Gunpowder Green

by Laura Childs

  “What’s up, Suzette? Another liver brownie cake for Earl Grey?”

  Suzette grinned. “What else? But this is a special occasion. Your anniversary. It’s been two years since you and that nice dog of yours have been coming here, and some of our ladies and gentlemen want to thank you.”

  “Surprise!” The group called out in unison as Theodosia and Earl Grey walked into the room.

  Theodosia threw her hands up in surprise, and Earl Grey, immediately homing in on the liver brownie cake that rested on a low table in the center of the room, shook his head in anticipation and let out a sharp woof.

  “Happy anniversary, Earl!” one of the ladies called out with exuberance. “Thanks for always making us smile.”

  Suzette had laid out all the sandwiches Theodosia had brought with her on a long table and rustled up a bowl of punch. The residents wasted no time in helping themselves to snacks, and the room suddenly buzzed with the makings of a party.

  Theodosia grabbed a cup of punch for herself and wandered among the residents. They smiled and nodded at her, but Earl Grey was, of course, the real star. He was the one they wanted to talk to and pet. He was the one they looked forward to seeing.

  “This is a lovely picnic you brought, Miss Browning.”

  Theodosia smiled down at an elderly man in a wheelchair. Freckles covered his bald head, and deep wrinkles cut into his face, but his eyes shone bright with interest.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” she said.

  “Kind of different from yesterday afternoon, eh?” said the old man.

  Surprised, Theodosia sank down on one knee so she was eye level with him. He smiled at her then, a kind, knowing smile that suddenly took years off his tired, lined face.

  “Oh yes,” he told her as he wagged a finger, “I heard all about the accident from my son. He was there.”

  “Your son was in White Point Gardens yesterday?” asked Theodosia.

  “Yup,” said the old man. “Course, he didn’t just phone me out of the blue and tell me. I read about it in the newspaper this morning. Then I called him so I could get the real poop. My son used to race Lasers with the yacht club,” he explained.

  The old man stopped abruptly, as if all this talking had been a considerable effort for him.

  “Would you like something to drink?” asked Theodosia. She thrust her cup of punch toward him. “Here, take mine.”

  The old man eagerly grasped her drink and helped himself to several good swallows. “Good,” he croaked. Setting the empty cup aside on a nearby table, the old man stuck out a withered hand. “I’m Winston Lazerby.”

  “Theodosia Browning,” she said, shaking his hand. “And your son is . . . ?”

  “Thomas Lazerby. He’s a cardiologist at Charleston Mercy Medical. You know, a heart doctor.” Winston Lazerby thumped his own skinny chest as if to demonstrate his son’s specialty. “The minute I saw that article about Oliver Dixon,” Winston Lazerby continued, “I thought of the feud.”

  Tiny hairs on the back of Theodosia’s neck rose imperceptibly. “What do you mean, Mr. Lazerby?” she asked.

  “The Dixon-Cantrell feud,” Winston Lazerby said, staring at Theodosia intently. “Those two families have been going at it for almost seventy years.”

  Theodosia glanced around quickly. No one seemed to be paying the two of them a bit of attention. Good, she thought. “Tell me more, Mr. Lazerby,” she urged him.

  The old man leaned forward. “They been fighting with each other ever since the thirties, when Letitia Dixon up and ran off with Sam Cantrell.”

  “This Letitia Dixon, how was she related to Oliver Dixon?”

  Winston Lazerby thought for a moment. “Aunt,” he said. “Letitia would’ve been Oliver’s mother’s sister.”

  “And Sam Cantrell?” asked Theodosia.

  Winston Lazerby nodded. “Related to all them Cantrells. Don’t know the full story there. But I do know Sam was a smooth-talkin’ feller, and Letitia was a young gal, eighteen years old at most, and wilder ’n seven devils.”

  “What happened to them?” asked Theodosia, intrigued. “Where did they run off to?”

  “Nobody knows,” replied Winston Lazerby. “There was rumors that Letitia ended up in Portland, Oregon, and died of rheumatic fever a few years later. But I personally think they was just rumors. People always think the worst when something like that happens.”

  “And there’s still bad blood between the two families?” said Theodosia.

  Winston Lazerby nodded knowingly. “Very bad blood.”

  “So that might explain why Ford Cantrell was so hot under the collar in front of Oliver Dixon and Giovanni Loard,” murmured Theodosia.

  “Giovanni Loard,” giggled the old man suddenly. “Ain’t that a fancy new name. Fellow’s Christian name was George Lord. Guess he figured calling himself Giovanni would play better with the tourists. Or adding an a to his last name. Folks might mistake him for a real Southern gentleman.”

  “Do you know what the Dixons and Cantrells have been fighting over recently?” asked Theodosia.

  “You name it, they probably fight over it,” said Winston Lazerby. “Those two families have wrangled over business, over real estate, over women.” He shook his head. “Crazy.”

  Theodosia glanced up and saw that many of the residents had begun to move off toward their rooms. It was eight-thirty and getting late for these older folk.

  “Mr. Lazerby, could we talk again sometime?” Theodosia asked.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Come on over any time. You know where I live.” He gave her a wink.

  Warm breezes caressed her face and carried delicious scents for Earl Grey’s inquisitive nose as Theodosia sped home through the night, the windows of her Jeep Cherokee rolled down. She’d purchased the Jeep two years ago against the advice of Drayton and had immediately fallen in love with it.

  When summer’s heat and humidity hit full bore, wrapping Charleston in its smothering grip, Theodosia loved nothing better than to escape to the low country. Crashing down shady, narrow roads that were lush and overgrown with twining vines, she’d maneuver long-forgotten trails, confident in her Jeep’s nimbleness and four-wheel drive. There were old rice dikes to bump over and moss-covered mounds that were remnants of old, abandoned phosphate mines. In the tangle of sun-dappled woods and myriad meandering streams guarded by live oaks, those grand sentinels of the South, Theodosia would find cool refuge and tranquility.

  Tonight, however, Winston Lazerby’s words weighed heavily on her mind. As she flipped a left turn onto Beau-fain Street, past R. Pratt Antiques and Campbell’s Architectural Supply, Theodosia wondered if he had been correct in his recollection, wondered if perhaps there really was something to Mr. Lazerby’s story concerning a Dixon-Cantrell feud.

  Well, she decided, as she pulled the Jeep in close to the rear of her little building and eased into her parking spot, there’s only one way to find out. Do a little research.

  Above the tea shop, Theodosia had created a cozy little abode for herself. Filled with a mélange of antiques and choice hand-me-downs, it was an airy little apartment with windows that not only pushed open to catch the harbor breezes but also afforded a spectacular view up and down Church Street and across Meeting Street toward The Battery.

  While Earl Grey padded off to cuddle up on his bed, an oversized chintz cushion tucked into the corner of her bedroom, Theodosia fixed herself a cup of Orange Elixir tea. One of Drayton’s custom blends, Orange Elixir wasn’t really a tea per se, since it was not derived from Camellia sinensis, the tea plant. Rather, it was a delicious infusion of orange peel, hibiscus, gingko, and linden blossoms. Perfect for stimulating the mind but not the nerves.

  Sitting down at her spinet desk, Theodosia turned on her iMac and clicked on Netscape Navigator. When the site came up, she typed “Charleston Post and Courier” into the search engine.

  She took a sip of the flavorful fruit and herb drink and waited, hoping she’d be able to peruse their newspap
er morgue.

  No, the Post and Courier was archived back only to 1996. Theodosia tapped her fingers on the keyboard. What else could she try? The Heritage Society? Why not? They’d been around for well over a century, and their mission was to preserve written records as well as historic buildings and objects.

  Theodosia typed “www.charlestonheritagesociety.org” into the browser. Within seconds, the Heritage Society’s home page offered up a colorful photo montage of historical buildings and a menu with a dizzying array of choices.

  Theodosia studied that menu, then clicked on “Historical Records.”

  Another menu spun out before her listing “Deeds,” “Marriages,” “Maps and Plans,” “Military,” “Civil War,” “Ships’ Logs,” and “City Planning.”

  No, she told herself, the last thing I want to do is rummage, hit or miss, through hundreds of individual documents.

  Theodosia scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked on “Search.” Now she could type in the name Cantrell and, if it was mentioned somewhere on the Heritage Society’s Web site, the search engine would pull it up as a hit.

  Five hits came up, each with a one-line descriptor. The first three were duds as far as Theodosia was concerned, since they all dealt with someone named Cora Cantrell, who’d been a schoolteacher in the town of Eutaville during the late 1800s.

  Clicking on the fourth hit, Theo pulled up an article about the defunct Cantrell Canal that had been used by barges laden with indigo, cotton, and rice.

  The fifth hit was far more enlightening. This was a newspaper clipping from the Colton Telegraph, a defunct newspaper from a now-defunct village. The article chronicled an altercation that had taken place in 1892 between one Jeb Cantrell and one Stuart Dixon. During a duel in the woods near Pamlico Hill Plantation, Jeb Cantrell had shot Stuart Dixon to death.

  Were these two duelists the long-dead ancestors of Ford Cantrell and Oliver Dixon?

  Had to be.

  So this duel was perhaps the kindling that had sparked the nasty Dixon-Cantrell feud. Not a scandal concerning runaways from the two families like Winston Lazerby had thought. That had come later.

  Historical dueling had always sounded so romantic, mused Theodosia. And yet, the heads of these two families had tragically fought each another over some point of honor. And one had been mortally wounded.

  Theodosia lifted her eyes from the computer screen and stared across her living room at the moody seascape painting that hung above her fireplace.

  She thought about how history had taught so many cruel lessons, one of them being that families, tribes, and often countries are rarely able to surmount a blood feud. Rather, the feud perpetuates itself, growing like a foul mushroom in the dank recess of a forest, feeding off decay.

  Even when descendants are unclear about circumstances that led to the feud or had never personally known the ancestors who’d first spilled blood, these terrible blood feuds seemed to persist. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Theodosia stretched both arms over her head until she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. Then she placed her hands at the base of her neck and rubbed gently. If the Dixon-Cantrell feud was still going on—and hostility certainly seemed to have been roiling inside Ford Cantrell yesterday afternoon—then the whole situation certainly bore looking into.

  Shouldn’t Ford Cantrell be questioned? Not so much to ask him flat out if he’d somehow engineered an exploding pistol but to perhaps eliminate him as a suspect?

  Theodosia rose swiftly from her chair, walked to a pine cabinet that displayed a small, tasty collection of Wedge-wood, and pulled open one of the narrow drawers. Thumbing through a brown leather card case, Theodosia found Burt Tidwell’s business card. She held it between her thumb and index finger as she continued to turn her question over in her mind.

  Finally, she carried the card back to her computer, sat down, and composed a short E-mail message to Burt Tidwell. It was both an invitation and a request to stop by the Indigo Tea Shop tomorrow to discuss an important concern.

  She paused for a moment, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Then she clicked “Send.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “MARIAGE FRÈRES TEAS,” Theodosia told her three guests, “are blended in France. This particular tea, Mirabelle, is a Chinese black tea scented with the tiny but exquisite mirabelle plum that grows in northern France. Hence the mildly sweet aroma.”

  It was Drayton, for the most part, who conducted tea tastings. But this group of women, all women of a certain age and residents of the historic district, had specifically requested Theodosia’s assistance. The three had met her while serving on a committee for Charleston’s Garden Fest Tour and had been enthralled with Theodosia’s knowledge of tea, her vibrancy, and her sweet nature.

  That was just fine with Drayton this morning. Working as a backup for Haley, he’d been holding down the fort at the little table nearest the counter where the old cash register and various sweetgrass baskets filled with tea tins and tea goodies sat. Working diligently, he’d been able to put the finishing touches on all his ideas for summer teas.

  “Need any help?” he asked Haley as she brushed past him with a second plate of apple tartlets for a group of five giggling tea shop regulars who seemed to be enjoying their morning tea immensely.

  “Oh please,” said Haley as she put a hand on her hip and tossed her head. “This is child’s play.”

  Haley was incredibly task oriented and competitive, and once she’d decided to handle the morning’s customers single-handedly, it was woe to anyone who tried to interfere.

  “Just checking,” Drayton assured her. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  “Oh Drayton,” she commented dryly, “I love your oratorical excess, but not as much as you love my cranberry scones.” It was a pointed reference to the fact that Drayton had already consumed two of the giant pastries.

  “When you get to be my age, you don’t have to watch your girlish figure quite so much,” quipped Drayton.

  Drayton swiveled his head suddenly as Theodosia’s group of ladies rose from their chairs and headed his way. He got to his feet immediately and stepped deftly around the counter to face them. “Ladies,” he greeted them.

  “I am in need of a tea press,” said a lady in a yellow straw hat.

  “And I have several marvelous ones to show you,” replied Drayton as he plucked samples off the shelf and placed them on the counter.

  The other two ladies immediately picked up sweetgrass baskets and began to coo over them. “These are wonderful,” exclaimed one. “I had a sweetgrass basket that I used for years as a summer handbag. When it got tattered and worn, my granddaughter begged me to give it to her. She said they have some of these baskets on display at the Smithsonian.”

  “Indeed, they do,” proclaimed Drayton. “A collection of South Carolina sweetgrass baskets resides in the Smithsonian’s permanent collection, a fitting tribute to our low-country craftspeople.”

  Drayton held up one of the elegant, woven baskets that had been resting on the countertop. “These,” he said enticingly, “were made from a sweetgrass crop cultivated on Johns Island. Would any of you ladies care to take one home?”

  Two heads nodded, and Drayton beamed.

  “You’re a natural-born salesman, Drayton,” Theodosia told him with unabashed admiration as she sat down across from him. Even though they’d been together almost three years, she was still slightly in awe of Drayton’s prodigious sales talent. True, she had huckstered food products and computer peripherals on a national scale when she’d been in the advertising business. But selling one-on-one was still slightly disconcerting to her. She tended not to sell an item per se but, instead, let the item speak for itself.

  Theodosia reached a hand across the table and tapped the black leather-bound ledger that Drayton had come to regard as his bible. It contained most of his tea-tasting notes and all of his ideas for tea blends, special events, and tea promotions.

  “Y
ou’ve been working on the summer teas,” Theodosia said with appropriate seriousness.

  Drayton nodded.

  “Your White Point Green was certainly a hit at the picnic, so we’ll want to package that for sale,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton nodded again. “I agree. And I came up with one more iced tea.” He paused. “I call it Audubon Herbal, a tribute to our nearby Audubon Swamp Garden.”

  Theodosia nodded. “Where John Audubon chronicled South Carolina’s waterbirds.”

  “Right. The tea’s a scant amount of black tea with hibiscus, lemongrass, and chamomile added. Mild, refreshing, not too stimulating.”

  Theodosia’s eyes sparkled. “I like it. The tea and the tribute. What else?”

  “Two more teas that veer decidedly toward the exotic,” said Drayton. Then he added hastily, “But we’ve seen time and again that people like exotic teas.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me, Drayton.”

  “The first one I call Ashley River Royal. It’s a Ceylonese black tea with a pear essence.”

  “You’re right, it is exotic.”

  “No, this one’s the coup de grâce. Swan Lake Iris Gardens. Again, an homage to the elegant gardens that are home to . . . what? Seven species of swans? And you know how much everyone enjoys visiting the gardens in spring when the Dutch and Japanese iris are blooming.”

  “Of course,” said Theodosia. “And what’s the blend?”

  “Four different teas with a top note of smoky lopsang.”

  “Drayton, you’re not just going to capture the hearts of tea lovers, you’re going to endear yourself to bird lovers and gardeners, too. And in Charleston, that’s just about everyone.”

  “I know,” smiled Drayton.

  “Hey,” interrupted Haley, “we’re not going to package this stuff ourselves, are we? Remember last fall when we did holiday teas? My back gets sore just thinking about it.”

  “No, we’ll have Gallagher’s Food Service handle all that,” said Drayton. “Frankly, I thought it was fun when we all worked together, but apparently no one else shared my enthusiasm. You all seemed to have mutiny on your minds.”