Gunpowder Green (28 page)

It would be perfect if she could somehow get Billy Manolo to show up tonight as well. Then they'd have all the players. . . .

Yes, it would be perfect, she decided. It was certainly worth a try. But how exactly would she . . . ?

Theodosia punched in the phone number for the yacht club. A crazy idea had popped into her head that, on closer inspection, might not be so crazy after all.

“Yacht club,” answered a youthful male voice.

“Is Billy Manolo there?” she asked.

“Oh, he's . . . I think he's out working on one of the boats. I saw him on one of the piers an hour or so ago, but I couldn't say where he is now. I just stopped by the clubhouse to grab a drink of water, and the phone rang. I can't really help—”

“Could you take a message?” asked Theodosia.

“A message. Yeah, I suppose so. Hang on a minute. Gotta get a pencil and paper.”

There was a fumble and a clunk as the phone was set down, then the young man came on the line again.

“Okay, go ahead,” he said.

“This is for Billy Manolo,” said Theodosia
.
“The note should say, please be at Timothy Neville's home tonight at eight. Address is 413 Archdale.”

Theodosia could hear the man softly repeating the message to himself as he wrote it down. “Anything else?” asked the young man.

“Add that it's urgent Billy show up and make a note that it's at the request of Booth Crowley.”

“How do you spell that? I got the Booth part, I'm just not sure on Crowley.”

“C-R-O-W-L-E-Y,” said Theodosia.

“Okay,” said the young man. “And who is this?”

Theodosia ransacked her brain for the name of the woman she'd spoken with the day she phoned Booth Crowley's office. Marilyn, the woman's name had been Marilyn.

“This is Marilyn from Booth Crowley's office.”

“Gotcha,” said the young man. “I'll leave the note in his mailbox.”

“Yes, that's perfect,” said Theodosia, remembering a line of four of five wooden mail slots that were used by employees, handymen, yacht club commodores, and other folks who spent time there.

TIMOTHY NEVILLE ADORED
giving parties. Holiday parties, charity galas, music recitals. And his enormous Georgian mansion, a glittering showpiece perched on Archdale Street, was, for many guests, a peek into the kind of gilded luxury that hadn't been witnessed in Charleston since earlier times.

Although not an official Garden Fest event, Timothy had been staging his Garden Fest kickoff party for more years than anyone could count. It was a way to bring all the Garden Fest participants together in one place, and it served as a kind of unofficial marker that heralded the arrival of spring. Days were becoming warmer, deep purple evenings held the promise of fluttering luna moths and night-blooming nicotiana. And, once again, everyone in Charleston was more than ready to treat their gardens as an extended room of their house. For Charlestonians adored their gardens, whether they be tiny, secluded brick patios surrounded by slender columns of oleander or one of the enormous enclosed backyards in the historic district, lavishly embellished with vine-covered brick walls, fountains adorned with statuary, and well-tended beds of verdant plant life.

Poised on his broad piazza, dressed in impeccable white, Timothy Neville greeted each of his guests with a welcoming word. Flickering gaslights threw a warm scrim and lent an alabaster glow that served to enhance the complexions of his female guests.

Just inside, Henry Marchand, Timothy's valet of almost forty years, stood in the dazzling foyer. Attired in red topcoat and white breeches, Henry solemnly directed newly arrived ladies to the powder room and gentlemen toward the bar with the grace and surety of a majordomo secure in his position.

“Even though it's not entirely black tie, it's certainly creative attire,” exclaimed Drayton as he and Theodosia surveyed the chattering crowd. Most of Timothy's guests were also residents of the historic district and, thus, nodding acquaintances to the two of them. Many were descended from Charleston's old families and had lived in the surrounding neighborhood for years. Others had been drawn to the historic district by their love of history, tradition, and old-world charm and had scrimped and saved to buy their historic houses with an eye toward full restoration. For in the historic district, restoration was always big business. And a major boon to the plasterers, wallpaperers, chimney sweeps, gardeners, designers, and various other tradespeople and craftsmen who were so often called upon to keep these grande dame homes in working order.

Earlier, Drayton and Theodosia had helped Haley get her tea service set up outside in Timothy's lush garden. Ten of Drayton's bonsai had been arranged on simple wooden Parsons tables, creating an elegant, Zen-like atmosphere. Haley was now busily pouring Japanese tea into small, blue-glazed tea bowls and passing them out to those guests who'd come outside to admire Timothy's elegant garden and Drayton's finely crafted bonsai.

“I do love this house,” declared Theodosia, as she gazed in awe at the Hepplewhite furnishings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and carved walnut mantelpiece signed by Italian master Luigi Frullini. She'd only given a cursory glance to the oil paintings that lined the walls but had already recognized a Horace Bundy and a Franklin Whiting Rogers. She also knew that the china Timothy displayed in illuminated cases in one of the two front parlors was genuine Spode.

“Timothy's got taste, all right,” said Drayton, “and the man has demonstrated a remarkable amount of class. I couldn't believe how willing he was to take part in our little plan.”

“I'm relieved that he's agreed to help,” said Theodosia. “But I must admit I'm a little nervous about the whole thing.”

“Me, too,” said Drayton. “But if we stick to our plan . . . Oh, talk about perfect,” said Drayton under his breath.

“You bought the jacket!” Delaine Dish's strident voice rose above the buzz of conversation in the solarium where Theodosia and Drayton had wandered in to visit the bar and get flutes of vintage champagne. Clutching an oversized goblet of white wine and wearing a frothy wrapped dress of pink silk, Delaine pushed her way through the crowd to join them.

“When?” she asked Theodosia, her eyes all aglow. “Today?” Her dark hair was done up in a fetching swirl and held in place by a pink barrette. Her shellacked pink toes peeped out of matching pink sandals.

“About two hours ago,” said Theodosia. “Suddenly, the jacket seemed like the absolute perfect thing to wear to this party. So I phoned your shop and talked with Janine and, lo and behold, I was in luck. You still had the green.”

“And so pretty with your ring,” giggled Delaine, noting the cluster of peridots that sparkled on Theodosia's hand. “Is that a family heirloom?”

“My grandmother's,” replied Theodosia.

“Inherited jewelry,” murmured Delaine, “always the best kind.” She turned glittering eyes on Drayton. “No strings attached. Unlike a gift from a gentleman.”

“Delaine, any gentleman worth his salt would be quite content to lavish gifts upon you, nary a string attached.”

“Oh, Drayton,” she cooed.

Drayton bowed slightly. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I'm going to head out to the garden. Timothy has asked me to do a short, impromptu talk on the style merits of the windswept bonsai.”

“Such a gentleman,” said Delaine. She smiled at Theodosia with a slightly glassy-eyed look, and Theodosia knew Delaine was wearing her tinted contact lenses tonight. She was terribly nearsighted and, at the same time, loved to enhance and sometimes change the color of her eyes.

“Delaine,” Theodosia began, feeling a tiny stab of guilt at what she was about to set into motion. “You know I've been asking more than a few questions about Oliver Dixon's death. . . .”

Delaine blinked and moved closer to her. “Has something new turned up?” she asked.

“In a way, yes,” said Theodosia. “I probably shouldn't—”

“Oh, you can tell me, dear,” said Delaine. She put a hand on Theodosia's arm, pulled her protectively away from the throes of the crowd. “I'm as concerned about all this as you are.”

“The thing of it is,” said Theodosia, “I've stumbled upon the most amazing clue.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Delaine.

“Remember the linen tablecloth?”

Delaine's face remained a blank.

“The one that Oliver Dixon sort of fell onto during the . . . uh . . . accident?”

Remembrance suddenly dawned for Delaine. “Oh, of
course.
The
tablecloth.
”

“Well, I had it analyzed.”

“You mean like in a crime lab?” asked Delaine. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.

“No, a private analysis. But by an expert.”

“How fascinating,” said Delaine, her face lighting up with excitement, “tell me more.”

“One of the theories about that old pistol exploding was that someone
meant
for it to explode. Someone packed it chock-full of gunpowder and dirt.”

“How awful,” said Delaine, but her face held a smile of anticipation.

“The analysis I had done broke that dirt down into specific compounds. In theory, if we can match the dirt from the weapon with the dirt in someone's garden, we'd have Oliver Dixon's killer.”

Delaine's mouth opened and closed several times. “That's amazing,” she finally managed. “Astonishing, really.”

“Isn't it?” said Theodosia.

“When are you going to do this matching of dirt?” asked Delaine.

“We're working on it right now,” said Theodosia.

“So you could know
tonight
?”

“In theory . . . yes,” said Theodosia.

“Do the police know? That Detective Tidwell fellow?”

“All in good time,” said Theodosia.

Delaine let loose a little shiver. “I'm getting goose bumps. This is just like one of those true-crime TV shows. On-the-spot investigating . . . very exciting.”

Theodosia stared across the room into the crowd. She could see Booth Crowley standing at the bar. He had just gotten a martini or a gimlet or something in a stemmed glass with a twist of lemon and was staring glumly at his wife, a small, sturdy woman with hair teased into a blond bubble.

At the opposite end of the room, Ford Cantrell had just walked in with his sister and was glancing nervously toward the bar, probably hoping he could get three fingers of bourbon instead of a glass of champagne and wondering why on earth Lizbeth had seen fit to drag him to this stuffy party where he was probably highly unwelcome.

Across the wide center hallway, Theodosia could see Doe Belvedere Dixon reclining on a brocade fainting couch in Timothy's vast library. Doe was dressed in a sleek cranberry-red pantsuit and was gossiping and talking animatedly with three other young women. Giggling like a schoolgirl, not a decorous widow.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, Theodosia hoped Billy Manolo had gotten the message she'd left him and would also put in an appearance some time this evening.

Theodosia knew that any one of them could have overpacked that pistol. Any one of them could be a cold, calculating killer. And tonight was the night to set a trap and see who stumbled in.

THE HISS OF
the oxyacetylene torch was like a viper, angry and menacing. It was exactly how Billy Manolo felt tonight as he wielded his welding equipment.

He was angry. Angry and more than a little resentful. First of all, he was supposed to have this stupid gate finished by tomorrow morning. He'd been following a classical French design and using mortise joinery, and the project seemed to be taking forever. Marianne Petigru had made it perfectly clear to him that if he missed one more deadline, he could forget about getting any more work from Popple Hill. But Marianne was a snotty, rich bitch, he told himself, who could go stick her head in a bucket of swamp water for all he cared.