maybe the girl who worked in your tea shop was responsible for the death of that man at the Lamplighter Tour. But you stood behind her. You figured it all out.”
Realization was not dawning quickly for Theodosia. “My aunt Libby told you...? Excuse me, exactly what are you asking me to do?”
“I want you to help clear my brother’s name,” said Lizbeth Cantrell. “He didn’t tamper with that old pistol. Folks just think he might have because he acts so crazy most of the time. And because he collects guns and likes to hunt. But I know Ford is a good man, an honest man. He’s no killer.”
On the other hand, even though Ford Cantrell had looked awfully suspicious at first, Theodosia wasn’t so sure blame should be laid entirely at his feet. Doe was fast earning a place on her list of suspects, too. And Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid, bore looking into as well.
“Can you help me?” asked Lizbeth Cantrell. Her pale eyes transfixed Theodosia with their intensity. “I know you’re a good lady. A smart lady.”
“You live at Pamlico Hill Plantation,” said Theodosia. “A few miles down the road from my aunt Libby’s.”
“That’s right.” Suddenly, a ghost of a smile played on Lizbeth Cantrell’s plain face, bringing with it a softness and quiet animation that hadn’t been visible earlier.
“I know you, don’t I?” said Theodosia. Somewhere, in the depths of her memory, a faint recollection stirred.
“Yes, ma’am, you do,” Lizbeth replied.
Theodosia stared at Lizbeth as though she were a distant shadow and tried to conjure up the memory. “You were there when my...my mother died,” she finally said.
“Yes,” Lizbeth replied softly. “You were just a little bug of a thing back then, couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old.”
The flashback of that long-ago summer rushed at Theodosia in a Technicolor whirl and exploded in her brain. And along with it, came a wash of memories. The oppressive heat, her father’s hopeful whispering, her heartbreaking sadness.
“My mother helped take care of your mother,” explained Lizbeth. “And sometimes I came along.”
“You came along,” said Theodosia, as though she were in a trance. “You were older than I, and you took me swimming on hot days.”
“That’s right,” said Lizbeth. “We went to Carpenter’s Pond.” Her smile was gentle, and she waited patiently as Theodosia’s brain processed everything.
“Yes, I remember you,” said Theodosia slowly. Her initial shock now over with, she was able to look back and slowly replay the memory. Her mother’s last summer on this earth, spent at Cane Ridge Plantation in the low- country. Her mother had wanted more than anything to be able to watch sunlight play across the marsh grass, to gaze upon pink sunsets over shadowy, peaceful pine groves. And, finally, to be laid to rest in the old family cemetery there. Theodosia stretched one hand out tentatively, touched Lizbeth’s sleeve. “You were so kind.”
“You were so sad.”
The conference room’s double doors rattled noisily.
“I got to go,” Lizbeth said as she began to gather up her purse and notebook. “I think your meeting’s about to start.” She paused and gave Theodosia a look filled with longing. “Will you help?” she asked.
The door burst open, and a half-dozen people crowded into the room. They swarmed around the table, paying little heed to Lizbeth and Theodosia, totally unaware of the highly charged atmosphere that seemed to permeate the room.
Theodosia dropped her arms to her sides and nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. She didn’t know exactly what she was promising. Or why. But how could she not?
Lizbeth blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said simply.
Chapter 12
A pot of lentil soup simmered on the back burner; popovers baked golden and fluffy in the oven. Although Theodosia’s upstairs apartment was not overly large, it possessed that rare trait so often lacking in many newer apartments: style. Aubasson rugs in faded blue and cinnamon covered the floors. French doors gave the appearance of a living and dining room that flowed together flawlessly, while cove ceilings gave the rooms a cozy, architectural ambiance. Draperies and sofa were done in muted English chintz and prints.
Earlier, Drayton had gone next door to Robillard Booksellers and borrowed one of their oversized magnifying glasses on the pretext of trying to decipher some old Chinese tea labels. Now Theodosia held the magnifying glass in her hand as she sat at her dining room table, studying the black and white printouts. They’d been transmitted electronically just as Haley had promised, sliding, as if by magic, from her laser printer.
The photos were interesting in that they did, indeed, chronicle the events of that Sunday afternoon. Here were photos of sailboats jostling in the harbor at the beginning of the race. Then photos of the two dozen or so boats, sails filled with wind, setting off toward the Atlantic. The photographer had then concentrated on shots of the crowd. There were photos of people talking, people shaking hands, people hugging and exchanging air kisses. Delaine was in a couple shots; Drayton showed up in a few as well.
Here was Billy Manolo standing next to the table that held the rosewood box containing the pistol. And the commodore in the ill-fitting jacket with all the gold braid.
Theodosia shuffled through the printouts. They were interesting but a little disappointing at the same time. She hadn’t expected anything to jump right out at her; that would’ve been too easy. But she felt the rumblings of a low-level vibe that told her there must be
That hope spun dizzyingly in her head as Theodosia decided to shift her attention to the Dun & Bradstreet report that had arrived so speedily this afternoon. There were just four pages, but they contained what looked like a good assessment of Grapevine: a rundown on its products and the company’s growth potential. Just as Haley had mentioned a few days ago, Grapevine had started production on a number of different expansion modules for PDAs. Although competition was stiff in this area, the report seemed to indicate that Grapevine had done its homework and was about to launch a very viable product.
Theodosia finally took a break when the oven timer buzzed. Ambling out into the kitchen, she slid her hand into a padded mitt and pulled the popovers from the oven. They were perfect. Golden brown and heroically puffed. Haley’s recipes were the best. They always turned out.
After pouring the lentil soup into a mug, Theodosia carried everything back to the dining room table on a tray, sliding the printouts out of the way before she set her food down. Earl Grey was immediately at her elbow, giving a gentle nudge, lobbying for a bite of popover.
“Leftovers when I’m finished,” she told him, and he assumed that worried look dogs often get.
Theodosia had finished her soup and was plowing through the printouts a second time, when she stopped to study the single photo of Oliver Dixon lying facedown, half in, half out of the water.
The photographer must have snapped the shot just moments before she reached down to check for a pulse, because the tip of her right hand was slightly visible. They hadn’t printed that photo in the paper because it was, undoubtedly, too gruesome, but they’d retained it in their collection of shots from that day.
Closing her eyes, Theodosia tried to recall her impression of that single, defining moment. She had a strong, visceral recollection of the hot, pungent aroma of exploded gunpowder, chill water lapping at her ankles, and a sense of unreality, of feeling numb, as she stared at Oliver Dixon’s still body.
What had Tidwell told her about loading the old pistol? Theodosia searched her memory. Oh yes, Tidwell had said you put a pinch of gunpowder on a little piece of paper and twist it. Kind of like creating a miniature tea bag.
Theodosia held the magnifying glass to the printout. It was extremely grainy and hard to discern any real detail. She could just make out the back of poor Oliver Dixon’s head, dark against a lighter background.
Theodosia sighed. There just didn’t seem to be anything here.
