Gunpowder Green atsm-2

by Laura Childs

  She whirled toward him in surprise. “You have it?”

  “I’m almost certain I do. At least I have a vague recollection of untangling it and packing it up with the other things.”

  “So where is the tablecloth now?”

  “Probably still in the trunk of my car. I was going to drop all the dirty linens at Chase’s Laundry yesterday, then I got busy with the Heritage Society. I received a call that someone had brought in this old, wooden joggling board... you know, they were used for crossing ditches on rice plantations? They’re so terribly rare now and I—”

  “Drayton...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad you have your priorities straight,” Theodosia said as they strolled out into the sunlight. “Because you very nicely preserved what could amount to evidence.”

  Suddenly, Theodosia’s smile froze on her face and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh rats. That’s Burt Tidwell over there.”

  Drayton frowned. “Why do you suppose he’s here?”

  “Why do you think?” she said, squinting across the way at him.

  “Investigating?” squeaked Drayton. “Looking for suspects?”

  “Same as us,” said Theodosia. She bit her lip, debating whether or not she should go over and talk to him.

  “Well, are you going to talk to him?” Drayton asked finally.

  She hesitated a moment, then made up her mind. “Why not? Let’s both waltz over there and see if we can push his buttons before he starts to push ours.”

  “All right,” agreed Drayton. “But nothing about the—”

  Theodosia held an index finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word,” she cautioned.

  They strolled over to where a bank of memorial wreaths was displayed. Theodosia decided that Oliver Dixon must have been extremely well liked and respected to have garnered a church full of flower arrangements as well as a huge assortment of memorial wreaths that had spilled outside.

  Burt Tidwell was studying one of the wreaths. “Look at this,” he said to them. “Wild grape vine entwined with lilies, the flower symbolizing resurrection. So very touching.” Tidwell inclined his head slightly. He’d captured Theodosia in his peripheral vision; now his eyes bore into her. “Miss Browning, how do. And here’s Mr. Conneley, too.”

  “Hello,” said Drayton pleasantly.

  “You took Ford Cantrell in for questioning,” said Theodosia without preamble.

  Tidwell favored her with a faint smile. “My dear Miss Browning, you seem somewhat surprised. I thought you’d be absolutely delighted that I followed up on your so-called tip.” Tidwell pronounced the word tip as though he were discussing odiferous compost in a garden.

  Theodosia turned her attention to the memorial wreaths as Burt Tidwell rocked back on his heels, enormously pleased with himself. Here was a lovely floral wreath from the Heritage Society, she noted. And here was...Well, wasn’t this one a surprise!

  “You might also be interested to know,” Tidwell prattled on, “that we discovered Ford Cantrell has a rather extensive gun collection. And that our Mr. Cantrell has recently turned his old plantation into a sort of hunting preserve.”

  Tidwell suddenly had her attention once again. “What kind of hunting?” Theodosia asked.

  “He claims to be appealing to all manner of wealthy sportsmen, promising prizes of deer, turkey, quail, and wild boar,” answered Tidwell.

  “My aunt Libby has lived out that way for the better part of half a century,” said Theodosia, “and the wildest critters she’s ever encountered have been possum and porcupines.” She paused. “And once, when I was a kid, we ran across a dead alligator. But I don’t suppose that really counts.”

  “No one ever characterized Ford Cantrell as being an honest man,” said Tidwell.

  “Or hunters as being terribly bright,” added Theodosia with a wry smile.

  Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by loud voices.

  “What are you doing here?” came an angry scream.

  Theodosia, Drayton, Burt Tidwell, and about forty other people turned to watch the beginnings of a shouting match on the lawn of Saint Philip’s.

  “Who on earth is that?” asked Theodosia. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized the angry man with the flopping white hair, florid complexion, and hand-tailored pinstripe suit as the very same man from the yacht race. The commodore in the tight jacket swathed in gold braid.

  “That’s Booth Crowley,” Tidwell told her.

  “That’s Booth Crowley?” said Theodosia, stunned. Booth Crowley had been the one who’d been beckoning to Oliver Dixon that fateful Sunday. Booth Crowley had handed him the pistol.

  And just look at who he’s yelling at, she thought. Billy Manolo, the worker from the yacht club who asked to borrow the tablecloth. Wasn’t this a strange little tableau?

  “Hey buddy, cool your jets,” Billy Manolo cautioned. Lean, dark-complected, and a head taller than Booth Crowley, Billy stood poised on the balls of his feet, glowering back and looking as dangerous as a jungle cat.

  Still, Booth Crowley persisted in his tirade.

  “Is there some reason you’re here?” Booth Crowley thundered. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough problems?”

  “Hey man, you’re crazy.” Billy Manolo curled his lip scornfully and waved one hand dismissively at Booth Crowley. “Take it easy, or you’ll put yourself into cardiac arrest.”

  Indeed, thought Theodosia. Judging from Booth Crowley’s beet-red face and frantic antics, it looked as though he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so worked up. Booth Crowley was putting on a rather amazing show. And in front of the church at that.

  “Do you know the fellow Crowley’s yelling at?” asked Drayton, mildly amused by the whole spectacle.

  “That’s Billy Manolo,” replied Theodosia.

  Drayton’s eyebrows shot sky high. “You do know him?”

  “Met him,” said Theodosia. “He apparently works at the yacht club, taking care of the boats and doing odd jobs, I guess.”

  The three of them watched Billy Manolo stalk off while Booth Crowley continued to rage at no one in particular.

  “So that’s the Booth Crowley who’s a major donor to the symphony and the art museum and the hospital,” commented Drayton. “He doesn’t look like a mover and a shaker. Well, maybe shaking mad.”

  “Ssh, Drayton, he’s heading this way,” cautioned Theodosia.

  Booth Crowley looked like a furnace that had been stoked too high. He strode across the green lawn purposefully, both arms pumping furiously at his sides, his nostrils flared, his mouth gaping for air.

  “You...Tidwell,” Booth Crowley hollered. “A word with you.”

  Tidwell stood silently, a look of benign amusement on his jowly face.

  Booth Crowley came puffing over to Tidwell. “I want you to keep an eye on that one.” Booth Crowley gestured wildly at the empty street behind him. “Billy Manolo. Works at the yacht club. Things have been missing. Manager had to dress him down last week, threatened to fire him if things don’t improve. Boy is a hoodlum. No good.”

  Theodosia stifled a grin and wondered if Booth Crowley’s sentence structures were always this staccato and devoid of nouns and prepositions. A strange man. With a strange way of talking, too.

  Drayton put a hand on Theodosia’s arm and began to steer her away from Tidwell and Booth Crowley. Crowley had eased back on the throttle a bit but was still sputtering. Tidwell was nodding mildly, listening to him but not really favoring Booth Crowley with his complete and undivided attention.

  “Exit, stage left,” Drayton murmured under his breath.

  “I agree,” said Theodosia. “But first . . .” Theodosia turned her focus on the bank of memorial wreaths she’d been studying earlier. Where is that wreath? she wondered. There was one composed of only greenery and purple leaves that had caught her eye earlier. Ah, here it is. She reached out and plucked a cluster of leaves from it
even as Drayton propelled her away from one of the strangest memorial services she’d ever witnessed.

  “What are you up to with that?” he asked.

  Theodosia fingered the snippet of leaves. “They’re from the wreath that was sent by Lizbeth Cantrell.”

  “Good Lord, you’re not serious. She sent a wreath and her brother is the prime murder suspect?”

  “I promised to help her,” said Theodosia.

  Drayton peered at her. “You did?” He shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me.”

  “Do you know what this is? The greenery, I mean.”

  Drayton pulled his half glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Coltsfoot,” he declared. “I’m awfully sure it’s coltsfoot.”

  “What a strange thing to use for a memorial wreath. It’s not all that attractive,” Theodosia mused. “Maybe that’s why Lizbeth chose it. She was making a statement. Or anti-statement.”

  “It’s more likely she chose it for the symbolism,” said Drayton.

  Now it was Theodosia’s turn to give Drayton a strange look. “What symbolism might that be?”

  “Coltsfoot represents justice,” said Drayton.

  “Justice,” repeated Theodosia, now highly intrigued by Lizbeth Cantrell’s use of symbolism.

  “It seems to me that more and more people are paying attention to certain symbols or talismans,” said Drayton. “I think it’s a symptom of unsettled times.”

  “I think you may be right,” said Theodosia.

  Chapter 14

  “What do you think this could be?” asked Theodosia.

  They had waited until late in the afternoon when the tea shop was finally empty before they brought out the tablecloth. Drayton had fished it out of the trunk of his Volvo, and now they were staring at the stains and splotches that traced irregular patterns across what had once been pristine linen.

  “Yuck,” said Haley. “It’s blood. What else would it be?”

  “No, look here.” Theodosia scratched at a brownish gray stain with her fingernail. “It could be powder marks,” she said. “Gunpowder.”

  “Perhaps,” said Drayton with a frown. Using the borrowed magnifying glass, he studied the tablecloth carefully. “What about some variety of seaweed?” he proposed. “One end of it did end up dragging in Charleston Harbor. Isn’t there some kind of microorganism that might have washed over it and caused this mottled effect?

  “You mean like plankton?” asked Haley. She had quizzed the two of them at length about the funeral, then listened with rapt attention as they told their story of the raging Booth Crowley and the disdainful Billy Manolo.

  “Well, it could be,” replied Drayton, not entirely convinced by his own theory.

  “What about schmutz?” countered Haley.

  They both stared at her.

  “You know,” said Haley. “Dirt, pollution, oil . . . schmutz.”

  “Should the EPA ever offer you a position,” Drayton told her, “I’d advise you to turn them down.”

  “All right, smarty, what do you think it is?” she said. “The darn thing slid onto the ground, some poor guy bled all over it, and then it knocked around in your trunk for a few days. Anything could have gotten on it.”

  “Whatever’s on this tablecloth is from the picnic and not my trunk,” replied Drayton. “But, like Theodosia, I’m getting more and more fascinated.” He favored Theodosia with a serious look. “I do think you’re on to something.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. “You’re still adamantly against mentioning anything about this to Tidwell?”

  “Absolutely,” said Theodosia. “I’m sure he’s running his own investigation. For all we know, he could have an entire team of forensic experts poring over Oliver Dixon’s clothing right now.” She gave a sharp nod, as if to punctuate her sentence, then momentarily shifted her attention from the tablecloth to the printouts of the picnic photos. She had laid them out on the table earlier and was now sifting through them, still hoping to piece together some answers.

  Haley picked up one of the printouts. “Who’s this guy?” she asked.

  Drayton peered at the photo. “That’s Billy Manolo, the fellow we saw getting chewed out this morning by Booth Crowley.”

  “Hmm,” mused Haley. “He looks kind of tough. You know, work-with-your-bare-hands kind of tough.”

  “He’s the one who set up the table and borrowed the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

  “So he handled the box with the pistol in it,” said Haley.

  Theodosia thought about it. “Probably. Then again, several people did. Booth Crowley, the fellow Bob Brewster, who Tidwell told us did the actual loading of the gun, and probably a few people at the clubhouse.”

  “How about Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid?” said Drayton.

  “You don’t think they wanted to do away with their own father, do you?” asked Haley.

  “I don’t know,” said Theodosia slowly. Brock and Quaid didn’t seem like viable suspects, certainly not as viable as Doe. On the other hand, Billy Manolo could be in the running, too. He had, after all, been seen handling the box that contained the mysterious exploding pistol.

  Could he have tampered with the pistol? she wondered. Billy certainly would have had easy access. He worked at the clubhouse and did maintenance on the boats. It’s possible he could have resented Oliver Dixon for any number of reasons. They could have had an argument or some misunderstanding. Of course, the big question was, why had Billy Manolo shown up at Oliver Dixon’s funeral at all? Had he come to gloat? Or simply to mourn?

  Theodosia reached out with both hands, pulled all the printouts to her, tamped them into one neat stack like a deck of playing cards.

  One thing she knew for certain. She had to get this tablecloth analyzed.

  “Theodosia,” said Drayton in a cautionary tone, “if this should lead to something more, I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way. A man has been killed. What we all took to be an accident, what the police took to be an accident, could just be a clever charade.”

  “Maybe I need to speak with Timothy Neville again,” said Theodosia.

  “He knows more about antique pistols than anyone I know,” agreed Drayton.

  And so does Ford Cantrell, interestingly enough, thought Theodosia.

  “Hey, give me that!” Haley suddenly snatched the tablecloth from where it lay balled up on the table. “Turn those printouts over,” she ordered as she suddenly caught sight of a familiar face outside the window. “Delaine is heading for the door!” Haley warned as she scrambled for the back room.

  Theodosia flipped the printouts facedown in a mad rush and flutter as Delaine Dish pushed through the door of the Indigo Tea Shop.

  “Theodosia, Drayton, I’m so glad you’re both still here, I have the most wonderful news,” she gushed.

  “What’s that, Delaine?” said Theodosia. She put a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart.

  “Alicia Abbot’s seal point Siamese had kittens a few weeks ago, and she’s giving me one!”

  “That’s wonderful, Delaine.” Theodosia knew that when Delaine’s ancient calico cat, Calvin, died almost a year ago, Delaine had been bereft. It had taken her a long time to get over Calvin’s death.

  “What are you going to call him? Or is it a her?” asked Haley as she emerged from the back, empty-handed now.

  “It’s a little boy kitty,” smiled Delaine. “And I haven’t settled on a name yet. Maybe Calvin II?”

  “Catchy,” said Haley.

  “Or Calvin Deux,” added Drayton, giving Haley a cautionary look as he scooped up the printouts and headed for Theodosia’s office in back.

  “Maybe I’ll just call him Deux,” said Delaine. “I don’t know. What do you think, Theodosia? You were in advertising. You used to come up with names for all those products. And you dream up such wonderful names for all your teas.” Delaine moved across the tea shop and peered at a row of silver tea canisters. She
began reading off labels. “Copper River Cranberry, Tea Thymes, Lemon Zest, Black Frost...”

  So that’s what this is all about, thought Theodosia. Naming her cat.

  “Let me think about it,” said Theodosia. “I’ll knock it around with Drayton, too. He’s really good at that kind of thing,” she added, noting that Haley had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle.

  But Delaine wasn’t ready to leave just yet. She hung around the tea shop, finally forcing Haley to offer her a cup of tea and a shortbread cookie.

  “It’s nice you can be gone from your store so long,” said Haley.

  “Oh, Janine’s taking care of things. Besides, business is slow today. I think it’s fixing to storm. The sky was so blue this morning, and now it’s starting to cloud up.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s not going to rain. My hair will frizz.”

  “Mine, too,” remarked Haley, patting her stick-straight brown locks.

  “Theo, you went to the service this morning, right?”

  “Yes, Delaine.”

  “Heard anything more about that awful Cantrell fellow?”

  “Just that he’s turned his plantation into a hunting preserve.”

  “A hunting preserve? That sounds awful,” said Delaine. “Killing poor, defenseless animals.” She shuddered. “That’s a terrible thing. Makes a person upset just hearing about it.”

  Theodosia smiled sympathetically, but she also knew that many Southerners grew up with a shotgun clutched in their hot little hands. Shooting varmints was a rite of passage in the South. She’d certainly done it herself and, while she no longer chose to hunt, she wasn’t about to condemn those who did.

  “Besides,” said Delaine, still outraged at Ford Cantrell’s new enterprise, “isn’t that a concept at odds with itself? Hunting and preserve?”

  “Like educational TV,” said Haley. “No such thing, really.”

  “Or army intelligence,” added Delaine, with a giggle. “Oh, ladies, I could sit here and chat for hours, but I really have to get back to the store now.”

  “Bye, Delaine,” said Theodosia.

  “Whew,” said Haley after she’d left. “That lady can really take it out of you.”