Gunpowder Green

mayfly that was irritating him. He leaned forward, slid a grimy hand into a leather glove that lay atop his forge. There was a hiss of air and immediately flame shot from his welder’s torch again.

“I see,” said Theodosia, averting her eyes and making a mental note to ask around and find out just who these Popple Hill designers were. “Actually, I just came from the yacht club,” she explained. “Jory Davis in slip one twelve wanted me to give you these.” She reached into her purse, grabbed the keys, and dangled them at Billy. “The keys for Rubicon.”

Billy Manolo sighed, switched the torch off again.

“He wants you to turn on the bilge pump,” said Theodosia, this time putting a tinge of authority into her voice. “He’s stuck out of town on business, and he’s afraid his boat is taking on water. Actually, it is taking on water. I was just there.”

Billy Manolo pulled the welder’s helmet from his head and strode toward her. He reached out and snatched the keys from her outstretched hand and stared stolidly at her.

“Great,” she answered, a little too heartily. She gazed about the backyard, realizing full well that Billy Manolo was an ironworker by trade, that he’d probably made some of the gates, grills, and balcony railings that adorned many of Charleston’s finer homes.

And along with that realization came the sudden understanding that Billy Manolo, with his knowledge of metals and stress points and such, could easily have been the one who had tampered with the old pistol. Billy Manolo, whose fingerprints had certainly turned up on the rosewood box that the old pistol had been housed in.

“Look,” Theodosia said, caught somewhere between losing her patience at Billy’s rudeness and a small insinuation of fear, “the very least you can do is be civil.”

He tilted his head slightly, gave her a surly, one-eyed glance. “Why should I?”

Theodosia lost it. “You might want to seriously consider working on your people skills,” she told him. “Because should you be questioned by the Charleston police, and the possibility is not unlikely, the inhospitable attitude you have just shown toward me will not play well with them.”

Billy Manolo snorted disdainfully. “Police,” he spat out. “They don’t know nothin’.”

“They are not unaware of your little public to-do with Booth Crowley two days ago,” said Theodosia.

“Booth Crowley has a lot to hide,” snarled Billy.

“From what I hear, Billy, you might have a few things to hide,” Theodosia shot back. She was fishing, to be sure, but her words were more effective than she’d ever thought possible.

Stung by her innuendo, Billy bent down, picked up an iron rod, and glared at her dangerously. “Get lost, lady, before you find yourself floating facedown in Charleston Harbor!”

Chapter 20

Dozens of small white candles flickered on every table, countertop, shelf, nook, and cranny of the Indigo Tea Shop. Muted paisley tablecloths were draped elegantly across the wooden tables, and the overhead brass chandelier had been dimmed to impart a moody aura.

“It looks like someone unleashed a crazed voodoo priestess in here,” declared Haley.

“What?” Drayton’s usually well-modulated voice rose in a high-pitched squawk. “It’s supposed to look mysterious. I’m trying to create an atmosphere that’s conducive to an evening of high drama and new experiences in the realm of tea.”

“And it does,” Theodosia assured him. “It’s very atmospheric. Haley,” she cautioned the young girl, “ease up on Drayton, will you? He’s got a lot on his mind.”

Haley’s needling banter was usually welcome in the tea shop and easily parried by the often erudite Drayton, but tonight Drayton did seem a little discombobulated.

Haley sidled up to Drayton and gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder. “Okay. It’s cool.”

“You do think the shop has a certain dramatic, stage-setting appearance, don’t you?” Drayton peered anxiously at Theodosia.

“It’s perfect,” declared Theodosia. “Our guests will be thrilled.” She gazed at the lineup of Barotine teapots borrowed from one of Drayton’s antique dealer friends. The fanciful little green and brown glazed teapots were adorned with shells, twining vines, and snail-like shapes, and lent to the aura of mystery.

Then there were the centerpieces. Here again, Drayton had gotten a few choice antique pieces on loan and let Hattie Boatwright at Floradora run wild with them. An antique ceramic frog peeked from behind clusters of purple hydrangeas, a bronze sculpture of a wood nymph was surrounded by plum blossoms, a jade statue of the Buddha sat amid an artful arrangement of reeds and grasses.

“You’ve managed to instill elegance as well as a hint of mystery in our little tea shop,” praised Theodosia, “and I, for one, can’t wait to see what’s going to happen tonight!”

Truth be told, Theodosia wasn’t exactly sure what was going to take place, but she had complete confidence in Drayton and knew that, whatever menu and program unfolded, he’d pull it off with great style and aplomb. Besides, while she’d been out this afternoon, getting drenched at the yacht club and then insulted by Billy Manolo, four more people had called, begging for last-minute reservations. That meant they’d had to slip in extra chairs at a few of the tables.

As Theodosia laid out silverware and linen napkins, Haley placed tiny gold mesh bags at each place setting.

“What are those?” asked Theodosia.

“Favors,” said Haley. “Drayton had me wrap tiny bricks of pressed tea in gold fabric, then tie them with ribbons.”

“Drayton’s really going all out,” said Theodosia, pleased at such attention to detail.

“You don’t know the half of it,” whispered Haley. She glanced around to make sure Drayton was in the back of the shop. “He’s got five actors from the Charleston Little Theater Group coming in tonight. They’re going to do a kind of one-act play while they help serve tea and goodies. And, of course, they’ll drop clues as they go along. At some point in the evening, one of them will have a mysterious and fatal accident, and the audience has to figure out who perpetrated the dastardly deed!”

“You mean like Mr. Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” asked Theodosia.

“Something very close to it,” said Haley.

Drayton emerged from the back room, carrying a tray full of teacups. “Listen,” he instructed, one finger aimed at the ceiling.

Theodosia and Haley stopped what they were doing and listened to gentle drumming on the roof.

“It started raining again,” said Drayton. “Sets the mood perfectly, don’t you think?”

“Quoth the raven... nevermore,” giggled Haley.

Halfway through Drayton’s mystery tea, Theodosia found herself perched on the wooden stool behind the counter, utterly charmed and fascinated by what was taking place before her. True to Haley’s prediction, five members from the Charleston Little Theater Group, all amateurs and friends of Drayton, had shown up. Upon serving the first course, a hot and sour green tea soup, they immediately launched into a fast-paced, drawing room type play that, except for the murder, bordered heavily on comedy and kept their guests in stitches.

The audience had been swept up in the drama from the outset. Chuckling in all the right places, oohing and ahing as tiny candles sputtered out at strategic times during the play, gasping when Drayton suddenly doused the overhead lights and the “murder” took place.

Theodosia had been delighted that Delaine Dish had shown up with her friend Brooke Carter Crockett, who owned Heart’s Desire, a nearby jewelry shop that specialized in high-end estate jewelry. Miss Dimple had brought her brother, Stanley, a roly-poly fellow who, except for being bald as a cue ball, was the spitting image of Miss Dimple. Plus there were tea shop regulars and lots of friends from the historic district. In all, twenty-five guests sat in the flickering candlelight, enjoying the mystery tea.

And they’d had a couple surprise guests, too: Lizbeth Cantrell and her aunt Millicent.

Theodosia hadn’t expected to see Lizbeth Cantrell so soon, and especially not tonight. But the ladies had