Gunpowder Green atsm-2

by Laura Childs

  Tonight, however, Winston Lazerby’s words weighed heavily on her mind. As she flipped a left turn onto Beaufain Street, past R. Pratt Antiques and Campbell’s Architectural Supply, Theodosia wondered if he had been correct in his recollection, wondered if perhaps there really was something to Mr. Lazerby’s story concerning a Dixon-Cantrell feud.

  Well, she decided, as she pulled the Jeep in close to the rear of her little building and eased into her parking spot, there’s only one way to find out. Do a little research.

  Above the tea shop, Theodosia had created a cozy little abode for herself. Filled with a mélange of antiques and choice hand-me-downs, it was an airy little apartment with windows that not only pushed open to catch the harbor breezes but also afforded a spectacular view up and down Church Street and across Meeting Street toward The Battery.

  While Earl Grey padded off to cuddle up on his bed, an oversized chintz cushion tucked into the corner of her bedroom, Theodosia fixed herself a cup of Orange Elixir tea. One of Drayton’s custom blends, Orange Elixir wasn’t really a tea per se, since it was not derived from Camellia sinensis, the tea plant. Rather, it was a delicious infusion of orange peel, hibiscus, gingko, and linden blossoms. Perfect for stimulating the mind but not the nerves.

  Sitting down at her spinet desk, Theodosia turned on her iMac and clicked on Netscape Navigator. When the site came up, she typed “Charleston Post and Courier” into the search engine.

  She took a sip of the flavorful fruit and herb drink and waited, hoping she’d be able to peruse their newspaper morgue.

  No, the Post and Courier was archived back only to 1996. Theodosia tapped her fingers on the keyboard. What else could she try? The Heritage Society? Why not? They’d been around for well over a century, and their mission was to preserve written records as well as historic buildings and objects.

  Theodosia typed “www.charlestonheritagesociety.org” into the browser. Within seconds, the Heritage Society’s home page offered up a colorful photo montage of historical buildings and a menu with a dizzying array of choices.

  Theodosia studied that menu, then clicked on “Historical Records.”

  Another menu spun out before her listing “Deeds,” “Marriages,” “Maps and Plans,” “Military,” “Civil War,” “Ships’ Logs,” and “City Planning.”

  No, she told herself, the last thing I want to do is rummage, hit or miss, through hundreds of individual documents.

  Theodosia scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked on “Search.” Now she could type in the name Cantrell and, if it was mentioned somewhere on the Heritage Society’s Web site, the search engine would pull it up as a hit.

  Five hits came up, each with a one-line descriptor. The first three were duds as far as Theodosia was concerned, since they all dealt with someone named Cora Cantrell, who’d been a schoolteacher in the town of Eutaville during the late 1800s.

  Clicking on the fourth hit, Theo pulled up an article about the defunct Cantrell Canal that had been used by barges laden with indigo, cotton, and rice.

  The fifth hit was far more enlightening. This was a newspaper clipping from the Colton Telegraph, a defunct newspaper from a now-defunct village. The article chronicled an altercation that had taken place in 1892 between one Jeb Cantrell and one Stuart Dixon. During a duel in the woods near Pamlico Hill Plantation, Jeb Cantrell had shot Stuart Dixon to death.

  Were these two duelists the long-dead ancestors of Ford Cantrell and Oliver Dixon?

  Had to be.

  So this duel was perhaps the kindling that had sparked the nasty Dixon-Cantrell feud. Not a scandal concerning runaways from the two families like Winston Lazerby had thought. That had come later.

  Historical dueling had always sounded so romantic, mused Theodosia. And yet, the heads of these two families had tragically fought each another over some point of honor. And one had been mortally wounded.

  Theodosia lifted her eyes from the computer screen and stared across her living room at the moody seascape painting that hung above her fireplace.

  She thought about how history had taught so many cruel lessons, one of them being that families, tribes, and often countries are rarely able to surmount a blood feud. Rather, the feud perpetuates itself, growing like a foul mushroom in the dank recess of a forest, feeding off decay.

  Even when descendants are unclear about circumstances that led to the feud or had never personally known the ancestors who’d first spilled blood, these terrible blood feuds seemed to persist. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Theodosia stretched both arms over her head until she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. Then she placed her hands at the base of her neck and rubbed gently. If the Dixon-Cantrell feud was still going on—and hostility certainly seemed to have been roiling inside Ford Cantrell yesterday afternoon—then the whole situation certainly bore looking into.

  Shouldn’t Ford Cantrell be questioned? Not so much to ask him flat out if he’d somehow engineered an exploding pistol but to perhaps eliminate him as a suspect?

  Theodosia rose swiftly from her chair, walked to a pine cabinet that displayed a small, tasty collection of Wedge-wood, and pulled open one of the narrow drawers. Thumbing through a brown leather card case, Theodosia found Burt Tidwell’s business card. She held it between her thumb and index finger as she continued to turn her question over in her mind.

  Finally, she carried the card back to her computer, sat down, and composed a short E-mail message to Burt Tidwell. It was both an invitation and a request to stop by the Indigo Tea Shop tomorrow to discuss an important concern.

  She paused for a moment, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Then she clicked “Send.”

  Chapter 6

  “ Mariage frères teas,” Theodosia told her three guests, “are blended in France. This particular tea, Mirabelle, is a Chinese black tea scented with the tiny but exquisite mirabelle plum that grows in northern France. Hence the mildly sweet aroma.”

  It was Drayton, for the most part, who conducted tea tastings. But this group of women, all women of a certain age and residents of the historic district, had specifically requested Theodosia’s assistance. The three had met her while serving on a committee for Charleston’s Garden Fest Tour and had been enthralled with Theodosia’s knowledge of tea, her vibrancy, and her sweet nature.

  That was just fine with Drayton this morning. Working as a backup for Haley, he’d been holding down the fort at the little table nearest the counter where the old cash register and various sweetgrass baskets filled with tea tins and tea goodies sat. Working diligently, he’d been able to put the finishing touches on all his ideas for summer teas.

  “Need any help?” he asked Haley as she brushed past him with a second plate of apple tartlets for a group of five giggling tea shop regulars who seemed to be enjoying their morning tea immensely.

  “Oh please,” said Haley as she put a hand on her hip and tossed her head. “This is child’s play.”

  Haley was incredibly task oriented and competitive, and once she’d decided to handle the morning’s customers single-handedly, it was woe to anyone who tried to interfere.

  “Just checking,” Drayton assured her. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

  “Oh Drayton,” she commented dryly, “I love your oratorical excess, but not as much as you love my cranberry scones.” It was a pointed reference to the fact that Drayton had already consumed two of the giant pastries.

  “When you get to be my age, you don’t have to watch your girlish figure quite so much,” quipped Drayton.

  Drayton swiveled his head suddenly as Theodosia’s group of ladies rose from their chairs and headed his way. He got to his feet immediately and stepped deftly around the counter to face them. “Ladies,” he greeted them.

  “I am in need of a tea press,” said a lady in a yellow straw hat.

  “And I have several marvelous ones to show you,” replied Drayton as he plucked samples off the shelf and placed them on the counter. />
  The other two ladies immediately picked up sweetgrass baskets and began to coo over them. “These are wonderful,” exclaimed one. “I had a sweetgrass basket that I used for years as a summer handbag. When it got tattered and worn, my granddaughter begged me to give it to her. She said they have some of these baskets on display at the Smithsonian.”

  “Indeed, they do,” proclaimed Drayton. “A collection of South Carolina sweetgrass baskets resides in the Smithsonian’s permanent collection, a fitting tribute to our low-country craftspeople.”

  Drayton held up one of the elegant, woven baskets that had been resting on the countertop. “These,” he said enticingly, “were made from a sweetgrass crop cultivated on Johns Island. Would any of you ladies care to take one home?”

  Two heads nodded, and Drayton beamed.

  “You’re a natural-born salesman, Drayton,” Theodosia told him with unabashed admiration as she sat down across from him. Even though they’d been together almost three years, she was still slightly in awe of Drayton’s prodigious sales talent. True, she had huckstered food products and computer peripherals on a national scale when she’d been in the advertising business. But selling one-on-one was still slightly disconcerting to her. She tended not to sell an item per se but, instead, let the item speak for itself.

  Theodosia reached a hand across the table and tapped the black leather-bound ledger that Drayton had come to regard as his bible. It contained most of his tea-tasting notes and all of his ideas for tea blends, special events, and tea promotions.

  “You’ve been working on the summer teas,” Theodosia said with appropriate seriousness.

  Drayton nodded.

  “Your White Point Green was certainly a hit at the picnic, so we’ll want to package that for sale,” Theodosia said.

  Drayton nodded again. “I agree. And I came up with one more iced tea.” He paused. “I call it Audubon Herbal, a tribute to our nearby Audubon Swamp Garden.”

  Theodosia nodded. “Where John Audubon chronicled South Carolina’s waterbirds.”

  “Right. The tea’s a scant amount of black tea with hibiscus, lemongrass, and chamomile added. Mild, refreshing, not too stimulating.”

  Theodosia’s eyes sparkled. “I like it. The tea and the tribute. What else?”

  “Two more teas that veer decidedly toward the exotic,” said Drayton. Then he added hastily, “But we’ve seen time and again that people like exotic teas.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me, Drayton.”

  “The first one I call Ashley River Royal. It’s a Ceylonese black tea with a pear essence.”

  “You’re right, it is exotic.”

  “No, this one’s the coup de grâce. Swan Lake Iris Gardens. Again, an homage to the elegant gardens that are home to... what? Seven species of swans? And you know how much everyone enjoys visiting the gardens in spring when the Dutch and Japanese iris are blooming.”

  “Of course,” said Theodosia. “And what’s the blend?”

  “Four different teas with a top note of smoky lopsang.”

  “Drayton, you’re not just going to capture the hearts of tea lovers, you’re going to endear yourself to bird lovers and gardeners, too. And in Charleston, that’s just about everyone.”

  “I know,” smiled Drayton.

  “Hey,” interrupted Haley, “we’re not going to package this stuff ourselves, are we? Remember last fall when we did holiday teas? My back gets sore just thinking about it.”

  “No, we’ll have Gallagher’s Food Service handle all that,” said Drayton. “Frankly, I thought it was fun when we all worked together, but apparently no one else shared my enthusiasm. You all seemed to have mutiny on your minds.”

  “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 littl
e 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.”