Gunpowder Green Read online

  “Timothy’s got taste, all right,” said Drayton, “and the man has demonstrated a remarkable amount of class. I couldn’t believe how willing he was to take part in our little plan.”

  “I’m relieved that he’s agreed to help,” said Theodosia. “But I must admit I’m a little nervous about the whole thing.”

  “Me, too,” said Drayton. “But if we stick to our plan . . . Oh, talk about perfect,” said Drayton under his breath.

  “You bought the jacket!” Delaine Dish’s strident voice rose above the buzz of conversation in the solarium where Theodosia and Drayton had wandered in to visit the bar and get flutes of vintage champagne. Clutching an oversized goblet of white wine and wearing a frothy wrapped dress of pink silk, Delaine pushed her way through the crowd to join them.

  “When?” she asked Theodosia, her eyes all aglow. “Today?” Her dark hair was done up in a fetching swirl and held in place by a pink barrette. Her shellacked pink toes peeped out of matching pink sandals.

  “About two hours ago,” said Theodosia. “Suddenly, the jacket seemed like the absolute perfect thing to wear to this party. So I phoned your shop and talked with Janine and, lo and behold, I was in luck. You still had the green.”

  “And so pretty with your ring,” giggled Delaine, noting the cluster of peridots that sparkled on Theodosia’s hand. “Is that a family heirloom?”

  “My grandmother’s,” replied Theodosia.

  “Inherited jewelry,” murmured Delaine, “always the best kind.” She turned glittering eyes on Drayton. “No strings attached. Unlike a gift from a gentleman.”

  “Delaine, any gentleman worth his salt would be quite content to lavish gifts upon you, nary a string attached.”

  “Oh, Drayton,” she cooed.

  Drayton bowed slightly. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to head out to the garden. Timothy has asked me to do a short, impromptu talk on the style merits of the windswept bonsai.”

  “Such a gentleman,” said Delaine. She smiled at Theodosia with a slightly glassy-eyed look, and Theodosia knew Delaine was wearing her tinted contact lenses tonight. She was terribly nearsighted and, at the same time, loved to enhance and sometimes change the color of her eyes.

  “Delaine,” Theodosia began, feeling a tiny stab of guilt at what she was about to set into motion. “You know I’ve been asking more than a few questions about Oliver Dixon’s death. . . .”

  Delaine blinked and moved closer to her. “Has something new turned up?” she asked.

  “In a way, yes,” said Theodosia. “I probably shouldn’t—”

  “Oh, you can tell me, dear,” said Delaine. She put a hand on Theodosia’s arm, pulled her protectively away from the throes of the crowd. “I’m as concerned about all this as you are.”

  “The thing of it is,” said Theodosia, “I’ve stumbled upon the most amazing clue.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Delaine.

  “Remember the linen tablecloth?”

  Delaine’s face remained a blank.

  “The one that Oliver Dixon sort of fell onto during the . . . uh . . . accident?”

  Remembrance suddenly dawned for Delaine. “Oh, of course. The tablecloth.”

  “Well, I had it analyzed.”

  “You mean like in a crime lab?” asked Delaine. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.

  “No, a private analysis. But by an expert.”

  “How fascinating,” said Delaine, her face lighting up with excitement, “tell me more.”

  “One of the theories about that old pistol exploding was that someone meant for it to explode. Someone packed it chock-full of gunpowder and dirt.”

  “How awful,” said Delaine, but her face held a smile of anticipation.

  “The analysis I had done broke that dirt down into specific compounds. In theory, if we can match the dirt from the weapon with the dirt in someone’s garden, we’d have Oliver Dixon’s killer.”

  Delaine’s mouth opened and closed several times. “That’s amazing,” she finally managed. “Astonishing, really.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Theodosia.

  “When are you going to do this matching of dirt?” asked Delaine.

  “We’re working on it right now,” said Theodosia.

  “So you could know tonight?”

  “In theory . . . yes,” said Theodosia.

  “Do the police know? That Detective Tidwell fellow?”

  “All in good time,” said Theodosia.

  Delaine let loose a little shiver. “I’m getting goose bumps. This is just like one of those true-crime TV shows. On-the-spot investigating . . . very exciting.”

  Theodosia stared across the room into the crowd. She could see Booth Crowley standing at the bar. He had just gotten a martini or a gimlet or something in a stemmed glass with a twist of lemon and was staring glumly at his wife, a small, sturdy woman with hair teased into a blond bubble.

  At the opposite end of the room, Ford Cantrell had just walked in with his sister and was glancing nervously toward the bar, probably hoping he could get three fingers of bourbon instead of a glass of champagne and wondering why on earth Lizbeth had seen fit to drag him to this stuffy party where he was probably highly unwelcome.

  Across the wide center hallway, Theodosia could see Doe Belvedere Dixon reclining on a brocade fainting couch in Timothy’s vast library. Doe was dressed in a sleek cranberry-red pantsuit and was gossiping and talking animatedly with three other young women. Giggling like a schoolgirl, not a decorous widow.

  Scanning the rest of the crowd, Theodosia hoped Billy Manolo had gotten the message she’d left him and would also put in an appearance some time this evening.

  Theodosia knew that any one of them could have overpacked that pistol. Any one of them could be a cold, calculating killer. And tonight was the night to set a trap and see who stumbled in.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE HISS OF the oxyacetylene torch was like a viper, angry and menacing. It was exactly how Billy Manolo felt tonight as he wielded his welding equipment.

  He was angry. Angry and more than a little resentful. First of all, he was supposed to have this stupid gate finished by tomorrow morning. He’d been following a classical French design and using mortise joinery, and the project seemed to be taking forever. Marianne Petigru had made it perfectly clear to him that if he missed one more deadline, he could forget about getting any more work from Popple Hill. But Marianne was a snotty, rich bitch, he told himself, who could go stick her head in a bucket of swamp water for all he cared.

  At the same time, he genuinely liked working on these projects. They were good jobs, substantial jobs, and they usually involved design challenges. It also didn’t hurt that he was able to earn several hundred bucks a crack.

  And, face it, he told himself, there was no way in hell he could ever parlaz vous with those rich folks by himself and convince them to hire a guy like him to create wrought-iron gates, fence panels, and stair rails for their fancy houses. Hell, if he were a rich guy, he wouldn’t hire a guy like himself!

  The other problem that gnawed at him was the fact that he was supposed to have gone out on another job tonight. And if he wasn’t along to practically hold the hands of those dumb yahoos, they’d sure as hell get lost. Because not one of those good old boys was smart enough to find his backside in the hall of mirrors at high noon. That was for sure.

  But everything had changed when he received that stupid message from Booth Crowley. Old jump-when-I-say-so Crowley wanted him to meet him tonight at some guy’s house. What was that all about? Had the plan changed completely? Was he no longer honchoing their little clandestine operation?

  Billy reached down with a leather-gloved hand and shut off the valve for the gas. He let the blue white flame die before his eyes before he tipped his helmet back.

  Eight o’clock, the note had said. Eight o’clock. He guessed he’d better not cross a guy like Booth Crowley. Crowley was one impo
rtant dude around Charleston, and Billy knew firsthand that he could also be a pretty nasty dude. Right now, he regretted ever getting involved with Booth Crowley.

  Billy Manolo carefully laid his equipment on the battered cutting table. He shut off the lights in the garage, pulled down the door, and locked it.

  As he picked his way across the yard, he told himself he had barely enough time for a quick shower.

  CHAPTER 31

  “DID YOU GET the samples?” Drayton asked quietly. Triumphantly, Haley laid three plastic Baggies full of dirt on the table next to Drayton’s bonsai trees. “I did just as you said,” Haley told him. “Used the litmus paper first in a half-dozen places. Then, when I found what seemed like a fairly close match for the soil’s pH level, I collected a sample.”

  “Good girl,” breathed Drayton as he pulled two little plastic petri dishes out of the duffel bag that held his bonsai tools and copper wire. “You’re sure nobody noticed the light from your flashlight?”

  “Positive. The yacht club was a cinch, ’cause nobody was there. And when I went into the two backyards, I only turned the flashlight on for a moment when I had to read the litmus paper. And then I cupped my hands around it.”

  “Sounds like an excellent cat burglar technique,” said Drayton.

  But Haley was still riding high from her little adventure. “Doe’s yard was easy,” she chattered on. “Nobody home at all. But I had to scale a pretty good-sized fence in order to get into Booth Crowley’s backyard. I had a couple hairy moments that definitely brought out my inner athlete.” She paused. “You’re going to test the soil samples right now?”

  “That’s the general idea,” said Drayton as his fingers fluttered busily, measuring out spoonfuls of soil from each bag and dumping them into their own petri dishes.

  “So we’ll know right away?” asked Haley.

  Drayton slid the three petri dishes out of sight, behind a large, brown, glazed bonsai pot that held a miniature grove of tamarack trees. “Haley,” he said, “everyone will know right away if you persist in asking these questions.”

  “I thought that was the general idea,” she said.

  Drayton smiled tolerantly. “All in good time, dear girl, all in good time.”

  Lights blazed, conversation grew louder, the string quartet that Timothy Neville had brought in, fellow symphony members, played a lively rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons . Theodosia moved from room to room, dropping a hint here, a sly reference there. She was following in Delaine’s wake, so all she really had to do was toss out an innuendo for good measure. It was surprisingly simple. And since this was a party where conversation groups constantly shifted and re-formed, it was easy to mix and mingle and get the rumor mill bubbling.

  In one of two front flanking parlors, Theodosia ran into their genial host.

  “Enjoying yourself, Miss Browning?” Timothy pulled himself away from a group of people that was heatedly discussing the pros and cons of faux finishes and peered at her hawkishly.

  “Lovely evening, Mr. Neville,” she said.

  “I noticed you’ve been flitting about,” Timothy said, pulling his lips back to reveal small, square teeth, “and chatting merrily with my guests. The old marketing instinct dies hard, eh? Fun to be a spin doctor again.” His voice carried a faint trace of sarcasm, but his eyes danced with merriment. Then Timothy leaned toward her and asked quietly, “Drayton working his alchemy with the soil testing?”

  “Should be,” she said, taking a sip of champagne, feeling slightly conspiratorial.

  “Why not scoot out and check for results then. If it’s a go, we’ll launch part two of your little plan.”

  Theodosia was suddenly captivated by Timothy’s quixotic spirit. “Why, Mr. Neville, I do believe you’re rather enjoying this,” she told him.

  “It’s a game, Miss Browning, a fascinating game. Truth be known, Drayton didn’t have to twist my arm much to get me to play along. But”—Timothy Neville suddenly sobered—“at the same time, Oliver Dixon was a decent man and a friend. He was a generous benefactor to the Heritage Society and lent support to several other worthwhile charities here in Charleston. It was a terrible fate that befell him, and if someone was responsible for masterminding such a frightful, premeditated act, that person should be made to pay. If the police haven’t figured something out by now, I see no reason why the fates shouldn’t intercede. Or at least receive a helpful prod from us.” Timothy paused, removed a spotless white handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, and blotted his brow gently. “Now, when you have an answer, Miss Browning, be sure to tell Henry immediately. He’s the one charged with rounding up the troops for my little spectacle here tonight.” Timothy reached for a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, held it up to Theodosia in a toast. “Henry is also who most of my guests fear more than me.” He chuckled.

  “Drayton, Timothy wants to know if you have any results yet,” Theodosia asked somewhat breathlessly. She’d hurried from one end of Timothy’s house to the other, then fairly flown down the back staircase into Timothy’s elegant garden.

  How delightful it is out here, she thought suddenly as she felt the gentle sway of palm trees and bamboo around her, caught the moonlight as it shimmered on the long reflecting pool. How cool and quiet after the closeness and social chaos inside.

  But Drayton was peering at her with a glum expression. “I’ve got results, but not the kind you want to hear about,” he said, a warning tone in his voice.

  Theodosia was instantly on the alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is that none of our soil samples match with what Professor Morrow took off your tablecloth,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, obviously irritated.

  Theodosia stared at Drayton and saw his vexation and frustration. Haley, who stood poised with a Japanese teapot in her hand, suddenly looked ready to cry.

  “I did it just the way you told me to, Drayton,” Haley said.

  He held up a hand. “I’m not questioning your methodology. The preliminary matches looked good. It’s just that . . .”

  “What is it?” asked Theodosia.

  “When we run a full analysis,” said Drayton, “we come up empty.”

  “So Doe, Booth Crowley, and Billy Manolo are all innocent?” said Haley.

  “Innocent of using soil from their own backyards,” said Theodosia. “Or the yacht club, in Billy’s case.” She was bitterly disappointed as well. At the same time, she’d known this whole soil business had been a long shot.

  “So that’s it?” asked Haley. “We’ve come this far just to hit a dead end?”

  “Not quite,” said Theodosia. “The soil samples were really only the lure. Now it’s time to have Timothy dangle the bait.”

  CHAPTER 32

  BILLY MANOLO HEARD the laughter and conversation from half a block away. It drifted like silver strands out the open windows and doors of Timothy Neville’s enormous home and seemed to rise into the blue black sky.

  Billy stopped for a moment and stared upward, half expecting to see something tangible in the night sky above him. Then he shook his head and resumed walking toward the big house on Archdale Street. Foolishness, he told himself. Just plain foolishness.

  Henry met him at the door before he had a chance to knock or ring the bell.

  “Mr. Manolo?” Henry asked in his dry, raspy voice.

  Billy stared at him. The old guy in the red and white monkey suit had to be ninety years old. He also looked like somebody out of an old movie. A silent movie at that.

  “Yeah, I’m Billy Manolo,” he answered, his curiosity ratcheting up a couple notches. “Is there some kind of problem?”

  “Not in the least,” smiled Henry. “Fact is, we’ve been expecting you.”

  “Is that so?” Billy eyed Henry warily as he stepped into the foyer and glanced hurriedly around. “Looks like you all have a party going on.”

  “Indeed,” said Henry.

  “This is quite a place.
You could park a 747 in this hallway.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. “I shall convey your rather astute observation to Mr. Neville, I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

  “Booth Crowley around?” Billy asked. “I got some weird message to meet him here.”

  “Yes, that was nicely arranged, wasn’t it,” said Henry.

  “Huh?” asked Billy sharply.

  “If you’ll follow me to the music salon, sir,” beckoned Henry. “It’s time we get started.”

  The thatch of white hair atop Booth Crowley’s head bristled like a porcupine displaying its quills. Then his small, watery gray eyes focused on Billy Manolo, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, swaggering down the center of the Oriental runner that ran the length of the hallway. Strangely enough, he followed in the wake of Timothy’s man, Henry.

  “Damn that boy,” Booth Crowley muttered under his breath, immediately tuning out the two women who’d been making a polite pitch to him concerning funding for their beloved Opera Society’s production of Turandot.

  Their eyebrows shot immediately skyward. Swearing was not unknown to them, but neither was it customary for a man to display such rudeness in a social situation like this. The eyes of the volunteer coordinator flashed an immediate signal of those of the board member: Uncouth. Not much of a gentleman.

  But committing a social faux pas was the furthest thing from Booth Crowley’s mind right now. His was a personality hot-wired for anger, one that accelerated from rational behavior to utter rage with no stops in between, no chance for a safety valve.

  Booth Crowley bulled his way across the room. Leading with his barrel of a chest, he shoved himself between Henry and Billy in an attempt to physically block Billy’s way.

  “Get the hell away from here,” Booth Crowley snarled. His lips curled sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly above his floral bow tie. Several people standing nearby paused to watch what seemed to be an ugly spectacle about to unfold.