Gunpowder Green

Table of Contents

 

 

“Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

“And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Detective 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. She sighed. 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 began back in the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

“Mm hmmm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention. She seized the moment.

“Do you know much about antique pistols?”

 

 

 

A Tea Shop Mystery Don't miss the first novel in this charming series,

 

 

 

DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER

 

 

 

 

 

KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL

 

 

 

 

 

DEATH BY DESIGN

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

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GUNPOWDER GREEN

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2002

Copyright © 2002 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-09995-7

 

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PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Kim Waltemyer; agent extraordinaire, Grace Morgan; publicity whiz, Julia Fleischaker; and the rest of the wonderful people at Berkley. Thanks, too, to my husband, Dr. Robert Poor, for all his ideas, suggestions, and support.

THEODOSIA BROWNING REACHED
up and removed the tortoiseshell clip that held her auburn locks tightly in place. As if on cue, the brisk wind from Charleston Harbor lifted her hair, just as it did the graceful, undulating flags that flew from the masts of the yachts bobbing in the harbor.

It won't be long now,
Theodosia decided, shading her eyes against the brilliance of the midafternoon sun. Off in the distance, she could see dozens of sleek J-24s hurtling down the slot between Patriots Point and Fort Sumter. Masts straining, spinnakers billowing, the yachts and their four-man crews were fighting to capture every gust of wind, coaxing every bit of performance from their boats. Twenty minutes more, and the two hundred or so picnickers gathered here in White Point Gardens at the tip of Charleston's historic peninsula would know the outcome of this year's Isle of Palms Yacht Race.

Theodosia noted that most of the picnickers had drawn into cozy little circles of conversation, lulled by the warm April weather, sated by an abundance of food and drink. There had been a crazed hubbub when the sailboats from the competing yacht clubs took off, of course: cheering throngs, glasses held high in toasts, and loud boasts from both sailing teams. But once the flotilla of sailboats had zigzagged their way across Charleston Harbor and rounded the outermost marker buoy on their way toward the Isle of Palms, they were out of sight.

Which also meant out of mind.

The remaining yacht club members, with their abundance of friends, families, and well-wishers, most of whom lived in the elegant Georgian, Federal, and Victorian homes in the nearby historic district, had settled down to a merry romp in the verdant gardens that made Charleston's Battery so utterly appealing.

As proprietor of the Indigo Tea Shop, located just a few short blocks away on Church Street, Theodosia had been invited to cater this “tea by the sea” for the Charleston Yacht Club, the host for this year's race. She'd been pleased that Drayton Conneley and Haley Parker, her dear friends and employees, had displayed their usual over-the-top creativity in event and menu planning, and had enthusiastically jumped into the fray to lend a hand on this spectacularly beautiful Sunday afternoon.

Gulls wheeled gracefully overhead, and fat, pink clouds scudded across the horizon as Theodosia cinched her apron tighter about her slim waist and let her eyes rove across the two long tables that were draped with white linen tablecloths and laden with refreshments. Satisfied that everything was near perfect, Theodosia's broad, intelligent face with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose finally assumed a look of repose.

Yes, it
was
perfect, Theodosia told herself. Wire baskets held golden breadsticks, while fresh cracked crab claws rested on platters of shaved ice. Smoked salmon on miniature bagels was garnished with cream cheese and candied ginger. And the chocolate-dipped strawberries with crème fraîche were . . . oh my . . . disappearing at an alarming rate.

Hoisting a silver pitcher, Theodosia poured out a stream of pungent yellow green iced tea into a glass filled with crushed ice. She took a sip and savored the brisk, thirst-quenching blend of Chinese gunpowder green tea and fresh mint.

Drayton Conneley, her assistant and master tea blender, had created the tea especially for this race-day picnic. The Chinese gunpowder green tea was aptly named since, once dried, the tiny leaves curled up into small, tight pellets resembling gunpowder, unfurling only when subjected to boiling water. The fresh mint had been plucked yesterday from her aunt Libby's garden out in South Carolina's low country.

Theodosia had decided to name the new tea White Point Green, a nod to the tea's debut today in White Point Gardens. And judging from the number of pitchers that had already been consumed, this tea would definitely be packaged up and offered for sale in her tea shop.

“Your table reminds me of a still life by Cézanne: poetic, elegant, almost too beautiful to eat.” Delaine Dish, owner of the Cotton Duck Clothing Shop, hovered at Theodosia's elbow. Her long, raven-colored hair was wound up in a Psyche knot atop her head, accenting her heart-shaped face.

Theodosia sighed inwardly. Cotton Duck was just a few doors down from the Indigo Tea Shop, and Delaine, though a kindhearted soul and true dynamo when it came to volunteering for civic and social events, was also the acknowledged neighborhood gossip.