Gunpowder Green (24 page)

“
THEODOSIA? IT'S BERNARD
Morrow.” Clenching the phone tighter, Theodosia straightened up in her chair. “Professor Morrow, hello. I've been hoping to hear from you.” She glanced out across the tearoom. Haley was sliding gracefully between the small tables with a tray that held samples of their new South African Redbush tea. Drayton was chatting with two regulars who came in every Tuesday morning, dressed to the nines and wearing hats and gloves. Sunlight streamed in through the heavy, leaded panes, lending a shimmering glow to everything. With the morning's sunlight came a ray of hope as well.

“Yes, well, I meant to get your little project dispatched with sooner,” said Professor Morrow, “but I've been serving on this confounded academic search committee. Everyone on it worries endlessly about adding new, un-tenured faculty to the department and pontificates over their own specialized area. All in all, it gives you the sense that your career is drawing to a close, and it's time to take a final bow.”

“You're not thinking about retiring, are you?” Theodosia asked in alarm. Professor Morrow was one of the most caring, humane professors she had ever encountered. It would be a profound loss to the University of Charleston if he were to retire.

“Considering it, but not planning my exit in the near future,” said Professor Morrow. “Anyway, I didn't call to tell you my problems. You asked me to analyze the material on the linen tablecloth, and I did exactly that. Not the blood, of course, you'd need a chromatograph to do that, and our lab is simply not equipped that way.”

“I understand,” said Theodosia.

“Anyway, I took a look at the ground-in matter. It's dirt, all right.”

“Dirt,” repeated Theodosia.

“Not flecks of metal or gunpowder as you had initially suspected. Just garden-variety dirt.” He paused. “I could run a couple more tests, see if I can break down the compounds, measure phosphorous and potassium, things like that.”

“Would you?”

“No problem. Those are simple chemical analyses I can do with reagents we have right here in the lab. Take me a day or two.”

“Thank you, Professor Morrow.”

Theodosia hung up the phone and hastily replayed their conversation in her mind. It wasn't what she'd wanted to hear. She'd been fairly convinced that the pistol had been tampered with in some way and that the fine dust on the linen tablecloth would reveal metal shavings or some type of unusual gunpowder.

But
dirt
? What the heck did that mean? Had someone kicked it around in the mud before Drayton snatched it up and stuck it in the trunk of his car?

“You look as though someone just delivered some bad news,” said Drayton.

“Professor Morrow just called with his analysis of Haley's schmutz,” replied Theodosia.

“And?”

“Dirt,” she replied.

Drayton looked skeptical. “Dirt? That's it?”

“That's it. Now you can see why I'm disappointed.”

“You're disappointed?
I'm
disappointed,” said Drayton. “I've been envisioning endless scenarios involving strange resins or chemicals that could be traced, by means of sophisticated forensics, to a particular suspect who would then be summarily apprehended.”

“Drayton, you watch too much crime TV,” said Haley, who had been filling teapots and eavesdropping at the same time.

“I rarely watch television,” he said with an imperious lift of his gray head.

“I stand corrected. Then you read far too many mysteries,” said Haley. She furrowed her brow as if to lend solidarity to Theodosia's dashed hopes. “Sorry the tablecloth didn't lead somewhere,” she said.

Theodosia nodded.

“What's next, then?” asked Haley. Boundlessly optimistic, Haley was never one to be discouraged by a little bad news. She was always ready to move on, explore another angle.

“I think I've got to pay another visit to Timothy Neville,” said Theodosia.

“You mentioned that a couple days ago, but I haven't seen any forward progress yet,” Drayton commented in a dry tone.

Theodosia undid her apron, balled it up, thrust it into Drayton's hands. “On my way.”

 

“Mr. Neville?”

Timothy Neville looked up from the antique map he was studying, a schematic diagram of old Fort Sumter. “Yes, Claire?”

“Miss Theodosia Browning is here to see you?”

“Is that a statement or a question, Claire?”

Flustered, Claire just stared at him. She loved working at the Heritage Society but had long since decided that Timothy Neville was the strangest little man she'd ever encountered. “Perennially puckish” was how Theresa, one of the longtime curators, had described him, and Claire had the feeling that Theresa had hit the nail squarely on the head.

“It's both,” said Claire finally. “She's here. Do you have time to see her?”

Timothy Neville smiled to himself. “Kindly show her in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Claire?” said Timothy.

Claire hovered in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he carefully rolled up the fragile parchment map and slid it into a cardboard storage tube. He waited until he heard the Browning woman enter his office and cross over to his desk before he looked up. When he did, he was struck by the keen intelligence in her eyes.

“Hello,” he said to Theodosia.

Theodosia stared back at Timothy Neville, noting that his eyes were the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle. “Hello, Mr. Neville,” she replied.

Timothy Neville lifted his gnarled fingers slightly, inviting Theodosia to be seated in one of the French deco leather club chairs that flanked his desk. She did.

Watching her closely, Timothy Neville was somehow pleased that the woman sat poised so straight in her chair and kept her eyes focused directly on him.

“You have questions,” he said. “About antique pistols.”

“Yes,” she said.

Timothy bobbed his head and managed a half smile. “Drayton called just a few moments ago. Begged me to be civil to you.”

“Will you be?” she asked.

“Of course. I'm generally civil to everyone. It's false benevolence I abhor.”

Timothy Neville sat down at his desk and faced her. Theodosia noticed that they were at eye level with each other and suspected that the small-of-stature Timothy had adjusted his chair to a higher level, the better to be on an equal parity with visitors.

“You have considerable knowledge about the workings of antique pistols,” said Theodosia.

“I have a collection of them, a small collection. Two dozen at most. But I've been collecting for more than fifty years, so I have a couple choice pieces that are now exceedingly rare.”

“Can you tell me how a person might cause an antique weapon to explode?” she asked him.

“I take it the antique weapon you so coyly refer to is the offending pistol that brought Oliver Dixon's life to a crashing conclusion?”

“That's right,” she said, wondering why Timothy Neville seemed to want to footnote everything. She supposed it was his lifelong involvement in all things historical.

“As chance would have it, I have a pistol of the same ilk. Crafted by the old E. R. Shane Company in Pennsylvania. It's not a perfect mate, but it's very, very close.”

“Have you ever fired it?” asked Theodosia.

“Not recently,” said Timothy. “But to answer your question, the simplest way to cause a pistol to explode is to overpack it.” Timothy folded his arms protectively across his thin chest and posed gnomishly, awaiting her next question.

“With gunpowder?” she asked.

Timothy Neville gave her a thin smile. “That's one way. Not the best, though.”

“What else could you use?” Theodosia asked. “Dirt?”

“Pack a pistol with dirt, and you're almost guaranteed it will explode,” said Timothy.

Pinwheels of color flared in Theodosia's cheeks.
Dirt,
she thought.
Simple dirt
. She leaned back in her chair slightly and envisioned the scenario. You take an old pistol that had been hand-wrought almost two hundred years ago. You pour in a handful of Carolina dirt, pack it in tight, tamp it down. When the trigger is pulled . . .
boom
. The amazing exploding gun trick.

What was it Professor Morrow had called the residue he'd found on the linen tablecloth?

Garden-variety dirt
.

Okay, that had to be it. Then, the next big question that loomed in front of her was: Dirt from whose garden?

 

“Theo, there's someone here to see you,” said Haley.

Theodosia had let herself in the back door that led directly from the alley to her office.

“Who is it?” she asked as she tucked her handbag into the desk drawer.

Haley shrugged. “Beats me. Some guy who came in about twenty minutes ago. I gave him a cup of tea and a scone and tucked him at the small table by the fireplace.”

Taking a quick peek in the tiny mirror that hung on the back of her door, Theodosia smoothed her hair and decided to pass on the lipstick. The six-block walk back from the Heritage Society had infused her complexion with a natural, rosy glow, infinitely better than anything packaged cosmetics could deliver.

She emerged through the green velvet curtains with a smile on her face and confidence in her step. But her smile froze when she saw who it was waiting to see her: Booth Crowley.

She recovered quickly. “I'm Theodosia Browning,” she greeted the man at the fireside table. “How can I help you?”

Booth Crowley stood and faced her. He was a big man to begin with, but wearing a coal black, three-piece suit, he looked even more imposing. His shock of white hair bristled atop his head, a crooked mouth jagged across his square-jawed face.

“I'm Booth Crowley,” the man said as he took her hand in his and clamped down roughly. “We need to talk.”

Booth Crowley released Theodosia's hand only when she was half seated. By that time, a single word had bubbled to her brain:
bully.
She'd been in Booth Crowley's immediate presence for all of thirty seconds, and already he impressed her as a bully of the first magnitude. But, then again, hadn't she seen him bullying Billy Manolo that day at the church? It certainly looked like he'd been.

“A very unpleasant man, that Burt Tidwell,” said Crowley in his strange staccato manner. “Stopped by to see me this morning.” His upper lip curled as he spoke, and his pink face seemed to become increasingly florid.

Tidwell,
thought Theodosia.
He had received my E-mail and must have found some merit to it. Obviously he had, since he'd already had a chat with Booth Crowley.

But would Tidwell have confided to Booth Crowley that she was the one who harbored suspicions about him? Doubtful, highly doubtful. If anything, the pendulum swung in the other direction with Tidwell. He was extremely tight-mouthed about investigative details.

But Booth Crowley wasn't nearly finished. “My wife attended a meeting yesterday,” he snarled at her. “Ran into a friend of yours. Delaine Dish.”

Theodosia groaned inwardly. Leave it to Delaine to chatter about anything and everything. And to Booth Crowley's wife yet! Unfortunately, there was no way she could have known that Delaine sat on the same committee that Booth Crowley's wife did.

Booth Crowley narrowed his eyes at her. “You've been talking about me. Asking impertinent questions,” he said accusingly.

“Actually,” said Theodosia, deciding to play it absolutely straight, “my questions have been about Oliver Dixon.”

“And Grapevine,” Booth Crowley shot back, “which most certainly
does
concern me.”

“I was sorry to hear you closed it down,” said Theodosia, keeping her voice light. “Good thing you have two more companies ready to come out of the chute. What are they? Oh, yes, Deva Tech and Alphimed.”

“What do you know about those?” he snapped.

“Probably no more than anyone else,” said Theodosia, “unless you'd care to enlighten me.” There, she had jousted with him and obviously struck a nerve. Now it was his turn.

Booth Crowley smiled at Theodosia from across the table, but the vibes weren't particularly warm. “You know,” he said, suddenly changing the cadence of his voice and adopting a silky, wheedling tone, “my wife, Beatrix, has always wanted to open a tea salon.”

“How nice,” said Theodosia.
Give him nothing,
she thought,
nothing. Never let them see you sweat.

“Right now, she owns that lovely little sweet shop Le Bonbon. Down on Queen Street. She has a couple of ladies—dear, trusted souls—who've been with her for years. They make handmade truffles similar to the ones you find at Fauchon in Paris.” Booth Crowley took a long sip of tea, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and tossed it down haphazardly on the table. “But a
salon de thé
that serves high tea is her absolute dream.” He looked around imperiously. “Of course, it would be far more formal than what you have here. And I have the perfect name for it. Tea with Bea.”

“Cute,” said Theodosia.

“Yes, she's always wanted a little shop. Somewhere here in the historic district,” said Booth Crowley. “I do so love to indulge my wife.”

Theodosia knew that Booth Crowley and his wife, Beatrix, could squash her like a bug if they wanted to. Booth Crowley's net worth had to be high, almost astronomical. As CEO of Cherry Tree Investments, he smooth-talked countless investors into providing millions in venture capital for dozens of companies. More importantly, Booth Crowley sat on the Charleston Chamber of Commerce. If he decided to
indulge
his wife, as he had rhapsodized, he could easily persuade the Charleston tour buses to stop at his wife's tea shop instead of hers. It wasn't good, she decided, it wasn't good at all. She'd stirred up a hornet's nest, and now she might have to face the consequences.