Gunpowder Green

Chapter 8

“Did you find out what you wanted?” Drayton asked.

After Theodosia returned to the tea shop, he had waited the better part of an hour before approaching her. She’d retired to her office immediately, and he’d heard her tapping away on her laptop computer. Probably working on some marketing ideas. Between the shop and the Web site and the specialty teas and her new idea for tea bath products, Theodosia was awfully busy. And a little distracted, too. “You were gone long enough,” Drayton added.

Theodosia leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. “The meeting with Timothy didn’t last all that long. But I was so darned upset afterward that I had to take a cool-down stroll behind Saint Philip’s.”

The cemetery behind Saint Philip’s was one of those hidden places in Charleston, a spot not too many tourists found their way to. Filled with fountains and sculpture and fascinating old tombstones, it was a quiet, restful place where one could usually find solace.

“Timothy said something to upset you?” asked Drayton. He knew Timothy was old and crusty, but he also knew the man could be handled. Of course, you had to use kid gloves.

“Timothy Neville hates me,” declared Theodosia. “I’m sure of it. He gave me that hard-eyed, calculating look that just seems to pierce right through you. I know all of you folks on the board at the Heritage Society think he does a masterful job, raising money and helping save old buildings by securing landmark status for them, but I don’t see him as anything but rude and dismissive.” She put her elbows on her desk and dropped her chin in her hands. “That’s it,” she said. “It’s as simple as that. He hates me.”

“Theodosia, I think you’re being paranoid,” said Dray-ton.

“I’m not. He really is an abominable little man.”

“Who can also be quite charming,” argued Drayton. “Besides, if Timothy hated you, he wouldn’t have invited you to his Garden Fest party.”

Charleston’s annual Garden Fest started next week, a weeklong event where more than three dozen backyard gardens in the historic district were open for public viewing. Many would-be garden enthusiasts had been working on their gardens for years, adding fountains and cultivating prize flowers in an attempt to get on the venue. But it was a select number that were chosen every year. And it was a great honor. Of course, Timothy Neville’s courtyard garden at the rear of his enormous Georgian-style mansion on Archdale Street topped the list.

“He didn’t invite me,” said Theodosia, “he invited you.”

“Yes, but your name went back on the RSVP, as you had agreed to accompany me.”

Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to go?”

Drayton looked stern. “Of course you do. I certainly can’t cancel at this late date. Not very gentlemanly. Plus it’s an important event.”

“Okay,” Theodosia sighed. She stuck her legs out straight and kicked off her loafers. They were exquisitely thin leather and perfectly matched her aqua silk outfit. Delaine, her fashion guardian angel, had seen to that. “I just hope Timothy doesn’t toss me out on my ear.”

“Timothy didn’t give you any information at all?” Drayton prodded gently. “That’s not like him. He might toy with you a bit, but Timothy is generally flattered when asked to lend his expertise.”

Picking up a fat black pen, Theodosia began to make doodles on the art pad that sat front and center on her desk.

Drayton decided it might be advantageous to change the subject. “You’ve been working on your bath teas.”

“Yes.”

“Any ideas?”

Theodosia brightened. “Actually, lots. What would you think of an entire line of bath products? Tea bags for the bath, so to speak. So many green teas are excellent for relaxing sore muscles, and herbals like lavender, jasmine, calendula blossoms, and rose petals are soothing to the skin. The bath care market, especially those products with natural ingredients, is taking off like crazy, and I think soothing tea products would fit right in.”

“So do I,” agreed Drayton.

They batted ideas back and forth for the better part of an hour, Theodosia taking notes like mad, finally switching to her laptop computer because, she contended, she could get the ideas down faster.

At five o’clock, Haley came in.

“I’m going to lock up, okay?” said Haley.

“Sure, fine,” waved Theodosia, completely out of her funk now. “Have a terrific evening.”

“You, too,” said Haley. “Bye, Drayton.”

“Good night,” he called.

Theodosia and Drayton sat quietly for a moment, listening as Haley snapped off lights, then exited the front door, locking it behind her. The only light on in the tea shop was the glowing Tiffany lamp that sat on Theodosia’s desk.

“Drayton,” said Theodosia slowly, “Timothy Neville did say something to me.”

He stared at her patiently.

“Timothy mumbled something about ‘right church, wrong pew.’ I think he was referring to the Dixon-Cantrell feud. You’ve heard about that?”

Drayton nodded. “Dribs and drabs over the years.”

“That’s what I was talking to Detective Tidwell about today.”

“That’s kind of what Haley and I figured. You think Ford Cantrell...?”

Theodosia shrugged. “Maybe . . . You saw how irate he was at the picnic.”

“Howling mad,” agreed Drayton.

“Of course, Timothy could have been trying to send me off in the wrong direction, too,” said Theodosia.

“That doesn’t sound like Timothy,” said Drayton. “He usually prides himself on being rather insightful and precise.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“So,” said Drayton, “are you going to keep investigating?”

Theodosia’s blue eyes were as lovely and unpredictable as the nearby Atlantic. “Count on it,” she told him.