Gunpowder Green

“Drayton . . .” Theodosia grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the stream of people passing by. “I think Oliver Dixon was set up.”

He pursed his lips and gazed at her with speculation. “Set up. You mean—”

“Someone caused that pistol to misfire,” Theodosia said excitedly.

“You know, I really don’t like where you’re going with this,” Drayton said irritably.

“Hear me out,” said Theodosia. If someone tampered with that pistol, and I’ve really come to believe that’s exactly what happened, then hard evidence might also exist. Like explosives or—”

“Hard evidence,” said Drayton with a quizzical frown. “Hard evidence where?”

“On the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

Drayton just stared at her.

“One of my tablecloths was on the table that Oliver

Dixon fell onto. He tumbled onto the table, then slid down into a heap. Remember?” Drayton hesitated a moment, trying to fix the scene in his mind. “Yes, I do. You’re right,” he replied finally.

“So there could be particles of gunpowder or explosives or whatever still clinging to that tablecloth,” prompted Theodosia.

“Oh,” said Drayton. Then, “Oh, I see what you mean!”

“Now, if I could only figure out what happened to that darned tablecloth,” said Theodosia. “In all the hubbub and commotion, I’m not entirely sure where it ended up.” She stared out the open doors of the church toward the street.

“I have it,” said Drayton.

She whirled toward him in surprise. “You have it?”

“I’m almost certain I do. At least I have a vague recollection of untangling it and packing it up with the other things.”

“So where is the tablecloth now?”

“Probably still in the trunk of my car. I was going to drop all the dirty linens at Chase’s Laundry yesterday, then I got busy with the Heritage Society. I received a call that someone had brought in this old, wooden joggling board... you know, they were used for crossing ditches on rice plantations? They’re so terribly rare now and I—”

“Drayton...”

“Yes?”

“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight,” Theodosia said as they strolled out into the sunlight. “Because you very nicely preserved what could amount to evidence.”

Suddenly, Theodosia’s smile froze on her face and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh rats. That’s Burt Tidwell over there.”

Drayton frowned. “Why do you suppose he’s here?”

“Why do you think?” she said, squinting across the way at him.

“Investigating?” squeaked Drayton. “Looking for suspects?”

“Same as us,” said Theodosia. She bit her lip, debating whether or not she should go over and talk to him.

“Well, are you going to talk to him?” Drayton asked finally.

She hesitated a moment, then made up her mind. “Why not? Let’s both waltz over there and see if we can push his buttons before he starts to push ours.”

“All right,” agreed Drayton. “But nothing about the—”

Theodosia held an index finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word,” she cautioned.

They strolled over to where a bank of memorial wreaths was displayed. Theodosia decided that Oliver Dixon must have been extremely well liked and respected to have garnered a church full of flower arrangements as well as a huge assortment of memorial wreaths that had spilled outside.

Burt Tidwell was studying one of the wreaths. “Look at this,” he said to them. “Wild grape vine entwined with lilies, the flower symbolizing resurrection. So very touching.” Tidwell inclined his head slightly. He’d captured Theodosia in his peripheral vision; now his eyes bore into her. “Miss Browning, how do. And here’s Mr. Conneley, too.”

“Hello,” said Drayton pleasantly.

“You took Ford Cantrell in for questioning,” said Theodosia without preamble.

Tidwell favored her with a faint smile. “My dear Miss Browning, you seem somewhat surprised. I thought you’d be absolutely delighted that I followed up on your so-called tip.” Tidwell pronounced the word tip as though he were discussing odiferous compost in a garden.

Theodosia turned her attention to the memorial wreaths as Burt Tidwell rocked back on his heels, enormously pleased with himself. Here was a lovely floral wreath from the Heritage Society, she noted. And here was...Well, wasn’t this one a surprise!

“You might also be interested to know,” Tidwell prattled on, “that we discovered Ford Cantrell has a rather extensive gun collection. And that our Mr. Cantrell has recently turned his old plantation into a sort of hunting preserve.”

Tidwell suddenly had her attention once again. “What kind of hunting?” Theodosia asked.

“He claims to be appealing to all manner of wealthy sportsmen, promising prizes of deer, turkey, quail, and wild boar,” answered Tidwell.

“My aunt Libby has lived out that way for the better part of half a century,” said Theodosia, “and the wildest critters she’s ever encountered have been possum and porcupines.” She paused. “And once, when I was a kid, we ran across a dead alligator. But I don’t suppose that really counts.”

“No one ever characterized Ford Cantrell as being an honest man,” said Tidwell.

“Or hunters as being terribly bright,” added Theodosia with a wry smile.

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by loud voices.

“What are you doing here?” came an angry scream.

Theodosia, Drayton, Burt Tidwell, and about forty other people turned to watch the beginnings of a shouting match on the lawn of Saint Philip’s.

“Who on earth is that?” asked Theodosia. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized the angry man with the flopping white hair, florid complexion, and hand-tailored pinstripe suit as the very same man from the yacht race. The commodore in the tight jacket swathed in gold braid.

“That’s Booth Crowley,” Tidwell told her.

“That’s Booth Crowley?” said Theodosia, stunned. Booth Crowley had been the one who’d been beckoning to Oliver Dixon that fateful Sunday. Booth Crowley had handed him the pistol.

And just look at who he’s yelling at, she thought. Billy Manolo, the worker from the yacht club who asked to borrow the tablecloth. Wasn’t this a strange little tableau?

“Hey buddy, cool your jets,” Billy Manolo cautioned. Lean, dark-complected, and a head taller than Booth Crowley, Billy stood poised on the balls of his feet, glowering back and looking as dangerous as a jungle cat.

Still, Booth Crowley persisted in his tirade.

“Is there some reason you’re here?” Booth Crowley thundered. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough problems?”

“Hey man, you’re crazy.” Billy Manolo curled his lip scornfully and waved one hand dismissively at Booth Crowley. “Take it easy, or you’ll put yourself into cardiac arrest.”

Indeed, thought Theodosia. Judging from Booth Crowley’s beet-red face and frantic antics, it looked as though he might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so worked up. Booth Crowley was putting on a rather amazing show. And in front of the church at that.

“Do you know the fellow Crowley’s yelling at?” asked Drayton, mildly amused by the whole spectacle.

“That’s Billy Manolo,” replied Theodosia.

Drayton’s eyebrows shot sky high. “You do know him?”