Gunpowder Green

by Laura Childs

  Drayton peered at the photo. “That’s Billy Manolo, the fellow we saw getting chewed out this morning by Booth Crowley.”

  “Hmm,” mused Haley. “He looks kind of tough. You know, work-with-your-bare-hands kind of tough.”

  “He’s the one who set up the table and borrowed the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

  “So he handled the box with the pistol in it,” said Haley.

  Theodosia thought about it. “Probably. Then again, several people did. Booth Crowley, the fellow Bob Brewster, who Tidwell told us did the actual loading of the gun, and probably a few people at the clubhouse.”

  “How about Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid?” said Drayton.

  “You don’t think they wanted to do away with their own father, do you?” asked Haley.

  “I don’t know,” said Theodosia slowly. Brock and Quaid didn’t seem like viable suspects, certainly not as viable as Doe. On the other hand, Billy Manolo could be in the running, too. He had, after all, been seen handling the box that contained the mysterious exploding pistol.

  Could he have tampered with the pistol? she wondered. Billy certainly would have had easy access. He worked at the clubhouse and did maintenance on the boats. It’s possible he could have resented Oliver Dixon for any number of reasons. They could have had an argument or some misunderstanding. Of course, the big question was, why had Billy Manolo shown up at Oliver Dixon’s funeral at all? Had he come to gloat? Or simply to mourn?

  Theodosia reached out with both hands, pulled all the printouts to her, tamped them into one neat stack like a deck of playing cards.

  One thing she knew for certain. She had to get this tablecloth analyzed.

  “Theodosia,” said Drayton in a cautionary tone, “if this should lead to something more, I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way. A man has been killed. What we all took to be an accident, what the police took to be an accident, could just be a clever charade.”

  “Maybe I need to speak with Timothy Neville again,” said Theodosia.

  “He knows more about antique pistols than anyone I know,” agreed Drayton.

  And so does Ford Cantrell, interestingly enough, thought Theodosia.

  “Hey, give me that!” Haley suddenly snatched the tablecloth from where it lay balled up on the table. “Turn those printouts over,” she ordered as she suddenly caught sight of a familiar face outside the window. “Delaine is heading for the door!” Haley warned as she scrambled for the back room.

  Theodosia flipped the printouts facedown in a mad rush and flutter as Delaine Dish pushed through the door of the Indigo Tea Shop.

  “Theodosia, Drayton, I’m so glad you’re both still here, I have the most wonderful news,” she gushed.

  “What’s that, Delaine?” said Theodosia. She put a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart.

  “Alicia Abbot’s seal point Siamese had kittens a few weeks ago, and she’s giving me one!”

  “That’s wonderful, Delaine.” Theodosia knew that when Delaine’s ancient calico cat, Calvin, died almost a year ago, Delaine had been bereft. It had taken her a long time to get over Calvin’s death.

  “What are you going to call him? Or is it a her?” asked Haley as she emerged from the back, empty-handed now.

  “It’s a little boy kitty,” smiled Delaine. “And I haven’t settled on a name yet. Maybe Calvin II?”

  “Catchy,” said Haley.

  “Or Calvin Deux,” added Drayton, giving Haley a cautionary look as he scooped up the printouts and headed for Theodosia’s office in back.

  “Maybe I’ll just call him Deux,” said Delaine. “I don’t know. What do you think, Theodosia? You were in advertising. You used to come up with names for all those products. And you dream up such wonderful names for all your teas.” Delaine moved across the tea shop and peered at a row of silver tea canisters. She began reading off labels. “Copper River Cranberry, Tea Thymes, Lemon Zest, Black Frost . . .”

  So that’s what this is all about, thought Theodosia. Naming her cat.

  “Let me think about it,” said Theodosia. “I’ll knock it around with Drayton, too. He’s really good at that kind of thing,” she added, noting that Haley had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle.

  But Delaine wasn’t ready to leave just yet. She hung around the tea shop, finally forcing Haley to offer her a cup of tea and a shortbread cookie.

  “It’s nice you can be gone from your store so long,” said Haley.

  “Oh, Janine’s taking care of things. Besides, business is slow today. I think it’s fixing to storm. The sky was so blue this morning, and now it’s starting to cloud up.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s not going to rain. My hair will frizz.”

  “Mine, too,” remarked Haley, patting her stick-straight brown locks.

  “Theo, you went to the service this morning, right?”

  “Yes, Delaine.”

  “Heard anything more about that awful Cantrell fellow?”

  “Just that he’s turned his plantation into a hunting preserve.”

  “A hunting preserve? That sounds awful,” said Delaine. “Killing poor, defenseless animals.” She shuddered. “That’s a terrible thing. Makes a person upset just hearing about it.”

  Theodosia smiled sympathetically, but she also knew that many Southerners grew up with a shotgun clutched in their hot little hands. Shooting varmints was a rite of passage in the South. She’d certainly done it herself and, while she no longer chose to hunt, she wasn’t about to condemn those who did.

  “Besides,” said Delaine, still outraged at Ford Cantrell’s new enterprise, “isn’t that a concept at odds with itself? Hunting and preserve?”

  “Like educational TV,” said Haley. “No such thing, really.”

  “Or army intelligence,” added Delaine, with a giggle. “Oh, ladies, I could sit here and chat for hours, but I really have to get back to the store now.”

  “Bye, Delaine,” said Theodosia.

  “Whew,” said Haley after she’d left. “That lady can really take it out of you.”

  CHAPTER 15

  RAIN SPATTERED DOWN in oversized droplets, drumming on roofs and turning city streets and sidewalks into miniature levees. Colorful horse-drawn carriages that plied the markets, antique district, and historic sites were abandoned as tourists sought shelter by the droves in shops and cafés.

  From the steamed-up confines of her car, Theodosia punched in the phone number for the tea shop.

  Drayton picked up on the second ring. “Indigo Tea Shop, Drayton speaking.”

  “Drayton? It’s Theodosia. How are things going?” Theodosia had decided she’d better check in and make sure everything was running smoothly at the tea shop. Now she held her cell phone up to her ear while she drove one-handed through the pelting rain. It wasn’t easy. Her defrosters didn’t seem to be doing the job, the Jeep’s windshield was hopelessly fogged, and traffic was in a nasty snarl.

  “We’re busy,” said Drayton. “Lots of tourists trying to wait out the storm, but nothing we can’t handle. Where are you? Better yet, are you coming in?”

  But Theodosia had one thing on her mind. “Drayton, remember Haley’s schmutz?” she asked excitedly.

  “The tablecloth,” Drayton said with an edge to his voice. “Oh dear, I was afraid that’s what your little errand was about.” He sighed disapprovingly. “What exactly did you do with the ghastly thing?”

  “Remember Professor Morrow?”

  “Morrow . . . Morrow . . . the botany professor at the University of Charleston?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “As I recall, you spoke quite highly of him when you took his classes. Back when you were still a tea initiate.”

  “He’s agreed to analyze the tablecloth,” said Theodosia. There was a note of triumph in her voice.

  “What has poor Morrow gotten himself into?” asked Drayton. “Did you persuade him to turn his botany lab into a crime lab?”

  “No, but h
e’s got the same electron microscopes and apparatus for analyzing bits of metal or soil samples that a crime lab does. Let’s just say I’m curious about whether what’s on that tablecloth is animal, vegetable, or mineral.”

  “And poor, unsuspecting Professor Morrow has agreed to do this for you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t lose his tenure over this,” said Drayton.

  “That’s being a trifle overdramatic, don’t you think?”

  “Overdramatic, my dear Theodosia, is looking for murder at every twist and turn.”

  “Drayton, I knew this call would cheer me up. Oh, would you look at that!”

  “Theodosia, please tell me you didn’t sideswipe someone,” Drayton cried with alarm.

  “Hang on a minute.” There was silence for a few moments, then Theodosia came back on the line. “You know where George Street crosses King Street?”

  “Yes,” said Drayton. “Of course.”

  “I just passed Loard Antiquarian Shop. I’m going to run in. Pay Giovanni Loard a surprise visit. Do a little snooping.”

  “Then you’ll be back?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”

  “Well, when you see Giovanni, tell him my friend authenticated the teapot. Definitely an Edgefield, estimated worth between eight and twelve hundred.”

  “Okay, Drayton. Bye.”

  Theodosia came around the block again, swerved across a lane of traffic, and headed, nose first, into a vacant parking space. It was pure impulse that had made her decide to stop in and pay Giovanni Loard a visit. And luck, she noted, that the rain had let up slightly, allowing her a chance to make a mad dash from her Jeep to the antique shop.

  Loard Antiquarian Shop was one of over three-dozen antique shops in a two-block area. Situated on the first floor of a three-story Italianate red-brick building, the large front display window was filled with seventeenth-and eighteenth-century English furniture as well as a tasty selection of majolica, pewter, and antique clocks. The name, Loard Antiquarian Shop, was painted prominently on the window in ornate gold script.

  Giovanni Loard looked up hopefully as the bell over the front door rang merrily. He had been touting the merits of an antique brass spyglass to a woman from West Ashley for almost half an hour now, and she still showed no hint of wanting to buy. The woman had come in searching for a “fun” anniversary gift for her stockbroker husband and had alternately been captivated by an antique clock, a carved wooden box and, finally, the brass spyglass.

  Business had been slow lately, and the brass spyglass, purchased at an estate sale in Summerville for 85 dollars, would yield a tasty profit with its new price tag of 450 dollars.

  When Giovanni recognized Theodosia, a smile creased his handsome face.

  “Miss Browning,” he called out. “Be with you in a moment.”

  Giovanni turned back to the lady from West Ashley. “Perhaps you want to think it over.” He reached for the brass spyglass, but the woman, sensing another customer behind her, a customer who perhaps might be interested in the very same piece, suddenly made up her mind.

  “I’ll take it,” she declared. “It’s perfect.”

  Giovanni nodded. “An excellent choice, ma’am. I’m sure your husband will be thoroughly delighted.”

  Giovanni accepted the woman’s MasterCard and zipped it through his machine. What luck, he thought to himself, that Theodosia Browning walked in when she did. So often, customers were pushed into purchasing when it became apparent they would no longer enjoy a shopkeeper’s undivided attention.

  While Giovanni finished up with his customer, Theodosia wandered about the shop. She paused to admire a small collection of Coalport porcelain and a tray of vintage watches. It was a nice enough shop, she decided, but the inventory seemed a trifle thin. Hard times? she wondered. Or just an owner who preferred a few tasty items to the usual overdone pastiche of furniture, silver, rugs, candle-sticks, and porcelains? On the other hand, in a town that was almost wall-to-wall antique shops, it must be awfully hard to remain competitive.

  “Hello again.” Giovanni Loard turned his hundred-watt smile on Theodosia once he’d shown his customer to the door.

  “I was just driving past and spotted your sign,” said Theodosia. “I decided this was the day to come in and look at those paintings I’ve heard so much about.”

  “For that special wall,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Theodosia, smiling back at him and wondering why she suddenly felt like she was playing a role in a drawing room comedy.

  Giovanni Loard beckoned with an index finger. “Back here,” he told her. “In my office.”

  Theodosia followed him obediently to the back of the store, waited as he unlatched a door, then stepped into a small wood-paneled office.

  “Wow,” was all she said.

  The office was relatively small, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, but its walls were covered with gleaming oil paintings. There were portraits, landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes. Some were dreamy and ethereal, others were incredibly realistic. All were exceedingly well done.

  “What a lovely collection. Why don’t you have some of these paintings on display in your shop?” she asked.

  He shrugged with what seemed feigned indifference. “Once in a while I do,” he said, and reached forward to straighten a small landscape painting that was slightly crooked. “But mostly, I keep them in here to admire for myself. And to save the very best pieces for special customers.

  “This one . . .” Giovanni extended an arm pointed toward a small gem of a portrait. “This one reminds me of you.”

  Theodosia gazed at the painting, mindful of Giovanni’s gaze upon her. The painting was of a woman in a full-skirted, corseted dress reclining on a chaise. The style invoked the antebellum period and the predominant colors were muted pinks and purples, with alabaster skin tones.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Theodosia. The painting was a beauty, but there was an ethereal quality about it that was oddly disquieting.

  “Thank you for coming to the funeral yesterday,” Giovanni said, changing the subject abruptly. “I saw you during the service, but with everyone milling about afterward, we never did get a chance to say hello.”

  “How is Doe holding up?” asked Theodosia.

  “Better than expected,” replied Giovanni. “Her friends and family are being very supportive, and she’s a brave girl, although I have to say, she’s feeling a tremendous amount of frustration about the ineptitude and total inactivity of the police. They’ve gone absolutely nowhere in their investigation.”

  “Is there somewhere to go?” asked Theodosia.

  Giovanni lifted an eyebrow. “They took Ford Cantrell in for questioning.”

  “I take it you’re fairly convinced that Ford Cantrell somehow tampered with the pistol?” said Theodosia.

  “Yes, I am,” said Giovanni. “I simply don’t believe it was an accident.”

  “Could someone else have tampered with it?”

  Giovanni frowned as though the idea had never occurred to him. “I can’t think of another soul who would have wanted to harm Oliver Dixon.”

  “Oliver Dixon was heavily involved in a new start-up company,” said Theodosia. “There could have been someone who did not want him to succeed.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Giovanni. “Oliver was a truly brilliant and gifted man. The ideas he was bringing to Grapevine would have helped revolutionize how people use PDAs.” He paused. “Or so I’m told. I, unfortunately, function at a relatively low technology level. The fax machine is about the most I can manage,” he added ruefully.

  “But it sounds like there was a tremendous amount at stake,” said Theodosia. “Competition in business has been known to trigger volatile deeds. A fearful competitor, angry supplier, skittish investor . . . any one of them could have resented Oliver Dixon mightily.”

  “Highly doubtful,” said Giovanni. “As you may or may not know, Booth Crowley was Grape
vine’s major underwriter, and he’s known to have an impeccable reputation around here.”

  “I’m sure he does,” said Theodosia, wondering if Giovanni had also witnessed Booth Crowley’s over-the-top display of anger yesterday. “However,” she continued, “that doesn’t mean someone didn’t have it in personally for Oliver Dixon.”

  Giovanni’s face clouded. “I suppose you could be right,” he conceded.

  “Too bad about the disturbance yesterday.”

  “Pardon?” said Giovanni. He’d turned his gaze toward the painting he’d indicated had reminded him so much of Theodosia.

  “At the funeral. The somewhat ugly scene between Booth Crowley and a fellow named Billy Manolo. Do you know him? Billy, I mean?”

  “No, not really. Well, only by reputation. Fellow does odd jobs at the yacht club, I believe.”

  “Do you think he could have had a grudge against Oliver Dixon?”

  “I don’t see how he could have,” said Giovanni in a condescending tone. “I mean, the man was hired help. They didn’t exactly mix on the same social level.”

  That’s precisely the reason why Billy Manolo might carry a grudge, Theodosia thought to herself.

  Giovanni drew a deep breath, let it out, concentrated on trying to refocus his energy and his smile. “Shall I hold the painting for you?” he asked brightly.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Theodosia.

  CHAPTER 16

  “I’VE BEEN WATCHING the weather channel, and it looks like there’s a storm moving in,” said Jory Davis. “There is,” agreed Theodosia. After five days in New York, Jory had finally phoned her. “It’s been raining all day, and everything just seems to be building in intensity. Something’s definitely brewing out in the mid-Atlantic. I spoke with Drayton earlier, and he’s worried sick that all the flowers will get blown about and smashed. Which means next week’s Garden Fest will be an absolute bust.”

  Theodosia was cozied up in her apartment above the tea shop. Even though it was Friday evening, it was far too rainy and miserable to contemplate going out anywhere.