Gunpowder Green Page 21

  Billy gazed at Booth Crowley in disbelief and decided the old fart had to be bipolar or whatever the current pop psycho term was. First Booth had left him a note that was practically a presidential mandate to meet him here tonight. Now the crazy fool was trying to toss him out! What an idiot, thought Billy as he shook his head tiredly. But then, everything felt nuts these days, like the world was crashing down around him.

  The high tinkle of a bell cut through the raw tension and the sudden buzz of excitement.

  “Everyone is kindly requested to convene in the music salon, please.” Henry’s normally papery voice had suddenly increased by twenty decibels, ringing out strong and clear and authoritative. He sounded like a courtier announcing the arrival of the queen to parliament.

  “You old fool,” spat Billy to Booth Crowley as the two men were suddenly jostled, then engulfed as bodies flowed past them.

  Party guests pushed toward the music room, flushed with excitement, their spirits buoyed by the free flow of the excellent Roederer Cristal Champagne. Billy Manolo and Booth Crowley could do nothing but let themselves be carried along with the crowd. The most they could manage were furious scowls at each other.

  Out on the patio, Drayton, Theodosia, and Haley also heard the high, melodious tinkle of Henry’s bell.

  Theodosia turned bright eyes to Drayton. “This is it,” she whispered excitedly. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “Is somebody going to tell me what’s really going on?” complained Haley. “I feel like I’m the last person on earth to—”

  Drayton grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward. “Come on then. Timothy’s going to do his little speech. In about two minutes, you’ll see exactly what we’re up to!”

  The three of them scampered up the back staircase into Timothy’s house and pushed down the main hallway with the rest of the crowd. Once inside the vast music salon, they jockeyed for position.

  Standing center stage, in front of an enormous marble fireplace, Timothy Neville waited as the crowd continued to pour into the room and gather around him. High above him, set incongruously against gold brocade wallpaper, hung a scowling portrait of one of his Huguenot ancestors.

  It was a full minute before all the murmurs, coughs, and whispers quieted down. Finally, Timothy looked over toward Henry, who nodded slightly at him. Timothy gazed serenely out into the crowd, found Drayton and Theodosia, but did not acknowledge them. Then he pulled himself into his usual ramrod posture and began.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he greeted the crowd in a ringing, impassioned voice. “It’s always an honor to host a party for a delightful crowd such as this.”

  There was exuberant applause and several shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

  Again, Timothy waited for the noise to die down. “Our Garden Fest event continues to grow each year,” he told them. “This year alone we’ve added six additional garden venues to our program. That gives us a grand total of thirty-eight private gardens in our beloved historic district that will be open, over the next three days, for the public’s sublime viewing pleasure.”

  More applause.

  “On a more personal note,” continued Timothy, “I sincerely regret that the garden of my friend and neighbor, Oliver Dixon, will no longer be included on the Garden Fest roster. As you all know, we lost Oliver recently, and the memory of his accident still haunts us.”

  With those few words, Timothy had suddenly gained the complete and rapt attention of the crowd.

  “Oliver Dixon was a generous contributor to the Heritage Society,” said Timothy. “And more than a few years ago, when I was a younger and far nimbler fellow, I sailed against Oliver Dixon in several of the yacht club’s regattas: the Isle of Palms race, the Catfish Cup, the Patriots Point Regatta. Oliver was a true gentleman and a fine competitor. I know in my heart that he would not wish the yacht club’s reputation or any of its long-standing traditions to be tarnished by what was truly a senseless accident.”

  Timothy paused, much the same way a minister would when asking for a moment of silence. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, sensing something big was about to happen.

  “To celebrate Oliver Dixon’s vast contributions and help continue the yacht club’s time-honored customs, I am making a special donation in his memory.”

  The inimitable Henry now strode forth, bearing in his arms a large wooden box. Turning to face the crowd, Henry paused for a moment, then slowly lifted the lid.

  Catching the gleam from the overhead chandelier, a silver pistol glinted from its cradle of plush red velvet.

  There was a hush at first, an initial shock, as a visceral reaction swept through the crowd. They were surprised, slightly stunned. Then a smattering of applause broke out among several of the men standing near the front. The applause began to build steadily until, finally, almost everyone had politely joined in.

  “You were right,” Drayton whispered to Theodosia, “it was a shocker.”

  But Theodosia had turned to face the crowd, and her eyes were busily scanning faces.

  She caught the look of initial shock, then supreme unhappiness that spread across Doe’s young face.

  Ford Cantrell, pressed up against the back wall, retained a mild smile that seemed to barely waver. But Theodosia had caught a spark of something else behind Ford’s carefully arranged public face: curiosity. Ford Cantrell had taken in the entire scenario and was trying to figure out exactly what was going on, what con was being run.

  Booth Crowley’s sullen countenance bobbed among the crowd like an angry balloon. He had applauded perfunctorily but seemed nervous and distracted. His wife, Beatrix, at his side, maintained the look of mild bemusement she’d worn all night.

  And Billy Manolo, looking like an angry rebel in his black T-shirt among a sea of dinner jackets and tuxedos, kept an insolent smirk on his face.

  “What kind of pistol is it?” asked a young man at the front of the crowd. His eyes shone brightly, and he seemed pleased with himself for asking such a bold question.

  Timothy’s grin was both terrifying and curiously satisfying. “A Scottish regimental pistol. Manufactured by Isaac Bissell of Birmingham, England. See the engraved RHR? Stands for Royal Highland Regiment.”

  Delaine stood nearby, fanning herself nervously. “Is it loaded?” she asked with a mixture of alarm and fascination.

  “Of course,” said Timothy, hefting the weapon in one hand and pointing it toward the ceiling. “The cartridge is a traditional hand-rolled cartridge, loose powder and a round ball wrapped in thin, brown paper. It was crafted in the British tradition by Lucas Clay, one of the foremost munitions experts in the South today.” Timothy held the pistol aloft for a moment, then put it reverently back in its box.

  There were whistles of appreciation and murmurs as several people pressed forward to gaze at it, lying there, shiny and dangerous, on a bed of red velvet.

  They are drawn to it like the hypnotic attraction of a cobra to a mongoose, thought Theodosia. The pistol was troubling yet difficult to resist, on display for all to admire on the library table next to the fireplace.

  But the crowd was also beginning to dissipate now, moving out into the center hallway where it was cooler. Most folks were shuffling down the hall toward the solarium for drink refills at the bar.

  Booth Crowley had shoved his way through the crowd again and stood talking with Billy Manolo. Or, rather, Booth Crowley was doing all the talking. Billy stared fixedly at the floor while the tips of Booth Crowley’s ears turned a bright shade of pink.

  Almost as pink as Delaine’s dress, thought Theodosia, wishing she were a little mouse who could scamper across the floor and listen in on the tongue-lashing Booth Crowley seemed to be inflicting upon Billy Manolo.

  “What do you think?” Drayton asked eagerly as he hovered at her elbow.

  “Jury’s still out,” replied Theodosia.

  “I’m going to dash over and grab a word with Timothy,” he said. “Be right back.”


  As the room emptied rapidly, Theodosia moved along with the crowd, straining to keep everyone in view. Just ahead, Doe held an empty champagne glass aloft and, with a deliberate toss of her blond mane, handed it over to Giovanni Loard.

  Giovanni Loard.

  The thought struck Theodosia like a whack on the side of the head. Maybe we should have taken soil samples from his garden, she thought suddenly. After all, Giovanni seemed to get awfully cozy with Doe right after Oliver’s death. On the other hand, Giovanni was Oliver’s cousin, so he was expected to be sympathetic and solicitous.

  She looked back to see where Drayton was, but he and Timothy were nowhere in sight.

  “Theodosia!” Delaine’s troubled face appeared before her. “Did Timothy not transcend the boundaries of good taste tonight?”

  Delaine wore a mantle of pious outrage, but Theodosia knew she would deliciously broadcast and rebroadcast tonight’s events for days to come.

  “Timothy’s a true eccentric,” admitted Theodosia. “You never know what he’s got up his sleeve.”

  “Eccentric isn’t the word for it,” sputtered Delaine. “He’s downright . . .” She searched for the right word. “Intemperate.”

  Amused, Theodosia glanced back into the music salon. It appeared to be completely empty now. Drayton and Timothy must have exited via another door, she decided.

  “And what’s with those soil samples you’ve been collecting?” asked Delaine. She nudged closer. “Any results you’d care to share?”

  Soil samples, Theodosia thought again. Should get one from Giovanni’s garden, just to be safe.

  “Oh my gosh,” gasped Delaine suddenly, “there’s Gabby Stewart.” She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of a pencil-thin woman in a short black cocktail dress. “Will you look at her face; not so much as a single line. Oh, Gabby . . .” And Delaine elbowed her way frantically through the crowd.

  Theodosia stood by herself for a moment, watching the last of the guests amble toward the solarium and out onto the enormous front portico. Then she made a snap decision.

  Giovanni lived nearby. His garden was highlighted on the map in the Garden Fest program that had been passed out earlier to all the guests.

  She’d go there right now and take a soil sample. What harm would it do? After all, she’d be back in five minutes.

  CHAPTER 33

  FLAMING TORCHES ILLUMINATED Timothy’s backyard garden, although it was completely deserted at the moment. Beginning life as a classical Charleston courtyard garden, it had, over the years, veered toward an Asian-inspired garden. Now indigenous flowering trees and shrubs rubbed shoulders with thickets of bamboo, stands of lady fern, and Korean moss. The long, rectangular pond was overgrown with Asian water plants. Along the paths, stone lion-dogs and Buddhas stood guard.

  Cool breezes swept through the garden as Theodosia stepped hurriedly down a stone walkway. In a far, dim corner, a small waterfall splashed noisily. Arriving at the back wall, Theodosia put a hand on the ancient wooden gate that led to the alley. Pushing outward, the old metal hinges creaked in protest. And in that same instant, Theodosia heard something else, too: light footsteps in front of her.

  She hesitated, then turned to peer into the darkness.

  A silver moon slid out from behind a bank of clouds and cast faint light on the man standing ten feet in front of her.

  Theodosia put a hand to her chest. “Giovanni, you frightened me.”

  “I meant to,” he said.

  Theodosia caught her breath. Giovanni’s voice was cold and menacing. He was no longer playing the role of the charming and witty antique dealer. Her eyes went immediately to the pistol Giovanni had clutched in his hand. It was the same pistol Timothy had just presented in the music room. Theodosia decided that Giovanni must have waited until everyone had left, then snatched it from the wooden box that looked so eerily like a miniature coffin.

  “You think you’re so smart,” Giovanni snarled at her. “Why couldn’t you just mind your own business?”

  “And let you get away with murder, Giovanni?” Theodosia faced him with as much bravado as she dared. “Killing your own cousin. What a coward you turned out to be.”

  “Second cousin,” corrected Giovanni. He waved the pistol menacingly at her. “But what does it matter how we were related? The fact is, Oliver signed his own death warrant by staunchly refusing to give me any help at all.”

  “Help with what?” asked Theodosia, determined to draw him out.

  “Money,” sneered Giovanni. “I needed money. Some very nasty men were demanding immediate payment of a debt. But Oliver, righteous citizen and uptight businessman, wouldn’t give it to me. Wouldn’t even lend it to me. Said I was incapable of managing my finances.”

  “What did you need the money for?” she asked him, knowing full well that greed was a motivator that often outweighed a pressing need for money.

  “What does it matter?” Giovanni said petulantly. “The shop, gambling debts . . . Anyway, my problems are almost behind me now.”

  “And you think you’ll get control of Oliver’s money by wooing Doe,” said Theodosia. Keep him talking, she told herself. Drayton has to come looking for me.

  “Doe has the mind of a child,” said Giovanni scornfully. But she listens to me, she trusts me. It won’t be long before I’m calling the shots.”

  “You think you can make her fall in love with you? Marry you?”

  Giovanni shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  “She’s not that much of a child,” said Theodosia.

  “Shut up!” he said with a harsh bark. All pretense of Giovanni’s carefully cultured voice had long since been abandoned.

  “What have you got in mind?” Theodosia goaded Giovanni. “Another accident? Another exploding pistol?” Fury shone brightly in her eyes; her cheeks blazed high with color.

  “Not necessarily,” said Giovanni, and suddenly his voice was smooth and hard as ice. “I’m sure this pistol will fire quite nicely all on its own. We have our host, Timothy Neville, to thank for that. Quite the expert when it comes to weapons.” Giovanni’s eyes darted about the dark garden, but only golden koi peeped at them from the pond. The woman had been stalling for time, Giovanni decided, and he knew he’d better bring this to a rapid conclusion.

  “Unlatch that gate.” He gestured with the pistol. “You and I are going to take a little stroll down to Charleston Harbor. The water’s awfully chilly this time of year but . . .” He chuckled nastily. “. . . You won’t be in any condition to notice.”

  Theodosia faced him square on. “I don’t think so,” she told him.

  Her obstinance infuriated him. “You foolish, snooping woman,” he hissed. “Very well, have it your way. You hear them in there?” He gestured toward Timothy’s house. “No one’s going to come to your rescue. Everyone is having a merry old time, sipping champagne and whispering about your silly soil samples. I’m sure they all think you’re quite mad. Especially when they find out you were sneaking about at night, snooping in people’s gardens. No wonder you met with such an unfortunate accident.”

  Theodosia stared at him. Giovanni had become so enraged he was spitting like a cat, and his eyes were pulled into narrow slits like an evil Kabuki mask.

  Oh dear, Theodosia suddenly thought to herself as her heart began to pound a timpani solo inside her chest. Did I push him too hard? I hope he—

  Giovanni’s finger tightened about the trigger.

  “Giovanni . . .” said Theodosia, extending a hand.

  Giovanni Loard squeezed the trigger, flinching slightly as a loud whomp echoed in the courtyard. At the same instant, Theodosia’s hands flew up in surprise, and she uttered a tiny cry of dismay.

  “You fool!” Timothy Neville’s voice rang sharply across the garden, bouncing like shards of glass on cobblestones.

  Startled, Giovanni whirled to find the grim face of Timothy Neville staring at him from above the barrel of a pistol, a sleek contemporary pistol that looked far more menacing than the o
ne Giovanni held in his hand.

  “Miss Browning?” Timothy called. “Still in one piece?” He looked past Giovanni, but his gun never wavered. It remained pointed squarely at Giovanni’s heart.

  Giovanni snapped his head around toward Theodosia. “What?” he gasped, amazed to find her still standing.

  “You’re a pitiful excuse for a man,” said Timothy, his upper lip curled in disgust.

  Giovanni was thoroughly stunned that his shot had been without effect. “It was supposed to be loaded,” he stammered. “You said—”

  “Assuming you are still in one piece, Miss Browning, would you care to enlighten the recalcitrant Mr. Loard?”

  Theodosia lifted her chin in triumph. Her eyes bore into Giovanni, and her hair flowed out around her like a vengeful wraith.

  “We created a special type of ammunition,” she told him. “Gunpowder green.”

  “That’s right,” added Timothy. “We figured once our killer knew that soil samples were being tested, it was only a matter of time before he, or she, erupted into a full-blown panic and attempted something foolish.” Timothy smiled with smug satisfaction. “Witness your own folly just now.”

  Giovanni Loard’s face was black with fury. “You put what in the pistol?” he bellowed.

  “Gunpowder green,” said Theodosia. “Actually a rather pungent and flavorful Chinese tea. But then, what would you know?” Her eyes blazed like a huntress who’d just claimed her prize. “You yourself admitted you were unable to distinguish between Chinese and Japanese blends. We simply assumed your inadequacies ran to gunpowder, as well.”

  “And we were correct,” smiled Timothy.

  “You pompous old blowhard,” menaced Giovanni. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his eyes sought out the pale skin of Theodosia’s neck.

  In a split second, Timothy read the cold, calculating menace on Giovanni’s face.

  “You’re not nearly as smart or as quick as you think you are,” Timothy warned him. “Consider the fact that this Ruger is loaded with .22 caliber hollowpoints.” Timothy’s eyes gleamed, almost daring Giovanni to make a move.