Gunpowder Green

But effective enough to mortally wound Oliver Dixon, Theodosia thought to herself.

“By the way,” Tidwell said, “the pistol was kept at Oliver Dixon’s yacht club. In friendly territory. So it’s doubtful anyone would have tampered with it.”

“Who loaded the pistol?” asked Theodosia.

“Fellow by the name of Bob Brewster. Been doing it for years. Apparently, you take a pinch of gunpowder and twist it inside a little piece of paper. Not unlike a tea bag,” Tidwell told her. “Then you place the little packet in the barrel. Brewster’s just sick about it, by the way.”

“But Oliver Dixon could have had an enemy there,” said Theodosia.

Tidwell stroked his ample chin. “Most people I’ve spoken with were highly complimentary of Oliver Dixon. He was a past commodore and had contributed a considerable amount of funds for the betterment of the place. He paid to have the boat piers reinforced and a clubhouse fireplace installed.” Tidwell pulled a spiral notebook from his breast pocket and glanced at it. It was the same kind of notebook children purchased from the five-and-dime store. “Oh, and Oliver Dixon underwrote a sailing program last summer for inner-city youth. Kids Can Sail, or something like that.”

“Dixon was known for his philanthropy?” asked Theodosia.

“And for being an all-around good guy,” replied Tidwell. He smiled at her, then helped himself to an almond scone. “Lovely,” he muttered under his breath.

He’s not given me an ounce of useful information, thought Theodosia. But then, did I really think he would? She sighed inwardly. Conversations with Tidwell were always of the cat-and-mouse variety.

“You realize,” she began, “there is a long-standing feud between the Dixons and the Cantrells.” She watched him as her words sank in. He gave her nothing.

“The feud dates back to the 1880s,” she said. “The heads of the two families fought a duel to the death.”

“Mm-hm.” Tidwell took another bite from his pastry, but Theodosia knew she had his attention.

“Sometime during the thirties, Oliver Dixon’s aunt ran off with a Cantrell. Apparently, the two families have been openly hostile toward each other ever since.”

“So you suspect young Ford Cantrell?” Tidwell’s bright eyes were riveted on her.

“If I had a suspect in mind,” Theodosia said slowly, “that would imply I believed a criminal act had been committed. And I have no proof of that.”

“Aha,” said Tidwell, “so this conversation is simply neighborly gossip.”

Theodosia stared at him unhappily.

Seeing her displeasure, Tidwell’s eyes lost their merriment, and he suddenly turned serious. “Yes, I have heard rumblings about this so-called Dixon-Cantrell feud. Although you seem to have gained the upper hand as far as specific details.”

Though large in girth, Tidwell’s words could be spare and pared down when he wanted them to be. “Do you know much about antique pistols?” she asked him.

He looked thoughtful. “Not really. Obviously, our ballistics people are taking a look at it, but their forte, as one might imagine, really lies in modern weapons.”

But I know an expert, thought Theodosia. And I just might take a chance on talking to him.

Tidwell seemed to contemplate helping himself to a third pastry, then thought better of it. “Ah well.” He struggled to his feet, brushed a fine sheen of granulated sugar from his jacket lapels. “Time to be off. Thank you for your kind invitation and the lovely tea.”

And he was out the door, just like that.

Theodosia gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the back of the tea shop. “Drayton,” she called over her shoulder, “is Timothy Neville in town? The symphony was invited to perform in Savannah. Do you know if he’s back?”

“He’s back.” Drayton popped his head through the curtains. “I spoke with Timothy yesterday.”

“Oh,” was all Theodosia said. Contemplating a visit with Timothy Neville and actually talking to Timothy Neville were two different things.

“Do you think he still hates me for suspecting him of poisoning that real estate developer?” she asked.

“Nonsense,” said Drayton. “Timothy Neville doesn’t hate you; he hates everyone. Timothy has always been an equal-opportunity curmudgeon. Don’t give his ill humor a second thought.”

Chapter 7

Timothy Neville was going to celebrate his eightieth birthday next month. But he wasn’t about to spill the beans to the wags in the historic district. No sir, his DOB had long been a hot topic of conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil the fun now. Some folks put him at eighty-five; others kindly deducted ten years.

What did it matter?

He was in excellent physical condition except for a touch of arthritis in his hands. And that came from playing the violin these many years and bothered him only when the temperature dipped below fifty degrees.

Fact was, he had outlived two of his doctors. Now he rarely even bothered with doctors. He had Henry, his butler, take his blood pressure twice a day, and he swallowed a regimen of supplements that included ginkgo biloba, coenzyme 10, choline, and vitamins B1, B6, C, and E.

True, he had made a few concessions in his diet, switching from predominantly red meat to fish and from bourbon to wine. He still smoked an Arturo Fuente cigar occasionally but, more and more, that was becoming a rare treat.

Genetics. Timothy Neville chalked it all up to genetics. His mother had lived to ninety and had taken to her bed only on the day prior to her death. Her ancestors, most of whom dated back to the original Huguenots who fled religious persecution in France during the mid-1600s, had been a determined and hardy lot. They had endured the hardships of an ocean voyage, worked tirelessly to help colonize Charles Town, fought off the greedy English crown, then managed to survive the War Between the States. Today, his ancestors were numbered among the founding fathers of Charleston and considered social aristocracy.

Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he studied the landscape painting he held in his hands. It had been painted in the late thirties by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, a watercolorist famed for her moody renditions of low- country rice plantations. The piece had sustained some damage. One corner had been gnawed by insects, and a brown splotch of water damage shot through the sky. The painting hadn’t been preserved in acid-free paper, either, so it was slightly faded. It would take considerable conservation skills to restore the little watercolor, but the piece was well worth it. Huger Smiths were few and far between these days, and most people who held one in their possession preferred to sell it at auction in New York rather than donate it to a museum.

“Mr. Neville? There’s someone to see you?” Claire, one of the secretaries, hovered in the doorway.

Timothy didn’t look up. “Who, please?”

“Theodosia Browning?” Claire has a way of making everything sound like a question. Why is that? he wondered. He’d heard other young women speak in that same maddening way. Were they too insecure to spit out a simple declarative statement?

It didn’t matter. Timothy knew he was merely stalling for time, letting the idea that Theodosia Browning had come to call upon him ruminate in his mind. There was certainly nothing wrong in allowing her a brief cool-your- heels period in the anteroom. After all, she had harbored suspicions about him being involved in the death of that real estate developer last fall and had helped herself to a merry snoop in his home during a music recital. Since that incident, he felt that she had been more cool and aloof with him than he with her. Embarrassment? Remorse over her actions? Had to be.

“Show her in,” Timothy said finally.

Theodosia Browning entered his office in a whisper of silk. He heard the slight rustle of the fabric, could detect a pleasant, slightly floral scent about her. He wondered if it was perfume or tea.