Gunpowder Green

“And I have several marvelous ones to show you,” replied Drayton as he plucked samples off the shelf and placed them on the counter.

The other two ladies immediately picked up sweetgrass baskets and began to coo over them. “These are wonderful,” exclaimed one. “I had a sweetgrass basket that I used for years as a summer handbag. When it got tattered and worn, my granddaughter begged me to give it to her. She said they have some of these baskets on display at the Smithsonian.”

“Indeed, they do,” proclaimed Drayton. “A collection of South Carolina sweetgrass baskets resides in the Smithsonian’s permanent collection, a fitting tribute to our low-country craftspeople.”

Drayton held up one of the elegant, woven baskets that had been resting on the countertop. “These,” he said enticingly, “were made from a sweetgrass crop cultivated on Johns Island. Would any of you ladies care to take one home?”

Two heads nodded, and Drayton beamed.

“You’re a natural-born salesman, Drayton,” Theodosia told him with unabashed admiration as she sat down across from him. Even though they’d been together almost three years, she was still slightly in awe of Drayton’s prodigious sales talent. True, she had huckstered food products and computer peripherals on a national scale when she’d been in the advertising business. But selling one-on-one was still slightly disconcerting to her. She tended not to sell an item per se but, instead, let the item speak for itself.

Theodosia reached a hand across the table and tapped the black leather-bound ledger that Drayton had come to regard as his bible. It contained most of his tea-tasting notes and all of his ideas for tea blends, special events, and tea promotions.

“You’ve been working on the summer teas,” Theodosia said with appropriate seriousness.

Drayton nodded.

“Your White Point Green was certainly a hit at the picnic, so we’ll want to package that for sale,” Theodosia said.

Drayton nodded again. “I agree. And I came up with one more iced tea.” He paused. “I call it Audubon Herbal, a tribute to our nearby Audubon Swamp Garden.”

Theodosia nodded. “Where John Audubon chronicled South Carolina’s waterbirds.”

“Right. The tea’s a scant amount of black tea with hibiscus, lemongrass, and chamomile added. Mild, refreshing, not too stimulating.”

Theodosia’s eyes sparkled. “I like it. The tea and the tribute. What else?”

“Two more teas that veer decidedly toward the exotic,” said Drayton. Then he added hastily, “But we’ve seen time and again that people like exotic teas.”

“You won’t get any argument from me, Drayton.”

“The first one I call Ashley River Royal. It’s a Ceylonese black tea with a pear essence.”

“You’re right, it is exotic.”

“No, this one’s the coup de grâce. Swan Lake Iris Gardens. Again, an homage to the elegant gardens that are home to... what? Seven species of swans? And you know how much everyone enjoys visiting the gardens in spring when the Dutch and Japanese iris are blooming.”

“Of course,” said Theodosia. “And what’s the blend?”

“Four different teas with a top note of smoky lopsang.”

“Drayton, you’re not just going to capture the hearts of tea lovers, you’re going to endear yourself to bird lovers and gardeners, too. And in Charleston, that’s just about everyone.”

“I know,” smiled Drayton.

“Hey,” interrupted Haley, “we’re not going to package this stuff ourselves, are we? Remember last fall when we did holiday teas? My back gets sore just thinking about it.”

“No, we’ll have Gallagher’s Food Service handle all that,” said Drayton. “Frankly, I thought it was fun when we all worked together, but apparently no one else shared my enthusiasm. You all seemed to have mutiny on your minds.”

“Last fall we had an extra pair of hands,” said Haley. “But now that Bethany’s moved to Columbia, who else could we shanghai? Miss Dimple?”

“Now she’s a sport,” said Drayton. “I bet she wouldn’t complain half as much as you did.”

“Drayton, don’t you dare ask poor Miss Dimple to package tea,” laughed Theodosia.

“One more thing,” said Drayton, closing his book and getting up. “New packaging.” He reached around to the back of the counter and pulled out a shiny, dark blue box with a rounded top that folded over. “Indigo blue boxes,” said Drayton.

“They’re the exact same color as the gift paper we use!” Theodosia squealed with delight. “Aren’t you clever. Where did you find them?”

“Supplier in San Francisco,” said Drayton. “We can have Gallagher’s package the tea in our regular foil bags, then pop those bags into the blue boxes. From there we just need to add a label. I took the liberty of getting samples of gold foil labels from our printer. All you have to do is pick a label style and a typeface,” said Drayton. “Then it’s a done deal.”

“Easy enough,” said Theodosia.

“Don’t look now,” said Haley under her breath, “but that boorish cop just came in. Wonder what he wants?”

“I invited him,” said Theodosia.

“You invited him?” Haley was stunned.

“Run and put together a nice pastry sampler, will you, Haley? And Drayton, could you do a fresh pot of tea? Maybe that Dunsandle Estate?”

“Of course, Theo,” agreed Drayton. Then he turned to Haley. “Are you rooted to the floor, dear girl? Kindly fetch the pastries Theodosia requested.”

“Okay,” Haley agreed grudgingly. “But you know I can’t stand that guy. He almost drove Bethany to a nervous breakdown with all his questions and nasty innuendos. He’s a bully, pure and simple.”

“He’s a detective first grade,” corrected Drayton under his breath. “Now the pastries, please?”

“Right,” said Haley.

“Detective Tidwell,” Theodosia greeted him warmly. “Sit here by the window.”

“Nice to see you again, Miss Browning,” said Tidwell as he lowered his bulk into a wooden captain’s chair. “Good of you to drop me a note, even if it was of the electronic version.”

He gave a cheery smile that Theodosia knew contained very little cheer. Tidwell’s chitchat and tiny pleasantries were opening salvos that could be a steel-jawed trap for the unsuspecting.

“I wanted to talk to you about Oliver Dixon,” said Theodosia.

“You mean Oliver Dixon’s death,” corrected Burt Tidwell.

“Since you put it that way, yes,” agreed Theodosia.

She sat quietly as Haley placed teacups, plates, knives, and spoons in front of each of them, then Drayton followed with a steaming pot of tea. Theodosia poured some of the sweet elixir into Tidwell’s cup and smiled with quiet satisfaction as his nose twitched. Then Haley delivered her plate of baked goods, and Tidwell brightened considerably.

“Oh my, this is lovely,” he said as he scooped a raspberry scone onto his plate. “Is there, perchance, some jelly to accompany this sweet?”

But Haley was already back at the table with a plate of butter, pitcher of clotted cream, and various jars of jelly.

“Detective Tidwell,” began Theodosia, “have you learned anything more about the pistol that killed Oliver Dixon?”

Tidwell sliced a sliver of butter and applied it to his pastry.

“Some,” he said. “The pistol was American made, manufactured in the mid-1800s to Army specifications, and used as a side arm by officers. Stock is curly maple and there’s an acorn design on the trigger guard. Graceful lines but a crude weapon. It was really only effective at close range.”