Gunpowder Green atsm-2

by Laura Childs

  Tidwell’s bullet-shaped head swiveled on his broad shoulders until he was staring straight at Theodosia. His lower lip drooped, and his bushy eyebrows spread across his domed forehead like an errant caterpillar. Only his hooded eyes, clear and sharp, reflecting keen intelligence, registered recognition.

  “You,” he finally growled.

  “You’ll have to step back, miss.” A uniformed officer with a name tag that read Tandy grabbed Theodosia by the elbow and began to apply pressure, attempting to pull her back. He was instantly halted by Tidwell’s angry gaze.

  “Leave her alone,” Tidwell growled. His voice rumbled from his ample stomach like a boiler starting up.

  Startled, Officer Tandy released Theodosia’s arm and stepped back. “Yes sir,” he said politely.

  Tidwell eyed Theodosia. He took in her wet skirt and slippers, registered her obvious distress. “Probably not to the hospital,” Tidwell said quietly as he watched one of the paramedics begin to pull a sheet up over Oliver Dixon’s body. “This poor devil is most assuredly dead.”

  Once again, Theodosia took in the mud and bloodstains. Then her eyes strayed to something she hadn’t noticed before. Pieces of the exploded pistol lay scattered about. An embossed grip sat on wet sand a few feet from where they were standing. Another piece of twisted gray metal was nestled in a crack between two nearby rocks.

  “But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” Tidwell gazed at her pleasantly. “The paramedics said you were first on the scene. They said you were the first one to reach him.” Tidwell had a maddening way of phrasing questions as statements.

  “Yes, I guess I was,” said Theodosia. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be experiencing a mild case of shock. It wasn’t every day that someone was killed right before her very eyes.

  “I believe I am correct in stating that the unfortunate Mr. Dixon was killed instantly when the pistol misfired,” said Tidwell. He gazed across Charleston Harbor, his eyes seeming to search for something on the distant shore. “Hell of a thing, these old pistols,” he murmured. “Thing works fine for years, decades it would seem in this case. Then one day... ker-bang.” Tidwell’s hands flew into the air in a gesture that seemed to communicate a randomness of fate.

  “Sir.” Officer Tandy handed a pair of latex gloves to Tidwell.

  Wordlessly, Tidwell accepted the gloves, then worked the tight rubber over his chubby hands. He leaned down and began collecting the remnants of the pistol.

  As Theodosia watched him, her normally unlined brow suddenly puckered into a frown. “You’re going to have those pieces examined by a ballistics expert, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Burt Tidwell’s hooded eyes blinked slowly, like a reptile contemplating its prey.

  Tidwell dropped two pieces of the pistol into a plastic bag, handed the task off to Tandy, who hovered nearby. Then he hooked a large paw under Theodosia’s elbow and began leading her away. Theodosia was aware of pressure on her arm and the crunch of tiny white seashells underfoot. And two hundred sets of eyes watching her.

  When they were a good forty paces from the shore and Oliver Dixon’s body, they stopped under a giant live oak tree and faced each other. Spanish moss waved in lacy, gray green banners above them. Warm, languid breezes off the bay caressed Theodosia’s face, reminding her it was still Sunday afternoon. But the day no longer felt glorious.

  “Tell me.” Tidwell cocked an eye toward her. “Are you always filled with such suspicion and unbridled skepticism?”

  “Of course not,” said Theodosia defensively. Lord, she thought, here we go again. Burt Tidwell has to be the most obstinate, obtuse cuss that ever roamed the face of this earth.

  Last October, during the Lamplighter Tour, Tidwell had kept them all on pins and needles for weeks with his suspicions and vexing accusations when Bethany Shepherd, one of Haley’s friends who filled in occasionally at the tea shop, had come under scrutiny. Of course, Tidwell had been unapologetic, even after Theodosia had been the one to discover that it was Samantha Rabathan and not Bethany who had perpetrated the deadly deed.

  That death in the garden of the Avis Melbourne Home had appeared accidental, too. Now Theodosia had learned to be a bit more skeptical and exercise a modicum of caution.

  She also knew Tidwell could be an irritant or an ally. Today, she wasn’t sure which one he’d be. That coin was still up in the air.

  “Miss Browning,” began Tidwell, “I have already spoken with one of the yacht club’s board members. He is an attorney of note and is of the opinion that this was simply an unfortunate accident.”

  “Did he tell you where the pistol is usually kept?” pressed Theodosia.

  “I presume at the yacht club,” replied Tidwell. His smile was the kind tolerant adults often reserve for children. “Where it has always been kept under lock and key.”

  “Which club?” asked Theodosia.

  There was a sharp intake of breath as Tidwell hesitated.

  Aha, Theodosia thought to herself, he doesn’t know.

  “There are two yacht clubs,” Theodosia informed Tidwell. She hesitated a moment before she continued. “And they are rivals.”

  Chapter 3

  Teakettles chirped and hissed, and the aroma of freshly brewed teas permeated the air: a delicately fruited Nilgiri, a sweet Assam, and a spicy black Yunnan from southwest China. Sunlight streamed in through the antique panes, bathing the interior of the tea shop in warm light and lending a glow to the wooden floors and battered hickory tables that were, somehow, just the right backdrop for the dazzling array of teapots that ranged from Cordon Bleu white porcelain to fanciful hand-painted floral ceramics.

  Haley had been up early as usual, working wonders in the oversized professional oven they’d managed to squeeze into the back of the shop. Now benne wafers, blueberry scones, and lemon and sour cream muffins cooled on wooden racks. When the tea shop’s double doors were propped open, as they so often were, Drayton swore the tantalizing aromas could be enjoyed up and down the entire length of Church Street.

  By nine A.M., the day’s first customers, shopkeepers from Robillard Booksellers, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and other nearby businesses, had already stopped by for their cup of tea and breakfast sweet. All had pressed Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley for details on the terrible events of yesterday, shaking their heads with regret, murmuring about the dreadful turn of events, and wasn’t it a shame about the young widow, Doe.

  Then there was a lull before the next wave of customers arrived. These were usually regulars from the historic district, who were wont to stop by for tea and a quiet perusal of the morning’s newspaper as well as tourists who arrived via horse-drawn carriages and colorful jitneys.

  It was during this lull that Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had gathered around one of the round tables to sip tea and rehash yesterday’s tragic events. They’d been joined by Miss Dimple, their elderly bookkeeper, who’d dropped by to pick up last week’s receipts.

  “And the pistol just exploded?” asked Miss Dimple with awe as the story unfolded once more for her benefit.

  “With a cataclysmic crash,” said Drayton. “Then the poor man simply collapsed. But then, what else would you expect? I’m sure he was killed instantly.”

  “And nobody did anything,” added Haley, “except Theodosia. She ran over and checked the poor man out. Oh, and that nice antique dealer, Giovanni Loard, called the paramedics.”

  “Good girl,” said Miss Dimple, glancing at Theodosia approvingly. “But you must still feel a bit shaken up.”

  “A little,” admitted Theodosia. “It was a terrible accident.”

  Miss Dimple leaned back in her chair and took a sip of Assam. “Are they sure it was an accident?” she asked.

  Haley frowned and gave an involuntary shudder. “Miss Dimple,” she said, “you just gave me chills.”

  “What makes you say that, Miss Dimple?” asked Theodosia.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “it seems like they’ve been using that old
pistol for as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, back in the forties, my daddy used to take us down to White Point Gardens to watch sailboat races. Not just the Isle of Palms race, either. Lots of different races. They used that same old pistol back then, and there was never a problem. Not until now, anyway.”

  “That’s what Burt Tidwell said, too,” remarked Theodosia. “But he said you could never tell about those old things. One day they just backfire.”

  Mrs. Dimple smiled, apologetic that her idle speculation had caused Haley such consternation. “Well then, you see. An expert like that, he’s probably right.”

  “I think Theodosia wants to solve another mystery,” piped up Haley.

  “Haley,” Theodosia protested, “I’ve got better things to do than run around Charleston investigating what was undoubtedly an accidental death.”

  Drayton peered over his half glasses owlishly and studied Theodosia. “Oh you do,” he said. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

  Theodosia’s bright eyes flashed. “I’m merely curious, as I’m sure you all are. It isn’t every day someone as prominent as Oliver Dixon dies right before our very eyes.”

  “Before four hundred eyes,” added Haley. “If someone had murder in mind, it was cleverly done.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Drayton.

  “Too many witnesses is what she means,” said Theodosia. “With so many sets of eyes, you’ll get endless versions of the story, none of which will jibe.”

  “Now it’s you girls who are giving me chills,” said Miss Dimple, who had set down her pencil and closed the black leather ledger she’d been peering into.

  “But does that really track?” asked Drayton. “Oliver Dixon was fairly well liked, right? He wasn’t a scoundrel or a carpetbagger or anything like that.”

  Theodosia slid her teacup across the table, allowing Drayton to pour her a second cup of Nilgiri. “Delaine was saying something about Oliver Dixon launching a high-tech company,” she said.

  “Oh, I read about that in the business section,” said Haley.

  “Since when do you read the business section?” demanded Drayton.

  “Since I decided to pursue an MBA,” said Haley. “I want to run my own business someday. Like Theodosia.” She smiled companionably at Theodosia.

  “Haley, I think you’re already a whiz at business,” said Theodosia. “But tell us about this new company of Oliver Dixon’s. And don’t interrupt, Drayton.”

  “Yes, dear.” Drayton hunched his shoulders forward, assuming a henpecked attitude, and they all giggled.

  “Oliver Dixon had just swung a pile of venture capital money to launch a new company called Grapevine,” said Haley. “You know, as in ‘heard it on the grapevine.’ Anyway, Grapevine is set to manufacture expansion modules for PDAs.”

  “Pray tell, what is a PDA?” asked Drayton.

  “Personal digital assistant,” explained Haley. She reached into her apron pocket and produced a palm-sized gizmo that looked like a cross between a cell phone and a miniature computer screen. “See, I’ve got one. Mine’s a Palm Pilot. I keep notes and phone numbers and recipes and stuff on it. It even interfaces with my computer at home. According to Business Week, PDAs are the hottest thing. The world is going wireless, and PDAs are the newest techie trend.”

  “I don’t like to hear that,” shuddered Drayton. He was a self-proclaimed Luddite who strove to avoid all things technological. Drayton lived in a 160-year-old house that had once been owned by a Civil War surgeon, and he prided himself on maintaining his home in a historically accurate fashion. Drayton may have bowed to convention by having a telephone installed, but he drew the line at cable TV.

  “Anyway,” said Haley, “Oliver Dixon received his venture capital from a guy by the name of Booth Crowley. Grapevine was going to produce revolutionary new pager and remote modules that would make certain PDAs even more versatile.”

  “Oh my,” said Miss Dimple. She was suddenly following the conversation with great interest.

  “What?” asked Theodosia.

  “Booth Crowley is a very astute businessman,” said Miss Dimple. “Apparently he doesn’t let a penny escape his grasp unless he’s got a carefully worded contract that his lawyers have put under a microscope. Mr. Dauphine, God rest his soul, was on the Arts Association committee with Booth Crowley and told me the man was extremely mindful of how funds were dispersed.”

  Mr. Dauphine had been Miss Dimple’s longtime employer. He had owned the Peregrine Building next door and had passed away last fall, while they were in the middle of trying to solve the mystery of the poisoning at the Lamplighter Tour.

  Theodosia nodded. She’d heard about Booth Crowley. Certainly nothing bad, but his business dealings bordered on legendary. He was a very powerful man in Charleston. Besides heading Cherry Tree Investments, one of Charleston’s premier venture capital firms, Booth Crowley sat on the board of directors of the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, the Gibbes Museum of Art, and Charleston Memorial Hospital. He was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

  The bell over the door tinkled merrily, and a dozen people suddenly poured into the shop. Haley and Drayton instantly popped up from their seats and swept toward them, intent on getting their visitors seated, settled, and served. Theodosia watched with keen approval as Haley adroitly addressed the group.

  “How many? Three of you?” Haley asked. “Why don’t you ladies take this nice table by the window. There’s lots of sunshine today.”

  Drayton was just as charming. “Party of five?” he asked. “You’ll like this round table over here. I could even put several teapots on the lazy Susan and do a tea tasting, if you’d like. Now, I’ll be just two shakes, and then I’ll be back with tea and some complimentary biscuits.”

  And the rest of the day was off and running at the Indigo Tea Shop.

  “I’ll be back on Wednesday, dear.” Miss Dimple put a plump hand on Theodosia’s arm.

  “Thank you, Miss Dimple. I’m so glad you’ve been able to help out here at the tea shop. Now that Bethany’s got a job at the museum in Columbia, we’ve been woefully shorthanded.”

  “It’s you who deserves the thanks,” said Miss Dimple. “Not everyone would take a chance on a creaky old bookkeeper. Seems like the trend these days is to hire young.”

  “Trends don’t concern us here at the tea shop,” said Theodosia warmly. “People do.”

  “Bless you, dear,” said Miss Dimple. And she toddled out the door, a barely five-foot-tall, plump little elf of a woman who was still sharp as a tack when it came to tabulating a column of numbers.

  Chapter 4

  “Theodosia.” Drayton had a teapot filled with jasmine tea in one hand and a teapot of Ceylon silver tips in the other. “As soon as we get our customers taken care of, I need to speak with you.”

  Theodosia glanced out over the tables. Their customers had already settled in and were munching benne wafers and casting admiring glances at the shelves that held cozy displays of tea tins, jellies, china teapots, and tea candles.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  He cocked his head to one side and gave a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. “The mystery tea,” he told her in a quavering, theatrical voice.

  Theodosia grinned. Drayton was certainly in his element planning all his special-event teas. But this mystery tea had really seemed to capture his imagination. It would appear that Drayton, the straitlaced history buff and Heritage Society parliamentarian, had a playful side, after all.

  Anyway, Theodosia decided, Drayton certainly had an astute business side. His mystery tea was already shaping up as a success. Counting the two calls they’d received earlier this morning, they now had twelve confirmed reservations for Saturday night. And Drayton had audaciously put a price of forty-five dollars per person on the event.

  “Okay, Drayton,” she said, “I’ll be in my office.”

  Theodosia disappeared behind the panels of heavy green velvet that separated the tea shop fr
om the back area, where the tiny kitchen and her even tinier office were located.

  Sitting at her antique wooden desk, thumbing through a catalog from Woods & Winston, one of her suppliers, Theodosia had a hard time keeping her mind on carafes and French tea presses. Her thoughts kept returning to yesterday afternoon, to Oliver Dixon’s demise and to her subsequent conversation with Burt Tidwell.

  She had taunted Tidwell a bit with her crack about rival yacht clubs. She’d been testing him, trying to ascertain what his suspicions had been, for she knew for a fact that, Burt Tidwell being Burt Tidwell, he’d certainly harbor a few thoughts of his own.

  But had she really thought that members from one yacht club would plot against another? No, not really. She knew the Charleston Yacht Club and the Compass Key Yacht Club competed against each other all the time. And relations had always been friendly between the clubs. Besides the Isle of Palms race, they also ran the Intercoastal Regatta and some kind of event in fall that was curiously dubbed the Bourbon Cup.

  What she was interested in knowing more about was Oliver Dixon and his new start-up company, Grapevine.

  Then there was the obviously intoxicated Ford Cantrell, who had staged a somewhat ugly scene in front of Oliver Dixon and Giovanni Loard. What had that been about?

  Haley had mentioned something earlier about her looking for a mystery to solve. Perhaps she had found her mystery.

  “Knock, knock,” announced Drayton as he pushed his way into her office, tea tray in hand. “Thought you might like to try a cup of this new Japanese Sencha. It’s first flush, you know, and really quite rare,” he said as he set the lacquer tray down on her desk.

  Theodosia nodded expectantly. Any time you were able to get the first picking of a tea, you were in for a special treat. The new, young shoots were always so tender and flavorful.