Gunpowder Green Page 19

  Miss Dimple beamed. “Indeed I am. Monday mornings I tally the weekend receipts for the Chowder Hound, and Tuesday afternoons I’m at Pinckney’s Gift Shop. Once in a while I even work behind the cash register. It’s so pleasant to be around all that Irish linen and crystal.”

  “Have you heard any rumors about Doe Belvedere Dixon? How she’s doing, what she’s doing?” asked Theodosia.

  Miss Dimple placed the tip of her Ticonderoga number-two yellow pencil between her lips and thought for a moment. “I heard she was selling off some of her art and collectibles. But, then, you already know about that.”

  “Right,” volunteered Haley, who had been unpacking Chinese blue and white teapots from a newly arrived shipment. “Giovanni Loard brought in that Edgefield pot last week.”

  “I did hear something about her changing her name,” said Miss Dimple.

  “Changing her name?” asked Drayton. He’d obviously been listening, too, as he double-checked the order forms for some covered tea mugs that had caught his eye in a supplier’s catalog.

  “Yes,” said Miss Dimple, her memory coming back to her now. “Word is out that Doe is going back to being just Doe Belvedere.”

  “You know why I think she’s doing it?” asked Haley. “Because Doe Dixon sounds like an exotic dancer.”

  “Nonsense,” said Drayton, a smile playing at his lips. “You determine your exotic dancer name by combining your pet’s name with your mother’s maiden name.”

  “Oh, my God!” screamed Haley. “Then mine would be Lulu Rendell!”

  “See?” said Drayton.

  “You two!” said Miss Dimple, shaking with laughter.

  CHAPTER 27

  WYNTON MARSALIS PLAYED on the CD player, and she was deep into Pearl Buck’s Pavilion of Women when Professor Morrow called.

  “Miss Browning,” he said in his somewhat distracted manner, “I hope I’ve not phoned too late.”

  Theodosia glanced at the baroque brass clock that sat on the pine mantel, saw that it was just half past eight.

  “Not at all, Professor Morrow,” she said, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing her book. Her heart seemed to thump an extra beat in anticipation of his news. “I’m delighted you called. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you,” she told him.

  “Good, good,” he said. “Took me longer than I thought. But then, everything takes longer these days, doesn’t it? I’m teaching a two-week interim course this June, and Kiplinger, our department head, just now suggested I develop an on-line syllabus. So of course I had to scramble—”

  “What’s the course?” asked Theodosia, trying to be polite.

  “Herbaceous perennials,” said Professor Morrow. “Simple to teach, not a lot to prepare, and students always seem to like it.”

  “Great,” said Theodosia. “I really want to thank you for taking time to do this soil analysis.

  “Right,” said Professor Morrow, “the analysis.”

  Theodosia had a mental picture of Professor Morrow adjusting his glasses and thumbing through his notes, ready to deliver a short lecture to her.

  “I ran a standard micronutrient test, measured levels of sulfur, iron, manganese, copper, zinc, and boron. As far as pH level goes, I’d have to say your dirt came from an area where the soil was quite acidic.”

  “What kind of plants grow in acidic soil?” asked Theodosia.

  “Are we talking flowers or shrubs?” asked Professor Morrow.

  Theodosia made an educated guess. “Flowers.” In her mind’s eye, she could imagine someone stepping out into his garden, shoving the point of a trowel into soft, black dirt, then scooping that dirt into a plastic bag to carry to the yacht club.

  “Flowers,” said Professor Morrow, weighing the possibilities. “Then you’re talking something like verbena, marigold, calliopsis, or nicotiana. Of course, those varieties are all annuals. In perennials, you’d be looking at baptisia, coreopsis, platycodon, or silene.”

  “Wow,” said Theodosia, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

  “Of course, roses are also notorious for preferring acidic soil, but you can’t have it too acidic. The demanding little darlings prefer a pH balance somewhere between 5.5 and 6.5. Any more than that, and they get chlorotic.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Their leaves mottle,” said Professor Morrow.

  CHAPTER 28

  “IT’S A GOOD thing he faxed you his notes,” said Drayton, “otherwise this would be really complicated.” For the last hour, Drayton had been poring over Professor Morrow’s jottings, checking them against three different gardening books that he’d borrowed from Robillard Booksellers next door. Books, faxes, and pages torn from Drayton’s ledger were strewn on one of the tea shop’s tables. In between waiting on customers and serving fresh-from-the-oven pastries, Haley hovered at the table where Drayton and Theodosia had set up headquarters.

  “I’m going to end up buying these books,” Drayton announced. “They’re very good, and I don’t have them in my collection. Just look at this tabular list of garden perennials and this lovely chapter on bridge grafting. You don’t run across information like this every day.”

  Earlier, Theodosia had shared Professor Morrow’s findings with Drayton and Haley, and they had both jumped at the chance to be involved in the investigation. Although it felt like they were heading down the right trail, their task also felt slightly daunting. Professor Morrow had given them so many details and possibilities that one almost needed a degree in horticulture to figure everything out.

  “Haley, we’re going to need litmus paper,” said Drayton. “Can you run down to the drugstore later and pick up a packet?”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “You’re still convinced we can get a handle on who might have overpacked that pistol by testing soil from various gardens?”

  “And the yacht club,” said Theodosia. “Let’s not forget the yacht club.”

  “Right,” said Drayton, then added for Haley’s sake, “this is a gamble that could pay off. We’ve got the results from Professor Morrow’s tests, so that becomes our baseline. Now what we do is check the various soil samples using the soil testing kits we got from Hattie Bootwright’s floral shop down the street.”

  “So how exactly are we going to pull this off?” asked Haley. She was almost dancing in place, excited at the prospect of being involved in a full-blown investigation and, at the same time, keeping a watchful eye on her tea shop customers.

  “Drayton and I already talked about that,” said Theodosia. “We’ll all be at Timothy Neville’s tonight, so that will serve as a kind of home base.”

  “Right,” agreed Drayton. “We’ll work from there. Doe lives half a block away, so we can easily scout her garden and obtain a sample.”

  “You’re sure she’ll be at Timothy’s tonight?” asked Haley.

  “Absolutely,” said Drayton. “In fact, she’ll be attending with Giovanni Loard. He called me yesterday about a silver teapot someone brought into his shop, and he mentioned that he’d be there. If you remember, his garden is on tomorrow night’s tour. So he’s very excited about the entire Garden Fest event.”

  “He’s not still mad about the other day?” asked Theodosia.

  “Never mentioned it,” said Drayton.

  “Okay then,” said Theodosia, getting back to business. “Booth Crowley lives two blocks away on Tradd Street, so his garden should be an easy hit as well. We know he’ll be there tonight, since his wife Beatrix serves on one of the Garden Fest committees with Delaine.”

  “Perfect,” said Drayton, rubbing his hands together.

  “What about Billy Manolo and Ford Cantrell?” asked Haley. “I thought they were on your hot list, too.”

  “They are,” said Theodosia, “but Billy Manolo doesn’t really have a yard. Well, he does, but almost every square inch is littered with pieces of iron or covered with finished metalwork. We can drop by the yacht club, though, that’s easy enough.”

  “A
nd I guess it would be difficult to check Ford Cantrell’s place, since he lives on a huge plantation,” said Haley. “You wouldn’t even know where to start.” She turned to scan the tearoom, saw out the window that one of the yellow tour jitneys had just let off a load of tourists, and they were making a beeline for the tea shop.

  “I guess we’ll just work with what we’ve got,” said Haley as she headed for the door to greet their new customers.

  “Actually,” said Theodosia, once Haley was out of earshot, “it’s not all we’ve got.”

  Drayton turned his head sharply to stare at Theodosia. Something in her tone told him she might be hatching another idea. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

  Theodosia bent close to Drayton’s ear and began to whisper. And as she did, a look of astonishment flickered across his face. When she was done, he gazed at her with admiration.

  “It’s a jolly good brazen plan, all right,” said Drayton. “The question is, will it work?”

  Theodosia lifted her shoulders imperceptibly. “It might flush out a fox or two.”

  “It’s also dangerous,” he said, adding a sober note to the conversation.

  “Agreed,” said Theodosia, “But that’s also why I like it.” She frowned. “Trouble is, the whole plan would hinge on Timothy Neville’s cooperation. Do you think we can persuade him to go along with us? And especially at such short notice?”

  “You leave Timothy to me,” advised Drayton. “I can be very convincing when I have to. And since elections at the Heritage Society are coming up soon, and Timothy is lobbying strongly for reelection as president, he might just listen carefully to what I have to say. So you go call Lizbeth Cantrell and arrange for her to come up with some creative ruse to have her brother present at the party tonight. And leave Timothy Neville to me.”

  Theodosia tapped her fingers on the telephone. This wasn’t going to be easy, she told herself. Because she could be setting Ford Cantrell up for a terrible fall. Then again, if Ford really was instrumental in engineering Oliver Dixon’s death, justice would be served.

  The word justice echoed in Theodosia’s brain. Lizbeth’s wreath of coltsfoot had been intended to connote justice. Funny how that single word seemed to hang over this entire investigation like a sword suspended from a single thread.

  Taking a deep breath, Theodosia opened the phone directory, ran her finger down a fairly long list of Cantrells, spotted Lizbeth Cantrell’s phone number, and punched it in.

  Lizbeth Cantrell was in today; she picked up on the first ring.

  “Lizbeth,” said Theodosia, the words tumbling out, “can you bring Ford to a party at Timothy Neville’s home tonight?”

  “What’s going on?” asked Lizbeth, her antennae already at full alert.

  “Hopefully, a plan that will reveal Oliver Dixon’s killer,” said Theodosia.

  Lizbeth hesitated. “A plan you want my brother’s participation in.”

  “Yes,” said Theodosia, “but I’m afraid I can’t share the exact details.”

  “And if this plan backfires?”

  Theodosia had heard fear and worry in Lizbeth’s voice and knew exactly what she was thinking. Backfiring was Lizbeth’s euphemism for Ford being proven guilty. She knew Lizbeth was utterly heartsick over the possibility.

  I’ve got to strongly dissuade her of that thought, Theodosia decided. Keep her thinking positive.

  “Hopefully,” said Theodosia, “this plan will help clear Ford’s name, once and for all. But it will only work if he’s in attendance tonight. At the Garden Fest kickoff party.” Theodosia listened to dead air for a moment. “You know where Timothy lives?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” said Lizbeth.

  “So we can count on your attendance?”

  “We’ll be there,” said Lizbeth finally. “Ford won’t like it, but I’ll think of something.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Theodosia hung up the phone. That hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought it might be. But, then again, Lizbeth Cantrell was one tough lady, made of fairly stern stuff.

  It would all play out tonight, Theodosia decided, once her plan was set into motion. Of course, her plan also hinged on a number of critical pieces: all the right people showing up and Timothy Neville’s supreme cooperation. Was that too much to ask? She surely hoped not.

  Gazing at the wall of photos across from her desk, Theodosia’s eyes were drawn to an old black and white picture of her dad rigging one of his old sailboats, a Stone Horse. And her thoughts turned to Billy Manolo, the surly part-time handyman at the yacht club.

  It would be perfect if she could somehow get Billy Manolo to show up tonight as well. Then they’d have all the players. . . .

  Yes, it would be perfect, she decided. It was certainly worth a try. But how exactly would she . . . ?

  Theodosia punched in the phone number for the yacht club. A crazy idea had popped into her head that, on closer inspection, might not be so crazy after all.

  “Yacht club,” answered a youthful male voice.

  “Is Billy Manolo there?” she asked.

  “Oh, he’s . . . I think he’s out working on one of the boats. I saw him on one of the piers an hour or so ago, but I couldn’t say where he is now. I just stopped by the clubhouse to grab a drink of water, and the phone rang. I can’t really help—”

  “Could you take a message?” asked Theodosia.

  “A message. Yeah, I suppose so. Hang on a minute. Gotta get a pencil and paper.”

  There was a fumble and a clunk as the phone was set down, then the young man came on the line again.

  “Okay, go ahead,” he said.

  “This is for Billy Manolo,” said Theodosia. “The note should say, please be at Timothy Neville’s home tonight at eight. Address is 413 Archdale.”

  Theodosia could hear the man softly repeating the message to himself as he wrote it down. “Anything else?” asked the young man.

  “Add that it’s urgent Billy show up and make a note that it’s at the request of Booth Crowley.”

  “How do you spell that? I got the Booth part, I’m just not sure on Crowley.”

  “C-R-O-W-L-E-Y,” said Theodosia.

  “Okay,” said the young man. “And who is this?”

  Theodosia ransacked her brain for the name of the woman she’d spoken with the day she phoned Booth Crowley’s office. Marilyn, the woman’s name had been Marilyn.

  “This is Marilyn from Booth Crowley’s office.”

  “Gotcha,” said the young man. “I’ll leave the note in his mailbox.”

  “Yes, that’s perfect,” said Theodosia, remembering a line of four of five wooden mail slots that were used by employees, handymen, yacht club commodores, and other folks who spent time there.

  CHAPTER 29

  TIMOTHY NEVILLE ADORED giving parties. Holiday parties, charity galas, music recitals. And his enormous Georgian mansion, a glittering showpiece perched on Archdale Street, was, for many guests, a peek into the kind of gilded luxury that hadn’t been witnessed in Charleston since earlier times.

  Although not an official Garden Fest event, Timothy had been staging his Garden Fest kickoff party for more years than anyone could count. It was a way to bring all the Garden Fest participants together in one place, and it served as a kind of unofficial marker that heralded the arrival of spring. Days were becoming warmer, deep purple evenings held the promise of fluttering luna moths and night-blooming nicotiana. And, once again, everyone in Charleston was more than ready to treat their gardens as an extended room of their house. For Charlestonians adored their gardens, whether they be tiny, secluded brick patios surrounded by slender columns of oleander or one of the enormous enclosed backyards in the historic district, lavishly embellished with vine-covered brick walls, fountains adorned with statuary, and well-tended beds of verdant plant life.

  Poised on his broad piazza, dressed in impeccable white, Timothy Neville greeted each of his guests with a welcoming word. Flickering gaslights threw a warm
scrim and lent an alabaster glow that served to enhance the complexions of his female guests.

  Just inside, Henry Marchand, Timothy’s valet of almost forty years, stood in the dazzling foyer. Attired in red topcoat and white breeches, Henry solemnly directed newly arrived ladies to the powder room and gentlemen toward the bar with the grace and surety of a majordomo secure in his position.

  “Even though it’s not entirely black tie, it’s certainly creative attire,” exclaimed Drayton as he and Theodosia surveyed the chattering crowd. Most of Timothy’s guests were also residents of the historic district and, thus, nodding acquaintances to the two of them. Many were descended from Charleston’s old families and had lived in the surrounding neighborhood for years. Others had been drawn to the historic district by their love of history, tradition, and old-world charm and had scrimped and saved to buy their historic houses with an eye toward full restoration. For in the historic district, restoration was always big business. And a major boon to the plasterers, wallpaperers, chimney sweeps, gardeners, designers, and various other tradespeople and craftsmen who were so often called upon to keep these grande dame homes in working order.

  Earlier, Drayton and Theodosia had helped Haley get her tea service set up outside in Timothy’s lush garden. Ten of Drayton’s bonsai had been arranged on simple wooden Parsons tables, creating an elegant, Zen-like atmosphere. Haley was now busily pouring Japanese tea into small, blue-glazed tea bowls and passing them out to those guests who’d come outside to admire Timothy’s elegant garden and Drayton’s finely crafted bonsai.

  “I do love this house,” declared Theodosia, as she gazed in awe at the Hepplewhite furnishings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and carved walnut mantelpiece signed by Italian master Luigi Frullini. She’d only given a cursory glance to the oil paintings that lined the walls but had already recognized a Horace Bundy and a Franklin Whiting Rogers. She also knew that the china Timothy displayed in illuminated cases in one of the two front parlors was genuine Spode.