Gunpowder Green (13 page)

 

“That was expressing condolences?” hissed Drayton when they were out of earshot. “You just about browbeat the poor girl. She didn't know what to think.” They walked a few steps farther. “I assume you were testing the water, so to speak? Trying to ascertain if Oliver Dixon knew anything about guns?”

“Drayton . . .” Theodosia grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the stream of people passing by. “I think Oliver Dixon was set up.”

He pursed his lips and gazed at her with speculation. “Set up. You mean—”

“Someone
caused
that pistol to misfire,” Theodosia said excitedly.

“You know, I really don't like where you're going with this,” Drayton said irritably.

“Hear me out,” said Theodosia. If someone tampered with that pistol, and I've really come to believe that's exactly what happened, then hard evidence might also exist. Like explosives or—”

“Hard evidence,” said Drayton with a quizzical frown. “Hard evidence
where
?”

“On the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

Drayton just stared at her.

“One of my tablecloths was on the table that Oliver Dixon fell onto. He tumbled onto the table, then slid down into a heap. Remember?”

Drayton hesitated a moment, trying to fix the scene in his mind. “Yes, I do. You're right,” he replied finally.

“So there could be particles of gunpowder or explosives or whatever still clinging to that tablecloth,” prompted Theodosia.

“Oh,” said Drayton. Then, “
Oh,
I see what you mean!”

“Now, if I could only figure out what happened to that darned tablecloth,” said Theodosia. “In all the hubbub and commotion, I'm not entirely sure where it ended up.” She stared out the open doors of the church toward the street.

“I have it,” said Drayton.

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.

“
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.