by Laura Childs
“There hasn’t been any forward progress in determining what happened to Oliver,” Giovanni said with a long face. “Everyone’s clucking about what a terrible accident it was. But, of course, I suspect the pistol was tampered with. So does Doe.”
“The police are investigating, are they not?” said Dray-ton.
“Yes,” said Giovanni slowly. “And I have asked them to take a rather hard look at Ford Cantrell. He’s a rotten egg, that one.” Giovanni shifted an earnest gaze at Theodosia. “Thank you again for your quick action at the picnic.”
Theodosia waved a hand. She would have done the same for anyone.
“Let me keep this teapot for a day or two,” offered Drayton, “and I’ll consult with an acquaintance of mine. He collects Edgefield pieces and might be able to provide us with some idea on price.”
“That would be wonderful,” murmured Giovanni Loard. His face eased into a smile as Haley approached their table, bearing a pot of tea. “Hello,” he greeted her.
“Ah, here’s the tea now,” said Drayton. “Thank you, Haley.” He poured cups of munnar tea for Giovanni, Theodosia, and himself.
But Haley didn’t budge, and Giovanni continued to smile warmly at her.
“Giovanni Loard, this is Haley Parker,” said Theodosia.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Haley. “Could I offer you a sweet? I have some lemon tarts I just took out of the oven.”
“That would be lovely,” smiled Giovanni, and Haley dashed off to fetch the pastries.
“Pretty girl,” remarked Giovanni as he took a sip of tea. “Oh, this is excellent,” he exclaimed. “And I know nothing about tea. I couldn’t tell you if this was Japanese or Chinese.”
“Actually,” said Theodosia, “it’s from India.”
“You see, what did I tell you,” said Giovanni. “Oh my!” he exclaimed as Haley returned and set a plate of pastries in front of him. “You all are just bowling me over with your care and hospitality! I can’t believe I didn’t find my way to your tea shop sooner.”
“You recently purchased a house nearby, didn’t you?” asked Theodosia. She’d recalled that Delaine had said something to her about it.
“Yes,” said Giovanni. “Over on Legare. It’s one of those old Victorian single houses. You know... charm, carved balustrades, and absolutely everything in desperate need of a repair? I’d have to characterize it as a money pit so far, but I’m holding out hope that I’ll be able to return it to classic status someday.”
“I’m familiar with that particular row of houses,” said Drayton. “Most of them have lovely gardens.”
Giovanni nodded eagerly. “The garden has been my saving grace. The brick patio, small fountain, and statuary are in almost perfect condition. All I really had to do was update a few plantings. Don’t laugh,” Giovanni said in a conspiratorial tone, “but my garden is actually included in next week’s Garden Fest.”
“That’s wonderful,” exclaimed Drayton. Besides historical restoration, Drayton was also passionate about gardening. He had cultivated an elegant garden in his small backyard and had even ventured recently toward becoming a bonsai master. “But I didn’t realize you were a member of the garden club, much less that your garden was on this year’s tour.”
“My garden open house is Friday evening,” said Giovanni, “the night after Timothy Neville’s big kickoff party. I’d be honored if you all would drop by.”
“I think Giovanni Loard wants to date Haley,” said Drayton afterward.
Haley blushed all the way down to her toes. “No way,” she said. “He’s just a nice guy. A gentleman.”
“Do you really think so?” said Theodosia. She had remained fairly quiet during Giovanni Loard’s visit. Everything that had seemed charming about him during their initial encounter last Sunday now seemed a trifle forced. On the other hand, he might have been nervous being thrust in among the three of them. Their chattiness could be a little overpowering.
“Does it seem strange to you that Doe is selling her wedding presents?” Theodosia asked Haley as she stacked jars of DuBose Bees honey and Dundee’s Devonshire cream on the shelves.
“It’s tacky,” agreed Haley. “And I’m beginning to suspect that Doe is a bit of a social climber. Why else would she have married someone so much older? I think Delaine was probably right about the money part.”
Is Doe just an out-and-out fortune hunter? Theodosia wondered to herself. Is that the bottom line?
Doe appeared harmless enough, more youthful than anything. A pretty young woman who had fallen in love with an older man. Then again, her husband had just been killed and, Oliver’s sons not withstanding, Doe stood squarely in line to inherit a good deal of his money. Which suggested she could also be regarded as a suspect.
Theodosia had been turning the idea of attending Oliver Dixon’s funeral over in her head. She had pretty much made up her mind to go.
Why not? she asked herself. Oliver Dixon had lived in the historic district, and that made him a neighbor. Going to his funeral would be a neighborly thing to do.
And, of course, she’d been present at the time of Oliver Dixon’s demise. True, she’d merely played a walk-on role, but that was more than most folks had done that terrible afternoon in White Point Gardens.
“Is this a good time?” Miss Dimple hovered in the doorway to Theodosia’s office. “I can come back a little later if you’d like. No problem.”
“Oh, Miss Dimple,” said Theodosia, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “I really was lost in thought there for a moment. Come in.”
“I brought you the spreadsheet for last month,” Miss Dimple said, smiling at Theodosia. “Things are looking fairly good, even with start-up costs on the Web site.”
“Miss Dimple,” said Theodosia, a germ of an idea flickering in her brain, “you’re an accountant. Is there some way to run a check on a company’s finances without them finding out?”
“We could run a D and B. You know, a Dun and Brad-street.”
“Is that fairly easy to do?”
“I used to do it all the time for Mr. Dauphine. Now I understand it can be done even faster over the Internet.”
“The Internet? Really?” Theodosia beamed. Here was territory she was familiar with. “Terrific suggestion. Let’s do it.”
Chapter 10
“Have you heard the news?” Delaine Dish swept through the front door of the tea shop and planted herself at a table with all the aplomb of a Romanoff grand duchess.
“What news is that, Delaine?” Theodosia asked with a slightly resigned air. They had been frantically busy over lunch and had run out of sandwiches. Haley had bravely saved the day by whipping together a dozen fruit and cheese plates and tucking in mini stacks of water biscuits. Those fruit and cheese plates had seemed to do the trick for the folks who came in late, but Theodosia was still trying to catch her breath and wasn’t completely sure she could fully cope with Delaine and her accompanying histrionics today.
“Remember that nasty man at the picnic?” asked Delaine. She whipped out a gold compact and lipstick. “Ford Cantrell?” Now she gave her lipstick a good twist and aimed it at her lips, confident she had everyone’s attention. “I heard he was taken in for questioning,” she murmured in an offhand manner as she held her mouth rigid and applied her signature pink.
Dropping her makeup into her handbag, Delaine aimed a dazzling smile at Theodosia and Drayton. “Isn’t that something?” she asked, as though she were somehow acutely involved.
“Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised,” said Drayton. He grabbed a freshly made pot of tea, teacups, and what remained of his lunch, set it all down on Delaine’s table, then eased himself into a chair across from her. “Whew, after the busy lunch we had, I’m almost done in,” he declared. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Nonsense,” said Delaine. “You’re a man in his prime. Barely middle-aged.”
“That’s right, Drayton’s planning to live to a hundred and twenty,” said Haley
as she brushed past him.
“Oh, shush,” said Delaine. “Don’t go getting Drayton all upset. I happen to know he’s got another birthday coming up.”
“Don’t you have another birthday coming up, too, Delaine?” asked Haley.
“Good heavens no,” she said. “That’s a long way off yet.” She eyed the fruit and cheese plate Drayton was picking at. “Do you have another one of those sweet little luncheon plates?” she asked Haley.
“Sure,” Haley grinned. “Hang on.” And she scampered into the small kitchen to fix a plate for Delaine.
“How did you hear about Ford Cantrell?” asked Theodosia.
“Oh, honey, the news is all up and down Church Street. Monica Fischer told me this morning when she stopped by the shop. Then I ran into Dundy Baldwin on the street. Anyway, that Cantrell boy embarrassed us all at the picnic, picking an argument with Oliver Dixon and that handsome cousin of his.”
“Do you know what they were arguing about?” asked Theodosia.
“I don’t know,” said Delaine, waving a hand dismissively, “some silly thing. Fishing, I think. Did you know that Ford Cantrell’s great-uncle ran off with Oliver Dixon’s aunt a long time ago?” Delaine arched her eyebrows with disapproval. “People still talk about that.”
“Do they really?” asked Drayton. “It’s been an awfully long time, and Charleston has had some rousing good scandals since then.”
Delaine leaned forward in anticipation. “Has something else happened I should know about?”
“One fruit and cheese plate, madam.” Haley placed a pink and white bone china plate piled with slices of Camembert, cheddar cheese, grapes, and apple slices in front of Delaine. “Oh, and I was checking E-mails before and printed out this stuff for you,” Haley continued. She thrust a handful of sheets at Theodosia. “I think they’re for you. Some kind of financial profile on Grapevine?” She gave Theodosia a questioning glance.
“Grapevine?” piped up Delaine. “Isn’t that the company Oliver Dixon started? Whatever would you want with financial information? Are you planning a little merger and acquisition we don’t know about, Theodosia?”
“Try this tea, Delaine,” offered Drayton. “It’s a lovely Darjeeling.”
“Why, thank you, Drayton.” Delaine favored him with a dazzling smile as he carefully served her, then she speared a small piece of cheese on her plate and nibbled it delicately. “Oh, this Camembert is heavenly, simply melts in your mouth. I don’t even want to think about butterfat content!”
“Theodosia, I am so sorry,” said Haley. She shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and her face betrayed her anguish. “Mentioning that E-mail in front of Delaine like that...I just didn’t think!”
“It’s not your fault. You were just trying to be helpful,” said Theodosia as she slid a stack of papers into her attaché case. She wasn’t pleased about the incident either, but what could she do? Haley was usually very careful and discreet. This had been a slipup. It was just too bad the slipup had occurred in front of Delaine Dish.
On the other hand, Drayton had rushed in to distract Delaine by offering her a cup of Darjeeling. Maybe he had been successful. She’d just have to wait and see.
“I feel like such a jerk,” said Haley.
“Don’t,” said Theodosia. “It could’ve happened to any one of us.”
“You really think so? No, you’re just saying that.”
“Haley,” said Theodosia. “Enough. Don’t make yourself crazy over this.”
“I was trying to save you some time by printing out E-mails, and I’d just been skimming this article,” replied Haley. She held up a section of the Charleston Post and Courier for Theodosia to see.
“Which article is that?”
“Well, it’s not really an article,” amended Haley. “It’s mostly photos from the picnic last Sunday. The Oliver Dixon thing has been in the forefront the last couple of days, so I guess the Post and Courier just now got around to covering the sailboat race. It’s more society gabbing than news. Who was there, what friends were visiting from out of town, that kind of thing.”
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.
