“Well, when you see Giovanni, tell him my friend authenticated the teapot. Definitely an Edgefield, estimated worth between eight and twelve hundred.”
“Okay, Drayton. Bye.”
Theodosia came around the block again, swerved across a lane of traffic, and headed, nose first, into a vacant parking space. It was pure impulse that had made her decide to stop in and pay Giovanni Loard a visit. And luck, she noted, that the rain had let up slightly, allowing her a chance to make a mad dash from her Jeep to the antique shop.
Loard Antiquarian Shop was one of over three-dozen antique shops in a two-block area. Situated on the first floor of a three-story Italianate red-brick building, the large front display window was filled with seventeenth-and eighteenth-century English furniture as well as a tasty selection of majolica, pewter, and antique clocks. The name, Loard Antiquarian Shop, was painted prominently on the window in ornate gold script.
Giovanni Loard looked up hopefully as the bell over the front door rang merrily. He had been touting the merits of an antique brass spyglass to a woman from West Ashley for almost half an hour now, and she still showed no hint of wanting to buy. The woman had come in searching for a “fun” anniversary gift for her stockbroker husband and had alternately been captivated by an antique clock, a carved wooden box and, finally, the brass spyglass.
Business had been slow lately, and the brass spyglass, purchased at an estate sale in Summerville for 85 dollars, would yield a tasty profit with its new price tag of 450 dollars.
When Giovanni recognized Theodosia, a smile creased his handsome face.
“Miss Browning,” he called out. “Be with you in a moment.”
Giovanni turned back to the lady from West Ashley. “Perhaps you want to think it over.” He reached for the brass spyglass, but the woman, sensing another customer behind her, a customer who perhaps might be interested in the very same piece, suddenly made up her mind.
“I’ll take it,” she declared. “It’s perfect.”
Giovanni nodded. “An excellent choice, ma’am. I’m sure your husband will be thoroughly delighted.”
Giovanni accepted the woman’s MasterCard and zipped it through his machine.
While Giovanni finished up with his customer, Theodosia wandered about the shop. She paused to admire a small collection of Coalport porcelain and a tray of vintage watches. It was a nice enough shop, she decided, but the inventory seemed a trifle thin.
“Hello again.” Giovanni Loard turned his hundred-watt smile on Theodosia once he’d shown his customer to the door.
“I was just driving past and spotted your sign,” said Theodosia. “I decided this was the day to come in and look at those paintings I’ve heard so much about.”
“For that special wall,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Theodosia, smiling back at him and wondering why she suddenly felt like she was playing a role in a drawing room comedy.
Giovanni Loard beckoned with an index finger. “Back here,” he told her. “In my office.”
Theodosia followed him obediently to the back of the store, waited as he unlatched a door, then stepped into a small wood-paneled office.
“Wow,” was all she said.
The office was relatively small, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, but its walls were covered with gleaming oil paintings. There were portraits, landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes. Some were dreamy and ethereal, others were incredibly realistic. All were exceedingly well done.
“What a lovely collection. Why don’t you have some of these paintings on display in your shop?” she asked.
He shrugged with what seemed feigned indifference. “Once in a while I do,” he said, and reached forward to straighten a small landscape painting that was slightly crooked. “But mostly, I keep them in here to admire for myself. And to save the very best pieces for special customers.
“This one . . .” Giovanni extended an arm pointed toward a small gem of a portrait. “This one reminds me of you.”
Theodosia gazed at the painting, mindful of Giovanni’s gaze upon her. The painting was of a woman in a full- skirted, corseted dress reclining on a chaise. The style invoked the antebellum period and the predominant colors were muted pinks and purples, with alabaster skin tones.
“It’s beautiful,” said Theodosia. The painting was a beauty, but there was an ethereal quality about it that was oddly disquieting.
“Thank you for coming to the funeral yesterday,” Giovanni said, changing the subject abruptly. “I saw you during the service, but with everyone milling about afterward, we never did get a chance to say hello.”
“How is Doe holding up?” asked Theodosia.
“Better than expected,” replied Giovanni. “Her friends and family are being very supportive, and she’s a brave girl, although I have to say, she’s feeling a tremendous amount of frustration about the ineptitude and total inactivity of the police. They’ve gone absolutely nowhere in their investigation.”
“Is there somewhere to go?” asked Theodosia.
Giovanni lifted an eyebrow. “They took Ford Cantrell in for questioning.”
“I take it you’re fairly convinced that Ford Cantrell somehow tampered with the pistol?” said Theodosia.
“Yes, I am,” said Giovanni. “I simply don’t believe it was an accident.”
“Could someone else have tampered with it?”
Giovanni frowned as though the idea had never occurred to him. “I can’t think of another soul who would have wanted to harm Oliver Dixon.”
“Oliver Dixon was heavily involved in a new start-up company,” said Theodosia. “There could have been someone who did not want him to succeed.”
“I see what you mean,” said Giovanni. “Oliver was a truly brilliant and gifted man. The ideas he was bringing to Grapevine would have helped revolutionize how people use PDAs.” He paused. “Or so I’m told. I, unfortunately, function at a relatively low technology level. The fax machine is about the most I can manage,” he added ruefully.
“But it sounds like there was a tremendous amount at stake,” said Theodosia. “Competition in business has been known to trigger volatile deeds. A fearful competitor, angry supplier, skittish investor... any one of them could have resented Oliver Dixon mightily.”
“Highly doubtful,” said Giovanni. “As you may or may not know, Booth Crowley was Grapevine’s major underwriter, and he’s known to have an impeccable reputation around here.”
“I’m sure he does,” said Theodosia, wondering if Giovanni had also witnessed Booth Crowley’s over-the-top display of anger yesterday. “However,” she continued, “that doesn’t mean someone didn’t have it in personally for Oliver Dixon.”
Giovanni’s face clouded. “I suppose you could be right,” he conceded.
“Too bad about the disturbance yesterday.”
“Pardon?” said Giovanni. He’d turned his gaze toward the painting he’d indicated had reminded him so much of Theodosia.
“At the funeral. The somewhat ugly scene between Booth Crowley and a fellow named Billy Manolo. Do you know him? Billy, I mean?”
“No, not really. Well, only by reputation. Fellow does odd jobs at the yacht club, I believe.”
“Do you think he could have had a grudge against Oliver Dixon?”
“I don’t see how he could have,” said Giovanni in a condescending tone. “I mean, the man was hired help. They didn’t exactly mix on the same social level.”
