Gunpowder Green (8 page)

“Indeed, they do,” proclaimed Drayton. “A collection of South Carolina sweetgrass baskets resides in the Smithsonian's permanent collection, a fitting tribute to our low-country craftspeople.”

Drayton held up one of the elegant, woven baskets that had been resting on the countertop. “These,” he said enticingly, “were made from a sweetgrass crop cultivated on Johns Island. Would any of you ladies care to take one home?”

Two heads nodded, and Drayton beamed.

 

“You're a natural-born salesman, Drayton,” Theodosia told him with unabashed admiration as she sat down across from him. Even though they'd been together almost three years, she was still slightly in awe of Drayton's prodigious sales talent. True, she had huckstered food products and computer peripherals on a national scale when she'd been in the advertising business. But selling one-on-one was still slightly disconcerting to her. She tended not to
sell
an item per se but, instead, let the item speak for itself.

Theodosia reached a hand across the table and tapped the black leather-bound ledger that Drayton had come to regard as his bible. It contained most of his tea-tasting notes and all of his ideas for tea blends, special events, and tea promotions.

“You've been working on the summer teas,” Theodosia said with appropriate seriousness.

Drayton nodded.

“Your White Point Green was certainly a hit at the picnic, so we'll want to package that for sale,” Theodosia said.

Drayton nodded again. “I agree. And I came up with one more iced tea.” He paused. “I call it Audubon Herbal, a tribute to our nearby Audubon Swamp Garden.”

Theodosia nodded. “Where John Audubon chronicled South Carolina's waterbirds.”

“Right. The tea's a scant amount of black tea with hibiscus, lemongrass, and chamomile added. Mild, refreshing, not too stimulating.”

Theodosia's eyes sparkled. “I like it. The tea and the tribute. What else?”

“Two more teas that veer decidedly toward the exotic,” said Drayton. Then he added hastily, “But we've seen time and again that people
like
exotic teas.”

“You won't get any argument from me, Drayton.”

“The first one I call Ashley River Royal. It's a Ceylonese black tea with a pear essence.”

“You're right, it
is
exotic.”

“No,
this
one's the coup de grâce. Swan Lake Iris Gardens. Again, an homage to the elegant gardens that are home to . . . what? Seven species of swans? And you know how much everyone enjoys visiting the gardens in spring when the Dutch and Japanese iris are blooming.”

“Of course,” said Theodosia. “And what's the blend?”

“Four different teas with a top note of smoky lopsang.”

“Drayton, you're not just going to capture the hearts of tea lovers, you're going to endear yourself to bird lovers and gardeners, too. And in Charleston, that's just about everyone.”

“I know,” smiled Drayton.

“Hey,” interrupted Haley, “we're not going to package this stuff ourselves, are we? Remember last fall when we did holiday teas? My back gets sore just
thinking
about it.”

“No, we'll have Gallagher's Food Service handle all that,” said Drayton. “Frankly, I thought it was fun when we all worked together, but apparently no one else shared my enthusiasm. You all seemed to have mutiny on your minds.”

“Last fall we had an extra pair of hands,” said Haley. “But now that Bethany's moved to Columbia, who else could we shanghai? Miss Dimple?”

“Now
she's
a sport,” said Drayton. “I bet she wouldn't complain half as much as you did.”

“Drayton, don't you dare ask poor Miss Dimple to package tea,” laughed Theodosia.

“One more thing,” said Drayton, closing his book and getting up. “New packaging.” He reached around to the back of the counter and pulled out a shiny, dark blue box with a rounded top that folded over. “Indigo blue boxes,” said Drayton.

“They're the exact same color as the gift paper we use!” Theodosia squealed with delight. “Aren't you clever. Where did you find them?”

“Supplier in San Francisco,” said Drayton. “We can have Gallagher's package the tea in our regular foil bags, then pop those bags into the blue boxes. From there we just need to add a label. I took the liberty of getting samples of gold foil labels from our printer. All you have to do is pick a label style and a typeface,” said Drayton. “Then it's a done deal.”

“Easy enough,” said Theodosia.

“Don't look now,” said Haley under her breath, “but that boorish cop just came in. Wonder what he wants?”

“I invited him,” said Theodosia.

“You
invited
him?” Haley was stunned.

“Run and put together a nice pastry sampler, will you, Haley? And Drayton, could you do a fresh pot of tea? Maybe that Dunsandle Estate?”

“Of course, Theo,” agreed Drayton. Then he turned to Haley. “Are you rooted to the floor, dear girl? Kindly fetch the pastries Theodosia requested.”

“Okay,” Haley agreed grudgingly. “But you know I can't stand that guy. He almost drove Bethany to a nervous breakdown with all his questions and nasty innuendos. He's a bully, pure and simple.”

“He's a detective first grade,” corrected Drayton under his breath. “Now the pastries, please?”

“Right,” said Haley.

 

“Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia greeted him warmly. “Sit here by the window.”

“Nice to see you again, Miss Browning,” said Tidwell as he lowered his bulk into a wooden captain's chair. “Good of you to drop me a note, even if it was of the electronic version.”

He gave a cheery smile that Theodosia knew contained very little cheer. Tidwell's chitchat and tiny pleasantries were opening salvos that could be a steel-jawed trap for the unsuspecting.

“I wanted to talk to you about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

“You mean Oliver Dixon's death,” corrected Burt Tidwell.

“Since you put it that way, yes,” agreed Theodosia.

She sat quietly as Haley placed teacups, plates, knives, and spoons in front of each of them, then Drayton followed with a steaming pot of tea. Theodosia poured some of the sweet elixir into Tidwell's cup and smiled with quiet satisfaction as his nose twitched. Then Haley delivered her plate of baked goods, and Tidwell brightened considerably.

“Oh my, this
is
lovely,” he said as he scooped a raspberry scone onto his plate. “Is there, perchance, some jelly to accompany this sweet?”

But Haley was already back at the table with a plate of butter, pitcher of clotted cream, and various jars of jelly.

“Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “have you learned anything more about the pistol that killed Oliver Dixon?”

Tidwell sliced a sliver of butter and applied it to his pastry.

“Some,” he said. “The pistol was American made, manufactured in the mid-1800s to Army specifications, and used as a side arm by officers. Stock is curly maple and there's an acorn design on the trigger guard. Graceful lines but a crude weapon. It was really only effective at close range.”

But effective enough to mortally wound Oliver Dixon,
Theodosia thought to herself.

“By the way,” Tidwell said, “the pistol
was
kept at Oliver Dixon's yacht club. In friendly territory. So it's doubtful anyone would have tampered with it.”

“Who loaded the pistol?” asked Theodosia.

“Fellow by the name of Bob Brewster. Been doing it for years. Apparently, you take a pinch of gunpowder and twist it inside a little piece of paper. Not unlike a tea bag,” Tidwell told her. “Then you place the little packet in the barrel. Brewster's just sick about it, by the way.”

“But Oliver Dixon
could
have had an enemy there,” said Theodosia.

Tidwell stroked his ample chin. “Most people I've spoken with were highly complimentary of Oliver Dixon. He was a past commodore and had contributed a considerable amount of funds for the betterment of the place. He paid to have the boat piers reinforced and a clubhouse fireplace installed.” Tidwell pulled a spiral notebook from his breast pocket and glanced at it. It was the same kind of notebook children purchased from the five-and-dime store. “Oh, and Oliver Dixon underwrote a sailing program last summer for inner-city youth. Kids Can Sail, or something like that.”

“Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

“And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Tidwell. He smiled at her, then helped himself to an almond scone. “Lovely,” he muttered under his breath.

He's not given me an ounce of useful information,
thought Theodosia.
But then, did I really think he would?
She sighed inwardly. Conversations with Tidwell were always of the cat-and-mouse variety.

“You realize,” she began, “there is a long-standing feud between the Dixons and the Cantrells.” She watched him as her words sank in. He gave her nothing.

“The feud dates back to the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

“Mm-hm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention.

“Sometime during the thirties, Oliver Dixon's aunt ran off with a Cantrell. Apparently, the two families have been openly hostile toward each other ever since.”

“So you suspect young Ford Cantrell?” Tidwell's bright eyes were riveted on her.

“If I had a suspect in mind,” Theodosia said slowly, “that would imply I believed a criminal act had been committed. And I have no proof of that.”

“Aha,” said Tidwell, “so this conversation is simply neighborly gossip.”

Theodosia stared at him unhappily.

Seeing her displeasure, Tidwell's eyes lost their merriment, and he suddenly turned serious. “Yes, I have heard rumblings about this so-called Dixon-Cantrell feud. Although you seem to have gained the upper hand as far as specific details.”

Though large in girth, Tidwell's words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be.

“Do you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.

He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”

But I know an expert,
thought Theodosia.
And I just might take a chance on talking to him.

Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”

And he was out the door, just like that.

Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he's back?”

“He's back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”

“Oh,” was all Theodosia said. Contemplating a visit with Timothy Neville and actually
talking
to Timothy Neville were two different things.

“Do you think he still hates me for suspecting him of poisoning that real estate developer?” she asked.

“Nonsense,” said Drayton. “Timothy Neville doesn't hate you; he hates everyone. Timothy has always been an equal-opportunity curmudgeon. Don't give his ill humor a second thought.”

TIMOTHY NEVILLE WAS
going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn't about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn't going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.

What did it matter?

He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.

Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B
₁
, B
₆
, C, and E.

True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.