“There are two yacht clubs,” Theodosia informed Tidwell. She hesitated a moment before she continued. “And they are rivals.”
Chapter 3
Teakettles chirped and hissed, and the aroma of freshly brewed teas permeated the air: a delicately fruited Nilgiri, a sweet Assam, and a spicy black Yunnan from southwest China. Sunlight streamed in through the antique panes, bathing the interior of the tea shop in warm light and lending a glow to the wooden floors and battered hickory tables that were, somehow, just the right backdrop for the dazzling array of teapots that ranged from Cordon Bleu white porcelain to fanciful hand-painted floral ceramics.
Haley had been up early as usual, working wonders in the oversized professional oven they’d managed to squeeze into the back of the shop. Now benne wafers, blueberry scones, and lemon and sour cream muffins cooled on wooden racks. When the tea shop’s double doors were propped open, as they so often were, Drayton swore the tantalizing aromas could be enjoyed up and down the entire length of Church Street.
By nine A.M., the day’s first customers, shopkeepers from Robillard Booksellers, Cabbage Patch Needlepoint Shop, and other nearby businesses, had already stopped by for their cup of tea and breakfast sweet. All had pressed Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley for details on the terrible events of yesterday, shaking their heads with regret, murmuring about the dreadful turn of events, and wasn’t it a shame about the young widow, Doe.
Then there was a lull before the next wave of customers arrived. These were usually regulars from the historic district, who were wont to stop by for tea and a quiet perusal of the morning’s newspaper as well as tourists who arrived via horse-drawn carriages and colorful jitneys.
It was during this lull that Theodosia, Drayton, and Haley had gathered around one of the round tables to sip tea and rehash yesterday’s tragic events. They’d been joined by Miss Dimple, their elderly bookkeeper, who’d dropped by to pick up last week’s receipts.
“And the pistol just exploded?” asked Miss Dimple with awe as the story unfolded once more for her benefit.
“With a cataclysmic crash,” said Drayton. “Then the poor man simply collapsed. But then, what else would you expect? I’m sure he was killed instantly.”
“And nobody did anything,” added Haley, “except Theodosia. She ran over and checked the poor man out. Oh, and that nice antique dealer, Giovanni Loard, called the paramedics.”
“Good girl,” said Miss Dimple, glancing at Theodosia approvingly. “But you must still feel a bit shaken up.”
“A little,” admitted Theodosia. “It was a terrible accident.”
Miss Dimple leaned back in her chair and took a sip of Assam. “Are they sure it was an accident?” she asked.
Haley frowned and gave an involuntary shudder. “Miss Dimple,” she said, “you just gave me chills.”
“What makes you say that, Miss Dimple?” asked Theodosia.
“Well,” she said slowly, “it seems like they’ve been using that old pistol for as long as I can remember. When I was a little girl, back in the forties, my daddy used to take us down to White Point Gardens to watch sailboat races. Not just the Isle of Palms race, either. Lots of different races. They used that same old pistol back then, and there was never a problem. Not until now, anyway.”
“That’s what Burt Tidwell said, too,” remarked Theodosia. “But he said you could never tell about those old things. One day they just backfire.”
Mrs. Dimple smiled, apologetic that her idle speculation had caused Haley such consternation. “Well then, you
“I think Theodosia wants to solve another mystery,” piped up Haley.
“Haley,” Theodosia protested, “I’ve got better things to do than run around Charleston investigating what was undoubtedly an accidental death.”
Drayton peered over his half glasses owlishly and studied Theodosia. “Oh you
Theodosia’s bright eyes flashed. “I’m merely curious, as I’m sure you all are. It isn’t every day someone as prominent as Oliver Dixon dies right before our very eyes.”
“Before four hundred eyes,” added Haley. “If someone had murder in mind, it was cleverly done.”
“What do you mean?” asked Drayton.
“Too many witnesses is what she means,” said Theodosia. “With so many sets of eyes, you’ll get endless versions of the story, none of which will jibe.”
“Now it’s you girls who are giving me chills,” said Miss Dimple, who had set down her pencil and closed the black leather ledger she’d been peering into.
“But does that really track?” asked Drayton. “Oliver Dixon was fairly well liked, right? He wasn’t a scoundrel or a carpetbagger or anything like that.”
Theodosia slid her teacup across the table, allowing Drayton to pour her a second cup of Nilgiri. “Delaine was saying something about Oliver Dixon launching a high-tech company,” she said.
“Oh, I read about that in the business section,” said Haley.
“Since when do you read the business section?” demanded Drayton.
“Since I decided to pursue an MBA,” said Haley. “I want to run my own business someday. Like Theodosia.” She smiled companionably at Theodosia.
“Haley, I think you’re already a whiz at business,” said Theodosia. “But tell us about this new company of Oliver Dixon’s. And don’t interrupt, Drayton.”
“Yes, dear.” Drayton hunched his shoulders forward, assuming a henpecked attitude, and they all giggled.
“Oliver Dixon had just swung a pile of venture capital money to launch a new company called Grapevine,” said Haley. “You know, as in ‘heard it on the grapevine.’ Anyway, Grapevine is set to manufacture expansion modules for PDAs.”
“Pray tell, what is a PDA?” asked Drayton.
“Personal digital assistant,” explained Haley. She reached into her apron pocket and produced a palm-sized gizmo that looked like a cross between a cell phone and a miniature computer screen. “See, I’ve got one. Mine’s a Palm Pilot. I keep notes and phone numbers and recipes and stuff on it. It even interfaces with my computer at home. According to
“I don’t like to hear that,” shuddered Drayton. He was a self-proclaimed Luddite who strove to avoid all things technological. Drayton lived in a 160-year-old house that had once been owned by a Civil War surgeon, and he prided himself on maintaining his home in a historically accurate fashion. Drayton may have bowed to convention by having a telephone installed, but he drew the line at cable TV.
“Anyway,” said Haley, “Oliver Dixon received his venture capital from a guy by the name of Booth Crowley. Grapevine was going to produce revolutionary new pager and remote modules that would make certain PDAs even more versatile.”
“Oh my,” said Miss Dimple. She was suddenly following the conversation with great interest.
“What?” asked Theodosia.
“Booth Crowley is a very astute businessman,” said Miss Dimple. “Apparently he doesn’t let a penny escape his grasp unless he’s got a carefully worded contract that his lawyers have put under a microscope. Mr. Dauphine, God rest his soul, was on the Arts Association committee with Booth Crowley and told me the man was
Mr. Dauphine had been Miss Dimple’s longtime employer. He had owned the Peregrine Building next door and had passed away last fall, while they were in the middle of trying to solve the mystery of the poisoning at the Lamplighter Tour.
