Gunpowder Green Read online

  Theodosia nodded, amused by the sheriff’s peevishness. She knew there was a maze of rivers and inlets and swamps to navigate out here. Lots of back country that only the locals were familiar with. “They’d have to know this territory pretty well,” she said.

  “Sure would,” agreed the sheriff.

  “Sheriff Billings, if it is smugglers, what would they be bringing in?” asked Theodosia.

  “If it is smugglers, most likely goods from somewhere in the Caribbean. Booze, cigars, cigarettes. Folks just love to avoid that federal excise tax.” The sheriff peered down over the embankment. “You find anything down there, Buford?” he hollered to his deputy.

  “Nothin’,” the deputy yelled back. “Seen a darn cotton-mouth, though.”

  “Well, leave it be,” advised the sheriff.

  CHAPTER 22

  “ALL YOU SERVE is tea?” asked the young woman with a frown.

  “Come on,” said her companion, a young man in blue jeans and a Save the Redwoods T-shirt, “there’s gotta be a coffee shop down the street.”

  “If you don’t care for tea, you might find something you like on our Tea Totalers Menu,” offered Haley.

  The young woman accepted the slip of parchment paper tentatively. “Chamomile, Ginseng, Orange Spice,” she read as she scanned down the list. “But these are teas, aren’t they?”

  “Actually,” explained Haley, “they’re infusions. Therapeutic fruits and herbs that don’t contain leaves from the tea plant.”

  “Are they good for you?” asked the girl.

  “Rose hips and hibiscus are extremely high in vitamin C, while ginseng and peppermint are energy boosters,” said Haley. “Tell you what, I just brewed a pot of rose hips. You can have a taste and judge for yourself.”

  Haley went behind the counter and poured two small cups of rose hips. It was early Monday morning, and no other customers had come in yet. She could hear Theodosia and Drayton talking quietly in Theo’s back office. Her scones and honey madeleines were baking in the oven, and she could afford to spend a little time with this young couple.

  Their eyes lit up at the first taste.

  “This is good,” declared the boy. “But I think I’d like to try the plum. It sounds refreshing. Interesting, too.”

  “I’ll stick with the rose hips,” said the girl. “And you serve pastries here, as well?” Her nose had picked up the aromatic smells emanating from the back room.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll bring a pastry tray out,” said Haley. “That way you can see everything.”

  Drayton stared at Theodosia from across her desk. “They were working together?”

  “It would appear so,” said Theodosia.

  “I can hardly believe it,” said Drayton. “Everyone and his brother has been so sure those two were still engaged in some dreadful eye-for-an-eye feud.”

  “Including me,” said Theodosia. “I feel terrible about jumping to such a hasty conclusion.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” advised Drayton. “Tidwell certainly believed you and, in fact, seemed to confirm your thoughts. And, as you pointed out earlier, Ford Cantrell could have been secretly scheming to oust Oliver Dixon. He could have been seeking a permanent solution, if you get my drift.”

  “I suppose,” fretted Theodosia.

  “Frankly, I think you should speak with Tidwell again,” urged Drayton. “About Ford Cantrell and Billy Manolo. Just the fact that Billy Manolo showed up at Oliver Dixon’s funeral—and Tidwell was a witness to that—is somewhat suspicious. And I’m very uneasy about the fact that he threatened you.”

  “Who threatened who?” asked Haley as she stuck her head in the door.

  “It’s nothing, really,” said Theodosia. She didn’t want Haley to get upset over Billy Manolo’s cruel remark about her floating facedown in Charleston Harbor.

  “When our Theodosia went to Billy Manolo’s house last Saturday, he picked up a piece of pipe and threatened her,” said Drayton.

  “Did you call the cops?” asked Haley. “Any guy looks cross-eyed at me these days, I call the cops.”

  “What about that Hell’s Angel with the overpowered motorbike who hung around here all last summer?” Drayton asked. “He frightened off half our customers.”

  “Teddy wasn’t threatening,” said Haley. “He was simply in the throes of an identity crisis. Anyway, he’s back in school now.”

  “Studying what,” asked Drayton, “anarchy?”

  “If you must know, he’s studying to be a paramedic,” said Haley. “But tell me more about this Billy Manolo character. Maybe he was the one who was peeking in our window Saturday night.”

  “You’re still convinced someone was up to no good,” said Drayton.

  “I don’t know what they were up to, but somebody was out there,” replied Haley as the timer on her stove gave a loud ding. “Oops, got to pull this batch out,” she said as she sailed around the corner.

  By ten o’clock, every table in the tea shop was occupied. Drayton had predicted they’d have a busy morning, even though it had started out slowly, and had readied at least two dozen teapots. Now they were being filled with keeman, puerh, and Darjeeling, and being dispatched to the various tables occupied by tourists as well as tea shop regulars.

  Theodosia was behind the counter, manning the old brass cash register and, in between cashiering and handing out change, was scribbling notes she could add later to the “Tea Tips” section of her Web site. When it didn’t appear that the Indigo Tea Shop could hold one more customer, she looked up to see the door swing open and Doe Belvedere Dixon walk in followed closely by Giovanni Loard.

  “Hellooo . . .” Drayton flew over to greet them, had an obvious moment of panic when he realized there wasn’t an available table, then demonstrated signs of palpable relief when he saw that two women were just getting up to leave. “I’ll have your table ready in a moment,” he assured Doe and Giovanni.

  Theodosia waited until Doe and Giovanni had been seated and served before she went over to their table to greet them. Things had settled down somewhat—all the customers were sipping and noshing—and Drayton seemed to be in a perpetual hover mode near Doe and Giovanni’s table.

  For someone who’d recently lost her husband, Doe appeared to have done an admirable job of pulling herself out of her grief. Theodosia watched as she chatted animatedly with Drayton, then with people at two other tables.

  “They say Coco Chanel always took her tea with lemon,” said Doe as her elegantly manicured fingertips gently pushed back a swirl of blond hair. “And that she always ordered in toast and jam from the Ritz.” Doe glanced up as Theodosia approached. “Hello,” she said, sipping delicately from her teacup. “I love your tea shop; it’s so quaint.”

  “Thank you, how nice to see you again,” said Theodosia, “although it’s unfortunate our first meeting was under such sad circumstances. How are you doing?” Theodosia wondered if Doe would remember that she was the one who’d pushed her about Oliver’s knowledge of guns the day of the funeral. No, probably not, she decided.

  “I’m feeling so much better,” replied Doe. “Everyone has been so kind.” She turned luminous eyes toward Giovanni and smiled.

  Giovanni fumbled for Doe’s hand and patted it gently. “She’s a strong girl, a real survivor,” he said.

  Doe shifted her hundred-watt smile to Drayton, and Theodosia wondered just how long this girl figured she could get by on her mesmerizing beauty. Perhaps until she married a second time? Then again, Doe also possessed enormous self-confidence. She might just sail through life, as some people did, secure in the knowledge that the world would always deliver its bounty to them.

  “Can you sit with us a moment?” Giovanni asked Theodosia and Drayton. “I was just telling Doe what a lovely time I had here last week. How helpful Drayton was with the Edgefield teapot and what a gracious hostess Theodosia had been.” He smiled warmly at the two of them. “I feel as though you all are good friends already.”

 
“We were surprised to hear that your husband’s business was shutting down,” said Theodosia to Doe. First thing this morning, she had scanned the business section of the Charleston Post and Courier. There had been a short article, and details had been fairly sketchy, but it did confirm what Ford Cantrell had told her yesterday. Grapevine was being shut down. Not with a bang but a whimper.

  Doe blinked slowly, and a tiny furrow appeared just above the bridge of her nose. “The board of directors has been very kind, particularly Mr. Crowley.”

  “Booth Crowley?” asked Theodosia.

  “Yes,” said Doe. “He came to inform me in person that it was a business decision prompted solely by Oliver’s death.” She sighed. “It’s comforting to know that Oliver was held in such high esteem and that the company is unable to function without him.”

  “Oliver Dixon was a brilliant man,” said Giovanni. “One our community isn’t likely to forget for a long time.”

  “It’s a shame the company is being shut down entirely,” continued Theodosia. “To keep Grapevine going, to build it into a success, would have been a tremendous testament to your husband.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s just not to be,” said Giovanni. His eyes seemed to have taken on a hard shine, sending a not-so-subtle warning signal to Theodosia.

  Giovanni’s overprotectiveness rankled Theodosia and gave her the impetus she needed to continue.

  “Well-planned companies usually have a number of capable executives who can take over at the helm,” said Theodosia. “For example—” Under the table, she felt a subtle kick from Drayton. Obviously, he thought she was going too far, pushing a little too hard, as well. “For example,” she continued, “it turns out Ford Cantrell was doing some consulting work with your husband. As a former VP at Vantage Computers, perhaps he could have provided the needed interim leadership.”

  Doe frowned and cast her eyes downward, while Giovanni stared at Theodosia with a cold fury. “I’m afraid we’ll be leaving now,” he announced. He stood abruptly, and Doe, tight-lipped and grim, stood up as well.

  Then Giovanni Loard headed for the door without uttering another word and Doe, bidding them a clipped good-bye, followed on his heels.

  “Well, you certainly got a rise out of them,” said Drayton as they huddled at the counter. “And some might say exceeded the boundary of good manners.”

  “I take it you disapprove?” asked Theodosia.

  Drayton put one hand to the side of his face and patted it absently. “Not entirely,” he said. “Like you, I get a very queasy feeling about a number of people.”

  “And your suspicions are focused on . . .”

  “The girl, yes,” said Drayton. “Such a pretty thing. But I can’t help feel that beneath that radiant exterior is a very tough cookie.”

  “A girl who arranged to have her own husband murdered?” asked Theodosia.

  “It’s true, Doe didn’t pull the trigger,” said Drayton. “Poor Oliver did that all by himself.”

  “Rather convenient, wasn’t it?” said Theodosia. “And now sweet young Doe has inherited Oliver Dixon’s home and all his worldly assets.” She turned to arrange a stack of saucers and cups. “Did you get the feeling that Doe knew Ford Cantrell had been working with Oliver Dixon?”

  “Hard to tell,” muttered Drayton, “hard to tell.”

  Over lunch at her desk, Theodosia reread the Post and Courier article. The byline at the end of the article said J. D. Darling. She knew J. D. Darling wasn’t one of the regular business writers and, from the tone of the piece, the whole thing sounded like a quick rewrite of a press release. Probably one that had been issued hastily by Cherry Tree Investments over the weekend, then reworked by one of the copy cubs who pulled the Saturday to Sunday shift.

  Theodosia drummed her fingers on her desk. The last line of the article intrigued her. It said that Cherry Tree Investments would continue to focus its efforts on several new high-tech start-ups.

  Close down one high-tech company to start another? It happened, but it still sounded strange. Especially in light of all the gut-wrenching front-end work that had probably gone into Grapevine; months or perhaps even years of product development, writing a business plan, creating marketing and media strategies, finding a distribution chain, and developing a sales force strategy.

  And, truth be known, high-tech companies weren’t exactly the darlings of the venture capital world these days. It wasn’t that long ago that the whole dot com thing experienced a disastrous shakeout on Wall Street, and skeptical analysts, probably the most vocal being those who got burned themselves, had stuck dot coms with the kiss-of-death label “dot bombs.”

  Theodosia set her tuna fish sandwich down and dialed information. Within seconds, she’d obtained the number for Cherry Tree Investments and was dialing it.

  “Hello,” Theodosia greeted the woman who answered Cherry Tree’s phone, “this is Judith Castleworth at the Post and Courier. I’m calling to clarify a few facts for one of our business writers, Mr. J. D. Darling?”

  “Of course,” said the receptionist.

  “In Cherry Tree’s recent press release regarding the closing of the company Grapevine, you mention that Cherry Tree is undertaking financing for several new high-tech companies. Can you give me the names of those companies?”

  “You’re talking about our newest underwritings,” said the receptionist, not sounding completely sure of herself.

  “Yes,” said Theodosia.

  “Let me see if I even have that information,” said the woman. “Shirlene, the regular girl is at lunch, I’m Marilyn. Can you hold for a moment?”

  “Of course,” said Theodosia.

  There was a rustle of papers, and Theodosia could hear the woman coughing gently. Then she was back on the phone.

  “Miss Castleworth? I have those names for you.”

  “Go ahead,” said Theodosia.

  “The companies are Deva Tech, that’s D-E-V-A Tech, two words. And Alphimed, A-L-P-H-I-M-E-D, one word.”

  “Deva Tech and Alphimed,” repeated Theodosia.

  “Yes,” said Marilyn. “Deva Tech manufactures scanners for the warehouse industry, and Alphimed is a franchised medical testing company. Interim financing for both has already gone through, and Cherry Tree will be issuing a complete story to the media . . . oh, probably next month.”

  “Would it be possible to speak with your president, Mr. Booth Crowley?” asked Theodosia.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowley’s at lunch. Could I have him return your—?”

  “Thank you anyway, Marilyn,” said Theodosia.

  Theodosia replaced the phone in the cradle and leaned back in her leather chair. So Booth Crowley was financing two more high-tech companies. And from the way things sounded, they were very close to launching.

  Booth Crowley. He was the man who’d handled Oliver Dixon the pistol. He was the man who’d been so hostile toward Billy Manolo at Oliver Dixon’s funeral. And Booth Crowley was the big-time venture capitalist who launched Grapevine by virtue of his financing, then pulled the plug after Oliver Dixon was killed.

  “You look like you’ve got a headache,” said Haley.

  “Getting one, anyway,” said Theodosia, her head spinning with possibilities. She was hungry but had only eaten a quarter of her sandwich.

  “I have the perfect antidote,” said Haley. “Just give me a sec.”

  Theodosia stared out the window, thinking that everybody had suddenly begun to look suspicious.

  Haley returned with a teacup filled with pale yellow liquid. “Drink this,” she urged.

  “What is it?”

  “Meadowsweet tea.”

  “Perfect,” declared Theodosia. Meadowsweet was a plant that had been used for centuries to fight fever and tame headaches. Its derivative, salicylate, was the compound that had been chemically formulated to produce aspirin.

  “Drayton told me about your genteel conversation with Giovanni and Doe,” Haley said, very tongue-in-cheek. “You don’t thi
nk she had anything to do with Oliver Dixon’s death do you?”

  “I’m not sure what to think anymore,” replied Theodosia. “First Ford Cantrell looked suspicious, then Billy Manolo. Although Billy just seems a little crazy.”

  “But crazy people do crazy things,” said Haley.

  “Yes,” said Theodosia slowly, “they do. And now I’m also having second thoughts about Doe. It would appear she had a lot to gain from Oliver Dixon’s death.”

  “You think the prom queen whacked her own hubby? Gosh, it sounds like tabloid fodder, doesn’t it? Or a plot for a B movie.”

  “It doesn’t stop there,” sighed Theodosia. “I’m also curious as to what Booth Crowley is up to. It still seems strange to me that he just closed down Grapevine.” Theodosia sipped her tea as Haley stared placidly at her. “Haley, tell me more about PDAs.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Theodosia paused. “There are different kinds. . . .” She wasn’t sure where she was going with this.

  Haley frowned at Theodosia, as if trying to decipher her thoughts. “You mean different operating systems?”

  “I think so, yes,” nodded Theodosia.

  “Oh that,” said Haley. “There’s two kinds duking it out right now. Palm versus the Pocket PC.”

  “And your gizmo uses Palm,” said Theodosia.

  “Right,” said Haley, “because I’ve got a Palm Pilot.”

  “What was Grapevine designing applications for?” said Theodosia.

  “Not really applications, more like expansion modules.”

  “For the Palm,” said Theodosia.

  “Yes,” said Haley.

  “And now Booth Crowley is going to underwrite Deva Tech, a company that manufactures warehouse scanners. What kind of computer systems do big warehouses generally use?”