Gunpowder Green (26 page)

“Oh,” said Lizbeth in a small voice.

“A man like Booth Crowley might even tell police that it reached the point of severely damaging the company,” said Theodosia. “Then, what with Oliver's, uh, accident . . . Well, they might just read any business problem as motive.”

“Booth Crowley would say something like that?” asked Lizbeth.

Oh yes,
thought Theodosia.
The man would lie through his teeth if he thought it would gain him a centimeter's advantage.
Instead, Theodosia said, “There was a lot at stake. An investor might have an entirely different perspective.”

“And the issue of the pistol still hangs over my brother's head,” said Lizbeth. “All because Ford's an avid collector, because he knows guns. . . .”

Yes,
thought Theodosia,
and gun collectors often know tricks. If Timothy Neville knew how to mastermind an exploding pistol, chances are, Ford Cantrell did, too.

“I had no right to involve you,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “I feel awful.” She sounded as though she were ready to break down sobbing.

“Lizbeth,” said Theodosia in as gentle a manner as she could, “you didn't involve me. Truth be known, I involved myself. And, please, also know this. . . . I intend to see this thing through to the bitter end. I will uncover some answers.”

“You're going to keep investigating?” asked Lizbeth.

“Yes,” said Theodosia.

“In cooperation with the police?” asked Lizbeth.

“That depends on how cooperative the police are,” said Theodosia.

 

“Who's Drayton talking to?” asked Theodosia as she slid behind the counter and poured herself a cup of lung ching.

“Don't know,” said Haley. “The other line rang the minute you went in back to take your call. Whoever he's on the line with has been doing all the talking, though.”

Drayton hung up the phone, looking sober.

“What's with you?” asked Haley.

“I just had a very strange conversation with Gerard Huber, the manager of the Saint James Hotel,” said Drayton.

Haley gave a low whistle. “That's a pretty hoity-toity place. What the heck did they want with you?”

“They just offered me a job,” said Drayton unhappily.

“What?” exclaimed Haley.

“You heard me,” snapped Drayton. “Gerard Huber asked if I had any interest in coming to work there.”

“Doing what?” asked Haley.

Drayton turned a clouded face toward Theodosia. “Executive director of their food and wine service.” He reached a gnarled hand out, rested it gently atop Theodosia's. “You know what this is all about, don't you?” he asked.

“Change!” declared Haley boisterously. “This is what Madame Hildegarde predicted the night of the mystery tea!”

Theodosia shook her head slowly. “I'm afraid not, Haley. But what it does mean is that Booth Crowley has started to come after us.”

“Booth Crowley?” said Haley, scrunching her face into a quizzical frown. “What does
he
have to do with this?”

“He's one of the owners of the Saint James Hotel,” said Drayton. “One of their silent partners, so to speak.”

“Oh,” said Haley, absorbing this latest information. “Did they offer you a lot of money?”

“Haley,” said Theodosia, “that's Drayton's—”

“It's okay,” said Drayton as his gray eyes sought out Theodosia's blue eyes. “They said they'd double what I was making now.”

Haley gave a low whistle. “Double the salary . . . imagine that.”

Drayton's face settled into a look of indignation. “As if I could be bought. What absolute rubbish!”

DETECTIVE BURT TIDWELL
finally showed up midafternoon. Theodosia knew he would. He almost had to, given the fact that her earlier missive to him, her E-mail spelling out her roster of murder suspects, had undoubtedly prompted him into having a talk with Booth Crowley.

Tidwell grasped a floral teacup in his huge paw, took a delicate sip of amber-colored dimbulla tea. “Ah, Miss Browning,” he said as he settled back in his wooden chair, “such a civilized respite.” Tidwell took another sip and gazed placidly about the tearoom. “With such lovely environs as this, why do you continue to involve yourself in such unpleasantness?”

“You're referring to Oliver Dixon's death?” she said.

“That and your persistent penchant for investigating,” said Tidwell. “Why risk exposing yourself to unnecessary danger?”

“Do you think I'm in danger?” Theodosia asked with genuine curiosity.

“Anyone who goes about asking probing questions will, sooner or later, find their popularity severely compromised,” said Tidwell.

What a maddening answer,
thought Theodosia as she stared across the table at him.
Tidwell is, once again, jousting with words. He's trying to determine who I think should be at the very top of the list that I sent him.

“So you believe my questions have exposed a few sensitive areas?” said Theodosia.

Tidwell waited a long time to answer. “Yes,” he finally replied. “Although your Mr. Booth Crowley seems to be a tad hypersensitive.” Tidwell's eyelids slid down over his slightly protruding eyes in the manner of one who is relaxed and ready to fall asleep. “Interesting man, Mr. Crowley. Did you know he can trace his ancestry back to John Wilkes Booth?”

Theodosia ignored Tidwell's remark. It seemed like everyone in the South could trace their ancestry back to someone who was famous, infamous, or had played some sort of walk-on role in the course of the nation's history. Her own mother had been a great-great-grandniece of Aaron Burr.

“How hard have you looked at Doe?” Theodosia asked him.

“Ah,” said Tidwell as his eyes snapped open like a window shade. “Doe Belvedere Dixon. Grieving widow, toast of the town, belle of the ball.”

“Don't forget Magnolia Queen,” added Theodosia.

Tidwell pursed his lips delicately. “The girl
did
seem to collect beauty pageant crowns much the same way a Girl Scout does merit badges.”

“The question is,” said Theodosia, “was Oliver Dixon one of her merit badges?”

“Miss Browning, you have a nasty habit of thinking the worst of people.”

“As do you, Detective Tidwell,” said Theodosia, smiling at him.

“Touché,” said Tidwell. “Here's what I
will
share with you, Miss Browning. According to a recent study conducted by our wise friends at the Justice Department, forty percent of so-called family murders are committed by a spouse.”

“Do you think this was a family murder?”

“Hard to say,” said Tidwell.

“Was there life insurance?” asked Theodosia.

“There was considerable life insurance as well as accidental death insurance.”

“Accidental death,” said Theodosia. “Interesting.” She thought for a moment. “Did anything turn up during Oliver Dixon's autopsy?”

Tidwell lifted one furry eyebrow, and a knowing smile spread across his chubby, bland face. “Your line of reasoning follows that if Oliver Dixon suffered from an incurable disease, the possibility exists that he might have staged his own accidental death?”

“It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to do it,” said Theodosia.

“Nor the last,” agreed Tidwell. “But no, I studied the medical examiner's report with great care, I assure you. Aside from a small degree of hardening of the arteries and the onset of osteoarthritis in his hands, Oliver Dixon was in relatively good health for a man of sixty-six.”

Theodosia reached for the teapot and poured them each another half cup of tea. “Would you tell me about your visit with Booth Crowley?” she asked.

“I think not,” he said.

“But you find him a suspicious figure in all of this?” she said.

“I once told you that I regard everyone as a suspect.”

“And I once told you that cannot be efficient.”

“If efficiency is what you seek, I suggest you cease and desist from your amateur sleuthing,” Tidwell told her. “Since the modus operandi of an investigator is dependent on tedious fact-finding and repetitive questions.”

Theodosia decided to try another approach. “Your talking to Booth Crowley indicates you may have shifted your focus away from Ford Cantrell.”

“I didn't say that,” said Tidwell.

“No, but your actions indicate that,” said Theodosia.

“Why do I have the nagging feeling that you're trying to clear Ford Cantrell?” asked Tidwell.

Theodosia sighed. What harm would it do to tell Tidwell, even if he was closemouthed with her? “If you must know, I told his sister I'd do everything in my power to help her.”

“Why?” asked Tidwell.

“It's personal,” said Theodosia, standing up. “It turns out we go back a long way together. Now, if you'll excuse me, Detective . . .” And she hurried over to where Drayton was folding napkins.

Tidwell continued to sit at the table, sipping tea, enjoying the aromatic smells and the bubble and hiss surround-sound that enveloped him like a warm cocoon. He lived alone, police work filled his days and most of his nights, so it wasn't often that he was able to be part of an environment that felt so pleasant and relaxed.

So the Browning woman had made some sort of promise to Lizbeth Cantrell,
Tidwell mused to himself. That was unfortunate, because he still had doubts as to Ford Cantrell's complete innocence. And it especially didn't look good that Billy Manolo was involved.

Or, at least he
thought
Billy Manolo was involved.

He'd instructed the patrol cars in Billy Manolo's neighborhood to keep tabs on the hotheaded young man. Most of the time, when Billy went out at night, it was to drink a couple beers at a desultory little bar called the Boll Weevil. But on two separate occasions, and rather late at night, they'd observed Billy's old Chevy pickup heading out the 165 toward the low country. And the low country was where Ford Cantrell lived.

Had Billy Manolo somehow aligned himself with Ford Cantrell?
Tidwell wondered.

Of course, he was still questioning personnel from the now-defunct Grapevine, but he'd heard his share of stories about disagreements between Oliver Dixon and Ford Cantrell. So Ford
could
have had motive. And Billy
could
have done the dirty work.

Tidwell had studied the shots that the
Post and Courier
's photographer had taken that day in White Point Gardens. That lovely Sunday afternoon when he'd been home in his postage stamp-sized backyard, trying to coax some life from the tulip bulbs he'd planted last fall.

They'd all been watching the sailboat race, the whole cast and crew. Oliver Dixon, Doe Belvedere Dixon, Ford Cantrell, Billy Manolo, and Booth Crowley. And Theodosia Browning.

Tidwell took a final sip of tea, pushed his chair back, and stood, economical movements for a man so large. Removing a five-dollar bill from his wallet, he laid it gently on the table. Theodosia had never charged him for tea, yet he felt paying for it was the honorable thing to do. He knew the young girl Haley probably didn't like him, but she was always polite and took great pains to serve him properly. In a world gone mad with indifference, that counted for something.

 

“Miss Dimple, you're doing the bookkeeping for a couple other shops on Church Street, aren't you?” asked Theodosia. Theodosia knew she was, but it seemed like a good way to kick off the conversation she wanted to have.

It was late afternoon, and the last customers had just left. Miss Dimple had her ledgers spread out on one of the tables and was slowly going through the last few of the day's receipts.

Miss Dimple beamed. “Indeed I am. Monday mornings I tally the weekend receipts for the Chowder Hound, and Tuesday afternoons I'm at Pinckney's Gift Shop. Once in a while I even work behind the cash register. It's so pleasant to be around all that Irish linen and crystal.”

“Have you heard any rumors about Doe Belvedere Dixon? How she's doing, what she's doing?” asked Theodosia.

Miss Dimple placed the tip of her Ticonderoga number-two yellow pencil between her lips and thought for a moment. “I heard she was selling off some of her art and collectibles. But, then, you already know about that.”

“Right,” volunteered Haley, who had been unpacking Chinese blue and white teapots from a newly arrived shipment. “Giovanni Loard brought in that Edgefield pot last week.”

“I
did
hear something about her changing her name,” said Miss Dimple.