Gunpowder Green Page 16

  “Big stuff, networks,” she said.

  “No Palm operating system?” asked Theodosia.

  Haley smiled. “Hardly.”

  “So maybe Grapevine was small potatoes,” said Theodosia.

  “Or Booth Crowley didn’t want to tick off the powers that be, the Microsofts of the world. It was just easier to dump Grapevine.”

  “Or dump Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

  “Chilling thought,” said Haley.

  “Which means I need to find out a whole lot more about Booth Crowley,” said Theodosia.

  “How about tapping into radio free Charleston down the street?” suggested Haley.

  “You mean Delaine?”

  “Who else? She always seems to have the latest word on everything. Just don’t let on that you’re too interested,” warned Haley.

  CHAPTER 23

  “THEODOSIA, I JUST got in the most marvelous green silk jacket,” exclaimed Delaine. “It is to die for.” Delaine bustled over, delivered a quick air kiss in Theodosia’s general vicinity, then scampered off, leaving an aromatic cloud of Joy in her wake.

  “Janine!” Delaine yelled to her overworked assistant. “Where did we hang those silk jackets? Or are you still steaming them?”

  Janine came rushing out from the back room, bearing silk jackets on padded hangers. Janine always looked a trifle red-faced and out of breath, and Theodosia often wondered if the poor woman had borderline high blood pressure or if her state of nervous excitement was due to six years of working for Delaine. She suspected the latter.

  “Here, try this.” Delaine pulled at Theodosia’s black cashmere cardigan, trying to wrest it off, while she held out the green silk jacket for her to try on. “No, this is a medium, Janine, get Theodosia a small. These jackets run a tad generous, and our girl seems to have lost a couple pounds. Did you, dear?” she asked pointedly.

  Theodosia ignored Delaine’s question and, instead, slid into the smaller-size jacket. She adjusted it, buttoned a couple buttons, pirouetted in front of the three-way mirror.

  “Oh, with your hair, très élégant,” gushed Delaine.

  Theodosia gazed at herself in the mirror. The jacket was a stunner, she had to admit. Sleek, lightweight, and a very bewitching green. She could see herself wearing it to any number of upcoming outings and parties. Accompanied, perhaps, by Jory Davis?

  “I have it in jade green, pomegranate, and, of course, black,” said Delaine. “Very limited quantities, so you won’t see yourself coming and going.” She plucked at one of the sleeves. “And so light, gossamer light, like butterfly wings. Perfect for a cool spring evening.”

  Theodosia snuck a peek at the price tag and decided she’d have to sell a good sixty or seventy cups of tea to finance her purchase.

  “Let me think about it, Delaine,” she said, slipping the jacket off and delivering it into the waiting arms of Janine.

  Delaine wagged a finger at her. “Don’t wait too long, Theo. These jackets will go like hotcakes.”

  “I know, I know.” Theodosia picked up a beaded bag.

  “Those are all hand-stitched in Indonesia,” Delaine told her. “They come in that leaf pattern or there’s a star motif.”

  “Lovely,” said Theodosia as she examined the bag, then set it back down on the little display table. “Doe and Giovanni stopped by the tea shop this morning,” she said.

  Delaine brightened immediately. “Did they really? How is Doe getting along?”

  “Seems to be bearing up quite well,” said Theodosia. She didn’t want to confide to Delaine that Doe and Giovanni had both exited the tea shop in a somewhat hasty huff. Delaine would probably learn about that soon enough. “And you heard about Grapevine, Oliver Dixon’s company? Booth Crowley closed it down.”

  “Mmm, yes,” said Delaine as she fussed over a tray of scarves, arranging them in artful disarray. “I saw something about that in the paper this morning.”

  “You haven’t heard why, have you?”

  “I just assumed the company couldn’t get along without him.”

  “But you haven’t heard anyone mention a specific reason,” said Theodosia as she fingered the beaded bag again.

  “Mmm . . . no,” said Delaine as she straightened a stack of cotton sweaters. “Gosh,” she said, peeling an apple green sweater off the top, don’t you adore this color? Can’t you see it paired with white slacks? Yummy.”

  “Pretty with your coloring,” said Theodosia.

  Delaine held it up. “You’re right.” She preened in the mirror. “Anyway, Theo, to get back to what you were saying, Booth Crowley certainly must know what he’s doing. He’s had his hand in enough different businesses.”

  “Yes, I guess he has,” said Theodosia.

  “Do you know his wife, Beatrix?” asked Delaine.

  “No, not really.”

  “Delightful woman, patron of the Children’s Theater Company. She buys quite a lot of her clothing here. Of course, she also flies to New York and Paris. I believe she even attends some of the collections.”

  “Wow,” said Theodosia, trying to look suitably impressed for Delaine’s sake. She wandered over to an antique armoire set against a cantaloupe-colored wall. The doors of the armoire were open, and it was stuffed with a riotous array of silk camisoles, jeweled pins, antique keys strung on ribbons, and Chinese ceramic cachepots. A turquoise silk sari hung down from one side.

  “Delaine, your decor is absolutely delightful,” began Theodosia. “I’ve been thinking about giving my shop a bit of a face-lift. Maybe even go for a touch of exotica.” Theodosia watched as interest flickered on Delaine’s face. “One of the design firms that’s been recommended to me is Popple Hill. Are you familiar with them?” She’d tucked Billy Manolo’s Popple Hill connection in the back of her brain and now figured it might be worth seeing what Delaine knew.

  “My dear, Popple Hill is extraordinary,” gushed Delaine. “It’s headed by two absolutely brilliant women, Hillary Retton and Marianne Petigru. I know them because they also shop here whenever they can. Both are cultivated beyond belief and so multitalented. Do you know Gabby Stewart, who lives over on Lamboll?”

  “I think so.”

  “She’s the pretty blond with the really good face-lift whose husband gave her the black Jaguar XKE for her last birthday, which nobody’s bothering to count anymore.”

  “Now that you’ve described her so precisely, I do recall her,” said Theodosia, smiling.

  “Well, the Popple Hill ladies took her house from early Dumpster to utterly dazzling. Gabby and her husband, Derwood or Dellwood or something like that, inherited that great old house and all the furniture. The wooden pieces were okay, so-so seventeenth-century French that could be refinished and touched up a bit, but most of the dining room chairs were absolutely bedraggled. And nothing had been done to the interior, not a speck of paint nor snippet of wallpaper, in ages. Now it’s stunning, an absolute showpiece. I wouldn’t be surprised if Town and Country or Southern Accents wanted to do a big spread on it.”

  “What about the exterior?”

  Delaine wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t too keen on having her stories interrupted. “Yes, Hillary and Marianne masterminded a restoration on that, too.”

  “They used wrought iron?”

  “Oh, tons of it,” said Delaine, “because of the huge garden courtyard out back. You know that house, don’t you? You’ve been inside and seen that marvelous oversized fireplace?”

  Theodosia ignored Delaine’s question. “Do you know any of Popple Hill’s craftspeople?” she asked.

  Delaine frowned. “Their craftspeople? No, I wouldn’t know about that. I imagine they’re just ordinary workers. Hillary and Marianne are the real genuises.” Delaine paused. “I love that you’re thinking about updating your look.”

  “Mm-hm,” said Theodosia, knowing she’d never let anyone tinker with the cozy interior she loved so much.

  “Come to think of it, Popple Hill did some recent restoration work on D
oe and Oliver’s home, too,” said Delaine as the ring of the telephone perfectly punctuated the end of her sentence.

  “Chloe Keenland is on the phone,” Janine called to Delaine. “She wants to know if you’re still on for this afternoon.”

  Delaine pushed back her sleeve, glanced at her watch, a Chopard rimmed with sparkling jewels. “Gosh, I’d forgotten all about Chloe.” Delaine chewed her lower lip as she gazed at Theodosia. “Garden Fest starts this Friday, and I’m on the opening night refreshment committee,” she explained. Swiveling her head toward Janine, Delaine smiled winningly. “Janine, could you be an absolute angel and work until five today?”

  Janine looked glum. “I suppose,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” declared Delaine. “Perfect.”

  Back at the tea shop, Theodosia felt more confused than ever. Her somewhat strange and rambling conversation with Delaine hadn’t yielded much. And none of the theories she’d been tossing around seemed to make sense, either.

  “Haley, did you—” began Theodosia, but her sentence was cut short.

  “Don’t look now, but it’s the prom queen again,” Haley muttered under her breath.

  Theodosia looked up to see Doe Belvedere Dixon striding into the Indigo Tea Shop for the second time that day.

  “Miss Browning,” said Doe in a breathless, little-girl voice, “can we talk?”

  Theodosia nodded and quickly steered the girl to one of the far tables. “Of course,” she said, her curiosity suddenly hitting a fever pitch.

  Doe waited until they were both seated and was positive no one was in earshot before she began. “I came back to apologize,” she said. “Giovanni is still very touchy about Oliver’s death, and he often overreacts rather badly. But you have to understand, he was so very fond of his cousin.”

  “Second cousin,” said Theodosia, watching Doe closely, wondering what the real agenda was.

  “Yes, of course,” said Doe as she picked a tiny fleck of lint from the sleeve of her perfect buttercup yellow sweater. “But the two of them were extremely close. Giovanni’s mother died when he was very young, and Oliver was always like an older brother to him.”

  “I’m sure he was,” said Theodosia, wondering again why Doe had come back. Her apology didn’t seem all that heartfelt.

  Then Doe leaned forward across the small wooden table and her taffy-colored hair swung closely about her face. “Frankly, I think Giovanni was upset because I told him about Ford Cantrell and me,” she said.

  Now it was Theodosia’s turn to lean forward, the better to catch every word.

  “Ford and I met a few years ago at the University of Charleston,” explained Doe. “He was a grad student in computer engineering, and I was a Tri Delt pledge.” She stopped and smiled wistfully at Theodosia. “Were you ever in a sorority?”

  Theodosia stared at Doe. “No,” she said.

  “Best time of my life,” she declared. “Anyway, Ford and I dated a few times, and then I broke it off.”

  “You dated Ford Cantrell?” Theodosia said in a loud whisper.

  Doe frowned, as though she were unused to any type of critical remark. “Honestly, Theodosia, it was no big deal.” She shrugged. “I said I broke it off. If you ask me, Ford Cantrell has never accepted being rejected.”

  “She dated him?” Drayton tucked his chin down and stared over his glasses. His right eyebrow twitched crazily; he did not look amused. “You’re making this up,” he finally declared in a flat voice. “In a brazen attempt to completely muddle my poor mind.”

  Theodosia shook her head. “Doe told me so herself.”

  “Is that what you two were whispering about?” said Haley. “A date she had with Ford Cantrell in college? Hmm, she certainly holds herself in high regard, doesn’t she?”

  “I think she was just trying to explain why Giovanni got so upset when I started talking about Ford Cantrell this morning,” said Theodosia. “In her own way, Doe was trying to be nice.”

  “She’s got a funny way of being nice,” grumbled Haley.

  “Indeed she has,” agreed Drayton.

  Theodosia was inclined to agree with them, if the whole situation hadn’t been so bizarre. Bizarre bordering on Ripley’s Believe It or Not!

  And when you tried to look at Oliver Dixon’s murder from the standpoint of pure motive, it was also terribly confusing.

  Ford Cantrell supposedly harbored a grudge against Oliver Dixon, yet he’d worked for the man as a consultant. Ford had motive only if you took into account the long-standing family feud and their somewhat strange business arrangement, which could have been far from amicable.

  Booth Crowley and Billy Manolo had both handled the antique pistol minutes before Oliver Dixon was killed by it. Both men impressed Theodosia as being short-tempered and snappish.

  But as far as motive went, the only connection Billy Manolo seemed to have to Oliver Dixon was through the yacht club and as an ironworker, possibly creating some decorative wrought-iron pieces for Doe and Oliver’s home via the Popple Hill people.

  Would you kill someone because he might have criticized the scrollwork on your garden gate? She didn’t think so.

  Booth Crowley was a suspect by virtue of his peripheral connections. He’d handed the pistol to Oliver just moments before he was killed and had put up most of the money for Grapevine. On the other hand, if Oliver Dixon had somehow gotten wind that Booth Crowley was going to shut the company down, he might have been forced to retaliate. That was a theory that certainly warranted more investigating.

  As far as Doe Belvedere Dixon was concerned . . . well, Theodosia wasn’t sure where Doe fit into the equation, other than the fact that she stood to inherit a lot of money.

  Of course, to make things all the more confusing, Ford Cantrell, Booth Crowley, Oliver Dixon, and Billy Manolo were all members of the same yacht club. Well, Billy worked there, but he was still at the club a lot of the time.

  So what did all that information add up to? As far as Theodosia was concerned, it totaled a big fat zero.

  Puttering about the tearoom for the rest of the day, Theodosia fretted about her inability to draw any kind of conclusion. She was unwilling to let it go by the time evening rolled around and she found herself upstairs with Earl Grey in her little apartment.

  As though Earl Grey had psychically picked up on her restlessness and disquietude, the dog paced about the apartment, toenails clicking against kitchen tile and hardwood floors.

  They’d already taken their evening walk through the historic district. Starting on Church Street, they’d jogged up Water Street, then wended their way down Meeting Street to The Battery. After Earl Grey had romped in the park, they’d even walked home past the Stewart home on Lamboll Street, where Billy Manolo, according to Delaine, had supposedly created tons of wrought iron to enclose their backyard garden.

  And still Theodosia was restless.

  What to do? she wondered. Take another walk? Sip some chamomile tea? Fix a tisane of Saint-John’s-wort to calm me down?

  No, she finally decided, there was something far better that she could do. She could put it all down on paper. Or rather, computer. She would compose and organize her thoughts, making notations if she was seriously bothered by any glaring facts or strange coincidences. Then she could hit a single key and E-mail the whole shebang to Detective Burt Tidwell. She could put him on the same page with her, so to speak. Get him alerted to or caught up on all the details. After all, she told herself, two heads were better than one. And from the looks of things, her head seemed to have borne the brunt of worrying about Oliver Dixon’s death these last nine days. Not even Oliver’s wife, Doe, seemed to think the accident hadn’t really been an accident.

  That resolved, Theodosia sat down at her computer and began the task of putting it all down.

  The writing and rewriting took her a good while. But when she was finished and the information sent, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. And Theodosia, sleepy at last, padded in
to her cream-colored bedroom and slid into bed between indigo cotton sheets that were cool and feather light and infinitely conducive to pleasant dreams.

  CHAPTER 24

  “THEODOSIA? IT’S BERNARD Morrow.” Clenching the phone tighter, Theodosia straightened up in her chair. “Professor Morrow, hello. I’ve been hoping to hear from you.” She glanced out across the tearoom. Haley was sliding gracefully between the small tables with a tray that held samples of their new South African Redbush tea. Drayton was chatting with two regulars who came in every Tuesday morning, dressed to the nines and wearing hats and gloves. Sunlight streamed in through the heavy, leaded panes, lending a shimmering glow to everything. With the morning’s sunlight came a ray of hope as well.

  “Yes, well, I meant to get your little project dispatched with sooner,” said Professor Morrow, “but I’ve been serving on this confounded academic search committee. Everyone on it worries endlessly about adding new, un-tenured faculty to the department and pontificates over their own specialized area. All in all, it gives you the sense that your career is drawing to a close, and it’s time to take a final bow.”

  “You’re not thinking about retiring, are you?” Theodosia asked in alarm. Professor Morrow was one of the most caring, humane professors she had ever encountered. It would be a profound loss to the University of Charleston if he were to retire.

  “Considering it, but not planning my exit in the near future,” said Professor Morrow. “Anyway, I didn’t call to tell you my problems. You asked me to analyze the material on the linen tablecloth, and I did exactly that. Not the blood, of course, you’d need a chromatograph to do that, and our lab is simply not equipped that way.”

  “I understand,” said Theodosia.

  “Anyway, I took a look at the ground-in matter. It’s dirt, all right.”

  “Dirt,” repeated Theodosia.

  “Not flecks of metal or gunpowder as you had initially suspected. Just garden-variety dirt.” He paused. “I could run a couple more tests, see if I can break down the compounds, measure phosphorous and potassium, things like that.”