Gunpowder Green Page 13

  “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.”

  “Isn’t this cozy? I had no idea you all knew each other.” Delaine Dish had slipped across the room and now raised a thin, penciled brow at Theodosia. She seemed to be waiting expectantly for some sort of explanation. Theodosia wondered how much Delaine had overheard.

  “Hello, Delaine,” said Lizbeth pleasantly. “Nice to see you again. Theodosia and I are getting pretty excited about the upcoming Spoleto Festival. She and I are both serving on committees.”

  “Spoleto,” purred Delaine. “Yes, that does happen soon, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s my third year on the ticket committee,” said Lizbeth smoothly.

  “The ticket committee,” said Delaine in her maddening, parrotlike manner. “Sounds terribly interesting.”

  “It is,” said Lizbeth, ignoring the fact that Delaine’s comments, delivered in a bored, flat tone, implied it wasn’t interesting at all. “As you probably know, tickets for the various Spoleto arts events are sold in packages.”

  “Mn-hm.” Delaine leaned in close and narrowed her eyes.

  “And our committee works out the various pairings.” Lizbeth ducked her head and grinned, and Theodosia could see that she was having a little fun with Delaine now. “Actually,” continued Lizbeth, “it’s kind of like seating guests at a dinner party. You try to pair the interesting ones with the shy ones. In this case, we pair the real blockbuster events with some of the events that people might perceive as sleepers but are, of course, really quite stimulating.”

  “What a quaint analogy,” murmured Delaine.

  “Delaine, come have your tea leaves read.” Drayton appeared at Delaine’s elbow. “Be a darling and go first, would you?” he whispered to her. “Help break the ice for the other guests.”

  Theodosia grinned as Delaine reluctantly allowed herself to be led over to Madame Hildegarde, a sixtyish woman in a flowing purple caftan, who was now ensconced at the small table next to the fireplace.

  Some forty minutes later, most
everyone had departed. Angie Congdon, who owned the Featherbed House, one of the most popular B and Bs on The Battery, shared the honors for correctly guessing the murderer along with Tom Wigley, one of Drayton’s friends from the Heritage Society.

  “Drayton,” Haley urged, “you come have your tea leaves read.”

  “Oh, all right,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “Don’t be such a curmudgeon,” Haley scolded as she slid her chair over to make room for Drayton. “Madame Hildegarde just told me I was going to meet someone verrry interesting. Maybe she’ll have something equally exciting for you.”

  “Maybe she’ll predict when this storm will end and I can get out and work in my garden,” fretted Drayton.

  Madame Hildegarde gazed at Drayton with hawklike gray eyes. “Drayton doesn’t care for prognostication,” she said with a heavy accent. “Doesn’t want to look ahead, only behind.” She laughed heartily, taking a friendly jab at his penchant for all things historical.

  “You know how it works,” Madame Hildegarde told him as she poured a fresh cup of tea. “Your teacup represents the vastness of the sky, the tea leaves are the stars and the myriad possibilities. Drink your tea.” She motioned with her hand. “And turn the cup upside down. Then I read.”

  Drayton complied as the remaining guests gathered round him to watch.

  “An audience,” he joked. “Just what I don’t need.”

  But Lizbeth Cantrell and her aunt Millicent, Theodosia, Delaine Dish, and Miss Dimple and her brother crowded around him, anyway. The rain was pelting against the windows now, and there was no question of leaving until it let up some.

  “You want to ask a question or just have me read?” Madame Hildegarde asked Drayton.

  “Just read,” he said. “Give it to me straight.”

  “Oh,” cooed Miss Dimple, “this is so interesting.”

  Madame Hildegarde flipped over Drayton’s cup and carefully studied the leaves that clung to the bottom inside the white porcelain cup.

  “Oh, oh, a love triangle,” joked Haley.

  Madame Hildegarde held up a hand. “No. The leaves predict change. A big change is coming.”

  Drayton frowned. “Change. Goodness me, I certainly hope not. I detest change.”

  Madame Hildegarde was undeterred. “Change,” she said again. “Tea leaves don’t lie. Especially not tonight.”

  Drayton cleared his throat somewhat uneasily. “Someone else try,” he urged. He was obviously unhappy being the center of attention and having a spotlight placed on his future.

  “I’ll try,” volunteered Lizbeth Cantrell.

  “Excellent,” said Drayton as he slipped out of his chair and relinquished it to Lizbeth Cantrell. “Another brave soul hoping to have her future divined.”

  Madame Hildegarde poured a small cup of tea and passed it over to Lizbeth. She drank it quickly, then, without waiting to be told, flipped the teacup upside down and pushed it toward Madame Hildegarde.

  “I’d like to ask a question,” she said.

  Madame Hildegarde locked eyes with Lizbeth as the fire crackled and hissed behind her. “Go ahead,” she urged.

  Theodosia held her breath. In that split second, she knew what was coming. She knew what Lizbeth Cantrell was going to ask. And she wished with all her heart that she wouldn’t. Because, deep inside, Theodosia was afraid of what Madame Hildegarde’s answer would be.

  “Who killed Oliver Dixon?” Lizbeth Cantrell asked in a whisper.

  A hush fell over the room. Madame Hildegarde reached for the cup, her opal ring dancing with fire, and began to turn the cup over slowly.

  As she did, the tea shop was plunged into sudden darkness.

  A heavy thump at the front door was followed by a loud crash. Then Haley screamed, “Someone’s at the window!”

  “What’s happening?” shrieked Miss Dimple. “What was that noise? Where are the lights?”

  A second crash sounded, this time right at Theodosia’s feet.

  “No one move,” commanded Theodosia as she began to pick her way gingerly across the room. Guided by the flickering firelight and her familiarity with the tea shop, she headed unerringly toward the counter. “There’s a lantern behind the cash register,” she told everyone. “Give me a moment and I’ll get it.”

  Within seconds, the lantern flared, illuminating the tea shop like a weak torchère and catching everyone with surprised looks on their faces.

  Haley immediately rushed to the door and threw it open. There was no one there.

  “They’re gone,” she said, confusion written on her face.

  “Who’s gone?” asked Theodosia as she came up behind her and peered out. Up and down Church Street not a single light shone. The entire street was eerily dark.

  “The shadow, the person, whatever was here,” Haley said. “It just vanished.”

  “Like a ghost,” said Miss Dimple in a tremulous voice.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” spoke Drayton.

  “It looked like a ghost,” said Miss Dimple rather insistently. “I saw something at the window just before we heard that thump. It was kind of wavery and transparent. Did you see it, too, Haley?”

  Haley continued to gaze out into the street, a frown creasing her face. “Someone was here,” she declared.

  Theodosia spun about and turned her gaze on Madame Hildegarde. “The teacup, what was the answer in the teacup?” she asked.

  Madame Hildegarde pointed toward the floor and, in the dim light, Theodosia could see shattered fragments strewn across the wood planks.

  “Gone.” Madame Hildegarde shook her head with regret. “All gone.”

  CHAPTER 21

  SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED with swirls of pink and gold painting the sky. The rain had finally abated, and the few clouds remaining seemed like wisps of cotton that had been tightly wrung out.

  The slight haze that hung over Charleston Harbor would probably burn off by noon, but by ten A.M., tourists who’d been hunkered down in inns, hotels, and bed-and-breakfasts throughout the historic district, fretting mightily that their weekend in Charleston might be a total washout, began emerging in droves. They meandered the sidewalks, taking in the historic houses and antique shops. They shopped the open air market and bought strong, steaming cups of chicory coffee from vendors. And they strolled cobblestone lanes to gaze upon the Powder Magazine, one of the oldest public buildings in the Carolinas, and Cabbage Row, the quaint area that inspired Porgy and Bess, George and Ira Gershwin’s beloved folk opera.

  Whipping along Highway 700, the Mayfield Highway, in her Jeep, Theodosia was headed for the low-country. She told herself she was making a Sunday visit to her aunt Libby’s, but she also knew she’d probably do a drive-by of Ford Cantrell’s place, too. Sneak a peak, see what all this game ranch fuss was about.

  Earl Grey sat complacently beside her in the passenger seat, his long ears flapping in the wind, velvet muzzle poked out the open window as he drank in all manner of intoxicating scents.

  With all this sunshine and fine weather, the events of last night seemed almost distant to Theodosia. Of course, even after the power had come back on some ten minutes later, Haley had insisted that someone had been lurking outside. And Miss Dimple had clung hopefully to her notion that a ghost, possibly induced by all the psychic energy they’d generated, had paid them all a visit last night.

  Theodosia was fairly sure that if anything had been at the window last night, it had been a window peeper. A real person. Which begged the question, Who in his right mind would be sneaking about on a cold, rainy night, peeping in windows?

  On the other hand, maybe the person hadn’t been in his right mind. Last night’s peeper could have been angry, worried, or just frantically curious about someone who’d been attending the mystery tea.

  Theodosia frowned and, just above her eyebrows, tiny lines creased her fair skin. Then she made a hard right, jouncing onto County Road 6, and her facial muscles relaxed. She was suddenly engulfed in a tangle of forest,
a multihued tapestry of green.

  Years ago, more than 150 thousand low-country acres had served as prime rice-growing country, producing the creamy short-grain rice that had been Carolina gold. Fields had alternately been flooded and drained as seasons changed and the cycle of planting, growing, and harvesting took place. Remnants of old rice dikes and canals were still visible in some places, green humps and gentle indentations overgrown now by creeping vines of Carolina jessamine and enormous hedges of azaleas.

  Many of these rice fields had also reverted to swampland, providing ideal habitat for ducks, pheasants, and herons. And over the years, hurricanes and behemoth storm surges, the most recent wrought by Hurricane Hugo in 1989, had forged new courses in many of the low-country creeks and streams.

  As a child visiting her aunt Libby, Theodosia had explored many of the low-country’s tiny waterways in a bateau, or flat-bottomed boat. Poling her way along, she had often dabbled a fishing line into the water and, when luck was with her, returned home with a nice redfish or jack crevalle.

  “Aunt Libby!” Theodosia waved wildly at the small, silver-haired woman who stood on the crest of the hill gazing toward a sparkling pond.

  “You’ve brought the good weather with you,” said Libby Revelle as she greeted her niece. “And none too soon. Hello there, Earl Gray.” She reached down and patted the dog, who spun excitedly in circles. “Come to tree my poor possums?”

  Libby Revelle, who loved all manner of beast and bird, spent much of her time feeding wild birds and setting out cracklins and pecan meal for the raccoons, foxes, possums, and rabbits that lived in the swamps and pine forests around her old plantation, Cane Ridge. Of course, when Earl Grey paid a visit, the critters she had so patiently coaxed and cajoled suddenly went into hiding and all her goodwill gestures went up in smoke.

  Theodosia put her arm around Libby as they started toward the main house. Theodosia’s father, Macalester Browning, had grown up here at Cane Ridge, and her parents had lived here when they were first married.