by Laura Childs
At the same time, he genuinely liked working on these projects. They were good jobs, substantial jobs, and they usually involved design challenges. It also didn’t hurt that he was able to earn several hundred bucks a crack.
And, face it, he told himself, there was no way in hell he could ever parlaz vous with those rich folks by himself and convince them to hire a guy like him to create wrought-iron gates, fence panels, and stair rails for their fancy houses. Hell, if he were a rich guy, he wouldn’t hire a guy like himself!
The other problem that gnawed at him was the fact that he was supposed to have gone out on another job tonight. And if he wasn’t along to practically hold the hands of those dumb yahoos, they’d sure as hell get lost. Because not one of those good old boys was smart enough to find his backside in the hall of mirrors at high noon. That was for sure.
But everything had changed when he received that stupid message from Booth Crowley. Old jump-when-I-sayso Crowley wanted him to meet him tonight at some guy’s house. What was that all about? Had the plan changed completely? Was he no longer honchoing their little clandestine operation?
Billy reached down with a leather-gloved hand and shut off the valve for the gas. He let the blue white flame die before his eyes before he tipped his helmet back.
Eight o’clock, the note had said. Eight o’clock. He guessed he’d better not cross a guy like Booth Crowley. Crowley was one important dude around Charleston, and Billy knew firsthand that he could also be a pretty nasty dude. Right now, he regretted ever getting involved with Booth Crowley.
Billy Manolo carefully laid his equipment on the battered cutting table. He shut off the lights in the garage, pulled down the door, and locked it.
As he picked his way across the yard, he told himself he had barely enough time for a quick shower.
Chapter 31
“Did you get the samples?” Drayton asked quietly.
Triumphantly, Haley laid three plastic Baggies full of dirt on the table next to Drayton’s bonsai trees. “I did just as you said,” Haley told him. “Used the litmus paper first in a half-dozen places. Then, when I found what seemed like a fairly close match for the soil’s pH level, I collected a sample.”
“Good girl,” breathed Drayton as he pulled two little plastic petri dishes out of the duffel bag that held his bonsai tools and copper wire. “You’re sure nobody noticed the light from your flashlight?”
“Positive. The yacht club was a cinch, ’cause nobody was there. And when I went into the two backyards, I only turned the flashlight on for a moment when I had to read the litmus paper. And then I cupped my hands around it.”
“Sounds like an excellent cat burglar technique,” said Drayton.
But Haley was still riding high from her little adventure. “Doe’s yard was easy,” she chattered on. “Nobody home at all. But I had to scale a pretty good-sized fence in order to get into Booth Crowley’s backyard. I had a couple hairy moments that definitely brought out my inner athlete.” She paused. “You’re going to test the soil samples right now?”
“That’s the general idea,” said Drayton as his fingers fluttered busily, measuring out spoonfuls of soil from each bag and dumping them into their own petri dishes.
“So we’ll know right away?” asked Haley.
Drayton slid the three petri dishes out of sight, behind a large, brown, glazed bonsai pot that held a miniature grove of tamarack trees. “Haley,” he said, “everyone will know right away if you persist in asking these questions.”
“I thought that was the general idea,” she said. Drayton smiled tolerantly. “All in good time, dear girl, all in good time.”
Lights blazed, conversation grew louder, the string quartet that Timothy Neville had brought in, fellow symphony members, played a lively rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Theodosia moved from room to room, dropping a hint here, a sly reference there. She was following in Delaine’s wake, so all she really had to do was toss out an innuendo for good measure. It was surprisingly simple. And since this was a party where conversation groups constantly shifted and re-formed, it was easy to mix and mingle and get the rumor mill bubbling.
In one of two front flanking parlors, Theodosia ran into their genial host.
“Enjoying yourself, Miss Browning?” Timothy pulled himself away from a group of people that was heatedly discussing the pros and cons of faux finishes and peered at her hawkishly.
“Lovely evening, Mr. Neville,” she said.
“I noticed you’ve been flitting about,” Timothy said, pulling his lips back to reveal small, square teeth, “and chatting merrily with my guests. The old marketing instinct dies hard, eh? Fun to be a spin doctor again.” His voice carried a faint trace of sarcasm, but his eyes danced with merriment. Then Timothy leaned toward her and asked quietly, “Drayton working his alchemy with the soil testing?”
“Should be,” she said, taking a sip of champagne, feeling slightly conspiratorial.
“Why not scoot out and check for results then. If it’s a go, we’ll launch part two of your little plan.”
Theodosia was suddenly captivated by Timothy’s quixotic spirit. “Why, Mr. Neville, I do believe you’re rather enjoying this,” she told him.
“It’s a game, Miss Browning, a fascinating game. Truth be known, Drayton didn’t have to twist my arm much to get me to play along. But”—Timothy Neville suddenly sobered—“at the same time, Oliver Dixon was a decent man and a friend. He was a generous benefactor to the Heritage Society and lent support to several other worthwhile charities here in Charleston. It was a terrible fate that befell him, and if someone was responsible for masterminding such a frightful, premeditated act, that person should be made to pay. If the police haven’t figured something out by now, I see no reason why the fates shouldn’t intercede. Or at least receive a helpful prod from us.” Timothy paused, removed a spotless white handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, and blotted his brow gently. “Now, when you have an answer, Miss Browning, be sure to tell Henry immediately. He’s the one charged with rounding up the troops for my little spectacle here tonight.” Timothy reached for a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, held it up to Theodosia in a toast. “Henry is also who most of my guests fear more than me.” He chuckled.
“Drayton, Timothy wants to know if you have any results yet,” Theodosia asked somewhat breathlessly. She’d hurried from one end of Timothy’s house to the other, then fairly flown down the back staircase into Timothy’s elegant garden.
How delightful it is out here, she thought suddenly as she felt the gentle sway of palm trees and bamboo around her, caught the moonlight as it shimmered on the long reflecting pool. How cool and quiet after the closeness and social chaos inside.
But Drayton was peering at her with a glum expression. “I’ve got results, but not the kind you want to hear about,” he said, a warning tone in his voice.
Theodosia was instantly on the alert. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that none of our soil samples match with what Professor Morrow took off your tablecloth,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, obviously irritated.
Theodosia stared at Drayton and saw his vexation and frustration. Haley, who stood poised with a Japanese teapot in her hand, suddenly looked ready to cry.
“I did it just the way you told me to, Drayton,” Haley said.
He held up a hand. “I’m not questioning your methodology. The preliminary matches looked good. It’s just that...”
“What is it?” asked Theodosia.
“When we run a full analysis,” said Drayton, “we come up empty.”
“So Doe, Booth Crowley, and Billy Manolo are all innocent?” said Haley.
“Innocent of using soil from their own backyards,” said Theodosia. “Or the yacht club, in Billy’s case.” She was bitterly disappointed as well. At the same time, she’d known this whole soil business had been a long shot.
“So that’s it?” asked Haley. “We’ve come
this far just to hit a dead end?”
“Not quite,” said Theodosia. “The soil samples were really only the lure. Now it’s time to have Timothy dangle the bait.”
Chapter 32
Billy Manolo heard the laughter and conversation from half a block away. It drifted like silver strands out the open windows and doors of Timothy Neville’s enormous home and seemed to rise into the blue black sky.
Billy stopped for a moment and stared upward, half expecting to see something tangible in the night sky above him. Then he shook his head and resumed walking toward the big house on Archdale Street. Foolishness, he told himself. Just plain foolishness.
Henry met him at the door before he had a chance to knock or ring the bell.
“Mr. Manolo?” Henry asked in his dry, raspy voice.
Billy stared at him. The old guy in the red and white monkey suit had to be ninety years old. He also looked like somebody out of an old movie. A silent movie at that.
“Yeah, I’m Billy Manolo,” he answered, his curiosity ratcheting up a couple notches. “Is there some kind of problem?”
“Not in the least,” smiled Henry. “Fact is, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Is that so?” Billy eyed Henry warily as he stepped into the foyer and glanced hurriedly around. “Looks like you all have a party going on.”
“Indeed,” said Henry.
“This is quite a place. You could park a 747 in this hallway.”
“Thank you,” said Henry. “I shall convey your rather astute observation to Mr. Neville, I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“Booth Crowley around?” Billy asked. “I got some weird message to meet him here.”
“Yes, that was nicely arranged, wasn’t it,” said Henry.
“Huh?” asked Billy sharply.
“If you’ll follow me to the music salon, sir,” beckoned Henry. “It’s time we get started.”
The thatch of white hair atop Booth Crowley’s head bristled like a porcupine displaying its quills. Then his small, watery gray eyes focused on Billy Manolo, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, swaggering down the center of the Oriental runner that ran the length of the hallway. Strangely enough, he followed in the wake of Timothy’s man, Henry.
“Damn that boy,” Booth Crowley muttered under his breath, immediately tuning out the two women who’d been making a polite pitch to him concerning funding for their beloved Opera Society’s production of Turandot.
Their eyebrows shot immediately skyward. Swearing was not unknown to them, but neither was it customary for a man to display such rudeness in a social situation like this. The eyes of the volunteer coordinator flashed an immediate signal of those of the board member: Uncouth. Not much of a gentleman.
But committing a social faux pas was the furthest thing from Booth Crowley’s mind right now. His was a personality hot-wired for anger, one that accelerated from rational behavior to utter rage with no stops in between, no chance for a safety valve.
Booth Crowley bulled his way across the room. Leading with his barrel of a chest, he shoved himself between Henry and Billy in an attempt to physically block Billy’s way.
“Get the hell away from here,” Booth Crowley snarled. His lips curled sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly above his floral bow tie. Several people standing nearby paused to watch what seemed to be an ugly spectacle about to unfold.
Billy gazed at Booth Crowley in disbelief and decided the old fart had to be bipolar or whatever the current pop psycho term was. First Booth had left him a note that was practically a presidential mandate to meet him here tonight. Now the crazy fool was trying to toss him out! What an idiot, thought Billy as he shook his head tiredly. But then, everything felt nuts these days, like the world was crashing down around him.
The high tinkle of a bell cut through the raw tension and the sudden buzz of excitement.
“Everyone is kindly requested to convene in the music salon, please.” Henry’s normally papery voice had suddenly increased by twenty decibels, ringing out strong and clear and authoritative. He sounded like a courtier announcing the arrival of the queen to parliament.
“You old fool,” spat Billy to Booth Crowley as the two men were suddenly jostled, then engulfed as bodies flowed past them.
Party guests pushed toward the music room, flushed with excitement, their spirits buoyed by the free flow of the excellent Roederer Cristal Champagne. Billy Manolo and Booth Crowley could do nothing but let themselves be carried along with the crowd. The most they could manage were furious scowls at each other.
Out on the patio, Drayton, Theodosia, and Haley also heard the high, melodious tinkle of Henry’s bell.
Theodosia turned bright eyes to Drayton. “This is it,” she whispered excitedly. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
“Is somebody going to tell me what’s really going on?” complained Haley. “I feel like I’m the last person on earth to—”
Drayton grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward. “Come on then. Timothy’s going to do his little speech. In about two minutes, you’ll see exactly what we’re up to!”
The three of them scampered up the back staircase into Timothy’s house and pushed down the main hallway with the rest of the crowd. Once inside the vast music salon, they jockeyed for position.
Standing center stage, in front of an enormous marble fireplace, Timothy Neville waited as the crowd continued to pour into the room and gather around him. High above him, set incongruously against gold brocade wallpaper, hung a scowling portrait of one of his Huguenot ancestors.
It was a full minute before all the murmurs, coughs, and whispers quieted down. Finally, Timothy looked over toward Henry, who nodded slightly at him. Timothy gazed serenely out into the crowd, found Drayton and Theodosia, but did not acknowledge them. Then he pulled himself into his usual ramrod posture and began.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he greeted the crowd in a ringing, impassioned voice. “It’s always an honor to host a party for a delightful crowd such as this.”
There was exuberant applause and several shouts of “Hear! Hear!”
Again, Timothy waited for the noise to die down. “Our Garden Fest event continues to grow each year,” he told them. “This year alone we’ve added six additional garden venues to our program. That gives us a grand total of thirty-eight private gardens in our beloved historic district that will be open, over the next three days, for the public’s sublime viewing pleasure.”
More applause.
“On a more personal note,” continued Timothy, “I sincerely regret that the garden of my friend and neighbor, Oliver Dixon, will no longer be included on the Garden Fest roster. As you all know, we lost Oliver recently, and the memory of his accident still haunts us.”
With those few words, Timothy had suddenly gained the complete and rapt attention of the crowd.
“Oliver Dixon was a generous contributor to the Heritage Society,” said Timothy. “And more than a few years ago, when I was a younger and far nimbler fellow, I sailed against Oliver Dixon in several of the yacht club’s regattas: the Isle of Palms race, the Catfish Cup, the Patriots Point Regatta. Oliver was a true gentleman and a fine competitor. I know in my heart that he would not wish the yacht club’s reputation or any of its long-standing traditions to be tarnished by what was truly a senseless accident.”
Timothy paused, much the same way a minister would when asking for a moment of silence. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, sensing something big was about to happen.
“To celebrate Oliver Dixon’s vast contributions and help continue the yacht club’s time-honored customs, I am making a special donation in his memory.”
The inimitable Henry now strode forth, bearing in his arms a large wooden box. Turning to face the crowd, Henry paused for a moment, then slowly lifted the lid.
Catching the gleam from the overhead chandelier, a silver pistol glinted from its cradle of plush red velvet.
There was a hush at first, an
initial shock, as a visceral reaction swept through the crowd. They were surprised, slightly stunned. Then a smattering of applause broke out among several of the men standing near the front. The applause began to build steadily until, finally, almost everyone had politely joined in.
“You were right,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia, “it was a shocker.”
But Theodosia had turned to face the crowd, and her eyes were busily scanning faces.
She caught the look of initial shock, then supreme unhappiness that spread across Doe’s young face.
Ford Cantrell, pressed up against the back wall, retained a mild smile that seemed to barely waver. But Theodosia had caught a spark of something else behind Ford’s carefully arranged public face: curiosity. Ford Cantrell had taken in the entire scenario and was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, what con was being run.
Booth Crowley’s sullen countenance bobbed among the crowd like an angry balloon. He had applauded perfunctorily but seemed nervous and distracted. His wife, Beatrix, at his side, maintained the look of mild bemusement she’d worn all night.
And Billy Manolo, looking like an angry rebel in his black T-shirt among a sea of dinner jackets and tuxedos, kept an insolent smirk on his face.
“What kind of pistol is it?” asked a young man at the front of the crowd. His eyes shone brightly, and he seemed pleased with himself for asking such a bold question.
Timothy’s grin was both terrifying and curiously satisfying. “A Scottish regimental pistol. Manufactured by Isaac Bissell of Birmingham, England. See the engraved RHR? Stands for Royal Highland Regiment.”
Delaine stood nearby, fanning herself nervously. “Is it loaded?” she asked with a mixture of alarm and fascination.
“Of course,” said Timothy, hefting the weapon in one hand and pointing it toward the ceiling. “The cartridge is a traditional hand-rolled cartridge, loose powder and a round ball wrapped in thin, brown paper. It was crafted in the British tradition by Lucas Clay, one of the foremost munitions experts in the South today.” Timothy held the pistol aloft for a moment, then put it reverently back in its box.