Gunpowder Green (15 page)

“I'll take it,” she declared. “It's perfect.”

Giovanni nodded. “An excellent choice, ma'am. I'm sure your husband will be thoroughly delighted.”

Giovanni accepted the woman's MasterCard and zipped it through his machine.
What luck,
he thought to himself,
that Theodosia Browning walked in when she did.
So often, customers were pushed into purchasing when it became apparent they would no longer enjoy a shopkeeper's undivided attention.

While Giovanni finished up with his customer, Theodosia wandered about the shop. She paused to admire a small collection of Coalport porcelain and a tray of vintage watches. It was a nice enough shop, she decided, but the inventory seemed a trifle thin.
Hard times?
she wondered.
Or just an owner who preferred a few tasty items to the usual overdone pastiche of furniture, silver, rugs, candle-sticks, and porcelains?
On the other hand, in a town that was almost wall-to-wall antique shops, it must be awfully hard to remain competitive.

“Hello again.” Giovanni Loard turned his hundred-watt smile on Theodosia once he'd shown his customer to the door.

“I was just driving past and spotted your sign,” said Theodosia. “I decided this was the day to come in and look at those paintings I've heard so much about.”

“For that special wall,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Theodosia, smiling back at him and wondering why she suddenly felt like she was playing a role in a drawing room comedy.

Giovanni Loard beckoned with an index finger. “Back here,” he told her. “In my office.”

Theodosia followed him obediently to the back of the store, waited as he unlatched a door, then stepped into a small wood-paneled office.

“Wow,” was all she said.

The office was relatively small, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, but its walls were covered with gleaming oil paintings. There were portraits, landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes. Some were dreamy and ethereal, others were incredibly realistic. All were exceedingly well done.

“What a lovely collection. Why don't you have some of these paintings on display in your shop?” she asked.

He shrugged with what seemed feigned indifference. “Once in a while I do,” he said, and reached forward to straighten a small landscape painting that was slightly crooked. “But mostly, I keep them in here to admire for myself. And to save the very best pieces for special customers.

“This one . . .” Giovanni extended an arm pointed toward a small gem of a portrait. “This one reminds me of you.”

Theodosia gazed at the painting, mindful of Giovanni's gaze upon her. The painting was of a woman in a full-skirted, corseted dress reclining on a chaise. The style invoked the antebellum period and the predominant colors were muted pinks and purples, with alabaster skin tones.

“It's beautiful,” said Theodosia. The painting was a beauty, but there was an ethereal quality about it that was oddly disquieting.

“Thank you for coming to the funeral yesterday,” Giovanni said, changing the subject abruptly. “I saw you during the service, but with everyone milling about afterward, we never did get a chance to say hello.”

“How is Doe holding up?” asked Theodosia.

“Better than expected,” replied Giovanni. “Her friends and family are being very supportive, and she's a brave girl, although I have to say, she's feeling a tremendous amount of frustration about the ineptitude and total inactivity of the police. They've gone absolutely nowhere in their investigation.”

“Is there somewhere to go?” asked Theodosia.

Giovanni lifted an eyebrow. “They took Ford Cantrell in for questioning.”

“I take it you're fairly convinced that Ford Cantrell somehow tampered with the pistol?” said Theodosia.

“Yes, I am,” said Giovanni. “I simply don't believe it was an accident.”

“Could someone else have tampered with it?”

Giovanni frowned as though the idea had never occurred to him. “I can't think of another soul who would have wanted to harm Oliver Dixon.”

“Oliver Dixon was heavily involved in a new start-up company,” said Theodosia. “There could have been someone who did not want him to succeed.”

“I see what you mean,” said Giovanni. “Oliver was a truly brilliant and gifted man. The ideas he was bringing to Grapevine would have helped revolutionize how people use PDAs.” He paused. “Or so I'm told. I, unfortunately, function at a relatively low technology level. The fax machine is about the most I can manage,” he added ruefully.

“But it sounds like there was a tremendous amount at stake,” said Theodosia. “Competition in business has been known to trigger volatile deeds. A fearful competitor, angry supplier, skittish investor . . . any one of them could have resented Oliver Dixon mightily.”

“Highly doubtful,” said Giovanni. “As you may or may not know, Booth Crowley was Grapevine's major underwriter, and he's known to have an impeccable reputation around here.”

“I'm sure he does,” said Theodosia, wondering if Giovanni had also witnessed Booth Crowley's over-the-top display of anger yesterday. “However,” she continued, “that doesn't mean someone didn't have it in personally for Oliver Dixon.”

Giovanni's face clouded. “I suppose you could be right,” he conceded.

“Too bad about the disturbance yesterday.”

“Pardon?” said Giovanni. He'd turned his gaze toward the painting he'd indicated had reminded him so much of Theodosia.

“At the funeral. The somewhat ugly scene between Booth Crowley and a fellow named Billy Manolo. Do you know him? Billy, I mean?”

“No, not really. Well, only by reputation. Fellow does odd jobs at the yacht club, I believe.”

“Do you think he could have had a grudge against Oliver Dixon?”

“I don't see how he could have,” said Giovanni in a condescending tone. “I mean, the man was hired help. They didn't exactly mix on the same social level.”

That's precisely the reason why Billy Manolo might carry a grudge,
Theodosia thought to herself.

Giovanni drew a deep breath, let it out, concentrated on trying to refocus his energy and his smile. “Shall I hold the painting for you?” he asked brightly.

“No, I don't think so,” said Theodosia.

“
I'VE BEEN WATCHING
the weather channel, and it looks like there's a storm moving in,” said Jory Davis. “There is,” agreed Theodosia. After five days in New York, Jory had finally phoned her. “It's been raining all day, and everything just seems to be building in intensity. Something's definitely brewing out in the mid-Atlantic. I spoke with Drayton earlier, and he's worried sick that all the flowers will get blown about and smashed. Which means next week's Garden Fest will be an absolute bust.”

Theodosia was cozied up in her apartment above the tea shop. Even though it was Friday evening, it was far too rainy and miserable to contemplate going out anywhere.

“I'm worried about my boat,” said Jory. “Eldon Cook, one of my sailing buddies, went over to the Isle of Palms a couple days ago and brought it back, so it's moored at the yacht club now. But if there's an even worse storm blowing in . . .”

“What can I do to help?” offered Theodosia.

“Could you stop by my office and pick up the second set of keys? I know Eldon locked up the boat, so if you could take the keys to the yacht club and give them to Billy Manolo—”

“Billy Manolo?”

“Yeah,” said Jory, “he works there. He's a kind of handyman.”

“I know who he is,” replied Theodosia. “I met him yesterday morning. Well, I didn't actually meet him, I saw him. At Oliver Dixon's funeral.”

“Of course,” said Jory. “I'd completely forgotten that the funeral was yesterday. How was it?”

“Sad,” said Theodosia. “But nicely done. A lot of his friends stood up and said some wonderful things about him.”

“That's good,” said Jory. “Oliver deserved it.”

“So take the keys to Billy and have him do what?” continued Theodosia.

“Secure the boat, turn on the bilge pump. Probably check to make sure the sails are stored properly. Your basic hurricane preparedness.”

“You trust this guy to do this?”

“Yeah. Sure I do. It's his job to do this kind of stuff.” Jory paused. “Is there some problem, Theo? Something I don't know about?”

“No, of course not. Don't worry about a thing,” said Theodosia. “I'll take care of everything. How are things on your end? How are the depositions going?”

Jory sighed. “Slow.”

 

Theodosia hung up the phone and peered out her kitchen window as rain thudded heavily on the roof and sloshed noisily down drain spouts. She could barely make out the little garden apartment across the cobblestone alley where Haley lived, so strong was the downpour.

Shuddering, she buttoned the top button of her chenille sweater. Charleston was usually engulfed in warm weather by now, and everyone was enjoying a lovely, languid spring before the buildup of summer's oppressive heat and humidity. But this was a whole different story: nasty weather and a chill Atlantic breeze that seemed to whip right through you.

The teakettle on the stove began its high-pitched, wavering whistle, and Theodosia quickly snatched it from the back burner. Pouring boiling water over a teaspoon of Darjeeling, she let it steep for three minutes in the tiny one-cup teapot. It was funny, she thought, the biggest enemies of tea were air, light, heat, and dampness. And, so often, Charleston's climate offered up abundant helpings of all of these!

Theodosia retreated to her living room and stretched out on the couch. Earl Grey, already well into his evening nap, lifted his head a few inches, eyed her sleepily, and settled back down.

As Theodosia sipped her tea, she thought about Lizbeth Cantrell, the woman who had implored her for help just a few days ago.

She still didn't know why she'd promised Lizbeth that she'd try to clear Ford Cantrell's name. After all, she was the one who'd been suspicious of Ford in the first place.

She supposed it was the connection between Lizbeth Cantrell and her mother that had triggered her answer. The bittersweet flood of memories had been a strange, slightly mind-altering experience.

And, deep down, she knew that she also felt beholden to Lizbeth. In the South, with its curious code of honor, when you were beholden to someone, you helped them out when they needed you. No questions asked.

But what would she do if she couldn't keep her promise to Lizbeth?

What if more investigating proved that Ford Cantrell really had tampered with that old pistol? Ford was, after all, the one with an extensive gun collection. So he had expertise when it came to antique weapons. And the man had recently turned his plantation into a hunting preserve. She wasn't exactly sure what that proved, but it was the kind of thing that could carry nasty implications in court.

But Lizbeth had seemed utterly convinced of her brother's innocence. Then again, Lizbeth was a believer in signs and portents. Like the wreath of coltsfoot. What was it supposed to symbolize again? Oh, yes, justice.

And exactly what justice had Lizbeth been making reference to?
Theodosia wondered.
Justice for her brother, Ford Cantrell? Or the type of justice that might have already been meted out against Oliver Dixon?

Theodosia stared at the bone china cup that held her tea. She had begun collecting individual coffee, tea, and demitasse cups long before she'd opened the tea shop. She'd found that when she set her table for a dinner party, it was fun to arrange it with mismatched pieces, pairing, for example, a Limoges plate with a Lilique cup and saucer.

Now the information she'd managed to collect so far on the people surrounding Oliver Dixon also seemed like mismatched pieces. But unlike the eclectic table settings her guests often raved over, none of these pieces seemed to fit together.

Theodosia stood, stretched, and tried to shake off the chill. She'd been avoiding turning on the heat—it seemed kind of silly to still be using heat in April—but her apartment felt like it was growing colder by the minute.

Relenting, Theodosia walked across the room and flipped the lever on the thermostat. She was immediately rewarded by an electrical hum followed by a small puff of warm air.

Okay,
she asked herself,
what am I missing?
She stood, staring at the droplets of water that streamed down the outside of the windows, reminding her of tears. Like Doe's tears for her dead husband, Oliver Dixon?