Gunpowder Green Read online

  “Last fall we had an extra pair of hands,” said Haley. “But now that Bethany’s moved to Columbia, who else could we shanghai? Miss Dimple?”

  “Now she’s a sport,” said Drayton. “I bet she wouldn’t complain half as much as you did.”

  “Drayton, don’t you dare ask poor Miss Dimple to package tea,” laughed Theodosia.

  “One more thing,” said Drayton, closing his book and getting up. “New packaging.” He reached around to the back of the counter and pulled out a shiny, dark blue box with a rounded top that folded over. “Indigo blue boxes,” said Drayton.

  “They’re the exact same color as the gift paper we use!” Theodosia squealed with delight. “Aren’t you clever. Where did you find them?”

  “Supplier in San Francisco,” said Drayton. “We can have Gallagher’s package the tea in our regular foil bags, then pop those bags into the blue boxes. From there we just need to add a label. I took the liberty of getting samples of gold foil labels from our printer. All you have to do is pick a label style and a typeface,” said Drayton. “Then it’s a done deal.”

  “Easy enough,” said Theodosia.

  “Don’t look now,” said Haley under her breath, “but that boorish cop just came in. Wonder what he wants?”

  “I invited him,” said Theodosia.

  “You invited him?” Haley was stunned.

  “Run and put together a nice pastry sampler, will you, Haley? And Drayton, could you do a fresh pot of tea? Maybe that Dunsandle Estate?”

  “Of course, Theo,” agreed Drayton. Then he turned to Haley. “Are you rooted to the floor, dear girl? Kindly fetch the pastries Theodosia requested.”

  “Okay,” Haley agreed grudgingly. “But you know I can’t stand that guy. He almost drove Bethany to a nervous breakdown with all his questions and nasty innuendos. He’s a bully, pure and simple.”

  “He’s a detective first grade,” corrected Drayton under his breath. “Now the pastries, please?”

  “Right,” said Haley.

  “Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia greeted him warmly. “Sit here by the window.”

  “Nice to see you again, Miss Browning,” said Tidwell as he lowered his bulk into a wooden captain’s chair. “Good of you to drop me a note, even if it was of the electronic version.”

  He gave a cheery smile that Theodosia knew contained very little cheer. Tidwell’s chitchat and tiny pleasantries were opening salvos that could be a steel-jawed trap for the unsuspecting.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

  “You mean Oliver Dixon’s death,” corrected Burt Tidwell.

  “Since you put it that way, yes,” agreed Theodosia.

  She sat quietly as Haley placed teacups, plates, knives, and spoons in front of each of them, then Drayton followed with a steaming pot of tea. Theodosia poured some of the sweet elixir into Tidwell’s cup and smiled with quiet satisfaction as his nose twitched. Then Haley delivered her plate of baked goods, and Tidwell brightened considerably.

  “Oh my, this is lovely,” he said as he scooped a raspberry scone onto his plate. “Is there, perchance, some jelly to accompany this sweet?”

  But Haley was already back at the table with a plate of butter, pitcher of clotted cream, and various jars of jelly.

  “Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “have you learned anything more about the pistol that killed Oliver Dixon?”

  Tidwell sliced a sliver of butter and applied it to his pastry.

  “Some,” he said. “The pistol was American made, manufactured in the mid-1800s to Army specifications, and used as a side arm by officers. Stock is curly maple and there’s an acorn design on the trigger guard. Graceful lines but a crude weapon. It was really only effective at close range.”

  But effective enough to mortally wound Oliver Dixon, Theodosia thought to herself.

  “By the way,” Tidwell said, “the pistol was kept at Oliver Dixon’s yacht club. In friendly territory. So it’s doubtful anyone would have tampered with it.”

  “Who loaded the pistol?” asked Theodosia.

  “Fellow by the name of Bob Brewster. Been doing it for years. Apparently, you take a pinch of gunpowder and twist it inside a little piece of paper. Not unlike a tea bag,” Tidwell told her. “Then you place the little packet in the barrel. Brewster’s just sick about it, by the way.”

  “But Oliver Dixon could have had an enemy there,” said Theodosia.

  Tidwell stroked his ample chin. “Most people I’ve spoken with were highly complimentary of Oliver Dixon. He was a past commodore and had contributed a considerable amount of funds for the betterment of the place. He paid to have the boat piers reinforced and a clubhouse fireplace installed.” Tidwell pulled a spiral notebook from his breast pocket and glanced at it. It was the same kind of notebook children purchased from the five-and-dime store. “Oh, and Oliver Dixon underwrote a sailing program last summer for inner-city youth. Kids Can Sail, or something like that.”

  “Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

  “And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Tidwell. He smiled at her, then helped himself to an almond scone. “Lovely,” he muttered under his breath.

  He’s not given me an ounce of useful information, thought Theodosia. But then, did I really think he would? She sighed inwardly. Conversations with Tidwell were always of the cat-and-mouse variety.

  “You realize,” she began, “there is a long-standing feud between the Dixons and the Cantrells.” She watched him as her words sank in. He gave her nothing.

  “The feud dates back to the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

  “Mm-hm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention.

  “Sometime during the thirties, Oliver Dixon’s aunt ran off with a Cantrell. Apparently, the two families have been openly hostile toward each other ever since.”

  “So you suspect young Ford Cantrell?” Tidwell’s bright eyes were riveted on her.

  “If I had a suspect in mind,” Theodosia said slowly, “that would imply I believed a criminal act had been committed. And I have no proof of that.”

  “Aha,” said Tidwell, “so this conversation is simply neighborly gossip.”

  Theodosia stared at him unhappily.

  Seeing her displeasure, Tidwell’s eyes lost their merriment, and he suddenly turned serious. “Yes, I have heard rumblings about this so-called Dixon-Cantrell feud. Although you seem to have gained the upper hand as far as specific details.”

  Though large in girth, Tidwell’s words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be.

  “Do you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.

  He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”

  But I know an expert, thought Theodosia. And I just might take a chance on talking to him.

  Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”

  And he was out the door, just like that.

  Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he’s back?”

  “He’s back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”

  “Oh,” was all Theodosia said. Contemplating a visit with Timothy Neville and actually talking to Timothy Neville were two different things.

  “Do you think he still hates me for suspecting him of poisoning that real estate developer?” she asked.

  “Nonsense,” said Drayton. “Timothy Neville does
n’t hate you; he hates everyone. Timothy has always been an equal-opportunity curmudgeon. Don’t give his ill humor a second thought.”

  CHAPTER 7

  TIMOTHY NEVILLE WAS going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn’t about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.

  What did it matter?

  He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.

  Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B1, B6, C, and E.

  True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.

  Genetics. Timothy Neville chalked it all up to genetics. His mother had lived to ninety and had taken to her bed only on the day prior to her death. Her ancestors, most of whom dated back to the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the mid-1600s, had been a determined and hardy lot. They had endured the hardships of an ocean voyage, worked tirelessly to help colonize Charles Town, fought off the greedy English crown, then managed to survive the War Between the States. Today, his ancestors were numbered among the founding fathers of Charleston and considered social aristocracy.

  Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he studied the landscape painting he held in his hands. It had been painted in the late thirties by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, a watercolorist famed for her moody renditions of low-country rice plantations. The piece had sustained some damage. One corner had been gnawed by insects, and a brown splotch of water damage shot through the sky. The painting hadn’t been preserved in acid-free paper, either, so it was slightly faded. It would take considerable conservation skills to restore the little watercolor, but the piece was well worth it. Huger Smiths were few and far between these days, and most people who held one in their possession preferred to sell it at auction in New York rather than donate it to a museum.

  “Mr. Neville? There’s someone to see you?” Claire, one of the secretaries, hovered in the doorway.

  Timothy didn’t look up. “Who, please?”

  “Theodosia Browning?” Claire has a way of making everything sound like a question. Why is that? he wondered. He’d heard other young women speak in that same maddening way. Were they too insecure to spit out a simple declarative statement?

  It didn’t matter. Timothy knew he was merely stalling for time, letting the idea that Theodosia Browning had come to call upon him ruminate in his mind. There was certainly nothing wrong in allowing her a brief cool-your-heels period in the anteroom. After all, she had harbored suspicions about him being involved in the death of that real estate developer last fall and had helped herself to a merry snoop in his home during a music recital. Since that incident, he felt that she had been more cool and aloof with him than he with her. Embarrassment? Remorse over her actions? Had to be.

  “Show her in,” Timothy said finally.

  Theodosia Browning entered his office in a whisper of silk. He heard the slight rustle of the fabric, could detect a pleasant, slightly floral scent about her. He wondered if it was perfume or tea.

  Timothy laid the painting down on the table in front of him and turned to face her. He did not make any indication for her to take a chair.

  She smiled at him, looking, he decided, rather pretty in her aqua silk slacks and jacket with that mass of curly auburn hair framing her head like a friendly Medusa.

  “Mr. Neville . . .” began Theodosia.

  “Call me Timothy,” he said in his clipped, no-nonsense manner. “We are well acquainted with each other, are we not?”

  Theodosia flinched slightly, and her cheeks flared pink from embarrassment.

  “Timothy, then,” said Theodosia. She was beginning to regret her impulsiveness at coming here. Timothy Neville had clearly not forgotten her actions of a few months ago. She swallowed hard, determined to get through this. “You’re an expert in antique weaponry,” she began. “Guns, pistols, the like. Would you be able to help me understand how a pistol might explode on its own?”

  “Snooping again, are we Miss Browning?” Timothy Neville favored her with a remote smile.

  “One could call it investigating, Mr. Neville,” she replied. To heck with calling him Timothy, Theodosia decided. Addressing him as Mr. Neville was far more preferable. The formality kept him at arm’s length, which was probably where she should keep this strange little man.

  “One could,” Timothy replied. “But then one would have to be a duly sworn investigator. I don’t recall that you are.”

  Theodosia ignored Timothy’s remark. “My interest is in Oliver Dixon’s death . . . the terrible accident that befell him. You are—”

  “Yes, of course I’m aware of what took place,” murmured Timothy. “Terrible tragedy. He was a fine fellow.” Timothy’s bright eyes bore into her. “And you think because I have a collection of antique weapons that I know about exploding pistols and the like, is that it?”

  “I rather thought you might be able to offer some type of explanation,” said Theodosia.

  “An explanation for an accident,” said Timothy slowly. “I’m not sure I follow your logic. Or that I see there’s any logic to follow.”

  “But if it wasn’t accidental, then . . .” She stopped abruptly. “You’re not going to help me, are you?” said Theodosia. This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. She knew her feelings of regret for snooping on Timothy were a huge obstacle for her to overcome. That and the fact that Timothy Neville’s brilliance made her feel like a plodding schoolchild.

  Timothy Neville shrugged imperceptibly.

  “Well, it might interest you,” said Theodosia out of frustration, “that I have discovered a few clues of my own on the Heritage Society’s Web site.”

  Timothy just stared at her.

  “That’s right,” Theodosia continued. “Thanks to old newspaper clippings that reside on your Web site, I’ve discovered a few things about the Dixon-Cantrell feud.”

  “Good for you,” said Timothy. He hadn’t meant to sound flippant and harsh, but it came out that way. He knew he was a crusty old man, prone to caustic remarks and pronouncements, and he regretted his sarcastic tone instantly.

  But his words cut Theodosia to the quick and made her spin on her heel.

  It’s definitely time to leave, she decided. Timothy Neville is not going to give me one iota of cooperation.

  She had already retreated through the doorway when Timothy began to speak. “Miss Browning, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you might possibly have the right church but are looking in the wrong pew.” His words, meant to appease, tumbled out in a rush. He’d also spoken so softly that Theodosia was barely able to register all his words. It had been like listening to a faulty record or tape and catching only fragments.

  “What?” Theodosia asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.

  But Timothy Neville had turned back to his painting.

  CHAPTER 8

  “DID YOU FIND out what you wanted?” Drayton asked. After Theodosia returned to the tea shop, he had waited the better part of an hour before approaching her. She’d retired to her office immediately, and he’d heard her tapping away on her laptop computer. Probably working on some marketing ideas. Between the shop and the Web site and the specialty teas and her new idea for tea bath products, Theodosia was awfully busy. And a little distracted, too. “You were gone long enough,” Drayton added.

  Theodosia leaned back in her chai
r and exhaled slowly. “The meeting with Timothy didn’t last all that long. But I was so darned upset afterward that I had to take a cooldown stroll behind Saint Philip’s.”

  The cemetery behind Saint Philip’s was one of those hidden places in Charleston, a spot not too many tourists found their way to. Filled with fountains and sculpture and fascinating old tombstones, it was a quiet, restful place where one could usually find solace.

  “Timothy said something to upset you?” asked Drayton. He knew Timothy was old and crusty, but he also knew the man could be handled. Of course, you had to use kid gloves.

  “Timothy Neville hates me,” declared Theodosia. “I’m sure of it. He gave me that hard-eyed, calculating look that just seems to pierce right through you. I know all of you folks on the board at the Heritage Society think he does a masterful job, raising money and helping save old buildings by securing landmark status for them, but I don’t see him as anything but rude and dismissive.” She put her elbows on her desk and dropped her chin in her hands. “That’s it,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. He hates me.”

  “Theodosia, I think you’re being paranoid,” said Drayton.

  “I’m not. He really is an abominable little man.”

  “Who can also be quite charming,” argued Drayton. “Besides, if Timothy hated you, he wouldn’t have invited you to his Garden Fest party.”

  Charleston’s annual Garden Fest started next week, a weeklong event where more than three dozen backyard gardens in the historic district were open for public viewing. Many would-be garden enthusiasts had been working on their gardens for years, adding fountains and cultivating prize flowers in an attempt to get on the venue. But it was a select number that were chosen every year. And it was a great honor. Of course, Timothy Neville’s courtyard garden at the rear of his enormous Georgian-style mansion on Archdale Street topped the list.