Gunpowder Green

Chapter 21

Sunday morning dawned with swirls of pink and gold painting the sky. The rain had finally abated, and the few clouds remaining seemed like wisps of cotton that had been tightly wrung out.

The slight haze that hung over Charleston Harbor would probably burn off by noon, but by ten A.M., tourists who’d been hunkered down in inns, hotels, and bed-andbreakfasts throughout the historic district, fretting mightily that their weekend in Charleston might be a total washout, began emerging in droves. They meandered the sidewalks, taking in the historic houses and antique shops. They shopped the open air market and bought strong, steaming cups of chicory coffee from vendors. And they strolled cobblestone lanes to gaze upon the Powder Magazine, one of the oldest public buildings in the Carolinas, and Cabbage Row, the quaint area that inspired Porgy and Bess, George and Ira Gershwin’s beloved folk opera.

Whipping along Highway 700, the Mayfield Highway, in her Jeep, Theodosia was headed for the low-country. She told herself she was making a Sunday visit to her aunt Libby’s, but she also knew she’d probably do a drive-by of Ford Cantrell’s place, too. Sneak a peak, see what all this game ranch fuss was about.

Earl Grey sat complacently beside her in the passenger seat, his long ears flapping in the wind, velvet muzzle poked out the open window as he drank in all manner of intoxicating scents.

With all this sunshine and fine weather, the events of last night seemed almost distant to Theodosia. Of course, even after the power had come back on some ten minutes later, Haley had insisted that someone had been lurking outside. And Miss Dimple had clung hopefully to her notion that a ghost, possibly induced by all the psychic energy they’d generated, had paid them all a visit last night.

Theodosia was fairly sure that if anything had been at the window last night, it had been a window peeper. A real person. Which begged the question, Who in his right mind would be sneaking about on a cold, rainy night, peeping in windows?

On the other hand, maybe the person hadn’t been in his right mind. Last night’s peeper could have been angry, worried, or just frantically curious about someone who’d been attending the mystery tea.

Theodosia frowned and, just above her eyebrows, tiny lines creased her fair skin. Then she made a hard right, jouncing onto County Road 6, and her facial muscles relaxed. She was suddenly engulfed in a tangle of forest, a multihued tapestry of green.

Years ago, more than 150 thousand low-country acres had served as prime rice-growing country, producing the creamy short-grain rice that had been Carolina gold. Fields had alternately been flooded and drained as seasons changed and the cycle of planting, growing, and harvesting took place. Remnants of old rice dikes and canals were still visible in some places, green humps and gentle indentations overgrown now by creeping vines of Carolina jessamine and enormous hedges of azaleas.

Many of these rice fields had also reverted to swampland, providing ideal habitat for ducks, pheasants, and herons. And over the years, hurricanes and behemoth storm surges, the most recent wrought by Hurricane Hugo in 1989, had forged new courses in many of the low-country creeks and streams.

As a child visiting her aunt Libby, Theodosia had explored many of the low-country’s tiny waterways in a bateau, or flat-bottomed boat. Poling her way along, she had often dabbled a fishing line into the water and, when luck was with her, returned home with a nice redfish or jack crevalle.

“Aunt Libby!” Theodosia waved wildly at the small, silver-haired woman who stood on the crest of the hill gazing toward a sparkling pond.

“You’ve brought the good weather with you,” said Libby Revelle as she greeted her niece. “And none too soon. Hello there, Earl Gray.” She reached down and patted the dog, who spun excitedly in circles. “Come to tree my poor possums?”

Libby Revelle, who loved all manner of beast and bird, spent much of her time feeding wild birds and setting out cracklins and pecan meal for the raccoons, foxes, possums, and rabbits that lived in the swamps and pine forests around her old plantation, Cane Ridge. Of course, when Earl Grey paid a visit, the critters she had so patiently coaxed and cajoled suddenly went into hiding and all her goodwill gestures went up in smoke.

Theodosia put her arm around Libby as they started toward the main house. Theodosia’s father, Macalester Browning, had grown up here at Cane Ridge, and her parents had lived here when they were first married.

Built in 1835 near Horlbeck Creek, Cane Ridge had been a flourishing rice plantation in its day. Now it was an elegant woodland retreat. With its steeply pitched roof and fanciful peaks and gables, the main house had always reminded Theodosia of a Hansel and Gretel cottage, although the style was technically known as Gothic Revival.

“Tell me the news,” coaxed Libby as they settled into creaking, oversized wicker chairs and looked out toward the woods from the broad piazza that stretched around three sides of the house. “How are Drayton and Haley?” Libby asked. “And did you ever decide to hire that sweet little bookkeeper?”

“Drayton and Haley are fine,” said Theodosia. “Like oil and water sometimes, but they’re delightful and caring and keep things humming. Our new bookkeeper, Miss Dimple, is an absolute whiz. What a load off my mind since she’s been handling payables and receivables. Why did I ever think I could handle the books myself?”

“Because, my dear, you believe you are capable of handling just about anything. In most cases, you can, but when it comes to the business of accounting, I think that’s best left to an expert.”

Theodosia smiled to herself. When her mother passed away, Aunt Libby, newly widowed, had stepped in and helped with so many things in the realm of child rearing. One of those was homework. Theodosia had excelled in subjects such as English and composition and history but had foundered at math. Algebra was gut-wrenching, geometry a foreign puzzle. Libby had seen her consternation and struggle with numbers and encouraged her gently. But Theodosia had never really gained complete mastery in that area.

“You heard about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

“I’ve heard about Oliver Dixon from the horse’s mouth,” said Libby.

“What do you mean?”

“Lizbeth Cantrell stopped by this past week,” said Libby. “Told me that her brother was being questioned, asked lots of questions about you.”

“I figured as much,” said Theodosia.

“Did she ask you to help?” asked Libby.

Theodosia sighed. “Yes.”

“Are you going to?”

“I told her I’d try. I’m not sure there’s much I can do, though,” said Theodosia.

Libby leaned forward in her chair and grasped Theodosia’s hands. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You have a relationship with the investigating officer.”

“You mean Tidwell?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a relationship,” said Theodosia, who considered their standoffish treatment of each other as bordering on adversarial.

“Then call it a nodding acquaintance,” said Libby. “But you are in a position to affect and impact his thinking.”

“I suppose so,” said Theodosia, not quite convinced.

Libby smiled. “Good.” She released Theodosia’s hands and sat back in her chair. “Then do what you do best. Nose about, ask questions, trust in your instincts. You’re good at solving mysteries, Theodosia. We all know that.”

“And if Ford Cantrell really is guilty?” asked Theodosia.

“Then he’s guilty,” said Libby. “But at least you tried. At least you put forth your best efforts. I know Lizbeth would appreciate that.”

Theodosia stared toward the pond. With the sun a great golden orb in the sky now, it caught each gentle ripple and cast diamonds across the water. Around the edge of the pond, bright green fronds of saw grass waved gently in breezes that carried just a hint of salt.

Theodosia shifted her gaze to the left of the pond, to the small family cemetery. Dogwoods were beginning to bloom, and crape myrtle poked over the crumbling stone wall that surrounded the small plot. Her mother and father both rested here, under the ancient live oak that spread its sheltering branches above them. Her mother had died when she was eight, her father when she was twenty. The sorrow she had once felt had long been replaced by gentle sadness, tempered with warm memories that would always be there, always live on.

“Lizbeth Cantrell was around when Mother was so sick, wasn’t she?” said Theodosia.

“Indeed she was,” said Libby.

“I’d forgotten a lot of that, but now it’s coming back to me.”

They sat and watched as Earl Grey emerged from the woods, plunked himself down in a sunny spot, and set about chewing at a clutch of cockleburs that clung stubbornly to his left shoulder. There was no need for the two of them to talk. Over the years, they’d said it all. They were all the other had; there were no other relatives. They knew in their hearts how important they were to each other and cherished that knowledge. Their kind of love didn’t require words.

Finally, Libby pushed herself up from her chair. At seventy-two, she still had a lithe figure and proud carriage, still walked with a bounce in her step.

“I think it’s time we thought about lunch. Margaret Rose baked cranberry bread yesterday, and I threw together some chicken salad earlier. Why not fix trays and eat out here where we can enjoy the view? It’ll be ever so much nicer.”

Theodosia hit the wooden bridge on Rutledge Road much too hard, almost jouncing her and Earl Grey out of their seats.

“Sorry, fella,” she murmured as the dog looked up with questioning eyes. Earl Grey had played and chased and worried critters for the better part of three hours and then fallen asleep on the backseat, which Theodosia had laid flat for this second part of their trip.

“I know the turn for the Cantrell place is somewhere along here,” she said out loud. “I just haven’t been down this particular road in fifteen years, so it’s all a little foggy.”

Twenty minutes ago, she’d passed the restored Hampton Plantation where Archibald Hampton, the former poet laureate of South Carolina, had lived. She was pretty sure the old Hampton place was on the way to the Cantrells’ place, so she had to be on the right track.

“There is it....Oh mother of pearl!” Theodosia cranked the wheel hard to the left and still overshot the turn. Slamming on the brakes, the Jeep shuddered to a halt. At the same exact moment, she felt the right side of her vehicle sink down into squishy soil.

“Nuts,” she said. She sat for a moment, staring out the front window, then jumped out and walked around the back of the Jeep to see how bad the damage was.

Not terrible. She’d overshot the turn, and her right front wheel was off the gravel road and sunk midway in oozing mud. Remembering horror stories of quicksand in the area, Theodosia quickly decided her wisest move would be to simply shift into four-wheel drive and muscle her way out.

That would work, of course it would.

She stood by the side of the road, batting at gnats, feeling the heat begin to build around her.

She studied the road and the turn she’d just attempted. This had to be the turn to the Cantrell place, she decided.

Woof.

Earl Grey peered out the window, wagging his tail expectantly.

“No, you stay there, fella. I’ll have us out in—”

Circling around the back of the Jeep, Theodosia stopped dead in her tracks. Off in the nearby underbrush, she’d heard a rustle. A slight whisper. It was probably nothing. Then again...

She began moving quietly, softly, but with purpose, creeping toward the driver’s side.

There it was again. Not a rustle, more a soft gush of air. Couldn’t be an alligator, they were few and far between out here. Plus those critters barked and moaned and made a terrible racket. No, this was more like...a snort?

By the time her brain registered the sound, a new movement was under way.

Hoofs clicking on gravel. Quick, precise, and moving toward her. Fast.

Theodosia scrambled for the car door, pulled at the handle, fumbled, pulled at it again. As the Jeep’s door swung open and she struggled to climb in, the boar appeared on the road, not more than twenty feet away. It ran easily, almost mechanically, dainty feet carrying the wild pig with awesome swiftness. Theodosia saw that the creature’s sharp, beady eyes were focused directly on her.

Theodosia slammed the door shut and grabbed for the ignition key. As the engine turned over, a loud report sounded.

Wham.

Confusion for a split second, not comprehending what had just happened. Jeep backfiring? Wild pig crashing headlong into her front fender?

Theodosia peered out the window and saw the pig lying motionless on the gravel not six feet from her. Then a pair of dusty boots came into view.

Ford Cantrell. Casually hefting a rifle in one hand.

Theodosia remained in her seat and, with shaking hands, pushed the button to lower the driver’s-side window.

“Sorry about that,” Ford Cantrell called to her. He waved at her casually, as though he were out for a stroll in the park.

Sinking back against the soft leather of the Jeep’s upholstery, Theodosia breathed out slowly. Aunt Libby had once told her the Cantrells weren’t happy with a thing unless they could ride it, shoot it, or stuff it. She might have been right.

“This bugger got away from us,” called Ford. “I had a mind it might be headed this way. Hope it didn’t cause you any problem.”

Theodosia climbed down from the Jeep. “Quiet,” she told Earl Grey, who was barking at the dead pig and at Ford Cantrell. “Settle down.”

“Those things bite?” she asked, pointing toward the dead boar.

“They can take a chunk out of a fellow,” Ford Cantrell replied mildly. “Although if you’d let that dog of yours out, he probably would of shagged it away. Most pigs are pretty scared of dogs.”

As if to underscore Ford’s remark, Earl Grey let loose with a throaty growl.

“Most pigs,” repeated Theodosia. Fresh in her mind was the look of intent on the boar’s curiously intelligent face.

“What are you doing this far from town?” Ford Cantrell asked her. “I was visiting my aunt Libby.” Theodosia waved an arm in the direction she’d just come. “At Cane Ridge.” Ford Cantrell seemed to accept her explanation. “Guess you heard I turned Pamlico Hill into a game ranch, huh?”

Theodosia nodded. She was surprised that Ford seemed to know exactly who she was. Introductions at this point would seem superfluous.

He nudged the dead pig with his boot. “This here’s one of my main draws. A classic American razorback. Breeder I got ’em from said they’s descended from the swine that Ponce de León brought from Spain. Supposed to be real smart.”

“I’ll bet,” said Theodosia.

“Hear you’re pretty smart, too. You’ve been asking questions about me.”

Theodosia didn’t back off. “A lot of folks have,” she said.

Ford Cantrell squinted in the direction of the sun and swiped his hand roughly at the stubble on his chin. “And I guess they always will. Appears I’ve always been a lot more welcome out here in the low-country than in town.”

When Theodosia didn’t say anything, Ford Cantrell continued. “Yeah, I’m gonna be moving my boat over to McClellanville. Those guys at the yacht club are just too snooty for my taste.”

Theodosia nodded. A sleepy little fishing village on Jeremy Creek would be quite hospitable to a low-country denizen like Ford Cantrell. And he certainly had to be persona non grata at the yacht club these days. Maybe the board of directors had even forced Ford to resign. She’d have to call Jory Davis’s friend Eldon Cook, and ask him if he’d heard anything to that effect.

Ford Cantrell swept his broad-brimmed straw hat off his head and ran his broad fingers through a tangle of red hair. “Funny thing about that to-do,” he said, finally looking Theodosia directly in the eye. “Everybody thinks Oliver Dixon and me were on the outs. But I was working for him.”

Theodosia stared at Ford Cantrell, stunned by his words. “You were working for him!” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about?” she fumbled. “You mean Oliver Dixon was a partner in the hunting preserve?” That didn’t sound quite right, but it was the best she could come up with at the moment.

“No, no,” Ford said. “I was doing some work for his new company, Grapevine.” He laughed harshly. “Well, not his company, the whole thing’s very tightly controlled by the investors. Anyway, I had worked on some of the fault-tolerant disk arrays for Vantage Computers. You know, the company over in Columbia that has a lot of contracts with the military? Anyway, Oliver asked me to serve as an outside consultant. As it turned out, Oliver and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things. That’s why we were arguing that day in White Point Gardens. I’m sure everybody thought it was the old family feud but, in truth, I’d just told him he was a damn fool if he didn’t think streaming video would be critical.”

“You were working together?” Theodosia knew she must look totally unhinged, caught so off guard as she was by this new revelation. And here she’d gone and sicced Burt Tidwell onto Ford Cantrell. Tidwell had followed up, so he had to know about the two men’s business relationship.

Had Tidwell been able to find some hard evidence that implicated Ford in Oliver Dixon’s death? Or was Tidwell laughing merrily behind her back because she was a rank amateur who had jumped to a wild conclusion?

Theodosia watched as Ford Cantrell carefully leaned his rifle up against a tree stump, then grabbed the boar by its hind feet and dragged it to the side of the road.

“Be back to pick up this big boy later,” he told her.

“You worked together,” Theodosia murmured again.

“Yes,” responded Ford, “but it’s a moot point now. The investors have decided to shut Grapevine down.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about that.” Goodness, she thought, stunned, things are happening fast.

“I just got word late Friday. Come tomorrow, the employees are on the street, and any existing inventory of raw materials is scheduled to be sold off.” His eyes, pale blue like his sister’s, like a sea captain who’d stared at too many horizons, met hers sadly. “I suppose any technology developed so far will also be sold or licensed.”

“But why?” asked Theodosia. “I thought Grapevine was beginning to get noticed as a player in the market.”

Ford shrugged. “Who the hell knows why these things happen? Could be a jittery board of directors with zero confidence, now that Oliver Dixon’s gone. Or maybe the investors found a better place to make a fast return on their buck.” Ford Cantrell traced the toe of his boot in the sand. “Hell, maybe somebody has inside information on what’s really happening with PDAs and is executing a cut-bait maneuver.”

Theodosia nodded. She understood there could be any number of reasons. Business start-ups and spin-offs were constantly being shut down or sold off at a moment’s notice. Sometimes there was a solid reason; often it was done on a whim. She’d once developed a marketing plan for computer voice recognition software that showed great promise, only to find the entire project shut down because the product manager resigned to take a job with another company.

“Did your sister know you were working with Oliver Dixon?” asked Theodosia.

Ford Cantrell shook his head slowly. “Nope. Less Lizbeth knows, the better.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked him.

Ford Cantrell grinned crookedly, then shifted his gaze toward the dead boar. “Have a barbecue.”

On her way with little more than a muddy fender to show for her mishap, Theodosia drove back toward the city, lost in thought. She wasn’t sure if Ford Cantrell’s business relationship with Oliver Dixon clearly meant the man was innocent, or if it gave Ford all the more reason to want Oliver Dixon out of the way. Maybe Ford Cantrell had somehow ingratiated himself with Oliver Dixon, gotten the consulting project, then conspired to move himself into the senior slot. If Oliver Dixon were out of the picture, the door would have been wide open. In the high-stakes world of business and technology, a power play like that wasn’t unheard of.

But now Ford Cantrell was out of a job, too. Correction, out of a consulting job. For all she knew, his part could have been done. He could have already been paid.

Or fired by Oliver Dixon?

She thought back to what Delaine had said a week ago. She had told everyone at the tea shop that the two men were arguing about fishing, which had sounded exceedingly strange at the time, unless you knew Delaine. But Ford Cantrell had just told her the argument was over video streaming. Had Delaine somehow gotten fishing and streaming mixed up?

Theodosia knew that the answer was yes. Probably yes.

Theodosia eased off on the accelerator as the Jeep approached Huntville, a small, sleepy village on the Edisto River. Creeping across a one-lane wooden bridge, she found the way partially blocked by a sheriff’s car.

Coming to a complete stop, Theodosia waited as a barrel-chested man dressed in a lawman’s khakis crossed the road and ambled over to her.

“Looks like you had yourself a spot of trouble.” The man with the sheriff’s badge pointed to her mud-caked front fender.

“Overshot a turn back there.”

“Yeah, that’s easy to do.” The sheriff grinned widely, revealing front teeth rimmed in gold. “Good thing this jobby’s got four-wheel drive.” He put his big paw on her door. “Lots of muck and quicksand around.”

And then, because her curiosity usually got the better of her, Theodosia asked him, “Is there some kind of problem here, Sheriff?”

The sheriff shifted his bulk to face the river. “Nah, not really.” He pointed to where the river narrowed to a sort of canal that flowed under the bridge. A skinny, young deputy in thigh-high waders was poking around down there. “Somebody come through here last night in a hell of a hurry,” he said. “Must of been a big power launch ’cause he clipped the wood where the sides is shored up, then completely knocked out one of the bridge pilings.”

Theodosia looked in the direction the sheriff was pointing and saw two timbers peeled back from the bank, rough edges exposed.

“Probably some good old boys got liquored up, then couldn’t steer their way clear,” continued the sheriff. “Only reason we’re checkin’ it out is ’cause we got a heads-up from the Coast Guard. They got tipped some two-bit smugglers might be workin’ around this area and decided old Sheriff Billings didn’t have enough to do. Send him on a wild-goose chase the first nice Sunday when he could be havin’ a nice time at the car races over in Summerville.”

Theodosia nodded, amused by the sheriff’s peevishness. She knew there was a maze of rivers and inlets and swamps to navigate out here. Lots of back country that only the locals were familiar with. “They’d have to know this territory pretty well,” she said.

“Sure would,” agreed the sheriff.

“Sheriff Billings, if it is smugglers, what would they be bringing in?” asked Theodosia.

“If it is smugglers, most likely goods from somewhere in the Caribbean. Booze, cigars, cigarettes. Folks just love to avoid that federal excise tax.” The sheriff peered down over the embankment. “You find anything down there, Buford?” he hollered to his deputy.

“Nothin’,” the deputy yelled back. “Seen a darn cottonmouth, though.”

“Well, leave it be,” advised the sheriff.