Gunpowder Green Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  RECIPES FROM THE INDIGO TEA SHOP

  Praise

  Tea for Two

  “Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

  “And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Detective Tidwell. He smiled at her, then helped himself to an almond scone. “Lovely,” he muttered under his breath.

  He’s not given me an ounce of useful information, thought Theodosia. She sighed. Conversations with Tidwell were always of the cat-and-mouse variety.

  “You realize,” she began, “there is a long-standing feud between the Dixons and the Cantrells.” She watched him as her words sank in. He gave her nothing.

  “The feud began back in the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

  “Mm hmmm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention. She seized the moment.

  “Do you know much about antique pistols?”

  A Tea Shop Mystery Don’t miss the first novel in this charming series,

  Death by Darjeeling . . .

  Find out more about the author,

  her Tea Shop Mysteries, and her Scrapbooking

  Mysteries at www.laurachilds.com

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs

  Tea Shop Mysteries

  DEATH BY DARJEELING

  GUNPOWDER GREEN

  SHADES OF EARL GREY

  THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER

  THE JASMINE MOON MURDER

  CHAMOMILE MOURNING

  BLOOD ORANGE BREWING

  DRAGONWELL DEAD

  THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER

  Scrapbooking Mysteries

  KEEPSAKE CRIMES

  PHOTO FINISHED

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  MOTIF FOR MURDER

  FRILL KILL

  Anthology

  DEATH BY DESIGN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  GUNPOWDER GREEN

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2002

  Copyright © 2002 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-09995-7

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Kim Waltemyer; agent extraordinaire, Grace Morgan; publicity whiz, Julia Fleischaker; and the rest of the wonderful people at Berkley. Thanks, too, to my husband, Dr. Robert Poor, for all his ideas, suggestions, and support.

  CHAPTER 1

  THEODOSIA BROWNING REACHED up and removed the tortoiseshell clip that held her auburn locks tightly in place. As if on cue, the brisk wind from Charleston Harbor lifted her hair, just as it did the graceful, undulating flags that flew from the masts of the yachts bobbing in the harbor.

  It won’t be long now, Theodosia decided, shading her eyes against the brilliance of the midafternoon sun. Off in the distance, she could see dozens of sleek J-24s hurtling down the slot between Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. Masts straining, spinnakers billowing, the yachts and their four-man crews were fighting to capture every gust of wind, coaxing every bit of performance from their boats. Twenty minutes more, and the two hundred or so picnickers gathered here in White Point Gardens at the tip of Charleston’s historic peninsula would know the outcome of this year’s Isle of Palms Yacht Race.

  Theodosia noted that most of the picnickers had drawn into cozy little circles of conversation, lulled by the warm April weather, sated by an abundance of food and drink. There had been a crazed hubbub when the sailboats from the competing yacht clubs took off, of course: cheering throngs, glasses held high in toasts, and loud boasts from both sailing teams. But once the flotilla of sailboats had zigzagged their way across Charleston Harbor and rounded the outermost marker buoy on their way toward the Isle of Palms, they were out of sight.

  Which also meant out of mind.

  The remaining yacht club members, with their abundance of friends, families, and well-wishers, most of whom lived in the elegant Georgian, Federal, and Victorian homes in the nearby historic district, had settled down to a merry romp in the verdan
t gardens that made Charleston’s Battery so utterly appealing.

  As proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop, located just a few short blocks away on Church Street, Theodosia had been invited to cater this “tea by the sea” for the Charleston Yacht Club, the host for this year’s race. She’d been pleased that Drayton Conneley and Haley Parker, her dear friends and employees, had displayed their usual over-the-top creativity in event and menu planning, and had enthusiastically jumped into the fray to lend a hand on this spectacularly beautiful Sunday afternoon.

  Gulls wheeled gracefully overhead, and fat, pink clouds scudded across the horizon as Theodosia cinched her apron tighter about her slim waist and let her eyes rove across the two long tables that were draped with white linen tablecloths and laden with refreshments. Satisfied that everything was near perfect, Theodosia’s broad, intelligent face with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose finally assumed a look of repose.

  Yes, it was perfect, Theodosia told herself. Wire baskets held golden breadsticks, while fresh cracked crab claws rested on platters of shaved ice. Smoked salmon on miniature bagels was garnished with cream cheese and candied ginger. And the chocolate-dipped strawberries with crème fraîche were . . . oh my . . . disappearing at an alarming rate.

  Hoisting a silver pitcher, Theodosia poured out a stream of pungent yellow green iced tea into a glass filled with crushed ice. She took a sip and savored the brisk, thirst-quenching blend of Chinese gunpowder green tea and fresh mint.

  Drayton Conneley, her assistant and master tea blender, had created the tea especially for this race-day picnic. The Chinese gunpowder green tea was aptly named since, once dried, the tiny leaves curled up into small, tight pellets resembling gunpowder, unfurling only when subjected to boiling water. The fresh mint had been plucked yesterday from her aunt Libby’s garden out in South Carolina’s low country.

  Theodosia had decided to name the new tea White Point Green, a nod to the tea’s debut today in White Point Gardens. And judging from the number of pitchers that had already been consumed, this tea would definitely be packaged up and offered for sale in her tea shop.

  “Your table reminds me of a still life by Cézanne: poetic, elegant, almost too beautiful to eat.” Delaine Dish, owner of the Cotton Duck Clothing Shop, hovered at Theodosia’s elbow. Her long, raven-colored hair was wound up in a Psyche knot atop her head, accenting her heart-shaped face.

  Theodosia sighed inwardly. Cotton Duck was just a few doors down from the Indigo Tea Shop, and Delaine, though a kindhearted soul and true dynamo when it came to volunteering for civic and social events, was also the acknowledged neighborhood gossip.

  “I mean it, Theodosia, this is an amazing bounty,” cooed Delaine. Ever the fashion plate, Delaine was turned out today in a robin’s egg blue silk blouse and elegant tapered cream slacks.

  Theodosia wiped her hands on her apron and peeked down at Delaine’s feet. They were shod in dyed-to-match robin’s egg blue python flats. Of course Delaine would be coordinated, Theodosia decided. She was always coordinated.

  Dipping an enormous ripe strawberry into a bowl of crème fraîche, Delaine stood with the luscious fruit poised inches from her mouth. “Did you ever think of switching to full-time catering, Theodosia?” she said as if the thought had just struck like a bolt from the blue. “Because you’d be brilliant at it.”

  “Abandon my tea shop? No, thank you,” Theodosia declared fervently, for she had literally created the Indigo Tea Shop from the ground up. Starting with a somewhat dreary and abandoned little shop on Church Street, she had stripped away layers of grime and decades of ill-advised improvements such as cork tile, fluorescent lights, and linoleum. Somewhere along the way, Theodosia’s vision took hold with a vengeance, and she sketched and dreamed and haunted antique shops for just the right fixtures and accoutrements until the results yielded a gem of a shop. Now her little tea shop exuded an elegant, old-world charm. Pegged wooded floors highlighted exposed beams and brick walls. Antique tables and chairs, porcelain teapots, and copper teakettles added to the rich patina and keen sense of history.

  Floor-to-ceiling wooden cubbyholes held tins and glass jars filled with loose teas. Coppery munnar from the southern tip of India, floral keeman from China’s Anhui province, a peaches and honey-flavored Formosan oolong. All the tea in China, as Drayton often remarked with pride. Plus teas from Japan, Tibet, Nepal, Turkey, Indonesia, and Africa. Even South Carolina was represented here with their marvelous, rich American Classic tea grown on the Charleston Tea Plantation, just twenty-five miles south on the subtropical island of Wadmalaw.

  The tea shop had been Theodosia’s exit strategy from the cutthroat world of media and marketing. She’d spent fourteen years in client services, years that had taken their toll. She grew exhausted working for others and not for herself. Theodosia was determined never to climb aboard that merry-go-round again.

  “I bet you’d make more money in catering,” cajoled Delaine. “Think of all the social tête-à-têtes that go on here in Charleston.”

  “A foray into food service just isn’t for me,” said Theodosia. “I’ve got my hands full just running the tea shop. Plus our Web site is up, and Internet sales have been surprisingly brisk. Of course, Drayton is constantly blending new teas to add to our line, and he’s making plans to offer specialty tea events, too.”

  “Pray tell, what are specialty tea events?” asked Delaine.

  “Chamber music teas, bridal shower teas, mystery teas—”

  “A mystery tea!” exclaimed Delaine. “What’s that?”

  “Come and find out,” invited Theodosia. “Drayton’s got one planned for next Saturday evening.”

  Theodosia knew that she and Delaine Dish were a breed apart. She had abandoned the fast track of competing for clients and was deliciously satisfied with the little oasis of calm her tea shop afforded her. Delaine, on the other hand, thrived on spotting new trends and employed sharklike techniques with customers. When a woman walked into Cotton Duck for a new blouse, Delaine had a knack for sending her home with a skirt, shoes, handbag, and jewelry, too. And if Delaine had really worked up a full head of steam that day, the woman’s purchase would probably include a couple of silk scarves.

  “Hello, Drayton,” purred Delaine as Drayton Conneley, Theodosia’s right-hand man, approached, bearing a silver tray. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

  Drayton Conneley arranged his face in a polite smile for Delaine, exchanging air kisses with her even as he raised an eyebrow at Theodosia.

  “I was telling Delaine about your upcoming mystery tea,” explained Theodosia.

  “Of course.” Drayton set his tray down and grasped Delaine’s hands in a friendly gesture. “You must come,” he urged her.

  Theodosia smiled to herself. Drayton could schmooze with the best of them. But then again, he’d had years of experience. Drayton had worked as a tea trader in Amsterdam, where the world’s major tea auctions were held. He had been hospitality director at a very prestigious Charleston inn until she’d talked him into coming to work for her. And Drayton Conneley was currently on the board of directors for the Charleston Heritage Society.

  Of course, what Drayton did best was conduct tea tastings, educating their guests on the many varieties of tea and their steeping times, helping them understand little tea nuances such as bake, oxidation, and fermentation.

  As much as Theodosia knew the tea shop was her creation, she often felt that Drayton was the engine that drove it. And, at sixty-one years of age, he reveled in his role as elder statesman.

  Delaine reached out and brushed her French-manicured fingertips across the lapels of Drayton’s sport coat. “Egyptian linen. Nice.” She threw an approving glance toward Theodosia. “You can always tell a gentleman by the way he’s turned out,” she drawled.

  “Drayton’s straight from the pages of Town and Country ,” Theodosia agreed wryly, knowing that Delaine’s affectations were beginning to set Drayton’s teeth on edge.

  “Theo, a
re there any more cucumber and lobster salad sandwiches?” asked Drayton as he rummaged through the wicker picnic hampers and coolers that had been stuck under the tables. “Oh, never mind, here they are.” Drayton pulled out a fresh tray of the tiny, artfully prepared sandwiches. “We’ve been getting requests. And”—he paused, the first real look of genuine pleasure on his face—“would you believe it, Lolly Lauder just located an artisan from Savannah who assures her he can restore the molded wooden cornices on her portico and still preserve their integrity!”

  Drayton adjusted his bow tie, smiled perfunctorily at the two women, then sped off, eager to exchange architectural gossip. He looked, Theodosia thought to herself, all the world like the perpetually hurried and harried White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

  Besides tea and gardening, Drayton’s mission in life was historical preservation, and he enjoyed nothing better than to share tales of tuck pointing and tabby walls with his friends and neighbors who lived in the elegant old mansions that lined Charleston’s Battery. Drayton himself lived in a tiny but historically accurate Civil War-era home just blocks from White Point Gardens.

  “Do you see who’s sitting over there?” asked Delaine in a low voice. Her violet eyes were fairly glimmering, her perfectly waxed brows arched expectantly.

  Theodosia had been busy refilling tea pitchers and arranging more strawberries on the platter. “Delaine,” she said, struggling to keep her sense of humor, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been working, not socializing.”

  “No need to get snippy, dear. Just look over my shoulder and to your left. No, a little more left. There. Do you see them? That’s Doe Belvedere and Oliver Dixon.”