Gunpowder Green Page 8

  Theodosia took the page from Haley and scanned the article. Haley was right; it was soft news, society fluff. “That’s right,” said Theodosia, “they had one of their photographers there to cover the picnic, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Seemed like he took gobs of pictures. Course, they only printed but three of them.”

  Theodosia stared at Haley intently. “I sure wish I could take a look at the rest of those photos.”

  “You do?”

  Theodosia put a hand to her cheek and stroked it absently, thinking. “The photos might, you know, chronicle what happened,” she said slowly. “From what Tidwell says, nobody seemed to see anything out of the ordinary. And nobody’s completely sure how many people handled the pistol once it was removed from its rosewood box.”

  Haley was suddenly grinning like a little elf. “Let me try to make up for my little faux pas,” she exclaimed. “Let me see if I can get my friend Jimmy Cardavan to get us a look at the photos. He’s a copy intern there.”

  “Really?” asked Theodosia. “How would we do that? Go down there? I have to run out to a Spoleto marketing meeting right now, but maybe we could swing by afterward.”

  Haley’s grin stretched wider. “I’ve got a better idea. Let me E-mail Jimmy and see if he’s got access to the Post and Courier’s intranet. If so, he can pull the photos up from their site and send them to us in a pdf format. That way you could look at the photos on your computer and print the ones that interest you. That is, if one or another does interest you.”

  “Haley, you’re a genius,” declared Theodosia.

  CHAPTER 11

  SPOLETO FESTIVAL USA was Charleston’s big arts festival, an annual gala event highlighting dance, opera, theater, music, art, and even literary presentations. Beginning each Memorial Day, Spoleto ran for an action-packed two weeks, launching an invasion of visiting directors, dance troupes, and theater companies that comingled with Charleston’s already-strong arts scene and created a rich fusion of performance, visual, and literary arts.

  Theodosia had served on Spoleto’s marketing committee for six years. Originally, she’d been “volunteered” by her boss, but after the first year had found the experience so rewarding and enjoyable that she’d stayed on, even after she left the advertising agency.

  This year, she’d produced a fast-paced thirty-second TV commercial, using snippets of footage from past events set to a jazz track. Then she negotiated favorable rates with the five commercial TV stations in Charleston, some of the TV stations in Columbia and Greenville, and those in Savannah and Augusta, Georgia, as well. The idea being that Spoleto’s appeal would extend to arts-minded folk in neighboring cities and states as well as those in Charleston.

  Now, as Theodosia meandered the broad corridors of the Gibbes Museum of Art, she decided to treat herself to a side trip into a couple of the smaller galleries. She’d arrived about ten minutes early and was, after all, heading in the general direction of the conference room where the marketing committee was scheduled to meet.

  In the Asian Gallery, Theodosia studied the exquisite collection of Japanese wood-block prints. Many were by revered masters such as Hiroshige and Hokusai, but there were contemporary prints, too, by new masters such as Mitsuaki and Eiichi. These were artists who played with color, technique, and style, and sought to push the boundaries of Japanese printmaking. Fascinating, she thought, what a lovely, hazy feel they had, almost like twilight in the low country.

  Glancing at her watch, Theodosia saw it was almost three o’clock. Hustling out of the Asian Gallery, she turned right and headed down the main corridor. At the entrance to the museum’s administrative offices, she paused to shut off her cell phone, a small courtesy that she wished more people would observe. When she glanced up, a woman was staring at her, a woman with washed-out blue eyes and a frizzle of red hair shot with strands of gray.

  “Do you have a moment?” the woman asked in a low voice.

  “Pardon?” Theodosia stared quizzically at the woman.

  The woman cocked her head to one side. “I’m Lizbeth Cantrell,” she announced bluntly. “And you’re Theodosia Browning.”

  “Yes, hello,” said Theodosia, completely taken aback.

  “I saw your name on the marketing committee list,” announced Lizbeth Cantrell as she stuck out her hand. “I was just here for a meeting, too. I’m on the ticket committee.”

  Theodosia accepted Lizbeth Cantrell’s hand as she studied her. What is this all about? she wondered. Had Lizbeth Cantrell somehow gotten wind of the fact that she’d done a little investigating into the Dixon-Cantrell feud? No, couldn’t be. That would lead back to Tidwell, and Tidwell would never divulge a source of information. You’d have to handcuff the man and beat it out of him. Then what did Lizbeth Cantrell want?

  As Lizbeth Cantrell shuffled her feet and ducked her head, Theodosia realized the woman had to be at least six feet tall. Long-boned and angular, she had a face that seemed all cheekbone and jaw.

  “Can we talk privately?” Lizbeth Cantrell asked.

  “Of course,” agreed Theodosia, finding herself all the more curious about this casual encounter that had no doubt been staged.

  When they’d retreated to one of the conference rooms and pulled the double doors closed behind them, Theodosia studied Lizbeth Cantrell. All the qualities that made her brother, Ford Cantrell, tall and good-looking seemed to work against Lizbeth Cantrell. She was obviously older than her brother and appeared far more subdued and faded, as though her red hair had somehow leached all color and emotion from her.

  Truth be known, Lizbeth Cantrell was a woman who was both plain and plainspoken, at her happiest when she was whelping a litter of puppies or crashing through the woods atop a good horse.

  “You’re a smart woman,” began Lizbeth Cantrell. “A businesswoman. That makes you a breed apart from a lot of ladies.”

  “Thank you . . . I think,” said Theodosia. “But what do—”

  Lizbeth Cantrell held up a hand. “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “I’m not used to asking for help.”

  “You want my help?” said Theodosia. This conversation was getting stranger by the minute, she decided.

  “I know you were at White Point Gardens last Sunday when Oliver Dixon was shot,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “And I also hear that you know how to track down a murderer.”

  “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” said Theodosia.

  “No, I don’t,” said Lizbeth Cantrell firmly. “Your aunt Libby told me all about you. Last fall, the police thought maybe the girl who worked in your tea shop was responsible for the death of that man at the Lamplighter Tour. But you stood behind her. You figured it all out.”

  Realization was not dawning quickly for Theodosia. “My aunt Libby told you . . . ? Excuse me, exactly what are you asking me to do?”

  “I want you to help clear my brother’s name,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “He didn’t tamper with that old pistol. Folks just think he might have because he acts so crazy most of the time. And because he collects guns and likes to hunt. But I know Ford is a good man, an honest man. He’s no killer.”

  Let’s not be so hasty, thought Theodosia. It was, after all, Ford and Lizbeth’s great-great-grandfather, Jeb Cantrell, who shot Stuart Dixon to death back in 1892 and set the Dixon-Cantrell feud in motion.

  On the other hand, even though Ford Cantrell had looked awfully suspicious at first, Theodosia wasn’t so sure blame should be laid entirely at his feet. Doe was fast earning a place on her list of suspects, too. And Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid, bore looking into as well.

  “Can you help me?” asked Lizbeth Cantrell. Her pale eyes transfixed Theodosia with their intensity. “I know you’re a good lady. A smart lady.”

  “You live at Pamlico Hill Plantation,” said Theodosia. “A few miles down the road from my aunt Libby’s.”

  “That’s right.” Suddenly, a ghost of a smile played on Lizbeth Cantrell’s plain face, bringing with i
t a softness and quiet animation that hadn’t been visible earlier.

  “I know you, don’t I?” said Theodosia. Somewhere, in the depths of her memory, a faint recollection stirred.

  “Yes, ma’am, you do,” Lizbeth replied.

  Theodosia stared at Lizbeth as though she were a distant shadow and tried to conjure up the memory. “You were there when my . . . my mother died,” she finally said.

  “Yes,” Lizbeth replied softly. “You were just a little bug of a thing back then, couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old.”

  The flashback of that long-ago summer rushed at Theodosia in a Technicolor whirl and exploded in her brain. And along with it, came a wash of memories. The oppressive heat, her father’s hopeful whispering, her heartbreaking sadness.

  “My mother helped take care of your mother,” explained Lizbeth. “And sometimes I came along.”

  “You came along,” said Theodosia, as though she were in a trance. “You were older than I, and you took me swimming on hot days.”

  “That’s right,” said Lizbeth. “We went to Carpenter’s Pond.” Her smile was gentle, and she waited patiently as Theodosia’s brain processed everything.

  “Yes, I remember you,” said Theodosia slowly. Her initial shock now over with, she was able to look back and slowly replay the memory. Her mother’s last summer on this earth, spent at Cane Ridge Plantation in the low-country. Her mother had wanted more than anything to be able to watch sunlight play across the marsh grass, to gaze upon pink sunsets over shadowy, peaceful pine groves. And, finally, to be laid to rest in the old family cemetery there. Theodosia stretched one hand out tentatively, touched Lizbeth’s sleeve. “You were so kind.”

  “You were so sad.”

  The conference room’s double doors rattled noisily.

  “I got to go,” Lizbeth said as she began to gather up her purse and notebook. “I think your meeting’s about to start.” She paused and gave Theodosia a look filled with longing. “Will you help?” she asked.

  The door burst open, and a half-dozen people crowded into the room. They swarmed around the table, paying little heed to Lizbeth and Theodosia, totally unaware of the highly charged atmosphere that seemed to permeate the room.

  Theodosia dropped her arms to her sides and nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. She didn’t know exactly what she was promising. Or why. But how could she not?

  Lizbeth blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said simply.

  CHAPTER 12

  A POT OF lentil soup simmered on the back burner; popovers baked golden and fluffy in the oven. Although Theodosia’s upstairs apartment was not overly large, it possessed that rare trait so often lacking in many newer apartments: style. Aubasson rugs in faded blue and cinnamon covered the floors. French doors gave the appearance of a living and dining room that flowed together flawlessly, while cove ceilings gave the rooms a cozy, architectural ambiance. Draperies and sofa were done in muted English chintz and prints.

  Earlier, Drayton had gone next door to Robillard Booksellers and borrowed one of their oversized magnifying glasses on the pretext of trying to decipher some old Chinese tea labels. Now Theodosia held the magnifying glass in her hand as she sat at her dining room table, studying the black and white printouts. They’d been transmitted electronically just as Haley had promised, sliding, as if by magic, from her laser printer.

  The photos were interesting in that they did, indeed, chronicle the events of that Sunday afternoon. Here were photos of sailboats jostling in the harbor at the beginning of the race. Then photos of the two dozen or so boats, sails filled with wind, setting off toward the Atlantic. The photographer had then concentrated on shots of the crowd. There were photos of people talking, people shaking hands, people hugging and exchanging air kisses. Delaine was in a couple shots; Drayton showed up in a few as well.

  Here was Billy Manolo standing next to the table that held the rosewood box containing the pistol. And the commodore in the ill-fitting jacket with all the gold braid.

  Theodosia shuffled through the printouts. They were interesting but a little disappointing at the same time. She hadn’t expected anything to jump right out at her; that would’ve been too easy. But she felt the rumblings of a low-level vibe that told her there must be something to be learned.

  That hope spun dizzyingly in her head as Theodosia decided to shift her attention to the Dun & Bradstreet report that had arrived so speedily this afternoon. There were just four pages, but they contained what looked like a good assessment of Grapevine: a rundown on its products and the company’s growth potential. Just as Haley had mentioned a few days ago, Grapevine had started production on a number of different expansion modules for PDAs. Although competition was stiff in this area, the report seemed to indicate that Grapevine had done its homework and was about to launch a very viable product.

  Theodosia finally took a break when the oven timer buzzed. Ambling out into the kitchen, she slid her hand into a padded mitt and pulled the popovers from the oven. They were perfect. Golden brown and heroically puffed. Haley’s recipes were the best. They always turned out.

  After pouring the lentil soup into a mug, Theodosia carried everything back to the dining room table on a tray, sliding the printouts out of the way before she set her food down. Earl Grey was immediately at her elbow, giving a gentle nudge, lobbying for a bite of popover.

  “Leftovers when I’m finished,” she told him, and he assumed that worried look dogs often get.

  Theodosia had finished her soup and was plowing through the printouts a second time, when she stopped to study the single photo of Oliver Dixon lying facedown, half in, half out of the water.

  The photographer must have snapped the shot just moments before she reached down to check for a pulse, because the tip of her right hand was slightly visible. They hadn’t printed that photo in the paper because it was, undoubtedly, too gruesome, but they’d retained it in their collection of shots from that day.

  Closing her eyes, Theodosia tried to recall her impression of that single, defining moment. She had a strong, visceral recollection of the hot, pungent aroma of exploded gunpowder, chill water lapping at her ankles, and a sense of unreality, of feeling numb, as she stared at Oliver Dixon’s still body.

  What had Tidwell told her about loading the old pistol? Theodosia searched her memory. Oh yes, Tidwell had said you put a pinch of gunpowder on a little piece of paper and twist it. Kind of like creating a miniature tea bag.

  Theodosia held the magnifying glass to the printout. It was extremely grainy and hard to discern any real detail. She could just make out the back of poor Oliver Dixon’s head, dark against a lighter background.

  Theodosia sighed. There just didn’t seem to be anything here.

  CHAPTER 13

  A PRIL HERALDS SPRING in Charleston. Flickers and cat-birds warble and tweet, flitting among spreading live oaks, searching out twigs and moss for building nests. Days become warmer and more languid and, ever so gradually, the tempo of Charleston, never moving at breakneck speed anyway, begins to slow.

  On this extraordinarily fine morning, the fresh Charleston air was ripe and redolent with the scent of magnolias, azaleas, and top notes of dogwood.

  But no one took notice.

  Instead, mourners walked in somber groups of twos and threes into the yawning double doors of Saint Philip’s Church. Overhead, the bells in the steeple clanged loudly.

  There is no joy in those bells, thought Theodosia as she walked alongside Drayton. There were so many times when those bells had rung out in exaltation. Easter Sunday, Christmas Eve, weddings, christenings. There were times when they tolled respectfully. But today, the bells clanged mournfully, announcing to all in the surrounding historic district that one of God’s poor souls was being laid to rest.

  Choosing seats toward the back of the church, Theodosia and Drayton sat quietly, observing the other mourners. Most seemed lost in their own private thoughts, as is so often the case when attending a funeral.


  Marveling at the soaring interior of Saint Philip’s, Theodosia was reminded that it had been designed by the renowned architect Joseph Nyde. Nyde had greatly admired the neoclassical arches of Saint Martin-in-the-Fields church in London and had transferred those airy, sculptural designs to Saint Philip’s.

  With a mixture of majesty and pathos, the opening notes from Mozart’s Requiem swelled from the pipe organ, and everyone shuffled to their feet. Then the funeral procession began.

  Six men, all wearing black suits, white shirts, and black ties, and walking in perfect cadence, rolled Oliver Dixon’s bronze casket down the wide center aisle. A good ten steps behind the casket and its catafalque, head bowed, hands clasped tightly, Doe Belvedere Dixon, Oliver’s wife of nine weeks, solemnly followed her husband’s body. Oliver Dixon’s two grown sons, Brock and Quaid, followed directly behind her.

  In her black, tailored suit and matching beret, her blond hair pulled back in a severe French twist, Doe looked heartbreakingly young.

  “The girl looks fetching, absolutely fetching,” murmured Drayton as she passed by them. “How can a woman look so good at a funeral?”

  “She’s young,” said Theodosia as the choir suddenly cut in, their voices rising in a litany of Latin verse, “and blessed with good skin.”

  Reverend Jonathan, the church’s longtime pastor, stepped forward to deliver his eulogy. Then a half-dozen other men also took the podium. They spoke glowingly of Oliver Dixon’s accomplishments, of his service to the community, of his impeccable reputation.

  As the service grew longer, Theodosia’s mind drifted.

  Staring at the backs of Brock and Quaid, Oliver Dixon’s two sons, she wondered if their disqualification from the race was in any way related to this.