. “Because should you be questioned by the Charleston police, and the possibility is not unlikely, the inhospitable attitude you have just shown toward me will not play well with them.”
Billy Manolo snorted disdainfully. “Police,” he spat out. “They don’t know nothin’.”
“They are not unaware of your little public to-do with Booth Crowley two days ago,” said Theodosia.
“Booth Crowley has a lot to hide,” snarled Billy.
“From what I hear, Billy, you might have a few things to hide,” Theodosia shot back. She was fishing, to be sure, but her words were more effective than she’d ever thought possible
.
Stung by her innuendo, Billy bent down, picked up an iron rod, and glared at her dangerously. “Get lost, lady, before you find yourself floating facedown in Charleston Harbor!”
Chapter 20
Dozens of small white candles flickered on every table, countertop, shelf, nook, and cranny of the Indigo Tea Shop. Muted paisley tablecloths were draped elegantly across the wooden tables, and the overhead brass chandelier had been dimmed to impart a moody aura.
“It looks like someone unleashed a crazed voodoo priestess in here,” declared Haley.
“What?” Drayton’s usually well-modulated voice rose in a high-pitched squawk. “It’s supposed to look mysterious. I’m trying to create an atmosphere that’s conducive to an evening of high drama and new experiences in the realm of tea.”
“And it does,” Theodosia assured him. “It’s very atmospheric. Haley,” she cautioned the young girl, “ease up on Drayton, will you? He’s got a lot on his mind.”
Haley’s needling banter was usually welcome in the tea shop and easily parried by the often erudite Drayton, but tonight Drayton did seem a little discombobulated.
Haley sidled up to Drayton and gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder. “Okay. It’s cool.”
“You do think the shop has a certain dramatic, stage-setting appearance, don’t you?” Drayton peered anxiously at Theodosia.
“It’s perfect,” declared Theodosia. “Our guests will be thrilled.” She gazed at the lineup of Barotine teapots borrowed from one of Drayton’s antique dealer friends. The fanciful little green and brown glazed teapots were adorned with shells, twining vines, and snail-like shapes, and lent to the aura of mystery.
Then there were the centerpieces. Here again, Drayton had gotten a few choice antique pieces on loan and let Hattie Boatwright at Floradora run wild with them. An antique ceramic frog peeked from behind clusters of purple hydrangeas, a bronze sculpture of a wood nymph was surrounded by plum blossoms, a jade statue of the Buddha sat amid an artful arrangement of reeds and grasses.
“You’ve managed to instill elegance as well as a hint of mystery in our little tea shop,” praised Theodosia, “and I, for one, can’t wait to see what’s going to happen tonight!”
Truth be told, Theodosia wasn’t exactly sure what was going to take place, but she had complete confidence in Drayton and knew that, whatever menu and program unfolded, he’d pull it off with great style and aplomb. Besides, while she’d been out this afternoon, getting drenched at the yacht club and then insulted by Billy Manolo, four more people had called, begging for last-minute reservations. That meant they’d had to slip in extra chairs at a few of the tables.
As Theodosia laid out silverware and linen napkins, Haley placed tiny gold mesh bags at each place setting.
“What are those?” asked Theodosia.
“Favors,” said Haley. “Drayton had me wrap tiny bricks of pressed tea in gold fabric, then tie them with ribbons.”
“Drayton’s really going all out,” said Theodosia, pleased at such attention to detail.
“You don’t know the half of it,” whispered Haley. She glanced around to make sure Drayton was in the back of the shop. “He’s got five actors from the Charleston Little Theater Group coming in tonight. They’re going to do a kind of one-act play while they help serve tea and goodies. And, of course, they’ll drop clues as they go along. At some point in the evening, one of them will have a mysterious and fatal accident, and the audience has to figure out who perpetrated the dastardly deed!”
“You mean like Mr. Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” asked Theodosia.
“Something very close to it,” said Haley.
Drayton emerged from the back room, carrying a tray full of teacups. “Listen,” he instructed, one finger aimed at the ceiling.
Theodosia and Haley stopped what they were doing and listened to gentle drumming on the roof.
“It started raining again,” said Drayton. “Sets the mood perfectly, don’t you think?”
“Quoth the raven... nevermore,” giggled Haley.
Halfway through Drayton’s mystery tea, Theodosia found herself perched on the wooden stool behind the counter, utterly charmed and fascinated by what was taking place before her. True to Haley’s prediction, five members from the Charleston Little Theater Group, all amateurs and friends of Drayton, had shown up. Upon serving the first course, a hot and sour green tea soup, they immediately launched into a fast-paced, drawing room type play that, except for the murder, bordered heavily on comedy and kept their guests in stitches.
The audience had been swept up in the drama from the outset. Chuckling in all the right places, oohing and ahing as tiny candles sputtered out at strategic times during the play, gasping when Drayton suddenly doused the overhead lights and the “murder” took place.
Theodosia had been delighted that Delaine Dish had shown up with her friend Brooke Carter Crockett, who owned Heart’s Desire, a nearby jewelry shop that specialized in high-end estate jewelry. Miss Dimple had brought her brother, Stanley, a roly-poly fellow who, except for being bald as a cue ball, was the spitting image of Miss Dimple. Plus there were tea shop regulars and lots of friends from the historic district. In all, twenty-five guests sat in the flickering candlelight, enjoying the mystery tea.
And they’d had a couple surprise guests, too: Lizbeth Cantrell and her aunt Millicent.
Theodosia hadn’t expected to see Lizbeth Cantrell so soon, and especially not tonight. But the ladies had slipped in at the last moment, Lizbeth nodding knowingly to Theodosia, then found their seats and settled back comfortably to enjoy the play.
The actors, down to four now, were serving the main course, chicken satays with a spicy sauce of Sencha tea and ginger, and playing their roles rather broadly. Theodosia had her money on the Theodore character as the murderer. He was a pompous patriarch who certainly looked like he could whack someone on the head with a bronze nymph. (Now she knew why Drayton had gone to all that trouble with table centerpieces!)
On the other hand, you never could tell when it came to spotting suspects. First impressions weren’t always that reliable. Look how she’d pinned her suspicions on Ford Cantrell. He’d certainly appeared to be the perfect suspect, and now she wasn’t sure at all.
But Theodosia did know one thing for sure. She was going to get to the bottom of Oliver Dixon’s murder. If she discovered the real killer and was able to clear Ford Cantrell, she’d have done a great kindness for Lizbeth Cantrell. On the other hand, if Ford Cantrell wasn’t the innocent man his sister professed him to be . . . well, then at least the truth would be out. And knowing the truth was always better than not knowing at all.
Loud clapping and shouts of “Bravo!” brought Theodosia out of her musings and back to the here and now. Drayton was extending a hand toward the four remaining actors as they took a collective bow and then struck exaggerated poses.
“I present to you, the suspects,” announced Drayton, obviously pleased with the crowd’s reaction. “As they have dropped bold clues and broad hints throughout the evening, we shall now pass ballots around the table so you can be both judge and jury and hopefully solve our murder mystery.”
The guests’ voices rose in excited murmurs as the amateur actors, obviously still relishing their roles, walked among the tables, passing out paper and pens.
“And,” added Drayton, “while you ponder the identity of the perpetrator of the crime, we shall be serving our final course, tea sorbet with miniature almond cakes.”
“What’s the prize for solving the mystery?” called Delaine.
“Haley, care to do the honors?” asked Drayton.
Haley stepped to the front of the tea shop and cleared her throat. “The winner or winners, should there be a tie, will receive a gift basket filled with teas and a half-dozen mystery books.”
“Perfect!” exclaimed Miss Dimple. “Then you can have your very own mystery tea... any time you want.”
“But our evening is far
from drawing to a close,” said Drayton. “After dessert, we shall be offering tastings on a number of select estate teas.” He paused dramatically. “And we have a special guest with us, Madame Hildegarde. Using her fine gift of divination, Madame Hildegarde will read your tea leaves.”
There was a spatter of applause, and then chairs slid back as people stood up to stretch their legs, move about the tea shop, and visit with friends at other tables.
Lizbeth Cantrell wasted no time in coming over to speak with Theodosia.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever met my aunt,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “Millicent Cantrell, meet Theodosia Browning.”
Theodosia shook hands with the diminutive woman who also had a no-nonsense air about her and gray hair that must have also been red at one time.
“Hello,” Theodosia greeted her. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the evening so far.”
Millicent Cantrell smiled up at Theodosia. “I’ve never been to a mystery tea before. Went to a mystery dinner once at the Hancock Inn over in Columbia, but everything was terribly overdone and not very good.”
Theodosia smiled at the old woman, even as she wondered if Millicent Cantrell was referring to the play or the cooking.
Millicent Cantrell’s hand groped for Theodosia’s. “You’re a real dear to help us.”
Theodosia searched out Lizbeth Cantrell’s eyes.
Lizbeth met her gaze. “I told her you had pledged to help clear my brother’s name.”
“Pledged, well, that might be . . .” began Theodosia, feeling slightly overwhelmed. These ladies seemed to have pinned all their hopes on her. It suddenly felt like an overwhelming responsibility.
“You’re a good girl, just like your momma,” Millicent Cantrell told her as tears sparkled in her old eyes.
“And she’s smart,” added Lizbeth. “Theodosia’s not thrown off by the occasional red herring, to use an old English fox hunting term.”