Gunpowder Green

“Met him,” said Theodosia. “He apparently works at the yacht club, taking care of the boats and doing odd jobs, I guess.”

The three of them watched Billy Manolo stalk off while Booth Crowley continued to rage at no one in particular.

“So that’s the Booth Crowley who’s a major donor to the symphony and the art museum and the hospital,” commented Drayton. “He doesn’t look like a mover and a shaker. Well, maybe shaking mad.”

“Ssh, Drayton, he’s heading this way,” cautioned Theodosia.

Booth Crowley looked like a furnace that had been stoked too high. He strode across the green lawn purposefully, both arms pumping furiously at his sides, his nostrils flared, his mouth gaping for air.

“You...Tidwell,” Booth Crowley hollered. “A word with you.”

Tidwell stood silently, a look of benign amusement on his jowly face.

Booth Crowley came puffing over to Tidwell. “I want you to keep an eye on that one.” Booth Crowley gestured wildly at the empty street behind him. “Billy Manolo. Works at the yacht club. Things have been missing. Manager had to dress him down last week, threatened to fire him if things don’t improve. Boy is a hoodlum. No good.”

Theodosia stifled a grin and wondered if Booth Crowley’s sentence structures were always this staccato and devoid of nouns and prepositions. A strange man. With a strange way of talking, too.

Drayton put a hand on Theodosia’s arm and began to steer her away from Tidwell and Booth Crowley. Crowley had eased back on the throttle a bit but was still sputtering. Tidwell was nodding mildly, listening to him but not really favoring Booth Crowley with his complete and undivided attention.

“Exit, stage left,” Drayton murmured under his breath.

“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But first . . .” Theodosia turned her focus on the bank of memorial wreaths she’d been studying earlier. Where is that wreath? she wondered. There was one composed of only greenery and purple leaves that had caught her eye earlier. Ah, here it is. She reached out and plucked a cluster of leaves from it even as Drayton propelled her away from one of the strangest memorial services she’d ever witnessed.

“What are you up to with that?” he asked.

Theodosia fingered the snippet of leaves. “They’re from the wreath that was sent by Lizbeth Cantrell.”

“Good Lord, you’re not serious. She sent a wreath and her brother is the prime murder suspect?”

“I promised to help her,” said Theodosia.

Drayton peered at her. “You did?” He shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me.”

“Do you know what this is? The greenery, I mean.”

Drayton pulled his half glasses from his jacket pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Coltsfoot,” he declared. “I’m awfully sure it’s coltsfoot.”

“What a strange thing to use for a memorial wreath. It’s not all that attractive,” Theodosia mused. “Maybe that’s why Lizbeth chose it. She was making a statement. Or anti-statement.”

“It’s more likely she chose it for the symbolism,” said Drayton.

Now it was Theodosia’s turn to give Drayton a strange look. “What symbolism might that be?”

“Coltsfoot represents justice,” said Drayton.

“Justice,” repeated Theodosia, now highly intrigued by Lizbeth Cantrell’s use of symbolism.

“It seems to me that more and more people are paying attention to certain symbols or talismans,” said Drayton. “I think it’s a symptom of unsettled times.”

“I think you may be right,” said Theodosia.

Chapter 14

“What do you think this could be?” asked Theodosia.

They had waited until late in the afternoon when the tea shop was finally empty before they brought out the tablecloth. Drayton had fished it out of the trunk of his Volvo, and now they were staring at the stains and splotches that traced irregular patterns across what had once been pristine linen.

“Yuck,” said Haley. “It’s blood. What else would it be?”

“No, look here.” Theodosia scratched at a brownish gray stain with her fingernail. “It could be powder marks,” she said. “Gunpowder.”

“Perhaps,” said Drayton with a frown. Using the borrowed magnifying glass, he studied the tablecloth carefully. “What about some variety of seaweed?” he proposed. “One end of it did end up dragging in Charleston Harbor. Isn’t there some kind of microorganism that might have washed over it and caused this mottled effect?

“You mean like plankton?” asked Haley. She had quizzed the two of them at length about the funeral, then listened with rapt attention as they told their story of the raging Booth Crowley and the disdainful Billy Manolo.

“Well, it could be,” replied Drayton, not entirely convinced by his own theory.

“What about schmutz?” countered Haley.

They both stared at her.

“You know,” said Haley. “Dirt, pollution, oil . . . schmutz.”

“Should the EPA ever offer you a position,” Drayton told her, “I’d advise you to turn them down.”

“All right, smarty, what do you think it is?” she said. “The darn thing slid onto the ground, some poor guy bled all over it, and then it knocked around in your trunk for a few days. Anything could have gotten on it.”

“Whatever’s on this tablecloth is from the picnic and not my trunk,” replied Drayton. “But, like Theodosia, I’m getting more and more fascinated.” He favored Theodosia with a serious look. “I do think you’re on to something.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses. “You’re still adamantly against mentioning anything about this to Tidwell?”

“Absolutely,” said Theodosia. “I’m sure he’s running his own investigation. For all we know, he could have an entire team of forensic experts poring over Oliver Dixon’s clothing right now.” She gave a sharp nod, as if to punctuate her sentence, then momentarily shifted her attention from the tablecloth to the printouts of the picnic photos. She had laid them out on the table earlier and was now sifting through them, still hoping to piece together some answers.

Haley picked up one of the printouts. “Who’s this guy?” she asked.

Drayton peered at the photo. “That’s Billy Manolo, the fellow we saw getting chewed out this morning by Booth Crowley.”

“Hmm,” mused Haley. “He looks kind of tough. You know, work-with-your-bare-hands kind of tough.”

“He’s the one who set up the table and borrowed the tablecloth,” said Theodosia.

“So he handled the box with the pistol in it,” said Haley.

Theodosia thought about it. “Probably. Then again, several people did. Booth Crowley, the fellow Bob Brewster, who Tidwell told us did the actual loading of the gun, and probably a few people at the clubhouse.”

“How about Oliver Dixon’s two sons, Brock and Quaid?” said Drayton.

“You don’t think they wanted to do away with their own father, do you?” asked Haley.

“I don’t know,” said Theodosia slowly. Brock and Quaid didn’t seem like viable suspects, certainly not as viable as Doe. On the other hand, Billy Manolo could be in the running, too. He had, after all, been seen handling the box that contained the mysterious exploding pistol.

Could he have tampered with the pistol? she wondered. Billy certainly would have had easy access. He worked at the clubhouse and did maintenance on the boats. It’s possible he could have resented Oliver Dixon for any number of reasons. They could have had an argument or some misunderstanding. Of course, the big question was, why had Billy Manolo shown up at Oliver Dixon’s funeral at all? Had he come to gloat? Or simply to mourn?

Theodosia reached out with both hands, pulled all the printouts to her, tamped them into one neat stack like a deck of playing cards.