Gunpowder Green (25 page)

Booth Crowley stood up abruptly and, reluctantly, Theodosia stood, too. “Good day,” he told her, his grin hard, his gray eyes filled with menace. “If you hear of any vacancies on your block, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, I'll consult with one of the commercial Realtors my firm has on retainer.” He spun away from her, heading for the door, then stopped in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder. “I wouldn't go signing any long-term leases, if I were you,” he spat out. “Especially with the economy so uncertain and competition breathing down your neck.” Then he slammed out the door and was gone.

 

Theodosia was aware of Drayton hovering behind her.

“What did he want?” Drayton asked quietly. He put a hand on Theodosia's shoulder, gently steering her over to the counter, where they could have some privacy.

“He came here to rattle my cage,” Theodosia told him. “To intimidate me.” She tried to keep her remark light, but she realized that, deep inside, she
was
rattled and intimidated.

“Who
was
that big boor?” asked Haley as they all crowded behind the counter, whispering.

“That was Booth Crowley,” Drayton told her.

Haley's eyes went wide. “
Really?
Darn. If I'd known who he was, I wouldn't have been so pleasant to him when he first came in.” She meant her remark to be humorous, but she saw the look of consternation on Theodosia's face. “Just how did Booth Crowley try to intimidate you?” Haley asked.

“Oh, it was rather indirect at first,” said Theodosia. “He talked about how his wife has always wanted to have a tea salon somewhere in the historic district. Then he escalated things, told me not to sign a long-term lease or anything.” She struggled to maintain an outward calm, but she still came across shaken.

“You've had competition before,” said Drayton, trying to be practical. “It hasn't made a whit of difference.”

“Not
real
competition,” said Theodosia.

“What about Tea Baggy's over on Wentworth?” Drayton offered.

Theodosia looked thoughtful. “That's different. Tea Baggy's is retail, and all the charm is in the name. Besides, they only stock a few canisters of so-so tea. Most of their sales are in candy and glassware. And gobs of giftware.”

“They just added a line of teddy bears,” said Haley helpfully.

“You see?” said Theodosia to Drayton. “It is more retail. Booth Crowley was talking about something entirely different.”

“How much you want to bet he was just bluffing,” said Haley.

“How did your meeting with Timothy go?” asked Drayton, deciding it might be best to change the subject and try to get Theodosia's mind off Booth Crowley's threats.

Theodosia stared at Drayton as though she wasn't sure what he was talking about. Then she blinked, and understanding came back to her face. “My goodness, I forgot to tell you! I came back here and went rushing into that awful meeting.”

“So Timothy was helpful?” said Drayton.

“Actually, he was extremely helpful. And so were you,” said Theodosia. “Thank you for calling ahead and smoothing the way.”

Drayton waved a hand airily. “Just making sure the ferocious Timothy didn't make mincemeat out of you.”

“So what did Timothy Neville say?” asked Haley.

“Basically, he told me it's fairly easy to rig a pistol to explode,” said Theodosia. “All you have to do is overpack it.”

“Overpack it?” frowned Haley. “With what?”

A sly smile crept onto Theodosia's face. “I think somebody overpacked the yacht club's pistol with dirt,” she said.

“Which tracks with what Professor Morrow told you,” Drayton exclaimed excitedly. “He said the tablecloth had
dirt
on it.”

“Does somebody want to give me the complete story?” asked Haley impatiently.

“Haley,” said Theodosia, “Professor Morrow analyzed the tablecloth and said the smudge, or schmutz, as you called it, was garden-variety dirt. Then I talked with Timothy, and he said that if you stuffed a pistol full of dirt, it would probably explode.”

“Holy smokes,” said Haley. “So maybe the garden-variety dirt—”

“Is really from somebody's garden,” finished Drayton.

The three exchanged knowing glances.

“Sounds like we might have to slip into our ninja costumes tonight and visit a few gardens,” suggested Haley.

Drayton rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Like Booth Crowley's, Billy Manolo's—”

“Let's hold off on that for the time being,” said Theodosia. “Professor Morrow is going to try to break down the compounds. He thinks he can get a lot more specific than telling us it's just dirt.”

“You mean he'll determine pH balance or nitrogen content?” asked Drayton. “That would be fabulous! In fact, it would help launch us in a very specific direction. For example, if we found out the soil was acid-based, we'd look for someone who had, say, a rose garden.”

“Pretty slick,” agreed Haley. “That would really help narrow it down. When do you think your professor will have those test results for us?”

“Hopefully, tomorrow,” said Theodosia.

“Isn't it serendipitous,” said Drayton, “that the Garden Fest kicks off in two days?”

“Kind of gives us an excuse to poke around in the dirt,” said Haley with an impish grin.

THE NEXT MORNING
, they all fluttered about nervously, waiting for Professor Morrow's phone call. But when the good professor hadn't called by ten A.M., Drayton suggested they put their heads together and work on some ideas for an artists' tea.

“I've heard of garden teas and teddy bear teas and, of course, we just had our mystery tea,” said Haley, “but what the heck is an artists' tea?”

Drayton's eyes skimmed across the tea shop. Only three tables were occupied, and the customers sitting at them had all been served. Business was a tad slow but, then again, it was midweek.

“I was thinking of holding an artists' tea in conjunction with Spoleto,” explained Drayton. “Theme the tearoom with Art Deco table decor, offer a creative menu, invite a few performing artists in. Maybe a jazz trio or string quartet. Or we could have a poetry reading.”

“Sounds neat,” said Haley.

“Theo?” asked Drayton. She had been arranging sets of miniature teapots on the wooden shelves and seemed lost in thought. “What do you think?”

“Judging by the success of your mystery tea, I think you could expect standing room only,” she said, producing a grin that stretched ear to ear on Drayton's venerable face.

“What if one of the teas we served was badamtam,” suggested Haley. “Really make it special.”

Drayton feigned mock surprise. “My goodness, our little girl has actually been paying attention. Badamtam is, indeed, a grand Darjeeling.”

“We could even invite some fine artists in,” suggested Theodosia. “Display their work or actually have them sketching or painting during the tea. You know, in the manner of a plein aire artist, where a small painting is begun and completed in the field, so to speak, all in one sitting.”

“How about using sheets of classical music as place mats?” suggested Haley.

“That's the spirit,” crowed Drayton as his black Montblanc pen fairly flew across the pages of his notebook. “Now, if I can just jot all these great ideas down—”

“Yoo-hoo.”

They all spun on their heels. Delaine was standing there, smiling in her maddeningly, self-important manner.

“Can I get a quick cup to go?” she asked. “Assam, if it's not too much trouble.”

“We've got ten different kinds of Assam,” said Drayton as he deftly ran his fingertips across the lineup of tea tins that were shelved on the nearby wall. “But this golden tips is by far the best,” he said, pulling down one of the shiny brass tins.

“Theo, I'm still holding that jacket for you,” said Delaine.

“I know you are. And I'm still thinking about it.” Theodosia paused. “Delaine, did you by any chance say something to Booth Crowley's wife the other day?”

Delaine smiled coyly. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Booth Crowley stopped in here yesterday afternoon. To say he was unhappy would be putting it mildly. He was under the impression that I've been asking probing questions about him.” She paused. “When in fact, we were just making conversation, were we not?”

Delaine hesitated for a moment, and Theodosia could see her mind working to formulate a plausible, Delaine-deflecting answer.

Theodosia sighed inwardly. Really, it
had
been her own fault. She knew that Delaine's true nature was to dish out as much information as she could, and still she'd kept pressing her for answers.

“Good heavens, Theodosia,” Delaine said finally, “I ran into Booth Crowley's wife a couple days ago, that's all. Beatrix and I are on the same committee. I suppose I
might
have mentioned that her husband's name came up in conversation, but certainly nothing beyond that.”

Theodosia gritted her teeth. She
really
should have known better. Delaine thrived on gossip and adored passing it on.

“Drayton,” said Delaine, eager to change the subject, “are you terribly excited about Garden Fest? Is there any chance we'll get a peek at your Japanese bonsai trees this year?”

Drayton filled an indigo-colored paper cup with the freshly brewed Assam and snapped on a white take-out lid. “Actually, Timothy Neville has invited me to display a few of my bonsai on his patio,” Drayton told her. “You know his garden is very dramatic and Asian-inspired. Of course, there'd be no judging involved, the bonsai would be purely for fun.”

“So you'll have your bonsai at Timothy's Garden Fest party!” Delaine exclaimed. “How delightful. You know what? You folks should serve some of your yummy Japanese tea as well. Make it a
themed
affair.”

“Yummy isn't the precise term I'd use to describe Japanese green tea, but, yes, Delaine, the idea had occurred to me,” answered Drayton.

“We have to
work
at Timothy's party?” asked Haley.

Delaine turned probing eyes on Haley. “You're on the guest list, dear?”

“Well, not exactly,” stammered Haley.

“Then serving tea would be an ideal way for you to be in attendance at a major social function, would it not?” said Delaine. “Give you a chance to hobnob with
café
society?”

“It's still work,” grumbled Haley as she turned to answer the ringing phone. “Hello?” she said. “Yes, she's here.” Haley put her hand over the receiver. “It's for you, Theodosia.”

“I'll take it in my office, Haley,” said Theodosia, chuckling at Delaine's somewhat pompous reference to café society. It was hard to stay angry with Delaine. She was a sweet woman and a rich source of entertainment. Still, there was no way she was going to have this conversation, or
any
conversation, in front of Delaine Dish. She'd learned her lesson for good.

 

“Hello?” said Theodosia as she kicked back in her comfy leather chair.

“Theodosia, it's Lizbeth Cantrell.”

“Hello, Lizbeth,” said Theodosia.

“My brother just told me.” Lizbeth Cantrell's words spilled out in a rush.

“Told you what?” said Theodosia.

“That he's been doing consulting work for Oliver Dixon.” She hesitated. “I feel like . . . I'm sure I put a great imposition upon you. Not knowing all the facts and then still pushing you . . . Well, anyway, it's over, isn't it? I feel like a great load has been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Lizbeth, what do you mean?” asked Theodosia.

“There's no way anyone could be suspicious of Ford now,” said Lizbeth, her voice filled with relief.

Theodosia stared at a bright little spot of sunlight that fell at her feet. “Lizbeth, I hate to say this, but your brother is not entirely off the hook.”

There was silence for a moment. “I don't understand,” said Lizbeth. “He and Oliver Dixon were working
together.
Surely, anyone could see they had a business relationship. Why would anyone believe that Ford wished harm to the man?”

“Yes, but it's not clear what
kind
of relationship they had,” said Theodosia. She hated to say it, but she had to. “For all we know, it could have turned adversarial. Your brother made a recommendation that Oliver Dixon didn't agree with. . . . The result was friction between the two of them. . . .”