Gunpowder Green

Chapter 25

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 Mont-blanc 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....”

“Oh,” said Lizbeth in a small voice.

“A man like Booth Crowley might even tell police that it reached the point of severely damaging the company,” said Theodosia. “Then, what with Oliver’s, uh, accident...Well, they might just read any business problem as motive.”

“Booth Crowley would say something like that?” asked Lizbeth.

Oh yes, thought Theodosia. The man would lie through his teeth if he thought it would gain him a centimeter’s advantage. Instead, Theodosia said, “There was a lot at stake. An investor might have an entirely different perspective.”

“And the issue of the pistol still hangs over my brother’s head,” said Lizbeth. “All because Ford’s an avid collector, because he knows guns....”

Yes, thought Theodosia, and gun collectors often know tricks. If Timothy Neville knew how to mastermind an exploding pistol, chances are, Ford Cantrell did, too.

“I had no right to involve you,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “I feel awful.” She sounded as though she were ready to break down sobbing.

“Lizbeth,” said Theodosia in as gentle a manner as she could, “you didn’t involve me. Truth be known, I involved myself. And, please, also know this....I intend to see this thing through to the bitter end. I will uncover some answers.”

“You’re going to keep investigating?” asked Lizbeth.

“Yes,” said Theodosia.

“In cooperation with the police?” asked Lizbeth.

“That depends on how cooperative the police are,” said Theodosia.

“Who’s Drayton talking to?” asked Theodosia as she slid behind the counter and poured herself a cup of lung ching.

“Don’t know,” said Haley. “The other line rang the minute you went in back to take your call. Whoever he’s on the line with has been doing all the talking, though.”

Drayton hung up the phone, looking sober.

“What’s with you?” asked Haley.

“I just had a very strange conversation with Gerard Huber, the manager of the Saint James Hotel,” said Dray-ton. Haley gave a low whistle. “That’s a pretty hoity-toity place. What the heck did they want with you?”

“They just offered me a job,” said Drayton unhappily.

“What?” exclaimed Haley.

“You heard me,” snapped Drayton. “Gerard Huber asked if I had any interest in coming to work there.”

“Doing what?” asked Haley.

Drayton turned a clouded face toward Theodosia. “Executive director of their food and wine service.” He reached a gnarled hand out, rested it gently atop Theodosia’s. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” he asked.

“Change!” declared Haley boisterously. “This is what Madame Hildegarde predicted the night of the mystery tea!”

Theodosia shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid not, Haley. But what it does mean is that Booth Crowley has started to come after us.”

“Booth Crowley?” said Haley, scrunching her face into a quizzical frown. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s one of the owners of the Saint James Hotel,” said Drayton. “One of their silent partners, so to speak.”

“Oh,” said Haley, absorbing this latest information. “Did they offer you a lot of money?”

“Haley,” said Theodosia, “that’s Drayton’s—”

“It’s okay,” said Drayton as his gray eyes sought out Theodosia’s blue eyes. “They said they’d double what I was making now.”

Haley gave a low whistle. “Double the salary... imagine that.”

Drayton’s face settled into a look of indignation. “As if I could be bought. What absolute rubbish!”