Gunpowder Green (11 page)

“Grapevine?” piped up Delaine. “Isn't that the company Oliver Dixon started? Whatever would you want with
financial
information? Are you planning a little merger and acquisition we don't know about, Theodosia?”

“Try this tea, Delaine,” offered Drayton. “It's a lovely Darjeeling.”

“Why, thank you, Drayton.” Delaine favored him with a dazzling smile as he carefully served her, then she speared a small piece of cheese on her plate and nibbled it delicately. “Oh, this Camembert is
heavenly,
simply
melts
in your mouth. I don't even want to
think
about butterfat content!”

 

“Theodosia, I am
so
sorry,” said Haley. She shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and her face betrayed her anguish. “Mentioning that E-mail in front of Delaine like that . . . I just didn't think!”

“It's not your fault. You were just trying to be helpful,” said Theodosia as she slid a stack of papers into her attaché case. She wasn't pleased about the incident either, but what could she do? Haley was usually very careful and discreet. This had been a slipup. It was just too bad the slipup had occurred in front of Delaine Dish.

On the other hand, Drayton had rushed in to distract Delaine by offering her a cup of Darjeeling. Maybe he had been successful. She'd just have to wait and see.

“I feel like such a jerk,” said Haley.

“Don't,” said Theodosia. “It could've happened to any one of us.”

“You really think so? No, you're just saying that.”

“Haley,” said Theodosia. “Enough. Don't make yourself crazy over this.”

“I was trying to save you some time by printing out E-mails, and I'd just been skimming this article,” replied Haley. She held up a section of the
Charleston Post and Courier
for Theodosia to see.

“Which article is that?”

“Well, it's not really an article,” amended Haley. “It's mostly photos from the picnic last Sunday. The Oliver Dixon thing has been in the forefront the last couple of days, so I guess the
Post and Courier
just now got around to covering the sailboat race. It's more society gabbing than news. Who was there, what friends were visiting from out of town, that kind of thing.”

Theodosia took the page from Haley and scanned the article. Haley was right; it was soft news, society fluff. “That's right,” said Theodosia, “they had one of their photographers there to cover the picnic, didn't they?”

“Yes. Seemed like he took gobs of pictures. Course, they only printed but three of them.”

Theodosia stared at Haley intently. “I sure wish I could take a look at the rest of those photos.”

“You do?”

Theodosia put a hand to her cheek and stroked it absently, thinking. “The photos might, you know,
chronicle
what happened,” she said slowly. “From what Tidwell says, nobody seemed to see anything out of the ordinary. And nobody's completely sure how many people handled the pistol once it was removed from its rosewood box.”

Haley was suddenly grinning like a little elf. “Let me try to make up for my little faux pas,” she exclaimed. “Let me see if I can get my friend Jimmy Cardavan to get us a look at the photos. He's a copy intern there.”

“Really?” asked Theodosia. “How would we do that? Go down there? I have to run out to a Spoleto marketing meeting right now, but maybe we could swing by afterward.”

Haley's grin stretched wider. “I've got a better idea. Let me E-mail Jimmy and see if he's got access to the
Post and Courier
's intranet. If so, he can pull the photos up from their site and send them to us in a pdf format. That way you could look at the photos on your computer and print the ones that interest you. That is, if one or another
does
interest you.”

“Haley, you're a genius,” declared Theodosia.

SPOLETO FESTIVAL USA
was Charleston's big arts festival, an annual gala event highlighting dance, opera, theater, music, art, and even literary presentations. Beginning each Memorial Day, Spoleto ran for an action-packed two weeks, launching an invasion of visiting directors, dance troupes, and theater companies that comingled with Charleston's already-strong arts scene and created a rich fusion of performance, visual, and literary arts.

Theodosia had served on Spoleto's marketing committee for six years. Originally, she'd been “volunteered” by her boss, but after the first year had found the experience so rewarding and enjoyable that she'd stayed on, even after she left the advertising agency.

This year, she'd produced a fast-paced thirty-second TV commercial, using snippets of footage from past events set to a jazz track. Then she negotiated favorable rates with the five commercial TV stations in Charleston, some of the TV stations in Columbia and Greenville, and those in Savannah and Augusta, Georgia, as well. The idea being that Spoleto's appeal would extend to arts-minded folk in neighboring cities and states as well as those in Charleston.

Now, as Theodosia meandered the broad corridors of the Gibbes Museum of Art, she decided to treat herself to a side trip into a couple of the smaller galleries. She'd arrived about ten minutes early and was, after all, heading in the general direction of the conference room where the marketing committee was scheduled to meet.

In the Asian Gallery, Theodosia studied the exquisite collection of Japanese wood-block prints. Many were by revered masters such as Hiroshige and Hokusai, but there were contemporary prints, too, by new masters such as Mitsuaki and Eiichi. These were artists who played with color, technique, and style, and sought to push the boundaries of Japanese printmaking. Fascinating, she thought, what a lovely, hazy feel they had, almost like twilight in the low country.

Glancing at her watch, Theodosia saw it was almost three o'clock. Hustling out of the Asian Gallery, she turned right and headed down the main corridor. At the entrance to the museum's administrative offices, she paused to shut off her cell phone, a small courtesy that she wished more people would observe. When she glanced up, a woman was staring at her, a woman with washed-out blue eyes and a frizzle of red hair shot with strands of gray.

“Do you have a moment?” the woman asked in a low voice.

“Pardon?” Theodosia stared quizzically at the woman.

The woman cocked her head to one side. “I'm Lizbeth Cantrell,” she announced bluntly. “And you're Theodosia Browning.”

“Yes, hello,” said Theodosia, completely taken aback.

“I saw your name on the marketing committee list,” announced Lizbeth Cantrell as she stuck out her hand. “I was just here for a meeting, too. I'm on the ticket committee.”

Theodosia accepted Lizbeth Cantrell's hand as she studied her.
What is this all about?
she wondered. Had Lizbeth Cantrell somehow gotten wind of the fact that she'd done a little investigating into the Dixon-Cantrell feud? No, couldn't be. That would lead back to Tidwell, and Tidwell would never divulge a source of information. You'd have to handcuff the man and beat it out of him. Then what did Lizbeth Cantrell want?

As Lizbeth Cantrell shuffled her feet and ducked her head, Theodosia realized the woman had to be at least six feet tall. Long-boned and angular, she had a face that seemed all cheekbone and jaw.

“Can we talk privately?” Lizbeth Cantrell asked.

“Of course,” agreed Theodosia, finding herself all the more curious about this casual encounter that had no doubt been staged.

When they'd retreated to one of the conference rooms and pulled the double doors closed behind them, Theodosia studied Lizbeth Cantrell. All the qualities that made her brother, Ford Cantrell, tall and good-looking seemed to work against Lizbeth Cantrell. She was obviously older than her brother and appeared far more subdued and faded, as though her red hair had somehow leached all color and emotion from her.

Truth be known, Lizbeth Cantrell was a woman who was both plain and plainspoken, at her happiest when she was whelping a litter of puppies or crashing through the woods atop a good horse.

“You're a smart woman,” began Lizbeth Cantrell. “A businesswoman. That makes you a breed apart from a lot of ladies.”

“Thank you . . . I think,” said Theodosia. “But what do—”

Lizbeth Cantrell held up a hand. “This isn't easy for me,” she said. “I'm not used to asking for help.”

“You want my help?” said Theodosia. This conversation was getting stranger by the minute, she decided.

“I know you were at White Point Gardens last Sunday when Oliver Dixon was shot,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “And I also hear that you know how to track down a murderer.”

“I think you've got me confused with someone else,” said Theodosia.

“No, I don't,” said Lizbeth Cantrell firmly. “Your aunt Libby told me all about you. Last fall, the police thought maybe the girl who worked in your tea shop was responsible for the death of that man at the Lamplighter Tour. But you stood behind her. You figured it all out.”

Realization was not dawning quickly for Theodosia. “My aunt Libby told you . . . ? Excuse me, exactly what are you asking me to do?”

“I want you to help clear my brother's name,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “He didn't tamper with that old pistol. Folks just think he might have because he acts so crazy most of the time. And because he collects guns and likes to hunt. But I know Ford is a good man, an honest man. He's no killer.”

Let's not be so hasty,
thought Theodosia. It was, after all, Ford and Lizbeth's great-great-grandfather, Jeb Cantrell, who shot Stuart Dixon to death back in 1892 and set the Dixon-Cantrell feud in motion.

On the other hand, even though Ford Cantrell had looked awfully suspicious at first, Theodosia wasn't so sure blame should be laid entirely at his feet. Doe was fast earning a place on her list of suspects, too. And Oliver Dixon's two sons, Brock and Quaid, bore looking into as well.

“Can you help me?” asked Lizbeth Cantrell. Her pale eyes transfixed Theodosia with their intensity. “I know you're a good lady. A smart lady.”

“You live at Pamlico Hill Plantation,” said Theodosia. “A few miles down the road from my aunt Libby's.”

“That's right.” Suddenly, a ghost of a smile played on Lizbeth Cantrell's plain face, bringing with it a softness and quiet animation that hadn't been visible earlier.

“I know you, don't I?” said Theodosia. Somewhere, in the depths of her memory, a faint recollection stirred.

“Yes, ma'am, you do,” Lizbeth replied.

Theodosia stared at Lizbeth as though she were a distant shadow and tried to conjure up the memory. “You were there when my . . . my mother died,” she finally said.

“Yes,” Lizbeth replied softly. “You were just a little bug of a thing back then, couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old.”

The flashback of that long-ago summer rushed at Theodosia in a Technicolor whirl and exploded in her brain. And along with it, came a wash of memories. The oppressive heat, her father's hopeful whispering, her heartbreaking sadness.

“My mother helped take care of your mother,” explained Lizbeth. “And sometimes I came along.”

“You came along,” said Theodosia, as though she were in a trance. “You were older than I, and you took me swimming on hot days.”

“That's right,” said Lizbeth. “We went to Carpenter's Pond.” Her smile was gentle, and she waited patiently as Theodosia's brain processed everything.

“Yes, I remember you,” said Theodosia slowly. Her initial shock now over with, she was able to look back and slowly replay the memory. Her mother's last summer on this earth, spent at Cane Ridge Plantation in the low-country. Her mother had wanted more than anything to be able to watch sunlight play across the marsh grass, to gaze upon pink sunsets over shadowy, peaceful pine groves. And, finally, to be laid to rest in the old family cemetery there. Theodosia stretched one hand out tentatively, touched Lizbeth's sleeve. “You were so kind.”

“You were so sad.”

The conference room's double doors rattled noisily.

“I got to go,” Lizbeth said as she began to gather up her purse and notebook. “I think your meeting's about to start.” She paused and gave Theodosia a look filled with longing. “Will you help?” she asked.

The door burst open, and a half-dozen people crowded into the room. They swarmed around the table, paying little heed to Lizbeth and Theodosia, totally unaware of the highly charged atmosphere that seemed to permeate the room.

Theodosia dropped her arms to her sides and nodded. “I'll try,” she said. She didn't know exactly what she was promising. Or why. But how could she not?